getting centered

•September 15, 2010 • 2 Comments

I am the most vulnerable when I’m caught in the midst of an episode of anxiety. These episodes only come from one thing: feeling like I’m not centered. My submission goes far deeper than just sexual endeavors, and as of late, I’ve been getting exceedingly panic-ridden as a result of diminished contact with Daddy. I find myself trying to be forced to be put in my place. I”ll pout and stomp my foot, my mouth wild with cries of “No!” and “Daddy, please tell me to do something, ANYTHING, please, please, please!” I feel helpless, lost, and like my feet can’t touch the ground when I need them to the most.

When I get lost in a control-less state, I freak out. Badly. I’m prone to having little anxiety attacks; wringing my hands and letting my mind go a million miles an hour about how “you’re so out of control, Cierra, you need to get your head on straight, you need to talk to Daddy, you need to do SOMETHING.” I need to be reminded that I’m owned.

This only happens when I feel ungrounded in my submission. I don’t know what to do. Daddy’s not there to punish me if I do wrong or guide me through things, so what am I to do? You see, this is where I begin to panic. I’m incapable of sitting idly and letting the bad feelings pass, so I usually end up doing one of two things:

The first option, for me, is to start being completely and totally immature in the hopes that someone calls me out. I’ll shout and yell and poke and prod and be obnoxious until someone forces me back down into my little, comfortable space. This happened to me today.

Or: I’ll lay my head against walls, squeezing my eyes shut and wishing that I would just get a reassuring call from Daddy.

I suppose I’m writing about this today because I have a very big problem. Despite the fact that I know how badly I panic and stress when I get to feeling this way, I have an immensely hard time vocalizing when I need a firm word or two from Daddy. I’m a needy girl, I’m afraid. I need love, care, attention, and reassurance, or I can’t function. I simply won’t work. I’m trying very hard to get a hold of myself and figure out a way to express my distress to Daddy, but I just can’t seem to make the words bubble out of me.

Because I can’t find a way to do this, my panic is building. I can’t make the simplest decisions and fret about everything. My chest’ll heave as my heart quickens, and all I want is to be yelled at or spanked.

This is mostly just a feeling entry; I don’t know how to cope, and I have nowhere else to spill this subby-out-of-control-feeling.

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how Cierra lost her virginity

•September 8, 2010 • 4 Comments

I remember it perfectly, as though it was yesterday. And for some of you, it may seem like it was yesterday. I have been deflowered for approximately one year, five months, and one week. I am extremely fresh. Daddy is the man I lost my virginity to, and is the only person I’ve slept with in my life.

Are you surprised?

I was a very shy girl when I met Daddy- cripplingly shy, in fact (I still am with most people). On top of that, I was as pure as could be. I honestly hadn’t done any more than kissing with the opposite sex, and was self-conscious to an extreme. The moment I saw him, I fell into a deep, consuming infatuation. It was something, combined with his looks, about the way he looked up at me, acknowledged my presence and then looked back to his business as if I didn’t exist. It compelled me. I was initially attracted to him because he’s devilishly good looking, but that just suckered me. He noticed, of course. I saw him on a daily basis, and couldn’t help but blush and stare and wonder if he noticed me. I wanted him to pay attention. I wanted him to be like the other men that would drool over me and lust after me that I chose to ignore, but he didn’t. It seemed as though I was just a consumption of space to him.

I’ll tell you something about Daddy- he’s smooth. Almost unbearably so. After a few weeks of my attentions, he chatted me up without pause, delighting in my rosened cheeks and ridiculous, blubbering behavior. I wanted him more than anything, but couldn’t communicate that. I wanted him to want me, and to take me of his own volition. I would have no part in seducing him in any purposeful fashion. Daddy was very forward, as well. A few weeks into our “courting,” I remember, we were standing outside of a building, chatting. I was dressed casually in a shirt that had raised lettering across the bust. Without hesitation, Daddy reached over and ran his fingers over the stitching and commented on the interesting texture. That was the most a man had ever touched me like that, and I was astounded. I liked it. I craved more of it, but I made no move to express that desire; I just blushed and looked at him from beneath my lashes. He did this for a long while. He paid gratuitous amounts of attention to me, then disappeared and left nothing but his charming memory and whisper-light touch, leaving me to do nothing short of rejoice when he decided that I was worth his time again.

I considered us exclusive, for some reason, and in ways, we were. Daddy would tease me and touch other girls’ cheeks while I was watching- now that I look back on it, I realize his motivation. He wanted to remind me that I was his. Or, rather, that I had effectively been enslaved by him: he was all I wanted, all I would ever want. I was trapped, and he loved it.

In the beginning everything consisted of testing the waters. Him touching me without asking, me not daring to say anything about it, us not properly together. It slowly progressed to where I was completely thirsting for him. I had to see him whenever I could. We snuck away into dark corners to kiss and touch while I skipped out on important meetings. After five months of fooling around, it got to the point where I would go to his house every night, we’d lay in his bed, and he’d undress me- a little more each time, until it was expected that I would be stripped naked.

Daddy was insatiable, which frightened me. I knew that he wanted sex, but I was a tentative little thing. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t want it, because I did, but I was nervous. I didn’t know what I was doing, for Christ’s sake. Every night, I’d lay in his bed and ward his hands away from that spot between my legs. To this day, I’m still surprised that he wasn’t more rough and persistent with me than he was; I’m grateful that he wasn’t, though. I appreciated his respect for me in that sense.

One night, in March, we were splayed across his bed. I was naked and cuddled into him, looking at the clock and inwardly smiling at the ungodly hour. His hands played along my body as we whispered lovely things to each other in the blue glow of that clock. Fingers flitted to the insides of my thighs; I gasped and squeezed my legs together, letting out a small, scared whimper.

“Let me,” he said softly.

We bantered and argued about it, reverting to elementary-style bargaining.

“Just for five minutes, come on,” he teased. I shook my head furiously.

“No!”

“One minute?”

“No.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Nuh-uh.”

This continued until he’d finally gotten me to acquiesce, I think, with ten seconds. I was unbelievably shaky and completely disbelieving that I was going to let this happen. Daddy laid me back on the bed, my head near the foot of it, and gently pushed my legs open. We watched the clock for the new minute to flash up. I figured that it’d be okay- that I’d just count to ten and then wriggle away, no harm done. When the number turned, he gave me one last look to make sure that I was okay, and then pushed a finger into my pussy. I remember gasping and closing my eyes, which cued him to continue. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. Especially nothing like what I felt like when I was down there. His fingers were bigger, stronger, somehow more deft than mine were. I let my moans and gasps escape me and soar to the corners of his room, where they stayed, and still are. I didn’t know how many seconds had gone by. After his fingers were inside of me, I couldn’t have even told you what a clock was. I did end up letting my shyness get the better of me, and wriggled away. My eyes flashed to the clock to find that a good five minutes had passed. I blushed and cuddled back up to him.

“That wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said with a smile.

Then he asked me for more. I was still getting over the fact that I’d just broken a massive barrier, and now I was being compelled to let this man have me, right there, right then. I thought for a moment, then decided against it.

“No, not tonight.”

“If not tonight, then when?”

“The next time we see each other, I promise.” I needed to clear my head and make sure that I was making a good decision, but the flush of my cheeks and the wetness between my legs was urging me to beg him to just take me. He paused, then nodded.

“Alright.”

We spent the rest of the night discussing the next time we’d meet; we were scheduled for the next night, but things hadn’t worked out that way. He ended up picking me up on a cool Saturday night and driving me to his house, all the while scaring me with his brazen talk.

“I’m going to fuck you, Cierra. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t speak anymore.”

I couldn’t respond. I secretly had my hands between my legs, both to keep them warm, and to check and see if I was just imagining the wetness that was beginning to present itself. I wasn’t. He continued to talk to me quietly like that until we got to his house. Daddy led me in quickly, then back to his room. I waved at his dog on the way in. Once in his room, I froze. Half of me wanted to throw myself at him, while the other half didn’t know what the hell to do. He rummaged through some of his stuff on a shelf and brought three condoms over to me.

“Ribbed, twisted, or studded, you choose,” he questioned.

I didn’t know, and it was humiliating to be asked. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck it, we’ll go with studded.” His nonchalance made me feel small, and like I shouldn’t have been there. I almost considered telling him that I’d changed my mind and wanted to go home. I was sitting on the edge of his bed, crossing and uncrossing my ankles, staring that the toes of my shoes. Daddy came over and gave me a kiss, then moved my legs up onto the bed. Being beneath him banished every one of my doubts. I realized, in an overbearing rush, that that was where I belonged. We were both undressed, then. He asked if I was okay.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready? Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Mhmm.”

And with that, he entered me. I was overwhelmed. Daddy’s not a small man- he’s actually very well endowed. It hurt. I bit my lip and nodded when he asked again if I was okay. Everything was swirling around in my head at a million miles an hour at first while it was still painful. Slowly, everything came to a stop, and all I could think about was him. The feeling. The unbearably sexy idea that he was inside of me. He’d taken me. In this moment, I became undoubtedly his. The entire fiasco went from gentle and concerned to fast and pleasurable very quickly after that. I was sighing and gasping, came, and then went right back to sighing and gasping.

At the closing, I was so very embarrassed at the mess I’d caused. I stood to the side of the bed to get dressed while he washed his hands in the adjoining bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” I said, apologetically.

He grinned. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

We sat on his kitchen floor talking for a good bit, and then he drove me home. I was satisfied and scared. We made it official a few days afterward.

I look back on this memory with fondness for quite a few reasons. Daddy’s dominance was present, in very subtle ways, for the entirety of the seven months of our courting, and that was one of the reasons that I was so drawn to him. I didn’t realize this until I reflected upon it. Plus, it reminds me of how thoroughly he owns me- he’s got every bit of me, including my virginity.

Plus, this was the grand opening. That night is what’s led me to become the ravenous little cumslut that I am today. From such timidity to a wicked lust for Daddy’s cock. Lovely, if you ask me.

Four fingers

•September 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment

It’s the truth that some of the mannerisms that Daddy has are quite quirky; or, at least, I think they are. The central oddity that characterizes him to me is the swiftness in his changes of demeanor- he’ll go from sweetly conversational to commanding and dominant in the blink of an eye. I actually love this about him. I will admit to wishing that he was more universally adjuring of me simply for the purpose of grounding me and keeping me in my necessary subby head-space, but his rapid switching always makes me feel playful. One minute, we’re babbling about our how our respective days went, and I’ll say something jokingly suggestive or inappropriate; before I know it, Daddy’s tone fluidly becomes chastising, and I’m being given a punishment.

If I haven’t already made it clear, Daddy and I are long distance at the moment. He moved about a year ago from the town that we met in, and has come back to visit three times (I see him approximately every six months), but he’ll be moving back to where I am next summer. (I’ll hopefully be seeing him in December). Anyway, due to this, punishments are a little bit tricky for us. The bulk of my corrections are self-inflicted and under his decision, although he has chosen to cut communication with me as a penalty for misbehavior in the past.

I had just gotten out of the shower, received a call from Daddy, and was happily lounging in my towel, chatting away with him for a good half-hour before thinking to getting dressed. Getting out of bed, I gave my hair a final rubdown with my towel, then set my phone on my stool on speaker in the center of my room. Just as I was slipping into panties, he asked,

“Are you still in your towel?”

My hands ceased in their search for an appropriate shirt for bed. They fell to my sides as I bent down tentatively over the phone.

“No, I’m getting dressed.”

“Did I allow you to get dressed?” his tone slid from commanding to reprimanding in a heartbeat.

“No.”

“No what?

“No, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Are you naked?”

I was still crouched over the stool in my panties, two shirts clutched in one hand. “No.”

“Take your clothes off.”

I was alone in the house, sure, but I knew that family could be home at any time. A moment’s hesitation passed.

“Do I have to?” I whined, a quiet blossom of chagrin beginning to bloom in my features. I was fully aware that I shouldn’t have asked.

“Are you questioning me?” The words were pitched a few octaves lower than usual. I flinched.

“No.”

“No what, Cierra?”

I’ll say now that I’ve been having a good deal of trouble addressing him properly in real time. He is my Daddy; I realize and love this, but something about the title fazes me every time that I’m to say it. It makes me feel undeniably little and soulfully exposed. It’s something that I’m not quite  used to yet. The word danced around on the tip of my tongue, knowing that I desperately wanted to speak it, and then shot back down my throat. The majority of the time, I get over it. I say it and blush at the praise that I get for being good, but it does take effort. It took a little more effort than usual this night, and that’s where I royally screwed up. My response should have been immediate and respectful. Actually, he shouldn’t have even had to ask, but I was feeling rebellious due to his request that I fully undress. I was embarrassed that he wanted me naked and was reluctant to expose myself. So I mouthed off.

“What?”

“No what? Answer me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I’m not exactly sure why I thought that I would get away with being such a disobedient brat, but I apparently felt the need to push it. To push him, which is never a good or logical idea.

“Four fingers. Now,” he directed. I could hear his anger roiling below the words, a clear indicator that I’d overstepped my boundaries.

Immediately, pleads bubbled to my lips. “No, okay, I’m sorry, I’ll say it!” I begged.

“No. Four fingers.”

“Please? I was just joking, I take it back, I’ll say it!”

“Wanna make it five?” His voice was deeply disapproving of my attempts to connive my way out of it.

I shut up. “No.”

Cierra.

“No, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Four fingers.”

I dropped sulkily to my knees and pulled off my panties. As gently as I could, I pushed four fingers into my ass. A high whine escaped me, confirming that I was doing what I was told. My breathing sped up in correlation with the pain.

“Good girl,” Daddy crooned, obviously amused. “Now fuck yourself. Fast.”

I hate that. I hate that more than anything in the world because it hurts me so much. On top of that, it’s uncomfortable- just the way that I’m forced to orient myself in order to do it is terrible, and he knows that. I gasped and whimpered as I pumped my fingers in and out, trying to keep them as bunched together as possible. Daddy lectured above my moans. “Are you going to be good and stop disobeying me?”

“Yes, Daddy!” pump, pump, pump.

“Are you lying or do you mean it?” The condescension in his voice coaxed a violent, arousing twinge in my pussy, but I kept focus.

“I mean it, Daddy!”

“Do you want me to make it stop?”

“Yeeeeeeessss, Daddy,” I whimpered, my voice breathy with hurt.

Haughty amusement played under his anger. “No. You chose to disobey. Keep fucking yourself.”

Tears sprang readily to my eyes as the possibility of relief vanished. Daddy does that. He asks me if I want whatever is causing me discomfort to stop, dangles the prospect before me, and then rips it away with a pleasant ‘too bad.’ It was really beginning to burn now, surpassing the stretching feeling and moving into a higher realm of pain. I was starting to choke on my sniffles and wails when he finally permitted me to stop. I drew my fingers out of my sore ass and let my forehead rest on the edge of the stool.

“What do you say?” he asked.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered, out of breath from the punishment, but thoroughly glad that it had come to a close.

“Good girl! Who’s my good girl?” Daddy asked. He used his humiliating praise voice. The one that makes me feel like a dog, almost. The one that makes me drip girlhoney.

“I’m Daddy’s good girl.”

“Yes, you are baby, you’re Daddy’s good girl.”

We talked for a bit, then, about how bad girls get punished and how unpleasant punishment is. I’m not sure if Daddy knows how quickly he puts me into little-girl space when he treats me like he does; my favorite feeling in the world is when I’m grounded in my littleness and my submission to him. It’s as if my entire body goes alight with fulfillment, and I fold up into a smaller, more vulnerable version of who I put out there on a daily basis. He opens me up and reveals the tender parts of me that are so very easy to manipulate. After a while, he reminded me that I was his good girl for correcting myself and doing as I was told. He offered me a reward.

“You’re such a good girl, you really are. I think you deserve a reward. Would my little girl like a reward?”

I blushed. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Alright, rub yourself slowly, okay? Slowly.”

For the entirety of my punishment and our conversation, I’d kept the phone on speaker and had been kneeling next to the stool to talk. I smiled and spread my legs, my fingers delicately lowering to that oh-so-sensitive part of me. My nerves came back to life at once, all begging for ungodly amounts of stimulation and attention. My fingertips traced lazy circles, coaxing a soft moan from me.

“Good girl.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Do you love your Daddy?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I murmured between soft sighs.

“Do you want to fuck your Daddy?” he purred.

“Uh-huuuuuuuh,” arousal was beginning to crash in waves through me. Daddy chuckled quietly.

“Faster.”

I complied and picked up the pace, moaning and gasping over the stool while he listened. Having him direct and listen to something that’s so personal for me turns me on more than a lot of things. My back arched forward even as I kneeled; I tried to quite my voracious lamentations.

“Come on, Cierra, faster. I want to hear your every breath, alright? Faster, baby. Do not stop, no matter what, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Daddy!” The words were barely recognizable, all broken up between hungry inhalations. I was right on the edge, trying not to fall over it before he was ready for me to.

“Do you want your Daddy to talk dirty to you?”

“Yes, Daddy..”

“How badly do you want it? Don’t stop!” he said upon hearing me falter.

“I want it really bad, Daddy,” I answered.

“How bad? I want you to beg me.”

“Really, really, bad, Daddy! Please, Daddy, please talk dirty to me..” I let myself trail off as my body began to buckle under the stress of holding myself back.

“Can you imagine your Daddy fucking you? Every inch of my warm, throbbing, cock slamming into you? Can you, baby?”

“Uhhh-hummmm!”

“Can you feel me filling you up with hot, sweet cum? Feeling it just drip out of your pussy?”

The moment he’d finished this statement and the feeling manifested in my mind and body, I came in a flurry of near-wails and shuddering, heaving breaths. My wetness was flowing happily down my inner thighs and dampening the carpet under my knees. I tried to get my breathing in check.

“I told you not to stop; I don’t care if you came, keep going!” Daddy ordered.

He brought me to climax three more times before I was physically too exhausted to continue.

“Thank you Daddy, for letting me cum so many times,” I said gratefully, my lids fluttering with an overload of satisfaction.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. See? That’s what good girls get. Good girls get rewards, and aren’t rewards nice?”

“They’re wonderful, Daddy,” I confirmed sweetly.

With that, he sent me off to bed. I snuggled under the covers after dressing, curled into a ball with one of the teddy bears he’d given me, thinking about what a lucky little girl I am to have such a generous Daddy. I fell asleep thinking about how terribly I miss him, and wishing that he was with me so I could thank him properly.

I do love being Daddy’s good girl.

Just a dream

•August 9, 2010 • 2 Comments

The cotton sheets and down comforter that I love so much were pillowed up around me, soft and welcoming and still cozy from the heat of our sleeping bodies. They smelled of us; your warm, woody cologne and the sweet scent menagerie of my shampoos, lotions and perfume, all vanilla and silk. I breathed in and soaked up as much of it as I could.

If you’d looked at me right then, you would have seen my hair, half wavy and half curly from sleep, flaring out from my head and splayed along the white pillows and down my naked back. You would have seen my face pressed into the plush bed, my hands delicately resting on either side of my pillow. You would have seen the unclad arch of my milky back rising up to the soft curve of my bottom. Your eyes would find my knees resting directly below my hips on the bed, forming little wells from my weight on the matress; they pushed my bottom toward the ceiling in what would appear to be a happy invitation. As your eyes moved  toward the foot of they bed, they would rest upon Daddy. You would notice  that his mouth was set in a hard line as he pulled me by my hips toward him. The look of anger would be undeniable, and would maybe even frighten you. You would watch as his hand slapped against my ass over and over in the same spot, making both sets of my cheeks blush. You would see that undeniable, unmistakable first drop of girlhoney drip from my pussy and into a round circle on the snowy sheets. Daddy would spank me until he could feel the heat radiating from my bottom before he made his way around the bed to my face. With a rough, warm hand- the same one that had been brought me to tears just seconds earlier- he would grab my chin and make me aplogize.

“I’m sorry, Daddy!” I would sob to him, leaning my face into his hand. Nuzzling him.

“Sorry for what?” He would growl. He would ignore my love-seeking movements. He would grip my face harder.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you, Daddy. I swear it’ll never happen again!” My eyes would grow big, and I’d give him my best little girl pout.

“It better not, unless you want to get a punishment worse than any you’ve ever had before.” His eyes would meet mine, and my pout would falter. I’d really messed up this time, going out where I wasn’t supposed to. After a few minutes of painful eye-contact, he would let me go and stroke my hair, a smile now replacing that hard line. “That’s my good girl.”

I would roll up to a sitting position and run my fingers through my hair before looking at him and placing a tentative hand on his lap. His cock would be hard under my fingers, and my pussy would throb heartily in response. I would close my eyes and smile, enjoying the feeling of his hardness. My bottom would sting against the bed.

“Daddy?” I would ask, smiling sweetly at him.

“Mhmm?”

“Can you please fuck me, Daddy?”

With that, he would smile and flip me onto my hands and knees, laughing at how glittery-wet I was. He would push his fingers inside me for a moment, pumping slowly, listening to me gasp and moan for him. He would stop and examine his fingers, covered in my juices,  and reach around to press them to my lips. I would suck them clean and make sure to wind my tongue around his fingers in every possible way. Then, he would slam into me, and I would profess his absolute ownership of me as my body rocked this way and that. I would cry out:

“I’m your little slut, Daddy!”

I would gasp:

“Thank you for fucking me, Daddy..”

and he would fill me with cum, every little drop, and then watch as I recovered with his sweetness dripping from me.

________________________________

I had that dream last night, and I have to say, I woke up uncomfortably excited. I used the telling of the dream as an opportunity to try out a writing style that is outrageously different than anything I’ve ever crafted a work in before. I’m not sure if I care for it too much, but hey, new things are fun.

Things are a little rocky with me right now; I’m at a technological loss and can’t do the things that Daddy wants me to do for him. I’m currently using the guest account on my computer, which doesn’t have access to the webcam, due to a virus that’s wreaking havoc on my main account. I shoot long video with my laptop because it has better quality than my camera, but not that’s out of the question. I can’t use my camera because of the broken memory card (I’m so broke that I can’t afford a new one), and my phone can’t do anything longer than thirty second videos. I feel juvenile because of this and I’m not really sure why. I just want to figure out a way to send him the things that he’s asked for.

I promise I’ll give post something decent with non-weird writing soon. :]

Closed up.

•July 24, 2010 • Leave a Comment

There is an ooey gooey part of me that I absolutely love, but feel an incredible amount of sadness for. It’s going to be a little bit difficult for me to elaborate, so bear (bare?) with me.

I have fully come to terms with both my sumissive and masochistic qualities- most recently my masochistic side. By come to terms with, I mean that I’ve acknowledged their existance and want to act on them. I’ve always identified as a masochist in one respect or another, but only very currently delved into the depths of my pain-seeking side to realize that I want much more than ever I thought I did, or thought I could handle.

The problem is, I can’t seem to find a decent way to express these sides of myself properly. For the longest time, I’ve been trying to be open and confident about them, but find that when I try to loosen up, I freeze. My desire to fully submit to someone- I’ve only had the true urge to submit to my boyfriend, who is also my Daddy- is overwhelming. I want, no, need to be submissive to someone. To him. I feel lost and incomplete without being in service. Daddy and I have been talking about sustaining a D/s relationship for over a year now, and I’ve been eager since. However, towards the beginning I was worried about his actual desire to dominate me; I didn’t want to start into a D/s dynamic just to have it not work out and potentially effect our already established vanilla lifestyle. I expressed to Daddy that I wanted a 24/7 situation. For me, normal daily service and guidelines are just as important as sexual submission. Daddy agreed to this with gusto. I figured he would- he’s already a domineering figure and craved more control over me than he already had.

For whatever reason, I was expecting him to immediately give me rules and regs, enforce strict guidelines and give me detailed descriptions of my self-inflicted  punishment since he’s not here to physically punish me himself. I imagined that I would fall easily and softly into the arms of his dominance, in a storm of total submissive bliss.
No.
It was foolish of me to expect this right off the bat, particularly with him being an inexperienced Dominant. I didn’t realize that it was my place to submit to him, to show him how he owned me, and to vocalize my limits and partial wants to start everything off. At the time that I did realize this, when things weren’t moving too smoothly, I locked up. I was too scared to completely submit to Daddy. I’m still trying to figure out why. I know that I can attribute a good chunk of it to my extreme self-esteem issues with my body. I have a very hard time grasping the concept that he actually wants to see my body, hence his request to view it. Some of it is still that I feel like he’s not being sadistic enough towards me. That aspect of my resistance bothers me a great deal; I feel selfish and almost Domme-like wanting more than he’s immediately willing to give me.  Daddy’s told me many times that he feels limited due to the distance between us, and that he’ll be more willing to exuberate his more sadistic qualities when we’re with each other. I cannot express to you how much I look forward to experiencing what he’s described as his interests in person.

I’m sad for this part of me because I haven’t quite yet let her loose. She wants out so badly, but I just can’t seem to let that box be opened. I’ve kept it locked for so long, and now I don’t know what to do with myself having decided to open it. I want to cough her out and let her run, but part of me keeps saying: “Don’t let her go; you don’t know what you’re doing.”

I’m not sure what to do, and it’s beginning to make me sad. I’m am trying as hard as I can to open the chasm that will let this all come rushing free- I know that I’m the only one who can make it do so.

Rules

•July 21, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I lust after the idea of rules. I want loads of rules and regulations, things that I need to abide by. I want an abundance of rules.

I’m not quite sure why I want control through rules of all things, but it really is what I want. My brain gets off on the idea of having to walk between the lines of his set guidelines; just the idea of him handing me a long, specific, penned out list of my expected conduct and behavior gets me tingling below the belt and makes my head go spinny. For the longest time I’ve wished that I would get a request to do something like monitor my speech for swear words, write them down, and send him a report every week. To write him essays explaining why I shouldn’t have done things that he asked me not to do. To write him letters of love and apology. To ink my sins onto paper at his bidding. I suppose that being so aware of myself, and conciously not doing/doing things because he wants/does not want me to gets me hot because it’s like he’s always with me. Everything that I do is for him, because of him, influenced by him. I want that so very badly.

I’ve approached him in the most timid of manners about this, but the subject was often changed due to the natural flow of conversation, and I decided not to persue it any further. The implementing of rules is not my choice, and Daddy wouldn’t be too happy with me if I was bothersome about it.
As I always tell him, I desire what he desires. It’s borderline selfish of me to be so concerned with what I want for my own benefit.

Someday, though, I do hope to relish in complete loss of control. I have hope in the possiblilty that it will be so.

Interesting quiz results.

•July 20, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I was browsing through some of the blogs here, and in the entries on one was a link to a quiz that was supposed to clarify one’s submissive qualities. Now, I’m not one that usually takes these sort of things very seriously, but hey, it sounded like fun and would serve as a time killer.

It’s http://www.okcupid.com/tests/the-submissive-type-test, if you’re interested. :]

My score:

Slave

You scored 37% Humiliation, 83% Submissiveness, 75% Service, and 46% Pain!

My, my. Sounds about right.