So I had written a piece that was going to publish here today about this whip Annie has that I absolutely fucking hate… but then I saw Autumn’s post, and decided to write about that, instead.

I immediately asked Annie, “Um, did you talk to Autumn?” Her response was way too casual. “Oh yeah, you’re going to take care of her when she’s in Eugene.” Okay. Great. Then I went back and read Autumn’s post again, and that falling feeling in my stomach just got worse. Apparently “take care of her” means I’m going to be Autumn’s bitch while she’s here, and from what she wrote, she has some pretty serious ideas about what she intends to do with that opportunity.

Fuck.

I mean, I work hard for the Magazine. I really do. But yeah, I don’t always get everything done on time. It’s hard sometimes being pulled in so many different directions, and sometimes that means I can’t get to something as quickly as one of the Dommes wants. Okay, that sounds suspiciously like I’m making excuses, and I’m really trying not to do that. So I’ll just own it. Sometimes I fuck up. Sometimes I miss a deadline or don’t get something done as quickly as I should.

And now it sounds like Autumn wants to fuck me up in response.

What really got me was realizing that Annie and Autumn had already discussed this without me. I was sitting there reading Autumn’s post thinking, “Surely Annie didn’t agree to all of this,” only to discover that not only had she agreed, she’d apparently given Autumn considerable freedom to make this a very memorable visit for me. When I started asking Annie questions, hoping I’d discover some reassuring boundary she’d put in place, her answers weren’t particularly comforting. Mostly she seemed amused that I was finally figuring out what the two of them had arranged.

So I’m trying really hard not to panic about this.

The problem is I still have time before Autumn actually gets here. Normally you’d think that would be reassuring. It isn’t. It just gives my brain more time to imagine what’s coming, and I’m pretty sure the fear is going to get worse the closer we get to the actual date.

Maybe I should go back to writing about that whip. Suddenly, I don’t hate it quite as much.