Miss Margo Note: I wrote this on the 10th, I believe, but I didn’t publish it. I was too shy and I also felt ashamed to admit that I relapsed and had to go to the hospital. It’s an honest blog post, though, and not a bad piece of writing, and it documents my thoughts and feelings at the time, so I think it’s worthy of publication. I still have a lot more to write about my last days at the dungeon and what I’m doing now. Don’t worry, this blog is not going anywhere and I have no intentions of stopping it. I actually have plenty of other tales of Dungeon Drama and Crazy Dommes to write about, now that I’m out of there and don’t have to worry about one of the mean girls finding this blog and shanking me in the locker room.
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This is the truth.
It’s 5 AM and I’m sitting on the couch in the locker room at the Studio. I’ve been here since 11 AM yesterday. I am wide awake and I hate it here, but I’m afraid to go back to my apartment for some reason. I will have to go back soon to care for my animals and do what needs to be done.
I did five sessions while I was here this time and made approximately $1800. I need to count the money, but I don’t want to look at it now. It’s in my purse in my locker.
It is my most profitable day here.
It is also one of my last.
Something has changed in my mind. I don’t know what happened, but I just can’t cope with this shit anymore. The last session I had this morning was with a coked-out Englishman. He was a nice, polite (one thing I have to say about the English–they are barbarians when they drink, but otherwise, they have excellent manners) fellow who wanted me to pretend to be his mother, even though he was at least 15 years older than me. I got dressed up like Hillary Clinton. He pretended to be about 14 years old, and a sullen, defiant brat. I took him to see another Mistress, who played a “doctor,” to consult with her about his behavioral problems.
We “drugged” him and then “decided” to fix him by strapping him down to a table and giving him a sex change operation. He would be better if he was a girl. The client had an entire script written out. We pretended to amputate his genitals, while he begged “Mummy” not to let it happen.
How do you think that made me feel…? I know it’s just pretend, but fuck, man, that is some sick shit and I didn’t feel good doing it. I know I am responsible for the consequences because I participated of my own volition. Nobody held a gun to my head. I didn’t want to do it, but I did it as a favor to my friend, the “doctor,” who didn’t think any other Mistress in the Studio tonight had the talent and fortitude to do the session correctly with her.
That’s a compliment to my acumen, but it’s also a testament to how far I’ve fallen down the fucking rabbit hole. “MISS MARGO CAN HANDLE THE WORST OF THE WORST!”
I’d already had four other sessions, two of them where I was submissive. Underneath my Hillary Clinton outfit, bruises were springing up like mushrooms after a Spring rain. My skin hurt(s). I didn’t have time to process the beatings in my mind. I don’t give a fuck about physical pain and I never have, but there is something strange about being in a room with a total stranger who wants to hurt you. I didn’t use to perceive it, but something happened, and now I’m sensitive to it.
I find my father wherever I go.
I relapsed last week and went on a bender. I hated it and I was miserable. When I stopped, I threw up constantly and then had a seizure when I was alone in my bedroom. It terrified me and I went to the ER. I walked there at 5 AM.
I can’t finish this. I thought that I could, but I can’t.