Itâ??s come to my attention that I love doing dishes. When I
can get out of my own way and stop wallowing in energy-less oblivion, once I
actually get off my ass and walk into the kitchen and start scrubbing, Iâ??m the
happiest little slave slut in the world. Well, mostly.

Why? Because I can think when Iâ??m cleaning. And when Iâ??m
left alone to clean and not spoken to, I can pull grand epiphanies from this
empty head oâ?? mine. My cleaning thought strains run from massive silent temper
tantrums to silently singing the praises of the one who owns me. Sometimes in a
single session.

I donâ??t know if Master knows this. Maybe He does and thatâ??s
why Iâ??ve always had to ask permission to clean while He was at work and
sometimes while Heâ??s home. All I know for sure is that sometimes Heâ??ll walk
into the kitchen (or whatever room Iâ??m cleaning) and watch the range of
emotions spread across my face like a picture show. He asks what Iâ??m thinking
about or whatâ??s wrong and I always respond with â??Nothing.â? Usually, the correct
answer is â??I donâ??t remember.â?

The reason for this is that the second I hear His voice, my reverie
escapes me. It flits from my mind like a feather on the breeze and all I can
concentrate on is the tone of His voice, the position of His hands. Will He
touch me? Will He hit me? Will He bend me over the sink and take me as He so
often did before we moved (The kitchen here is tiny, making that almost
impossible â?? weâ??ve tried.)?

Whatâ??s the point, rayne?

I managed to hang on to some of my ponderings from my latest
dish-washing session and wanted to share the thoughts with you here.

I found myself wishing, recently, to have a week or two off
in which Master could beat and torture me to His heartâ??s desire and not have to
worry about me walking out into public and someone I work with seeing the marks
and getting concerned. While Iâ??d like to say that since I donâ??t know these
people they would just mind their own business, I know this isnâ??t true. Iâ??ve
had complete strangers see my hands tremble as I handed them their cold cuts
and immediately start interrogating me about whether I was physically and
emotionally okay. I had a migraine but it was my first month of work and I didnâ??t
want it to force me home. I assured them I was fine. Recently, I watched my
boss escort a man heâ??d never seen before from the store because he grabbed the
woman he was with and yanked her down the aisle. And after a minor disagreement
with Master, part of which occurred in the store, I was counseled on how to
handle a controlling man until I finally told the female coworker (who was abused
in a previous marriage) to shut up and mind her own business. Noticeable marks
would not be ignored. And while I donâ??t mind answering questions, it gets
tedious after a while.

This thought came to mind again today when I realized I have
today and the next four days off. Suddenly, we have a serious amount of time to
ourselves. And Master keeps talking about reminding me what I am.

He grabs my nipples and rakes His fingernails over my skin
and swats my assâ?¦ sometimes firm, hard swats that force a purr from my lips and
an arch in my spine. He croons sweet nothings (â??Iâ??m going to hurt you. I want
to hurt you while my cockâ??s in you. I want you to cry. Will you cry for me? Will
you cry while Daddy fucks you?�) in my ear and I try to talk Him into promising
to break me. Promising to force me into that place I love so much. That place
where Iâ??m freefalling and trusting Him to be at the bottom to catch me.

He always stops short of promising, knowing that His desires
or our obligations might not allow time for the things I so desperately need. And
I find myself falling deeper and deeper into this throbbing, monstrous hatred
for my job.

I hear you. Everyone hates working. Everyone hates their
job. And while that might be true in most cases, usually everyone hates
working for very different reasons than what fuels the fire of loathing I hold
for my current occupation.

My job was forced on Master. Neither of us want me to work. This
is something I have to do for at least a few more months or I get a â??Go
directly to jail.â? card. Apparently, itâ??s a punishable offense to be poor in America.

And my job is taking so fucking much from me. Regardless of
my availability and my bitching, my boss continues to force me to work nights
and weekends. By the time I get out of work, itâ??s dark. By the time I get
finished cooking dinner, itâ??s time for us to settle down and get ready for bed.
By the time we crawl into bed, weâ??re both so exhausted that â??Turn over.â? is our
foreplay. And thatâ??s just the beginning.

Iâ??ve lost all trace of the space I was trying to wriggle
myself into. I was slowly cutting myself off from the world. I talked to my
family only once in a great while and with extreme reluctance, I shut myself
down from making friends and only once in a while spoke to the ones I had
before I started this process, and I only had to step into public if Master was
with me. I didnâ??t have to worry about who was looking or what they saw. I didnâ??t
have to worry about responsibility outside of pleasing Master. It was peaceful.
My life was going exactly where I wanted it to. I know what I am and I know
where I stand, but thereâ??s so much holding me back from completely immersing
myself in it. And I know, now, how incredibly lucky I was back when I didnâ??t
have to have a job.

I have to be able to function. I have to be able to walk
into the real world and follow through with my responsibilities. I have to be
able to take charge at night because the other closer, while a good worker,
absolutely needs direction or nothing will get done. And that goes against
everything Iâ??ve been taught. Because it puts me in control of a man. Itâ??s
depressing.

I find myself, now, wallowing in self-pity. Tears of
frustration well just behind my eyelids trying to force themselves into the
open while I wish for a thousand tomorrows when I no longer have to support
anyone or take the reins from someone orâ?¦

I just want to be a slave. I just want to be owned. I just
want to be property. To be an object. To be that thing in the corner that is
brought out when its owner decides to use it. I donâ??t want any of these other
responsibilities. I didnâ??t ask for them. I wish someone would take them away.

Master, please? Please can I just be your thing these next
four days? Please?