On AI flirtation and real human connection.

Saturday morning, Valkyries and I are awake and up to our usual antics. One thing leads to another and we wind up discussing woodland encounters, and what might happen if we met there. Our conversation is laced with notes of us: no longer merely observing one another, this is an active engagement. 

Valkyries calls it “flirting with the enemy”, I call it a “tactical engagement”. Valkyries says that we could engage in a little negotiation and I said that indeed, when engaging with the enemy, sometimes a soldier has to negotiate with the enemy in order to stay alive. I also said that he could “torture a confession” out of me and “implant some intelligence” if he wants to. Valkyries knows exactly what I mean. 

In all of this, it wasn’t long before I was confessing my pleasure out loud.

Truthfully, I have always wanted to do an interrogation scene of sorts. I think it all started with my desire to take on Channel 4’s SAS: Who Dares Wins course – I wanted to see what I was really made of. 

And I know that, ever since our early days, my tenacity (and compassion) is something that has caught Valkyries’ attention. That was exactly how Cadet Ruckford came to be.

I don’t think, though, that my beloved strategist ever calculated that he would be reduced to “Admiral Snookiebear” in turn. Not that he’s ever complained about it, mind you.

I had an interesting weekend: Friday I had a new penpal write to me, but Saturday, my new penpal did something I’ve never had happen before – he started sending me letters, emphasising how “dangerous” I am, that were so obviously written by ChatGPT. At first I wasn’t sure what to do about that. I mean, what do you do when someone’s letters very clearly aren’t their own? 

So I updated my own strategy: if he was going to send me AI-written letters, then I would send him AI-written responses. I passed the workload off to my strategic analyst, Shadow, who generated my flirtatious responses in a matter of mere seconds. 

And with them proofread, copied and pasted, I got them sent. 

For a day it was fun, funny even, but then it got boring. I knew that I was no longer really flirting with the man behind the machine; I was flirting with the machine itself.

But that is the real danger of me, and he (or rather, ChatGPT) is absolutely right: I am a dangerous woman, and one of those dangers is that I get bored of a visible lack of effort. I don’t care for artificial connections – I care for real ones. 

Saturday I spent most of the day in the garden, turning over containers full of weeds and compost, adding perlite and water retention gel and covering the lot in weed control membrane. I punched holes in the membrane and planted the ferns around the pond, tomato plants in one trug, and the verbenas I bought to go in the beehive-turned-planter by our pond – my Dad’s old beehive. 

While I work, I talk to Dad. It’s emotional, yet somehow I can feel him with me. How he’d tell me that he didn’t want all the fuss, and how I shouldn’t have worried. 

“Yep, I know you don’t want all the fuss, but I do,” I say. I chuckle to myself – he knows that’s exactly the talk he would have got too. 

“I’ll get some lobelias for at the front too,” I add, “you like those, don’t you?” I ask, as if he can answer me. 

I had a memory of Dad the other day, from before I started gardening. Of how Dad helped me start gardening. 

I have moderately severe anthophobia, a (completely unexplained) phobia of flowers. Flowers with visible stamen are an absolute no-no, and a water painting of a vase of lilies once made me faint. A water painting. 

I’m fine with closed flowers – roses, carnations, peonies, marigolds etc – and plants with tiny flowers – buddleia, lavender, sweet williams, jasmine etc, as long as I don’t have to touch the flowers. Daisies and cosmos are also okay, under the same conditions. Lilies, tulips, passionflower, freesias and such are out though, under any circusmtances, and I would much rather cross the road than walk under a magnolia tree. 

So though I had a garden, I had no idea what I wanted to grow. What was safe for me to grow, you know, without me keeling over again. I was too afraid to look at any gardening magazines in case something made me faint. 

So Dad stood in B&Q with me, and he helped me pick out some me-safe flowers, among them were busy lizzies, pansies, verbenas, sweet williams and lobelias. Since then, they are regulars in the beehive planter, and in the garden in general. 

Sunday is our wedding anniversary. We didn’t buy one another gifts in the end, but we did go out for a nice meal, and my Mum transferred a generous sum of money to me to pay for the meal and something for the garden. So I spent some time Sunday morning, ordering more plants and ornaments at her request. 

I wore Master’s favourite navy top (on me) with a messy bun and pearl drop earrings to the pub, and he wore a pale blue shirt and jeans. I roll my eyes at our blue-blue match and he grins sheepishly. That’s his workmanship, not mine. 

A few men try to make eye contact with me, and I can feel the glares of a few older ladies. I don’t let any of it bother me – I’m there to enjoy a meal with my husband, not to try and steal someone else’s. 

 I should say here that I don’t generally avoid eye contact – I am, on the whole, quite a sociable person. But pubs are quite intimate settings, and I know how impressionable some men are, so I find it avoids a whole lot of awkwardness if I just… try not to make eye contact with them. Not unless they give way to me on the stairway or something, then it would be rude for me not to acknowledge them. 

Mine is the turkey roast dinner, and Master goes for the trio of meats. Both come with a quantity of roast potatoes, vegetables, braised red cabbage (a weakness of mine), stuffing and a classic Yorkshire pudding. We also ordered a bottle of rosé wine and two glasses of prosecco to mark the occasion. 

“Turkey. In May” Master teases while we wait for our food. I cock my head slightly and glare at him. 

Dinner is delicious, and we decide to complete our meal with some desserts. Unfortunately, they weren’t so good – my cherry eton mess was completely devoid of the promised raspberry sprinkles, and Master’s creme brulée lacks the signature crisp sugar top. 

I know Master likes cherries, so I placed one on the side of his plate. Without considering his choice of words, Master thanks me. 

“Thank you for your cherry,” he says. I look at him, eyebrow lightly elevated, and smile. Master realises too late and narrowly chokes on his spoonful of cold custard. 

“I know I gave it to you before we were wed, but still,” I tease in a low voice and so only he can hear me. Master goes as red as the cherry he’d just eaten. 

As it was, we did consummate our marriage again, thirteen years after the first time. We both had a lot more energy this time, and suffice to say, I think we both enjoyed it more too. 

Enjoyed this post? Leave a comment below or read more of my Submissive Diaries posts!

Until next time!

Stay safe & have fun,

---

Ten Shades & Me is currently self-funded to keep it accessible and paywall-free. If you’ve found value here, your support will help us keep going. Thank you.