Donald Trump and Male Chastity

Events of the past several weeks have brought chaos into the world I live in.

Perhaps it's no surprise that the election of Donald Trump as President of the United States has left Ms. Julia quite angered. She's no Hillary Clinton supporter mind you, but certainly no Trump supporter. She's been glued to the television news channels for about a month now, following the election coverage, and now, the election fallout.

She's also been getting a lot of mileage out of me lately as well.

I guess all this has caused her to assert her feminism with me, in a more aggressive manner. There have been spanks with paddles and crops, restraints with cuffs and rope, some pretty tight arm twisting, pushing my head down into the mattress, and pegging of the most inconsiderate nature.

My nights have been spent laying in bed with her while she peruses the news channels and YouTube clips. I remain quiet while she watches, and then must listen attentively afterwards when she opines on each segment. I've learned how to respond in such ways to support her feelings, much of which she has taught me how to do.

But while all this has gone on, I've felt too worn out to update this blog, at least until now. Lingering in my thoughts is a malaise towards expressing my feelings. I'm trying hard to remove myself from the conversation, and instead respond only to Ms. Julia's input. For the most part, it's an intellectual exercise of remembering what to do, and letting it become part of my natural habit.

Meanwhile, there's an emotional side that drains me.

I still have this boy inside of me that wants to grow up into a man. I can feel him trying to put his foot down and demand a more dignified treatment. Yet, my existence here is not about me, but about her. I'm here to serve her. I exist to accompany her, to comfort her, to pamper her, and be used in any way she pleases. How do I reconcile this want for dignity?

When I was entering my first year of High School, my mother was going to accompany me to the registration event. I begged her not to go. I knew the other students would be there without their parents, and I didn't want them to think I still needed my mom's help to register me.

She was puzzled. It never dawned on her that I wanted to become self-sufficient. She still assumed that I was a kid who needed to be taken care of. She kept insisting on going with me, and I kept begging her not to go. She finally relented.

Sure enough at the registration event, there was not a single parent in sight. I was so glad I persisted!

But the point is that my mother actually believed I still needed to be treated like a helpless child, and thus far, had rarely allowed me to take responsibility for my own welfare. Somewhere in all that, my mind translated that into being incapable, or defective.

I still have that voice of doubt in me. "I can't do it", "I'm not good enough", I'm going to fail". Phrases like that bring about an emotional response of despondency. And even today, I often resign myself to moving out of the way of someone else's path, just because something keeps telling me that I'm the one who should give way.

If I am to remain here with Ms. Julia, I have to abandon this urge to put my foot down. Otherwise, I have to leave, and I don't how I am going to do that without any clothes, money, transportation, or any other place to go to.

There's one last interesting piece of news to share, however. Ms. Julia decided to remove the chastity cage. She mentioned that it now looks too masculine, which I think somehow has to do with her disgust over a male chauvinist President.

"I don't like seeing that cock flopping about, however", she added, after removing the device. "I'll have to figure out what to do."

Deserving Only of Dominance

As Ms. Julia held me down by my neck, she grabbed my balls and squeezed them hard, to the point that I yelled in fear of injury. Then she grunted into my face with a vengeful look that only a holiday shopper would reserve for a Wal-Mart melee...

"You think you got things figured out? You think you have ME figured out? You think you're so smart with your blog?"

"I'm sorry Ms Julia!" I cried out in pain. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Letting me go, she only reached for a leather paddle and slapped my ass with it several times. The pain was agonizing. All the while, she spoke out phrases like, "You don't know me!", "You better wise up", and "That's right, Bitch!"

The thing is that only a few hours earlier we were laughing at the television watching road rage videos on YouTube. We were like friends, lovers, partners. We were connected.

The unpredictability and the constant roller-coaster ride of emotions has weakened my character. I'm used to living on more of a flat line, even if the line is down in the dumps, it's still steady, and that means I can feel certain of myself. But when I don't know what's coming next, I'm constantly worried.

My emotions have been out of control lately because I don't have any sense of certainty. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong or right, I don't know if Ms Julia is pleased with me or displeased. I'm afraid to answer questions from her because half the time she responds positively and other half she puts on a look of dissatisfaction.

Feeling hopeless and depressed, on the other hand, feels right at home for me.

When you grow up in the shadow of a dominant mother yielding a sure-handed whipping stick, you end up seeing yourself as defective and disappointing.

I don't even feel worthy to take initiative. I mean, who am I to step up and express my love? What qualifies a useless piece of shit as myself to have anything of value to give? I only have my body, my labor, to offer. I'm only a dog to point a bad finger at.

I suppose, therefore, I should welcome the shame and humiliation that Ms. Julia is known to dish out. I shouldn't really worry if she's pleased with me or not. Instead, I should offer up vulnerable underside no matter what her reaction is. I mean, right? That's all I'm good for.

But there's this part of me that can't accept shame and blame. It wants to put my foot down and stand up for myself.

But what foot do I have to stand on?  I can never seem to win an argument. And when my emotions blow out of control, people point their finger at me for yelling and screaming. Where else is there love but in the clutches of forgiving arms?

If there should be no forgiveness for me, then there should be no love.

Living in the shadow of a dominant figure seems at home to me. Naked, penniless, with nothing to offer but my submission, seems to be all that anyone wants of me.