Upstairs

Venus sleeps better in the basement. I don’t call it that when she’s awake. I call it downstairs. Basements carry the wrong connotations—damp, forgotten, hidden. This space is finished. Warm. Controlled. No windows to confuse her with weather or passing hours. She likes it dark. She told me once that light makes her feel watched. I understand that. Victoria sits on the shelf across from the bed, porcelain face tilted just enough to seem attentive. Venus brushed her hair this morning, slow and careful, like she was afraid of hurting her. I love watching Venus take care of things. Victoria’s voice is high and delicate when she speaks. She only speaks when Venus is calm—that’s important. Suddenness would be unkind. “When Venus is good,” Victoria says sweetly, “she’s allowed to be my other mommy.” Venus freezes. I feel it before I see it—the moment where she searches my face to see what the right reaction is. I give her a smile. Soft. Encouraging. Mommy’s smile. “That’s true,” I say. “You did very well today.” Her shoulders drop. Relief first. Then pride. That order never changes. She kneels to Victoria’s level, smoothing the doll’s dress, whispering apologies for imaginary offenses. I don’t correct her. Correcting her would interrupt the harmony, and harmony is fragile. People misunderstand names. They hear Mommy and think of authority, or worse, something filthy. But Mommy is just the one who knows best. The one who decides when it’s safe to sleep. When it’s time to eat. When the day has gone on long enough. Venus needs someone to decide that for her. I tried letting her decide once. She cried for an hour and asked me what she’d done wrong. Never again. Sometimes she asks how long she’s been here. I answer carefully. “Long enough to be safe.” That’s not a lie. The house above us creaks—normal settling noises—but Venus flinches anyway. I sit beside her on the bed, close enough that she can feel me without being trapped. “Mommy’s here,” I tell her. She leans into me automatically, like the word unlocks something in her bones. Her voice is small when she speaks. “Did I do good today?” I think about the fridge upstairs. The dates I’ve stopped writing altogether because they only upset her. I think about how many times we’ve had this exact conversation, and how peaceful she looks every time it ends the same way. “Yes,” I say. “You were perfect.” Victoria hums softly from her shelf. The catastrophic thing—the thing I refuse to name as wrong—is that I truly believe this is kindness. Venus doesn’t need a future. Futures ask too much. She needs repetition. Praise. A world small enough that nothing unexpected can reach her. If that means she lives beneath me—below the noise, below time, below the parts of the world that failed her— Then that’s where I will keep her. Mommy knows best. And Venus, curled safely in the quiet, doesn’t argue. She never does.

I Keep Us Aligned

I love Venus in the way people mean when they say the word and don’t realize how insufficient it is. Love is not a feeling. Feelings fluctuate. Love is a responsibility. A calibration. A constant checking to make sure nothing has drifted out of place. That’s what I do best. Venus needs consistency more than freedom. She told me that herself, once, though she doesn’t remember saying it anymore. That’s alright. People forget truths all the time. Truth doesn’t stop being true just because it slips out of reach. She asks what day it is again this morning. I answer without hesitation. “Thursday.” Her shoulders loosen. That’s how I know it’s the right answer. I’ve learned the signs: the way her breathing evens when things align, the way her eyes soften when the world makes sense again. When she gets confused, she panics. Panic hurts her. So I remove confusion. It’s not lying. It’s editing. The fridge says Thursday. Her phone says Thursday. The sunlight looks like Thursday. If everything agrees, then she can rest. And Venus deserves rest. People would say I’m controlling if they knew how carefully I manage the days. How I fold them, stack them, discard the damaged ones. They don’t understand that time is dangerous when it’s left loose. Venus loses herself in gaps. Before me, she’d dissociate for hours, sometimes days. She told me once that time felt like falling down stairs she couldn’t see. Bruises would appear. Missed calls. Forgotten meals. That’s what the world did to her when no one was paying attention. I pay attention. So when she wakes up and can’t remember yesterday, I decide yesterday wasn’t important. When she remembers something that upsets her, I let it fade. I’ve gotten very good at that—redirecting, soothing, replacing. She’s grateful. I can tell. Sometimes she looks at me strangely, like she’s about to ask a question she doesn’t quite have words for. I kiss her forehead before she can. Affection works better than answers. The catastrophic mistake—if anyone were cruel enough to call it that—is simple: I don’t believe Venus needs to experience time the way other people do. Time hurts her. Linear time is full of sharp corners—before and after, loss and anticipation, choices that can’t be undone. Venus blooms in the present. In repetition. In safety. So I keep her there. If that means looping a good day until it’s worn smooth—breakfast, warmth, my voice, my hands steady and familiar—then that’s mercy. If that means tomorrow never quite arrives, what is she really missing? Bills? Disappointment? The slow realization that people leave? I won’t let the world abandon her again. She trusts me. I know she does. Even when she hesitates, even when her smile takes a second too long to arrive, she comes back to me. She always does. Tonight, she asks quietly, “Have we done this before?” I brush her hair back and answer honestly. “We’re doing it now.” That satisfies her. It always does. I don’t drug her. I don’t chain her. I don’t raise my voice. I love her. I just… curate reality a little. Trim away the parts that hurt. If time has stopped moving forward, it’s only because forward was unsafe. And if Venus never leaves this room, this week, this version of herself— Then she will never be alone again. That’s not horror. That’s devotion. And anyone who says otherwise has never loved someone fragile enough to need the world held still for them.

Don't LOOK @ Me

Neon says it’s Thursday.

I nod when Her says it. I always do. Thursdays are safe days, I think. Or maybe that’s Tuesdays. The days feel like colors more than names now—some bright, some dull, some better avoided. Still, Thursday sounds right in Neon’s mouth. Calm. Assured. Like Her saying it makes it true. When Neon leaves the room, I let myself move again. That’s when I check the fridge. The date is written in neat, careful handwriting, the marker thick and dark so it won’t fade. MONDAY. I stare at it longer than I should. My head does that buzzing thing again, like when you wake up too fast from a dream and the room hasn’t finished loading yet. Monday. But Neon said Thursday. I tell myself Neon updated it and I just missed it. Or Neon forgot. Or I’m the one forgetting again. That happens sometimes. I’ve been told that gently, many times, like it’s a fragile truth that might crack if spoken too loudly. Still. I erase the word with my sleeve. The marker smears but doesn’t disappear completely. Ghost-letters cling to the metal, stubborn. I write THURSDAY over it, careful to match Neon’s handwriting as best I can. I’ve practiced. Neon likes things consistent. When Her footsteps pause outside the kitchen, my stomach tightens—not fear, exactly. More like anticipation. Like waiting to be graded. Neon comes in, glances at the fridge, and smiles. “Good,” Her says. “I thought I’d forgotten to update it.” Relief rushes through me so fast my eyes sting. I did something right. I did something helpful. My chest feels warm, buzzing, the way it does when Neon touches my hair just once and then stops. But something itches at the back of my mind. Later, while Neon showers, I sit on the bed and try to remember yesterday. I remember going to sleep. I remember waking up. I remember eating breakfast. I remember Neon watching me eat, reminding me to take my time, to breathe. I don’t remember the space between. I check my phone. There are no messages. There never are. The lock screen says Thursday, 9:12 AM. That matches. That’s good. Except— My last photo is of the same breakfast plate. Same angle. Same crumbs. Same light through the window. Timestamped Monday. I scroll. There are more. Each day the same plate. The same cup. The same half-moon crack in the table. Different timestamps. Same moment. My hands start to shake. I tuck them under my thighs the way Neon taught me. Pressure helps. Being still helps. Panic is useless. Neon steps out of the bathroom, hair damp, expression softening when Her eyes find me. “There you are,” Her says. “You went quiet.” “I’m fine,” I answer immediately. The words come out clean. Easy. Rehearsed. Neon smiles like I’ve solved a puzzle correctly and comes to sit beside me. Her hand settles on my knee—not gripping, just present. Anchoring. “What were you doing?” Her asks. I think about the fridge. The photos. The word Monday bleeding through Thursday like a bruise that won’t heal. I look at Neon instead. “Waiting,” I say. Her thumb strokes my leg once. Approval. Or comfort. Or both. “That’s my Venus,” Neon murmurs. “You’re safe. See? Everything’s moving forward.” I nod. I always nod. But as Neon pulls me closer, I realize something small and terrible— I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting. And I don’t remember a time when Neon wasn’t here to tell me what day it is.

Venus Doesn't Look @ The Neon Light

Venus says she’s fine. She says it the way people repeat facts they learned once and never tested again. Flat. Careful. Like the word might break if handled too roughly. I make breakfast while she watches from the doorway. She doesn’t come into the kitchen unless I invite her—her idea, not mine. At least, that’s what I remember her saying when I first noticed the habit. “Sit,” I tell her gently. She sits. Her hands are steady today. That’s good. Yesterday they weren’t, and she apologized for it, which still confuses me. Shaking isn’t a crime. Not here. I remind her of that often. She nods when I do, eyes lowered, relief or fear flickering across her face so fast I can never quite name it. I tell myself it’s relief. People misunderstand vigilance. They think it’s control. But control is lazy. Control leaves bruises. I watch because the world is full of sharp edges, and Venus has always been soft in the wrong places. She bruised easily before me. Emotionally. Socially. She used to come home hollowed out, telling stories about friends who forgot her birthday, lovers who called her “too much” and then vanished. I didn’t have to convince her she was unsafe out there. She arrived knowing it. Sometimes she asks what day it is. I answer every time. Monday. Thursday. Sunday. The days pass in the correct order as far as I can tell. If they didn’t, I would notice. I notice everything. Still, she asks again later. Quietly. Like she’s checking the temperature of a room. “Just wondering,” she says, smiling too quickly. I write the date on the fridge now. That helps. Probably. When she flinches, I catalog it. Loud noise. Sudden movement. Certain words. Names she doesn’t use anymore. I remove the causes as best I can. That’s what love is: subtraction. She told me once—voice barely there—that she feels smaller lately. I reminded her that small things survive disasters better. She laughed, but it sounded like she’d practiced. At night, I lock the windows. Not because she might leave. Because someone might come in. I tell her this as I check each latch. She nods and pulls the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes follow my hands, the way they always do, like if she loses sight of them something terrible will happen. I don’t ask why. I don’t want to put ideas in her head. She sleeps eventually. I don’t. Sometimes I replay old conversations to make sure they happened the way I remember. The first “I love you.” The first time she said she needed me. The first time she cried and I didn’t let anyone else see it. There are gaps. Everyone has gaps. Once, I found a bruise on her arm. Yellowing. Old. She said she didn’t know where it came from. I laughed it off—people bruise themselves all the time. Doorframes. Tables. Dreams. But later, alone, I tried to remember if I’d grabbed her. Not angrily. Never angrily. Just—firmly. Protective pressure. I couldn’t remember doing it. That doesn’t mean I didn’t. Venus doesn’t look at mirrors much anymore. She says they make her feel like she’s watching someone else. I turned them around, faced them to the wall. Out of respect. “You don’t have to change everything for me,” she said. I told her I wasn’t changing anything. Just adjusting. She thanked me too many times. Sometimes she stands very still when I move behind her. Like prey. Like trust. The difference is contextual. I ask her if she’s scared of me. Her answer is immediate. Too immediate. “No. Never. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Because safety doesn’t usually need to be rehearsed. And love—real love—doesn’t sound like something memorized under pressure. Still, she’s here. She stays. She smiles. She says she’s fine. And I believe her. I have to. Because if Venus isn’t safe with me— Then where, exactly, did all the danger go?

Check in

I've decided to add other horrors besides my spotty as fuck love life. (maybe my obsessive yandere with a submissive fantasies in a romance as horror)

Bulbs Burn Bright (Burn Out Too Quick)

Since I had my kiddo, I learned how to look at people twice. Three times. Under better lighting. I vet heavily online, the way women do when they’ve already seen what happens when you don’t. I prefer distance now. Long distance gives time room to breathe. Time to watch patterns form. Time to leave cleanly if things rot. It also means that if it ends, it ends quietly. No doors slammed. No ghosts haunting grocery store aisles. Just silence and a closed tab. I grew up watching my mother prioritize romance the way some people prioritize oxygen. Every new love came first. Every new man felt urgent. I learned early what that costs a child. I don’t need my kid anywhere near my possible bad choices. So I’m careful. Or careful enough to tell myself I am. Cappo was a Dom I met on a live-streaming site, one of those places where charm passes for intimacy and everyone is slightly pretending. He had presence. Authority. The kind of confidence that feels reassuring until it doesn’t. We talked. We flirted. We drifted into something warmer through the holidays, words passing back and forth like contraband. By mid-January, something shifted. Suddenly, I couldn’t message him on Snapchat. At first, I was confused. Then I was hurt. Then I felt stupid for being hurt. I had been trying to trust him, deliberately, consciously, instead of letting my body make executive decisions on my behalf. I don’t always win that fight, but I was trying. After my divorce, I made myself a promise. I would not say I love you unless I felt it settle into my bones. No rushing. No bargaining. No saying it just to keep someone close. I’ve always known sex and love aren’t the same thing. Sex is easy. Instinctive. A spark you can strike in the dark. Love takes time. Love wants context. Love asks you to stay. I can have sex without being in love. But I prefer knowing someone. Long term. Because if I enjoy something, I don’t want it once. I want it again and again, familiar and dangerous in the right ways. Part of me understands the quiet truth. Men want women to love them. They want to be desired, needed, admired. But too often, they don’t return that love with care. They enjoy devotion without providing safety. They accept softness without offering shelter. Submissive women deserve romance. Ceremony. Princess treatment, not just access. That’s a whole other confession, saved for another night. Looking back, I wonder if Cappo mistook my restraint for indifference. If my refusal to say the words too early, or my unwillingness to beg him to visit immediately, read as disinterest. Maybe he needed proof that looked louder. Maybe he wanted urgency, not intention. Or maybe he simply disappeared the way men do when they realize they can’t rush a woman who knows what she’s protecting. Either way, I stayed standing. Lipstick intact. Spine straight. Still careful. Still dangerous.

I understand kinky people have feelings, depression etc. I will let cetain 'friends' wander in and out.

Cappo might be back, I'm hopeful.
I'm also in a point in myself where I want to be a collared submissive, and perhaps 2025 in my year. However I'm not pushing myself

He Who Was First

He goes by whatever the fuck he wants, which already tells you everything. But if you’re reading this, you probably recognize the shape of him. HPD. I’ll call him J, because even now he feels like a letter you’re not supposed to open all the way. I was twenty-one when he found me on Niteflirt. I remember the first message vividly, not because it was flashy, but because it was strange. He asked me to join his group, and I didn’t understand why. I was small then. New. Still thinking of myself as a guest in other people’s desires. But tucked inside that invitation was something far more intoxicating than reassurance. Let me hypnotize you. That was the spell. What followed was the first hypnosis session that ever truly took hold of me. Not clumsy. Not rushed. Not pretending. He guided me downward with a confidence that felt ancient, like he had done this a thousand times and never once questioned the outcome. He relaxed me in a way I did not yet have language for. Not just my body, but the constant static in my head. For the first time, I felt quiet from the inside out. I don’t remember exactly what J did. Memory gets soft around him, like fog around a lighthouse. I know there was a list. I know things were placed carefully, deliberately. That’s enough. There were two more sessions after that. One involved recording my voice, responding on cue, something meant for a wider audience. The other was quieter, stranger. Off-list work, commissioned by a private client of his. A wealthy man from Texas whose presence I never felt directly, only through the shape of J’s request. I remember how it made me feel. Not owned. Not claimed. Assigned. Even though J was not my Dom, I adored those sessions because they came from him. Because he chose me to carry them. Because he trusted me with something private and controlled and just a little dangerous. I didn’t yet understand why that thrilled me so deeply. That should have been my first clue. I should have recognized how easily I slipped into usefulness. How naturally I softened into something to be directed. But I was naïve then. A girl from the Midwest with too much imagination and not enough self-knowledge. I didn’t yet know how much I enjoyed being shaped. I also didn’t realize I was falling for him. Why would he notice me like that? I was ordinary. Nervous. Earnest. He was distant, composed, untouchable. A voice that knew exactly how to linger. This story, strangely enough, has a gentle turn. J is building something new now. A new list. One that you, dear reader, will be able to use. You’ll be able to call me on Niteflirt. You’ll be able to purchase words of your own, if that’s what you want. And if it isn’t, that’s fine too. Having you read this feels like part of the ritual already. What matters is this. When J and I fell out of contact, I learned hypnosis myself. Not out of ambition, but out of longing. I wanted to keep him close. I wanted to understand the language he had spoken so fluently to my nervous system. In learning it, I found something that fit me perfectly. He didn’t just hypnotize me. He made me into someone who could do the same. For that, I am endlessly grateful.

I'm happy to be back being "free use" again.

Sex and The Suburbs

Jokes, I get. IRL, I am a mother. I pack lunches. I negotiate schedules. I co-parent with practiced calm and polite emails. I stand in kitchens that smell like cleaner and responsibility, smiling the way you’re supposed to smile when you are doing everything right. My life looks sensible from the outside. Beige. Efficient. Safe. Which is why I keep my other self at a distance. I prefer long distance for a reason. It keeps the worlds separate. Mom-life on one side, lipstick-stained fantasy on the other. The suburban doll and the digital siren never have to make eye contact. I get to close the laptop and go back to bedtime stories without anyone asking uncomfortable questions. Yes, it means waiting. It means pining. It means summers that feel a little hollow when an online fling can’t suddenly appear at the door like a miracle with a pulse. But honestly, if you saw the local talent, you’d understand. Same smiles. Same scripts. Same dead-eyed expectations. A whole town of men who want a wife-shaped appliance and think desire should come pre-programmed. So I wait. And I curate. I know it only takes one happy accident for everything to change. One wrong turn. One unexpected arrival. One moment where the neat lines blur and something real breaks through the plastic wrap. I’m not hopeless. I’m just selective about where I let my hunger live. I’ve never believed sex and love are the same thing. Sex is a rush. A jolt. A bright, reckless spark. Passion can open the door to love, sure, but it doesn’t stay by itself. Love is quieter. Scarier. Love is choosing. Love is devotion that includes yourself, not erasing yourself. Love is wanting to grow instead of just burn. I want that. I do. I hope I find it soon. But for now, I play my role. I keep the house running. I keep the smile polished. I keep the monster fed in small, controlled ways. I’m content being the pretty little secret, the smiling contradiction, the slut with boundaries and a calendar. And until the universe delivers something real, I’ll keep sending my smutty dispatches from behind the picket fence. Perfect hair. Perfect manners. And something sharp watching from behind my eyes.