Sick Of The Psychos II

At the moments I suffer from more blackouts and triggering situations than during the past two years. It feels so dull to be in that state again, because I thought I had really made progress. My therapist keeps telling me that’s the case. Because I have made progress, it all comes back. That sucks, friends. I have spent most of the days this week completely out of myself with all coping methods just failing. Great. I sleep only little as I’m afraid of nightmares, and I suffer from pain in my whole body, especially in the back, head- and stomache.

Why? I really try to get to the point, but I don’t know. Perhaps because one year ago we decided to dive deeper into it, when we discovered how much we’re drawn to sissyplay? I really like being Gina/Ginny, but in some way it bothers me. Or moves me. I was used to most things we did, even if they hurt. Now it’s all new and I discover so much about myself and my feelings. I question my sanity, when I think how much I would like my cock to shrink to a clit, just to prevent me from fucking (not that I had fucked anyone in years, even before I met John…I gave it a few attempts 20 years ago, but soon found out I’m not the giving part). I question my identity when I look at my nails, even more when I have my gurl’s clothes on. Who am I? Who do I want to be? I know I’m not transsexual and am grateful for all the opportunities I was able to talk it over with a trans friend. I like being a man, I just don’t need that male physique and would like to have tits and s small clitty cock. It serves my need to be dependent on Alphas and to indulge in my servility.

I guess I have never seen myself as a real man, you know, like a hard-working, self-reliant manly man. I was brought up to serve and to think of myself as a whore who needs what is being done to her. That was not ok, but I have adapted to that. I even crave it. I know I’m insane and a psycho, but having been abused since very young age, I have managed to survive by telling me I like and need it. And that I was made for this. Who would I be without the abuse? I would not be Blaubeermann or Ginny at all, right? I can’t imagine this man I might be. He’s a total stranger to me. I’d like to meet him, but he is not me.

So again, who am I? W suggested I might carry this question on  to Lord Shiva and I did. He showed me a mirror and when I looked into it, I saw myself, but I fell into the mirror and there was so much more. I was afraid, because I guess some things better stay undisturbed. He told me I could return whenever. For the moment, I just took the picture of a happier Blaubeermann with me. It’s good to remember I was not born to suffer forever and that I’m allowed to enjoy myself. I fail treating myself, but John is a real help. I admire his ability to be this strong, strict, yet sweet and tender Dom. He keeps me on track.

This evening, we’re invited over to my brother’s for dinner and a board game. Apparently it’s a good idea to be in their company as they all make me feel more like a human being and less like a freak. I know I’ll enjoy myself, holding John’s hand and feeling normal for just a few moments. Perhaps that enough for today. Tomorrow I can try again, right?

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Sick Of The Psychos

John returned home this noon, and as he had commanded, I was on my knees in our hall, wearing nothing but suspenders, stockings and my leather collar with the heart on it. Hoping to be taken, of course. When he came in, he said nothing. Just put his luggage down, hung up his jacket and passed me to enter the kitchen. I heard him drinking water, checking the mail I had put on his square of the table, then he made his way to his office, starting his computer, listening to the calls on the answering machine. Then I heard him going upstairs, obviously taking a shower. I asked myself whether I should get up, take care for the luggage, do whatever.

When he returned, he went into the kitchen again, and I could hear him putting on water, then putting it off again. I asked myself how long I had already knelt there, when he finally returned to me. He stepped behind me, still saying nothing. Then, finally: “I had almost forgotten what a cheap whore you are”. Thank you, Sir. He laughed, left again. I got a stiffy and my elbows began to hurt on the tiles. I could hear him rustling about in his carry-on luggage, then he returned. I felt more than I saw that he clung something onto my collar. I knew what it was when he pulled and I was torn forwards. A lead. He clicked his tongue, just like people do to make their animals follow. I did, and he lead me all the way through our kitchen, back to the hall and further on to the living room. He seated himself nice and cozy, fixing the lead by stepping onto it, so that I had to put my one cheek on the floor.

After a while and with my neck beginning to sting, he put his other foot with his shoe still on upon me, rubbing me with the sole. I got even harder, losing precum on the carpet. I dared to begin “Sir…”, but got kicked immediately. “Shut up!”. I did, feeling my cunt throb. I don’t know how long he made me rest in this position, by his feet, humiliated, fixed, horny, but after a while he just pulled me near with the lead, pressing my head against the boner in his trousers. I could smell him, so manly. Wanted to take him, serve, suck, whatever. He still had the lead in his fist, but began petting my face and head with his other hand.

“Have you been a good girl?” I have. “No wanking?” No, Sir. “No cumming?” Of course not, Sir. He laughed again. “What about self-injury, whore?” No, Sir, but that was hard. “I know…I know”. Silence for a minute, just his hands and the lead and my throbbing cunt. “Guess you could use a nice cock, huh?” Yes, Sir. He laughed again. “You’re not getting any, dumb cunt. No, not for you…not today”. I felt my heart leaving out a beat. “You’re desperate, hm?” Yes, Sir. He pulled me up, it was hard to follow that movement. Suddenly his face, very close to mine. His breath. And his lips, oh, these lips… Just a tender kiss on my cheek, a tender kiss on the corner of my mouth. “No relief for that cock slut here”. When he saw my reaction, he laughed. He pulled me even closer, whispering to my ear: “Do your chores. Take care for the luggage, get me something to eat. Later, you can sit at my feet and tonight…guess what? You’re sleeping on the floor, just like a dumb dog whore should. Happy with that?”

I was not. I hated it. I had wished for so much, had craved kisses, a hard spaking and a much harder fuck. I was dared to say “But Dad…” to break the spell, to make him take care for me. I know he would have done that. It was my choice. Was I to enter this game or was I out? Not being fucked and sleeping on the floor was not what I had wished for, but obviously my Dom thought it was a good idea. Did I trust him enough to allow this to happen? I could have used the safeword either. That would have ended it all, I would have been released, I would have gotten up, kissed him, been talking to him, just like my husband had just come home from a week abroad, and enjoying all his nearness and tenderness.

I tell you what. I just nodded my head and said thank you like a well-behaved slut would. I unpacked his bags, I made dinner for him and was rewarded with some dry cookies, later on I licked his shoes clean and got pissed in my mouth. Now I’m sitting here blogging and when I have finished, I will go upstairs where my Dom is already in our marriage bed, watching T.V., and I will find me a piece of hopefully not so hard floor to rest on. Perhaps I’m glad and he throws me a pillow and a blanket, but I would not count on that.

Why? Because I trust my Master, and because I feel like this treatment is exactly what I needed the whole week through. Better than self-injury, because it just cuts deeper, yet turns me on unbelievably. Because I know sooner or later he will fuck the brains out of me, and that our foreplay begun when he made that call. Because I am his slut, his Pferdchen, all his. Maybe I’m dumb to let myself be treated that disrespectful, but I need this. So. Desperately.

On The Phone

Got a call from Master yesterday evening. He just murmured “listen closely!”. I was confused, but I did. Obviously, he had his fun with another guy and made me listen to them for almost two hours. After they had seperated, there was his voice again, satisfied, sweet as honey, sharp like a knife. He questioned me about my feelings. Was I aroused? Hell, yes. Was I jealous? Yes. He laughed mildly. “And guess what’s the best part?” I don’t know. “Kein Zuckerchen für Dich, Schlampe.”

I told him I love him and that I miss him, and he reminded me of my task neither to make me cum nor to hurt myself. I find that’s a tall order. I’m so horny, yet angry with myself. Craving him, craving his cock, his cum, craving to be humiliated and used. It’s hard to think of ways to relieve the horniness and the anger. Wanking would be good. Hurting would be good. Running can’t do it…

When he’ll return on Friday, I’ll be on my knees in the hall, begging to serve and to be owned again. I really hope tomorrow will pass without another call of that kind.

Self-Disgust

Yesterday, John went off to Mallorca, for a week of playing golf and spending some time with “the boys” he went to university with. He left me here with a list of things to do (and not to do…like jerking off). When he’s away, I feel strange in my skin, in his house and in my whole life. I miss him so much as he is the beacon in my life, but moreover I’m jealous concerning all the time he will spend with his old friends and yes, concerning the “cute Spanish boys” he will fuck. If he will, I don’t know.

The past two weeks have been very busy in the café. We had some changes in the staff and I have problems adjusting. My boss asked me if I want to work two hours more per week (which then would be 8 instead of 6 hours), and I talked it over with my therapist, because my first reaction was putting my head in the sand and freezing. Well, to put it short, I will not work more, as me and my therapist both think that I’m not capable of it. Currently I’m in an unstable mindset and more work would mean less time for myself and more contact to others which frightens me. And that again makes me feel like a wimp and a loser.

After I made that decision (which my therapist calls selfcare instead of cowardice), I had a hard time not injuring myself. I felt so much anger, I did not know how to cope with, so that John took command. Oh, and how he did. I always tend to think I’m used to pain and degradation, but I always underestimate his creativity. So, I found myself naked with just my collar on in our backyard where the two apple trees had let go of their apples which had turned into a fermented, smelly, sticky mass on the gras. He made me wallow in that mass, watching and mocking me and asking me “why do you deserve that, tell me!”. Yeah, why? I guess because I’m a worthloss fuck toy, right? Right. Having his heel in my neck, rotting apples up my mouth and nose and getting pissed on put me right where I belong. I felt so humiliated, so dirty and reminded of what my father did, I had to cry. Usually, John takes care for me in those moments, but not this time. He sharply told me to shut up and endure. I felt so helpless, but thought that he was just right, letting me behave like the dumb pig I am. I hated myself so much in that moment that I just wanted him to inflict as much pain and degradation as possible, and later on, he did. Had to spend the night in our cellar, smelly and sticky like I was, because he said he sure would not have such a bitch around. When he picked me up the next morning, I was stiff and had cried it all out. He put me in the warm tub, scrubbed me clean and then made me crawl up inside his arm. How can it be that he’s the only one to know what I need? Sometimes I think only he can give me what all therapists have tried to give me…

Before he went off, he told me not to injure myself. I know he has to trust me there, as there are so many ways to hurt oneself without leaving marks. I will really try my best to stick to his rules. I know I always feel better when I trust his cures. But at the moment, my self-disgust is so hard to cope with. I know it’s just a phase, it will pass. But when it’s there, I feel like dying would be ways too nice for me. Sigh.