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You know it’s going to be an interesting meeting when the first item on the agenda is “Please fist me.”

Ok, I’ll rewind.

It started a week earlier when I’d confessed to Skyspook that I didn’t know how to help him, how to play my part in our relationship, build the D/s dynamic. In point of fact, I was feeling a bit like Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ Superstar. I explained to him that I was at a loss, that all the books I was reading were designed for Tops full of how-to techniques, that sort of thing, and more than anything I was lacking instruction in how to develop my role as his submissive. He ribbed me playfully, reminding me once again that all relationships are different and that I wasn’t going to find an instruction manual for life because one simply didn’t exist – that we’d have to map things out together.

And he gave me an order. I needed to identify things that were important to me, Vanilla, Chocolate, Neapolitan, of all flavors, salient points, be it things that I wanted to try, things I wanted from him, etc. I had a week to think it over, and then we would meet to discuss my interests.

I scrunched up my face and reluctantly agreed.

When meeting time finally came, he laughed at my handwritten notes scribbled on the back of a yellow junk mail envelope, a nearly illegible numbered list written wherever there wasn’t printing in the way, at the mercy of the “BEFORE MAILING YOUR FORM” checklist. He told me he’d listen to my whole list and comment on the feasibility once I was done.

I hesitated, bit my lip.

“Aww, don’t be nervous,” he said.

“Please fist me,” I spat out before I could take it back.

It took him a second to register what I’d said, and then we burst out in laughter.

He regained his composure. “I’ve been meaning to. I’ll explain more once you’re done,” he replied. “Read the rest of the list.”


Skyspook likes to make me choose in relatively low-pressure situations because he knows it’s the hardest thing for me to do, that I hate making decisions, that it comes with my personality disorder and that I’m supposed to be working on independence, autonomy, and teamwork with true co-operation and not rife with the emotional martyrdom of my past, all changes for the good of my psychological health. It’s odd because he’s my Dom, and you usually think of Doms as bossy sorts who are very “my way or the highway,” (in the community often known as “Domly Doms”) and while Skyspook can do that, and it’s super fun in a bedroom sense, as a life coach, he has as a rather relaxed managerial style and very much values my opinion. It doesn’t hurt that the sadist in him loves watching me squirm as I struggle to choose, weighed down by the feeling that I’ll make the wrong decision and that everyone will suffer for it, as out of proportion as such fears are.


Getting the News:

September 7, 2011: I am diagnosed with dependent personality disorder. It makes sense, a painful amount of sense. Suddenly, the multiple selves all sifted into their respective uses becomes evident. Here is the self that bachelor #1 will love. Here is the self for bachelor #2. A slice for my mother. Another for work. Each one loved and superlative in her own right. The slivers and shavings of who you all thought I am.

It’s been a long, lonely life – loved by all, understood by none.

I know Skyspook’s waiting in the car for me. He wants to understand me, and it terrifies me.

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