It was Thursday, the day Mr Stern had promised that I would be serving him, and I was on my way to his house. I was longing for a first-class beating and a night filled with over-the-top humiliation but tempered my desires with the recognition that it probably wasn’t going to happen. A whole series of things have changed – in my life, in Mr Stern’s life, in our schedules – that make long, drawn-out, frighteningly intense scenes rather difficult to pull off.

I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a few things for Mr Stern. He and Alexa were planning a trip out of town and I felt a sharp pang of sadness that these few hours would be all the time I would have with him for almost a week. He had let me spend the previous night at his house and I silently thanked him again for permitting me that luxury even as I pouted about his impending absence.

When I got to Mr Stern’s house, Alexa was on her way out for the evening. She flitted around getting ready while I made Mr Stern’s dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Putting aside my craving for pain in favor of pleasing him, I set my mind to cleaning and keeping up with Mr Stern’s household chores. One side effect of my new schedule is that I no longer have a solid block of several hours that I can devote to routine cleaning at his house. My service has fallen off dramatically and it has left me feeling useless and empty.

I swept, dusted, scrubbed, swiffered, vacuumed, and generally chased every piece of dirt and dust I could find. Mr Stern alternated between watching TV and working on his computer, mostly silent but always mindful of what I was doing. I relaxed into the quiet rhythm of my work and absorbed the calm that comes with being in his house. I tried to let the chaos leftover in my mind from the previous evening settle and accept that the future would work itself out.

Mr Stern was on the phone when he came into his bedroom looking for me. I was making the bed – drawing the sheets taut, fluffing the pillows, and folding the blankets just so – when he hung up the phone and pulled out the single tail. He started flicking it at me as I worked. Just hard enough to be distracting but not so hard that I had to stop what I was doing. Until I climbed up on the bed to tuck in the far corner of the bedspread. I was three quarters of the way across the bed when he attacked.

“Just the way I like you – on your hands and knees on my bed,” he said, laying the whip hard across my ass.

I yelped in protest and quit trying to make the bed. Even with my pants on, the strikes were stingy and hot. He kept up his assault for a few minutes before he dragged me back to the edge of the bed. I put my head down and concentrated on breathing. I wanted to yelp and whimper but worked to relax instead.

My pants and panties were soon around my ankles and my ass was once again up in the air. Mr Stern increased the tempo of his strikes and I moaned into them, lowering my stomach and rolling my hips to expose as much of my ass as I could. He patted my hip in appreciation and complimented my position. Then he started getting mean. He swung the whip parallel with my legs, wrapping it from my lower back, down my ass, and onto my thigh.

I cried out with the red hot fury of the blow and started to lean forward to relieve the burning.

“Don’t you fucking lay down on me,” he warned. The tone of his voice stopped me cold. “Stretch back the other way if you need to move.”

I bent my hips and knees and lowered my ass down, mindful of how exposed I was.

“That’s a good girl,” he said softly. I raised up and again he laid the whip down. This time I just rocked in place, arching my back a little and groaning my way through the heat.

“Put your tummy down.” Again his voice had that edge that allows nothing but obedience. As always I had a brief flash of curiosity as to what would happen if I disobeyed. I am not strong enough to find out. I put my tummy down and curved my back.

When the vertical stripes covered me from side to side, Mr Stern moved to horizontal ones. Covering my ass and wrapping around my hips, he laid them down one on top of the other.

“Good girl.” His words floated on the air as I sank into the pain. The longer I held still the harder the strikes became.

Finally he put the whip down and dropped his shorts on the floor. I held my breath in anticipation of feeling his cock and was amply rewarded. He rubbed it against the neatly raised welts on my lower back, ass, and thighs, complimenting his work and my obedience. He moved away for a moment and took a condom from the drawer.

“You want me to fuck you, slut?” he asked as he tore open the package.

“Yes, please, Mr Stern,” I whispered. I was afraid he would fuck my ass and had to catch my breath to remember what I needed to say.

“Is that all, slut? You think that’s going to work?” he demanded, rubbing lube over his cock before he put the condom on. I heard the lube squirting and got even more worried.

“Please fuck my slutty little cunt, Mr Stern,” I whimpered into the bedspread.

“I can’t hear you, slut,” he insisted. The head of his cock brushed against my cunt.

“Please, Mr Stern, fuck my cunt with your cock,” I said a little louder. He was teasing me now, rubbing his cock gently over my cunt but not pushing into me. After a moment he found where he wanted to be and eased himself into me. There was no shocking thrust, no painful explosion of force, just a casual entrance.

I rocked back against him, matching his rhythm and need. He twisted as he worked, reaching for the toy box under the drawer. I heard it hit the bed and heard him opening it.

“Now you need something in your ass, don’t you, slut?” he asked. Mr Stern has forbidden me from fucking my ass when I masturbate – he wants to keep it for himself, keep it tight and slightly afraid. He knows how much I like something in my ass though.

I dared not answer, scared that the wrong words would convince him I wanted his cock in my ass but scared too that he might not put anything in there.

“If it pleases you, Mr Stern,” I said almost reluctantly. He withdrew his cock and I shivered in anticipation.

The cold tip of the butt plug worked its way into my ass as I sighed in relief. Having Mr Stern’s cock in my ass almost always takes more work than I felt capable of at the moment. He pushed a little harder and the plug slid in a little more. He shoved his cock back into my cunt and twisted the big black piece of silicone.

“You want me to shove this all the way in?” he demanded, fucking me steadily. I nodded and moaned with the double pressure.

“That’s not going to do it. Tell me what you want, slut.”

“Please, Mr Stern, shove it all the way in my ass.”

The stretching was just over the point of discomfort. I almost leaned away from him to keep the pain at bay. Then his cock worked its magic and I relaxed a fraction more. He moaned his satisfaction at feeling the fullness of the plug in my ass and I tightened my cunt muscles around him.

“You trying to make that cock come, slut? You trying to milk the come right out of me?” he growled, grabbing my hips.

He changed his position slightly, leaned back from the hips, and buried his fingertips in the soft tissue of my lower thighs. Holding the pressure steady he dragged his nails through my skin. The sharp edges of his nails bit into the tenderized flesh and I almost screamed. Conscious of the half-open window and the sidewalk within earshot, I settled on a high pitched whine.

My cunt worked around his cock and my ass welcomed the plug with hungry desire.

“You want to touch your clit, slut?” he asked as I fought to keep my hands at my sides. My legs were together, his cock and the plug squeezing deliciously between my thighs.

“Yes, please, Mr Stern. May I please touch my clit?” I gasped.

He agreed and I wet a finger with my tongue before slipping it between my legs. The need was there but the perfect combination of slipperiness and space wasn’t. I am so used to masturbating with my legs apart that I couldn’t summon the right energy to come in this closed position. I concentrated on the rhythmic tightening of my cunt, pushing both me and Mr Stern closer to orgasm. He pushed on the plug as he fucked me, telling me what a slut I was and how much I liked my ass being fucked.

Mr Stern came with that particular combination of sigh and groan that he has. I was so full of him and the black silicone that I felt like I would burst at the seams. My fingers worked at my clit until he slapped my ass and told me to quit. He pulled his cock out slowly and I pressed two fingers to the butt plug in unconscious anticipation of it dislodging.

“Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere,” he laughed. I guessed from the tightness of its fit and the sound of his voice that he had used the big plug instead of the smaller curved one.

“Stay right there. Don’t move,” he said, heading for the bathroom. I opened my eyes and lifted my head a little to adjust to being sentient again. After a minute he came back and told me to go get cleaned up.

I was a little off balance and airy when I came back, floating on the pain of the singletail and the yumminess of getting fucked. He was text messaging Curtis and laughed as he showed me a message.

The message was from Curtis, addressed to me, asking if Mr Stern had left the house because Alexa was planning a surprise for him. Curtis had sent it to Mr Stern by mistake and blown the cover on whatever Alexa was planning. Mr Stern told me to get dressed, that we were meeting Curtis and Chloe for dessert, and sent Curtis a text message letting him know of his mistake.

The sudden change of pace and unexpectedness of leaving the house with Mr Stern combined with the traces of subspace still covering my mind left me feeling soft and unfocused. He took the keys to my car and we headed for a favorite dessert restaurant a few minutes away. Curtis and Chloe arrived shortly and we chatted amicably as we ate. We all knew Alexa was up to something but no one had any idea what it might be.

Mr Stern was positively dying of curiosity by the time we got back to his house. He pulled up to the curb, left my car running, kissed my forehead and told me to get on home. I suppressed a sigh and a quick moment of irritation and got out of the car. He gave me a brief hug as we passed – me heading toward the driver’s seat, him heading toward the house. I could feel the sadness starting to tug at me again, knowing that Alexa was most likely waiting for him inside with some special surprise she had worked on all afternoon.

I knew that I would be going home to an empty house and a cold bed. I knew that he would be walking into someone’s arms and sleeping next to someone he loves. I felt the emptiness in my life and the sadness that surrounds it. The tears started before I was half a mile from his house. Every bit of agony from my cry-fest the night before was suddenly on the forefront in my consciousness again. Every fear, every doubt, every longing and yearning hit me full force.

As much as I am a part of Mr Stern’s life, I am not his passionate love. As much as he is a part of my life, he is not my passionate love. This will not change and I do not want it to change. This recognition reiterated itself and my heart became overwhelmed with yearning for someone who would be mine, who would treasure the soft, warm, vanilla side of me and spend quiet evenings at home engaged in nothing more than cuddling. As I drove away I cried with the hurt of envying Mr Stern and Alexa’s heartfelt bonds and deep emotions.

The tears worked their way past my eyelids and down the side of my nose. If Mr Stern has taught me anything in the last few months, it is to let myself cry when I feel the need. This was one of those times. I was tired, lonely, and overcome by my desire for something that seemed unachievable. Then I started thinking about how my heart crying out for someone with whom to share other parts of my life conflicted with my service to Mr Stern and I almost had to pull over.

My phone buzzed in my lap and startled me out of my fog. It was Mr Stern. His uncanny ability to call me at just the right (wrong?) time was starting to spook me.

“Where are you, slut?” he asked.

I told him and he told me to turn around and come back to his house. As desperately as I tried to suppress them, my hopes suddenly crept up. Perhaps he wanted to include me in whatever loveliness Alexa had created for him at his house. I knew, rationally, that it was more likely to be some chore I had forgotten to do or something he was upset about, but my heart ached with wanting to be included in something sweet and special and intimate.

For the umpteenth time in two days, I wiped the tears away and composed my face. I pulled in the driveway and knocked on the front door. Alexa answered with Mr Stern right behind her. The lights were low, the TV was on with one of their favorite movies in, and there were balloons hanging in the background.

Mr Stern handed me a bag with a pair of jeans he wanted me to return for him while he was out of town. It felt like the bottom had dropped out of my soul and I sniffed back a fresh spate of tears.

“Are you okay to drive home?” Mr Stern asked, eyeing me suspiciously. I had been a little floaty and distant during dessert and my increased moodiness must have set off his sensors.

I nodded, afraid that if I spoke my voice would crack and the tears wouldn’t stop.

“Ohh, slut, you’re tired. You’re overtired. Are you crying?” he asked sweetly, pulling me against his chest and wrapping an arm around me. I sniffled quietly as he held me.

“Are you crying because you overdid it or because you’ll miss me?” he teased. I shrugged into his embrace. I was too fragile and on edge to try to answer. When he let go I sniffled again and stepped back.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again.

“I’m okay to drive,” I said, not meeting his eyes. I just wanted to be alone with my misery.

“Thank you for coming back to get the jeans,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and gave him my best “Did I <i>really</i> have a choice?” look as I headed for the door.

“I hope y’all have fun,” I threw over my shoulder as I walked out and closed the door. I went around my car to put the bag in the passenger’s side, wiping my nose and eyes as I walked. I saw Mr Stern in the doorway watching me but didn’t look his way. I was in a frightfully bad mood and couldn’t think of doing anything except going home to cry.

“Let me know when you get home,” he called as I opened my door. I got in the car, closed the door, and drove away.

I started feeling bad for worrying him with no explanation about two blocks later.

He had no clue what was going through my head. No idea that I had spent the evening before cursing and crying and wondering why I didn’t have a sweet, compassionate lover to hold me. He didn’t know that I was crying out for someone to need me the way he needs Alexa and she needs him.

He had no way of knowing that I was in a sort of mourning for the ferociously intense and erotic scenes we used to have that seem to have gotten lost in the shuffle lately. My cravings for pain and humiliation were inside of me, not visible on my face for him to read. My regret that my schedule had changed and made life unstable for all of us was eating at me and he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that I was crying and had turned my back to him.

I composed a text message wrapping my misery into a neat little nutshell and sent it to him. After a series of messages back and forth, he understood at least a little of what I was feeling and why I had been so emotional. I thanked him for his understanding, apologized for falling apart, and continued home to cry myself to sleep.

I started Friday morning off by staring at my phone for ten minutes trying to decide what to write for Mr Stern’s good morning message. I had been at work for two hours thinking about what I wanted to say and still didn’t have anything. Half a dozen times I started to write something and half a dozen times I gave up.

Finally I just told him that I was still feeling sad and that I was worried about the future. I was upset because I seemed to have developed a sudden craving for a vanilla partner to cherish me and because I was convinced Mr Stern’s exquisitely cruel and humiliating domination of me had given way to casual appreciation and warm feelings. I was feeling all-around unloved and not-so-special. I had already spent two days and nights crying and felt like I was doomed to sadness for the foreseeable future.

Mr Stern did what he always does. He gave me advice that was not only perfectly on target but, when I actually took the time to think about it, pointed me in the direction of solving my problems.

“<i>Then the place to start would be to find space for yourself to feel the sadness. The future is a long time so try not to place too much on it based on a few days.</i>”

I felt the tears welling up, right there in the middle of the break room, and averted my eyes towards the corner. The sadness that seemed to have settled on my shoulders over the last few days was something I hadn’t experienced in a long time. This wasn’t any PMS moodiness or simple lack of sleep or even a prolonged feeling of frustration. This was a cold gray fog of insecurity, longing, and fear that wouldn’t let go.

Knowing that there was one almost-real reason for my lack of calm and my hysterical moodiness, I hesitantly composed another message to Mr Stern. I took a deep breath, forced myself to be brutally honest, and pressed the send button. This one was hard.

“<i>Part of my panic is because our contract is up next month and I don’t want to have to think about what that means and what I want to do then. I am afraid.</i>”

If I was this dissatisfied with the current state of my life, the end of our contract meant that I would have to give serious thought to whether or not I wanted to renew it. If I felt like I needed someone else in my life and that the contract with Mr Stern was holding me back, would I have to give it up? If Mr Stern’s domination no longer seemed to be what I wanted from a Master, would I have to let myself go try to find someone else? Would I have to, for my own good, tell him that I could no longer be his service slut?

These thoughts were absolutely terrifying.

I have been happier with Mr Stern over this past year than I have ever been with anyone in my entire life. Not only has he improved my life and my way of thinking to a point where I am almost unrecognizable to some, he has provided the security, strength, and guidance that I so desperately want. He has taught me more about how to take care of myself and what I deserve than I learned in the first thirty years of my life. How could I bear to think about changing something that had, until a few days ago, seemed to work so well?

Because he is my Mr Stern and because he always says exactly the right thing, Mr Stern messaged back.

“I understand, of course you are.”

This just made me cry even harder. I could barely see as I walked back to my classroom and tried to pretend I wasn’t on the verge of losing it.

The rest of the day was much the same. My mood stabilized a little, my urge to cry at every turn diminished, and I was able to concentrate a little more on what was going on in my life instead of what was going on in my head. I knew Mr Stern and Alexa were going out of town for the weekend so I made a determined effort to not load Mr Stern down with my problems. I wanted him to enjoy being away, not worry about me the whole time.

Mostly out of habit, and partly to let him know that I was thinking of him, I sent Mr Stern a text message when I got off work. He called me a few minutes later, just as I grabbed a cart at the local grocery store.

Because I was in such a chaotic state, Mr Stern spent the next ten minutes telling me exactly what I was going to do with my evening and some changes I was going to institute in my daily life.

“Do you take a multi-vitamin, slut?” he asked. I leaned against a bike rack and turned my back to the parking lot.

“Um… I used to but I haven’t lately,” I said.

“You’re at the store now. Find one – one for sluts over thirty,” he said.

“Yes, Mr Stern. I’m not sure I can find one that specific but I’ll look,” I laughed. I made a note on my shopping list.

“You are going to start exercising every day. Fifteen minutes a day. Walking at lunch or with your kids, or riding your bike, or doing yoga on the floor in front of the TV. I don’t care what it is or how you fit it in. You need to do something every day,” he continued.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I said. I was close to tears just from the sound of his voice telling me what to do. I needed his firm hand and tight rein to keep me in one piece today.

“Tonight you are going to make yourself a healthy dinner, take a bubble bath, and take care of yourself. A real bubble bath, make sure you buy some bubbles at the store,” he said. “And no writing, you understand me?”

“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed.

“I take that back. If you want to write, it needs to be as close to stream of consciousness as you can get. I know how you are – analyzing everything. No blog writing,” he said emphatically.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I replied.

“And if at any time this evening you feel like crying, just let it happen. Stop whatever you are doing and let the tears come. Sit down, hold yourself, and cry. If you feel like the tears are stuck, I want you to imagine going inside yourself to where it feels like the tears are – imagine yourself as a little person if it helps – and talk to them. Find out why they are stuck and assure them that it is okay to come out.” He sounded absolutely serious and I knew that he was. Mr Stern takes crying very seriously and has given me countless lessons on how to do it.

“Yes, Mr Stern,” I said, sniffling the tears back. Just the concern and empathy in his voice were enough to set me off.

“Tonight is all about taking care of yourself, slut,” he said.

“Okay.” I really didn’t want to be crying in front of the grocery store but it didn’t look like I was going to get away without a few tears.

“You be good to yourself, pamper yourself, and cry whenever you need to,” he said softly.

“I will, Mr Stern.”

“I love you, slut.”

“I love you, too.”

I was sobbing by the time we hung up.

Although I have loved Mr Stern with a passionate ferocity for many, many months, I have never said those words out loud. I’ve typed them in text messages, written them in emails, and posted them here in this blog, but I’ve never dared utter them. I’ve been too timid, too scared, and too bashful.

Mr Stern assured me months ago that I would say the words out loud when the time was right and not before. Friday evening, standing in front of the grocery store with tears running down my face and a phone pressed to my ear, the time was right and I said the words. My heart felt ten times better just from those few seconds than it would have after a whole day of crying. Although I couldn’t see it then, I was starting the slow climb back to stability and security.

The dinner I made was wonderfully healthy and strictly within the dietary guidelines Mr Stern has set for me. The bubble bath was lavender scented and lovely. The candles and thick robe afterwards kept me in a warm cocoon and eased my anxious mind. The mystery novel I read distracted me and kept my obsessive, frantic thoughts at bay. I had made it through the evening just as Mr Stern had ordered and almost without tears.

I had been prepared for a torrent of tears, after the episode outside the grocery store, but somehow it never materialized. I stood in my kitchen and realized that I was making a recipe Mr Stern taught me and felt connected to him. I soaked in a tub full of hot water and thanked him for the best cure for my sore back and stiff shoulders. I pushed my computer away and breathed a sigh of relief at not having to think or create or conjugate.

My mind did eventually turn to my yearning for a vanilla lover. The thought that seemed to set me off most fiercely was realizing that Mr Stern and Alexa were sharing a weekend away and that I had no one with whom to do something similar. I didn’t have someone to be deeply and sweetly in love with, someone with whom I could have inside jokes and cute sayings, someone who would make a weekend away special.

Because it just never stops, my writer’s mind went to work on this problem. Because I was searching, it turned to writing an ad for posting on Craigslist. This is where I have found just about everything good in my life – my couch, my Mr Stern, my house – and where I turn if I ever need anything. I started composing an ad aimed at finding exactly what I wanted.

At first it was only in my head, twisting around the words I was reading and bumping up against the music I was listening to. Then it started taking a more cohesive form and begging to be elucidated in black and white. Then I dragged my computer over closer and turned it on. At least put it into a Word document and let the words escape my head, I thought. I had only the briefest urge to actually post it but staved that off with thoughts of Mr Stern’s displeasure.

The words came pouring out. The paragraphs, the precision, the images, the desires and peculiarities all wrote themselves. I had come up with exactly what I wanted. I sat back and stared at it for a long time, letting the ideas run through my head and the sound of the syllables saturate my consciousness. I envisioned posting it and imagined might would happen. I would get half a dozen cock shots, a few stock replies, and a bunch of nonsense. I would waste some time reading emails and get a boost to my ego, but nothing real would come of it.

It was exactly this expectation – that no one would actually meet my criteria – that caused the single biggest shift in my thinking regarding my unhappiness.

Before, I had been daydreaming about some perfect man who would come in and sweep me off my feet and love me unconditionally. After I wrote the ad I started to realize that there were probably three people in the entire world who would satisfy me and, even if I posted the ad, none of them would be reading Craigslist that night. I was pining away for some fantasy I had created and like all fairy tales, this one was too good to believe.

The second bit of reality that started to creep into my self-created doom and gloom was the cold hard facts of my calendar. I started thinking about when I would possibly have time for initiating, nurturing, and maintaining a meaningful relationship. When the fuck would I fit another person in to my life? Between loads of laundry on Sunday afternoon? I wanted someone I could be deeply and truly in love with but when exactly was that supposed to happen? What was I going to give up just to see if I could stand to be in the same room with a guy for more than three hours without wanting to run away?

Things didn’t get any better when I started thinking about how irritating most men are to me. I flashed back to my ex and all of my former partners, lovers, and one night stands. There’s a reason they are all in the same “no longer interested” category – I couldn’t stand interacting with them on any serious, sustained level. Men drive me crazy with their habits, their emotions (or lack thereof), and their general testosterone-driven lives. I realized with a shock that it takes an extremely strong hand to tame my irritation and put me in a place where I am happy and so far the only person who has been able to do that is Mr Stern.

What would I find if I made myself vulnerable, snatched a few hours here and there, and tried to make a relationship work? What were the chances of finding someone who not only understood what being collared meant but actually respected it? Who in their right mind would want to get themselves involved with a working mother with two young children and a Master? I was not belittling myself or negating my inherent attractiveness, I was simply being realistic.

(As unhappy as I perceived myself to be, separating from Mr Stern was not an option at this point. I would be as lost at the proverbial ship at sea without a rudder without his ownership. Every fanciful vision I had included both Mr Stern and a mythical secondary partner – not at the same time, of course, but in my life.)

I know I am a wonderful, warm, witty, attractive, intelligent, and desirable person. I have no doubt that any number of men would be thrilled to be involved with me. I am reminded more often than I care to think about that there suitors waiting in the wings for a chance to try their luck with my heart. But fanciful thinking and real life are two very different things. Real life involves dirty socks and hurt feelings. Real life involves compromises and energy and words. Real life suddenly seemed like a hell of a lot of work and a whole lot of situations I would just plain rather avoid.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I don’t want someone coming into my space, my home, my private world with my girls. I don’t want the drama that comes with being involved with someone new. I don’t want the back-and-forth of emotions or the tension that inevitably, at least for me, accompanies a typical vanilla relationship. Trying to navigate the uncharted waters of creating and sustaining a meaningful relationship suddenly seemed way too stressful and no where near rewarding enough.

The final straw, the death knell to my happily-ever-after fantasy, was the thought Mr Stern had sent me in a text message earlier in the day. He had reminded me that my job right now, more important than any other, is to raise my children. I thought about who I would want to share my joys and sorrows with, who I would feel comfortable with in my home, who would love me unconditionally and always be there for me. The only answer I could come up with was the two small girls to whom I had given birth. They are my true loves and my soul mates. They are the ones I want to spend weekends at the beach with, making memories and constructing the foundation for unshakeable love. They are the ones who make my heart sing with joy and quake with fear.

Everyone else comes and goes but my children (please, God) will be with me for the rest of my life. The question in my head slowly went from a very whiny “Where is someone to love and cherish me?” to a bemused “What was I thinking?” My life is overflowing with love and adoration, I am the happiest I have ever been, and my situation is damn near perfect. I am in this M/s relationship with Mr Stern because it feels good and because it meets my needs. I am not in a different kind of relationship because that is not what I want. <i>I have what I want and I want what I have.</i>

It took about twelve hours, and a lot of re-reading of my ad and realistic thinking, to turn my attitude completely around. Once I stopped feeling so fucking sorry for myself and considered what I really do have, I realized that I am one extraordinarily lucky slut. My Master is as close to perfect as I could ever hope to find, my home is my sanctuary, and my children are the reason my heart goes on beating. I avoid the stress of dealing with someone on a vanilla level, I get fucked but good when I beg, and I have enough fodder to keep writing for the rest of my life. What more could I ask for?