I was in a prolonged, smart phone battery sapping exchange of direct messages with my keyholder when the conversation took a turn in an all new direction.

They had an ‘abdi’ fantasy.

Now, I like to think of myself as at least partially knowledgeable on any number of subjects, a willingness to read and learn about all manner of things has led, on occasion, historically at least, to my other half asking how I know such things.  My answer is simple – that I have just read something along the way and committed it to file somewhere in the darkest recessess of the old grey matter.

But this whole ‘abdi’ thing was a new one on me and I couldn’t help but continue the direct messaging exchanges by batting it back.  “A ‘what’?” I asked.  In reply, I was asked to ‘google’ it and, impulsive as I am, had to do so immediately, despite sitting at my desk at work.

‘Abdi is a sexy and hot person, he is also a lovely friend, he is there when you are upset and is really funny.  Once you get hold of a abdi, never let go of him because you will never find another one.’

‘Meaning a perfect being with no flaws, could do whatever he wants. The worlds fate is in his hands, but he refuses to help.  He is worshiped as a god in some arab religions.’

‘Abdi is a loving, caring person he knows what to do when to do it… When you get a hold of abdi never let go because there’s no one like him.  He’s always saving people never looking back.  He’s destined for greatness keep an eye out.’
(Source: Urban Dictionary)

Of course, there may be many more descriptions and even some of the above quotes have been trimmed to edit out unrelatable elements.

My keyholder went further.  They dreamt about me day and night.  I had become their fantasy figure, this because, although they may yearn and want me for themselves, they had reasoned and accepted that they cannot, for a multitude of reasons, have me for themselves.

I have already said in a recent blog entry and indeed to them directly via messaging on more than one occasion, that I do not seek to string them along, give them false impressions, and most importantly of all, hurt them in any way, but I suppose that my own vivid imagination, allowed to be poured out via direct messaging, may well do that.

Although they have sent me direct message images of their own, the inner slut that is Fiona far outnumbers them with the sheer extent, variety and nature of images sent the other way, even as far as exclusively sharing an explicit video via Skype – none of these images have ever been taken down so, I suppose, act as a gallery on which a fantasy can be based.

I have graciously, humbly but reluctantly accepted the ‘abdi’ title yet have related to some elements of its apparent on-line descriptors, those of being someone there to talk to when upset, and yes, I do seem able to make people laugh from time to time too it seems.

Sexy and hot?  Certainly not.  IWell, I don’t think I am but there lies the epitome of the phrase “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”.  Though of slim build, the protruding belly caused by a mild hernia has caused me to hold it in on an all too many number of occasions when displaying my sexuality.   Without flaws?  Again, certainly not.  Loving and caring? I like to think so.  Saving people and never looking back?  Destined for greatness?  Perhaps I do plough on getting things done, but destined for greatness?   Not me, not I.  I’m just quietly trying to blend in.

Then there is that bloody hair growth.  I will confess to having a deeply rooted dysphoria about my body, especially in the period immediately before another appointment for some sort of partial removal by body waxing.

I am usually left immensely frustrated that some of it, not enough of it, is ready to be removed, even though I know that there is a good reason for that, that it is a race, not a sprint, that my body is being conditioned to rid itself of its hair, that the growth patterns differ right across the body, that it is dying off in some parts, thinning out in others, but I still hate it with a passion.

To me, it looks horrible and the periods where I am largely hair free are not long enough by any shadow of the imagination.   It was the way I was made, contrary though it is to my inner sexual tendencies.   To my keyholder, the holder of the ‘abdi’ fantasy about me, I am ‘gorgeous’.

I blush.  I am flattered, but know only too well that, whilst flavour of the month today, I could be cast aside the next minute, let alone tomorrow.

I know that whilst I continue to arguably shower them with underwear and chastity devices, my generosity reflecting an apparent ‘abdi’ status, and my repeated sharing of explicit photos via direct messaging, any cessation of any definitive kind may well render that fantasy over.

I was ‘married‘ then apparently ‘divorced‘ after all as my blog entries fully detail, yet the many and varied direct messages via social media have included those where the subject of that conjoining was broached.  The carriage of contact and social media exchanges, the provision of underwear and a chastity device and of explicit conversation have served to somehow reaffirm that electronic union.

Damn you New Year.  The feelings that a New Year brings have only served to send me into a no man’s land of a mindset – where the only thing I can do is write a blog entry.

The thought of doing anything else, dressing, putting myself into chastity, indulging and immersing oneself as Fiona, even logging into her social media presences and a likely direct message or two, is right now, akin to being on a diet – wanting all manner of goodies, yet telling oneself that you shouldn’t.

That doesn’t seem fair on anyone, but then seems fair on everyone.  My head is, once more, all over the place and I am seeking a multitude of distractions to numb the pain.

Happy New Year?  It’s only the 1st but dread is already here.

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