If you talk to a dominant man, they might give you the impression that they know all, or almost all, about the submissive woman. But, really, what do they know? Where’s the research? Where’s the evidence?
Do we like order? Who knows? I can tell you that *I* like order. If my mindset is not that great, it may very well be that my little world is not in order. What to do? Get my little world back in place, of course! So, off I go to do all the things I have done a thousand times before...clean up the kitchen, put on the laundry, make the bed, put away clothes...and then, as order is created, I feel ever so much better!
You either like order in your life, or you just don’t give a damn about it. That is my theory! Now, if you happen to like order, if you want your ducks to be in a row, and you are not partnered with someone who has that same order gene, it’s tough. But, spare a thought for the submissive woman married to a dominant man without the ‘order’ gene. Here is what a vanilla wife might say:
“Oh honey, I’ve asked you so many times to please not leave your towel on the bed after you shower, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d fix that dripping tap. You know, you promised to do that job months ago!”
That would not work for us, would it girls! It would be considered “rude”, “impolite”, “getting full of ourselves”, even “topping from the bottom” (for Christ’s sake!). The dom may have faults but we are meant to pretend that he does not. A dom does not leave his towel on the bed in a heap, now does he? Of course, he does not! That is, you are not meant to mention it, if he does! It’s tricky!
Now, what about patience? Are all submissive women blessed with eternal patience? Read the literature and chat forums and well, blow me down, it seems they all *do* have eternal patience. Not me! I don’t have eternal patience. Well, I almost do. I have a great deal of patience, until I reach a point when it is all used up. If I were a robot the message would be, “Warning! Warning! Patience is slow. Patience is slow. Dominant men should tread cautiously. Robot is beginning to steam. Warning! Warning!”
Janus refers to this as “blowing like a bottle rocket”. After an episode where he wrote something to me, and I “flipped” he wrote to my husband all nonchalant: “Subs have a tendency to blow like bottle rockets from time to time.” Well, it’s nice to know that I am in good company.
Am I just like all submissive women in some way? Am I peculiar to the category of ‘submissive women’? Am I just an anomaly? How will I ever know? What I *do* know is that I am Vesta: honest, reliable, hard working, hopeful and resilient. You can knock me down, but I'll just keep bobbing up. I am a submissive woman from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, but I’m feisty too. You can be both, right? Right?
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Hope
Yesterday, my little one and I wrote a short, two minute speech. The topic suggested that hope is dead, and we took the opposite stand. We argued that resilient people always have hope; hope that there will, eventually, be a positive outcome. We argued that love; the support of others, and a positive outlook would ensure that hope remained alive. We talked about resilient people understanding that there would be hard times in life; that anxiety was inevitable, and thus they prepared for these times and knew that they would overcome the difficulties. It was quite a tight little argument in the end, and we believed in what we wrote.
Today, it’s harder to be convinced. There are such vindictive people out there; self-centred and unafraid to hurt others. I wonder how they got that way. What made them the way they are? So many of them have been well looked after. They really should know better. They don’t seem to feel any guilt.
The submissive woman who goes about her life doing her best, aware of the virtues and living by them; selfless and giving, is surely a treasure. So easily taken advantage of, when hurt, she crumbles into little pieces , for a time.
She is resilient though and she gets back up; so vulnerable and yet so strong. If you have a submissive woman in your life, why not give her an enormous hug? She deserves it.
Today, it’s harder to be convinced. There are such vindictive people out there; self-centred and unafraid to hurt others. I wonder how they got that way. What made them the way they are? So many of them have been well looked after. They really should know better. They don’t seem to feel any guilt.
The submissive woman who goes about her life doing her best, aware of the virtues and living by them; selfless and giving, is surely a treasure. So easily taken advantage of, when hurt, she crumbles into little pieces , for a time.
She is resilient though and she gets back up; so vulnerable and yet so strong. If you have a submissive woman in your life, why not give her an enormous hug? She deserves it.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Exposed - second try
He opened the welcoming red door for her, and she stepped through the doorway and into a large, open black and white tiled entrance. It was a charming, old country house, and she loved everything about it, from the old eucalyptus trees that lined the long driveway up to the front door; to the floral print on the curtains on either side of the Victorian windows.
He carried a small piece of luggage in one hand and placed it down by an antique wooden chair. A moment later, a woman with a full apron appeared, her hair tied in a bun. She seemed to be expecting the couple and greeted them warmly.
“Ah! Mr Stephens? And, this must be Annabel. Welcome! Come this way.”
The man took the girl by the hand and together they followed the woman down a corridor and into a sun lit room, lined with bookcases. A middle aged man, rather weathered but distinguished, was sitting at a very large desk and he rose to great the couple.
“Mr. Stephens, how good to see you again!”
“Good afternoon. May I present, Annabel. Annabel, this is Mr. Jamieson. You will call him 'Sir.'”
"You have a lovely farm, Sir."
“I am delighted to meet you, my dear. I think you will find the farm very much to your liking. Please, have a seat over by the fire, where we can chat.”
He led the couple over to the small couch facing the fire, and he sat at a chair next to the fire.”
He smiled at the girl, and then said,
“Annabel, dear, you understand why you are here?”
“Yes Sir.”
“And, you come of your own free will?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good girl.”
He turned now to talk directly to the man who had brought her here.
“Mr. Stepehens, about the training . I think we may have to allow at least four weeks.”
“I understand. These things take time. Don't rush it.”
“Very good.”
He turned again to Annabel.
“My dear, I’m sure you have been given some details about your stay. You do understand what is to be done?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes. And, you have been told of my disciplinary policy?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Would you tell me please what the policy is, in your own words?”
“Any disobedience will be punished, Sir.”
“That’s right, my dear.”
It was at this moment that Annabel turned her head slightly and noticed the cupboard on the wall behind him. Behind the glass doors, next to two shotguns were three thin canes. She shivered.
“Annabel understands that she must comply with all your instructions. She is a good girl and a dear little thing, really. She understands that, if necessary, you have my consent to correct her.”
“All right, then. We understand one another.”
Again, he turned to his attention to the girl.
“Very well. Annabel, be a good girl and spread yourself across the desk, please.”
The young girl rose tentatively and walked towards the desk; bent over and held the furthest edge of the desk with the tips of her fingers. A few moments later, both men approached her, and Mr.Stephens lifted her skirt over her back to reveal her ample, white buttocks. It was Mr. Jamieson who parted her cheeks and inspected her closely.
“I foresee no difficulty."
The two men returned to the fire to discuss the details of her training, whilst she remained as they had left her; exposed.
He carried a small piece of luggage in one hand and placed it down by an antique wooden chair. A moment later, a woman with a full apron appeared, her hair tied in a bun. She seemed to be expecting the couple and greeted them warmly.
“Ah! Mr Stephens? And, this must be Annabel. Welcome! Come this way.”
The man took the girl by the hand and together they followed the woman down a corridor and into a sun lit room, lined with bookcases. A middle aged man, rather weathered but distinguished, was sitting at a very large desk and he rose to great the couple.
“Mr. Stephens, how good to see you again!”
“Good afternoon. May I present, Annabel. Annabel, this is Mr. Jamieson. You will call him 'Sir.'”
"You have a lovely farm, Sir."
“I am delighted to meet you, my dear. I think you will find the farm very much to your liking. Please, have a seat over by the fire, where we can chat.”
He led the couple over to the small couch facing the fire, and he sat at a chair next to the fire.”
He smiled at the girl, and then said,
“Annabel, dear, you understand why you are here?”
“Yes Sir.”
“And, you come of your own free will?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good girl.”
He turned now to talk directly to the man who had brought her here.
“Mr. Stepehens, about the training . I think we may have to allow at least four weeks.”
“I understand. These things take time. Don't rush it.”
“Very good.”
He turned again to Annabel.
“My dear, I’m sure you have been given some details about your stay. You do understand what is to be done?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes. And, you have been told of my disciplinary policy?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Would you tell me please what the policy is, in your own words?”
“Any disobedience will be punished, Sir.”
“That’s right, my dear.”
It was at this moment that Annabel turned her head slightly and noticed the cupboard on the wall behind him. Behind the glass doors, next to two shotguns were three thin canes. She shivered.
“Annabel understands that she must comply with all your instructions. She is a good girl and a dear little thing, really. She understands that, if necessary, you have my consent to correct her.”
“All right, then. We understand one another.”
Again, he turned to his attention to the girl.
“Very well. Annabel, be a good girl and spread yourself across the desk, please.”
The young girl rose tentatively and walked towards the desk; bent over and held the furthest edge of the desk with the tips of her fingers. A few moments later, both men approached her, and Mr.Stephens lifted her skirt over her back to reveal her ample, white buttocks. It was Mr. Jamieson who parted her cheeks and inspected her closely.
“I foresee no difficulty."
The two men returned to the fire to discuss the details of her training, whilst she remained as they had left her; exposed.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Little girls with little curls
“There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very, very good
And, when she was bad, she was horrid.”
My mother says that about her new dog. When she is sitting nicely beside you, walked, fed and content, she looks such a sweet little thing. If someone should see her then, they would think her a most well behaved dog.
But, we know better. She is a devil on four legs, and in the short time I have been minding her, she has turned my life upside down. We just could not understand, this morning, what we could have done wrong. We had put her out in the garden, the gate was locked and her entry back into the house through the dog door was barred by a closed door.
But, the vixen that she is, she found a hole in the very back fence, through to the neighbours’ garden behind us. After we had lost a good few months of our lives, roaming the house, the garden, the streets,worried sick about her, we drove around to the back neighbours and there she was, running about the legs of two large, black male dogs, like a girl looking to get laid.
Of course, we called her name, many times, used her squeaker toy to distract her from them, but to no avail. She wanted the big boys. Eventually, we cornered her, and took her home in disgrace. Her entry to them was immediately barred with a temporary gate, but she is currently barking away, trying to get their attention again.
Is this the way it is with some girls? Do they insist on running free? Running wild? If so, good luck to the man who takes on the task of taming them!
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good
She was very, very good
And, when she was bad, she was horrid.”
My mother says that about her new dog. When she is sitting nicely beside you, walked, fed and content, she looks such a sweet little thing. If someone should see her then, they would think her a most well behaved dog.
But, we know better. She is a devil on four legs, and in the short time I have been minding her, she has turned my life upside down. We just could not understand, this morning, what we could have done wrong. We had put her out in the garden, the gate was locked and her entry back into the house through the dog door was barred by a closed door.
But, the vixen that she is, she found a hole in the very back fence, through to the neighbours’ garden behind us. After we had lost a good few months of our lives, roaming the house, the garden, the streets,worried sick about her, we drove around to the back neighbours and there she was, running about the legs of two large, black male dogs, like a girl looking to get laid.
Of course, we called her name, many times, used her squeaker toy to distract her from them, but to no avail. She wanted the big boys. Eventually, we cornered her, and took her home in disgrace. Her entry to them was immediately barred with a temporary gate, but she is currently barking away, trying to get their attention again.
Is this the way it is with some girls? Do they insist on running free? Running wild? If so, good luck to the man who takes on the task of taming them!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Horses for Courses
When I was a young girl, the happiest times with my father almost always related to being around horses. He had a lifelong dream to own a good racehorse, one capable of winning in the city at least, but alas, it was not meant to be.
In any case, my father enjoyed enormously being around horses and people who understood horses. Earlier in his life, his work required the upkeep of his horse, and he was perfectly comfortable in being right beside a horse, or picking up a horse’s leg and checking its hoof. It was perfectly natural to him, whereas I never really had experiences that taught me how to manage a horse; only to admire them.
I distinctly remember one Sunday morning when my father took me with him to the stables. I remember it was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning and how good it felt to be there. This was an old world sort of place, and rumour had it that it was where Phar Lap was hidden for a time, when it became known that certain people wanted rid of him. It was all a wonder to me. As horse trainers are inclined to do, this trainer brought out a stunning black stallion to show off to my father. I remember marvelling at this stallion’s big, beautiful body, and his fiery, proud eyes. He was royalty and he knew it. As he stood there, being shown off, his cock became very erect, and grew bigger than I could possibly imagine a horse’s cock could grow. I must have looked a little too mesmerized by the sight for I also remember my father distracting me by sending me on an errand.
Many of our happiest hours together were spent travelling to, or being on a racecourse. We both loved to go and visit the horses in the stalls, to see them walk around before the race, and of course, to watch the race. I particularly loved it when the race was over and the winning horse would canter back to the saddling area again. I was, and remain, convinced that they knew they were winners, and they held their heads up high, with a confident stride.
Although I have no knowledge of what it feels like to gallop along with a horse beneath me, I can certainly believe that it is extraordinary. It is a wonder to me that a slender man or woman, weighing next to nothing can control a wild beast such as a champion racehorse. One of the highlights of a major spring carnival race day is to hear the winning jockey being interviewed by the clerk of the course, immediately after the race. The jockey’s adrenaline is still racing through his body and his elation really tickles my fancy, whether I’ve placed a bit on his mount or not. It will go along these lines:
“Matt, she really pulled out all the stops for you today.”
“Yeah, Roy, she’s a beauty of a little girl. She just never stops trying. She wanted to go early but I managed to settle her down there on the rails...you know, just talking to her...steady, girl, wait your turn...just relax here for a bit...and when I asked her for something special...well, Roy, you know, you saw her...no one was going to get past her...she’s a real little beauty...a champion...one of the best...she gave me a great ride...you know...I didn’t have to do much...she’s a champ!”
My husband is much more comfortable around horses than me. He knows them. He rode them all his childhood. Some of his favourite memories of time with his mother are when she took her children off to compete in horse shows on weekends. They never came home without a ribbon, he told me. One Saturday, their father took them to the show instead. Afterwards, they were excited to show their mother all the ribbons they had won and they covered her hospital bed in them. She smiled weakly. It was the last time they ever saw her for she died that night. Memories of horses run deep for both of us. Both parents have gone to God.
Nowadays, my husband will refer to me as, like a filly. Sometimes I am “fractious” and need “firm handling”. Sometimes I am itching to go out onto the meadow, but I’ll go there when he is ready and not before, he tells me. Sometimes, I jump the fence and then he has to open the gate for me and lead me back to the barn. I suggest to him that horses that have a need for freedom could be encouraged back to the barn with sugar. He says he is inclined to think that sometimes such horses need to know that they keep whips in the barn. I certainly don’t remember Robert Redford prescribing to such a theory in ‘The Horse Whisperer’. He just whispered encouragement in their ear, didn’t he? Truth to tell, my husband does a lot of that, too.
It’s true, I think, that whilst the rider or jockey must dominate the horse, to let it know who is running the show, the horse will only co-operate if it feels the connection with its rider; its master. Perhaps, like the submissive woman, the horse must believe that it is all about the ride; the ebb and flow of the dominant/submissive relationship. It must believe in the connection and the love of one being for another.
In any case, my father enjoyed enormously being around horses and people who understood horses. Earlier in his life, his work required the upkeep of his horse, and he was perfectly comfortable in being right beside a horse, or picking up a horse’s leg and checking its hoof. It was perfectly natural to him, whereas I never really had experiences that taught me how to manage a horse; only to admire them.
I distinctly remember one Sunday morning when my father took me with him to the stables. I remember it was a beautiful, sunny autumn morning and how good it felt to be there. This was an old world sort of place, and rumour had it that it was where Phar Lap was hidden for a time, when it became known that certain people wanted rid of him. It was all a wonder to me. As horse trainers are inclined to do, this trainer brought out a stunning black stallion to show off to my father. I remember marvelling at this stallion’s big, beautiful body, and his fiery, proud eyes. He was royalty and he knew it. As he stood there, being shown off, his cock became very erect, and grew bigger than I could possibly imagine a horse’s cock could grow. I must have looked a little too mesmerized by the sight for I also remember my father distracting me by sending me on an errand.
Many of our happiest hours together were spent travelling to, or being on a racecourse. We both loved to go and visit the horses in the stalls, to see them walk around before the race, and of course, to watch the race. I particularly loved it when the race was over and the winning horse would canter back to the saddling area again. I was, and remain, convinced that they knew they were winners, and they held their heads up high, with a confident stride.
Although I have no knowledge of what it feels like to gallop along with a horse beneath me, I can certainly believe that it is extraordinary. It is a wonder to me that a slender man or woman, weighing next to nothing can control a wild beast such as a champion racehorse. One of the highlights of a major spring carnival race day is to hear the winning jockey being interviewed by the clerk of the course, immediately after the race. The jockey’s adrenaline is still racing through his body and his elation really tickles my fancy, whether I’ve placed a bit on his mount or not. It will go along these lines:
“Matt, she really pulled out all the stops for you today.”
“Yeah, Roy, she’s a beauty of a little girl. She just never stops trying. She wanted to go early but I managed to settle her down there on the rails...you know, just talking to her...steady, girl, wait your turn...just relax here for a bit...and when I asked her for something special...well, Roy, you know, you saw her...no one was going to get past her...she’s a real little beauty...a champion...one of the best...she gave me a great ride...you know...I didn’t have to do much...she’s a champ!”
My husband is much more comfortable around horses than me. He knows them. He rode them all his childhood. Some of his favourite memories of time with his mother are when she took her children off to compete in horse shows on weekends. They never came home without a ribbon, he told me. One Saturday, their father took them to the show instead. Afterwards, they were excited to show their mother all the ribbons they had won and they covered her hospital bed in them. She smiled weakly. It was the last time they ever saw her for she died that night. Memories of horses run deep for both of us. Both parents have gone to God.
Nowadays, my husband will refer to me as, like a filly. Sometimes I am “fractious” and need “firm handling”. Sometimes I am itching to go out onto the meadow, but I’ll go there when he is ready and not before, he tells me. Sometimes, I jump the fence and then he has to open the gate for me and lead me back to the barn. I suggest to him that horses that have a need for freedom could be encouraged back to the barn with sugar. He says he is inclined to think that sometimes such horses need to know that they keep whips in the barn. I certainly don’t remember Robert Redford prescribing to such a theory in ‘The Horse Whisperer’. He just whispered encouragement in their ear, didn’t he? Truth to tell, my husband does a lot of that, too.
It’s true, I think, that whilst the rider or jockey must dominate the horse, to let it know who is running the show, the horse will only co-operate if it feels the connection with its rider; its master. Perhaps, like the submissive woman, the horse must believe that it is all about the ride; the ebb and flow of the dominant/submissive relationship. It must believe in the connection and the love of one being for another.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Dress code dilemma
I’ve been giving thought to a suitable dress code for a submissive woman. I’ve wondered, can a submissive woman have too many shoes, too many shirts, too many dresses? Should her choices be pruned down? I thought to make an inventory of my wardrobe. What’s behind those doors, anyway?
My husband has often said that one of the aspects of me that he was attracted to was my interest in clothes. His mother always appreciated well made clothing, and he liked the fact that I did, too. I’m not really a girl who looks to buy the latest trendy items. I’ve tended towards being an ‘investment’ shopper. Since I love well made garments and quality materials, I’ve been much more inclined to purchase items for my wardrobe in the sales.
I have the highest regard for the dominant man who heads into stores to buy his girl her clothes. I admit that I am jealous. What girl would not love the fact that a man chooses her clothes for her, and that she wears his choices? Well, I suppose that is too much of a generalization. Some girls might hate that idea. Not me! I remember Elizabeth’s man in ‘Nine and half weeks’ choosing clothing in a store for her.
“Don’t you want to know if *I* like it?” she asked.
He simply shook his head. She still had so much to learn!
That said, my husband would struggle to find the bargains that I can find. I go to a store a few suburbs away, maybe twice a year, to search their markdowns rack. Everything in the store is from France and I have found wonderful things there. A beautiful, classic three-quarter brown woollen jacket was purchased for $99 when its real value was several hundred dollars. I bought it five years ago but it looks as good as the day I bought it.
There is a store not far from me, in a posh suburb, that heavily reduces their knits at the end of the season. For $150 I bought a black alpaca poncho style knit that looks great with black pants. Its real price was $600. In fact, I can’t recall paying full price for anything for years, because I couldn’t afford to pay full price for the clothes that appeal to me. So, if my husband were to buy my clothes, where would he go and what would he buy? He has an eye for a beautiful garment himself but not a nose for a bargain; so really, I am saving him a fortune! You do see that, readers don’t you?
As a submissive girl, I understand the need to look feminine, and I have no objection to dresses and skirts. I am rarely in pants in the summer by choice, in any case. The winter is more challenging, and I admit, I do tend to wear my fair share of pants. Perhaps, that is not good enough for a submissive girl like me. I need to think about that.
Well, let’s see. If I had a couple of pairs of really comfortable boots, I could wear woollen skirts much more often this winter. But, I am short of really, really comfortable boots, as a matter of fact.
Now, originally, the idea was to sift through my wardrobe. A submissive girl is not a spoilt girl, after all. But, it is also true that a submissive girl should look as feminine as she possibly can.
Fortunately, there is a solution; two new pairs of very, very comfortable boots. You see sometimes a girl has to actually ADD to her wardrobe in order to prune down her wardrobe.
I knew you would understand.
My husband has often said that one of the aspects of me that he was attracted to was my interest in clothes. His mother always appreciated well made clothing, and he liked the fact that I did, too. I’m not really a girl who looks to buy the latest trendy items. I’ve tended towards being an ‘investment’ shopper. Since I love well made garments and quality materials, I’ve been much more inclined to purchase items for my wardrobe in the sales.
I have the highest regard for the dominant man who heads into stores to buy his girl her clothes. I admit that I am jealous. What girl would not love the fact that a man chooses her clothes for her, and that she wears his choices? Well, I suppose that is too much of a generalization. Some girls might hate that idea. Not me! I remember Elizabeth’s man in ‘Nine and half weeks’ choosing clothing in a store for her.
“Don’t you want to know if *I* like it?” she asked.
He simply shook his head. She still had so much to learn!
That said, my husband would struggle to find the bargains that I can find. I go to a store a few suburbs away, maybe twice a year, to search their markdowns rack. Everything in the store is from France and I have found wonderful things there. A beautiful, classic three-quarter brown woollen jacket was purchased for $99 when its real value was several hundred dollars. I bought it five years ago but it looks as good as the day I bought it.
There is a store not far from me, in a posh suburb, that heavily reduces their knits at the end of the season. For $150 I bought a black alpaca poncho style knit that looks great with black pants. Its real price was $600. In fact, I can’t recall paying full price for anything for years, because I couldn’t afford to pay full price for the clothes that appeal to me. So, if my husband were to buy my clothes, where would he go and what would he buy? He has an eye for a beautiful garment himself but not a nose for a bargain; so really, I am saving him a fortune! You do see that, readers don’t you?
As a submissive girl, I understand the need to look feminine, and I have no objection to dresses and skirts. I am rarely in pants in the summer by choice, in any case. The winter is more challenging, and I admit, I do tend to wear my fair share of pants. Perhaps, that is not good enough for a submissive girl like me. I need to think about that.
Well, let’s see. If I had a couple of pairs of really comfortable boots, I could wear woollen skirts much more often this winter. But, I am short of really, really comfortable boots, as a matter of fact.
Now, originally, the idea was to sift through my wardrobe. A submissive girl is not a spoilt girl, after all. But, it is also true that a submissive girl should look as feminine as she possibly can.
Fortunately, there is a solution; two new pairs of very, very comfortable boots. You see sometimes a girl has to actually ADD to her wardrobe in order to prune down her wardrobe.
I knew you would understand.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
What rhymes with blue?
You know you want to please him
You know it is what you should do.
And, yet you’ve not obeyed him
The consequences, have you even a clue?
He’s calling you into his study
You’re to undress, down to your shoe.
You’ll learn to honour your agreements
To your word, you must be true.
He’s putting you over his knee now
Your bottom will be black and blue.
After that you’ll agree with conviction
You’re the lower member of the crew.
And, for today, that’s all I have
On this, I suggest you chew!
You know it is what you should do.
And, yet you’ve not obeyed him
The consequences, have you even a clue?
He’s calling you into his study
You’re to undress, down to your shoe.
You’ll learn to honour your agreements
To your word, you must be true.
He’s putting you over his knee now
Your bottom will be black and blue.
After that you’ll agree with conviction
You’re the lower member of the crew.
And, for today, that’s all I have
On this, I suggest you chew!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Balancing Act
I have published another post over at the 'Transformher' site and I hope that you will wander over there and read it. The post discusses finding the balance in our relationships.
In the post, I make note of two special friends. As a girl who has no kinky friends in her life 'on the ground'(apart from my husband, of course), I feel exceptionally fortunate to have several wonderful kinky friends in the blogosphere.
My husband and I were travelling over the weekend. We came into a little town and I noticed the board in front of the church.
"Get rich quick. Count your blessings."
I've just taken stock of my family, friends, mentor and new friends up in the air, and who would have guessed? I'm rich!
Okay, off you scoot to Deity's place!
In the post, I make note of two special friends. As a girl who has no kinky friends in her life 'on the ground'(apart from my husband, of course), I feel exceptionally fortunate to have several wonderful kinky friends in the blogosphere.
My husband and I were travelling over the weekend. We came into a little town and I noticed the board in front of the church.
"Get rich quick. Count your blessings."
I've just taken stock of my family, friends, mentor and new friends up in the air, and who would have guessed? I'm rich!
Okay, off you scoot to Deity's place!
The Headmaster wants to see you
“The headmaster wants to see you in his study."
You wish you could run away, but you know you cannot. He would find you and it would be much worse. With a grim determination, you walk down the corridors until you reach his big, wooden door.
You stand there, trying to find the courage to knock on the door. Eventually, you walk up to it, and knock lightly. There is no answer. You knock again, this time a little more loudly.
“Enter.”
You open the door.
“Yes, Williams, what is it?”
“You asked to see me, Sir?”
“Ah, yes, Williams! Come in, girl. Over here.”
He is pointing to the spot in front of his desk.
You close the door behind you and very quietly go to the spot and stand in front of him, seated at his big, old oak desk. You put your hands behind your back.
“Williams, I have been told that you are persistently making spelling errors in your writing.”
You consider this unfair. You love to write stories, and are much more concerned with ideas than with boring things like correct spelling.
“Yes Sir. I am sorry, Sir.”
“Well, you should be less sorry, girl, and more focussed on spelling correctly.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I am going to teach you, Williams, that spelling is very important and that spelling errors will not be tolerated.”
“Yes Sir.”
You see him walk over to his cupboard. You watch while he brings down a few of his favourite canes and selects one.
“Perhaps, when you are sitting on a well striped bottom, Williams, you will focus better on your spelling. We’ll see!”
You begin to panic. You are familiar with the cane he has chosen.
“But Sir...”
“Are you arguing with me, girl?
“No Sir.”
“That’s wise, Williams.”
“Yes Sir.”
“All right. Bend over and touch your toes.”
Gingerly, you bend down and wrap your hands around your ankles. You feel the cane being tapped across your summer skirt. It provides little protection to your poor tight, waiting bottom.
“Keep down, girl. Once you’ve had six of the best, I have a feeling we won’t be seeing too many more spelling errors. My cane has a way of making a girl focus.”
“Yes Sir.”
You await the first, searing stroke, and make a mental note to keep your dictionary at the ready for the rest of your life.
You wish you could run away, but you know you cannot. He would find you and it would be much worse. With a grim determination, you walk down the corridors until you reach his big, wooden door.
You stand there, trying to find the courage to knock on the door. Eventually, you walk up to it, and knock lightly. There is no answer. You knock again, this time a little more loudly.
“Enter.”
You open the door.
“Yes, Williams, what is it?”
“You asked to see me, Sir?”
“Ah, yes, Williams! Come in, girl. Over here.”
He is pointing to the spot in front of his desk.
You close the door behind you and very quietly go to the spot and stand in front of him, seated at his big, old oak desk. You put your hands behind your back.
“Williams, I have been told that you are persistently making spelling errors in your writing.”
You consider this unfair. You love to write stories, and are much more concerned with ideas than with boring things like correct spelling.
“Yes Sir. I am sorry, Sir.”
“Well, you should be less sorry, girl, and more focussed on spelling correctly.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I am going to teach you, Williams, that spelling is very important and that spelling errors will not be tolerated.”
“Yes Sir.”
You see him walk over to his cupboard. You watch while he brings down a few of his favourite canes and selects one.
“Perhaps, when you are sitting on a well striped bottom, Williams, you will focus better on your spelling. We’ll see!”
You begin to panic. You are familiar with the cane he has chosen.
“But Sir...”
“Are you arguing with me, girl?
“No Sir.”
“That’s wise, Williams.”
“Yes Sir.”
“All right. Bend over and touch your toes.”
Gingerly, you bend down and wrap your hands around your ankles. You feel the cane being tapped across your summer skirt. It provides little protection to your poor tight, waiting bottom.
“Keep down, girl. Once you’ve had six of the best, I have a feeling we won’t be seeing too many more spelling errors. My cane has a way of making a girl focus.”
“Yes Sir.”
You await the first, searing stroke, and make a mental note to keep your dictionary at the ready for the rest of your life.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Lead the Way
Over at Deity's site, I've put up another post.
There has been a change in my outlook of late, an adjustment of sorts, which has led me to contemplate my relationships. I am very proud of my marriage, and what we've accomplished together as a D/s couple. And, I'm proud of what I've achieved with the help of my mentor, too.
Nothing stays the same, and yet some things don't change. The need for love does not change. Our nature does not change. The potential in us all is always there. Change, if embraced, can lead to better things. So, I look forward to this next stage of the journey with a positive spirit.
Anyway, go visit over there. And, I'll have more to say here soon.
There has been a change in my outlook of late, an adjustment of sorts, which has led me to contemplate my relationships. I am very proud of my marriage, and what we've accomplished together as a D/s couple. And, I'm proud of what I've achieved with the help of my mentor, too.
Nothing stays the same, and yet some things don't change. The need for love does not change. Our nature does not change. The potential in us all is always there. Change, if embraced, can lead to better things. So, I look forward to this next stage of the journey with a positive spirit.
Anyway, go visit over there. And, I'll have more to say here soon.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Bad girls be gone!
This week, I am writing for Deity. He's taking a well earned little holiday with his girl and it is my pleasure to look after his blog while he is away.
Some girls are very, very bad! If such a topic should be of any interest to you, you can read about it here.
However, it's good to know that there are no bad girls amongst my readers.
Off you go then, where you belong!
Some girls are very, very bad! If such a topic should be of any interest to you, you can read about it here.
However, it's good to know that there are no bad girls amongst my readers.
Off you go then, where you belong!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The next week
Dear Readers,
Some of you will know that I have done some writing for Deity, over at 'The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise'.
I got another email from him in the last couple of days, asking ever so nicely if I would take care of his blog, whilst he is away over the next week. I said, yes. He can be quite persuasive, you know.
I'll post them here, too, with hyperlinks over to his blog. That way, you get to read any comments as well.
It was rather short notice. He doesn't actually know what I am going to write, and when the cat's away...
Some of you will know that I have done some writing for Deity, over at 'The lustful quality of watching her erotic demise'.
I got another email from him in the last couple of days, asking ever so nicely if I would take care of his blog, whilst he is away over the next week. I said, yes. He can be quite persuasive, you know.
I'll post them here, too, with hyperlinks over to his blog. That way, you get to read any comments as well.
It was rather short notice. He doesn't actually know what I am going to write, and when the cat's away...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Better than Chocolate
They are both up early to deal with an issue. It is 7 am and she has returned to bed. He walks into the bedroom and sees her lying there.
“Okay, let’s get this squared away. Ten strokes. I think that should be adequate to ensure you look more carefully for lap top chargers in the future.”
She lies there, hoping he can be derailed by her disinterest.”
“Out of that bed, now!”
She gets out of the bed slowly; pulls off the covers, one foot on the floor and then the other; stands up and stands at the end of the bed. Her reluctance is evident in every move, every breath she takes.
“Night gown off!”
She pulls the black silk nightgown over her head and places it on the bed, in a little bundle.
“All right. Bend over, please, elbows on the bed, and I suggest you bite on the pillow. I’ll take a dim view of it if you call out and the children hear.”
She does as she is told, and collects the soft European sized pillow, bites on it and holds each edge.
“Perhaps, after you have a burning bottom your memory for what you do with lap top chargers will improve. I suspect it will. Don’t you dare break position! You show me your submission by being very still and accepting your punishment quietly.”
She does not break position. She bites down on her pillow, only allowing little muffled cries to emit out of her mouth. She takes the ten strokes stoically, even remembering to wait for permission to move.
“Have you learned you lesson?”
She says she has. She won’t do it again. She thanks her master for her punishment.
“All right. Back into bed, and let’s have a nap.”
It is still very early. She tries to nap, but can’t. Her master naps beside her, with her spooned behind him. Eventually, she tries to sleep faced the other way, and this wakes him. His hands wander over her body. He pinches her nipples; feels the warmth of her backside, and between her legs.
He places her on her back and enters her, her legs up around her waist. She does not resist, but nor is she in her submissive mindset. Ambivalence reigns supreme. He stops moving; looks into her eyes.
“Oh girl, you haven’t had nearly enough, have you? You need much more. On your fours!”
She remains still.
“I don’t think you are in a good place to be disobedient.”
She moves into position, hesitantly. She may be cheeky, but she’s not stupid. He has a good point.
“Those doms you talk to...they are right about you. You’ll appreciate your station better when you’ve had a high enough number of strokes. I just need to keep swinging this cane until you’ve got the message that you are a submissive, and you need to toe the line. Bite on that pillow!”
She does as he tells her to do. The truth be told, this is exactly the outcome she wanted, but he swings much harder this time and she feels the full sting of the blasted stick. She rolls to one side in protest.
“Get back in position!”
She returns to all fours and waits.
“Let’s just keep going until we can be sure that you know how to behave.”
He swings the cane across her lower rump, time and time again, until one stroke just becomes the next. It is all just part of an inferno that has been ignited in her rear. She doesn’t even think to leave position any more. She will move when he tells her to, and not before.
Finally, he puts down his cane and takes another pillow and places it under her hips. Interestingly, she is no longer ambivalent. Now, her body expresses a deep interest to be plunged and pilfered. He enters her from behind and hits away at the spot that sends her into orgasm immediately.
He has his way with her for several minutes, whilst she groans into her pillow, but a different sounding groan altogether this time. She feels every stab and jab of his cock and she drops into a sea of pleasure and abandon. He touches her slippery cunt and she expresses her satisfaction with deep guttural sounds. After several minutes, he climaxes with intense satisfaction. This time, he groans with her. They lie together, for a few minutes, he on top of her. But, the time is late and he moves to have a shower.
“You may not touch yourself.”
She pulls herself up on her elbows and turns to look at him, over her shoulder. She smiles.
“You were thinking of touching yourself, weren’t you?”
“You didn’t bring down the side table.”
She has been using diversionary tactics for many years and this is just one of them.
“Oh, didn’t I?”
She realizes her mistake immediately. It must still be in the back of the car.
“More statements instead of questions, I see. Well, then, let’s have some more of the cane.”
She mock cries.
“No. That’s okay. We’ll sort out that rebellious streak. I’m on the programme; some more of the cane and we can get a lot of matters sorted this morning.”
She turns her body over one more time to display her striped bottom.
“Pout up.”
She pouts up.
She feels two more stinging bites across her rump. When her breathing returns to normal she asks if her bottom is striped.
“It’s striped, all right. Take a look yourself.”
He brings over a mirror so that she can see her scarlet coloured ass.
“Now, you think before you speak, today, if you ever want to sit down again. Do you understand?”
She is demure now. She is not not enjoying herself. Losing control is what she loves best; a control freak who hates having control. It is her sore ass that decides how she will answer.
“Yes master.”
“All right, into the shower immediately, and I want you on your best behaviour the entire day.”
“Yes master.”
“And?”
“Thank you for my punishment, master.”
She scurries into the bathroom.
That was better than chocolate, she thinks.
“Okay, let’s get this squared away. Ten strokes. I think that should be adequate to ensure you look more carefully for lap top chargers in the future.”
She lies there, hoping he can be derailed by her disinterest.”
“Out of that bed, now!”
She gets out of the bed slowly; pulls off the covers, one foot on the floor and then the other; stands up and stands at the end of the bed. Her reluctance is evident in every move, every breath she takes.
“Night gown off!”
She pulls the black silk nightgown over her head and places it on the bed, in a little bundle.
“All right. Bend over, please, elbows on the bed, and I suggest you bite on the pillow. I’ll take a dim view of it if you call out and the children hear.”
She does as she is told, and collects the soft European sized pillow, bites on it and holds each edge.
“Perhaps, after you have a burning bottom your memory for what you do with lap top chargers will improve. I suspect it will. Don’t you dare break position! You show me your submission by being very still and accepting your punishment quietly.”
She does not break position. She bites down on her pillow, only allowing little muffled cries to emit out of her mouth. She takes the ten strokes stoically, even remembering to wait for permission to move.
“Have you learned you lesson?”
She says she has. She won’t do it again. She thanks her master for her punishment.
“All right. Back into bed, and let’s have a nap.”
It is still very early. She tries to nap, but can’t. Her master naps beside her, with her spooned behind him. Eventually, she tries to sleep faced the other way, and this wakes him. His hands wander over her body. He pinches her nipples; feels the warmth of her backside, and between her legs.
He places her on her back and enters her, her legs up around her waist. She does not resist, but nor is she in her submissive mindset. Ambivalence reigns supreme. He stops moving; looks into her eyes.
“Oh girl, you haven’t had nearly enough, have you? You need much more. On your fours!”
She remains still.
“I don’t think you are in a good place to be disobedient.”
She moves into position, hesitantly. She may be cheeky, but she’s not stupid. He has a good point.
“Those doms you talk to...they are right about you. You’ll appreciate your station better when you’ve had a high enough number of strokes. I just need to keep swinging this cane until you’ve got the message that you are a submissive, and you need to toe the line. Bite on that pillow!”
She does as he tells her to do. The truth be told, this is exactly the outcome she wanted, but he swings much harder this time and she feels the full sting of the blasted stick. She rolls to one side in protest.
“Get back in position!”
She returns to all fours and waits.
“Let’s just keep going until we can be sure that you know how to behave.”
He swings the cane across her lower rump, time and time again, until one stroke just becomes the next. It is all just part of an inferno that has been ignited in her rear. She doesn’t even think to leave position any more. She will move when he tells her to, and not before.
Finally, he puts down his cane and takes another pillow and places it under her hips. Interestingly, she is no longer ambivalent. Now, her body expresses a deep interest to be plunged and pilfered. He enters her from behind and hits away at the spot that sends her into orgasm immediately.
He has his way with her for several minutes, whilst she groans into her pillow, but a different sounding groan altogether this time. She feels every stab and jab of his cock and she drops into a sea of pleasure and abandon. He touches her slippery cunt and she expresses her satisfaction with deep guttural sounds. After several minutes, he climaxes with intense satisfaction. This time, he groans with her. They lie together, for a few minutes, he on top of her. But, the time is late and he moves to have a shower.
“You may not touch yourself.”
She pulls herself up on her elbows and turns to look at him, over her shoulder. She smiles.
“You were thinking of touching yourself, weren’t you?”
“You didn’t bring down the side table.”
She has been using diversionary tactics for many years and this is just one of them.
“Oh, didn’t I?”
She realizes her mistake immediately. It must still be in the back of the car.
“More statements instead of questions, I see. Well, then, let’s have some more of the cane.”
She mock cries.
“No. That’s okay. We’ll sort out that rebellious streak. I’m on the programme; some more of the cane and we can get a lot of matters sorted this morning.”
She turns her body over one more time to display her striped bottom.
“Pout up.”
She pouts up.
She feels two more stinging bites across her rump. When her breathing returns to normal she asks if her bottom is striped.
“It’s striped, all right. Take a look yourself.”
He brings over a mirror so that she can see her scarlet coloured ass.
“Now, you think before you speak, today, if you ever want to sit down again. Do you understand?”
She is demure now. She is not not enjoying herself. Losing control is what she loves best; a control freak who hates having control. It is her sore ass that decides how she will answer.
“Yes master.”
“All right, into the shower immediately, and I want you on your best behaviour the entire day.”
“Yes master.”
“And?”
“Thank you for my punishment, master.”
She scurries into the bathroom.
That was better than chocolate, she thinks.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Rolling with the easter egg
We spend Easter at the holiday house. Two of the children travelled down with me yesterday, and the rest of the gang arrived late this afternoon.
Nothing about the trip was easy. The traffic was thick, and when we finally got here, there was a baby bat flying around the house. Of course, we all shrieked and ran out of the house. I called my husband. What should I do? This was not in my job description!
“Get the prawn net from the garage and catch it,” he said.
So, I did that...wandered back into the house with my prawn net, and opened all the doors, so hopefully he’d fly out, and the children watched from the balcony while I went about being the intrepid hunter.
“Mum, he’s behind you. No, now he’s in front of you. Turn around!!”
Even in my fear, I saw the comedy, and in amongst the shrieks of fear, we laughed our heads off. God knows what the neighbours thought.
This afternoon, as I worked about the house, I paid attention to some of the photographs taken of us over the years, and I can’t hide from the fact that I am aging. The evidence is there in the photographs that with each new decade, there are more lines; a less youthful look.
My husband took a photograph of me on our last holiday, in February. He put it up on the computer and showed me recently. It wasn’t a youthful face looking back at me; the way I looked at twenty, or thirty, but gosh, the girl looked happy; radiant even. It was our last evening out before we went home and we dressed up. He took the photograph just before we left out apartment; our little dungeon. When we walked across the street, past the hotel with a crowd drinking at tables outside, and to the restaurant, I remember all eyes being on us. I asked my husband why they were looking at us. He said he had no idea.
But, I think what they saw was a couple long married, dressed up and out on the town for a romantic dinner. Not youthful anymore. They were an elegant couple now; still in harmony and still in love. The photographs of my life...
So, where is the D/s in this post, you are asking? Well, you see, I was sure I packed my lap top charger, but it seemed not. I looked through everything three times over and the charger was definitely not here, I told my husband on the phone. He assured me he’d find it at home and he spent over an hour looking for it, finally admitting defeat. When he arrived, he was clearly frustrated.
“I’ve looked all over the house. It isn’t there.”
“Don’t worry. I must have put it somewhere you didn’t look.”
I was in the bedroom two minutes later when he arrived with my laptop charger in his hand.
“What’s that?” he wanted to know.
“Is that mine? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, you’ll understand all right when I am finished with you. It was in the laptop case, in the zipped area that you hadn’t opened.”
“It is not possible. I looked three times.”
He walked into the dressing area where he keeps two nasty canes and took them both out and waved them at me.
“What is possible is that your bottom will be roasted this evening!”
And fair enough, too! You don’t think this means I don’t get any chocolate this Sunday, do you? You know I would never steal from the children’s stash. You do know that, right?
May the Easter Bunny bring you some of your favourite chocolate this Sunday. My very best wishes for a very Happy Easter and may you too, roll with the easter egg.
Nothing about the trip was easy. The traffic was thick, and when we finally got here, there was a baby bat flying around the house. Of course, we all shrieked and ran out of the house. I called my husband. What should I do? This was not in my job description!
“Get the prawn net from the garage and catch it,” he said.
So, I did that...wandered back into the house with my prawn net, and opened all the doors, so hopefully he’d fly out, and the children watched from the balcony while I went about being the intrepid hunter.
“Mum, he’s behind you. No, now he’s in front of you. Turn around!!”
Even in my fear, I saw the comedy, and in amongst the shrieks of fear, we laughed our heads off. God knows what the neighbours thought.
This afternoon, as I worked about the house, I paid attention to some of the photographs taken of us over the years, and I can’t hide from the fact that I am aging. The evidence is there in the photographs that with each new decade, there are more lines; a less youthful look.
My husband took a photograph of me on our last holiday, in February. He put it up on the computer and showed me recently. It wasn’t a youthful face looking back at me; the way I looked at twenty, or thirty, but gosh, the girl looked happy; radiant even. It was our last evening out before we went home and we dressed up. He took the photograph just before we left out apartment; our little dungeon. When we walked across the street, past the hotel with a crowd drinking at tables outside, and to the restaurant, I remember all eyes being on us. I asked my husband why they were looking at us. He said he had no idea.
But, I think what they saw was a couple long married, dressed up and out on the town for a romantic dinner. Not youthful anymore. They were an elegant couple now; still in harmony and still in love. The photographs of my life...
So, where is the D/s in this post, you are asking? Well, you see, I was sure I packed my lap top charger, but it seemed not. I looked through everything three times over and the charger was definitely not here, I told my husband on the phone. He assured me he’d find it at home and he spent over an hour looking for it, finally admitting defeat. When he arrived, he was clearly frustrated.
“I’ve looked all over the house. It isn’t there.”
“Don’t worry. I must have put it somewhere you didn’t look.”
I was in the bedroom two minutes later when he arrived with my laptop charger in his hand.
“What’s that?” he wanted to know.
“Is that mine? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, you’ll understand all right when I am finished with you. It was in the laptop case, in the zipped area that you hadn’t opened.”
“It is not possible. I looked three times.”
He walked into the dressing area where he keeps two nasty canes and took them both out and waved them at me.
“What is possible is that your bottom will be roasted this evening!”
And fair enough, too! You don’t think this means I don’t get any chocolate this Sunday, do you? You know I would never steal from the children’s stash. You do know that, right?
May the Easter Bunny bring you some of your favourite chocolate this Sunday. My very best wishes for a very Happy Easter and may you too, roll with the easter egg.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Care, part 2, take 2
Why can’t I stay out of trouble? I don’t look for trouble. It just seems to come knocking at my door!
You see, yesterday I sent a copy of my last post, ‘Care, Part 2’, to two dominant friends to ask their opinions. Did it make sense? Did it read all right? One friend responded a few minutes later. He said to publish it right away. No problem. Now, it was at that moment, when I had some slight concern. I hadn’t heard from the other dominant friend, and here I was, about to publish. I had asked for his opinion, and was publishing without receiving his opinion. And, yet, I wanted to publish...
I threw caution to the wind. I published the post, and received a few positive comments. That was nice, but most importantly, it allayed my concerns about not waiting for feedback from my ‘friend.’
Last evening, my ‘friend’ and I had a lovely, illuminating internet chat, just before bed, and I was feeling warm. We were discussing other matters and I had entirely forgotten about the ‘feedback’ issue. And, then, just as I was switching off the lap top, I noticed an incoming email, and I quickly looked to see who it was from. I was confused for a moment, couldn’t quite grasp what it was about, until I remembered. It was the feedback on the post I had asked for about 12 hours earlier.
“I feel this is too jumbled. I get lost in it, not sure of what the ultimate point is you're trying to make. And if this is something you are saying that is a struggle of yours, that struggle is not perfectly illustrated. Declined, as is.”
Oh, yes, folks. That is what he does to me. He either writes ‘Declined’ or ‘Approved’. Did I mention that he was a very dominant man...a sadist? I felt a little nauseous. Let me be clear. My ‘friend’ knows how to deal with a girl who is not behaving well. You remember the ‘bad girl list’, right? The last thing he had said to me in the chat we had last night was, to “be a good girl”, and this was not good.
My husband had just got into bed. I cuddled into him, looking for a bit of protection of sorts, made overtures, but he was intent on sleeping:
“Would you stop that, girl!”
This morning, I woke up, and the first thought on my mind was my transgression. What to do? Well, maybe if I went and revisited the post, and tried to make the points more clear for you, readers. Maybe, that would appease him. We’ll see.
First of all, I do, of course, see his point. He is always right, by the way. I want to make that clear. (looks out behind hands...) It was jumbled. It isn’t even clear to me this morning, although it seemed crystal clear yesterday. Did it, in fact, make any sense to you? Well, let’s make the points more direct, then:
The struggle: As I see it, doms do not want, and probably should not, make life too easy for the submissive woman. If life gets too easy, then she is unlikely to be satisfied. She enjoys the struggle. But, on the other hand, if she struggles too much, then her life is full of anxiety, frustration and a negative sensation, and there is not too much positive about that, as I see it. So, what I was trying to say was that the dominant should be careful to monitor the girl to ensure that the struggle remains a reasonably comfortable struggle. If she looks tense, mad, sad, or withdrawn a lot of the time, she is struggling too much. If she looks bright, cheerful, energised most of the time, then the struggle is just right. Think about Goldilocks here. She didn’t want papa bear’s bowl of porridge, because it was too big, and she didn’t want baby bear’s bowl of porridge because it was too small. She wanted the bowl of porridge that was just right for her. So too, the submissive woman needs the right amount of struggle for her. This should be monitored and adjusted as necessary.
The other point I was trying to make was that the submissive may not be able to tell you herself about her struggle. She knows that she is meant to tell you things, to be open. But, it is not quite as easy as the articles make it sound. She may be trying her heart out, you see, to struggle for you, even beyond her capacity. Be aware of that danger.
Care: The struggle led onto a discussion about care. Here, I was making the point that a girl is likely to struggle considerably and without too much distress, so long as she feels that she is being cared for. She has to really feel this, or have evidence of this.
I was being oblique here, because I didn’t really want to go too close to the ‘j’ word: jealousy. You see, I think there is nothing at all wrong with jealousy. I think it is normal. And, I think that wanting to protect your girl is normal, too. Be her ‘Knight in Shining Armour’, and she will struggle for you all you want. A girl loves chivalry, and to be cocooned in your love. Don’t be afraid, no matter what women tell you out there. Go ahead and be jealous, be her prince, care for her, and what happens to her, and she’ll do just about anything for you in return.
It is almost impossible to speak any other way but in generalizations. I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who wants a severe degradation experience, just as I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who would deplore being spanked. We all have our own individual views on such matters.
I am simply talking about something universal...that is important to us all. We need to feel the connection with the other person and as I see it, we show that we are connected with another person when we show that we care about them. Many (most? all?) women want to be cared for, in their heart of hearts. They want a man to run to their defence if another man should look to hurt them. They expect that. They instinctively know that a man is supposed to do that. And, if you men don’t do that, they will judge you accordingly.
Only time will tell, if this got me out of trouble, or deeper in mud. Let us keep our fingers crossed. You don’t want to have to read a list of 26-50 bad things I’ve done lately. Do you?
You see, yesterday I sent a copy of my last post, ‘Care, Part 2’, to two dominant friends to ask their opinions. Did it make sense? Did it read all right? One friend responded a few minutes later. He said to publish it right away. No problem. Now, it was at that moment, when I had some slight concern. I hadn’t heard from the other dominant friend, and here I was, about to publish. I had asked for his opinion, and was publishing without receiving his opinion. And, yet, I wanted to publish...
I threw caution to the wind. I published the post, and received a few positive comments. That was nice, but most importantly, it allayed my concerns about not waiting for feedback from my ‘friend.’
Last evening, my ‘friend’ and I had a lovely, illuminating internet chat, just before bed, and I was feeling warm. We were discussing other matters and I had entirely forgotten about the ‘feedback’ issue. And, then, just as I was switching off the lap top, I noticed an incoming email, and I quickly looked to see who it was from. I was confused for a moment, couldn’t quite grasp what it was about, until I remembered. It was the feedback on the post I had asked for about 12 hours earlier.
“I feel this is too jumbled. I get lost in it, not sure of what the ultimate point is you're trying to make. And if this is something you are saying that is a struggle of yours, that struggle is not perfectly illustrated. Declined, as is.”
Oh, yes, folks. That is what he does to me. He either writes ‘Declined’ or ‘Approved’. Did I mention that he was a very dominant man...a sadist? I felt a little nauseous. Let me be clear. My ‘friend’ knows how to deal with a girl who is not behaving well. You remember the ‘bad girl list’, right? The last thing he had said to me in the chat we had last night was, to “be a good girl”, and this was not good.
My husband had just got into bed. I cuddled into him, looking for a bit of protection of sorts, made overtures, but he was intent on sleeping:
“Would you stop that, girl!”
This morning, I woke up, and the first thought on my mind was my transgression. What to do? Well, maybe if I went and revisited the post, and tried to make the points more clear for you, readers. Maybe, that would appease him. We’ll see.
First of all, I do, of course, see his point. He is always right, by the way. I want to make that clear. (looks out behind hands...) It was jumbled. It isn’t even clear to me this morning, although it seemed crystal clear yesterday. Did it, in fact, make any sense to you? Well, let’s make the points more direct, then:
The struggle: As I see it, doms do not want, and probably should not, make life too easy for the submissive woman. If life gets too easy, then she is unlikely to be satisfied. She enjoys the struggle. But, on the other hand, if she struggles too much, then her life is full of anxiety, frustration and a negative sensation, and there is not too much positive about that, as I see it. So, what I was trying to say was that the dominant should be careful to monitor the girl to ensure that the struggle remains a reasonably comfortable struggle. If she looks tense, mad, sad, or withdrawn a lot of the time, she is struggling too much. If she looks bright, cheerful, energised most of the time, then the struggle is just right. Think about Goldilocks here. She didn’t want papa bear’s bowl of porridge, because it was too big, and she didn’t want baby bear’s bowl of porridge because it was too small. She wanted the bowl of porridge that was just right for her. So too, the submissive woman needs the right amount of struggle for her. This should be monitored and adjusted as necessary.
The other point I was trying to make was that the submissive may not be able to tell you herself about her struggle. She knows that she is meant to tell you things, to be open. But, it is not quite as easy as the articles make it sound. She may be trying her heart out, you see, to struggle for you, even beyond her capacity. Be aware of that danger.
Care: The struggle led onto a discussion about care. Here, I was making the point that a girl is likely to struggle considerably and without too much distress, so long as she feels that she is being cared for. She has to really feel this, or have evidence of this.
I was being oblique here, because I didn’t really want to go too close to the ‘j’ word: jealousy. You see, I think there is nothing at all wrong with jealousy. I think it is normal. And, I think that wanting to protect your girl is normal, too. Be her ‘Knight in Shining Armour’, and she will struggle for you all you want. A girl loves chivalry, and to be cocooned in your love. Don’t be afraid, no matter what women tell you out there. Go ahead and be jealous, be her prince, care for her, and what happens to her, and she’ll do just about anything for you in return.
It is almost impossible to speak any other way but in generalizations. I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who wants a severe degradation experience, just as I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who would deplore being spanked. We all have our own individual views on such matters.
I am simply talking about something universal...that is important to us all. We need to feel the connection with the other person and as I see it, we show that we are connected with another person when we show that we care about them. Many (most? all?) women want to be cared for, in their heart of hearts. They want a man to run to their defence if another man should look to hurt them. They expect that. They instinctively know that a man is supposed to do that. And, if you men don’t do that, they will judge you accordingly.
Only time will tell, if this got me out of trouble, or deeper in mud. Let us keep our fingers crossed. You don’t want to have to read a list of 26-50 bad things I’ve done lately. Do you?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Care, part 2
It is raining out there, so I thought I’d check in with you here.
There has been quite a lot of conversation going on this week, in my house, and on my computer screen, about the ‘struggle’ of the submissive woman. How necessary is it to struggle? How much is enough? When is it too much?
There appears to be consensus between dominant men that the girl should struggle. One lovely man I correspond with, who is so wise and wonderful, I think he should be bottled, replied to me,
“Of course a girl must struggle, and then succeed, and relish in the growth, and then struggle some more, and succeed, but it is a cyclical thing, and there cannot always be struggle.” Very nicely put, as always!
A dominant-submissive relationship, as it has been explained to me, has checks and balances. One such ‘check’ built into the relationship is that the girl should be ‘open’ with her master. She should give him feedback as to how she is feeling. In this way, he can adjust his demands accordingly. I see a potential problem with this, because the submissive woman is, after all, submissive. She knows that part of the deal is that she should struggle. So, at what point does she admit to her master, that the struggle does not feel at all right; that she is not coping? Is that not a sign of failure in her; that she cannot cope? Will she be fast to admit such a thing? I have known my husband all my adult life. No two people could be more close, and I can reveal to you that I waited too long to admit to him that I was not coping with certain matters. It is a real risk.
Regular feedback with a master is critical, including a preparedness to acknowledge that one is struggling to the point of despair, if that should happen. A submissive woman must learn to monitor herself. Is she confused or angry? Does she notice that her breathing is laboured, that her head aches or her shoulders are tight? Has she become ‘sensitive’ whereby she may react inappropriately to a comment? Perhaps her struggle has become toxic; unhealthy for her, at this point of time. Perhaps she is overwhelmed. Perhaps it is time to consider that a little holiday is more appropriate than pushing herself where her mind will not allow her to go.
I took a long time to accept and to express my submissive nature, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that a man who cared for me deeply and to whom I gave my trust, warned me never to tell another man about my true self.
“There are men out there who will take advantage of you, Vesta. If they know, you are in danger. You must promise me you will not tell them.”
It took me many years to summon up the courage to break my promise to him, and some days, I can still hear his voice in my ear:
“You must never tell them...”
I have the great joy of being married to a man that understands me, loves me and cares for me. I have talked about care before and I rate it very highly. If you want to whip a girl, be 150% sure to get the message across to her, that you are whipping her because you care about her. For, if she has the vaguest notion, and I mean the slightest instinct that you are doing it, simply because you can, simply because it brings you pleasure, she may run for cover. Maybe she won’t run today, but she may one day. Care is so critical to my thinking in the submissive space. I cannot give my submission, at any level, if I am unsure about how much the dominant man cares. It is the other half of the submissive experience. On one side is the woman prepared to give her all; on the other, a dominant man, to protect her with all his strength.
My husband is stern with me sometimes, punishing with me sometimes and unrelenting with me sometimes; but always because he knows that it is the treatment I crave. He suggested to me just now that maybe I am one of those submissives that ‘top from the bottom’. And, maybe I am. I don’t want too much struggle. I don’t want to walk around with my chest full of anger. I want to walk around with my chest full of bubbles; energising bubbles that fill my heart with happiness and song, allowing me to give back to all that cross my path a sense of positive energy and peace. For me, there is a big difference.
I discussed this point with my lovely dominant correspondent, too, and with his permission I share his wisdom with you:
“The whole notion of topping from the bottom is a prickly pear, isn't it? It is a notion that can be used to keep a girl down, to minimize her objections, her perspective, her desires and opinions. If she is a "good slave" she will always do as instructed, never question; never appear to "top from the bottom" because she will offer absolute and total compliance. But, if the idea is to nurture and improve and develop her, then what is the point of exerting total control over her? Is the master so omnipotent that he knows absolutely everything that there is to know about her, for her, and on his own, can decide and develop her path? Every girl is different, and one size does not fit all. Yes?”
Oh yes, indeed, my friend. I agree. And, how true it is that one size does not fit all.
This girl will happily crawl across the floor, with a collar around her neck. I’ll sit on the floor by his feet, and do his bidding. And, it is all one big f**king turn on! But, for me, an essential component of the turn on is that he cares for me with all his heart. A submissive woman has to feel the care; to believe that the dominant man is working for her good; that he will leap to her defence if another might hurt her. If she feels, for one second, that she is on her own, then he has lost her. For, a submissive woman such as Vesta, who gives so very much of herself to another, who is prepared to struggle not just for herself, but for others, a sense of care is an essential ingredient for the struggle to have purpose.
There has been quite a lot of conversation going on this week, in my house, and on my computer screen, about the ‘struggle’ of the submissive woman. How necessary is it to struggle? How much is enough? When is it too much?
There appears to be consensus between dominant men that the girl should struggle. One lovely man I correspond with, who is so wise and wonderful, I think he should be bottled, replied to me,
“Of course a girl must struggle, and then succeed, and relish in the growth, and then struggle some more, and succeed, but it is a cyclical thing, and there cannot always be struggle.” Very nicely put, as always!
A dominant-submissive relationship, as it has been explained to me, has checks and balances. One such ‘check’ built into the relationship is that the girl should be ‘open’ with her master. She should give him feedback as to how she is feeling. In this way, he can adjust his demands accordingly. I see a potential problem with this, because the submissive woman is, after all, submissive. She knows that part of the deal is that she should struggle. So, at what point does she admit to her master, that the struggle does not feel at all right; that she is not coping? Is that not a sign of failure in her; that she cannot cope? Will she be fast to admit such a thing? I have known my husband all my adult life. No two people could be more close, and I can reveal to you that I waited too long to admit to him that I was not coping with certain matters. It is a real risk.
Regular feedback with a master is critical, including a preparedness to acknowledge that one is struggling to the point of despair, if that should happen. A submissive woman must learn to monitor herself. Is she confused or angry? Does she notice that her breathing is laboured, that her head aches or her shoulders are tight? Has she become ‘sensitive’ whereby she may react inappropriately to a comment? Perhaps her struggle has become toxic; unhealthy for her, at this point of time. Perhaps she is overwhelmed. Perhaps it is time to consider that a little holiday is more appropriate than pushing herself where her mind will not allow her to go.
I took a long time to accept and to express my submissive nature, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that a man who cared for me deeply and to whom I gave my trust, warned me never to tell another man about my true self.
“There are men out there who will take advantage of you, Vesta. If they know, you are in danger. You must promise me you will not tell them.”
It took me many years to summon up the courage to break my promise to him, and some days, I can still hear his voice in my ear:
“You must never tell them...”
I have the great joy of being married to a man that understands me, loves me and cares for me. I have talked about care before and I rate it very highly. If you want to whip a girl, be 150% sure to get the message across to her, that you are whipping her because you care about her. For, if she has the vaguest notion, and I mean the slightest instinct that you are doing it, simply because you can, simply because it brings you pleasure, she may run for cover. Maybe she won’t run today, but she may one day. Care is so critical to my thinking in the submissive space. I cannot give my submission, at any level, if I am unsure about how much the dominant man cares. It is the other half of the submissive experience. On one side is the woman prepared to give her all; on the other, a dominant man, to protect her with all his strength.
My husband is stern with me sometimes, punishing with me sometimes and unrelenting with me sometimes; but always because he knows that it is the treatment I crave. He suggested to me just now that maybe I am one of those submissives that ‘top from the bottom’. And, maybe I am. I don’t want too much struggle. I don’t want to walk around with my chest full of anger. I want to walk around with my chest full of bubbles; energising bubbles that fill my heart with happiness and song, allowing me to give back to all that cross my path a sense of positive energy and peace. For me, there is a big difference.
I discussed this point with my lovely dominant correspondent, too, and with his permission I share his wisdom with you:
“The whole notion of topping from the bottom is a prickly pear, isn't it? It is a notion that can be used to keep a girl down, to minimize her objections, her perspective, her desires and opinions. If she is a "good slave" she will always do as instructed, never question; never appear to "top from the bottom" because she will offer absolute and total compliance. But, if the idea is to nurture and improve and develop her, then what is the point of exerting total control over her? Is the master so omnipotent that he knows absolutely everything that there is to know about her, for her, and on his own, can decide and develop her path? Every girl is different, and one size does not fit all. Yes?”
Oh yes, indeed, my friend. I agree. And, how true it is that one size does not fit all.
This girl will happily crawl across the floor, with a collar around her neck. I’ll sit on the floor by his feet, and do his bidding. And, it is all one big f**king turn on! But, for me, an essential component of the turn on is that he cares for me with all his heart. A submissive woman has to feel the care; to believe that the dominant man is working for her good; that he will leap to her defence if another might hurt her. If she feels, for one second, that she is on her own, then he has lost her. For, a submissive woman such as Vesta, who gives so very much of herself to another, who is prepared to struggle not just for herself, but for others, a sense of care is an essential ingredient for the struggle to have purpose.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Light Entertainment
“I follow the night; can’t stand the light
When will I begin, to live again?
What more could your love do for me?
When will love be through with me?
Why live life from dream to dream
And dread the day when dreaming ends?”
Why, indeed?
Right now though, the light is appealing. A picnic on the beach, a walk along the lake, some fish at the pier...
See you when I get back. Be good now!
When will I begin, to live again?
What more could your love do for me?
When will love be through with me?
Why live life from dream to dream
And dread the day when dreaming ends?”
Why, indeed?
Right now though, the light is appealing. A picnic on the beach, a walk along the lake, some fish at the pier...
See you when I get back. Be good now!
Friday, April 3, 2009
A little apartment down the road...
I’ve just finished the editing of a short story. I can’t sleep and I thought it might work to do some editing while it was perfectly quiet. It worked, and as I read through to the completion of the story, I gasped. Was it really August last year that I wrote that story? How much time had I wasted trying to get this series finished, to get back to editing them and polishing them, and hopefully get them out the door? Why was I being so tardy?
As I read through the story, adjusting it here and there tonight, I realized just how much of myself I had put into this series. (Yes, Janus, I know you are smiling and nodding!) Janus gave me this assignment to help me learn some lessons about being a submissive woman, as well as to give me a writing assignment that he knew I would enjoy. I think I did learn many lessons in writing the series, and as well, I got to be my heroine. I became her and she became me in so many, many ways.
So, who is my heroine? Well, she is definitely no pushover. Like me, she is strong and capable, loving and loved. She adores her man and she relishes time alone with him. She wants to be a good girl, but she fails repeatedly. She hates to be corrected (at the time, although the thought is always appealing), not being a masochist (hardly) at all. But once she is corrected, she feels redeemed, happy, and she makes yet another attempt to be the perfect woman she aspires to be. Her choice of words and her inability to hold back from saying what is on her mind, gets her into far more trouble than any of her actions, although she is naughty (okay, she is bad) in her behaviours sometimes, too. She is deeply aroused by her submission and she can’t imagine life without her strict man. She would make chopped liver out of a man who was not dominant, and she knows this much about herself. She knows she needs to be dominated.
Who is her man? He’s a little older, wiser, and more stable. He’s a sadist, to be sure. But, he is also a man who cares very deeply for her. This relationship has come late in the day for him. He played the field before my heroine came along, and now he is experiencing the joy of living all his days with a woman he loves deeply and who compliments his needs. He is challenged by her and in return he challenges her. He is creative in his methods to correct her and it is his gravitas that has brought her to him. He wears the pants.
It’s a fairy tale, really, isn’t it? It is the way so many of us would like our lives to be: erotically charged, yet blissful and content; never dull. Recently, I said to my husband, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have an apartment to go to, just the two of us.”
“Where,” he asked? “Where would the apartment be?”
“Right here. Just a mile or so away.”
He smiled at the silliness of it. But, wouldn’t it be divine? To leave the family home sometimes and slip away to a little one bedroom place where you could do what you want, when you want, how you want?
I adore my family. If you have read here, you know that. They are divine children I have and a joy to behold. But, a little apartment down the road, with a cupboard for implements, and a little whipping bench with restraints built in. It doesn’t sound half bad, eh? (She giggles.....)
As I read through the story, adjusting it here and there tonight, I realized just how much of myself I had put into this series. (Yes, Janus, I know you are smiling and nodding!) Janus gave me this assignment to help me learn some lessons about being a submissive woman, as well as to give me a writing assignment that he knew I would enjoy. I think I did learn many lessons in writing the series, and as well, I got to be my heroine. I became her and she became me in so many, many ways.
So, who is my heroine? Well, she is definitely no pushover. Like me, she is strong and capable, loving and loved. She adores her man and she relishes time alone with him. She wants to be a good girl, but she fails repeatedly. She hates to be corrected (at the time, although the thought is always appealing), not being a masochist (hardly) at all. But once she is corrected, she feels redeemed, happy, and she makes yet another attempt to be the perfect woman she aspires to be. Her choice of words and her inability to hold back from saying what is on her mind, gets her into far more trouble than any of her actions, although she is naughty (okay, she is bad) in her behaviours sometimes, too. She is deeply aroused by her submission and she can’t imagine life without her strict man. She would make chopped liver out of a man who was not dominant, and she knows this much about herself. She knows she needs to be dominated.
Who is her man? He’s a little older, wiser, and more stable. He’s a sadist, to be sure. But, he is also a man who cares very deeply for her. This relationship has come late in the day for him. He played the field before my heroine came along, and now he is experiencing the joy of living all his days with a woman he loves deeply and who compliments his needs. He is challenged by her and in return he challenges her. He is creative in his methods to correct her and it is his gravitas that has brought her to him. He wears the pants.
It’s a fairy tale, really, isn’t it? It is the way so many of us would like our lives to be: erotically charged, yet blissful and content; never dull. Recently, I said to my husband, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have an apartment to go to, just the two of us.”
“Where,” he asked? “Where would the apartment be?”
“Right here. Just a mile or so away.”
He smiled at the silliness of it. But, wouldn’t it be divine? To leave the family home sometimes and slip away to a little one bedroom place where you could do what you want, when you want, how you want?
I adore my family. If you have read here, you know that. They are divine children I have and a joy to behold. But, a little apartment down the road, with a cupboard for implements, and a little whipping bench with restraints built in. It doesn’t sound half bad, eh? (She giggles.....)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Strict Masters
When I was a little girl, not yet five years old, my mother enrolled me into dance classes. The teacher was a rather intimidating Russian man, heavy set. He taught his lessons in the old fashioned way – with discipline. I rather doubt I was ever destined for the stage, but dance became a great passion as I was growing up and I spent many, many hours every week taking lessons, attending rehearsals and sometimes, performing.
His teaching methods were highly controversial with many of the mothers and one by one I found that girls were not returning to class. Their mothers did not approve. It was not that he ever did anything all that unusual; it was that they did not want their daughters being hauled over the coals when they made mistakes.
As I grew older, certain mothers would ask my opinion. What was happening in class, exactly? I had a great deal of difficulty understanding what all the fuss was about. Sure, he yelled at us, and stopped the music endlessly, and made us do it again, over and over, until he was satisfied, but that was normal, wasn’t it?
One day, he had us sit in a little huddle about him, and he said he wanted to give out a prize. He had a beautiful book of dance in his hand and he gave a little talk about perseverance and high standards and such, and he said that he wanted to give the book to the girl who had tried the hardest – Vesta!
I don’t think I had ever been more surprised in my life. I never expected such a thing, and I was quite overwhelmed. I don’t know why it should be today that I should remember that day, but I was down at the gym laying on a mat doing exercises this morning when the lovey memory sprung into my head.
I remember him with great fondness. One day, when I was in my mid to late teens, I was shopping in a department store, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. He was smiling so proudly.
“Look at you, Vesta! You look so grown up. You look so pretty!”
I was delighted that he was delighted. His heart was always in the right place. He strove for excellence and to those who accepted his instruction, he was very kind.
It didn’t do me one scrap of harm being under his tutelage. A few more strict masters in my childhood might have done me the world of good, actually. At least, that is what my husband tells me!
His teaching methods were highly controversial with many of the mothers and one by one I found that girls were not returning to class. Their mothers did not approve. It was not that he ever did anything all that unusual; it was that they did not want their daughters being hauled over the coals when they made mistakes.
As I grew older, certain mothers would ask my opinion. What was happening in class, exactly? I had a great deal of difficulty understanding what all the fuss was about. Sure, he yelled at us, and stopped the music endlessly, and made us do it again, over and over, until he was satisfied, but that was normal, wasn’t it?
One day, he had us sit in a little huddle about him, and he said he wanted to give out a prize. He had a beautiful book of dance in his hand and he gave a little talk about perseverance and high standards and such, and he said that he wanted to give the book to the girl who had tried the hardest – Vesta!
I don’t think I had ever been more surprised in my life. I never expected such a thing, and I was quite overwhelmed. I don’t know why it should be today that I should remember that day, but I was down at the gym laying on a mat doing exercises this morning when the lovey memory sprung into my head.
I remember him with great fondness. One day, when I was in my mid to late teens, I was shopping in a department store, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was him. He was smiling so proudly.
“Look at you, Vesta! You look so grown up. You look so pretty!”
I was delighted that he was delighted. His heart was always in the right place. He strove for excellence and to those who accepted his instruction, he was very kind.
It didn’t do me one scrap of harm being under his tutelage. A few more strict masters in my childhood might have done me the world of good, actually. At least, that is what my husband tells me!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
My friend
The post that I had written for you yesterday was rejected, and with good reason. It was not good enough. My friend was quite right. So, let me try again to express myself, as befits the occasion.
A submissive woman, if I am any guide, has a way of compartmentalizing her life. I got an enormous ‘kick’ out of being required to write the list of ’25 bad things I had done recently’. I could not complain about the assignment. I had, after all, asked what I could do to repay my friend after I improperly excerpted our private discussion on my blog. He had told me what I could do, and I did it.
In a sense, in situations such as this, one only jumps one hurdle at a time. I hadn’t really thought through to the next hurdle yet. I didn’t await the suggestions of readers with any sort of dread or apprehension, as you might expect. I was enjoying myself. There is no surprise there, I don’t think. But, I just hadn’t taken in the seriousness of the situation. In one part of my mind, it was a game, you see.
A few days went by, and a few suggestions were made, on the blog and more privately. I sort of snuffed them off. Another joke, another laugh, but the concern I felt was buried deep. I still hadn’t tapped into it.
A day or more went by, and I thought it might be safe to ask my friend if I could consider my correction complete. On the pretence of something else, a technological achievement, as a matter of fact, I opened the little window again. It did not take long for the conversation to come around to my correction.
He wanted to know how I would be affected by having 25 pages of my little novel published on the blog. I explained the problems with that outcome. He assured me that although the matter remained unresolved, this was not necessarily a bad thing. The list was good, he said. I was focussing in on this new tone. It was lulling me into a sense of false security. He had paid me a compliment, which I hadn’t expected, and I had been put into that dreamy state that submissive women go when a man tells them they did well.
So, when he told me that I had a choice, to await another idea from my readers or to allow him to decide my correction for the list of bad behaviour, I really did not think twice. It took me no more than a split second to advise him that I would like him to choose my correction. I was deep into my own world. The outside world had stopped existing while I waited for him to type in something. I did not know what he would say, but I can tell you that I never expected him to type in
“25 strokes”.
Although I asked “of what” I knew already that it was “the cane”.
It was surreal. Was this a game or was this real?
At some point of the conversation, only the transcript could tell me exactly when, for it is a bit of a haze now, he typed in
“Are you starting to regret your decision to reach out and chat?”
How can I explain to you the feeling I had coursing through my body? It was the dark side I had gone over to, and yet the dark side was so darn irresistible.
“Me?” I asked.
No, I was not missing this opportunity for the world. Take all my possessions, but leave me with this. I live for this.
“You must be joking.”
The terms were laid down and we said our goodbyes.
The next morning I wrote my post for you, readers, but what I didn’t do was admit how much I relished the conversation; how much I enjoyed reading the transcript again later.
He is one in a million. I knew that the moment I read his words, quite some time ago now. It isn’t that he knows how to press a girl’s buttons, a girl like me, although he certainly does know that. It is that he just is. He is darkness and light. He is sadistic and kind, all at the one moment. He’s my gift.
So, I’ll take my 25 strokes of the cane. It is more than I have ever taken before and I live with my heart in my mouth. I am frightened. I am aroused.
A submissive woman, if I am any guide, has a way of compartmentalizing her life. I got an enormous ‘kick’ out of being required to write the list of ’25 bad things I had done recently’. I could not complain about the assignment. I had, after all, asked what I could do to repay my friend after I improperly excerpted our private discussion on my blog. He had told me what I could do, and I did it.
In a sense, in situations such as this, one only jumps one hurdle at a time. I hadn’t really thought through to the next hurdle yet. I didn’t await the suggestions of readers with any sort of dread or apprehension, as you might expect. I was enjoying myself. There is no surprise there, I don’t think. But, I just hadn’t taken in the seriousness of the situation. In one part of my mind, it was a game, you see.
A few days went by, and a few suggestions were made, on the blog and more privately. I sort of snuffed them off. Another joke, another laugh, but the concern I felt was buried deep. I still hadn’t tapped into it.
A day or more went by, and I thought it might be safe to ask my friend if I could consider my correction complete. On the pretence of something else, a technological achievement, as a matter of fact, I opened the little window again. It did not take long for the conversation to come around to my correction.
He wanted to know how I would be affected by having 25 pages of my little novel published on the blog. I explained the problems with that outcome. He assured me that although the matter remained unresolved, this was not necessarily a bad thing. The list was good, he said. I was focussing in on this new tone. It was lulling me into a sense of false security. He had paid me a compliment, which I hadn’t expected, and I had been put into that dreamy state that submissive women go when a man tells them they did well.
So, when he told me that I had a choice, to await another idea from my readers or to allow him to decide my correction for the list of bad behaviour, I really did not think twice. It took me no more than a split second to advise him that I would like him to choose my correction. I was deep into my own world. The outside world had stopped existing while I waited for him to type in something. I did not know what he would say, but I can tell you that I never expected him to type in
“25 strokes”.
Although I asked “of what” I knew already that it was “the cane”.
It was surreal. Was this a game or was this real?
At some point of the conversation, only the transcript could tell me exactly when, for it is a bit of a haze now, he typed in
“Are you starting to regret your decision to reach out and chat?”
How can I explain to you the feeling I had coursing through my body? It was the dark side I had gone over to, and yet the dark side was so darn irresistible.
“Me?” I asked.
No, I was not missing this opportunity for the world. Take all my possessions, but leave me with this. I live for this.
“You must be joking.”
The terms were laid down and we said our goodbyes.
The next morning I wrote my post for you, readers, but what I didn’t do was admit how much I relished the conversation; how much I enjoyed reading the transcript again later.
He is one in a million. I knew that the moment I read his words, quite some time ago now. It isn’t that he knows how to press a girl’s buttons, a girl like me, although he certainly does know that. It is that he just is. He is darkness and light. He is sadistic and kind, all at the one moment. He’s my gift.
So, I’ll take my 25 strokes of the cane. It is more than I have ever taken before and I live with my heart in my mouth. I am frightened. I am aroused.
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