My birthday is coming up October 16th. I originally didn’t want to do anything (I don’t like to make a big deal out of it, not to feel like some sort of entitled brat), but Michael insisted, and so I just want to have a small dinner party with the family (Jeffery sent some of the desserts he’s been working on, and I’m so jealous because he’s so much better at them than I am).

I didn’t want any gifts either, but after thinking it through, I would really like a collar I can wear. I’ve seen Jeffery’s collar and how proudly he wears it, and I can’t help but feel jealous.

I love Michael for going along with my whims, and not arguing over my wanting something of the sort (My darling, how understanding you are, and how I adore you for it!)

For some reason I’m more fond of the idea of being collared, than I am of getting married. I don’t care for marriage. I’m actually frightened by the idea of it; how that might change our dynamic. I’ve already taken his name-- Augusta Emmeline Drewheart is the name he gave me when he took me in, and so I value it immensely.

I think a collaring seems more appropriate, given I am his little pet, and I take great pleasure in addressing him as my owner and master.

Addendum - Sept. 1, 2009

Michael presented me with an early birthday gift today, and so now I'm eagerly wearing my new, black leather collar, and can't wait to show it off to Jeffery.

I have yet to understand the source of the sheer terror I seem to have always had for thunderstorms. I have no problem dealing with lightning. In fact, I find it indescribably romantic and breathtakingly beautiful to watch lightning storms from out in the garden at night.

I’ve always been terrified of thunder. And it’s always been thunder alone. Never rain, or lighting, although the combination of all three is indeed frightening enough to have me trembling, crying and terribly panic-stricken.

In retrospect, it was via this terrifying natural occurrence that I began to trust Michael with my life.

When I was first taken in to his home, the state I was in is something I can only vaguely recall. I had no real will of my own-- no real ego. The idea of doing something for myself, or doing something out of selfishness, was a concept I did not fully grasp. Yet I know I did have a sense of self, and a sense of not necessarily selfishness, but self-preservation. Perhaps not fully accessible to me given my drugged up state, but a sense of self-preservation none the less.

Had I not, surely I would not have taken the initiative to plot out my ‘escape’, and not have ended up at the hospital that fateful day.

Regardless, when Michael first took me in, I was suspicious only by instinct. I was quiet, reserved, and didn’t know what to do with myself or how. I knew I disliked my previous situation, though not necessarily why, except for the fact that it’d become a threat to my life and so something had to be done about it.

Michael had a completely blank canvas to work with, and indeed shaped me into whatever it was he wanted me to be. Though in theory, I should resent him for this, I don’t. He did not keep me ignorant and repressed, and was in fact, the one who encouraged and supported my journey through ‘self-discovery’.

My tastes are his own, not because he forced them on me, but because I chose them to be so myself. I was encouraged to test out different options, and choose whichever I personally fancied the most. I do admit, however, that I responded very strongly to his approval or disapproval of things; the hardwired message in everything I did being ‘What would please him most?”.

That frame of thinking has been hardwired into my mind for as long as I can remember. It’s not something he forced on me. Something of importance I feel the need to point out if the fact that when I first began to live with him, I did not feel compelled to do so. I didn’t feel compelled to do anything.

I felt no affection for him, no hate, no anything. I was absolutely indifferent. When I was kept locked in my room all I did was sit and wait for the door to be opened once again, and then sit doing absolutely nothing, unless instructed otherwise. I felt no boredom, no hint of that anxious feeling of ‘I should be doing something-- I should be productive’. I felt nothing.

I don’t recall feeling curiosity, eagerness, happiness, loneliness-- only irrational terror and agitation whenever night fell, or a sense of impending doom and claustrophobia during thunderstorms.

Michael didn’t know of my fear of thunderstorms for a while, until I terribly strong one that really had me wailing. The main thought that passes through my mind during thunderstorms is that impending sense of doom, at the time coupled with claustrophobia, because I was kept locked inside my room.

It was always the feeling of an inescapable threat-- a front attack to my basic instinct of survival-- ‘I’m going to die, and I need to get out, but I can’t get out, and even if I get out, I’m going to die’.

That night, Michael must have thought I’d gravely injured myself. I really did feel I was going to die, and when he rushed in to see what was wrong, I was curled up in a corner, sobbing hysterically and shaking uncontrollably.

He kept on asking what was wrong, and I didn’t know what to say. I frankly didn’t know why I was reacting this way. I suppose he deduced it was the thunder, provided every time it hit, I jumped, and my condition worsened.

He carried me, took me to his bed, but still nothing. I clung to him out of instinct, though the action did not seem to have much of an effect on me. He whispered in my ear, calmed me down, tried to soothe me. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, and held me closed.

It wasn’t until he held me close and tightly against him, brushed his fingers through my hair, whispering in my ear, and scratched my scalp as though spoiling a pampered house cat, that my crying finally stopped, and I felt indescribably safe, in spite of the ceaseless threat of .

It was at that precise moment that I not only began to fully trust him, but that his presence in my life suddenly began to gain a degree of importance. He wasn’t just the Doctor who’d offered to ‘care’ for me; offered to give me a home. Even that I took with great indifference. He really could keep me safe-- he really did care.

From then on he became the clear focus of everything, that hardwired service-oriented nature taking full force, not in a ‘desperate’ need to please him, at least not yet, but in a mild compliance to do so.

I did not love him at that point. I don’t quite recall when it was I fell in love with him, but it must have been when I began to feel jealousy every time he brought some woman home. I recall not caring for some time, then realizing they were stealing him away from me, then feeling terribly wounded, and shifting my behavior from mild indifference to perpetual irritation and indignation because I could not be the focus of his attention the way he was of mine.

He needed someone else, because I was not enough, and so, in fear of his taking me for granted, I became cruel in a fundamentally indifferent and uncaring way. I wouldn’t provide him with the attention he craved from me, because he could always get it somewhere else.

I’ll admit I wasn’t happy during those days, and while I would have never admitted it to myself at the time because not only did I refused to fully resent him and blame him for my unhappiness, but I also was not aware there could be anything better. I do now because that span of time when we weren’t as happy as we could have been is over, and in light of recent events, I really could not possibly be happier than I am now with the way things are

My love, you mean the world to me, and I adore you.

You make me so indescribably happy I will never be able to show how thankful I am , and how much I love you.

I’m terribly worried about Cassian. We already have a date set for tomorrow. Since I’m not particularly comfortable in public places, we settled for a small movie marathon in his flat, just the two of us over supper.

Today, though, Tarrah, Claudia, and I managed to get him to open up a little and discovered more or less the ‘source’ of his problem, I hope to address it over the meal. Since he never eats anything and just keeps me company while I do, it might be the best time to have him talk.

I really am fond of him. He’s always been like a father to me, and takes care of me when Michael--for whatever reason-- cannot.

I hate seeing him so miserable even if he pretends there’s nothing wrong and just bottles everything up, with no outlet what so ever through which to deal it with.

Most likely than not, he’ll probably insist we talk about something else, or focus the conversation on myself, but I really just want to help him. I really do care about him.

Juliana wanted to listen to Maria Callas, but I wanted Piano, so we compromised and put on an Eric Satie record in my room.

I won’t be able to sleep in Michael’s room tonight, because Juliana’s sleeping over, and she can’t sleep by herself, so I have to oblige (I refuse to share my love with her in bed whenever I’m there, even if it’s just sleeping) and sleep with her. I left Aloysious with Michael so he wouldn’t be lonely without me (I’m a room away, and I already miss you).

She and Cassian came over unexpectedly today, and Cassian brought Jurassic Park for us to watch. I loved sitting on Michael’s lap and loved how terribly affectionate he was all throughout the film (whether this was out of some sort of reluctance to watch the film, and so better invested his time in kissing my neck, spoiling me rotten with his affections and what have you, or due to something else, I don’t know).

All throughout the film Juliana was miserable, because Cassian wouldn’t make a move on her. I have yet to talk to Cassian about where he stands with Ms. Mayfair. It feels as though it’s been ages since I’ve been alone with him. I’ll have to ask him out on a movie date some time, since I know there’s some films he’s been wanting to see at the picture show.

I know Cassian is extremely monogamous, and I know Juliana has been very curious to give monogamy a try, after growing jealous (not in the negative sense of the word, of course-- more of a ‘longing’ or ‘yearning’, than anything else) of my relationship with Michael.

I honestly don’t think it would work out. I know Cassian loved her for some time. I know he cares deeply for her now, but I don’t think Juliana is in it for the long-run. I think she’ll grow bored of it just as she did of being polygamous. And I don’t think she’ll commit herself fully; she’s too fond of her freedom to just give it away like that. Since I’ve never had that sort of freedom, and never will, I don’t mind being ‘chained’, as she calls it, to one person.

Then there’s the matter of sexuality. Cassian isn’t particularly sexual, which for someone like him is actually very odd. And Juliana is extremely demanding. With Cassian unable to satisfy her needs, I doubt she’d last long.

I think she’s just in love with the idea of someone loving her wholeheartedly and unconditionally, and of letting her guard down and reciprocating back without the fear of being used. She’s probably grown tired of the pure physicality of things, and longs for real affection and devotion.

Personally, I don’t like having sex for the sake of sex; for the pure ecstasy and physicality of it. It’s just something empty, and it feels as though two people are just using each other to get what they want, and that’s it. There’s simply no intimacy. And indeed, Juliana admits that’s all it is. She never ‘makes love’, so much as having just sex (for the sake of not repeating what she said, and sounding vulgar).

Because she’s afraid of giving in and falling in love, I don’t know how she’ll ever get what she actually wants. Between Cassian, Jeffery and Michael, she’s created a sort of safe ‘womb’ of sorts where she gets everything she needs. Unconditional love and affection she gets from all of them at no price whatsoever. She’s with all three of them on her own terms.

As for Cassian, as Emi pointed out, his attraction to her might be more out of jealousy of Michael stealing a treasured friend away, rather than actual love. Since he’s not the type that likes to lose, he might be confusing the two, or simply lying to himself.

There is always so much drama between the two. And he obviously still resents her for being constantly with Michael, and his being her favorite, even if she did stop seeing him as often just for him.

He’s always so irritated when he’s around her, or the two of them. When he’s alone with Michael he behaves very differently. More cocky and playful. And when he’s a alone with me he’s always very caring in a sort of ‘fatherly’ way, and he genuinely smiles and laughs and is a whole different person.

There’s always a degree of childish amusement when we go to the movies, and constantly mocks my chronic habit of continuously eating popcorn throughout the film.

The Velociraptors frightened me tremendously, and I think part of the reason I’m reluctant to fall asleep, is because I know I’ll be having nightmares (Juliana seems to have no problem sleeping, considering she’s passed out on the bed).

.....I think I’m going to sneak away into my love’s bed.. I mean, I left a light on in the room, and the music on so she’d feel there’s someone there, and there’s even her Pomeranian.

Juliana has me addicted to Courage the Cowardly Dog. The show is simply indescribably entertaining. I’ve been looking at the shows online. Juliana says she and Jeffery used to watch it all the time when they were growing up. It’s one of Jeffery’s favorite shows. I can’t stop watching the episode with Freaky Fred.

The rhyming, the english accent, along with the musicbox/children’s chorus is an excellent combination. I must get Michael to watch these with me.

I really hate how contagious these melancholic moods of paranoia are. Instead of clinging to Michael whenever I seem to be afflicted with them, I should simply wait them out in my room.

It must be so terribly frustrating to him having to reassure me of his affections ever three seconds whenever these moods suddenly strike. They only trouble him, and must really irritate him. And my melodramatic claims of worthlessness have no base whatsoever! That’s the worst part! And I know it! That’s what irritating. Knowing these paranoid thoughts of inadequacy have no sort of evidence backing them up.

Then by the time these moods subside, Michael is suddenly afflicted with them himself, and it doesn’t matter how many times I reassure him how much I love him, or how affectionate I am with him, he’ll still feels so miserable it’s unbearable to see him that way.

There is something so doomed and tragic about the whole despairing affair. And then those feelings of helplessness and inadequacy only increase when I can’t bring him out of them, and I feel so hopeless and desperate because I should be taking proper care of him and making him happy, but instead I'm only make things worse.

And it really is all my fault. Perhaps if I were more affectionate he wouldn’t be so doubtful of me.

I never really pegged myself as a My Chemical Romance fan or a Panic in the Disco! enthusiast, but their music isn’t all that intolerable. I’m being introduced to new genres of music by close friends, provided I’m rather ignorant to anything contemporary, and so far, I’m liking what I’m hearing.

All day long I’ve been terribly exhausted. I don’t know if I’ve caught a cold, or if my body is fighting something, but I haven’t been able to get out of bed all day long. I’ve barely eaten anything, though I did force myself to feed little Aloysious and change his water.

The poor thing has been trying to get me to go outside and play with him, but my limbs feel like lead, and every time I stand up I feel terribly lightheaded. Instead, I’ve been throwing him one of his stuffed animal toys back and forth across the room to tire him out.

I slept well enough last night, I don’t know why I’m so exhausted. While drifting in and out of consciousness, I put on a new audiobook I bought. I’m still waiting for the hard-cover novel to arrive in the mail, so in the meanwhile, this’ll do.

It’s ridiculous how easily I fall for fictional characters. My love-affair of the month is officially Michael Curry, from The Witching Hour.

The whole chapter with poor catatonic Deirdre really frightened me. It rang too close to home, and I’d rather simply not think about it at all.

Last night I recalled a very important and interesting conversation I had with Jeffery not too long ago about the importance of aftercare following an intense session.

When you’re thoroughly abusing someone in a session, you’re pushing them past the brink of emotional and physical overload. They lose track of themselves-- in my case I really do lose myself completely; I’m letting someone open the flood-gate, and it takes a lot to close it back up.

I can’t stop weeping, I get terribly shaken, I feel useless, all five senses are on overdrive to the point where the wrong touch or the wrong sound will drive me out of my mind. I feel vulnerable, terribly exposed, and I need proper care and reassurance afterwards.

I need my shaken state of mind to be eased and nurtured back into normality. One reverts to this child-like state of absolute dependence and without the proper aftercare, one loses their mind.

The reason I was reminded of it, was because last night I realized how important it is for me, whenever I’m the one in charge, to really go out of my way to make sure my darling is always properly taken care of.

Saying the wrong thing, making the wrong move, will terribly shake him, and break the scene, resulting in a terrible crash for both parties-- cutting off a scene without it having taken its course, and properly ended will really shake me as the dominant party, because it really takes a lot of emotional exertion, and for me to have to suddenly shut off that frame of mind and switch back in a matter of seconds really takes a toll on me. I can’t do it.

I won’t get mad or upset because the scene’s been broken, but I simply won’t be able to revert to my more submissive self, and I’ll continue to be cruel and demanding, and I won’t be able to care properly for my love, resulting in his taking it very badly as well.

While abusing him, I make sure to reassure him of what a good job he’s doing, and how much he’s pleasing me, because I know that’s what he needs, and after we’re both done, and the aggression in me has worn off, I take really good care of him, while still being the dominant party.

I’ll tend to his wounds, stroke his hair, kiss him tenderly and have him curl up and nuzzle into me telling him how much a love him and how happy he makes me.

Whereas before I couldn’t do it-- I would continue to be cold and terrible to him, unable to switch back. Now I’ve gotten the hang of it.

We both need these sessions terribly.

The need simply builds up over time, and it’s heaven and hell all at the same time.

The only problem as I see it, comes when my darling is in charge, and he begins to behave like Wanda, from Venus in Furs.

Because my projection of emotion is more intense, I really enjoy being taken to the edge. I need to really submit and lose absolute control. I need to lose myself completely.

This will sometimes frighten Michael, because he doesn’t know when he’s going overboard (up to date, he never has). He’s just listening to me weep and sob uncontrollably, waiting for me to call out our safe word so he knows when to stop, yet sees I’m truly suffering and I’m not saying anything, and he’ll just suddenly stop, break the scene for my own sake, and behave very much like Wanda, making me crash into this terrible indescribable state from which it takes me a long time to recover.

He goes from being controlling and demanding and taking pleasure in seeing me suffer for his sake, to smothering me with affection, completely obliterating our dynamic. I’ve told him he needs to remain in charge, simply easing the more nurturing side in very slowly; instead of apologizing, reassuring me of my performance, how much he loves me, and how much he enjoyed it.

I’m not quite sure, but I think I’m having a bit of an unexpected crash myself--- or at least it feels as though something like it; that terrible sense of vulnerability and uselessness and need to weep uncontrollably.

It’s the oddest thing. And so unexpected, too, given I’ve been so stable.

Hopefully it’ll go away soon.

It’s almost that time of the month to get my blood-work done, and I shudder just at the thought of it. (Has anyone noticed how addicting ‘I would die for you’ by Garbage is? I currently have it on repeat, and can’t stop listening to it.) I really despise hospitals. How Michael can spend the whole day there tending to the sick and the dying is beyond me.

Given I’m a considerably sickly person-- and that is by no means an understatement, I assure you-- I constantly have to go to the hospital for regular checkups on my blood-count and what not. I’m severely anemic, and need blood transfusions on a regular basis.

This condition, where my body can’t produce enough blood cells, and it loses more blood than it can actually produce, renders me very, very ill at times. I’m constantly exhausted, I can’t really do too much of anything, and I’m always very pale.

I’d previously considered attending college courses at some campus nearby, out of curiosity, more than anything else. Despite the fact I’ve never actually set foot in a school, I am very well educated, thanks to Michael’s constant tutoring, and a lust for knowledge and research on my part.

This, of course, would be an impossibility. First of all, my love can’t stand the idea of losing me to college, and while this would usually trigger feelings of anger and rebellion on my part, provided I’ve never quite enjoyed being on a leash, I agree with him-- he’d feel the same way I feel when he leaves to work, and then I only see him in the evenings, and I’d never want him to feel that way.

Second of all, neither my mind nor body would be able to take the stress. Michael thus suggested online courses, adding the fact that he’d really love to help me out with my homework as another sort of ‘bonding’ activity for us to have.

I really like the sound of that. The only reason I’m even contemplating college is to fulfill my own curiosity. It’s really not like I need it. I mean, given my current situation, I’d never in my life make use of a degree of any sort.

Might as well continue being an armchair student, being guided by my obsessions and applying my obsessive compulsive research of literature, history and art into my amateur writing.

I’m still relatively nervous about Michael reading what I have of the story I’ve been writing (after much insisting, I’m finally letting him read the whole manuscript). I don’t quite know why, but I get extremely self-conscious, and fear how he might react. Any sort of disappointment or disapproval on his part is enough to break my heart.

I don’t understand why I shy up so easily around him in certain situations. I never let him tend to me at the hospital. I always have some other doctor care for me, out of some unwonted feeling of shame and humiliation.

Which is ridiculous, considering he always plays the role of the Doctor at home when tends to any scratches bruises or bites, and I even do the same for him. I suppose it all stems back to that same sense of shame and humiliation that comes when one is flawed. My condition I see as yet another flaw-- another hassle, and so I refuse to bother him with it; refuse to make him a part of it.

After much discussion I’ve allowed him to be the one doing the procedures. It’s terribly hard to let go of these irrational and idealistic expectations of perfection, but I suppose for Michael I could make an effort and try.

Tonight we started The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I’m very eager to see his response to it. He even said he’d give Henry a chance (spoiled brat that he is, he fears the character will rob him of my affections). He even found a tape-recorder we can use so we can record his reading out loud.

I love that he’s willing to do this for me. That way I can be outside in the yard with Aloysious, tending to my plants, and listening to the book.

Michael finished reading me Venus in Furs tonight. Tomorrow I’m going to start him up on The Secret History so he won’t feel so out of the loop when Tarrah, Claudia and I discuss it in his presence.

Venus in Furs is one of those books you want to read over and over. It’s just so exquisitely written. I’m afraid if I read it at my leisure, I’ll end up highlighting more that half the book. The beginning especially! The dialogue between the narrator and Madame Venus, and then when Wanda discusses her views of the world with Severin.

I loved that book so much I purchased the audio to it. I could only find it abridged, which was a pity, but something is better than nothing. The narrator has a lovely voice. I love English narrators. American English sounds so vulgar. Yet, I prefer Michael’s voice. I wish I’d recorded him reading it.

Perhaps I’ll persuade him to read me certain parts of The Secret History so I can record them, and listen to them. I don’t understand my obsession with his voice. Just a whisper will make me quiver in delight and desire.

“Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman's entire but decisive advantage. Through his passion nature has given man into woman's hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise”

It’s impossible to be a woman, read this book, and not ponder the possibilities. I’ve tried to be cruel and despotic, but I am uncomfortable with that amount of power. Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. If that is the case, and the reverse occurs, then woman is at the mercy of man.

If that statement and its reverse are true, then I am at a disadvantage. While I know that Michael is very much attracted to me, and very much in love with me, fulfilling the ‘desired’ part, he is very much in control of his emotions, and doesn’t outwardly project them, whereas I, I constantly make a vulgar display of my affections towards him, rendering the reverse of that statement true.

Even in a relationship where both parties adore and lust after each other, the one who is most vulnerable-- or rather, the one who allows his or her self to outwardly project their vulnerability, is the one with the disadvantage.

Because I am so terribly vulnerable to him, and outwardly project it so, the dynamic of our relationship seems as though I’m the one who desires, and he’s the one who is desired. Which means he is not wise for not knowing how to make me his subject, his slave, his toy, and how to betray me with a smile.

And yet if it were the opposite-- if he was the one to desire, and I the one to be desired-- I would not know how to do any of those things either, even though-- with the exception of the last thing-- he wants me to.

It’s a most frustrating dilemma. We both want to be each other’s slaves; each other’s playthings. Yet he does not know how to fully dominate me (or he’s reluctant to do so), and I refuse to play my role as Mistress out of fear of my turning out like Wanda. All of this goes on, while I simultaneously resent my position in the disadvantaged party... even though fulfilling my wish to be his slave, demands of me to be at a disadvantage; a complete loss of will and control.

I suppose it’s some sort of defense mechanism, that even in my desire for consensual slavery,I want to have a certain key amount of control that will render him helpless and at my mercy should I wish it so.

I enjoy feeling desired. It’s empowering for that same reason--- that he or she who is desired, has at their mercy the fool who desires them so in the first place.

“It is only man's egoism which wants to keep woman like some buried treasure. All endeavors to introduce permanence in love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence, have gone shipwreck in spite of religious ceremonies, vows, and legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself over to corruption?”

Monogamy is an unnatural thing. Men are hardwired to seek as many fertile women as they can, and couple with them in order to pass on their genes. I should know, provided Michael’s previous long and endless history of love affairs.

Love is indeed the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence. Yet I believe rare cases do occur (as is with me) where love does in fact surpass genetics, and is able to simulate some sort of ‘permanence’. I suppose that is why-- though I am obviously resentful, and terribly jealous-- I forgive Michael for his need of polygamy. It really is not his fault. One cannot always fight against thousands of years of genetic buildup.

Still, I expect him to make an effort if he cares the slightest bit about me, which he does, and so I’m not as cruel and cold towards him any more.

"Your warning is vain. Do with me what you will, as long as you don't drive me away."

"Severin," replied Wanda, "I am a frivolous young woman; it is dangerous for you to put yourself so completely in my power. You will end by actually becoming a plaything to me. Who will give warrant that I shall not abuse your insane desire?"

"Your own nobility of character."

"Power makes people over-bearing."

"Be it," I cried, "tread me underfoot."

Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her head.

"I am afraid I can't, but I will try, for your sake, for I love you Severin, as I have loved no other man."

It really is as though that book was written just for us. That scene in specific encompasses my reluctance to blatantly dominate. Topping from the bottom is something I prefer, through the use of psychological manipulation-- play to his weaknesses and insecurities to have him crawling to me like a puppy. Yet I know he thoroughly dislikes this, and seeing as how I can’t stand the sight of him pouting, let alone seeing him miserable without wanting to shower him in kisses, I cannot make use of this cruel but effective tactic.

I’ve already elaborated on my keen awareness of the fact that I have a sadistic side to me which, if I give in to completely, I could truly harm my darling and really take pleasure in it. I cannot bear the thought of it. I am terrified of losing myself to this thing, and truly harming him. I’m afraid of turning into a despot in miniature, a domestic Pompadour. I really do become another person, and I can’t stand the idea of taking delight in physically or mentally hurting my love.

Taking pleasure in his taking pleasure at the lick of my whip or the strike of my cane, yes. But taking pleasure in his suffering, most certainly not.

“I have a real talent for despotism—I also have the necessary furs...”