Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Broken toys

Today I am inspired to tell you a story. The tale is not only true, it's auto-biographical. I have mentioned in My blog to you before that I was born Dominant, and then circumstances and experiences conspired to only nudge Me that direction time and time again. For those with eyes to see, I showed the signs very early, too young to know to hide them all. 

My nature showed in My toys... how I chose them, how I kept them and of course how I used them. I never liked typical dolls, only getting into barbies a bit later. My first beloved toy was a plane, and I fantasized about all the exotic places We would go together, enjoying the feeling of ascending and descending... feeling it in My body as I took a very long time, the same amount of time it really takes, to climb to cruising altitude and then to come in for My landing. As I played in slow motion with My plane for hours, the focus and patience was too much for My playmates and this became a solo journey and activity of sorts for Me. I named My plane, a girl name. I personified it and other objects, perhaps in preparation for the later objectification of persons and pets.

Growing up in vast countryside and farmlands I had acres to play in, and made it very much My domain as I claimed region by region, naming them and using them for different activities. My Queendom. The next form of play I devised was with My cats. I would get them as kittens, and mold them into very submissive little lions and panthers who would allow Me to quite literally dress them up in clothes from discarded dolls. Understand that once dressed they were somewhat immobilized, they could not move nor escape Me nor the tiny outfits. I would then place them in My play baby pram and wheel them down the driveway and down the street for very long strolls just like mothers did with their new babies.
Though this might sound like animal cruelty, I assure you they always came back for more. Curiously, no one else, My sister nor other friends of Ours were ever able to replicate this game with My kitties.

Around this time I began to really escape into My Own head and I drew. I drew from My imagination and I replicated My favourite cartoon characters in loving detail. At the age of 5 My drawings of the Pink Panther and Road Runner were flabbergasting adults. At times it became unwelcome attention, and when I began to be asked to 'draw on command' I stopped abruptly and entirely. Instead I opted for toys that were like action figures of cartoon characters and My very favourite became a plastic Wile E. Coyote doll whose head was turnable as were his arms and legs adjustable. I meticulously cross-dressed him in a new outfit every day and then undressed him every night and he slept with Me naked. One morning, I awoke to dress him and Myself for a trip to the doctor. To My utter abject horror, his left arm broke, and I could not fix it. I kept it in the sleeve of his dress and I took him with Me to the doctor, telling My grandparents who were taking Me there that My doctor would fix him for Me.

I arrived for My checkup and immediately presented My injured toy to the doctor who delivered Me. He was a tall man, a large man, and he crouched down to My level and took Wile E. and examined him. "He broke his arm," he told Me... (not 'You broke his arm'). My doctor fetched a band-aid and secured his arm to his body. It was not as good as new... it was somehow better. I remember the flood of mixed emotions... this is permanent. I did not want a new doll or a replacement of this toy. I remember thinking, "I could have done that Myself, why didn't I think of that?" I took My fixed up toy home and never parted with him, never lost interest in him, in fact the opposite. He was special now, even more so, and none but Me need understand Our unique bond.

A couple of years passed and I was in elementary school. I always had one best friend who in retrospect was very submissive to Me and enjoyed being taken wherever I led them. Barbie dolls became a part of My play and I had a strange collection compared to My friends.
My dolls were mainly hand Me downs and so many of them were vintage 1960's barbies...the ones with cat eye makeup and real hair long curled lashes. They were stiffer and sexier than any of the others and I loved My dolls, even though some were given to Me under suspicious terms. A neighbour family had a son well into his teens who was spending all of his time playing with them, and fed up with his pass time or to punish him for something else, his mother came by and gave Me all of his gorgeous '60's barbie dolls. When I undressed them for the first time I was a little taken aback to discover the modifications he had made to them. Imagine My curiosity at finding tiny holes where nipples would be and a tiny slash between their legs. I wondered how this possibly enhanced them, and the next day at bath time I found out. Taking My favourite doll into the tub to wash her, she filled with water which ran out of the holes... her nipples shot a tiny stream of water as she peed herself. 

 If you were one of My barbie dolls, you would first receive and exotic name. After that, you would be given a specific task or role, such as cooking and preparing all the the drinks and meals. Perhaps you were a lawyer who worked and made lots of money only to come home to be stripped to underwear and sat on by other barbies. Performing barbies were fantastic singers and dancers who were all dressed up and put on shows to entertain the other barbies in the evening.
 The list goes on. 

Once your purpose was determined, I would select a wardrobe just for you with accessories. At night you would sleep either naked or in skimpy underwear and get packed away in your box, almost like a crate or a coffin, until it was time to be taken out and played with again, all for My amusement. Oh, and poor ken. He married one of My girls, but she was not happy with him and enlisted the help of lawyer barbie for a quick divorce. Then divorced barbie and lawyer barbie got married, and moved into the trailer ken had been living in, and he had to move out. Sometimes, he would come by and look in the windows and torture himself by watching his ex-wife and her new lady lover have wild sex all night long. Sometimes they yelled at him and chased him away. But sometimes, they knew he was there and that just made them act even kinkier and they would end up putting on a long and lurid show.

Sound familiar....?