Really? Not blogged for that long? I know (sigh). Not Twitted either since October. But my many wounds had to heal. I'm sitting in bed, laptop on lap, lazing about with the tin of Quality Street where I get to choose my favourite. I feel better, much better now. Maybe it's time to do hair and makeup, must try to look attractive, no, no, must BE attractive, will squeeze my ass into a short tight skirt and my tits in a low cut bra under a sleeveless silk halter style sweater with v-plunging neckline. Alluring. But, before, I want to enjoy the savoury of a sudden impulse, I must visit my blog. First time in six months!
Again, in a repeated body action recently acquired, I'm combing my hair with my fingers. It is true that with time a broken hart will heal itself, but I have been through hell. When you are filled with sadness, pain, resentment and emptiness you either blog and tweet like mad, trying to lick your injuries, they are just too big, and share with friends to get bits of comfort, warmth and affection... or you run into hiding, break from the world, hibernate, not responding to texts or calls and shy to even read your mails. I was so depressed and I holed up. I know, by shutting out the world I surely made it all last longer, but couldn't help. Blog and Twitter, Fetlife, social media at large were too closely linked to Master.
OMFG to have any idea of what I've been through you must spend at least one year dating a cold-hearted bastard who was so perfect abroad, you were confident he was caring for you as much as you loved him, and find out that back in England he is not only cheating on you but also in a way pimping you! My life was so full with Master who introduced me to D/s, I was ready to believe anything from him, yes I did love him and I followed in such incredible situations and predicaments... I am a bimbo, a witless cunt! In a way he was right with his frequent derogatory remarks
I thought I was dying when I just realized how screwed I was, when I grasped the naked truth. The understanding enables us to see immediately when it's enough so I had to break immediately and run away. Which I did, destroyed and empty. I was at a total loss without him but I had to go. Why do I call him Master or Sir now? You don't own me anymore, I am not your property anymore, Sir. It is your fault, not mine, you know it. You deceived me. But I still feel bad when I call you by your given name, G... I should, you are no more than a jerk, a manipulative bastard, but I can't. It's so ... stilted, Sir.
You don't own me anymore, Sir. While writing that, I do not cry, not any longer, but my eyes are still wet. I don't cry so often now. I am ok now. Yes, I am ok, though I miss so much your voice saying "good girl".
When I ran away from Master's new house, I was still jobless if I had some savings, and my parents told me to come over in the South and stay as long as I wanted with them. So sweet. They even avoided giving their views on my life, and all my family around was so nice faced with my difficult times.
I have left them now, got some good contacts to try and get a decent job and start building up a new life. I am not owned anymore. The slave must learn from her mistakes, grow and do better. One of many, the story of an online close friend (hugs, Christine) helped me a lot through my "mourning", as she went through a similar trouble and she showed herself so strong.
I certainly owe you the story of how we got there. Next post.