Within the last two weeks, along with everything else, this drone in YMO does an emo “I’m gonna leave cause there’s nothing here for me.”
I scratch my head and get into their inbox to find out what is going on.
“Its boring and no one to interact with,” they tell me, describing how they’ve deleted their ymo account on the website. I frown. “I honestly dont know what I am looking for. But I was hoping to find someone to help but it kind of got frustrating. People aren’t into guys I dont think.”
I groan now, reading the log, “last time I checked, I was.”
Yes, I like guys. Mostly.
A few days later, cup size comes into the conversation, and my real life size, far too big for anyone’s comfort or enjoyment, gets mentioned, including Spitfire’s reply, “I support (Kittlen)’s boobs – with my hands!”
The same drone pops into my inbox, offering to support my boobs with his hands.
Okay, this is me joking around more than anything, but, gebus.
I don’t reply. He goes silent for a couple of days.
I show up in the galleria and it’s something like 56 hours since the last time one of the maids was there, including Spitfire and I, so I mention it in the group chat.
Next thing I know, he’s in my inbox, offering to help, so I give him the url to the marketplace item that we use for dusting. I suddenly realize that he’s here and has balked at dusting. “I could just supervise,” he says, emoting watching me as I’m bend over and dusting.
Now, my avatar is doing a hip wiggle. So, I emote that, stating “must dust must dust” in a mantra. I’m very much in subhead, as I have found myself slipping into after about 5 objects dusted. All 16 objects, the 11 at the galleria, and 5 at Spitfire’s place, push me into submission by the end.
He emotes stepping up behind me and placing his hands on my hips, so I emote back that I’m ignoring him, determined in my task.
His next emote really catches my attention as he types out that he lifts up my skirt to check to see what panties I was wearing.
I’m not wearing nay panties. Spitfire told me not to that day. My emote in reply was to turn around, shove the duster in his face, and tell him “not for you.”
I’m not for him. I’m Spitfire’s. I go back to dusting.
He repeats the emote, lifting my skirt up again for a check. So my reply is to stick the duster in his face and say “not. for. you.”
“Bad drone,” he says, waving his hand, “Needs to be taken in for reprogramming.”
I had moved to a different room via a teleport to get the last two items needing dusting at the galleria. I growl at him as I finish the dusting, stating that my programing is fine.
“If your programming was fine then you would allow your skirt to be raised like a good little drone should,” he tells me
I fled the galleria to Spitfire’s land and just shake. “Only three can raise my skirt at their will. My owner, their owner, and my protector.”
“Well its too bad. Thats a keister going to waste. Its a shame really that there isnt any override.”
“You want me to break my basic programming to serve your needs?” I ask him, but by then he had logged out.
I cut and paste the raw log in a private group chat in Discord and the next thing I know, three supporters are with me and I’m at the galleria again. Spa, Penalt, and Coyote. I sit there and shake, still very much in subhead, while they sit by me, protecting me, just in case the guy comes back.
Spitfire finds out, and I think her stress of the last several months comes out in full force, because she doesn’t mince words with the guy, getting into his inbox to tell him off.
Meanwhile, I’m doing the “it’s my fault” spin, and Spitfire does her best to knock me out of it. Gotta love programmed victim blaming, even if it’s self-blame.
“I’ve left the YMO site. I’ll never waste my time there again,” he tells me, after sharing what Spitfire said to him with me. “I meant it in good fun and roleplaying to give the player something to do other than just dusting. It was never meant what clearly you think it meant. But whatever. My time there has been boring and awful and you wont ever have to worry about me being there again. I have left the YMO site and will never waste my time there again.”
Those are his words. Gaslight much?
By then, I’m out of subhead, most of my self-blame is gone… most of it.
“I tell you that my parts are Not For you, and you said that I need to be taken in for reprogramming when I am following my basic programming! Do you know how predatory you are? Especially when I was in an altered state of mind thanks to the dusting. You are not my owner, nor my protector, nor their owner. You do not get to be sexual with me without asking for my consent first. You took. You didn’t take “not for you” the first time as an answer, and then followed me to the hypnosis room to continue to try to get under my clothing. YMO will be a lot better without a predator like you.”
Spitfire approves of what I said back. I wait for a reply. Typical, not my fault, reply comes in. I hit block.
Rattled… I still wonder how I could have handled it better. How I could have kept him interested in YMO. The only way I could see it, is if I had followed the roleplay he wanted to do, which was the use the made to service his cock.
Spitfire and I have agreed. I’m chaste to her, she gives me some of her time every day. She has told me, flat out, that my (virtual) holes are hers to use, and anyone else who tries, other than mum and maybe Spa and even then, must get my permission, or hers, before they do. So far, neither of them have broken my chastity, even though my tentapeen has had fun with Spa.
Those two haven’t done anything near that… that… predator has done with me, and they could.
Can we say “entitled buttmunch”? I knew we could.
Spitfire has been throwing psychology tests galore at me for the last several months. I’ve been replying in kind. Both of us have taken several autism tests.
Now, autism in biological males is easy to determine. Females mask their autism and are trained from infancy in how to be social, because it’s expected of them. One of the early tests I took several months ago, had me at a lower autism score than Spitfire, and she said I was probably somewhere on the spectrum, but not to the degree she was. I shrugged it off with a meh. I’ve taken Briggs Meyer multiple times and it will move around the 16 squares, depending on my mood.
Then I took a test last weekend. So did she. Also had my son take it, and I plan on having my daughters do it as soon as we get paid – I suspect my youngest may have it.
My score was “high functioning autism.”
So I started to do research.
Autistic women do this. Autistic women do that. Autistic women have voices younger than their actual age. They mimic the people around them to figure out if they should laugh with humour or how to react appropriately emotionally.
It was pieces of my life coming together. One piece after the other, in a “I did that! That’s me! I’ve heard people say that about me!”
It explains my shutdowns, my need for small places to hide. Why I like stroking soft furry things and my need to carry a toy, and why it’s easier for me to shop with my own music in my ears, so I can shut out the world around me. Why I don’t like big loud sounds. Why that tiny sound that only I can hear from the computers drives me bonkers. Why my kids have the ability to shut me down and make me want to retreat.
It also explains why I was an easy target for a teenaged pedophile, and other abusers both in childhood and in adulthood.
It explains so much – all the false mental health diagnoses, and more.
All I need now is an official diagnosis and maybe I can get some supports in to help me.
Maybe…
I’m still trying to come to terms with everything. When I was a kid, ADD/ADHD was only just becoming a diagnosis, and I was not given it, because I was a girl, and girls don’t have that. Yes, I was hyperactive, but not ADD/ADHD.
Maybe now I will have an answer for why I react the way I do to stress and more.
My life is a work of He.art 