Does it count as being “kept” if you do all the housework?
Not long after we moved to New York, my ex was arrested and convicted of selling marijuana to minors. The kid who snitched was a 17-year-old with a promising sports career, a week from his eighteenth birthday, trying to get out of a possession charge. My ex was far from the big-time thug he was in Virginia, but we lived in a tiny town and the town government was afraid of him and all he represented.
They posted his name in the paper, which was not something they typically did, but they wanted us out of their town, and the best way to do that, they thought, was to make it impossible for us to live there. Unfortunately, the only thing they accomplished was making it impossible for me to find work or shelter with which to raise my children. I mean, my ex was in jail. By the time he got out, everyone had forgotten his name, and I’d finally managed to find a place after surfing on strangers’ couches with four children for a year.
It took literally losing everything we had (for the third or fourth time) in a fire for that to happen. The Red Cross probably saved our lives. Mine and my kids’, anyway. Their father was still in prison. You should donate to the Red Cross every chance you get. We do.
This was also the third or fourth time I’d found myself homeless because of something my ex did, and there were times when I couldn’t find a place to crash. So when I met Master, and before we even discussed BDSM beyond my acknowledging his interest in it, two of my hard limits were having stable finances and a place to live.
I didn’t expect to have a lot of money. I mean, between us, we have eleven kids. And I didn’t expect to not contribute. I wanted a job, and I didn’t care if the only thing our combined wages covered was food and bills, as long as we had somewhere safe to lay our heads every night. Being homeless is that scary.
So it’s no real surprise that, even though his paycheck covers our bills (and not much else), I occasionally find myself freaking out about the fact that I haven’t had a job since February. I bring in a little money, from time to time, and it always seems like it comes at the absolute best time it can come, but it’s not even a fraction of what I was making. And I was severely underpaid. So that’s saying something.
I express this concern to Master on occasion, and he gets annoyed. He likes for me to believe that he can provide for us in whatever way we need him to. Especially since he can right now.
But besides that, I’m his property, and he doesn’t like it when I work for someone else, ultimately giving someone else control of my day. So as far as he’s concerned, I should just accept this joblessness in a time when we can survive without me having a job, and move on. Not everyone is this blessed.
We go through this every time I’m jobless. I’ve spent a lifetime with feminist people around me who ranted about how women can now do more than be homemakers, and how not doing more with myself than being a homemaker is thumbing my nose at all the work they did for me, and that ultimately makes me worthless as a person.
But, I mean, besides society’s bullshit, Master works hard. I complain about all the time he spends working, but I know that if he didn’t work this hard, he would feel like he was pulling one over on his bosses—who, by the way, have been really good to us, outside of the fact that they work him too hard and make me miss concerts I really want to see. And I feel bad that he has to work so hard while I’m sat at the table, or wandering around the house following my dream of being a writer/slave.
The other day, I went to hug Master and he grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back so I was looking into his face. Then he said, “You work for me, now. Is that clear? I don’t want to hear anymore about it.”
So I guess that’s that. I’m a kept slave. Sort of. I mean, I do pay him back with clean laundry, home-cooked meals, and blow jobs.