Strategy

Girls, huddle round; make a circle, hold hands.

Shhhhh! Quiet now; I don't want to be overheard.

You know, and I know that he is not always right. And, you know and I know that he can be soooo irrational.

Yeah. Yeah. We all know dat.

But, trust me, it is no use makin a fuss. Coz he's not goin to admit anythin anyways wen he's in dat moooood.

So, don't get all steamed up. Nah! Just 'snuff it off'. Forget abowt it.

And, go ahead and have a good day.

Okay?

All right! High fives.


Yes!!!!

Aging gracefully

Two little occurrences this morning when out and about got me thinking:

The first occurrence happened at the nail salon. I was sitting in the spot where one sits to dry one's nails when a woman about my age came and sat down beside me. I said,

"Now comes the hard part!"

She said:

"I know! It's torture, isn't it? Sitting here doing nothing...thinking about all the things we have to do...what to make for dinner, how to organize all the kids for the weekend..."

I nodded and smiled. This is just the sort of thing that I have been working on lately...letting go. There is a time for work and there is a time for play. Women need to learn when to let go!

Secondly, whilst I had my morning coffee shortly thereafter, I read a comment by Sarah Murdoch, the gorgeous naturally beautiful daughter-in-law of Rupert Murdoch. Apparently, she has asked that her photos not be touched up. She wants to grow old gracefully, without the use of treatments that so often leave women without expression in their faces. She wants to "embrace" the aging process.

Well, I do tend to agree with her. I think a woman can look quite beautiful as she ages if she has the confidence to carry it off. Of course, Sarah didn't mean that a woman should let herself go. That is an entirely different matter. Maintaining a healthy weight, looking after one's skin, keeping out of the sun at certain times, getting adequate sleep and rest and eating well are what is important here. I would add to that, that a youthful outlook is critical, too. You truly are only as old as you feel.

Relaxing and letting go at times, ceding control to one's owner, maintaining a fit and healthy body, and remaining youthful with vitality; this is the key to aging well as a submissive woman, I think. The style one chooses is an altogether different thing. A rule of thumb would be, if the man in your life has a desire to undress you as soon as possible, then you are on a good thing and should stick with it.

Flexibility

One of the huge benefits of expressing my submissive nature has been that I am much more flexible than I have ever been before. I am open to a great many suggestions and as far as I can recall, I haven't rejected outright any suggestion that has been put to me in recent times.

I've been introduced to new ways to speak about my body; new ways to speak even. I've been introduced to the notion of being an owned girl and to accept that my owner can do with me, whatever he wants. I've not rejected the idea of being marked, or bound, or physically corrected. I've embraced lessons of being at my owner's beck and call, and making my body of use to relax him when he is stressed. I really have demonstrated, I believe, that I have a flexible mind. And, that's a good thing.

My owner (read: husband) is delighted with his new wife. His wife now has a second name (think Sir J's h, as a rough guide here); a name for that bubbly, giggling creature who is there for her owner to do as he pleases. Yep! He's embraced her, all right. He likes her a lot.

Recently, this girl had a birthday and she received some lovely gifts, such as a voucher to pamper herself at a beauty salon. That was a lovely gift. She got another gift, too, but in fact, it was not for her. The gift was for the other one: the bimbo. And, how she loved it! She began to wear it immediately and she was so beri happi about that.

Sometimes, Vesta, the girl with the thinking brain has to use that brain to get things done. Her husband wouldn't be too happy if she claimed that the reason for not attending to tasks was because her brain had gone missing, now would he? But, the sexual creature doesn't have to think, you see, and that's a lot of fun, too. She has so much fun!

Vesta is not going away. She lives here, too! But, she's making some room for the sexual creature. She is just so giggly and bright, who could deny the wee l'il thing? So, I'm going to make some room for her here and we'll see how that goes. I do hope that she won't be too norty.

Little girls

Naturally, I adore all my children. But, I adore them in different ways for their different qualities. I wouldn't be without my boys. Little boys give their mothers so many kisses. Snuggling into a little boy, cheek to cheek, is one of life's great pleasures.

But, I'm so terribly grateful for my little girl. I was not sure that I would ever have a little girl and when she was gathered up from me, the first words I heard were my husband's words:

"Ooooooooh! It's what you wanted. It's a little girl."

I would have loved the child completely no matter what, but to have a little girl; my dreams had come true.

I remember taking her to Bloomingdales. I was buying shoes and she was sitting up there in her pram taking it all in. She was about five months old. As I was paying for the shoes the sales woman said:

"She is just like a doll: like a china doll."

She was beautiful. And, she still is. I marvel at how beautiful she is every morning when she comes to kiss me before she leaves home at some god foresaken hour to get to work.

And tonight, I can virtually guarantee that she will have made for me the most creative of cards; the most beautiful sentiments in her words; full of thankfulness and love. She is a divine creature: beautiful on the inside and on the outside.

It does not matter how old a woman grows; part of her is still a little girl. She wants to be cuddled and kissed and loved and pampered just as if she were only a few months old.

Give your little girl a big kiss and cuddle today. Watch her light up. It's so worth the effort.

Aberrance

I'm a rather sensitive soul. I don't know if that is simply because I'm me, because I'm a woman, or because I'm a woman with a submissive nature. But, when you add the three together, let's just say that there are moments when I am more complex than usual. My star sign doesn't help. We girls born under that star tend to be pretty emotional and scattered at times. I'm willing to admit it.

So, every now and again, I lose the plot. I take umbrage at something said to me and my mind goes into a tale spin. Maybe, he doesn't like me any more. Maybe, he doesn't find me attractive. Maybe, I'm too much of a pain in a neck.

A clever 'gurl' would play her cards well at this stage. She'd be strategic, perhaps take her own counsel until she had settled herself down, or ask a few well placed questions to assure herself that he did still give her a pass mark.

But, I'm not a clever 'gurl' at such moments. No. No. I'm more like a dumdum bimbo hoo dusnt no wen 2 leav da thing alown. Im sorta norty and owt of cuntrol.

The thing to remember about we submissive gals at these times, is that we mean well. We really do! We just get a little...lost! We lose our way in the forest, sometimes, it's true. But, it's also true that we submissive types also always manage to find our way out fairly quickly. It's a very temporary thing, that abherrance of ours. We simply need a little bit of help from the man; that's all!

So, don't be mad wif us! We didn't meen no harm. We just need a bit more luv dan dose udder gurls. Shall we go owt an play now?!! Oh, no! Put dat cane down! You donna need dat! Ohhhhhhh...

Giving

When my son was just a young child, he was given a copy of 'The Giving Tree', but we didn't read it all that often. It tended to make us a bit sad. There was the tree, willing to give everything that he had to the boy, until finally he gave all of himself to the boy, spare a stump. The boy made a boat and sailed away. In his old age, the boy returned to the tree and the tree worried that he had nothing left to give. But, the boy was now an old man and the stump served him well as a seat and together again, the boy and the tree were at one. You see. It is a little sad, isn't it, in spite of the ending.

Perhaps the greatest thing about the human condition is that nearly all parents have a built in desire to put their children's needs first. Most parents are willing to put their children's needs ahead of their own and will go without a great deal if that means that their children have opportunity, good health or happiness. They didn't learn that in a rule book of parenting, and no one told them that this is the way it must be. It is ingrained inside of them. It is the natural response.

It is well understood by my regular readers that in a power relationship both the dominant and submissive give of themselves to the other, according to their roles, and that neither the submissive nor the dominant is more important than the other. Having said that, I wish to consider today the submissive woman (keep reminding yourselves, please, that I just don't know a single fact about the submissive man)in relation to the natural impulse to give of herself, much like the parent or the tree.

A submissive woman wants to please. She wishes to be at one with her man and she will do a great deal to achieve and maintain that happy state of affairs. Her dominant will ask of her that she obey him and she does so, regardless of whether or not she knows better. She accepts his leadership with confidence in his ability to lead but aware of the inevitable fact that he will err in his judgement, from time to time. Still, she follows, sometimes through the abyss, forgives him and follows him again. She does this, sometimes against her deepest instincts and inner voice that sings out to her that a mistake is in the making. Her instincts for recognizing a flawed plan are good but her instincts to submit to his will are even greater.

A submissive woman is a delicate creature: wanting to love and be loved with a burning intensity, willing to give of herself, time and time again. She is a good and noble woman. Like the tree, she is only unhappy if she has nothing left to give.

It is the role of the dominant man to direct the submissive woman and in so doing, he takes the best of her and revels in that gift. Wanting to give as she does, the possibility is always there that she give away herself: everything but 'the stump'. The wise dominant will ensure that she only gives away so much, for the submissive woman still requires her identity in the world; her branches and leaves. The submissive woman is complex. Sometimes, she needs the protection of the dominant; from her own desire to give too much.

What I learned

The saying goes that 'time flies when you are having fun' and I have had a great deal of fun with this blog. I have absolutely loved it and I continue to love it, every day. This post is a bit of a milepost for me. It is my 200th post and I haven't even come close to running out of things to say here. There is something about the number '200' that has me wanting to say something especially significant today. I've written a good many words here on the blog and perhaps today is a good day to reflect on what I have learned.

I've learned a great deal about me. I've learned that I have a deeply submissive nature and that I yearn for control. I've learned that in my most difficult moments, I don't want sympathy or being left to my own devices. I don't need space, or time, or distraction. I need my man. I need my man to come and physically control me. I need him to spank me, and very hard at that, and I need him to make use of my body any way that suits him. The moment I begin to feel that he is in control of me, I begin to feel my spirits lift and my little world gets put back on its axis. I need him more than I can possibly say, and I always have.

I've learned how to function best in my life. In order to deal with my husband's business ventures,the daily ups and downs, the ongoing phone calls, the high risk and the potential wins and losses, I need to withdraw from it. Whilst one ear is listening and supporting, the other ear is drowning out the message. I have found great comfort in a bit of a fantasy world where things always stay the same. I no longer worry about my inability to be comfortable in chaos and instead focus on all the other lovely things about life.

My husband understands me better now and he does his best to allow me that sense of stability and calm. He still talks to me about it all and I still listen but he gets a sense now of when I am overloaded with the detail. My job is to support him without letting that world infiltrate my little world. In my little world, the focus is on things more serene, more aesthetic and more fulfilling to the soul. Our union and our family operate at optimum level when this girl is very happy, light and breezy.

It is my inner life that guides and sustains me. I'm a girl whose spirit wants to be free to fly. I want to enjoy my life and react with and respond to that which is spiritual. I want and need to feel an inner peace and to be at one with the world. I do this by giving of myself. I give my love and my joyous and caring spirit to my husband, my children, my family and friends, and to you.

Wrongs are done in the world every day. People hurt and travesties of justice are done. This is the reality. I cannot sweep that away. I have no magic broom. But, what you will find here is something above and beyond the daily toil of life; burdens and responsibilities. What you will find here is the power of love, of positive spirit, of embracing your true selves and finding the magic in your day and in your life.

I live in a cage of my own choosing, and I love that cage so very, very much. In that cage, I am free to let my spirits soar. I don't ever want to leave. This is what I learned.

Complexity

Having a blog is a tremendous opportunity. First and foremost for me was the opportunity to express my thoughts and also to think through my thoughts. A lovely by-product of that endeavour was to meet new people and to have them leave comments about what they read. I have never minded a challenging comment. For me, it is all ‘part and parcel’ of sifting through thoughts that rummage about in my head and getting them to a point where there is clarity.

If I said that I didn’t give some consideration to whom would be reading, I would be lying. Whilst a blog such as this is anonymous, my husband reads here and so too do a few special friends who know my real identity. I am not ashamed of my little blog, and if people discovered my true identity it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But, it would, no doubt, mean that my writing would be tempered by that fact.

Even now, I write carefully. I always write the truth but I admit that I do so with the knowledge that the blog has the potential to hurt the very special people in my life who read here. I was taught a long time ago that what goes down on paper is potentially harmful and I try not to allow my emotions of the day to colour my writings. I try very hard to be rational and reasonable, and not too emotive in my writings.

A few people whose advice I listen to with care have reminded me along the way that nothing is more interesting than an honest tale and that for writing to be good, an author must give of herself. I think I have given the reader here a fair amount of myself. I’ve held things back, I admit, but I’m learning, bit by bit, to write from the deepest place of me. I’m a complex person. I know that.

The truth is that I wish with all my heart that I had a situation in my life where I could feel a consistent level of control from my husband. Janus asked me, right back when we first started emailing, whether I wanted a more “intense” submission. I said I did, not knowing what that really meant. I know now that I don’t want a more harsh submission but I do want a more consistent experience. Whilst my husband is more than capable of being the dominant of my dreams, his business life interferes with this happy outcome. I have needed to feel his control in a more forceful way (read: a caning) for weeks now.

He loves me and understands me but is so devoted to his financial cause (and rightly so) that right now one day leads to the next without this submissive girl feeling the control that would elevate her to a higher realm of living. Success in the venture would mean a more stable financial situation and that would be dreamy. What would be particularly significant to this girl is that her man may then have the time to consider her needs a little more consistently. The man can make me so darn happy, for free.

Win:win

In business, it seems some men will stoop as low as they must in order to get what they want; and that is usually money. I’ve understood that for a long time and I’ve never had stars in my eyes as to what to expect of people in such circumstances. Yet, even I am still dumbfounded at the lengths to which some people will go. Ethics and morality don’t come into it. ‘Kill or be killed’ is the premise of many people these days. I don’t like it, but I acknowledge that it happens; a lot.

The power exchange relationship is nothing like this; thank goodness. It is not possible for the relationship to be successful if the outcome is that one person has won and one person has lost. In order for the relationship to thrive and survive, it must be a ‘win:win’ situation. Both persons must be satisfied with the outcomes. Both persons must be looking out for the other according to their roles and both persons must be happy about the relationship. If that is not the case, adjustments must be made. A submissive has nothing to gain from an unhappy dominant and a dominant will be unhappy if his submissive is not in her happy place.

It is the role of the dominant to push the submissive’s edges and if all is well, she will find the challenges uplifting and quite thrilling. Sometimes, the submissive is not in the least comfortable with having her edges pushed and if that is the case, her discomfort will become obvious to the dominant: anxiety will be obvious, in spite of her best efforts to keep this to herself and appear cheery. She will, most likely, continue to try to comply with his wishes, but her distress will remain just below the surface.

The wise dominant knows that changes must be made. He will ask himself if he is doing his best for his submissive; should adjustments be made; should he pull back a little and circle back to the issue later? There is no requirement to reach mile posts by a designated time and the wise dom can adjust his agenda to allow for issues along the way. Adjustments, for a good dom, are part and parcel of who he is and what he does. Rigidity is the road that leads to the abyss.

The dominant has the power at his disposal to do what he wants, but if he does what he wants without thought to how it is affecting his submissive, his power will evaporate. It is no fun at all (or it should not be) to lead those that are unhappy with your leadership.

In a power relationship, two people must be happy, satisfied and at peace. There cannot be a winner and loser. A power exchange operates on the highest morality and ethical base. Isn’t that grand?

Her Purpose

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She wasn’t quite like the other girls that she knew. Her needs and desires were a bit different. The girl was married to a man who was very busy. He had been working on a project for many months now, night and day. He worked through their holiday, on weekends, and sometimes, all through the night.

The girl didn’t want to bother the man. She understood that the projects were important to him and to her and their family, and she did her best to do all the other work in their lives and to keep herself occupied and entertained without bothering him. She did, however, get rather lonely without the attention of the man, since she had a strong need for his attentions, in various ways. As well, she tended to react badly to lots of anxiety in her life. The deals that the man put together created lots of anxiety since they were very complex. This made it rather hard on the girl at times but fortunately she was a cheery sort of girl and she looked on the bright side of life, most of the time.

The man had been working non-stop for weeks on his deal. One day, he came home late in the evening full of information about what had happened that day; the unco-operative and difficult people and all his troubles. The girl began to listen to the man as usual, but as she listened she found that her head was throbbing, her back ached and she was deep in the throes of a panic attack. She was simply unable to listen to the man any more at that time. She told the man that she was sorry but that she needed to be alone for a while. The man went to his study to do more work. He was upset; full of worries and upset about his girl, too.

That same evening, the girl briefly chatted with her mentor on the Internet. She told him that tonight was not a good night to chat as she had a bad headache and she was going to bed. He was sorry about that and he asked the girl why she thought she had a bad headache. She told her mentor about her anxiety and how she was not able to cope.

Her mentor told her that there was a solution to the problem. It was really very easy to solve. The girl was very curious now and she asked him to explain about the solution to her problem that was so easy. The mentor told her that it was her job to distract her man and provide him with some relief from the stress. She should get underneath her owner’s desk and sit quietly and offer her mouth cunt to be used. She explained that her man was very busy. He might now want her to do that. The mentor assured her that he would not reject her. She smiled, and agreed to try.

The girl quietly opened the door of her owner’s study and said that she was sorry for not listening to her owner’s worries. She was a bit overloaded with all the details of the project and all the potential scenarios. The man assured her that he was doing his best and that he had a good plan. He could not guarantee anything but he was close to resolution and would the girl please be patient with him.

She came in front of the man sitting at his desk and bent over and they hugged very tight. She told him what her mentor had suggested she do and she asked if he would like to use her in that way or any other way he chose. The man laughed. The girl smiled. And, the man thanked the girl for such a lovely offer but that right now he had a lot of work to do and calls to make. However, he was very grateful to her for being such a good, submissive girl (in fact, he used her other name; the name of the bimbo that she truly was) and that when he came to bed a bit later he would make very good use of her.

The man and the girl were very happy again. The girl understood that it was her role to ease the pressure of the man. Miraculously, when she did that, the pressure she felt was released, too. The girl only wanted to feel a strong connection to the man and once the reconnection had taken place, she felt a whole girl again. She did not want control. She was not capable of control. She wanted to feel his control.

She was a girl with a strong and loyal owner. Once she felt like the owned girl that she was, she felt healed. Her bad head ache began to disappear. She felt lucky, too, to have such a wise and able mentor to help her in her hour of need. He was helping her to understand that she was an owned girl and how an owned girl behaves. He was helping her to understand her purpose. She was “a pretti, slutti, preshus bimbo dollie”. She understood. He was exactly right.

© Vesta
October2009

Proud to be a pervert

If it were possible to draw a line between what has happened on my blog and what will happen, then I would do it today. I’ve talked about where I have been and why I went there; what happened along the way; the good and the not so good. I think readers have a fairly good idea of what I stand for: finding the connection between people, loving one another well, embracing our true nature and finding the fun in life.

But, there is more to the story than that and truth to tell, I am proud to say that I am a pervert. I’m learning a lot about that ‘inner slut’ that has always lived inside me (and maybe all girls?) and right now (and forever, I hope), she is out of the box and having a blast. She didn’t see the sunlight much for a few years there but trust me when I say that she is ‘good to go’. So, from now on, that inner slut is going to have rather a lot to say. I do hope that you don’t mind.

Acceptance

When I was a little girl, my parents were always busy. They had the kind of lives where every moment could be filled with endeavour. I was a child who required little care from her parents. I did my school work conscientiously and when my mother enrolled me into dance classes or bought a musical instrument, I did those activities conscientiously, too. I enjoyed reading. I had a core group of good friends. I took care of myself. My aunt once said to me that I had brought myself up, but I never repeated that to my mother, because her feelings would have been hurt.

Somewhere in all of that, I developed the notion that the worst thing that could possibly happen to me would be that I would become a burden to someone. I didn’t want to be “needy” and I didn’t want to take up people’s time. I needed to be sure that people really did want to be with me or include me to feel comfortable. I would never have dreamed of inviting myself somewhere or assuming that I was welcome in a group of people. I was the opposite of ‘pushy’. In fact, I am still just like that.

My husband, who has also been extremely absorbed in his working life, has needed a lot of time to himself, and I nearly always manage to keep myself occupied in some way or other whereby I am not a burden to him. I understand the need, mostly, because I need time to myself, too. I enjoy people and doing things with them, but after that, I’m ready for home; for some time alone. There is a part of myself that I can’t always share; though certainly more here on the blog than almost any other situation.

At times, the responsibilities of my life have been too much. My husband became particularly unavailable to me through work and study pressures at the same time as I had three children in primary school and a new born baby. My mother is a wonderful woman but she just didn’t see it as her role to involve herself in my life, and there were times when I felt completely overwhelmed on my own; so tired and so overcome with a huge workload that I would walk into the laundry and have visions of climbing Mt. Everest. I sometimes felt I was being asked to do something that I couldn’t do. Still, I didn’t ask for help. I knew it was not forthcoming and I didn’t bother to upset anybody or myself for that matter, by asking for what I could not have. I just put one foot in front of the other and got on with it.

I became rather depressed for a time, although nobody knew it, except my husband. Unused to me not being cheery, he called an organisation for help once but found them to be useless, even hostile towards him, and in any case, my depression lifted of its own accord. My most natural inclination is to be happy and to enjoy life, and quite honestly, I think I just tired of the depression.

As time wore on, and with difficulties in our lives leading to much more stress than I had encountered so far, I turned my head to managing that stress by myself too, as best as I possibly could. I read and discovered thought patterns that helped me to see a path through to a place where I could cope. Those thought patterns that I read about and studied cleared my mind to allow me to express those thoughts of wanting to be controlled; to be spanked. Wanting to be controlled had been with me from the time I could verbalise thought, but it would take this long for those thoughts to be verbalized. To that end, there was great value in the hard times, I think.

As our marriage evolved into a more formal power exchange relationship, my husband became more involved in my life and that was sheer bliss for me. It softened me towards him and it softened him towards me. I had what I always really wanted but was afraid to ask. I had someone’s time and attention.

Fast forward now, to the present day...

For the past week I’ve had some thoughts occupying my mind, and I’ve been silently mulling them over. I’ve been trying to make sense of a few statements that had been made previously about me and about submissive women generally. It seemed to me, via those statements, that perhaps dominant men may think of a submissive girl as a burden. Sure, they didn’t say that out loud in so many words and they even refuted it as out of hand, but in my mind there was now a general notion that submissive women may be considered hard work. They tended to lack some self-discipline. They tended to have voracious appetites. If a dom didn’t watch out for girls (like me) they could suck up all the dom’s time. The best thing to do was to keep them very busy with tasks so that the dom could get on with his own endeavours. At the same time as the dom was saying “You are not a burden” he was, in code, saying that a submissive girl (like me) was quite the responsibility.

Can you imagine what such statements did to me? How I felt? I loathe the very possibility that I could be a burden to anyone, let alone a dominant man, whether he is my husband, my mentor or my friend. And, I was particularly bothered by the notion that I lacked some self-discipline; that I needed to be managed; that I could “suck up” time; that I didn’t always do what was prescribed.

Eventually, a girl’s thoughts and worries will surface in the right environment and I found myself asking my friend who is counselling me, whether a dominant man, an owner of a submissive girl, gets “sick and tired” of the lack of self-discipline. “Not at all,” he responded. He explained that he understands that girls like me require a certain amount of direction. It was assumed that was the case. Of course, he expected that the girl would come to see certain tasks as natural and that he would no longer need to ask about them, since the girl took care of them on her own without supervision, eventually. But, that said, certain girls like me needed to be handled in a certain way on a regular basis and that was that. “Well, what about punishment, then? Did girls like me need to be punished?” My friend explained to me that he believed girls like me needed to be corrected, certainly, but punishment was not required.

I started to feel much, much better. I was certainly under no illusion that I now had some sort of guarantee that I wasn’t going to get told off for times when I lacked self-discipline. And, there was virtual certainty that I was going to be directed to do things I should “right now” if I hadn’t done them already. ‘Correction’ was assumed and further expectations were, I always knew, part of the deal. But, I was definitely not a burden. I was not a failure. I was accepted for who I was; my virtues and my faults. I was a submissive girl with lots to learn and much improvement to make. But, I was acceptable; perhaps even applauded for who I truly am. I had never felt more comfortable in my own skin as I did at that moment. Accepted for whom we are; I think it is what we all crave.

Love our lurkers day!

Fun is taken very seriously on this blog. So I am delighted to write to you all on 'Love Our Lurkers Day' to encourage you to come out from under the blanket and say 'hello' to me and the other commenters. I'd really love to hear from you. I am very embracing and I'll make you very welcome.

Bonnie over at My Bottom Smarts kindly invited me to participate this year in her 4th 'Love our Lurkers Day' and I am delighted to be part of such an event.

So, how about it? Want to put some spice into your life? Want to make some new friends?

Then, what are you waiting for? Leave me a comment and let's get the ball rolling.

Come on...come on...it's going to be fun!

More or less

The notion of a dress code has been quite irresistible to me for a long time. This is in line with my strong desire to live my entire life with more order and less clutter. I'm a girl who enjoys putting out the rubbish. Yes, it's that bad. I like to bring things in my life down to the simplest level. I think you can credit having multiple children for that, in part. I've lived with multiple balls, cricket bats, lacrosse sticks, and musical instruments; toys by the zillion and countless wrappers stuck in the couch for countless years. But, truth be told, I remember even as a very young child, wanting order and a clean environment. It is just my very strong preference.

It was no issue to me when I went to work for a man who wanted not only order in his life, but to be surrounded only by beautiful things. I enjoyed creating and maintaining that environment and learning from him. Suddenly, I was noticing the beauty of the order in the John Brack's painting in his office that he so admired, or of the Christmas lillies that I bought every Monday morning and placed into his handsome glass vase, to sit in front of the mirror and brighten the day of both of us. I became aware of the importance of high quality writing paper, or of having one good pen with which to write. He never wanted much of anything but what he wanted had to be first rate. The philosophy suited me well.

Of course, children aren't like that, and whilst you can do your best to instil those thoughts in them, children have their own ideas. Even if I had managed to convince them all that quality should be more important than quantity, with lots of children, the number of items expands before your very eyes. The last year has been about sorting those items and giving them away to the right people. My youngest son, who almost believes that every object has feelings, has accepted that the time has come to do this, so long as he can be sure that all the toys and so on are going to the right homes.

Although it has taken far too long, I now have a dress code. I've given away a lot of clothes and the Red Cross is happy about that. I am happy, too. I look at my wardrobe these days and feel wonderful. I know where things are, what goes with what and I don't feel bad that I don't have more choice at all. I like the fact that what is left are items of clothing that I like, that work on my body, and that help me to feel feminine. No, not all the pants have gone but there aren't too many of them left, either.

One of the little details left to be sorted out is what happens when I would like to make a clothing purchase. I'm not sure but I suspect that something may have to go before something else comes in. I've already noticed that when I look in a store, or a magazine, I do so with purpose. I have in my mind only what I might need to fill a gap in my wardrobe. I only consider what would make me feel more feminine. I think very carefully if I want it so badly that I am prepared to give something else up in my wardrobe. Rather than feeling limited about that, I find it very liberating.

Reacting this way to the new limits on my life, to my dress code, I read the following statement by a psychologist I respect with interest:

"Mine may be the last generation (she's about my age) to be raised with the notion that frugality is a virtue. Like most of my contemporaries, I have taken to conspicuous consumption..."

She also writes, "There are few(er) convincing reasons why I still have tiny clothes from my skinny, young-woman years in London. Or so many clothes that are newish but startlingly similar. How many pairs of plain black trousers...does any woman need?"

How many indeed?

I admit I am feeling (sickeningly?) virtuous at the moment. I am loving the new me; that girl who wouldn't dream of buying a new pair of sandals for summer, for example, before she agreed to off load a current pair she owns. I am finding pleasure in embracing the notion of acting with purpose, with intention in my actions. As my limits and boundaries narrow and my containment increases, I feel that I am responding well. I feel safer, stronger; more stable and secure.

The saucemeister suggested to me that there is an "inherent frugality in D/s relationships, an economy of many things;... more things are intentional, purposeful..." And, I think that is right. A D/s relationship can be a very noble thing. Mentoring a submissively minded girl can be a very noble thing. Acting with purpose; restricting one's consumption, being sure of one's intention are noble pursuits.

As I become less, I become more.

Making sauce

We talk regularly and I rely on him for sage advice; for his words of wisdom. When I tell him that he just tells me to "stop it". But, it is true. He is full of wise and supportive thoughts and his friendship means a lot to me.

We were chatting recently in the most vanilla of ways. I told him that I was about to make a bolognaise sauce. He knows, probably too well, that I've reached an age when making meals for the family can become tedious; when all the responsibilities of the family can irk me some days.

"So, you are off to make sauce? I surely do love a sauce wench."

I immediately smiled. In his few words he had turned an everyday task into an erotic pleasure. No longer a task undertaken before, countless times, it was a task I imagined a man had given to his submissive.

It was a task the girl would undertake according to his specifications and specifically for his satisfaction. She would undertake it with pleasure and with hopes of his praise in her accomplishments.

A clever dom is gold. With a few well chosen words, he has lifted her day. In response, she is grateful for his presence in her life and the opportunity to cook the sauce for him.

And, thus the circle turns; the dom and the submissive believing with all their hearts that they could not live nearly so well without the other.

The sauce was delectable and devoured with gusto; as was the dish who prepared it.

On being strict

I have noticed myself using the word "strict" now and then. I called one post a few months ago, 'Strict Masters' and lately I told my counselling friend that he was "strict". He seemed to be a bit taken aback by that. Or, he enjoyed being called strict: one or the other.

"How am I strict?" he wanted to know.

As usual, I needed to think carefully and provide a precise answer. You know these dominant types! A girl has to back up what she says. One statement only leads to the next. Love that!

So this evening, for a bit of fun (what can I say!?) I looked up the definition of 'strict'.

Precise; exact: a strict definition.
Complete; absolute: strict loyalty.
Kept within narrowly specific limits: a strict application of a law.
Rigorous in the imposition of discipline: a strict parent.
Exacting in enforcement, observance, or requirement: strict standards.
Conforming completely to established rule, principle, or condition: a strict vegetarian.
Botany. Stiff, narrow, and upright.

Well, look at that! Ring any bells for anyone? Is there a word more apropos D/s?

I confess I got a giggle out of the botany definition - stiff, narrow and upright. Any doms out there who can identity with being stiff, narrow and upright?

Orgasm control

It is well understood, and I think widely accepted, that the dom has the right to control the submissive's orgasms. It was refreshing, therefore, to recently read a dom's words wherein he acknowledged that orgasm control didn't work for all girls. Some girls found it too difficult to be denied an orgasm.

This makes a lot of sense to me. We aren't all the same and we don't all want the same things. For some girls, the notion of controlling her orgasms is blissfully erotic. Sure, it is a kind of torture, but it is an erotic sort of torture and thus, a turn on. But, not every submissive girl sees it that way and I'm delighted to read of a dominant who acknowledges that in print.

When I was first introduced to the notion that my orgasms were no longer my own, that I required his permission, I was aroused on one level and angry on another. I'd discovered the pleasures of my own body at a particularly early age and now, decades later, I was being asked to maintain a 'hands off' policy. I was aroused. Sure. But, I was also angry. Who was the twit who invented that one?

Mistakes occurred. Naturally. As if I was going to take to this like a duck to water! I ask you; do pigs fly?! Finally, the pronouncement was made. Unless I ceded to the demand, I'd be punished in a way I wouldn't forget: my hands (for weren't they the instrument of evil in this case?) would be strapped. What an abhorrent and devilishly outlandish threat!! I was even more angry now and profoundly, hopelessly turned on.

I did my best to do as told. Truly. I tried hard. But, it was, after all, inevitable that I would fail. (Perhaps, that was the idea.) Whilst the threat was really, truly delicious on one level of my brain, I never really thought that the day would ever come when my hands would be strapped. My dominant is the man who loves the hell out of me. He wasn't going to do that.

So, when he announced one evening that, unfortunately, he had no alternative but to punish me, I was totally shocked. I truly never, ever expected this to happen. When he told me to lean over the bed and hold out my hand, palm up, I could barely believe what I was listening to. I complied but was still pretty sure that this was a bluff.

My head was down. I wasn't looking. (I never look at injections or what the dentist has in his hand, either.) Suddenly, I felt an awful stinging across my palm. My God! The man had strapped my hand! And, then he did it again. And, again!

"Change hands, please."

I did so, in shock. And, down came the blasted strap (folded up belt) again. What sort of travesty of justice was this!?

"Are you going to obey this rule? Do you want this to happen again?"

"No, Sir."

"Let this be a lesson to you."

I was full of righteous indignation! And, profoundly turned on. I was hot!! I was more desperate for an orgasm now than ever!

Can I explain this phenomenon? Certainly not. Can I explain why I want both control over my orgasms and no control over my orgasms? Of course I can't, any more than I can explain why I am a submissive girl in need of a strict dom. Can anybody?

Pamela's first scene - part 3

She walked into the room but just far enough to be inside rather outside the room. The man, however, made himself comfortable on one of the expensive looking black leather couches in the middle of the large room. He looked over at her.

“Don’t be shy now. Come here to me.”

Pamela moved slowly across the room and stood in front of this intense and forbidding man. She folded her arms in front of her in a defensive, rebellious stance but the man scowled at her in such a disapproving way that she felt compelled to unfold them again, immediately. She placed her hands behind her back, one wrist above the other. She was torn between how she should react. He was a total stranger to her and it was not her style to submit to just any man. Her owner was her dominant; not this man, who had so far failed to even provide her with his name. When her owner asked her to do something, she did it, but to all other people, she was Pamela; proud, confident, capable; not some airhead who could be bossed about.

“Why are you here, Pamela?”

“My owner left me instructions that I would be sent for and the driver brought me here; to you.”

“So, you understand that you are here according to your owner’s wishes.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Do you obey your owner?”

She felt a little indignant to even be asked such a question.

“Yes, I always obey him.”

“What instructions did he give you about me?”

“I was to obey you.”

He looked at her intensely and smiled. She could tell he was enjoying himself. She found him a most attractive man. He oozed masculinity and she found herself studying his hands that were resting on his thighs. He had the most enormous hands for such an average height, lean man, and the thickest of fingers. Perhaps, he worked outside usually, to have such large hands. Pamela enjoyed imagining what they could do. She was beginning to float into that erotic little world of hers. She willed herself to keep her wits about her.

“Take off your dress.”

“My dress?”

“Take it off.”

She studied his face, trying to get some clue there as to whether he really meant it. He just stared back at her. He waited, patiently; said nothing more.

She moved her hands up to the back of her neck and her beautiful, long French manicured nails found the top of her zip. She undid the zip as far as she could and then she brought her hands down further to undo the zip the rest of the way. She stepped out of the dress and held it in her right hand.

“Good bimbo. Give it to me.”

Reluctantly, Pamela handed her dress to the stranger, relieving herself of the only item that stood between her and her nudity. Now, all that she had left was a pair of heels, unless one counted the black plug in her ass cunt and the vaginal balls in her pussy cunt. Suddenly, she was intensely aware of them; that two of her three cunts were filled.

She expected the man to throw the dress over the vacant couch perhaps, but he took the dress to a cupboard and carefully hung it. Still standing in front of the cupboard door, he brought out from the cupboard, a hessian bag. Pamela watched as he moved over to a steel pole. She hadn’t noticed it before but now she could see that it went from floor to ceiling. She imagined a fire station and that the pole looked rather like the kind of pole a fireman might slide down. Did they really still do that, she wondered, or had the idea come to her from some children’s book, long ago?

He undid the bag and brought out from it copious amounts of rope. He began to handle the rope and to wind it around his arm as ranchers tend to do; at least, the ones in the movies she had seen. Perhaps, he was checking to see what lengths he had; long, short, medium lengths.

Satisfied now, he placed some ropes on the floor near to him. He was intent on his task and ignored her entirely as she looked on; mystified, horrified. What did this man intend and why was her owner wanting her there with this man? Pamela’s emotions were moving about all over the place: one moment confused, one moment excited, one moment agitated.

“Come here, l’il bimbo.”

“No! I’m not going to allow you to tie me up! You must be joking.”

The man strode towards her and in one movement held both of her hands in his huge paw of a hand. Pamela was powerless against him. With her hands pinned, she had little opportunity to move out of his way and when he pulled back with his right arm, his hand struck the target of her bottom with full force. As he wacked her several times, first one cheek and then the other, several times over, she howled in protest. His hand stung her skin like no paddle or piece of leather could. Her bottom was on fire.

“Are you going to behave?”

“Yes. Yes. Paaaaleeeeezze!’

“Are you sure, pammie, or do I have to keep spanking your bottom?”

“I’ll behave. I’ll behave!!”

“I thought you might.”

He held her left hand in his right hand but this time only to accompany her over to the pole. She was co-operative.

“Good bimbo. On your knees.”

Pamela knelt down.

“No. Not like that. One leg on either side of the pole.”

Pamela adjusted her position so that she was on her knees with one leg back behind the left side of the pole and one leg back behind the right.

“Good.”

She could feel the man holding her ankles now, and she soon realized that he was tying plenty of rope around them. He was clearly some sort of expert with rope, she figured, and she found herself impressed at how able he was. His movements were sure and competent and she began to drift smoothly into that ‘handled’ frame of mind of hers. She was being tended and she was enjoying herself, regardless of why the man might be tying her to a pole.

For a moment, she was frightened again, but now he was humming as he worked. He seemed rather a lovely sort of man. She could smell him as he worked; that lingering scent of vanilla soap and she could not deny that she was attracted to him. Perhaps he was a friend of her owner, she wondered.

Now, the man came around in front of her and looked down at her breasts.

“Such beautiful tits, pammi! Your owner is a lucky man!”

She said nothing but she quietly enjoyed the compliment. Her nipples were erect and it was clear she was aroused. It pleased her to think that he enjoyed the sight of her.

The man took both Pamela’s hands and placed them together and with his own hands he gestured to her how he wanted her to hold them. She did as he demonstrated and she watched, intrigued, as he wound the rope around her wrists many times before making a most skilled and impressive knot.

Finally, the man came right up to her and when he did she was aware that it was her mouth cunt that was at the same height now as the cock bulging in his pants. She gasped. Is this what he intended to do? Is this why her two other cunts had been filled?

Before she had an opportunity to dwell on the thought she felt the man take something from his pocket and a moment later she felt a penis gag fill up her mouth. He was securing it with a lock at the back of her head. It was firmly in place. She looked up at him pathetically.

“Just relax, dum dum. Suck away. You just let your silli dum dum mind drift away there.”

In spite of herself, Pamela found great comfort in the penis gag as she sucked away on it as a baby might suck on her dummy. She was entering that world of comfort that occurred when all her holes were filled; when her body was being well used. For a moment or two she closed her eyes and it was at this moment that the man covered her eyes with a blind fold. She dropped into an unknown space of erotic pleasure and found herself tumbling, tumbling, tumbling down.

She began to wonder if the man was still even there. She may have heard a door open; perhaps close. She had no real idea. Was she alone? What was to happen to her? She felt saliva begin to drip from her mouth and onto her chin. Her pussy cunt was dripping, too. She could feel moisture on the inside of her thigh. She had been reduced to the status of a fucktoy and she loved it.

She heard a sound; a door knob turning. Her body was in high alert. The door creaked. Oh my god...

(to be continued)

© Vesta 2009

Listening

My husband has known me since I was a young girl, fresh out of school and I've known him since he was a young man. We've been witnesses to all the ups and downs of our adult lives. We have accomplished much together but nothing is more important than our children. My husband was present at the births of all the children, proud as punch, and he has been our rock ever since. There have been moments when I lost perspective and he was always there to tell me, in no uncertain terms, what the real deal was. He has a 'no nonsense' approach to my concerns and worries at times; pulling me back to the centre and assuring me that everything will be just fine in the end.

In fact, as his partner in life, I've needed to provide him with similar support. There have been times when he has been unable to see the road ahead clearly and I've needed to help him find focus. He's relied on me for decades as his 'sounding board' and I listen quietly whilst he tells me about this conversation or that; what someone didn't do right, or what his strategy is about this and that. It's imperative, I've found, to remain calm, to listen attentively and for any suggestions made to be done discreetly. My role is not to dissect the strategy and suggest a better one. You must trust me when I say that such an approach does not work. What he needs is someone on whom he can rely and trust to simply listen to him.

Last night, we met for dinner at a local restaurant to celebrate the end of the week. The end of my week had begun a little earlier than his and I'd enjoyed a glass of wine on the couch whilst watching an hilarious movie. I was very relaxed. At the restaurant, we both ordered a glass of wine, and with business matters on his mind, he began to tell me about what so and so had said and how that wasn't right and what he needed to say to another so and so about that, and so on. I confess I glossed over. I'd heard so much of this lately, and all through our little holiday. I just wanted to relax.

"You've glossed over. You're not interested. Who can I talk to about this, if I can't talk to you?"

He was right, of course but I'd made him cross and he continues to be cross with me this morning as he takes a conference call that will last most of the morning. My task, after the call, will be to assure him that I am interested, that I do support him, and that I want to be the one he comes to.

Getting it right as a wife/life partner is often harder, I find, than getting it right as a submissive girl. A submissive girl knows what her role is, but a wife sometimes has one glass of red wine too many and puts her foot in her mouth.

I'm off to look for that submissive hat of mine and get myself back in the good books...

Just doing it, again

Last night, as I was walking past, nearby to where my son was on the rowing machine doing an ergo, I heard him panting. He'd been really pushing it and he was quietly gasping for breath. It wasn't too shabby given that he had put in a long, gruelling day at work. But then, I heard the machine come to life again, and he was off for another round. Of course, that is how he was trained to do it, when he was racing; when the coach required his peak level of fitness. Nowadays, there is no coach in his life. No, he was pushing himself. I was quietly impressed. He is a man on a mission. He knows what he wants.

This morning, with the house quiet, I thought to do an ergo myself. I've been using his rowing machine for a couple of months now, fairly regularly, but I haven't managed to keep on it for more than ten...eleven, tops...minutes at a time. I thought about my son and I thought about my daughter. She's a quiet achiever that one and she'd risen to be in the top rowing squad at school and performed outstandingly well. Not a natural athlete, her talents being in the creative and performing arts, if she could do it, why couldn't I? What excuse did I have to be a wimp.

So, this morning, I searched out my I-Pod and turned it on and put the ear phones in my ears. I was going to do better today! Music is a wonderful, motivating thing and as I passed the ten minute mark, I realized that I had plenty in the tank. I was not even close to finished. The minutes passed...12, 13, 14, 15, and I could see that 20 minutes on the same setting as my son (high!) was definitely achievable. I felt terrific! I felt so proud of myself. I was strong. I was woman. I was doing this!

I'm incredibly lucky in my life nowadays. I really am. Not only have I a wonderful husband who has embraced all the goals I have set for myself but I also have a wonderful friend who has been willing to mentor me. A very big part of that mentoring has been about me wanting the goals for myself. I repeat: me wanting the goals for myself. He knows down to his bones that it is no use the dom insisting on goals that won't work for the girl; that won't make the girl happy. The dom/top, and the girl are in this together and the girl has to find the motivation within herself to embrace the changes. She has to really want it. He is there beside her, but she has to desire change for herself, too.

The first few weeks of getting fit were not fun. I was perpetually tired and challenged. Even worse, with my body passing through a significant life change, it was resisting my efforts. Over several weeks though, I found I was winning the war against my body's desire to put on weight. It was happening.

Now, I feel that the changes I have made are set in stone. I may still have the odd naughty treat, but my choices of food and my daily regimen of exercise are altered for good. I am well on my way to achieving my weight and fitness goals.

Having someone to support/cajole/growl at us along the way is important to we kinky girls, but finding the motivation within ourselves, I have learned, is an essential component. Just do it. No excuses. No complaints. You'll be glad you did.

Pamela's first scene - part 2

The driver who her owner had sent for her was polite but distant. Once he had ensconced her satisfactorily into the rear of the car he said nothing else to her. Pamela did not mind this at all. She sat quietly and for a time looked out the window watching the world go by. Several minutes later however, she realized that she had not been paying attention and although she was quite familiar with the city, she had no idea where she was. Her driver seemed to have taken her on a circuitous route and her poor sense of direction had her totally flummoxed as to where in the city she could be. She was only aware that she was now finally in a part of town she had not been before.

Unexpectedly, the driver parked the car outside of what appeared to be a converted warehouse. Many well heeled couples in the city had chosen to buy warehouses with plenty of space and convert them into comfortable, highly liveable apartments, and Pamela assumed that this was one of them. Without turning off the engine, the driver turned around and said to her,

“We are here, ma’am. The fare has been paid for already. You just need to go up those stairs there and ring the buzzer for apartment 8. They are expecting you.”

She listened to the driver and she heard him all right, but she remained sitting there, staring at him, as if now that she had got there, she had second thoughts. The driver seemed to understand that she was in two minds.

“It will be all right ma’am. Off you go now.”

The driver’s encouragement was what she needed and she pulled herself out of her immobile state.

“Oh yes, of course! I’m sorry. I was miles away. Thank you.”

She took out from her purse a $10 bill and handed it to the driver. She suspected that the charge already included a tip but she did not feel right about leaving the car with the driver empty handed. It was her way to see that all the little details of life were attended to.

“Thank you, ma’am. You have a good day now.”

“Thank you, I hope so.”

Pamela closed the door of the car and the driver had turned the corner before she had made it onto the first step. She took her time to try to figure out where she was and take in the landscape, but she doubted she knew anyone in this neighbourhood and there was not a person anywhere that she could ask.

She made her way to the directory at the top of the stairs and immediately looked to see if there was a name she recognized, but in fact, there was no name at all against the slot for apartment 8. Recognizing that she had no alternative but to press the button and take her chances, she did so. The buzzer was much louder than she anticipated and it gave her a start. She felt a shot of fear and wondered what on earth she was doing here. There was no answer.

Pamela considered just walking away as fast as her legs would carry her, but she didn’t know what she would be walking to. She didn’t know where she was and she didn’t have a phone. She stood and thought, trying to clear her mind. There just didn’t seem any other way forward; any other thing to do. She rang the buzzer again, but this time she pressed harder and held the button longer.

“Yes!!!!”

“Oh! I’m sorry to disturb you.”

He sounded so angry and it put her in an apologetic stance.

“Who’s this??!!”

“Well...my name...my name is Pamela Thompson and I was told...

She heard a loud buzzer go now somewhere around the big wooden door. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Up you come!”

She tried the door and it was open. With a sense that she was making a big mistake, but then remembering that her owner had told her to trust him, she went through the door and climbed the two sets of stairs until she reached the second floor. There was an old style elevator but she had seen too many Alfred Hitchcock movies in her time to even consider getting into it.

She walked slowly up to the apartment with the small silver ‘8’ on the door and knocked softly, and then more loudly. She didn’t want the man to think she was lacking confidence or unsure of herself. She would have to bluff her way through this.

She heard a few heavy footsteps on the other side of the door before he opened the door to her. He was a man of medium height. He had dark hair and jet black eyes and he obviously hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. It gave him a rugged appearance as did the black corduroy pants and heavy work boots that he wore. His shirt was a pristine white which was rather a contradiction on this rather primal looking man. Apart from the white shirt, he could have walked right out off a ranch somewhere in the mid West.

He said nothing but he took a good look at her. He took her in from the top of her head to the heel of her shoe and back again. Finally, he met her eyes and held her gaze.

“Well, look what we have here! If it isn’t the little bimbo!”

Pamela was immediately embarrassed and a little concerned. Would she ever have admitted that her breathing was shallow and her mind (and body) aroused? Hardly. He was quite intimidating to her and despite her resolve to hold his stare; her eyes looked down at the floor in front of her. There was nothing she could do about that.

“In you come, little one, but you mind your manners with me. You are to do exactly as you are told.”

She could feel her ire rising with what the stranger had said to her. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him at this moment.

“Excuse me, but...”

“Did you hear me, girl?”

She closed her mouth and said nothing more. She thought better of her outburst.

“Did you hear me, girl?”

“Yes!”

“Yes, who?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good bimbo! You may enter.”

He turned on his heel and walked into the room. Pamela had no alternative but to follow him.

© Vesta, 2009