Short Story: Hallowed Eve

'Tis the season to face your fears, beg forgiveness from the things that haunt you, give out placating treats to the monsters who might otherwise harm you, and feel the veil between worlds fall thin and ragged.

Richard had hung the spiderwebs, carved the pumpkin, set out the bowl of candy by the door, and lit the three candles at the little shrine on the mantlepiece, one for each lost love.

Now, the sun falling behind the bare crowns of trees, the rest of the house dark, he turned on the porch light and waited.

The first few crowds of children, crowing or whispering the requisite "trick-or-treat," were too young, their parents too near, their eyes too large, too innocent. Richard gave liberally from the bowl of candy and wished them well. Between visits, he watched avidly from his front window, hoping this would be the year his wife and children returned.

Could that be her, behind the Bride of Frankenstein mask? But the tall figure went door to door across the street, ignoring his meagerly decorated porch.

Could those two teenage mutant ninja turtles, throwing candy at each other, be Meg and Peter? But their teasing little war resulted in one chasing the other down the street and away from his door.

A few other likely people walked by, disguised in their costumes, half-hidden by the failing light. The ones that stopped by his house were now older, traveling in smaller groups. He didn't recognize any of them

He was patient, as he'd been every Halloween, hoping for the things the old crone had seen in her crystal ball, but in a mildly incredulous way. Of course, he hadn't told a single person about it, knowing they'd look at him sideways if he admitted any sort of belief. But, still, he had done everything she'd told him to, every Halloween, for the past two years. Three was the magic number, was it not? One for each beloved family member. One for each life taken from him.

The ring of the doorbell summoned him from his reverie and he noticed night had finally come as he opened the door. The Bride of Frankenstein had made her way to his porch.

"Happy Halloween!" her voice issued from behind the mask. It really was her voice. He was certain of it.

"Happy Halloween," he replied, trying to keep his voice light. But his heart was beating so loudly in his ears. He was staring at her, the bowl of candy forgotten in his hands.

There was a moment of stillness. Her eyes, oddly framed by the white mask, met his, and widened slightly in shock.

"Richard?" she whispered.

"Willow," he said, emotion making his voice tremble.

"No," she said automatically, then, "yes. Oh, yes! That was my name!"

"Willow, come inside. Tell me what it's like on -- on the other side," he begged in a quiet voice.

"I -- I can't come in," she whispered, uncertain.

"Yes you can; I invited you in. Come in!" He was fierce without raising his voice, afraid that another reveler would notice something wrong and interrupt their seance.

The woman in the mask and costume stepped hesitantly forward. When Richard moved aside for her she entered his house -- what had been her house. Her eyes were drawn to the candles on the mantle, the only source of light in the room. She crossed the room to the fireplace and looked at the three photographs, catching her breath at the last one.

"This -- this is -- me," she said wonderingly, picking up the framed photo in one hand, an ugly orange plastic bag of candy held loosely and forgotten in the other.

Richard closed the front door behind himself, then joined her beside the candles. By their dim light, the couple traced the delicate features of the woman with their eyes, her slightly upturned nose, the little lines around the eyes and mouth hinting at a smile, her dark hair tucked behind her ears and falling over her shoulders.

"I was beautiful," she said.

"Yes," he said, "But you never believed me when I told you so." There was humor in his voice, a warmth and tenderness that had been missing for what had seemed like an eternity.

"You loved me," she said as she returned the framed image to its place. Her hand went to her mask, pushed it up over her black and white wig, wore it like a silly hat. She turned to look at him. In the candlelight, she looked like Willow, her nose and eyes and lips were shaped like his wife's.

"Yes," he said, "That, at least, you believed."

"I did -- I do," she said softly, wonderingly. She broke their gaze to look around the room.

"Did I live here?"

"No," he said, "I moved after you left. I -- I couldn't stay there."

"Of course," she said simply, looking up into his face again. Richard dared to take a step closer to her and she did not draw back.

"What is it like where you are now?" he asked, "Are you happy?"

"Oh," she said, her voice a little stronger, more certain, "I'm --" she looked around, casting about for the right words, "happy most of the time. I had completely forgotten about --" she faltered for a moment, then, "about our time together."

The doorbell rang and Richard, a small premonition twisting in his gut, went to answer it, candy bowl in hand as he opened the door.

Two teenagers held out a pillow case between them, which was nearly overflowing. They hadn't bothered with costumes, merely painted flowers on the girl's cheeks and bloody scars on the boy's.

"Trick-or-treat!" they said loudly, in unison. They looked so happy that Richard almost lost the will to say their names, but the longing he had felt for three years could not be denied.

"Meg," he said, almost sadly, "Peter."

Their grins faded as the figure before them seemed to change from that of a stranger to the profile of someone they knew.

"-- Dad?" said the girl, her nose scrunching slightly, as though she was trying to determine who he was by smelling him.

"What?" said the boy, confused.

"Please come in, Meg and Peter," Richard said, stepping aside and holding the door open for him.

The teens stepped into the house. The moment they saw the woman standing across the room from them, they dropped their bag, candy spilled across the dark wood floor, forgotten as they ran to her, crying, "Mom!" "Oh my God!" and wrapped their arms around her shoulders. She dropped her own bag and drew them tightly to her with her own arms around their shoulders. The three of them wept.

Richard closed the door and joined them as they talked over each other, everyone having something to say. He had his family back, for the few hours that were allotted.

Willow grabbed his arms as they encircled their children. Meg and Peter's hands wrapped around his waist. But despite their smiles, their teary-eyed excitement at being together again, at remembering, Richard felt cold, and he desperately wished he didn't still feel separate and alone in the midst of their reunion.

"What do we do now?" Willow asked, looking at Richard. Their children look at him, too, their face paint smeared.

Richard said, "I was told we had three choices: either you stay here with me, or you go back to your world without me, or I come with you, too."

The candles began to gutter, casting wildly-dancing shadows along the floor as the family stood silently, still embracing each other.

"I was happier -- there," Willow said, "Where I was not Willow, but part of some nameless, far vaster, thing. It was wrong of you to call us back to this sorrow."

"Was it?" Richard said, "Was it so wrong? My heart had broken anew, each and every day, since the three of you -- left me. If it's wrong for you to stay then, please, take me with you."

"They may not approve of your coming with us," said Meg, "but, I, too, do not want to stay here."

"Even if we wanted to stay, dad," said Peter, "What happens to the souls that were in these bodies we've inhabited? And how do we leave them?"

"If you choose not to stay," Richard replied, "Then you will leave at midnight, as all other ghosts do. I have been given the instructions on how to help you stay if you want to, but leaving me is the choice that will happen all on its own. But, please, I want you to stay."

His wife and children looked at him pityingly, saying nothing, and he knew they would not stay for him.

"Then take me with you!" he pleaded, "I can't stand to be without you again."

"Dad," said Meg, "If we take you with us, we still won't be a family. That's not how it is there."

"Yeah," said Peter, "It's not like that at all."

"But whatever it's like, you prefer it," their father replied, "so I will, too."

"Perhaps," said Peter, "though there are some who are not happy at all. They are the ones who step through on Halloween."

"Did you not step through?" Richard asked, "Were you not searching for me?"

His son and daughter looked at each other, then back at him.

"We were only --" Meg began.

"It was only curiosity," Peter said, "We just wanted --"

"-- to make sure you were alright," Willow finished for him. She looked up into Richard's face, her brown eyes on his. "But you are not alright, my love."

"No," he said, relieved that she understood, "No, I'm not."

"Did the woman give you instructions about how you would join us?"

Richard nodded, his throat suddenly too dry for words. During the past three years he had always imagined the crone's story with the ending he had hoped for, that his wife and children would stay with him, that they would return to their daily routine of work, school, dinnertimes together, Willow's warm body twined with his as they fell asleep. Now, he understood, the fairy tale ending was not theirs. Instead, he would follow them when they left this world and returned to their own.

---

From the local paper, Saturday, Nov 1, 2014:

. . . neighbors say the single tenant at ____ Road, Winebridge, CT, did not respond when they knocked on the doors and shouted repeatedly. Emergency responders confirm that Mr Richard _____ died of smoke inhalation before burning in the fire. Investigators say the fire was most likely caused by unattended candles. Authorities are quoted as saying, "This tragedy should serve as a serious reminder to everyone that fire safety is paramount when celebrating events such as Halloween."

Records confirm that Mr _____ was the sole survivor in a three-car crash on _____ Street three years ago, which killed his wife and children as well as two other families, all of whom had been en route to attending a school Halloween function. Foul weather was thought to have played the primary role in that tragedy.

Short, Short Story: Work in Progress

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American Social Narrative vs Dominance & Submission

If you accept the American Dream of a little bit of luck and a lot of pluck leading you to success, you're probably going to have a hard time wrapping your brain around D/s.

Americans are taught from an early age that we all need to be strong, independent, and equal. Any sign of inequality is automatically met with resistance, revulsion, judgement. Perhaps not too surprisingly, it's the person in the (perceived) position of less power who receives the most negative attention. "Why are you the janitor? You're so smart; don't you want to do something with your life?" "Are you really content to be the hotel maid?" "Isn't a nanny just a glorified baby sitter? When are you going to get a real job?"

It's an unthinking, knee-jerk reaction. While there are many kinds of inequality that do deserve to be addressed (political, economic, race-based, gender- and age-based), we are taught neither to fear nor attempt to redress these inequalities as they exist in our society because we accept the narrative that they can be overcome if we're just smart enough and work hard enough. They are external and, supposedly, surmountable obstacles in our fairy tale story of personal triumph (the fact that the American Dream follows the story arc of a fairy tale actually makes external obstacles a requirement, thus actively protecting the status quo).

But power exchanges and inequalities on a personal level do not fit into that narrative. It's difficult for some people to understand that others may choose a power exchange that ostensibly leaves them helpless. When sex is introduced to that dynamic, people can get even more judgmental. Sex is difficult to talk about to begin with, and we are not taught to think about our sexuality except as a) something dirty and certainly not worth discussion, b) something likely to cause disease, or c) something to avoid unless you want to have babies. There has been very little positive public narrative about sex until recently, and even then it's only been a small part of the relatively loud noise of the internet.

Lastly, going beyond blind acceptance of the social narrative we've been taught, it's human nature for one's initial reaction to anything new to be "no." It takes time for our brains to think about something new and "no" often buys us that time. Sometimes we end up at "yes." Sometimes a person may be so repressed that they need to drown out that little, interior "yes" with a really big "NO" that they will shout at anyone who dares say "yes" aloud.

I dare you to subvert your instinct for "no" and your ingrained insistence on equality and say yes to investigating the pleasures of (at least temporary) explicit dominance of or submission to another's will.

Warmly,
The Author

Fiction: Introduction to Anal, Part Two

Continued from yesterday.

---

Ryan was silent as he slid his fingers in and out of me, eliciting quiet moans from me. I could feel him hook his fingers slightly and press them against the sides of my entrance, helping my muscles relax into openness. I focused on the sensations and made those muscles melt under the gentle pressure.

Then there were three fingers and I swear I'd never felt that full before. It seemed impossible that those fingers would fit, yet they somehow did. My moans grew louder. I thought about being scared but it just felt so good. My pussy and clit felt each slide of his fingers, all my parts felt close together and linked by the sensations.

"Point three," he said as he continued to slowly finger-fuck my ass, "A plug can help with anal training, but, to get really nice and relaxed, it's more helpful to use fingers and practice accepting and even welcoming that in-and-out movement, because that's what your body is most likely to react to."

"Oh my God," I groaned. I could feel my body edging closer to another orgasm as he worked his fingers, pushing me open again and again.

But, at my words, Ryan stilled his fingers. I whimpered, confused and needy. Then he withdrew them altogether.

"No! No! What are you doing?!" I shrieked. My ass wiggled the little it could, trying to find his finger.

"Excuse me?" he said. I could hear the laughter in his words.

"Oh God, please fuck my ass some more! Goddammit!" I shouted.

He made that disappointed "tsk-tsk" noise.

"That sort of language can only result in one thing," he said, "And it's not my fingers."

There was a moment of stillness. I was blushing furiously, embarrassed to find myself not begging for but demanding anal penetration. My pussy was so wet and swollen, with that aching need for cock, but it merely enhanced my desire to have something in my ass again. That really confused me, that these needs would mesh together rather than conflict with each other.

I heard some noises and realized it was the sound of Ryan rummaging around in his toy box. I whimpered again, hoping he'd take pity on me.

"Point four," he said as he approached me again, "The best plugs are smooth and easily cleaned. I recommend glass plugs, as they are not only smooth and easily cleaned but also hypoallergenic and, quite often, beautiful."

I felt the tip of something warm but definitely not a finger, push gently against the entry to my ass.

"What was point one," he asked in a low voice.

"I can control my muscles and-- and relax them," I gasped.

"Good girl," he said, and pushed a little harder. I mewled at the pleasure of opening to a new intrusion, focused on thinking "open" and letting it in. The feeling of the heavily-lubed glass plug slipping in and widening me slowly brought me back to the edge of orgasm again. Then it was in. I felt my entrance close down around the stem of the plug as its base settled against the flesh of my ass.

"Oh," was about all I could manage.

There was another pause, another little silence, as my body adjusted to having this weight inside me. I wasn't sure I could handle it.

Then I felt Ryan toweling off my ass and crotch. He was drying off any excess lube which meant, I realized, he intended to flog me as punishment for being so demanding. I felt my floating pool of pleasure start to dissipate a little and a bit of resentment appeared. It was his fault that the anal training was so fucking hot that I didn't want it to stop!

But then the flogging started and I came on the second stroke. The impact had rocked the plug just the slightest amount but that was all it took. I let myself scream out the pleasure of it, letting out all that tension that had been building in my cunt and ass.  He continued to flog me through the roar of the orgasm and to the other side until I was completely relaxed again, eyes closed, almost down to that sort of sleepiness I can get when the beating is rhythmic and doesn't sting too much.

"How do you feel?" Ryan asked when he finally stopped.

"Mmmm," I said, then, "relaxed puddle of goo."

He chuckled and caressed my ass and my back.

"I am so looking forward to fucking your ass," he said, "Are you ready to take my cock up your ass?"

"Oh, yes, please," I managed, waking up at his words. I was startled to realize how much I wanted him to take my ass. When he'd first brought it up I'd felt that reticence I'd always had but now, now that I'd experienced the movement of his fingers and the weight of the plug, I desperately wanted the two sensations together.

"Please what," he said.

"Please, my deliciously evil dominant who I adore to pieces, please fuck my ass with your hot, hard cock," I wailed loudly.

"You certainly have a way with words," he said.

He pulled gently on the base of the plug. It took me a moment to remember to think "open," to imagine the muscles yielding to him but, once I did, it slid out easily. The sensation was so delicious I felt a few of those little "aftershock" clenches in my pussy.

I felt the tip of his dick press against me.

"Open up for me, Miriam," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "Let me in your ass."

He pushed harder and I let him in.

I had to focus to stay relaxed, but the sensation of that slow, deep penetration kept breaking my concentration. The result was a small of amount of discomfort every little while, but none of the pain I'd associated with anal sex. Most of what I felt was an amazingly unique pleasure that's difficult to describe but it definitely played on feelings of openness and being stretched. I felt an overwhelming fullness, a sense of being stretched nearly to the end of myself but not quite; enough to be hyper-aware of every movement he made.

Ryan sank his cock into me all the way to the hilt, then rested there for a moment, giving me a chance to relax into the situation. Then he did that thing with his cock, made it twitch a few times.

"Oh, fuck!" I yelled.

"In a good way?" he asked.

"Yes!" I gasped.

He twitched again and again and another orgasm crashed over me, wordless yells escaping my lips, my ass clenching around him, making the sensations even stronger.

The moment I recovered my breath he started pulling out, out, out, as slowly as he had pushed his way in. I could hardly stand it. I kept trying to focus on being open and that's the only thing that kept me from coming again.

Then the real fucking started with a faster rhythm than I'd expected. It felt so slippery, I expected to find the bottle of lube half-empty when I next saw it. But the main feeling was of Ryan's cock being very there, very present and real and hard and in my fucking ass.

I couldn't stop making noise in response to being penetrated over and over again. I'll admit that, sometimes, my mind wanders, but that was impossible in this moment, with these feelings. The out stroke was as intense as the in stroke, there was no relief from the sensations, and his rhythm and speed only increased.

There was no sense of time, just the fuck; just the rope and the bench and the cock in my ass, burrowing in only to pull out, only to push its way in again. I felt myself mentally drifting down again, relaxing under the rhythmic onslaught, the same way I did under the thud of the flogger. There was no more need to focus on relaxing the muscles, everything was a simple acceptance of full and fulfilling penetration.

Time started again when Ryan slammed himself against me and came deep in my ass. I could feel every twitch and spurt. My clit bucked and my pussy clenched in sympathy and I whimpered in reply to his groans. He stood still, buried in me, as our breathing gradually slowed and quieted.

"That," he breathed, "was fucking awesome." He laughed and I found myself grinning.

Fiction: Introduction to Anal, Part One

Out of all the men and women I had encounters with through Craigslist, before I ever went to a munch -- and I'm still not sure why I thought finding people through Craigslist was less scary than going to munches -- Ryan was the one I trusted most, and the one I maintained a relationship with the longest. His wasn't the most dominant personality but we were compatible in many ways. Both of us were very serious about not getting serious about the people we played with, neither of us were jealous monogamists, and we genuinely cared about our play partners' happiness. He was a treasure, I think, as most other play partners with similar characteristics also had the tendency to keep one eye out for the next new toy, sort of like serial monogamy, but rarely truly content and in the moment.

Ryan and I mostly played with ropes. He seemed content with vanilla, penis-in-vagina sex, just framed in ropes. I probably wasn't his most flexible subject, but I did start taking yoga classes at his behest, and I did let him take photos and share the ones that didn't show my face. Over time, we became what could be characterized as friends with benefits. We'd developed a level of trust in each other that allowed us both to push our boundaries.

Our relationship got to the point that I could help him fulfill the fantasy of having his trans housemaid around, cleaning and doing chores, while Ryan tied me up and fucked me (which, incidentally, fulfilled the housemaid's fantasy of being used only for housekeeping and being humiliated that she wasn't used for sex while, at the same time, being able to watch us). And Ryan was the one who coaxed me into anal sex for the first time. In a way, this little story is Mr Myrrh's way of thanking him for my fearless excitement and love for anal.

I don't recall my ex ever expressing an interest in it. His fingers never strayed near anything down there when we had sex and he was quick to apologize if his penis missed my pussy and slid toward my bottom; he tended to lavish his love on my breasts and nipples, which I appreciated. But, still, I thought about anal. I secretly read about it and looked at pictures and wondered if it really was as painful as others said. When we separated and I started on my thrilling little adventures, anal play and anal sex occasionally came up and I always said no; I was too afraid.

The day I said yes, I was on a mat on the floor. Ryan was looping rope around my ankles and I was already starting to fall into that very relaxed state of being, letting myself be "done to." We were talking, but I don't remember what we were discussing, when he changed the subject and asked me to confirm that I'd never had a cock up my ass. That's exactly how he asked the question: no introduction, use of completely crass words. That's how he always asked questions. I was usually surprised enough to answer honestly.

"No, I haven't. But I want to. I think," I said, trying not to blush. Funny how a person can feel embarrassed by words. He had already fingered my ass a few times during previous playtimes, pushing his way in with a thumb or finger, usually when I was about to come, the sensation pushing me over the edge.

"You think?" he parroted, grinning. But he wasn't looking at me, he appeared to be focusing on the ropes, tying a knot.

"I mean. I'd really like to, but I don't want it to hurt. Maybe I need anal training first," I said, trying out an idea I'd heard before.

"Maybe," he nodded. He shifted himself up closer to my torso and pushed me around to get the rope where he wanted it to go, around my waist. I liked being pushed around physically like that, gentle but purposeful, reminiscent of letting the ocean push me around as I floated on my back, sort of scared but still trusting some huge force that could crush me at will.

"Maybe," he repeated, then changed the subject to the possibility of installing a second eye bolt in the ceiling so he could get more creative about multiple-point suspensions. The rest of our playtime was spent finishing up the rope work then playing with the Hitachi, clothespins, and my favorite flogger. I was bent over a padded bench set on a raised box of wood, nearly every bit of me accessible to Ryan without him having to bend or kneel or squat. After my second orgasm, when I was feeling completely open and liquid, I felt his fingers at the entrance to my bottom. I was too tired to worry, much less seize up.

"Would you like me to help you with anal training now?" Ryan asked.

"Mmmm," I managed.

"Come again?" he said in his teasing voice.

"Yes, please, I would," I said.

"A complete sentence, please," he said, sounding more demanding.

I vaguely wanted to throw something at him but, instead I said, "Please help me with anal training," in my most contrite and submissive voice.

"You're a good girl," he said gently as he pushed a lubed finger into my ass. I felt myself melt a little more, both at his words and at the feeling of the intrusion.

He slid his finger all the way out, circled the tip of it lightly around the entrance, then slid it all the way in again. I groaned when he withdrew it once again.

"Please," I managed, "Please. More?"

"Point one," he said, ignoring my plea, "When you feel me press against your asshole, think and imagine your hole opening to me. Your brain controls the dilation of that muscle. It does it automatically when you have a bowel movement, but you can consciously control it. Practice that now." And he pushed what felt like the flat of his fingertip against me. I thought, "open," and imagined the kind of anal gape I've seen in pictures. I could feel my muscles begin to relax and open, yielding to the gentle press of his finger.

"Very good," he said, in that slow, sweet, sexy way of his. He began to fuck my ass with his finger, moving it slowly in and out of me. I moaned and pushed my bottom toward him as much as I could within the constraints of the rope.

"Point two," he said, continuing to finger-fuck me, "The more lube we use, the easier it is for your muscles to relax. If you're finding it difficult to relax, let me know and I'll apply more lubricant. Okay?"

"Okay," I managed to gasp. It was proving difficult to focus on his words. He fucked me with his finger for another moment before withdrawing again. I wanted it back in so badly. Then, I felt a second, cooler finger join the first at the entrance to my hole. I thought, "open," again and was surprised and excited to discover that two fingers seemed to slip in as easily as just one.

---

To be continued tomorrow.

Short, Short Story: First Contact

I'm not sure now which of us found the other's Tumblr first, but he followed mine and I followed his and then we were commenting on each other's comments and then the string of comments were so long that they became almost poetry in their one-word-per-line staccato pitch and yaw, the occasional "fucking" somehow leaping out at me as I scrolled down, like fishhooks down those black lines signifying quotes, signifying thought and intent.

We wallowed comfortably in language that would have been inconceivable thirty years ago, as in a ball room, throwing the red ones at each other, sinking under the words and coming up for air a little closer to each other, using pornographic images as compass and map.

Would I Skype? He wondered.

Of course I would! I would love to! I would love to see the face behind all those magical words and laugh-and-squirm moments.

I didn't want to negotiate, I just wanted to jump in, but he made me think about my boundaries so that he could respect them. So that he could be considerate while he flirted shamelessly. So that he could say goodbye a good ten minutes or so before I would have been ready. So that he could leave me wanting more. So he could be merciless and I would be grateful for it.

Of course my Tumblr page suffered. My apartment suffered. All that time I used to spend on other things were now spent on (too short!) digital trysts. Wherein I laughed and smiled and whimpered and moaned. Wherein I stripped in silence, at his request, removing each item as he asked, as slowly or as quickly as he asked. Wherein our video call was connected to expose me, already self-tied, as he'd asked. Because I would do anything he asked. I was that happy, I was that enamored.

Fiction: Expressing Submissiveness Day to Day

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

I won't bore you with the minutiae of what has become our routine, but I will say that it's very easy for me to maintain and express a submissive mindset.

My first chance to serve comes when the alarm on the iPod Mini goes off. It's attached to my bedtime collar. If I'm sleeping in the cage I can make it to the kitchen without waking Mr Myrrh (if I'm in bed with him, the schedule is often much different). There I let Ambush, the black lab, out into the back yard and I make breakfast for all of us: Ambush, Mr Myrrh and myself.

Once breakfast is ready I wake master with either my lips around his cock or a back rub, depending on whether I find him on his back or his stomach. I submit to whatever his whims are before we have breakfast. Somewhere in there, he will change my collar to the one we use for daytime wear. He has the keys to the locks on each collar we have and chooses which one I will wear, when I wear it, and what clothes, if any, I'll wear that day.

As I have ways to express submissiveness, Mr Myrrh has his ways of expressing dominance. When we get to the kitchen, I kneel by the kitchen table while Mr Myrrh lets Ambush back into the house. Ambush sits next to me while our master eats breakfast. Then I get my breakfast -- I eat on the floor at his feet, but use utensils & a plate or bowl -- then Ambush gets his.

The biggest boost to my submissive mindset comes after Mr Myrrh has left for work. I play the hypnosis CD he made for me and meditate on it. It confirms and builds on my submissiveness and my dedication to him. The rest of the day I simply follow that submissive feeling and do whatever is on my list of things to do, including writing, and make dinner. While I often sit at the table with him at dinnertime, sometimes I just really enjoy kneeling by his side and resting my head against his knee while he eats.

Before we incorporated hypnosis, there were a few things I failed at, not because I didn't feel submissive, but because I didn't feel capable. Now, I'm more likely to not only get everything done, but really enjoy doing those tasks I used to hate.

There are some times I don't feel submissive; usually a few days before my period. It's hard to describe what I DO feel on those days, because I'm neither resentful nor regretful, nor do I feel dominant, I just don't feel submissive. I get insecure, maybe, and more self-centered; I withdraw.

Mr Myrrh is always understanding, then. And, on weekends, I get to be a pampered kitty for a day or two, when our roles are almost reversed in that he takes care of me, his pet. Then I am refreshed and ready to serve him again during his work week.

He rarely expects me to push my boundaries as a sign of submissiveness. What he does expect is a happy, eager willingness to do as he asks. Even without hypnosis, that's so easy for me to do, and I think it's the truest sign that I'm submissive in nature.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Mr Myrrh Made Me Write This

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

Mr Myrrh asked me to write about some aspect of myself that I'm proud of. I had to think about that for a while. If you're like me, you'll know that it's a lot easier to think of things I'm NOT proud of.

But as I gather together little stories from my past and try to stitch them into some sort of narrative, I've become rather proud of the fact that I'm pretty accepting of other people and their "thing," whatever it is that motivates them or satisfies them. I'm not the judgmental sort.

That probably contributes to my easygoing, submissive personality -- it's a pleasure to be able to help other people get what they want -- but, at the same time, it hasn't often overridden my sense of self and what I want. I just think it's awesome that we all have these things about life, about other people, about ourselves, that turn us on.

Before I met Mr Myrrh I was heavily involved in the BDSM scene in Los Angeles (hah, I spelled "Lost" at first). I loved the parties not just for what they gave me -- the opportunity to share a part of myself I had kept hidden for so long -- but for what they showed me, the fantasies, the stories, each person brought with them.

While the experiences went a long way toward educating me about BDSM and my place in it, and it was where I met Dom Michael, the first to ever collar me, it was the scene as a whole that really floated my boat. Maybe I'm more of a voyeur than I'd like to admit, but seeing other people happy and excited went a long way toward making me feel happy and excited, too.

Some things were almost too heavy for me to watch, much less be involved in, like intense humiliation scenes or suspendings by piercings. Always, it was the attitude of the participants, either during or outside of the scene, that got me past my own adverse or negative reactions.

I'm reminded of Suzanne, who was nearly always self-assured, kind and more than capable of holding intelligent conversations when we met at munches. Holding on to that knowledge of her character somehow made it easier -- and hotter -- to watch when her mistress wrote filthy names all over her naked body in scarlet lipstick and ordered her to tell everyone how much of a slut she was. This was something she wanted. It fed her in some way. It seemed to liberate her to be that much more comfortable in her own skin outside of the scene. And I loved her for that, for knowing that about herself, for so shamelessly pursuing being shamed.

So that is what I'm most proud of, I think: my genuine happiness for other people when they get what they want.

Warmly,

Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Facebook Stickers

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

I found myself in a quandary the other day, wanting to use stickers while messaging someone and, when I went to choose the stickers The Author would use, they didn't seem right for me. While she adores "Adventure Time," for example, I passed right over them. I've never seen A.T. and probably wouldn't enjoy it if I did.

"Kitties," I thought, "I want to use cute kitty stickers. I love being Mr Myrrh's kitty."

I scrolled through the sticker options and didn't immediately see kitties I liked. I settled for the Meep series of happy faces. Kind of bland but maybe I'm kind of bland when it comes to images. I'm not as visually-oriented as The Author; I'm more interested in feeling.

The small moment of panic had passed. The chat continued and I opted to stick with typed emoticons. Once the chat was over I went through the sticker sets more thoroughly, looking for any sets I might like. Turns out I'm picky! Maybe I've got better things to do with my time than collect fake stickers to use in conversations with others.

I like "cute" but not "weirdly cute," so Pusheen the gray cat would be something I'd like, while Hamcat definitely doesn't work for me.

And then I found Snoopy, near the bottom, and knew those were for me. It was obvious then that I equate stickers and cartoons with my childhood. I don't think stickers are something grownups should use, in general. For me, personally, I wouldn't use a sticker in a Facebook conversation unless the conversation somehow evokes childhood, innocence. . . Snoopy.

I'm sure this dates me, far more than simply listing my birthday. Perhaps there will be potential readers who will realize that I'm not a college-age female and will lose interest (I learned recently that, when men search for porn, in general they search for porn with young-looking actresses). But my personality can't be denied. I equate stickers with being young and silly. I am not young and silly. I am a sweet, intense, submissive adult and I'm very secure in that.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Kink VS Lifestyle

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

When I first married I thought I was just kinky in the bedroom. I thought -- and he probably did, too -- that I'd be content with being tied up every once in a while. For a long time, I was. It wasn't until I offered to pamper him for a weekend that I realized I wanted something he didn't.

I thought it'd be fun. I'd wake him up with a blow job, make him toast and fruit and coffee to eat in bed, maybe feed him little bites at a time in-between nuzzling at his ear. Bring him the newspaper and  he'd read it while I gave him a foot massage. Then it'd be up to him. Whatever he wanted, I'd do. But if he didn't have enough ideas to fill a weekend, I had a few to keep it fun.

It was fun. It was a good two days. As we were falling asleep in a post-orgasmic haze, I was thinking, "I wish I could do this every day. I wish I could serve him all the time." Just before he started snoring he said, "That was fun pretending, but I'm looking forward to having my wife back tomorrow."

It took me a long time to fall asleep that night. It took another two years before he filed for divorce.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Sub Frenzy

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

Ever feel like your circle of friends is so small that the people you might be attracted to feel more like brothers or sisters than potential dating material?

Back when I was religiously attending munches in Los Angeles I started to feel exactly that way. One would think LA would be large enough that munches wouldn't ever lose their appeal as a venue for trying to find some sort of true love but that happened to me. Maybe it was a side-effect of what some call "sub frenzy," when a submissive person just jumps in to serving as the sub in every scene they can, with any dom/me they come across.

It was like having my cake, eating it, and then having a dozen people lick the icing off me every time there was a scene party or event. I loved it. I was drowning in cake. I was so happy. Then I got pretty exhausted. And over-familiar with these people to the point that I thought of them as family, as my support group, as people I couldn't get romantically involved with.

I suppose I ought to regret my sub frenzy period, but I really don't. It was a cathartic release after ten years of marriage to a man who was rarely interested in sex and it had to be vanilla. I had been all alone with all my kinky ideas and the only thing keeping me in the marriage was my own submissiveness.

Drowning in cake, my friends, was bliss. But even blissful moments come to an end, and I found myself wanting something even more than cake: someone to eat it with on a daily basis. Someone who liked the same cake flavor and the same icing and maybe even preferred fresh strawberries on top.

I don't believe in soul mates. Maybe that's another reason the marriage lasted so long -- I thought I could make it work because love comes in so many forms, there are so many potentially "right" matches. But even if that line of thinking caused me trouble in one marriage, it certainly provided me with more opportunities, first at the munches and then online.

Feeling like the entire Los Angeles BDSM & kink crew were too much like family, I decided to look online. It seemed like the entire internet was made for me just when I needed it: Tumblr, Facebook, FetLife. . . so many venues for finding dominants. I realized that my period of sub frenzy had brought me at least on gift: I now knew what kind of dominant I'd mesh with best. I knew what I wanted and had all these places to look.

Tumblr ended up being the place where I found the dominants my whole being responded to. But this is where sub frenzy might have steered me wrong. I was blinded by cake (hah, I don't think anyone's used that phrase before) to some red flags when I allowed myself to be collared by a dominant who didn't have my best interests in mind. While a scene party in LA is going to have a lot of guardian angels making sure everything is safe, sane, and consensual, on Tumblr you're pretty much on your own. I erred. I'm still recovering from my mistakes.

But Tumblr was also the place where I met my now-husband. My second chance. I don't really want what I write to end up in the romance genre, but it's kind of difficult to avoid it when all the best kink ends up being a part of what can only be described as an epic love affair spanning a continent and including false starts, blind alleys and confessions of eternal devotion.

From divorcee to sub frenzy to heartache to some sort of redemption. I think I'm ready to tell my story. Mr Myrrh knows I am, anyway, and that's what counts when I wear his collar. So here's to the liberation a collar brings.

Warmly,

Ms Myrrh

Short, Short Story: Excerpt From "Worry Dolls"

An excerpt from "Worry Dolls," a story you'll find tomorrow at Mind Control Stories:

Olivia pulled Marco’s poncho over his head to reveal a soft, white cotton undershirt. Then she pulled down on his wool trousers and gave a small gasp when she saw his large, hard cock curving upward like a scythe. Mark, too, stared at its absolute beauty.

Marco stripped off his undershirt then pulled Olivia closer, bending his head to nibble at her collarbone while he pushed and pulled at her trousers. She undid the buttons and the fabric puddled at her feet, revealing the red silk undies Mark had bought her for her last birthday. Mark looked at the underwear that cupped her ass and not a single spark of jealousy or rage, or even disappointment, welled up in him. He was genuinely happy for her, that she had such pretty underthings, and he hoped that Marco would appreciate them.

Marco unbuttoned Olivia’s black shirt and pushed it back off her shoulders. There was the matching red silk bra; Mark could see it, see the way the tops of his mistress’ breasts spilled over it just the slightest amount.

“Lo hermosa. . .” Marco murmured as he kissed his way down from her collarbone to the flesh welling out of her bra cups.

Olivia moaned in reply, her hands stroking his back in a rhythmic up-and-down pattern. Marco continued placing delicate kisses, one after the other, down her belly to her undies, then knelt and kissed and tongued at her clit through them. Mark saw the red fabric darken as it grew wetter and wetter.

“Ah,” she breathed, “You take all my worries away.” She ran her fingers through his hair. Her eyes were closed, her chin tilted back slightly. Mark was glad he could watch her, glad that Marco could make her so happy.

Non-Fiction: Yes, There is Such a Thing as a Sexy Checklist

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

I've been interested in human relationships as an exchange of power since I was prepubescent. In fact, it was about power before it was about sex. When I wrote stories or poems they tended to be about either wildly imbalanced power or about people -- heterosexual couples, since that's what I knew and was personally interested in -- mutually yielding or sharing power because they loved each other.

In college I discovered IRC just as it was becoming something other students used. I found the BDSM chat room and met a variety of people from all across the US who were kind enough to accept me and my fantasies. Only one or two of those people tried to scare me or bully me. But I made a few good friends online and made a point to visit them after I graduated and had some time to travel. They were as kind and sweet in person as they were online.

Now we have FetLife and Facebook and a million forums that cater to each fetish or interest and the ability to communicate our wants and needs, our fantasies and desires, has become even easier. There are still one or two jerks, and it's a shame that the jerks tend to have louder voices, but, for the most part, we can safely explore, investigate, find things that resonate with us, and find people who share those interests.

But what about the up-close and personal moments, when we're only communicating with one or two -- or more, if you're poly or multi-amorous -- and trying to mesh our wants and needs?

Someone on Facebook posted a checklist that can serve as a jumping-off point into a discussion or exploration or adventure. Here's the link: http://www.cepemo.com/checklist.html

Power exchanges, role playing, and fantasy explorations can be extremely liberating, even when you're the one immobilized by ropes or chains. Taking the time to fill out a questionnaire like the one above can start that liberating process early and on the right foot, even if you don't have someone to play with. True communication begins with being honest with yourself.

I've gone through periods in my life when I wasn't as honest about what I wanted from a partner, sexually or otherwise, not with myself and least of all with them. During those times when I wasn't honest with myself my romantic relationships didn't last long. The online resources and friendships available to me were also limited by the lack of clarity in my thinking.

All that to say I wish I had seen that checklist 20+ years ago, more for my own personal development than anything else. While I would have chosen completely different answers then, compared to now, it would have given me the opportunity to be honest with myself and others about what I was looking for.

But now, I have found it. And now, so have you. I'll be using it in my private life, and Mr and Ms Myrrh will be using it, as well. It gives them wonderfully naughty ideas. ;-)

Warmly,
The Author

Short, Short Story: "Last Day at Dom Brett's"

Search "hot flash" to find more short shorts. An excerpt from a short story that should be available in January or February:

Dom Brett’s apartment was a college student’s mess of a studio but the way he handled my body and my brain made me forget how much younger he was, how little understanding of the real world he had. He knew what he wanted and made it so easy to accept it as what I wanted, too. We had a standing “date” once a week. By the end of two months I was cleaning up the studio at the end of each play date, enlarging my scope of service and happily unhappy doing so. There’s something about leather cuffs attached by a 12” chain -- and the promise of a bullwhip if I didn’t do it right -- to make folding laundry that much more exciting. . .

I didn’t know it would be my last day at Dom Brett’s when I rang the bell to his apartment. I knelt at his door like I always did, somewhat self-conscious, hoping no one would walk by, but also hoping someone might. No one ever did; we timed our meetings to maximize the amount of time I’d have to make a lot of noise.

When he opened the door I immediately noticed the dog crate in the far corner, with a nude girl in it. She looked at me, unsmiling.

I wanted to ask about her but one of the rules I’d agreed to was to not speak unless spoken to. I was allowed to moan, scream, or whimper, but it was rare that Dom Brett allowed me to use words.

The moment he closed the door I undressed. I never wore underwear or a bra to our trysts, just a short skirt, a top and, if it was cold or rainy, a sweater. I folded my clothes neatly, then knelt again, knees apart, hands behind my head, holding my hair out of the way for my collar.

It was a simple but beautiful collar: a dark tan leather with cream-colored wool lining, four brass rings set around it and a heavy brass buckle in the back with a lock. Once Dom Brett had locked me in he also locked on the matching wrist and ankle cuffs.

In my collar and cuffs my mind was changed. I was no longer Miriam the divorcee in event planning, I was Miriam the slave, and Dom Brett was the master I longed to serve. I do think he waited for that mental switch before saying, “Slave Anna is here today to watch how you serve me, and to see what happens to slaves who do not follow direction.”

Non-fiction: Long-Winded Essay on Why I Like Extreme Pornographic Images

Yesterday morning, instead of writing, I spent hours looking at pornographic images on Tumblr. I have a few favorite sites and the overall theme is extremism of one sort or another: erotic hypnosis, misogyny, stretched pussies, and multiple partners, for example. I don’t think I’m drawn to them because I want to have a stretched pussy fucked by multiple misogynistic men, all while under the influence of an evil hypnotist. I think it’s because I’ve always enjoyed fairy tales and these extreme images are the BDSM version of fairy tales. 

Okay, I actually think having a stretchy enough pussy to be able to handle fisting would be pretty awesome, but I don’t want a cunt as big as some of the ones I’ve seen on Tumblr.

One of the interesting things about the Tumblr sites I like to visit is how many of the bloggers claim that most of their fans are women, not men. That makes me feel a little better -- I’m not a total weirdo for getting turned on by pictures of women, and sometimes men, in extreme situations -- it also makes me wonder why some of us females like to look at extreme porn.

The funny thing is, I have a hard time looking at images of women who do NOT appear to be enjoying their predicament. I particularly like HappyBDSM because I get to see smiling faces, male and female. The more misogynistic sites that I like tend to have the extremist aspect in words -- captions -- rather than in pictures. I think that makes it seem less immediately real to me, it’s easier to believe that the women in the pictures are professional models.

I’m also amazed at how many women appear to keep Tumblr blogs that are extreme in nature. So women like to compose and consume these images. Why does it turn us on?

I think, for most of us, it’s a natural fantasy.

When we’re kids, fantasy and play sometimes involve sex parts, but mostly in the context of other reality-based play, like pretending to be a mommy or daddy, or pretending to be a doctor. As we grow up, humans still like fantasy and play, but our changing hormones, social contexts and desires change. The things we played at as children are now things we do for real; A college student may not be so interested in playing doctor because they’re studying to actually be one, for example.

But some fantasies we never truly grow out of; these are scenarios we revisit for what I think are very basic, animal, instinctive reasons. Chase, flee, fight, rape, kill, enslave (or somehow coerce or control) -- these are things humans have been doing since before they were humans, and we continue to do them. Most of us will never have the need to do any of it in real life, but there’s an instinctive compulsion to role play, fantasize and otherwise practice, just in case we find ourselves in a situation where we might have to fight for our lives.

The human body and nature is very much about pleasure. We do what we love. If we find pleasure in fantasy and play, we’ll do it regularly. I think a lot of young girls find pleasure in fantasy and play, pleasure that they’re likely to discover on their own while young, pleasure that they’d like to share once they are older and feel confident about sharing it. The fantasy may be about power -- dominating or being dominated -- it could be purely physical -- feeling very full or overwhelmed -- it could be about chasing or being chased, but these fantasies grow with us as we reach maturity and they change right along with our bodies as hormones kick in.

It feels kind of weird to write about it, since there’s such a taboo about talking about children and their sexuality. But recognizing that most children have a childish sexuality, complete with the instinctive desire to fantasize and play around with it, helps round out the idea of human development as being a continuum; we carry forward with us a lot of ideas we encounter as children and they can have a strong effect on what we fantasize about as adults.

So why would BDSM-themed extreme porn do it for me now? Is it just that I’ve seen enough porn in my lifetime that the tame stuff is boring and I need a visual jolt to stimulate me? Is it that I finally feel free enough to admit that I like this stuff? Because I’ve never really enjoyed Playboy-style porn and I’ve never much liked pornographic movies, but the trappings of bondage or service in these images I like -- that’s what makes it for me.

Helpless, exposed, my body at the whim of my master, objectified by a man who may not really admire or desire me, who may administer pain or pleasure or both, who may want to discover just how many men I can take, or how large of a fake cock I can handle, collared so everyone knows I have bent my will beneath the will of another.

It’s a hot fantasy for me, obviously, considering I spent about two hours today looking at pictures online. I think it’s a hot fantasy for many women, at least in part for the very basic, instinctive reason that our bodies want us to love what we might have, over the past few thousand years, actually had to do within the restricted range of power afforded us.

Now, at least in the US, power between the sexes is at least nominally equal, with actual power being slightly unequal but sometimes ascendable or negotiable. We still find ourselves working through these instinct-based scenarios but maybe we find ourselves confused or feeling guilty, particularly men and women who are serious about pursuing equality for everyone. But true equality means understanding who we are as physical animals in addition to who we are as social animals, who we are as thought-based self-aware animals and where we want to be as a society. It means being equally free to explore, through “safe, sane and consensual” fantasy and play, the things that excite us.

Warmly,

The Author

Short, Short Story: "Well-Oiled"

An excerpt from, "Dom Michael Collars Ms Myrrh," a story in progress:

Master stepped up onto the dais once again. He squatted behind me and ran a silky length of fabric across my neck before using it to blindfold me. 

“Everyone can see you,” he whispered in my ear, “They can see your body, they’ll see how I use your body and they’ll see your reactions. But you will be helpless. You will not know who is watching, what they’re seeing.”

I whimpered in reply. The latent heat between my thighs came alive, bright and sparkling, as my sense of sight was taken away by my Master. Of all the men and women who’d topped me in my recent exploration of BDSM, he was the one who’d discovered how much forced exhibitionism turned me on. I felt his hands run over my shoulders and down the front of my silk top. He helped me out of it, revealing my lace bra. He’d bought it for me just yesterday, along with the panties.

“Stand,” he said. I stood, as gracefully as I could, on feet that were half-asleep from having knelt for so long.

There was the sound of the side snaps of my black leather skirt being undone. I was now only in my matching underwear, my collar, and the blindfold. Somehow, the blindfold made me feel more naked. I felt goosebumps. I shivered even though I wasn’t cold.

“In honor of my new slave,” I heard him say, “I’ve brought a jar of myrrh oil. ”

There were a few drops splashed onto my hair, then it felt like a whole gallon of something thick and perfumed poured down over me.

“I need a volunteer to help me spread the oil around,” he said, a note of humor in his voice. I heard people laugh and a few loud volunteers.

Soon there were hands all over me, even reaching into the cups of my bra and dipping into my panties. I was so aroused by this indiscriminate fondling, of knowing I knew everyone but not knowing whose hands were where, that I came when someone’s fingertips brushed my clit. My body flexed involuntarily, my hips bucking, a loud groan escaped my lips. There was more laughter.

“She’s obviously very happy to have been collared,” someone said. It sounded like Mistress Tiffany.

“I am!” I gasped, then felt myself blush to the sound of more laughter. I bit my lip, embarrassed.

“Is she properly oiled?” my Master asked.

“Yes!” a chorus of voices answered.

“Oh, I found a spot!” I heard Dom Robin announce as a hand swiped across my bottom. There was more laughter. “Okay,” he said, “she’s all oiled up.”

Labels

**Edited Dec 27, 2014: I've decided to just be myself and not hide behind a fictional character. I'm taking my name back. She'll come back under another name, I'm sure, because her story is rather interesting.**

Now that I'm a stay-at-home housewife I find myself asking if I'm still a submissive or if I've crossed over into the realm of a slave. Is Mr Myrrh my Master and Owner, or just my Master? He hasn't recognized me as a slave. That's not one of his words for me. But I think that, unofficially, I'm not simply a submissive anymore.

"Slave" is such a weird word. I don't really like it. The liberal in me thinks about how modern slavery is worse -- traps more unwilling people -- than it was two hundred years ago. I think about the history of the United States, how it wouldn't be such a powerful country if it weren't for the unpaid labor of thousands of black slaves. There's so much unsexy stuff attached to that word that using it to denote my voluntary relinquishment of power seems to imply that I don't care for or have empathy for people who are involuntarily slaves.

And then there are the personal issues I've had with being domestic in any way.

My mother worked full-time. Her mother worked full-time. My parents always impressed upon me the importance of working, of being financially independent from my husband. It is an illicit thrill, of sorts, to go against that, to find pleasure in washing the dishes instead of working in an office, to finally let go of that middle class mentality that associates physical labor with ignorance, stupidity, and being "less than." I have newfound empathy for cleaning women, now that I am one, myself. I still hate cleaning, but I'm proud of the result once I'm done. I'm learning that there is no shame in caring for something or someone.

The fun thing is that I'm learning these things through submitting to someone I love. Not just because I find it sexier, but because following his direction increases the value of what I do -- it's meaningful not just to me but to another person. My small, personal triumphs are larger because they are shared. That's far more liberating than the word "slave" connotes.

Perhaps it's useless for me to worry about labels. After all, as a submissive domestic, I'd probably be happy with however Master chose to refer to me. Mr Myrrh calls me "beloved" and that is my favorite label of all.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Short, Short Story: First Munch

My heart is beating so hard as I walk through the door Ryan's holding open for me. The greeter at the restaurant smiles warmly at us, as if she's trying to let me know it'll be okay. She walks us to the patio area and there they are: all my fellow freaks. They don't look freaky. They look normal. Even the ones wearing leather and collars and wigs.

"Hi Ryan. This must be Miriam?" I hear a man say. I turn to my right and he's smiling warmly at me, holding out his hand.

"Yes," I say. I'm afraid to say any more.

"Hi. I'm Joe," he says as we shake hands, "I'm glad you could make it." His hand is warm and dry.

"I am, too," I say, though I'm still unsure.

Joe gives a short little laugh and says, "It's alright. Everyone here is very respectful. Ryan and I will look out for you."

For some reason, knowing Joe is looking out for me makes me feel a lot better. Ryan's, well, Ryan. My friend with benefits. The guy who knows me well enough to know I should go to a thing called a munch, but not the guy who would make sure I left in one piece. He's not the type who would look out for anyone once he's got someone else to focus on. In bed, that's a good thing. At a social gathering, it's not.

In fact, in less than a minute after seating ourselves and giving the server our drink orders, Ryan's already excused himself to go talk to a cute, young couple a few tables away.

But then, in less time than that, his seat is taken by a man about my age. Slightly balding, slightly plump, but nicely dressed.

"Mind if I join you? I'm David Brecht," he says, extending his hand. There's a gin and tonic in his other hand.

"Miriam Myrrh," I hear myself say as I meet his gaze. His eyes are relaxed, confident, terrifyingly wonderful. I realize I really am in the right place.

The World's Biggest Gatekeeper

Jaron Lanier, with his books, has put into words what I've thought for a while now: that the internet, with its multiple nodes, multiple source points, and multiple voices, has ruined everything. It's contributed to the decline of the middle class, the disassembly of the music industry, and the smashing of the publishing industry into a billion tiny voices.

I'm not adverse to seeing the end of the world, speaking in the purely human and social sense, and I'm fascinated by what could be built from its ashes. But, like Mr Lanier, I am concerned with what has happened thus far.

There is no longer a handful of gatekeepers to society and culture, but hundreds, if not thousands, of curatorial sites. The only sites that matter, however, are the really fucking big ones. Mr Lanier refers to this as the "winner takes all" economic effect of the internet. CBS, NBC and large-audience cable channels, as curators of our society, at least had to share the audience pool. Now the audience pool ratio has shifted dramatically in favor of one outlet. All the other gatekeepers are microscopic in comparison.

Of course I'm talking about Amazon. It may have started out as a commercial enterprise, with the simple goal of selling you stuff, but it's now a very powerful curatorial gatekeeper. While "the little guy" is free to try to make a living without signing up with a company to front the costs for production and marking, and keep a good chunk of the profits in return, the little guy can't do it without Amazon. In other words, we're not really as free as we'd like to think.

Amazon is not required to respect free speech. It is a for-profit corporation with no larger reason to exist than to make money. To be honest, a lot of Amazon customers would be horrified if it had a laissez-faire approach to media. That's the antithesis of being a gatekeeper. But it's strangling art.

Smut writers, and other artists who create media that lies outside of conventional social boundaries, are marginalized by the biggest commercial outlet of e-books. We have to be sneaky about our blurbs, our covers; we have to pretend we don't exist yet try our best to attract paying customers. It's a huge disadvantage to those of us trying to earn a living after our livelihoods have been taken away, either by the rise of the internet or the Great Recession, or both.

Maybe, out of the ashes of all the things we've burned on our way to the Internet Age, we can grow a curatorial site that encourages and protects free speech. In the meantime, I'm a little guy, I'll play by the rules, unfair as they may be, and peddle my e-rotica through the one gatekeeper that matters.

Warmly,
The Author