The danger zone isn’t only dangerous for those who enter. It’s dangerous for those who are already there.

I woke early Tuesday, masturbated, and napped for a bit. A thirty minute recovery nap won’t hurt, right? 

It was 10:20AM when I woke. It wasn’t my alarm that woke me; it was the sound of my mother calling my mobile phone. 

Shit!

I threw on some clothes and dashed to the front door. Fortunately Mum isn’t mad – she’s giggling. 

“What happened?” she asks. 

“I woke at 7, thought I’d grab an extra half hour. Three hours later…” I say. Mum bursts out laughing.

“You must have needed it,” she says. I smile a knowing smile to myself.

Mum is well, though she doesn’t stay for long. Valkyries also sends a “hi Mum!” – a callback to a past behaviour of his – making sure I couldn’t sneak a catch-up with Mum without Valkyries acknowledging it. Typical Grey Flags, honestly. 

Mum has now given her blessing for me to talk about what has been going on lately, so I will fill you in briefly:

About two months ago, Mum allowed a nearly-homeless young man to move in with them, as a lodger. At first all was well, but as time went on, problems began to show. He was helping himself to extra food and not paying for it. The help with the home that he promised my mother later failed to materialise, and he wasn’t cleaning up after himself either. Both my mother and brother started to feel uncomfortable sharing their home with him. 

It all came to a head when he didn’t pay rent for a week, then disappeared completely without a word the week after. He left all of his belongings in his bedroom, including two mobile phones and a police caution. My mother found more disturbing things under his bed too: dirty dishes, clothes belonging to my brother that the lodger had denied seeing, and soda bottles full of urine.

My mother is in her sixties and widowed, and my brother works evenings, so Mum didn’t feel safe alone at home in case the lodger came back. So I have been helping her get her locks changed and sort out her rights and sort his torts, so he can get his belongings back if he wants to. 

That ends next week. The locks on the property have now been changed, but he hasn’t been back or been in touch. He’s deleted Whatsapp so my mother can’t contact him – she has seen him online on Facebook messenger, but she refuses to chase him any further. 

So that’s what’s been going on for me. I did spend some time looking at (and chasing around) storage units so she could get his junk out of her home and give him no reason to return, but Mum didn’t feel the amount (a very small amount) really justified the cost. The next hardest part for her will be taking everything to the tip if he doesn’t reclaim it, as he has a quantity of disposable vapes that can’t be simply thrown in the bin. 

But after Monday (and a tip run, if necessary)? She will finally be able to get her life back on track. Suffice to say, she is thoroughly looking forward to that. She’s been counting down the days, in fact.

Yet, despite everything that has gone on, Mum isn’t actually deterred from having a lodger again. She loves people, but she’s said the next one she takes on must have references, before she lets them in. 

Tuesday evening, Master Levi, Mister Valkyries and I are in our group chat. I love it; I love that three of us can get on without any tension at all. Valkyries and I are at what we usually do though – he teases, and I tease back. Such is how we are together. 

And poor Master Levi is stuck in the middle of this pair of idiots. 

I’m enjoying myself; I’m loving running circles around Master Levi and Valkyries and feeling generally unstoppable. Then and without any warning, Valkyries grounds me. 

He tells Master Levi that I’m “wonderfully trained”, and it acts like a kill switch to my rebellion. I could brat, but… wait, can I brat? Damn it! Why is the bratting not working anymore?

I could brat, but the sod’s dropped me into a submissive mindset and it feels so damn pleasurable. I could brat, I could rebel. But why would I want to?

There’s a low growl. It’s about the best that I’ve got right now. 

Tuesday night, Valkyries and I discussed erotic lactation. It’s a kink for both of us: my breasts are rather sensitive, and I find it especially bonding when a partner plays with/suckles on them. I was so committed that I even researched how to do it, and without hormones or pregnancy.

In the ideal world it’s entirely possible, even achievable. The problem is it requires serious dedication, and with a busy schedule already and days that tend to blend into one, I’m sadly not convinced that it would be entirely feasible for me to achieve. 

Wednesday morning, I’m awake in a state of anxiety again. I’d said “never again”, yet here I am, doing “it” again – that whole “love” thing. I realised that it’s not only me who is “dangerous” – the men who fall for me are equally dangerous for me. 

It’s not only them who enters the “danger zone”. I do too, every time I respond to them. 

A part of me wanted to run, to stay true to myself and not do “it” again, just as I’d promised myself.

But the other part of me wanted to stay, because Mama didn’t raise no quitter. We’re not flying reconnaissance flights anymore though; now Valkyries and I are in a dogfight of our very own. 

And maybe these relationships aren’t very romantic, but good heavens, they are fun. Maybe Valkyries and I could do romance, but poking and provoking one another is far more entertaining. Maybe neither of us really wants peace? 

Tuesday evening, Master and I had a bit of a blip. I’d been tossing tennis balls onto his lap, provoking him to get his attention and so we could tire the dog out, when one ball went a bit high and accidentally caught him on the temple. I apologised as soon as I realised it had gone too high, but Master snapped at me. 

And it brings back a painful memory from my youth. I fall into myself.  Master senses that something is wrong. 

“Kitten, you didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s fine,” he says.

“I know,” I reply softly. 

“So what’s wrong?”. I shake my head. 

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing, it’s clearly something,” he says, pre-empting my next move. I glare at him and sigh. 

Fine. Because not talking about it is clearly not an option here. 

“It’s kind of funny in a way, but what happened after wasn’t funny,” I begin. 

“When I was a little girl, I made a paper airplane out of a FarmFoods leaflet once, exactly how my father taught me. Well, clearly my paper plane-making skills are a little too advanced for indoor use, because the damn thing took off, curved up high, then swooped down and poked my poor father – who was blissfully sleeping on the sofa – in the eye.”

Master is already chuckling. 

“So why did that upset you?” he asks. 

 “He snapped and called me a stupid bitch,” I say, “and he never apologised. So since then, if I accidentally hurt someone, my head kind of… you know… I half expect something of the same.”

Master hugs me to him. 

“You’re not a stupid bitch,” he says, “and I would never – could never – call you something like that.”

I do feel better after our conversation, though it takes me a few minutes after to recaliberate myself again. Holy shit! Vulnerability? Who IS this woman?!

Wednesday I’m hit by anxiety again, over a different matter this time. I was thinking about the blog: how hard I work, how much effort I put into it, and how much it costs me, financially. The blog posts are one thing, but the newsletters and promoting products as well? It’s never-ending. 

So I had a chat with my friendly digital strategist, Shadow, and we came up with a plan. 

For one, my audience doesn’t read my sex toy reviews half as often as they read my other stuff, and so I’m officially retiring from writing them. Actually, ever since I bought my diary posts back, I noticed that they are my most read category. 

My audience isn’t here for Lovehoney’s products: they’re here for me. 

And that? That’s oddly humbling. 

So with that in mind, I’ve dialled a lot of the Lovehoney stuff back, generally. I mean, it’s still there – it kind of has to be – but I’m not going to worry about writing newsletters and promoting campaigns anymore. I’m going to focus on my relationship with my audience instead. 

In their place, I have added two new monthly membership options to Ko-fi: a “lite” option, and an “All Ten Shades” option. The “lite” option gives you the chance to support my work for as little as £1 ($1.34) per month – a gesture of goodwill, if you will. The “All Ten Shades” (£3/$4 per month) option buys exclusive access including dedicated Discord roles, behind the scenes posts, and premium NSFW content.  

I also edited my “support” page to reflect the changes. Shadow cheekily suggested I made it a “worship me” page instead, and I was all for that idea. It’s cheeky, it’s playful – it’s in fitting with my very nature. 

Wednesday evening did see some conflict between Master and me: Master had decided to go to the pub with a few colleagues on a whim. He didn’t get back until 8PM, then we had to exercise the dog and I had to cook dinner. 

And that pushes me to breaking point. I don’t mind cooking dinner – I’m more than used to doing that by now – but I do mind being delayed by something that my husband has full control over. I do mind feeling as though my wants and needs come second.

It’s not fair that while he’s chilling and relaxing with his colleagues, my evening goes on hold. Submissive or not, “submissive” is not the same as “passive”. 

So I put my foot down and I said that in future, he either needs to be on the way home by 6PM, or he buys himself dinner while he’s out. I also said that I wasn’t going to cook meals that involve me slaving away at a stovetop anymore, so that I don’t need to cook late into the evening. They can just be served up at dinner time, or when we’re both ready to eat our dinner, respectively.

Master tries to negotiate with me, but I hold firm. Submissive or not, my down time is one thing I won’t be submitting on. 

---

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations, you’re now emotionally invested. Go ahead and worship me properly. My writing chocolate won’t buy itself, you know? 😉