Confession by Doc

Doc rolled over and glanced at the clock, still groggy from a delightful nap that he’d needed.

“Oh, fuck!  OMG!”  The clock beside the queen size bed read 1:20. “Impossible! It can’t be.”  But it was indeed.  He raced up the stairs, glanced at the microwave clock.  It flipped over to 1:21.  He didn’t slow down, logging on to Second Life.  He knew he was late.  He’d agreed days ago to meet at 1:00 local to meet his Domme (one of several) with whom he’d agreed to tutor in Spanish every week.

Worse, they’d exchanged messages and emails to be sure they were talking the same time zone and not SLT.  Worst this was a repeat of another missed appointment, also his fault.  He felt like shit.

As he logged in, he checked the clock.  This one: 1:22.  She was not there.  More ominous: no IM hanging fire to blister him.  No notecard.  Nothing.  He hoped and prayed she was, as had happened a couple of times, running late too.  He sent an IM to her, and then – to be sure – another copy to her alt.  He waited.  Silence.  He minimized the screen, went into Google Chrome to see if there was any email.  None.  It was now 1:28.  He had promised to log on 15 minutes early so they could get a prompt start.  (He had been told to be at a discussion in The Dominion, which started at 2:00.)  After waiting a few minutes, he decided to write a notecard to send to her.  Writing always takes a long time.  He wrote, edited, revised, deleted, added and so on and somehow, when he next looked up it was 2:07.  He dashed off from this closet (one of his ladies had insisted he relocate his SL ‘Home’ to her Victorian wardrobe), so he logged in there to Dominion Beach.  The beach was the best (and most lonely) place to pull out a ‘kneel’ gesture from his inventory.

Landing in the Courtyard required nimble fingers to get into a kneeling position before the brickbats started flying, so he had long ago made it a practice to land on ‘The Beach’. There he could open his mini-map, click on a location near  -- but not too near -- the circle of green dots, and then approach the group.  Fully ready.  Already kneeling.

Today it was especially good that he had dropped into The Beach first.  He realized he was still naked as he landed. (Naked was another ‘wardrobe requirement.’; the lady in question liked to open her wardrobe’s doors – with built in squeak – to see him inside, naked).  Doc clicked on the conveniently located ‘shirt icon’ at the bottom of his screen. Using ‘replace all’ he put on his usual dark suit.  Being sure his cock was ‘turned off’ he cammed in and, satisfied, tp’d over (a bit late but not noticeably) to the discussion.

He never took his gaze off the ‘friends’ menu.  His Spanish-lesson-Domme never came online.  An hour and a half later she still had not appeared.  Nothing.  Again he checked his email in-box as he half-listened to others in the discussion.  Empty.

He still felt like crap.  Nothing at all was ominous.  It wasn't about fault.  It wasn't about anger.  It was about having disappointed.  That was a fact.  Failure, no matter what the reason, is not pleasant.

He logged out and it was at least an hour (probably more) before he logged in again.

His worst fears were realized.  A scathing note with a list of punishments (choose two out of these four).


The real kicker was toward the bottom.  A pending project, previously hanging without deadlines or parameters or shape or form was now once again active.  It was not his idea.  It was hers.  He had no hope that it would turn out well or that it was worth the effort.  That was, of course, irrelevant.  She had decided for reasons unknown that it would be a good idea.  His job wasn't to question orders.  His task was to obey orders.

They IM’d later.  After he’d had time to digest the contents of her message.  After he had made his choices based on the alternatives which she had offered.  It was a tense meeting, but one-by-one things were decided.  The deadline for the essentials of The Project was now set: one month from now.

His head swam thinking of the work ahead, but he calmed down, reminding himself of innumerable projects he’d undertaken which seemed impossible at the onset and which seemed less impossible as time went on.  Nonetheless he had failed several times ‘stretching’.  There was the horrendous end of a friendship when he’d incompetently attempted to build a Charleston-style ‘whorehouse’ for a client. (That was what she said.) After two weeks of work she then told him she wanted ‘something very large that looks like the French Quarter’.  He hadn't had the heart to tell her all his miserable efforts to date had yielded a small Federal-style residence.  She had never had time to look at his build before.  When she looked at it, she simply said, “This is all?”  He gave her back her lindens, but she was still furious.  She never spoke to him again.  He never built anything again commercially. He’d never really cared about the lindens.  It had been about creating something that would be loved.  He’d failed.

Then there was the English lady who wanted to write a FemDom novel which would match the commercial success of “Fifty Shades of Grey”.   Reading the novel itself was a horror but as her vision of ‘commercial FemDom qua house of prostitution’ unfolded, week by week, chapter by chapter, his heart sank further and further.  Her focus was on fame.  Also the money.  He dreaded fame and didn’t see the point of more money than what it took to pay the bills and have a bit left over for ‘fun’.  Worse, he got to hate most of the women that she sketched out. (His job was to flesh out the scenes, ensure continuity, paint word pictures, and write dialog. She briefly described the action).

This project continued for over seven months.  Doc learned he might be physically a masochist – but that he was not and would never want this kind of mental pain.  He finally told her he needed to quit.  He told her he had come to detest her characters and both their motivations and their actions.  Outwardly she took it well (maybe because she is British?) But…. She never spoke to Doc ever again either.  I doubt the project continued.  If it did, I would wish her well on becoming famous and wealthy.  I don’t think either will ever happen.  But then again I’m often mistaken.

Now, not thinking of the past, Doc pondered the future of this new project.  It also involved writings. Perhaps this will turn out better.  He will be happy if his Domme is happy and enjoys whatever she seeks to gain.  That’s what matters: being a positive force. It is scary and dark when one fails to perform and leaves a wake of unhappiness.  Even if unintended.