8391

This past 10 days or so have been hard on both Spitfire and I.  A little too hard for both of us.  My kids, typical for school aged zombies, had decided to show their love for me, by sharing everything they got at school, especially their germs.  I  was going down, and was hoping I’d be able to fight it till the weekend.  I’m used to spiking random fevers – I’ve done it all my life.

This past week, Spitfire had overextended herself too much.  She was frazzled trying to dom me, and it wasn’t that I was uncooperative or anything like that – she didn’t have the strength of will and was exhausted.


We had had some very long chats about life, liberty, the persuit of happiness, and more, and some of them, I’m still processing.  Others, I’m sure she is still processing.  The long talk about what I feel when I’m submissive was a decissive one, and I didn’t realize how much it affected her.  I could tell by her responses to me, and I knew then that I’d have to get her owner, Unity, in on it to give Spitfire some mindquiet.

What’s mindquiet?  It’s when you sit at your owner’s knee, lean your head on it, and you no longer have to think.  You are theirs to do with as they please.

That was Thursday afternoon for me, midnight, heading into Friday morning for her.  She went to bed rattled, with the threat if she didn’t talk to her owner, I was going to.

And I did.  It was only a few sentences with Unity, but I told her she needed to give Spitfire some sub time.  Little did I realize it would happen that quickly.

I was on my pedestal – my plinth – at the galleria, when Spitfire logged in and was suddenly in front of Unity, and, I swear, I saw Spitfire fall to her knees in suplication.  It was that quick.  I didn’t even get a “hello, mine,” or any other acknowlegment that I was in the room.  It was that quick, and both Unity and Spitfire were gone.

I told her owner one phrase that haunts me, but is the truth: Spitfire is so very precious to me that she needs to be protected from all dangers, including me.

They were gone.  There was no consultation, no advice, no nothing, but a warning to not allow her to touch her dom side for the next few days.

I went to bed in tears and started to write.  That private log was probably the only thing that really got me through everything.


I find it impossible to journal, but I can blog and write essays online about things and more.  I can separate myself from “journalling” or “diary writing” by doing it here.  On a google drive, I grabbed my phone and logged in, and wrote and wrote and wrote and passed out mid-sentence about what happened the first day.  I was so upset, I forgot to engage my sleep tracker.

Apparently, I still sob in my sleep.

I can write and write and write up a storm.  Spitfire struggles to write in a way.  Her eloquence is there in her words, but it takes her longer to do a blog post than I.  I can have one up and done in an hour.  She takes days.

But I digress.


I don’t even remember Spitfire’s shift at the Old Guard.  The warnings from Unity still rang in my mind.  I didn’t want to talk to Spitfire, just in case I engaged her dom side and ruined what Unity had done.

She went to bed.  I prepared for my set.  I was contacting doms I knew for help.  I needed the mindquiet, and one, not at all associated with the Galleria in any way (at least not yet), said that he would be there if I needed a knee to sit at.  So did Eleanor.

My set came up.  I blasted the tunes and tried to forget what was going on.  Then Spitfire logged in, except, I could tell for sure that this wasn’t MY Spitfire.  This was the gynoid known as 8391.  Emotionalness.  Able to follow instructions, but unable to be my love.  I had been wrangling some of the drones at the galleria, and on the website, with supervision for a while, so I tried that.

“8391: status report.”

It. Worked!  She spoke to me.  She was able to give me answers to my queries.  I was able to communicate with her.  She wanted to do the Monthly Midnight Madness insanity, but it was in full swing, and I was monitoring the group chat.  I wasn’t planning on doing it till the worst of the roar had died down.  So I gave her a directive in drone wrangler speak: go feed yourself, and finish your morning routine, then come back and have fun.

She obeyed.

I wanted to order her to pick me up and hold me and cuddle me and tell me everything was okay with her, but I couldn’t do that.  I was still terrified of engaging her dom side.  She unlocked my collar too, to show she wasn’t controlling me.

I set out my pet bed in her hidey on her land, and left myself logged in there with a teddy bear in my arms.  I needed the last thing I saw of SL to be me sleeping at the foot of my “master’s” bed.  I saw her on the map before I walked away from my computer.

This time, I had my sleep tracker on.  It wasn’t a good sleep.


Armistice day happened.  Remembrance Day for me.  I was wearing a poppy bracelet in real life.  On SL, a more-or-less elegant dress and a poppy there.  I had dressed the stage for Spitfire’s set, but I had to take a break halfway through it.

I ran around and did the noon portion of the monthly midnight madness, and came back in a pink ombre dress.   I wanted her to know I was thinking of her – #pinkhate! Wearing something pink was the only way I knew how.  I set her up to engage wrangler mode after she got back from her run around with the noon portion of Montly Midnight Madness.

We retreated to her land.  I saw she had “dusted” (a stupid RLV trap series of items that I hate, but it tells me how well my brain is functioning – we both use them), and finally asked her if she could engage wrangler.  She did, and I fell to my knees in front of her and gave her the status update.  At that very moment, I was looking at 6 hours of djing at the minimum (more like 8), and I needed her to advice me against it.  She agreed that if I had told her while she was DJing, it would have cracked into her domhead and more.  The way we did it, it kept her from domming me.  I agreed with her assessment, and 6 hrs became 4.  It ended up being almost 7, but once again, I digress.

Coyote was sick.  Irish called in “family” first.  I needed someone to say no to me.  Spitfire did.  I was warned to take it easy because I had fallen too.  That earned Spitfire a stinkeye.  After all, my broadcaster is manned by a dj in the seated position.

Then we snuggled a bit.  I snapped two pictures of us cuddling together, and let her run Unity’s trance.  She was aroused, holding me in her arms in those snuggles, but I couldn’t let her touch me.  My domme was already in FULL because earlier that day, I had spent my time at a “ceremony of redemption” on Divine Sadism for boys who royally fubared.  I hadn’t had time, or inclination, to dial back or even be switchy.

When I’m a domme, I touch you.  You don’t get to touch me.

I was not in the right headspace to allow her to touch me, and even though I wanted to, I couldn’t let her touch me.  It wasn’t right.  She logged, confused, and unable to process why I refused her.  I had safeworded for her, not me.

More sobs.


At some point, Unity got into my inbox and asked if I was still mad at her.  How could I be mad at someone protecting someone I loved?  I was in shock more than anything.

Unity’s help would be invaluable later on.


I don’t remember when Eleanor got into my inbox and coached me about everything going on.  Sitting at her knee was what I needed.  I have an open invite to sit there again if I ever need to.


I also don’t remember when it was that she squeed cause she realized my belly had “popped” from my virtual pregnancy, thanks to Mama Allpa.  It made me smile.  A part of her still loved me.


Set one done early – the place cleared out.  During the preparation for set 2, I had a drone follow me from place to place, to give me companionship.  Philberta was awesome for that.  We listened to probably one of the worst DJs in all of SL and I swear our ears were bleeding.  I make mistakes when I DJ.  He… deserves to remain nameless.

Second set ran 3 hours, and I spent the next while in my bubble at my rented land my real life husband hides out to zen and write and hang with friends.  I saw a discussion pop up, so I went to it just as Spitfire logged in.

I sent her a tp to the ironic “self-care” discussion.  I barely listened. I was more intent in what she was doing.  Her hand on my belly was welcome. She kissed me, and my defences slammed on full.  I became a statue.  I enjoy being a statue normally, but this was a different one.  This was self-preservation coming into play.

Turning her drone wrangler on, I gave her my status – I had broken into a fever, my throat was sore, and I wanted her to prepare a set for the mansion, in case I couldn’t do it.

Another night of sobbing in my sleep.


I woke up, and I think Spitfire was waiting for me.  Bryan was between my ears as well, and he took full blame for cancelling me for the mansion.  Spitfire was taking my shift.

I need some emotional self-care, and I didn’t know how to ask for help from Spitfire.  I wanted to reconnect a bit too.  I needed her voice, and not as a dj, nor conversating with me.  I needed to retreat mentally to a childlike state and listen to someone read me a story.  I didn’t get enough sleep.  I was fevered.  I didn’t want to try to eat.  Yah. I was sick.  Thanks, kids.

She read to me till she had to go to dinner and I felt soothed somewhat.  At least, until Divine Sadism had a discussion for me to attend.

During it, Information Obfuscatrix came into play.  That’s what I am at the galleria, not just a wrangler.  I get information that is needed for the Control Program’s members to do their magic.  The Control Program is an enigma. I don’t grok it, nor do I want to try.  I’m part of it, but not, and it hurts my brain thinking about it.

Anyway, I had to pull up YMO information for Divine Sadism, because there has been some interplay between the two – some of the scumherd have been found at the galleria.  Coinkidink?  I think not.  I think they’re trying to find me.

Coyote was back home from the hospital and in my arms during this discussion.  I was NOT amused. I know the scumherd love to push limits.  When the discussion was over, I dragged Coyote home, and placed her on one of my stuffed animals and waited for Spitfire to come to me.

I sat there, holding Spitfire, and discussed things with her.  She said her time being a gynoid would end at the end of the CFNM set.  That’s not what I understood.  Irish dropped the WHIP info on Spitfire’s head and the poor thing couldn’t cope with WHIP, CFNM setup, and a cranky me.

The CFNM set happened, and she touched me in the middle of it.  I was still very dialed up from being a Divine, that I snapped at her.  I didn’t use the language I would have if she was a member of the scumherd.  It still stung her.  I didn’t last the event.  My fever had hit it’s pitch and I needed to sleep.  My body shakes when I get into my bed and I pass out.

I don’t even remember logging out, or my set that night.  It was all a blur.  Spitfire logs in for a moment, then right back out.  I collapsed back into my bed.


I do remember the collar kiss.  I was trying to show Spitfire that I could domme her without her being afraid of me.  I kissed the owner’s tag on her collar first, then her neck, then chin, then lips.  I wanted to see what sort of reaction I was going to get from her.

In her 8391 state, Spitfire missed it.  Completely.

I had also had her engage her wrangler mode to read the journal I wrote, the one that may never see the light of the ‘net.  I think it helped her clue in that I was struggling with everything that was going on.  I, honestly, was too sick to think clear to really be able to fight her on anything.  I don’t know how I got through my set, but I did.


Monday morning for me, I wake up and am groggy, sick, fevered, and can’t think well enough to put together a set for Xaara.

I screwed the pooch there.

Thank goodness and mercy for requests.  Spitfire thinks I did great, but I was really only working on automatic, that’s how sick I was.  Not the first time I’ve dj’ed sick.  If I can sit at my desk, I can DJ.  The show MUST go on.

I think I passed out again, fevered, after I put Spitfire to bed.  But I knew that I had to do something to help her.  Something wasn’t right.  She still felt off. She felt like she hadn’t found her feet and was stumbling around.

Little did I know how right I was.


Monday was a late night for me. I was up till oh dark early Tuesday morning, but got some talking time in with Spitfire, analyzing, and trying to come to grips with what happened over the last several days.

Except I wasn’t.

I was still walking around in shock.  Still unable to process everything.  I went to bed trying to figure out how to help Spitfire be Spitfire again.  When I woke up a few hours later, we sat and chatted together, continuing to discuss what happened and the aftereffects, and how I wasn’t able to be her girl anymore.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be her girl.  It’s that something was blocking me from melting into her arms.

She left for dinner and I pondered the question over my lunch.  That’s when I went to WHIP HQ and got the shock of my life.  Yes, Spitfire was off the website, but not the google docs calendar.  I sent her a screenshot and that sent her into a panic attack.

I had not realized she had not done a stream check over night when there was no DJs on the Whip.  In a panic, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t do. Couldn’t understand and do what she needed to do to get herself set up to DJ.  I called her on Discord when she would not listen to me wrangling her over text.  She absolutely refused to listen and obey.

Hearing my voice and seeing my face – she slipped back into 8391 mode and obeyed my directives to calm her down.  I stayed with her till she ended the call and then left for a staff meeting for an event the WHIP is holding that she can’t attend because it’s during her normal sleep cycle.

2 o clock came, and the stream didn’t change to her music.  Suddenly, there was a ton of static from Spitfire.  She was in full freak out mode.  She wasn’t listening to me at all, until I put on full wrangler, and turned my domme up to full.  Then she listened.  To me, to the techs, and more.  I came back to her side to try to calm her, and it partially worked.

They figured out the problem – one stupid stinking letter (I had the same problem too, but fixed it during a test run) and a truncated set in the can later, a very frazzled dj was sent to bed.

Wednesday came and went and I was still pondering the question of what to do to help her. I had woken up to find another reading of Callahan’s series ready for me, and more.  Her bins and sublims playing for me when I went to the dentist (latex allergy – yo! past trauma with it does not make me want to be within ten miles of a dentist), and she did great on her second WHIP set, but I was too exhausted to stay the distance and passed out from the ativan, bins and sublims she had for me in her private music.

I spoke to Unity that night, and was given a notecard to use with Spitfire.  It would dial down her thinking processes, and let her take another mini vacation.  Instead of what happened, I would be a part of this process. I would be the one guiding and holding Spitfire’s hand.  I would be the one completely responsible for her because I chose to be, instead of having everything land in my lap with neither discussion, nor guidance on what to do.

Armed with the notecard, and with Unity’s blessing, I waited for Spitfire to log in.


I held her in my arms, and told her the plan.  I cried again, out of fear that she would reject me, but she knew that this was decided on by her own owner, and I would be guided by Unity’s words to slip Spitfire into a trance to get her to rest.

I steeled myself.  I shook as I started to type in, almost word for word, what Unity had for the trance.  There was a few small differences in what I was typing – key codings that told me to change the name to my own.  I slipped her down and let her float, bringing her back up on my own, because Unity’s trance notecard was over.

Hypnotism works if you believe it works.  Like a lot of other things that have a placebo effect, if you believe in it, it will work for you.  Both of us believe in it to some degree or another. It works for either of us, because we both believe it does.

I was in a new sort of shock.  It worked. I could feel the tension drain from her.  She was ditzy and happy.  She spent the night/her morning, playing with stuff she enjoyed, while I went to bed.

Then there was the entire up and down dialings with the WHIP and advertising.  This is Spitfire’s meat and gravy.  This is where she truly shines with her work.  The first draft done in less than an hour, I dialed her back down so she could play and be ditzy until before she went to bed.

I snuggled with her, and spoke softly, sending her down in a trance again, and started to put in safety protocols for her.  Spitfire didn’t like not being able to take charge, so I put in a suggestion for a way for her to take charge while she was 8391 again.

I sent her to bed and spent the evening worried that I had gone too far.  That what I had done was wrong.  I was reassured twice that what I had done was right, by ’tists I know and trust.  I went on to play with a drone and made her trance delightfully, sharing it with Unity later.  Unity was delighted with the trance.  I beamed.

I waited for Spitfire to log back in that night.  I had another two plans I was going to put into play with the trance to bring her out.


She logged in, and gave me her status report.  She had real life to attend to, so I decided it was now that I was going to have to bring her back up.  A day’s break was all that she was able to afford.

I glided her back down.  I reinforced the safety protocols that would also allow her to take charge.  I added in a visualization to help her be a better mentor, and another that would calm her, and yet another that would allow her to access information without having to dial up her iq if she needed another break.  I guided her. I let her float in my arms for the better part of an hour.  Yet, I forgot to add in one last bit to the trance – a way for her to reclaim me, and be more confident as a dominant.

I brought her up again.

“That was beautiful!”

My mouth fell open.  Instead of taking pride in my work, I was kicking myself for forgetting to add in a part, and had a sudden panic that she had woken up in the middle and everything was for naught.

I was wrong.  She was fine. She loved it.  She wanted more.

Maybe… someday…


Now, it’s time for her to reclaim me.  To help me heal from the shock of what happened.

It’s also time for me to forgive myself, and become the hypnodomme that I always was.  20 years ago I stopped.  It’s time to start again.

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