The Sanctuary – chapter one

Sitting around a large oval table, six men looked her up and down thoughtfully. There was no empty seat, so she stood before the table of men with a dry mouth and nowhere to put her hands. This was a problem. Amelia was a known fidgeter, and the dress had no pockets. She made a mental note never again to buy a dress without pockets.

Nothing had prepared her for standing here. What happens behind these doors was a closely guarded secret within the community. All of the scenarios she had run through her head were wrong, so very wrong.

She cleared her throat, held her hands in front of her before moving them behind and then in front again. She could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the grand entryway. She tapped her foot to the beat.

“I, um-” she ventured but was cut off by a crisp, firm voice. “You will speak when spoken to.”

The voice did not look up from his notes.I’m sorry.” She hated to do the wrong thing, but the back of her throat burned with anger. They really should put out a rule book. Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks.

The man at the end of the table spoke. She leaned forward slightly on her heels. “Amelia, you have applied to interview for the position of intern.” He looked down at a piece of paper which she assumed was her application. “This is a great honor we bestow upon three young women each year.”

Amelia nodded, wondering if that required an answer.

“You will be asked questions by the board members. You will answer succinctly and honesty without hesitation and censorship. Do you understand? His words were efficient, and when he finished with his instructions, he nodded to a man close to her on the right.

“Yes.” The word squeaked from her dry throat.

He looked up and raised one eyebrow. He practised that. It was so utterly pretentious that it impressed Amelia. “You will address the board members as Master in every instance.”

“Yes, Master.”

He nodded in approval.

Amelia looked at the man who was to go first. He had a kindly face and somewhat younger than the others. She tried to appear relaxed, but the tension was building up inside her, forming a tight knot in her belly.

He cleared his throat and leaned closer. “Amelia, how do you define yourself to others?”

Amelia immediately panicked. She found these kinds of questions very difficult. She felt she wasn’t as yet a defined person. Not even close. Wasn’t that why she was applying for the internship? So she could be made, or whatever that meant.

“I…” she stumbled, beginning to fidget. “I define myself as a work in progress. I haven’t yet defined who or what I am. I’m learning more about myself each day.”

He leaned back, his face showing his dissatisfaction. Amelia swallowed against the lump in her throat.

The next man leaned forward, looking her up and down before he spoke. He had a very long beard and piercing eyes. “Amelia, what is your goal?”

Oh my, why couldn’t they ask me what I like for breakfast?

She rocked forward on her shoes. “I would like to become someone with a good reputation for enhancing people’s lives for the better.” It sounded hollow to her ears.

Another gentleman leaned forward, looking into her eyes. “What are your passions?”

“Well,” she twisted her fingers together. “I like to help my friends, and I read a great deal. I garden, and I cook.” Why don’t I have more passions, she wondered, they all sounded very mundane.

He nodded with a small smile and leaned back.

“Amelia, why have you chosen to intern at The Sanctuary?” She paused but remembered the instructions to answer without hesitations. “Master, The Sanctuary is renown for producing the very best slaves. The most accomplished. The charitable programs alone are outstanding.”

The man at the head of the table took his turn to ask a question. “Why aren’t you yet owned?”

“Well… Um, Master. I haven’t met the right man.”

He nodded and sat back.

“Describe the right man to me.” The question comes from the giant to the

left of her. He’s an imposing man with a mischievous look on his face. She looked at the door to her left, ready to make a run for it.

“Master, I think he will be kind and intelligent. Easy to talk to about any subject. He will appreciate the world, wish to make it a better place and he will be funny too.”

He smiled kindly, but it only made his enormous face look like he might have her breakfast.

“Amelia, tell me about you in five years.”

She hated that question. She found it hard to think five minutes into the future. “I, um…I hope to be doing something helpful in the world though I am not sure what. I want to be owned.”

“If you were given this position, what assets would you bring to our house.”

“There is not much information about the internship at The Sanctuary. It is hard to know what assets will suit it best, Master. What I would bring to any position is my passion, my desire to learn and to help others do the same. Iwould bring compassion and kindness.”

He smiled in satisfaction and leaned back.

“Before you on the table is a portfolio of The Sanctuary, our charitable

institutions and some of the things that would be expected of you should you be successful. In its essence, the internship would foster your talents, help in your growth as a young woman and put you in a position to be owned. In return, we would ask for your devotion and commitment to the Sanctuary and its Masters. You would find yourself with six mentors, each designed to aid you in various aspects of your life for the coming year. The man who will own you at the end of that year is not for you to decide. That remains the decision of this committee.”

This was not a question. It was a proclamation, and Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat. You knew this, she reminded herself. Only The Sanctuary, they had all replied. Only the best house.

“The alumni of women who have served in this house have gone on to great things, Amelia. Should we consider you worthy, you too will go on to follow in their footsteps.” That’s an order, he may as well have said.

He rang a bell and the door opened quietly.

“Please take the information. Study it well and we will inform you if you are shortlisted for an interview. John will show you out. Thank you for your time.”

Each of the men nodded and Amelia fumbled for the portfolio on the table before following the butler out again. She almost dropped a small cutesy.

She had no time to look around further and settle her curiosity. She was formally ushered out with the bound prospectus under her arm and the butlers Hands at her other elbow. Another nervous candidate sat on the uncomfortable lone chair in the foyer awaiting her turn. Her knees here primly pressed together and the white gloves on her hands were pristine.

“I should have worn gloves,” she muttered as she walked down the street away from the old building with the massive gate that shut firmly behind her. The tall stone wall ran a full block and behind it was known only to chosen few. How Amelia wanted to be one of those few. Since she was a little girl, she had dreamed of attending The Sanctuary with its closeted grounds and beautiful buildings

Up and down the street, young women were laughing as they came and went from their interviews. They looked happy. They boisterously hugging each other while she walked with a pit in her stomach, and a heavy prospectus in her hand, doubting herself with each step.

I’m not up to their standard. I’m far more suited to The Garden. She peeked in the front door of the establishment as she passed it. Slaves were handing out cups of punch to the applying interns. Where is my punch?

All over town, young men and women were talking about pledge week. It was the most exciting week in the community. They came from all across the country to apply to the various houses. Parties were held, tours were taking place, signs inviting novices to apply were stapled to every available pole and fence.

But not The Sanctuary. They did not advertise. They did not have to. They took three recruits each year, no more. She stopped at the crossing where a man with his slave walked happily hand in hand. I wonder which house you went to, Amelia thought? You look so perfectly. Probably The Garden. You probably had punch.

“Stop it silly,” She said to the blinking walk sign. The slave turned her head and smiled, saying to her owner “it’s application week.” He nodded in understanding, and they walked ahead.

Amelia walked home and made a punch.

I have lost my submission

This is a very sad statement for me to make. It’s an honest one at the time of writing and because my emotions are like a sign writers flight plan, I do not know what it will feel like tomorrow, but right now, as I place my fingers on keys that make up the words, the submission is lost.

It is like a rabbit. Grey and wild for context because they seem like the hardy variety. The white fluffy ones seem like a fairytale so we will go with the grey and wild for now. The rabbit, who is the caretaker of my submission these days, is in and out of burrows, putting her head up and sniffing the air, only to dive back underground and out of sight. There she is- now she’s gone – over there – no over here – gone again. She’s agile and elusive. Damn her.

When I think I have the submissive thing worked out she runs away with it and I can only watch her go, she’s too fast. She never stays still long enough for me to get to know her. On her heels is the hunter. I’ve always liked the hunting analogy when it comes to dominants and submissives. I like the feeling of being hunted. It’s seductive and nerve wracking. Like me. There are tactics involved. That’s alluring. I confess I am turned on by the predator movies. Being caught is the end result of the D/s hunting fantasy. That’s submission 101. The hunter catches his prey. She is caught and consumed and happy about it. For some reason my head doesn’t compute the caught part. It’s on a constant hunt and that is not healthy.

This is why I have lost my submission. I don’t know how to be one. Yet. I don’t know how it be happy when caught. I’m always looking to return to the hunt.

There is no point to this post. No question. It’s a release. Thank you for reading it.

I’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Sub-creation

Have you noticed that so many submissives are the creative type. Whether it be writing, art, fashion, cooking, coffee art – it’s a thing, what ever it might be, so many submissives are creating things. I wonder why that is?

I’m kind of going to break apart the submissive personality here so move on a few paragraphs if that’s been done like a bottom at a dungeon party.

To be submissive is to be really arrogant. How dare we go against society and popular culture and listen to our gut?It’s just rude. Be over scheduled, confused and exhausted like the rest of us. There is no excuse for being smart and together and deciding to defer to another in some or all of our lives. How dare you?

Submissives are annoying. We really are. We know what we want and we know what feels good. We are not wishy-washy. There is no demure princess hiding in here. There is a fully gown mountain lion fighting for what she needs. Submissives are so annoying for knowing that. No wonder the rest of society is baffled by us. We are a contradiction walking around wet and satisfied.

Is that why we are creative? Welcome back if you skipped ahead. Have we acknowledged some chemical need inside our brains and we need to channel that into something that is more than ourselves? Who has met a submissive that hasn’t penned an erotic story? I’m looking around at the lack of hands in the air.

It’s pent up desire bursting from a sticky cum filled center. It’s painting time. That time between knowing this is the answer to my life and finding the dominant that keeps the same time as me. Listening for that tick tick that matches my tick tick needs accompanied by music, words, paint, fabric, coffee.

Going against the grain takes grit and adjectives. The majority of my family, friends associates and space cadets will not live in a D/s or M/s relationship so they won’t know what the hell I’m taking about. If you are like the majority of us, you keep it to yourself, behind your front door and with only the most trusted vanillas. Maybe you have better connections than mine but I haven’t had any success in explaining this thing that we do – that’s another story – but for me, it’s something I keep to myself and my blog. It has to come out somehow. That’s why religions proselytise. The more the merrier, come believe in what I believe in. People love to share and when someone believes in the same way of life as we do, it makes us happy. Our health level goes up, our happiness score rises and we feel fulfilled and verified.

We are not a religion – oh if only we were, imagine the tax implications. How do we proselytise? We create. We splash the paint around to write a message that is uniquely ours.

Mine is writing. What is yours?

That time when Amelia was angry – Like now.

.

.

Jump, Tim.

How high, Amelia?

That’s how our relationship worked. Or at least that’s what he was told.

He believed it. He felt that to be true. He had an epiphany. The clouds parted and he saw the twinkle lights Emily placed around the pergola. This epiphany released him from guilt. It wasn’t his fault because Amelia wasn’t a good slave. Hallelujah, there’s the answer. Amelia is the reason we are shipwrecked. Amelia twisted him around her little finger, that’s why he couldn’t be the captain of his ship.

He wrote to me and said I’ve tried to accomodate you and I enabled you. You gave into your ego instead of talking. You weren’t honest, communicative and transparent.

If that’s accomodation, let me check out. There was no time to communicate. We were in constant danger and I was in constant stress mode.

I was there through all of it. I didn’t come and go as I pleased. Through the good and the bad, I stuck around. I was standing there beside him, not behind him because it was too scary behind him. I was blindsided too many times by flying objects and yes, every now and then I had to yank the wheel violently to the side to avoid a collision. But I was on the boat. That rocking leaking unstable boat. Where the fuck were you Emily? Getting a manicure? And now you whisper in his ear, turn it all around on me and make me feel bad for it. Oh, your good. But I’m better.

I was in this relationship when he was anxious, wrong, worried, stressed, over worked, underslept. I woke up to it every morning and went to bed with it every evening. I’m not the one who wrapped him around my finger. That was you sweet Emily. Little tiny cute soft spoken, Emily.

“I can’t today, I’ve had a hard life.” Yeah, you’re singing to the choir. We’ve all had a hard life. Toughen up, princess. Stick to what you agreed to one time, it’s life changing.

I have never asked that man to jump. I only asked that he do what he said he would do. I asked that he be the dominant. That he take control of the wheel. That he keep us off the rocks. That he not be reckless.

There was no consistency and he didn’t have stabilizers on his boat. It rocked from side to side and while I don’t get sea sick, I would have liked the calm he promised. He would add and subtract elements on a whim and a prayer and our navigator was a magic eight ball.

When he wasn’t in control, was I suppose to let myself to tossed onto the rocks? Would that have made me a better slave? A better submissive. When I saw we here heading for danger was I suppose to say in my sweet voice, yes Master, of course I trust you when you’re heading towards that lighthouse and you’re not the the best sailor in the bay.

Because I put my hand out to steer us from danger in our rudderless boat, I am to blame and he believed her.

There is no one I need to make amends to. I did nothing wrong. I stayed until it crashed. I’m wearing the injuries from that crash.

Sleep, you elusive vixon

I’ve had a few hours sleep.

You know that feeling when you want more, but you know you’re not going to get more so you lay in bed resentful?  I’m that person tonight.

A few hours is better than nothing and I was running on nothing.

Why is it so hard for some people to sleep as adults?

For all the times I refused a nap as a kid, I take it back.  Come get me nap time. I’m yours.

What do you do when you can’t sleep? I read. Write. I use to roll over and give a blowjob or climb on top of him. Now I just read. Or write.

 

I’m the Anti-sister

In reference to National sibling day, I’d like to talk about a different type of sister.  I don’t have a sibling, only child here with all the only child issues they write about in psychology books.  I’m looking for National Only Child Day.  National Singleton Day, perhaps?  No? Thought not.  This is discrmination

Anyway, lets get to the post.

I hate the term sister. I will remind you  that I am an only child, and have never had a real sister. We won’t talk about that one I Bart Simpsoned in the attic. You didn’t hear that from me. I have a slave sister which is like a sister wife if you watch that show, only kinkier without the freaky looking husband who needs a haircut.

When someone calls Emily my sister I throw up a little in my mouth along with a moaning vomit sound deep in my stomach. Sorry if you were eating. You probably think I am being mean to Emily but she knows this. We’ve laughed about it. I have sniggered and given her sid- eye when we were called “sisters.” Excuse me while I shudder. She giggles. Emily is a giggler. I’m not a giggler. You could tell that, couldn’t you.

She loves being a sister. She uses the word a lot. I think mostly because it annoys me but also because she is the poster child for slave sisterhood. She is all in with poly. She’s rolling around in her poly house, her hands flying in the air in bewitching joy. Unicorn slippers on her feet, flayling around on a cloud of poly. She has glitter stuck to the side of her face from the posters she made for “poly is family too” march. I was the one hiding behind the telegraph pole sipping town coffee and reading the Female Eunich.

There are woman in the lifestyle who throw around the word sister and love the sound of it and I say “you go, girl,” but please don’t use it with me. Friend. Confident. Misadventure co conspirator, but not sister. Even poor- much maligned in this blog- Emily is not sister. Maybe one day she can be, she aspires to be, she tells me, though god knows why, I’m a total bitch. Maybe one day, but today is not that day.

How did this sister thing take off?

If you are poly, is she your sister? Or Brother? This is an equal opportunity blog.

And that’s why I’m looking for coffee

I live in small town Maine. Real small Maine doesn’t do great coffee. It doesn’t even do good coffee, so I set off this morning to find better coffee. If you are from Maine you are laughing at my delusional quest. Not know for our coffee. “I’m setting off to Maine to have great coffee” was said by no one ever. The nearest big town is a few hours drive away and that’s going to have better coffee.

I’m always reaching. I’m not a settler by nature. I will always try to make things better, find a better fit, drive for better coffee. I think it would be easier to be a settler. This coffee is good and leave it at that. Imagine that? What contentment that would bring. I have coffee, I should be happy with that.

The problem is, I’ve tasted better. I know there is better coffee out there and I will always seek that coffee which was good.

The coffee in Bangor is better. Much better than home two hours from here. Was it worth the two hour drive? Yes, it was. My taste buds needed the better coffee this morning and my head needed the drive.

But this isn’t a story about coffee.

It’s one of those damn analogies.

I have tasted really good M/s. It was sublime. It wasn’t perfect, he’s not perfect and I’m not perfect but we did it really well. We had this in-sync (Bye Bye Bye – you’re welcome) thing going, we knew each other even when we didn’t know each other. He walked in the room and my atoms recognized his atoms and they tingled because two bits of the same star come back together and we were inseparable from that moment. We argued and misstepped and tripped over each other but it was still sublime and who gets to have that? People look forever for that and I had that. Now I don’t have that. Now I am back in Maine, licking my wounds because it’s fallen apart but I am still looking for ways to make it better. To get back to that sublime thing we had. Like the coffee. I taste small town coffee and my longing goes to big town coffee. I look at what this relationship consists of now and I long for what was. I can’t have what was, I’m suck with small town coffee for the moment, but I’m not a settler. I either find a way to make the coffee better or I find different coffee.

And that’s why I’m looking for coffee