In my last post I made mention of how we have a tendency to think of our lives in story form. After all, a year begins with a sense of hope as to how things will go, there is a middle to the year, but it is not until the year is over that we can assess how things have actually gone and whether the year (the story) was a success or otherwise.
I had in my mind a thought to share my kinky notebook with you in this post and in so doing, to explore all the ways I feel I have grown over the past year. It didn’t work out so well. There is so much detail in that notebook of mine and it was getting ridiculously complicated. I hope you can take me at my word that I have definitely made lots of progress with my submissive state and as well, how I function as a complete human being.
It seems more prudent to write here in my last post of 2010 what I have yet to fully grasp in terms of being a submissive woman. This gives me a focus going into 2011 so that hopefully sometime next year I can report my issue is fully licked.
The biggest issue for me is that I have trouble getting into trouble. I find it damaging to my sense of self as a “good girl”. If I am in trouble, says my complex mind, then I am not perfect and hence I must be bad (and a huge disappointment and deserving of banishment).
This is a long, ongoing saga. I remember Rich (the man who helped me accept my submissive nature a few years ago) saying to me after I had or hadn’t done something or other, that I was a bad girl. I remember how I felt and there was nothing at all erotic about it. I felt awful.
We explored my feelings and I remember telling him that my mother used the word “bad” and still does. “Bad dog!” she will say. I remember asking her not to refer to my oldest son in that way. “You’re a bad boy!” I never get upset with my mother but at the time he was a confused two year old child and his mother was sitting in a hospital with tubes coming out of her. I was upset that I couldn’t care for my son and baby and she was upset that I was ill. She defended herself and I just went into my shell. I have always hated the thought of calling someone “bad” and I didn’t want to ever feel that I was bad. Rich tended to use the word “naughty” after that.
It is the absolute truth that I always wanted to be a good child and I was thought of as a good child. I was the good girl at school and at home and if I had revolutionary thoughts or idea or plans, I kept them to myself and quietly went about achieving my goals in a non-demanding and non-confrontational way.
I loathe being in trouble with my husband and one of my incredibly big breakthroughs is that I am able to say very easily now that “I am sorry”. It was hard to accept the blame for things; to accept my share of wrongdoing; to acknowledge that my lack of control, for example, was responsible for the argument we had.
I’ve always been relatively quick to apologize if you allow me a few minutes, hours or at most a day, depending on the circumstances. I want very much to put an end to the unpleasantness. But, in the heat of the moment, that could be very hard for me to do. On that score, the progress is truly significant.
The issue that remains is that I find myself wanting to avoid unpleasantness altogether. It has seemed to me that if I could just be strong enough to self soothe I could withstand almost any circumstance without sharing it or asking for support or forgiveness (or whatever I needed to share). If I withheld information and purported to be perfectly all right then unpleasantness would be avoided. I wouldn’t be in trouble in any way and I would not have disappointed in any way. I would not be thought of or called “bad”.
Of course, there is a price to pay for such a stand. The connection between the top and bottom is weaker, there is a sense of being a fraud and there is some resentment too that I was allowed to get away with this in the first place. The thinking goes, ‘if he paid a bit more attention, it would be patently obvious that I am not as good as I state. Nobody is that good, for Pete’s sake. Nobody is so self sufficient, least of all a submissive such as me!’
I am encouraged to “let go”. I have said in the past, “but if I let go, if I just naturally say what is on my mind, or if I tell you everything, I’ll be in trouble.” (or words to that effect) The response was quite simply, “Then, be in trouble and take the correction. Dolls learn from correction, don’t they?!”
Dolls do learn from correction, it is true. Yet the issue remains that to be transparent is to reveal myself as the flawed person that I am. I’m not nearly as strong as I’d like to be either but the thinking goes, ‘at least I can learn to be strong and stand on my own two feet, whereas to be so vulnerable, so liable to being hurt and to being rejected and thought of as a disappointment is just too painful’.
The way I tried to reconcile this problem in my mind is to be very mindful of the way that I communicate and I have found this strategy goes a long way. If I want to tell my husband something, or ask for something, or if I want peace to reign but still want to voice an opinion, I do it with a great deal of tact, with diplomacy, at an appropriate time and completely aware that it must sound and seem polite to his ears. If he chides me it takes rather a long time for me to find the courage to try again to be honest with him about my feelings, my needs or thoughts.
Be assured, over the year my life and my relationships are vastly improved. I am very happy. But, I cannot deny that I do withhold certain thoughts and feelings out of a sense that this brings peace and stability. I continue to doubt the thinking that asks the submissive to reveal all to her dominant, to get in trouble, to accept the correction, learn and drive on. I accept it in theory. However, to be considered less than perfect and to risk the abandonment or derision of the dominant is something I continue to find very difficult to do. I know this is not a good thing and somehow rectifying this flawed thinking in my mind is a high priority goal for 2011.
2010 has been a very fruitful and happy year for me. I’m an incredibly lucky girl and I know it. I have a husband I adore and who adores me. I have wonderful friends who support me, inspire me and sustain me. I have a terrific family and I have the opportunity to grow, to learn and to write. Who could ask for more?
May 2011 be a very happy, successful and loving one for you all.Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Intuition
The vast majority of the readers of this web journal reside in the United States and Europe and hence I doubt many of you know of the death of Ruth Park a few weeks ago. Ruth is the author of 'The Harp in the South', well known to many Australians who read that book in their final year at school. She was a prolific writer and perhaps some readers are familiar with 'The Muddleheaded Wombat' series heard on ABC Radio. My husband certainly remembers listening to them.
In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.
I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.
Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:
"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."
Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.
Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.
But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.
On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?
In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.
I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.
Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:
"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."
Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.
Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.
But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.
On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Home
I had been going out with my boyfriend for some time when one day he informed me that the company would be sending him to the United States for an extended period of time. We talked it over and agreed that I would go with him as his girlfriend. We were too young to marry. This news was not met with glee by the family on any level but they accepted it.
One day, the General Manager at my place of work offered me a lift home and whilst he had me as a captive listener he told me that he did not approve. It was not at all right that a young girl accompany a man across the seas unless she were his bride. Far better, he said, that we should marry before we left.
Time has a way of twisting the truth in one's mind and I suppose other people commented on the situation as well, but it is that conversation that has always stayed in my mind. Perhaps my 'boyfriend' and I discussed it some more. I don't remember. However, some time after that, he proposed and we did marry before we left to start our lives together as newlyweds on the other side of the world.
It wasn't entirely blissful in that first year. He travelled a great deal around the United States with his job and I was commuting into New York City each work day with my job - a job that paid the bills rather than fulfilled me. The land was foreign to me. It took time for me to understand how that continent worked and I missed my homeland. I felt awkward asking for tomAto on my sandwich when I so wanted to say tomuto. I found the summer stifling hot and the humidity draining. I had no understanding why people lived on wretched looking and smelling coffee. And, why were so many advertisements about heartburn? Just how did this country work?
I no longer remember quite why I went home to Australia later that year but I remember that before my journey back to the United States, I suggested that my husband not bother to come to pick me up at the airport. It would be midnight and I could catch one of those limousine taxis back to our town. He agreed.
The plane got in and I still remember being very tired but grateful to have the long journey over. I remember feeling neither here or there. Australia was no longer my home and nor was the land where we had settled. I just remember feeling displaced and rather lonely. I began to think about finding my way to the limousine taxi area.
One thing you don't know about me is that I am rather useless in a crowd. It is often just one big blob of people to me and I have trouble seeing any one person in particular. Yet, when I looked into the crowd at this moment, I could see quite clearly that there was my husband, wearing the big brown sweater that I had knitted for him.
I think that even though the details of events get a bit hazy as we age, we do still tend to remember how we feel at any moment and at that moment I felt that I had come "home". Wherever he was, that was my home. And so it is to this day.
One day, the General Manager at my place of work offered me a lift home and whilst he had me as a captive listener he told me that he did not approve. It was not at all right that a young girl accompany a man across the seas unless she were his bride. Far better, he said, that we should marry before we left.
Time has a way of twisting the truth in one's mind and I suppose other people commented on the situation as well, but it is that conversation that has always stayed in my mind. Perhaps my 'boyfriend' and I discussed it some more. I don't remember. However, some time after that, he proposed and we did marry before we left to start our lives together as newlyweds on the other side of the world.
It wasn't entirely blissful in that first year. He travelled a great deal around the United States with his job and I was commuting into New York City each work day with my job - a job that paid the bills rather than fulfilled me. The land was foreign to me. It took time for me to understand how that continent worked and I missed my homeland. I felt awkward asking for tomAto on my sandwich when I so wanted to say tomuto. I found the summer stifling hot and the humidity draining. I had no understanding why people lived on wretched looking and smelling coffee. And, why were so many advertisements about heartburn? Just how did this country work?
I no longer remember quite why I went home to Australia later that year but I remember that before my journey back to the United States, I suggested that my husband not bother to come to pick me up at the airport. It would be midnight and I could catch one of those limousine taxis back to our town. He agreed.
The plane got in and I still remember being very tired but grateful to have the long journey over. I remember feeling neither here or there. Australia was no longer my home and nor was the land where we had settled. I just remember feeling displaced and rather lonely. I began to think about finding my way to the limousine taxi area.
One thing you don't know about me is that I am rather useless in a crowd. It is often just one big blob of people to me and I have trouble seeing any one person in particular. Yet, when I looked into the crowd at this moment, I could see quite clearly that there was my husband, wearing the big brown sweater that I had knitted for him.
I think that even though the details of events get a bit hazy as we age, we do still tend to remember how we feel at any moment and at that moment I felt that I had come "home". Wherever he was, that was my home. And so it is to this day.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Fear
I want something and I want it right now. I want to be asked a series of questions; badgered with a set of queries that lead me down a drainpipe with no way to ascend.
I want to be interrogated until I let something slip - some small detail that I had never intended to disclose, yet now have no choice but to reveal.
I want to feel the uncertainty and consternation of not knowing what he will say next.
I want the thrill of fear.
I want to experience the exhilaration of knowing that the next step is not mine.
I want to feel the control of the other and to be aware that I have no control at all.
I want to be reminded that I have no will of my own and that my only "choice" is to accept that I have no choice.
I want to dig deep into that dolli state of mind.
Fiendish folly; fearsome fright; fully fortified.
I want to be interrogated until I let something slip - some small detail that I had never intended to disclose, yet now have no choice but to reveal.
I want to feel the uncertainty and consternation of not knowing what he will say next.
I want the thrill of fear.
I want to experience the exhilaration of knowing that the next step is not mine.
I want to feel the control of the other and to be aware that I have no control at all.
I want to be reminded that I have no will of my own and that my only "choice" is to accept that I have no choice.
I want to dig deep into that dolli state of mind.
Fiendish folly; fearsome fright; fully fortified.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Happy holiday
The festive season is well underway and in a few days, it will be Christmas. This is my last opportunity to wish all readers, whatever your faith, a very happy holiday.May it be filled with fun and good cheer. Stay safe and well, spread the joy and have a very happy, blessed holiday.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The whole entity
In my last post I expressed some frustration that my true nature is kept under the radar. I don't necessarily look like a person with kinky thoughts running through her mind night and day is meant to look. Certainly most people don't respond to me in any particular way that relates to my submissive nature. Only the rarest of people have caught on to what lies below the surface and have sought to interact in person with the whole entity that is me.
Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".
I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.
But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?
On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.
I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.
And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.
I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.
Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.
I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.
There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.
Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".
I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.
But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?
On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.
I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.
And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.
I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.
Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.
I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.
There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Perception
A few days ago, as part of the preparation for the holidays, I had my nails refilled. This event takes place every two to three weeks and I go to the same nail salon with the same Chinese girls. I sat down and put out my hands, as you do. She gasped.
"So long."
"Yep"
I've been through this so many times now I am almost oblivious to their reactions. They do a little shrug, maybe a few words about how I must "be careful" and then go ahead and do the refill. But, there have been times when I have been intimidated by these girls. Their 'encouragement' to "make shorter" my nails has had me agreeing to take off some length. I seem to be an anomaly to them, that I should want nails longer than the other clients, but I have learned to stand my ground.
It was more than irritating therefore when a young woman, about fifteen years younger than me, blew into the salon saying that she needed a new set of nails and could it be done immediately. They were frantically busy but squeezed her in - the woman with the very long dyed hair with a part in the middle of her head. I was curious about her and gobsmacked when I looked at the length of her new nails. Not a single word of concern or negativity had been raised about the length of her nails - almost twice as long as mine! She wasn't encouraged to "be careful" and nor did they shake their heads at the length she had instructed her girl to cut them. Quietly and without fanfare she was getting the longest set of acrylic nails I had ever seen, apart from photographs!
I have to think that my appearance led them to feel a certain way about me, whereas her appearance and her whole persona (I wondered if she might be a domme/switch) led them to feel an entirely different way about her. I really have no idea as to where the truth lies and can only speculate.
All my online friends are the most regular looking of people, really. There would be no reason at all for a passerby to feel that he or she is in the midst of kink. I think we are virtually undetectable. Yes, the wearing of a corset perhaps says something. Possibly, a few tattoos give a clue. A certain kind of shoe might suggest something. But I don't think anybody could be sure about any of the people I know, including me. There is nothing to suggest the thoughts that are racing through our minds; our desires for a certain kind of handling. People might wonder but they can't know anything by our appearance.
In the same way, I may be barking up the wrong tree entirely to call this girl with the very long nails a domme/switch, or into kink at all. She may, quite simply, love very long nails. Who is to say? Yet, I sense I am right about her; feel almost sure that she has a secret and that made her very interesting to me.
Here's what I think: The man of her life, a very dominant man indeed, has instructed her to get a set of nails of an inch in length and for them to be done by the end of the day. It was a work day for her and immediately collecting her child from school (she had a rather naughty little boy with her who she was having trouble controlling, which made it all the more interesting to me that she might be a domme/switch) she drove fast to the nail salon and without an appointment used her assertive style to get their co-operation. They sensed she was unlike their other clients and didn't bother to try to control her, rather fitting her in and doing what they were told. Upon leaving the salon, she would scoop up the naughty little boy and race home to tidy up the house, prepare dinner and await her man, who would be delighted to see the claws at the end of her fingers. Her top appeased, they would settle into a night of lovely debauchery.
Now, who in the salon would think that scenario of me? Who would ever believe that my instruction to them to have my nails a certain length came to me as a command? Who would ever think that I was going home to a night of slutty, kinky play? Who would ever look at me and think, 'There's a slut if ever I saw one!"
It has made people watching all the more fun for me. I look at the most regular of people and try to guess what is going on in their very private minds. Could they be thinking what I am thinking? What sluts!
"So long."
"Yep"
I've been through this so many times now I am almost oblivious to their reactions. They do a little shrug, maybe a few words about how I must "be careful" and then go ahead and do the refill. But, there have been times when I have been intimidated by these girls. Their 'encouragement' to "make shorter" my nails has had me agreeing to take off some length. I seem to be an anomaly to them, that I should want nails longer than the other clients, but I have learned to stand my ground.
It was more than irritating therefore when a young woman, about fifteen years younger than me, blew into the salon saying that she needed a new set of nails and could it be done immediately. They were frantically busy but squeezed her in - the woman with the very long dyed hair with a part in the middle of her head. I was curious about her and gobsmacked when I looked at the length of her new nails. Not a single word of concern or negativity had been raised about the length of her nails - almost twice as long as mine! She wasn't encouraged to "be careful" and nor did they shake their heads at the length she had instructed her girl to cut them. Quietly and without fanfare she was getting the longest set of acrylic nails I had ever seen, apart from photographs!
I have to think that my appearance led them to feel a certain way about me, whereas her appearance and her whole persona (I wondered if she might be a domme/switch) led them to feel an entirely different way about her. I really have no idea as to where the truth lies and can only speculate.
All my online friends are the most regular looking of people, really. There would be no reason at all for a passerby to feel that he or she is in the midst of kink. I think we are virtually undetectable. Yes, the wearing of a corset perhaps says something. Possibly, a few tattoos give a clue. A certain kind of shoe might suggest something. But I don't think anybody could be sure about any of the people I know, including me. There is nothing to suggest the thoughts that are racing through our minds; our desires for a certain kind of handling. People might wonder but they can't know anything by our appearance.
In the same way, I may be barking up the wrong tree entirely to call this girl with the very long nails a domme/switch, or into kink at all. She may, quite simply, love very long nails. Who is to say? Yet, I sense I am right about her; feel almost sure that she has a secret and that made her very interesting to me.
Here's what I think: The man of her life, a very dominant man indeed, has instructed her to get a set of nails of an inch in length and for them to be done by the end of the day. It was a work day for her and immediately collecting her child from school (she had a rather naughty little boy with her who she was having trouble controlling, which made it all the more interesting to me that she might be a domme/switch) she drove fast to the nail salon and without an appointment used her assertive style to get their co-operation. They sensed she was unlike their other clients and didn't bother to try to control her, rather fitting her in and doing what they were told. Upon leaving the salon, she would scoop up the naughty little boy and race home to tidy up the house, prepare dinner and await her man, who would be delighted to see the claws at the end of her fingers. Her top appeased, they would settle into a night of lovely debauchery.
Now, who in the salon would think that scenario of me? Who would ever believe that my instruction to them to have my nails a certain length came to me as a command? Who would ever think that I was going home to a night of slutty, kinky play? Who would ever look at me and think, 'There's a slut if ever I saw one!"
It has made people watching all the more fun for me. I look at the most regular of people and try to guess what is going on in their very private minds. Could they be thinking what I am thinking? What sluts!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hard werk keepn up wif a bimbo
Cindi in a beri beri slutti frame of mind rite now. She nut sur y zactli but her totz beri slutti ndeed. She beri calm, reeeelaxd n she hab meni tots bowt yoos.
Cindi receeevd a beri notti moovn pikki az a prezzi n dat bimbo hab ull da holz yoosd at wuns. Der a man in front hoo hold her hed stil, n a man unda her n a man at bak her n da bimbo looki beri beri satisfyd. Dat reeeli did sumtin 2 dis bimbo n she alredi looki it sebril tyms dis morning n tot bowt it 2, whyl she Christmas shoppin.
Bimboz beri free, n feel beri liber8d 2 speriens ull sortsa tots. Of cors, dis bimbo only intimit wif her onnir but dat nut meen she nut hab beri slutti tots.
Now, y da bimbo feel so free, so calm n so happi rite now? Well, mebbe she jus progresd 2 sum new level of satisfakshin after lotsa hard werk. N also, her onnir njoyn yoosn her lots, n pluggiz njoy her 2 n dat make her mynd n her bodi beri redi 4ebin mor yoos n ebin mor slutti tots. Bimboz beri hungry lil tingz.
It beri inerestin 2 cindi dat ebin tho her tots so streeemli slutti, she consentraytn radda well n gettn trew all the tings on her ‘2 do’ list. Dat soooo pleeeezn 2 cindi – dat she reeechd da poynt wher she hav beri notti tots but she stil abel do her werkiz az wel.
Da kestun 4 cindi – wil da notti moovn pikki she sent ebr leef her myn? She strongli dowts it. But, def feeel bit sorri 4 da men sumtymz. Looki dis wun in da pikki abuv. He looki just exhaustd! Nut ez 4 onnirs n da men in da bimboz myn keepi up wif her. Oh wel! Spoz dat da prys dey pay 4 habin bimboz!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Training the doll
It occurred to me recently that I have never really written directly about what my time in training as ‘the doll’ has been like. I’ve written as ‘cindi’ so you know something about what I experience. However, I don’t think I have said much at all about what the training has meant to me. It has meant a great deal; changed and altered me in ways I could never have imagined at the outset. It sustains me; fulfils me; consoles and comforts me; allows me to sink into my alter ego in a way that provides me with sustenance and energy. It has been the greatest of gifts in my life and this post is my attempt to explain that process.
From the outset, I was given limits and boundaries; contained. I was told that the only appropriate way for a doll to talk was in the third person. This seemed relatively natural to me from the outset and very soon, completely natural. Over time, words such as “are” ,” is” and “am” were denied. It took a few days for me to get the hang of it but I never for a moment rejected the idea. At least, I have no memory whatsoever of a rebellious thought towards the limit imposed.
There is one day when the limit was new that stands out in my memory where I was making mistake after mistake and eventually he had had enough of it. I earned myself 100 lines and was told immediately after completing the lines that I was to type the first thing that entered my head. I was truly ashamed to discover that I had made another mistake and that sense of shame stayed with me for a long time. I vowed never to do it again, and whilst I must surely have made the odd error over the next few weeks, I accepted my limit into my heart and embraced it as the way I would always speak with him.
There have been fleeting moments, I admit, when I have thought how wonderfully bold it would be to write across the page, “IS IS IS IS IS IS” but I know in my heart that this word is not for the doll, and the victory would be so short, and the consequences so uncomfortable for me, that I have never done this and never will do this. I speak the language of the doll happily.
As well as speaking in the third person and without the words associated with identity (for example, “I am”), I speak not English but ‘bimbo speeki'. I don’t use the spelling of the English language but rather the spelling that comes (cumz) naturally if one had never been schooled. I am free to express myself in a way such that the rules of language and spelling had never been imposed on me.
All put together, my form of communication is very liberating and immediately places me in my dolly headspace. It is anything but a chore; anything but an imposition; anything but insulting to me. It is the language I use to enable me to feel free; liberated. It is my window into the soul of a sexual, hungry, single minded being whose desire is to please and serve; to express her sexual energy and her understanding of her role; her purpose; her place.
My desire to live more as ‘the doll’ and to experience the mindset of the doll was made more possible with physical limits. I was instructed to get a set of acrylic French nails. Eventually, I was told to make them longer – one centimetre. I initially failed to comply and found myself staring straight into his resolve to be obeyed. Unless I complied there was nothing else to talk about. I returned to the salon and started again from scratch.
I adore my nails and on the odd occasion when one is broken (usually due to my loss of focus on the limits of a doll) I feel wretched until it is fixed. The nails contain me in a number of ways. Most importantly, they slow me down. I must cautiously open a drawer to get out a pot, for example. I must consider how I might attend to a chore or if I can pick up something heavy with one hand or two. I must take my nails into consideration at all times. I hear the clickety clack of them as I type right now. I notice them as I gesture to talk to someone or as I move in Pilates class and place them carefully on the floor as I bend. They are as natural to me as if I was born with them and I simply cannot consider living without them. They are the hands of the doll.
The attire of the doll was considered. I have always been a fairly conventional girl. As I look back on my working life in an office, pants were never for me. As a PA, I considered it my role to look a certain way and skirts and dresses were always my choice. But, away from a corporate role, I had wandered into dressing casually in jeans and pants more than was necessary.
In my headspace as a doll, pants felt no more right to me than they did in the office and my choice is nearly always a dress or a skirt and top/shirt. There are times when pants are worn. I don’t deny that. But, those days are very rare and they have a purpose to them. New items of clothing are carefully considered and the question in my mind is ‘Does this outfit make me feel like the doll?’
The doll is not overindulged and thus a great many items in my wardrobe were given away. They needed to be appropriate and pretty. There was no reason for the doll to have a wardrobe overflowing with garments and I learned to appreciate the value of less items, well organized. This pleases me enormously and keeps the doll ever present.
Whilst the limits of language, nails and dress were vital, I think the most significant lesson and limit of all for the doll has been behaviour modification. I don’t say this lightly for it has also been the hardest limit to embrace.
I am, generally speaking, a polite individual. I treat people with respect when I speak to them and I am a ‘live and let live’ sort of person, but my behaviour required modification to reach the high standards required of a doll. Most importantly, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Hurt feelings, anger, a sense that I was being put down, all played into inappropriate responses.
To give an example or two of this, one time I was hurt by a comment and before I knew what had happened I responded with sarcasm. I was told to go away and think about my response and I remember an acute sense of confusion that I should be abandoned at a time when I felt hurt. On another occasion, I was stung by words that I thought related to me and I fired off an email expressing my hurt feelings and confusion.
It took time for me to learn to slow my responses down; to think about them and try to deal with them myself and make sense of them; to not allow my emotions to bleed all over the page. I learned to ask to speak to him to clarify a statement. I learned to open my mind to see matters from his perspective. I learned to trust. I learned to give over control and to stop trying to control (though that lesson is an ongoing one, for sure).
Of course, much of this training occurred by way of a special limit. I was introduced to anal training almost from the outset and discovered its benefits almost immediately. But eventually, the directive was to use my plug more than I did not – every night and part of every day. This was a limit I found that pushed me to the brink of rebellion and sometimes headlong into war. Yes, the benefits were undeniable and the doll present, but the command challenged my ego profoundly. ("Cindi tinki she 2 speshel 4 dis rule.") I would comply for long stretches only to use some excuse or other to take liberties for a day; sometimes longer. I would eventually confess. The aberration would be discussed; often punished by way of denial. For a doll, this has great meaning.
Over time, I would come to see that this way of life was right for me; that it brought me peace, fulfilment and sexual pleasure and that the need to rebel had become redundant. In fact, the doll required bigger, more challenging plugs. Over time, it became apparent that the doll and I were interchangeable and that to deny what helped and nurtured was to be stubborn and appear to self-harm. Ultimately I accepted that for as often as possible, to live as the doll was to live in harmony with my true nature.
Are there moments when I wish I could discuss with him something relating to my everyday life? Of course! We were friends before I was the doll and he, the trainer. Yet, I have come to see that this time when I may only speak with him as the doll is the greatest of gifts and much more significant and valuable than any other conversation could ever be.
In any case, I have learned that as the doll, I may ask questions or ask to discuss a topic that might be bothering me in ways that allow free expression of a sort. Good behaviour, politeness and a show of care, kindness and consideration are all rewarded in their own way. Most importantly, there is a sense of continuity, of trust, of deep and abiding friendship and respect for one another’s lives as individuals and as partners of two highly (and separate) successful marriages that is extraordinarily rare, I think; perhaps unique.
My training as a doll has brought and continues to bring me great happiness, fulfilment and succour. It has relieved me of bad habits and behaviour which held me back in my marriage to a darling but demanding man and given me limits and boundaries which keep me feeling safe and nurtured. It has encouraged kindness and in return provided me with the kindness of others. It has shown me how to live according to my nature and my needs and has fulfilled and transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. My marriage is better; my life is richer; I am softer and much more fulfilled; content.
I look forward to new challenges. Dolls need challenges. Complacency is not for them and so the road will never be entirely easy but nor will it ever be (God willing) without the care, consideration and thoughtfulness of a dominant man. The doll’s trust, obedience and kindness makes for the completion of the dynamic that is a special kind of love; a spiritual connection that goes to the heart of all that is good. Dreams really do come true for good dolls.
From the outset, I was given limits and boundaries; contained. I was told that the only appropriate way for a doll to talk was in the third person. This seemed relatively natural to me from the outset and very soon, completely natural. Over time, words such as “are” ,” is” and “am” were denied. It took a few days for me to get the hang of it but I never for a moment rejected the idea. At least, I have no memory whatsoever of a rebellious thought towards the limit imposed.
There is one day when the limit was new that stands out in my memory where I was making mistake after mistake and eventually he had had enough of it. I earned myself 100 lines and was told immediately after completing the lines that I was to type the first thing that entered my head. I was truly ashamed to discover that I had made another mistake and that sense of shame stayed with me for a long time. I vowed never to do it again, and whilst I must surely have made the odd error over the next few weeks, I accepted my limit into my heart and embraced it as the way I would always speak with him.
There have been fleeting moments, I admit, when I have thought how wonderfully bold it would be to write across the page, “IS IS IS IS IS IS” but I know in my heart that this word is not for the doll, and the victory would be so short, and the consequences so uncomfortable for me, that I have never done this and never will do this. I speak the language of the doll happily.
As well as speaking in the third person and without the words associated with identity (for example, “I am”), I speak not English but ‘bimbo speeki'. I don’t use the spelling of the English language but rather the spelling that comes (cumz) naturally if one had never been schooled. I am free to express myself in a way such that the rules of language and spelling had never been imposed on me.
All put together, my form of communication is very liberating and immediately places me in my dolly headspace. It is anything but a chore; anything but an imposition; anything but insulting to me. It is the language I use to enable me to feel free; liberated. It is my window into the soul of a sexual, hungry, single minded being whose desire is to please and serve; to express her sexual energy and her understanding of her role; her purpose; her place.
My desire to live more as ‘the doll’ and to experience the mindset of the doll was made more possible with physical limits. I was instructed to get a set of acrylic French nails. Eventually, I was told to make them longer – one centimetre. I initially failed to comply and found myself staring straight into his resolve to be obeyed. Unless I complied there was nothing else to talk about. I returned to the salon and started again from scratch.
I adore my nails and on the odd occasion when one is broken (usually due to my loss of focus on the limits of a doll) I feel wretched until it is fixed. The nails contain me in a number of ways. Most importantly, they slow me down. I must cautiously open a drawer to get out a pot, for example. I must consider how I might attend to a chore or if I can pick up something heavy with one hand or two. I must take my nails into consideration at all times. I hear the clickety clack of them as I type right now. I notice them as I gesture to talk to someone or as I move in Pilates class and place them carefully on the floor as I bend. They are as natural to me as if I was born with them and I simply cannot consider living without them. They are the hands of the doll.
The attire of the doll was considered. I have always been a fairly conventional girl. As I look back on my working life in an office, pants were never for me. As a PA, I considered it my role to look a certain way and skirts and dresses were always my choice. But, away from a corporate role, I had wandered into dressing casually in jeans and pants more than was necessary.
In my headspace as a doll, pants felt no more right to me than they did in the office and my choice is nearly always a dress or a skirt and top/shirt. There are times when pants are worn. I don’t deny that. But, those days are very rare and they have a purpose to them. New items of clothing are carefully considered and the question in my mind is ‘Does this outfit make me feel like the doll?’
The doll is not overindulged and thus a great many items in my wardrobe were given away. They needed to be appropriate and pretty. There was no reason for the doll to have a wardrobe overflowing with garments and I learned to appreciate the value of less items, well organized. This pleases me enormously and keeps the doll ever present.
Whilst the limits of language, nails and dress were vital, I think the most significant lesson and limit of all for the doll has been behaviour modification. I don’t say this lightly for it has also been the hardest limit to embrace.
I am, generally speaking, a polite individual. I treat people with respect when I speak to them and I am a ‘live and let live’ sort of person, but my behaviour required modification to reach the high standards required of a doll. Most importantly, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Hurt feelings, anger, a sense that I was being put down, all played into inappropriate responses.
To give an example or two of this, one time I was hurt by a comment and before I knew what had happened I responded with sarcasm. I was told to go away and think about my response and I remember an acute sense of confusion that I should be abandoned at a time when I felt hurt. On another occasion, I was stung by words that I thought related to me and I fired off an email expressing my hurt feelings and confusion.
It took time for me to learn to slow my responses down; to think about them and try to deal with them myself and make sense of them; to not allow my emotions to bleed all over the page. I learned to ask to speak to him to clarify a statement. I learned to open my mind to see matters from his perspective. I learned to trust. I learned to give over control and to stop trying to control (though that lesson is an ongoing one, for sure).
Of course, much of this training occurred by way of a special limit. I was introduced to anal training almost from the outset and discovered its benefits almost immediately. But eventually, the directive was to use my plug more than I did not – every night and part of every day. This was a limit I found that pushed me to the brink of rebellion and sometimes headlong into war. Yes, the benefits were undeniable and the doll present, but the command challenged my ego profoundly. ("Cindi tinki she 2 speshel 4 dis rule.") I would comply for long stretches only to use some excuse or other to take liberties for a day; sometimes longer. I would eventually confess. The aberration would be discussed; often punished by way of denial. For a doll, this has great meaning.
Over time, I would come to see that this way of life was right for me; that it brought me peace, fulfilment and sexual pleasure and that the need to rebel had become redundant. In fact, the doll required bigger, more challenging plugs. Over time, it became apparent that the doll and I were interchangeable and that to deny what helped and nurtured was to be stubborn and appear to self-harm. Ultimately I accepted that for as often as possible, to live as the doll was to live in harmony with my true nature.
Are there moments when I wish I could discuss with him something relating to my everyday life? Of course! We were friends before I was the doll and he, the trainer. Yet, I have come to see that this time when I may only speak with him as the doll is the greatest of gifts and much more significant and valuable than any other conversation could ever be.
In any case, I have learned that as the doll, I may ask questions or ask to discuss a topic that might be bothering me in ways that allow free expression of a sort. Good behaviour, politeness and a show of care, kindness and consideration are all rewarded in their own way. Most importantly, there is a sense of continuity, of trust, of deep and abiding friendship and respect for one another’s lives as individuals and as partners of two highly (and separate) successful marriages that is extraordinarily rare, I think; perhaps unique.
My training as a doll has brought and continues to bring me great happiness, fulfilment and succour. It has relieved me of bad habits and behaviour which held me back in my marriage to a darling but demanding man and given me limits and boundaries which keep me feeling safe and nurtured. It has encouraged kindness and in return provided me with the kindness of others. It has shown me how to live according to my nature and my needs and has fulfilled and transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. My marriage is better; my life is richer; I am softer and much more fulfilled; content.
I look forward to new challenges. Dolls need challenges. Complacency is not for them and so the road will never be entirely easy but nor will it ever be (God willing) without the care, consideration and thoughtfulness of a dominant man. The doll’s trust, obedience and kindness makes for the completion of the dynamic that is a special kind of love; a spiritual connection that goes to the heart of all that is good. Dreams really do come true for good dolls.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Flash Fiction Friday: The Threesome
As I put my arm around her I felt her shivering with desire but it was still tenuous; liable to explode in my face. I’d led her to this moment; gradual, encouraging suggestions. Just when I dismissed the idea for lack of interest, she said she wanted to do it, for me. But, she was the aggressor here; hedonistic, hungry and assertive. She ground on my leg, spread herself; used her fragile, feminine claws to claim Becky while her full, parted lips moved in on her and overwhelmed her completely.
For now, she was a sexual creature abandoning her sense of jealousy that she should share my attentions. Time would tell if this was an aberration. Support; control; assure; adjust; pleasure and enjoy. Keep my fingers crossed.
(Image source: "King Sol" by Carolyn Weltman)
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Other Side of Agnes
You may wish to read here first.
“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”
“A baguette?”
“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”
“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“Suppose?”
“You are right.”
“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”
“I love seafood.”
“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”
“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”
She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.
Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.
“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“Is that what I need?”
“Certainly.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.
“Here we are.”
He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.
“To a balanced meal.”
Agnes smiled.
“To a balanced meal.”
She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.
When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.
“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”
“Your father is right.”
“He is?”
“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”
“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”
“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”
“You are playing with me!”
“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”
“Whatever you say, Frederick.”
“Ah, the girl is trainable.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He ignored her question.
“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”
“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”
“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”
“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”
“Oh?”
“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”
“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”
“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”
“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, that is nice to know.”
The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.
She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.
“Do you live alone, Frederick?”
“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”
“Do you have children?”
“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”
“Do you get lonely living alone?”
“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”
“May I ask what you do?”
“You may. I am a banker.”
“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”
He smiled at her simplistic response.
“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”
“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”
“There is no need, Agnes.”
“Well, father says...”
“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”
Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.
Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.
At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.
“I shall walk you home.”
She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.
He stopped and turned towards her.
“Agnes? Is something wrong?”
“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
She remained silent.
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
“With you.”
He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”
“A baguette?”
“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”
“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“Suppose?”
“You are right.”
“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”
“I love seafood.”
“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”
“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”
She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.
Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.
“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“Is that what I need?”
“Certainly.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.
“Here we are.”
He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.
“To a balanced meal.”
Agnes smiled.
“To a balanced meal.”
She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.
When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.
“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”
“Your father is right.”
“He is?”
“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”
“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”
“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”
“You are playing with me!”
“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”
“Whatever you say, Frederick.”
“Ah, the girl is trainable.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He ignored her question.
“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”
“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”
“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”
“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”
“Oh?”
“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”
“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”
“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”
“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, that is nice to know.”
The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.
She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.
“Do you live alone, Frederick?”
“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”
“Do you have children?”
“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”
“Do you get lonely living alone?”
“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”
“May I ask what you do?”
“You may. I am a banker.”
“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”
He smiled at her simplistic response.
“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”
“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”
“There is no need, Agnes.”
“Well, father says...”
“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”
Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.
Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.
At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.
“I shall walk you home.”
She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.
He stopped and turned towards her.
“Agnes? Is something wrong?”
“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
She remained silent.
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
“With you.”
He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Daydreaming
This time of year is especially busy where I live. We've been through preparation for exams, the exams, the events that lead to the end of the academic year...the Carol Service....and so on. Finally, that all ended and my body said, "Enough!". It was time to get some good sleeps.
With some catch up on sleep, my body and mind moved into a new phase, that of resuming kinky thoughts with a new found gusto. I've barely slept at all last night between my lusty thoughts, my husband coming to bed late and getting up early to leave for the airport again. I had planned to return to sleep once I said goodbye to him but instead my thoughts had me in the most cuntstrained of situations...
Not only did I have an owner, and a very strict one at that, but since he was a very busy owner he had employed a woman to supervise me. In the past, such a woman (in my mind) has been a big boned, strong and ample sort of woman but this time she was quite petite, rather beautiful features and she wore her hair in a french twist.
I really don't feel that I can tell you everything they did to me. It is acutely embarrassing. Let me try...
His driver was on stand by to take him to the airport and he called me into his study. He checked to see that I was plugged, that I was well constrained and contained within my corset, and he had me kneel and pleasure him with my mouth cunt. (He always used those words and so must I.) The woman looked on. He took his pleasure and had me clear him up and as an afterthought he advised me that it was best that he mark me, so that while he was gone I had a constant reminder of my connection to him. He had her fetch the cane, and as I bent over the desk as told, and while my owner lifted up my skirt, she held down my head.
He delivered 12 swift strokes of the cane and before I could barely thank him and wish him adieu he was gone, but not without cautioning me that whatever Madam said was at his instruction. I was to do exactly as I was told.
Whether she was sadistic or merely following instructions is hard to say. The days were certainly challenging and containing with her. She kept me plugged night and day and insisted that I use the toilet when she deemed it proper to do so. She had determined that I should evacuate my bowel in the morning and when I could not do so, she said I would sit there until I did. An hour later, she thought the strap would assist me, and twenty five welts to my bottom later, I told her that I was, in fact, able to use the toilet at her command. The fact that there would be no reprieve had kicked my brain into action (and the threat of another 25 of the strap in half an hour's time also probably helped.) It seems her task was to make my day orderly in every way, and she was determined to fulfil her orders.
Each day I had certain lessons to learn and later she sat me down to write hundreds of lines to ensure I understood my lessons well. There would no permission to leave the seat and so I stopped bothering to ask. I learned as well that I must slow myself down and attend to my handwriting very carefully. She had given me a fountain pen with which to write and the slightest imperfection earned me another page of lines. I soon learned it was best to do the task and all tasks she set, properly and with pride.
I dressed and undressed when told, ate and drank what I was given, bent over to be plugged or unplugged, beaten or felt. I wore jewellery from my nipple rings to remind me of my position. I went to bed as directed, woke up when instructed and didn't dare to touch my own body in any way at all (she seemed to be always watching and tied my hands to the bed post at night). Eventually, with the assistance of Madam I learned that in my owner's household I had no say, no control, no power; no will of my own at all.
Upon his return, my owner noticed the changes in me immediately. He talked of a serenity that had come over me and a clear understanding of my place; my status; my position. I can only say that I was very happy; content and peaceful. I felt the strongest of connections to him. That he had ordered and directed this adjustment to my thinking made me feel that I belonged to him and I wanted nothing more and nothing less than that...
Sleep or no sleep aside, the day demands that I focus on business matters and there my dream must end. I promise to put up the next interlude between Agnes and Frederick soonest.
With some catch up on sleep, my body and mind moved into a new phase, that of resuming kinky thoughts with a new found gusto. I've barely slept at all last night between my lusty thoughts, my husband coming to bed late and getting up early to leave for the airport again. I had planned to return to sleep once I said goodbye to him but instead my thoughts had me in the most cuntstrained of situations...
Not only did I have an owner, and a very strict one at that, but since he was a very busy owner he had employed a woman to supervise me. In the past, such a woman (in my mind) has been a big boned, strong and ample sort of woman but this time she was quite petite, rather beautiful features and she wore her hair in a french twist.
I really don't feel that I can tell you everything they did to me. It is acutely embarrassing. Let me try...
His driver was on stand by to take him to the airport and he called me into his study. He checked to see that I was plugged, that I was well constrained and contained within my corset, and he had me kneel and pleasure him with my mouth cunt. (He always used those words and so must I.) The woman looked on. He took his pleasure and had me clear him up and as an afterthought he advised me that it was best that he mark me, so that while he was gone I had a constant reminder of my connection to him. He had her fetch the cane, and as I bent over the desk as told, and while my owner lifted up my skirt, she held down my head.
He delivered 12 swift strokes of the cane and before I could barely thank him and wish him adieu he was gone, but not without cautioning me that whatever Madam said was at his instruction. I was to do exactly as I was told.
Whether she was sadistic or merely following instructions is hard to say. The days were certainly challenging and containing with her. She kept me plugged night and day and insisted that I use the toilet when she deemed it proper to do so. She had determined that I should evacuate my bowel in the morning and when I could not do so, she said I would sit there until I did. An hour later, she thought the strap would assist me, and twenty five welts to my bottom later, I told her that I was, in fact, able to use the toilet at her command. The fact that there would be no reprieve had kicked my brain into action (and the threat of another 25 of the strap in half an hour's time also probably helped.) It seems her task was to make my day orderly in every way, and she was determined to fulfil her orders.
Each day I had certain lessons to learn and later she sat me down to write hundreds of lines to ensure I understood my lessons well. There would no permission to leave the seat and so I stopped bothering to ask. I learned as well that I must slow myself down and attend to my handwriting very carefully. She had given me a fountain pen with which to write and the slightest imperfection earned me another page of lines. I soon learned it was best to do the task and all tasks she set, properly and with pride.
I dressed and undressed when told, ate and drank what I was given, bent over to be plugged or unplugged, beaten or felt. I wore jewellery from my nipple rings to remind me of my position. I went to bed as directed, woke up when instructed and didn't dare to touch my own body in any way at all (she seemed to be always watching and tied my hands to the bed post at night). Eventually, with the assistance of Madam I learned that in my owner's household I had no say, no control, no power; no will of my own at all.
Upon his return, my owner noticed the changes in me immediately. He talked of a serenity that had come over me and a clear understanding of my place; my status; my position. I can only say that I was very happy; content and peaceful. I felt the strongest of connections to him. That he had ordered and directed this adjustment to my thinking made me feel that I belonged to him and I wanted nothing more and nothing less than that...
Sleep or no sleep aside, the day demands that I focus on business matters and there my dream must end. I promise to put up the next interlude between Agnes and Frederick soonest.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Reeling in Agnes
For some weeks now, the idea of expressing ideas in the form of an essay or post or article has not held much appeal, whilst the idea of expressing ideas through stories has held plenty of appeal. In a scene or a story there is so much to be said about how I feel about how a submissive girl responds to the energy a dominant man brings to her. I know that I should explore characters who don't respond the way I might respond but I feel that this is the way it is for so many of us. The girl goes about her life and something about the way she acts, or moves, or looks or observes the world gives a dominant man some sort of inkling that she is the kind of girl that he is looking for/appreciates.
I'm not altogether sure that a girl with a submissive nature is out on the prowl in quite the same way that the man keeps his antenna up. She's more inclined to go about her business, I think, and if something comes across her path that interests her, she notices and enjoys. It is a rare day in her life when she actually makes a move. At least, that's what I think. I'm not at all the sort of girl to make a move but I'm mature enough these days to not be shy about noticing men about me; to enjoy watching them in action.
Australian men of a certain age can be extraordinarily handsome. I was in the supermarket choosing vegetables in the past few days when a man of mid 30s perhaps, came in my direction. They tend not to be able to shop without making a call. "Honey, did you want the flat leafed parsley or the regular?" And so, he was on the phone when I spied him. A dishy, wide eyed, clean skinned, well built hunk of a guy in a lovely striped suit. In my younger days, I might have ensured he didn't catch me checking him out, but I felt not a tinge of embarrassment when we caught eyes and it was evident I was enjoying the scenery. It was something about the way he walked in as if he owned the environment about him; as if the store were there for his private convenience.
My oldest son is just like that. There really is not an environment which he doesn't own for the time that he is there. Whether it be a small town in Mexico or a golf course in Dubbo, whilst he is there, he dominates the space; enjoys it, makes use of it and leaves his presence felt. He oozes a sense of self and a special quality that life is for living. He takes those in his company along for the ride and whilst they are with him, they feel a certain kind of pleasure that he has graced them with his company. I don't say this because he is my son. I have nothing to do with it at all. He was born this way.
I feel sure that I married the man I did because I responded to his energy for life. He had no sense of fear. He didn't know where he was going but he knew that he was on his way. Thirty years later, he remains enthusiastic about so much. Everything is achievable and solvable and setbacks are merely that. "Leave it to beaver," he says, and I do.
My females characters are especially vulnerable to men who wish to "feed" on submissive girls like them because they are so easily infected by their assertiveness, their charisma and their ability to engineer a situation. A man taking the initiative is exactly what turns submissive girls on and so you might buy them a cup of coffee and suddenly whisk them off to show them your etchings before they can stop themselves to say "no". They are intoxicated by a show of force, or at least an assumption that they will follow along. Something in the pit of their stomach says, "I can't pass this up. This is just too delicious. This is just way too much fun..."
The girl in the upcoming scene, Agnes, is in a terribly vulnerable position. Frederick is much more mature, worldly and sophisticated. He is older; more than capable of getting what he wants and she truly does want to explore what he is offering. But, is she just another feather in his cap; another notch on his belt? Is he merely hungry and looking for a meal to nourish himself before he moves on again or is he genuinely interested in her as an individual?
I certainly don't think that submissive girls walk about looking for "the one" necessarily, but no girl wants to feel that she is being 'used' in the sense of 'used up'. She doesn't want to feel like a dill when a few dates, weeks or months later, he says, "it's not you, it's me/you're too good for me", and so she tempers her own appetite for dishy, dominant men with a sense to hold back: look and see.
And so for Agnes it is one step forward and two steps back as Frederick tries to overcome her 'thinking' brain and appeal to the hidden desires below the surface. He seems to have played his cards just right - given her enough time to digest the pros and cons - to have her eating out of his hands.
I am delighted to say that you not only have Agnes' version of events now but those of Frederick. Frankly, sometimes I am just appalled at how manipulative dominant men can be!
I'm not altogether sure that a girl with a submissive nature is out on the prowl in quite the same way that the man keeps his antenna up. She's more inclined to go about her business, I think, and if something comes across her path that interests her, she notices and enjoys. It is a rare day in her life when she actually makes a move. At least, that's what I think. I'm not at all the sort of girl to make a move but I'm mature enough these days to not be shy about noticing men about me; to enjoy watching them in action.
Australian men of a certain age can be extraordinarily handsome. I was in the supermarket choosing vegetables in the past few days when a man of mid 30s perhaps, came in my direction. They tend not to be able to shop without making a call. "Honey, did you want the flat leafed parsley or the regular?" And so, he was on the phone when I spied him. A dishy, wide eyed, clean skinned, well built hunk of a guy in a lovely striped suit. In my younger days, I might have ensured he didn't catch me checking him out, but I felt not a tinge of embarrassment when we caught eyes and it was evident I was enjoying the scenery. It was something about the way he walked in as if he owned the environment about him; as if the store were there for his private convenience.
My oldest son is just like that. There really is not an environment which he doesn't own for the time that he is there. Whether it be a small town in Mexico or a golf course in Dubbo, whilst he is there, he dominates the space; enjoys it, makes use of it and leaves his presence felt. He oozes a sense of self and a special quality that life is for living. He takes those in his company along for the ride and whilst they are with him, they feel a certain kind of pleasure that he has graced them with his company. I don't say this because he is my son. I have nothing to do with it at all. He was born this way.
I feel sure that I married the man I did because I responded to his energy for life. He had no sense of fear. He didn't know where he was going but he knew that he was on his way. Thirty years later, he remains enthusiastic about so much. Everything is achievable and solvable and setbacks are merely that. "Leave it to beaver," he says, and I do.
My females characters are especially vulnerable to men who wish to "feed" on submissive girls like them because they are so easily infected by their assertiveness, their charisma and their ability to engineer a situation. A man taking the initiative is exactly what turns submissive girls on and so you might buy them a cup of coffee and suddenly whisk them off to show them your etchings before they can stop themselves to say "no". They are intoxicated by a show of force, or at least an assumption that they will follow along. Something in the pit of their stomach says, "I can't pass this up. This is just too delicious. This is just way too much fun..."
The girl in the upcoming scene, Agnes, is in a terribly vulnerable position. Frederick is much more mature, worldly and sophisticated. He is older; more than capable of getting what he wants and she truly does want to explore what he is offering. But, is she just another feather in his cap; another notch on his belt? Is he merely hungry and looking for a meal to nourish himself before he moves on again or is he genuinely interested in her as an individual?
I certainly don't think that submissive girls walk about looking for "the one" necessarily, but no girl wants to feel that she is being 'used' in the sense of 'used up'. She doesn't want to feel like a dill when a few dates, weeks or months later, he says, "it's not you, it's me/you're too good for me", and so she tempers her own appetite for dishy, dominant men with a sense to hold back: look and see.
And so for Agnes it is one step forward and two steps back as Frederick tries to overcome her 'thinking' brain and appeal to the hidden desires below the surface. He seems to have played his cards just right - given her enough time to digest the pros and cons - to have her eating out of his hands.
I am delighted to say that you not only have Agnes' version of events now but those of Frederick. Frankly, sometimes I am just appalled at how manipulative dominant men can be!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Owners know best
As I recently explained in a previous post, I asked my husband for a weekly ‘correction’ and this takes place on a Saturday morning. He’s taken to the scheme like a duck to water and if there is any backchat or bratty behaviour during the week, I can hear him talking to himself just loud enough for me to hear.
“Oh, that’s going to cost...”
This past Saturday morning we both slept in and found ourselves with precious little time to do a number of things before we were due at an event. When my husband assured me we could still fit the correction in, I assured him with an equal amount of vigour that we were already well behind schedule. But, it was clear he didn’t want to let it go entirely, and he turned me over and spanked away at my bottom. Deep down inside, I knew that the matter would carry on to Sunday morning and the thought wasn’t entirely welcome.
Do you ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Well, this (Sunday) morning was one of those rare mornings for me. I just didn’t feel like any attention at all. My bottom was sore from the previous day’s spanking and I felt annoyed with nothing in particular but everything in general. I saw with one open eye, my husband collect his cane on the way back from the bathroom (I just knew he felt that the correction process was not satisfactorily completed!) and I simply didn’t fancy a caning on an already sore bottom. I can be funny like that. I made a number of excuses as to why I really ought to get up. He let me and my bad mood go on our merry way but whispered in my ear in the kitchen shortly thereafter that by day’s end he would have his way with me. I put the thought to one side but remained a bit detached from it all.
Mid-afternoon I was surprised to see my husband put together a tray of nachos for the boys and one girlfriend. He took the tray over to them at the television as they watched a movie and then he moved over to me at my desk.
“Cindi, while the children are occupied I need to see you in the bedroom.”
“But...but, I don’t want to go to the bedroom.”
“Oh yes you do, cindi. It is in your interest to go there right now.”
He guided my body with his body towards the bedroom. It isn’t easy for me not to smile at such moments. One part of the brain really does not want to go, but there is another part of the brain that loves that he is insisting. Although I am very ‘in the moment’ at such moments, I was, in fact, aware of the change in my voice. It became rather little; like a little girl who says to her daddy, “But, I don’t want to go home yet, Daddy. Please, can’t we stay at the fair just a little longer?”
Once he had me in the bedroom, he told me to crawl around to his chair.
“I don’t want to crawl.”
I could hear a drawer of his dresser being opened and that meant, I thought, he was reaching for any one of several nasty implements.
“I’m crawling, I’m crawling!!”
When he had me where he wanted me, on my knees in front of him as he sat in the bedroom chair, he used the rope that he had in fact retrieved from the dresser drawer to tie my hands together. And, once he did that, he put the 0 ring gag securely in my mouth. The dribbling began almost instantaneously.
Once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged, he bent me over the chair and took off my sneakers and socks and panties and jeans (Oh, come on! I took the dogs for a walk in the rain and it is the first time I have worn pants in eons, I swear!). And, once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged and all the bottom clothing off, he proceeded to spank my bottom. And, once he had my wrists secured, my mouth gagged, my bottom clothing off and my bottom good and red, he covered my eyes firmly with a black, velvet blindfold.
“Feeling more submissive now, cindi? That’s the way!”
I simply slobbered a bit more (the juices from my mouth were just ridiculous) and nodded my agreement, as I was told to do.
“Time for your pluggi, cindi.”
He returned in moments and wasted no time in putting the plug in place and pushing away on it.
“There you go cindi. Doesn’t that feel much better for a little dolli like cindi?”
I nodded as I was told to do.
“I know what you need, cindi. You just leave it to owner to attend to you; there’s a good doll.”
I know readers would appreciate around about now knowing what cindi felt. Well, she did feel without a shadow of a doubt that it was in her interests to follow all commands very closely. She was very aware that her owner expected that and she never for a single moment anticipated that she would not now do exactly as she was told. She was very much in the mindset to be a very good, well behaved doll; cum what may!
“Up you come, cindi. Just move when I tell you. Over here. That’s the way. Climb onto the bed now, cindi. That’s a good dolli. Over the pillows. Arms out straight. Owner is going to fuck you, cindi. He’s wanted to do that all day. He’s going to fill that pussy cunt of yours with his cum and you are going to do exactly as you are told and feel his cock pounding away...”
Owner never stopped talking, in fact. He made it very clear that his doll had absolutely no say in what was to happen and that her pleasure was of no interest to him today at all. As her breathing pattern became rather short and even panicked, with the O ring gag making it impossible to register any sounds other than those such as “humph”, and her mouth dribbling out oodles of saliva, he took a moment to pull the top cindi was wearing over her head. The restraints around her wrists made taking it completely off impossible and so it dangled over the rope.
Now, he entered cindi’s pussy cunt and all her holes were filled. Cindi felt completely invaded and overpowered. Here was her owner on top of her, fucking her hard and telling her to take it, to accept it, to be a good doll and stay still while he had his way. Her mind returned to a film clip she had seen years ago when a woman is being raped in a hallway. She is upset, naturally, but at the same time she appears to be experiencing arousal (or was that just cindi watching it?).
Cindi imagined that the person on top of her was a stranger; someone to whom she had not given consent, and she experienced that thought as a very erotic one. She was being fucked and aroused and pleasured by an unknown man who had complete control of her and she was worried enough to be panting; taking short, panicked little breaths; but she was not troubled enough to not be very aroused.
And, then she felt the ‘mysterious man’ on top of her become very aroused himself. He was groaning and moaning and taking urgent, harsh and fast thrusts inside of her until she felt him cum inside of her and heard him gasp for breath as he climaxed. He lay on her for a while and then he gave her little bites on her neck and all over her upper back. Powerless, she stayed still and accepted the bites but she registered her complaints vocally with some squeals.
“Don’t you like pain, cindi? That’s news.”
And, then he left her; blindfolded, hands tied together, mouth dribbling and gagged; cum oozing out of her. She heard the shower and in no time she heard him return. She was surprised how quickly he returned to her but then her mind had been completely emptied and laying there as the fuck toy she was, it was not at all surprising that she had no idea of time. The stranger took off her blindfold, took the gag out of her mouth, and untied her wrists.
“Into the shower, cindi.”
When she returned, her clothes were laid out on the bed and she got into them and some slip on shoes (not the sneakers – dollies don’t wear sneakers).
“Crawl to owner.”
She did.
“What do you say?”
Cindi was momentarily confused. She gets particularly dumdum sometimes.
“Tank you?”
She felt a series of hard swats over her jean clad bottom.
“What do you say?”
“Tank you, onnir.”
“After all this time, cindi. You should know better, by now.”
“Cindi sorri.”
“All right, cindi, off you go. Return to your work.”
If the reader is in any doubt, cindi had a very relaxed late afternoon and evening and so too did her owner, who could be heard whistling about the house. The day didn’t work out exactly as cindi had anticipated but then again, it was long ago established, that this was what was best. Owners always know best.
“Oh, that’s going to cost...”
This past Saturday morning we both slept in and found ourselves with precious little time to do a number of things before we were due at an event. When my husband assured me we could still fit the correction in, I assured him with an equal amount of vigour that we were already well behind schedule. But, it was clear he didn’t want to let it go entirely, and he turned me over and spanked away at my bottom. Deep down inside, I knew that the matter would carry on to Sunday morning and the thought wasn’t entirely welcome.
Do you ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Well, this (Sunday) morning was one of those rare mornings for me. I just didn’t feel like any attention at all. My bottom was sore from the previous day’s spanking and I felt annoyed with nothing in particular but everything in general. I saw with one open eye, my husband collect his cane on the way back from the bathroom (I just knew he felt that the correction process was not satisfactorily completed!) and I simply didn’t fancy a caning on an already sore bottom. I can be funny like that. I made a number of excuses as to why I really ought to get up. He let me and my bad mood go on our merry way but whispered in my ear in the kitchen shortly thereafter that by day’s end he would have his way with me. I put the thought to one side but remained a bit detached from it all.
Mid-afternoon I was surprised to see my husband put together a tray of nachos for the boys and one girlfriend. He took the tray over to them at the television as they watched a movie and then he moved over to me at my desk.
“Cindi, while the children are occupied I need to see you in the bedroom.”
“But...but, I don’t want to go to the bedroom.”
“Oh yes you do, cindi. It is in your interest to go there right now.”
He guided my body with his body towards the bedroom. It isn’t easy for me not to smile at such moments. One part of the brain really does not want to go, but there is another part of the brain that loves that he is insisting. Although I am very ‘in the moment’ at such moments, I was, in fact, aware of the change in my voice. It became rather little; like a little girl who says to her daddy, “But, I don’t want to go home yet, Daddy. Please, can’t we stay at the fair just a little longer?”
Once he had me in the bedroom, he told me to crawl around to his chair.
“I don’t want to crawl.”
I could hear a drawer of his dresser being opened and that meant, I thought, he was reaching for any one of several nasty implements.
“I’m crawling, I’m crawling!!”
When he had me where he wanted me, on my knees in front of him as he sat in the bedroom chair, he used the rope that he had in fact retrieved from the dresser drawer to tie my hands together. And, once he did that, he put the 0 ring gag securely in my mouth. The dribbling began almost instantaneously.
Once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged, he bent me over the chair and took off my sneakers and socks and panties and jeans (Oh, come on! I took the dogs for a walk in the rain and it is the first time I have worn pants in eons, I swear!). And, once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged and all the bottom clothing off, he proceeded to spank my bottom. And, once he had my wrists secured, my mouth gagged, my bottom clothing off and my bottom good and red, he covered my eyes firmly with a black, velvet blindfold.
“Feeling more submissive now, cindi? That’s the way!”
I simply slobbered a bit more (the juices from my mouth were just ridiculous) and nodded my agreement, as I was told to do.
“Time for your pluggi, cindi.”
He returned in moments and wasted no time in putting the plug in place and pushing away on it.
“There you go cindi. Doesn’t that feel much better for a little dolli like cindi?”
I nodded as I was told to do.
“I know what you need, cindi. You just leave it to owner to attend to you; there’s a good doll.”
I know readers would appreciate around about now knowing what cindi felt. Well, she did feel without a shadow of a doubt that it was in her interests to follow all commands very closely. She was very aware that her owner expected that and she never for a single moment anticipated that she would not now do exactly as she was told. She was very much in the mindset to be a very good, well behaved doll; cum what may!
“Up you come, cindi. Just move when I tell you. Over here. That’s the way. Climb onto the bed now, cindi. That’s a good dolli. Over the pillows. Arms out straight. Owner is going to fuck you, cindi. He’s wanted to do that all day. He’s going to fill that pussy cunt of yours with his cum and you are going to do exactly as you are told and feel his cock pounding away...”
Owner never stopped talking, in fact. He made it very clear that his doll had absolutely no say in what was to happen and that her pleasure was of no interest to him today at all. As her breathing pattern became rather short and even panicked, with the O ring gag making it impossible to register any sounds other than those such as “humph”, and her mouth dribbling out oodles of saliva, he took a moment to pull the top cindi was wearing over her head. The restraints around her wrists made taking it completely off impossible and so it dangled over the rope.
Now, he entered cindi’s pussy cunt and all her holes were filled. Cindi felt completely invaded and overpowered. Here was her owner on top of her, fucking her hard and telling her to take it, to accept it, to be a good doll and stay still while he had his way. Her mind returned to a film clip she had seen years ago when a woman is being raped in a hallway. She is upset, naturally, but at the same time she appears to be experiencing arousal (or was that just cindi watching it?).
Cindi imagined that the person on top of her was a stranger; someone to whom she had not given consent, and she experienced that thought as a very erotic one. She was being fucked and aroused and pleasured by an unknown man who had complete control of her and she was worried enough to be panting; taking short, panicked little breaths; but she was not troubled enough to not be very aroused.
And, then she felt the ‘mysterious man’ on top of her become very aroused himself. He was groaning and moaning and taking urgent, harsh and fast thrusts inside of her until she felt him cum inside of her and heard him gasp for breath as he climaxed. He lay on her for a while and then he gave her little bites on her neck and all over her upper back. Powerless, she stayed still and accepted the bites but she registered her complaints vocally with some squeals.
“Don’t you like pain, cindi? That’s news.”
And, then he left her; blindfolded, hands tied together, mouth dribbling and gagged; cum oozing out of her. She heard the shower and in no time she heard him return. She was surprised how quickly he returned to her but then her mind had been completely emptied and laying there as the fuck toy she was, it was not at all surprising that she had no idea of time. The stranger took off her blindfold, took the gag out of her mouth, and untied her wrists.
“Into the shower, cindi.”
When she returned, her clothes were laid out on the bed and she got into them and some slip on shoes (not the sneakers – dollies don’t wear sneakers).
“Crawl to owner.”
She did.
“What do you say?”
Cindi was momentarily confused. She gets particularly dumdum sometimes.
“Tank you?”
She felt a series of hard swats over her jean clad bottom.
“What do you say?”
“Tank you, onnir.”
“After all this time, cindi. You should know better, by now.”
“Cindi sorri.”
“All right, cindi, off you go. Return to your work.”
If the reader is in any doubt, cindi had a very relaxed late afternoon and evening and so too did her owner, who could be heard whistling about the house. The day didn’t work out exactly as cindi had anticipated but then again, it was long ago established, that this was what was best. Owners always know best.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Warm my heart
Offer sweet love to me
Hold me tight
Make me feel right.
Fill me with good cheer
Keep me close
No need to be verbose.
Let me support you
Allow yourself to soften
I need this more often.
Your thoughts take you over
Lost in endeavour
But we can’t live forever.
Life is for living
The days are ours to chart
Come warm my heart.
Hold me tight
Make me feel right.
Fill me with good cheer
Keep me close
No need to be verbose.
Let me support you
Allow yourself to soften
I need this more often.
Your thoughts take you over
Lost in endeavour
But we can’t live forever.
Life is for living
The days are ours to chart
Come warm my heart.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A story for Thanksgiving
Each year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a bit wistful for our life back in the United States. We lived in a country town where all the children went to the same town schools, parents met at the edge of the soccer or lacrosse field on Saturday mornings and life was dictated according to the seasons. My children got off the school bus, threw their bags through the kitchen door and went off into the woods to play with the other neighbourhood kids for hours; whatever the weather. The house was small but very cosy and we loved our lives there.
We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.
I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).
The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
FANTASY No. 2
Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.
“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”
“No Sir.”
“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”
Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, girl?”
“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”
“Pay attention, girl!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now, where was I?”
“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”
“Quite right!”
“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.
“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”
Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.
Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.
“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“Then, let’s begin.”
Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.
Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,
“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”
“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”
And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.
“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”
Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.
“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”
“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”
Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.
Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.
“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
l
“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”
Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.
“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."
We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.
I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).
The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
FANTASY No. 2
Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.
“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”
“No Sir.”
“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”
Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, girl?”
“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”
“Pay attention, girl!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now, where was I?”
“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”
“Quite right!”
“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.
“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”
Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.
Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.
“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“Then, let’s begin.”
Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.
Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,
“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”
“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”
And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.
“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”
Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.
“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”
“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”
Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.
Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.
“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
l
“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”
Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.
“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tik tok goz da clock
Cindi in beri dreeeemi plays. She nut fed nuf 4 such a long tym n her tung hangin owt waytin 4 sum sustenins. She tuch her fays; yoos her fingerz n hanz 2 serkil da skin on her 4hed n fays n she close her iz n majin dat she takn off da shelf n pleyd wif 4 luuuung pley sessin.
Cindi feeln beri slutti. She longn 4 yoos in eberi wey n she wanna feel jus liki objet - nuttin in her hed et ull. Empty. Ooooooooo, so yummmi dat!
Cindi nut gone. Cindi nut need cum lyv. Cindi heer jus bowt ull da tym.
Waitin.
Tik tok. Tik tok goz da clock.
Ene hoo wanna pley?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Camilla's journey to Ithaca
Camilla lay in his arms on the bed. It never failed to amaze her how such an old man could make love so well; so much better than the college boys she knew. She had asked him what was that special thing he did with her clit to make her cum so hard, but he had refused to tell her, saying that she would only reveal it to other boys and not return to him. She scoffed at the idea but he was firm and remained tight lipped.
They chatted about all sorts of topics. When she said that she was tired of her studies and wanted to get on with her life, he listened quietly, and then said,
“Darling, you are on your journey to Ithaca. No need to rush.”
“Ithaca? What do you mean?”
He looked shocked; even annoyed.
“Don’t tell me you have been educated at one of London’s finest schools and it’s most esteemed university not to know the poem ‘Ithaca’? You have never read ‘The Odyssey?”
She had sat up now and out of his arms. His words stung her. He’d done this once before; implied that she was some sort of imbecile because she didn’t know something he thought she ought to know. She felt completely out of his league; a fraud for even being in his company. She looked away from him so that he could not see the tears welling in her eyes.
“What on earth are they teaching the young people these days? It’s a crime not to know these very basic things!”
She didn’t speak. She was much too upset to speak.
“Camilla, I’ve hurt your feelings...”
“No, not at all. I’m fine.”
“Look at me, darling.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Come now; show the old man your pretty face.”
She turned back towards him and it was evident from the shattered expression in her eyes that he had cut her to the quick. He held her gently in his arms and rocked her a little from side to side and the gentleness of the movement encouraged the tears to spill onto her cheeks. When she had recovered she pulled back from him a little so that he could watch her as she talked.
“You’re right, Daniel. I am ignorant.”
“You’re no such thing. It is not my place to make you feel that way at all and I was wrong to do so. You are a bright girl who learns fast. I’m a thousand years old, darling. We old guys can be full of ourselves.”
“No, really, Daniel, I want to know the things that you know. I am fascinated really at all the things you know and I so wish you would teach me. I love it when you suddenly break out with the lines of a poem or a play. You have so much knowledge. I want to know your mind.”
“Oh sweetheart, you are such a dear, dear girl. Of course I will teach you anything you want to know.”
“Well, what about this journey to Ithaca? Why did you mention that just now?”
“You said that you were impatient to get on with your life and the poem talks of this – of the need not to be impatient on life’s journey. Would you like to read it, darling?”
“Yes, I very much would. May I?”
“Of course, you may. Come with me.”
He took her by the hand and both naked they walked along the hall way and into his library; a room with floor to ceiling bookcases. She watched amazed as within those hundreds and hundreds of books he laid his hands on the book he wanted almost immediately. He opened the book to the desired page and handed it to her.
“Read it, Camilla. Slowly. Carefully. Enjoy it. I shall make us a pot of tea and when I return we shall talk about the poem.”
She watched him leave and wondered what it was he saw in her; a lowly young girl with so much to learn about life while he was esteemed and beloved by the whole university; an icon and a truly gifted man.
She turned her attention to the poem on the page and focussed hard on the beautiful words. More than anything in life she wanted to impress him; for him to be proud and pleased.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Enough
He had been sitting at his desk all afternoon. Regardless of the fact that it was a beautiful sunny Saturday he pored over the papers in front of him, fiscally focused.
She had been looking forward to the weekend; an opportunity to reconnect with him after a long stressful week. He had relied on her to follow his instructions and allow him to get on with his work unheeded but unwittingly she had done the wrong thing and felt the sting of his disapproving words.
She kept herself busy in all other areas of their home except, of course, the one he was in. She cleaned the bathroom until it shined, and made the house look pretty and neat. She baked. And, on a tray she placed a cup of hot coffee and a piece of the flourless orange cake he could never resist.
She quietly and hesitantly opened the study door, fearing that she might be denied entry with his growl to not disturb. But, he said nothing as she walked towards his desk and placed the tray to one side.
She stood there in silence and after several seconds he gestured to her to come around to stand beside him as he sat. She did so and he brought his hand out to quietly tap her bottom twice.
"Good girl. Leave the old man to work now."
She moved away and left the room; closed the door as quietly as she had opened it.
It was very little but enough. She returned to her tasks feeling lighter and loved.
She had been looking forward to the weekend; an opportunity to reconnect with him after a long stressful week. He had relied on her to follow his instructions and allow him to get on with his work unheeded but unwittingly she had done the wrong thing and felt the sting of his disapproving words.
She kept herself busy in all other areas of their home except, of course, the one he was in. She cleaned the bathroom until it shined, and made the house look pretty and neat. She baked. And, on a tray she placed a cup of hot coffee and a piece of the flourless orange cake he could never resist.
She quietly and hesitantly opened the study door, fearing that she might be denied entry with his growl to not disturb. But, he said nothing as she walked towards his desk and placed the tray to one side.
She stood there in silence and after several seconds he gestured to her to come around to stand beside him as he sat. She did so and he brought his hand out to quietly tap her bottom twice.
"Good girl. Leave the old man to work now."
She moved away and left the room; closed the door as quietly as she had opened it.
It was very little but enough. She returned to her tasks feeling lighter and loved.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Over to the other side
I chose to pursue English Literature when I was at university. The poet that most affected me was Emily Dickinson.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.
There is another lovely poem of hers:
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?
I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.
But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.
What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.
What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.
And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.
There is another lovely poem of hers:
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?
I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.
But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.
What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.
What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.
And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?
Monday, November 15, 2010
Asking
A weekly ‘correction’ has been an idea that has appealed to me for a long time. As much as the idea of a punishment has an erotic appeal to me and is most certainly a big factor in so many of my fantasies, in reality I don’t respond to corporal discipline all that well. My husband isn’t inclined to that since he realized that corporal punishment brought out the feisty, rebellious side of me and he couldn’t see the point in having corporal discipline if it wasn’t doing us good.
Maybe a month ago now, I came to him with the suggestion that we have a weekly ‘correction’. It would be at the same time each week but other than that the details of it were up to him. He expressed his concern. He loved me. He didn’t want to inflict pain on me really. But, didn’t he get excited every time he did do that? Yes, he assured me he did. So, if I was asking him to give me a weekly correction, asking for him to inflict pain, was he all right with that? More than all right apparently because although it was not Saturday morning, the time agreed, he thought we should start right away.
Out came the ropes to tie me to the bedroom chair very securely and into my mouth went the ball gag. It had been a long time since I’d felt more than a few strokes of the cane, and although my mouth was filled I managed to scream my way around the gag with every stroke. But, I loved every nasty minute of it, the lovely sex afterwards and the delicious feel of being sore every time I sat down over the day.
The following Saturday, I was tied to the bed. Arms stretched out and tied to the front and back right post of the bed, but my feet were left alone. This time he used the ring gag and his choice of implement was a flat thick wooden slicer, the sort you use to turn something in a flying pan. From the first wack of that implement I registered my protest with deep, guttural shrieks. It stunk like the bejesus and I swear the cane is easier to take than a paddle. But, on he went to all intents and purposes having a swell old time flaying into my backside while I pulled on the ropes in some vain attempt that I could actually get away. Yet, low and behold, the sex afterwards was heavenly and my state of mind all weekend wonderfully elevated. Off to the races we went and my little heart was filled with joy and love.
This past weekend, I woke on Saturday morning laid low. My throat was very sore, my head ached and it was clear this girl wasn’t up to a thrashing. On Sunday morning, I feared that he would let it go; let me off the hook. I knew I didn’t have the courage to ask again. But, he came through with flying colours. We spoke of walking the dogs to a breakfast place and agreed to do that and I thought that was that but just as I was thinking of a shower, he told me the correction needed to come first.
Over the bed again (it’s high and I can bend over it at hip level) and tied tightly to the bedposts and this time, my ankles too. I was utterly and completely secured.
“Think about the past week. Is there anything about your behaviour that requires correction?”
I tend to go to water at these moments.
“Ummmm, I can’t think of anything...”
“Well you better hurry up because if you don’t, it won’t bode well for you.”
“Well, I answered you back a couple of times. I was a bit argumentative a couple of times.”
“Yes, you were. Unnecessarily so. Anything else?”
“I...I don’t think so...”
“Well, there is the issue of the petrol gauge being on empty again and we didn’t deal with that yet so that will have to be taken into account, won’t it?”
“Yes, owner.”
“Hmmmmm”
I’ve never managed to convince my husband that a girl needs a warm up before a caning. He brought his hand down a few times but it had little bearing on the fact that the first stroke bit into me and had me howl.
“May I please have a gag for my mouth?”
I do so much better when I can focus my energies on something in my mouth.
“Certainly. Which one would you prefer?”
“The cocki gag please.”
So, in it went and I felt ever so much better. For a guy that shows reservation with corporal punishment I have to give my husband full marks in acting since he certainly appears to be enjoying himself as he wallops my bottom and produces red stripes across white skin.
I did not cry but I did come up as high as I could a few times towards the end, rather like a horse neighs his protest up into the air, only to find that my restraints were tight and binding and I had nowhere to go.
One of his favourite little tricks is for me to think that he is done. He will come to me and be tender with me, perhaps rubbing my bottom a little or touching my face as I breathe hard and go into the phase of recovery.
“A few more, I think. Not quite done yet.”
But, again, the sex was very, very good and the day, a perfectly happy one.
We are only three weeks into this ritual but it is going very well. It meets my needs and I honestly don’t think it is onerous for him. I’m not getting that impression.
But, I did need to ask for this. It was not going to happen if I did not ask. I would encourage others who are cognisant of a need to discuss that need with their partner and see if you can’t come to an arrangement. Asking is not easy but then again, not getting for what you need has no upside at all.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Lord Byron
I have been given the task of producing my favourite poem, of about 14 lines for my son to learn and recite to the class. Out came my favourite anthology of poetry from my university days that has travelled around the world several times. I wandered all about it but always knew that Lord Byron would win the day. He was a most difficult man but that's my speciality and he had such a way with words...
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Profile of Lily: a masochist
I was walking my puppies at the park when a girl I shall call Lily engaged me in conversation. At first it was all about the dogs and we chatted amiably, but she flitted from one subject to another and dispersed into the conversation enough of her opinions for me to know from the outset that she had some eccentricity or other. I don’t always enjoy eccentricity in conversations with strangers any more than I enjoy receiving phone calls from strangers trying to tell me that I am the winner of a holiday package, but I felt not the least unease as I spoke to her. Rather than making excuses that I needed to get moving, I found her rather fascinating and was keen to know more about her.
She moved through a variety of topics and her own personal life story at enormous speed and in the course of thirty minutes I knew a great deal about her. Her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. Although she didn’t say so specifically, he must have been a mean drunk because apparently he told her constantly that he hated her. She had wanted to be an actress but she thought that perhaps she lacked the confidence to follow through with that desire due to the messages she received as a girl. It was the one and only time during our conversation that she expressed any regret or self-pity, or any sense at all that she was looking backwards and not forwards.
There was considerable mental illness on one side with her grandparents. One grandfather tried to take his life many times and her sister tried to take her life nine times, although she is relatively stable now “compared to what she was”. She feels fortunate to have the genes of the other grandparents who were creative and resilient. To generalize, she said that her family was quite “mad”. It was not a complaint. It was a statement of fact.
She told me that she had been an art and drama teacher but that state government policies had closed down half the art, drama and media courses in public schools at the time of her graduation (she is right) and that most of her contemporaries never worked in the profession for which they had been trained. She did procure a job at a local secondary school but the Principal and Vice Principal had been having an affair for years, the school was in chaos and the “bastard” made sure that she didn’t get her job back in the new academic year. (New teachers are often employed here year by year, with no certainty of what the next academic year will bring.)
She’s done other jobs, not focussing at all on money but rather looking for “experiences”. She worked in a prison for a time conducting an art and drama course for the inmates and she started up an after school care program at a school where those children could be involved in art and drama at least in an after school capacity. I suspect that she has considerable creative talent and great flair when working with other people, especially children but that her difficulties with order and with keeping up with the paperwork required for such jobs meant that people could feel she was not performing as required. Although she was wholly responsible for the only dog that she was walking for payment, she rarely checked to see that he was still there. To be fair, the dog chose to be by her side the vast majority of the time.
From what I could make of it, right now she is just walking the dogs for her income although she may sell some paintings. She referred to herself as both a writer and an artist. There was no question she was very articulate and well read, with a strong interest in film (her major), although she had no interest in print or television media whatsoever seeing it as mere manipulation, untruthful and unworthy of her time.
Most of all, Lily likes to move, to walk, to be outside and to engage in conversation with others. She said that she could tell right away that I wasn’t put off by anything she had to say and this prompted her to go on. She said that was rather unusual. She loved going back to study as a mature age student although she admits she “starved” to do so and her family were completely unsupportive of this initiative.
She was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) at the age of 44 but I strongly suspect she means ADHD since she has clearly been very hyperactive. She seems less the kind of person that would get lost day dreaming in a classroom as she would be in trouble for expressing herself inappropriately. In fact, she said social situations have been difficult since she would interrupt people when they were speaking and not realize that it really bothered them.
Lily has been all over the city looking for help for many years. She said that even psychiatrists at the top of their profession had been unable to help her until one day she looked up the yellow pages phone book and decided to make an appointment at the medical centre where I happen to go. In fact, she found herself sitting in front of my doctor. She couldn’t remember his surname at the time but she knew his Christian name and I volunteered his surname. She was gobsmacked that we should share the same doctor but as soon as she had began to speak of what a wonderful doctor she now had and how he had saved her life, I knew of whom she spoke.
Chris is a man who has made it his business to understand various neurological conditions, most especially ADD/ADHD and somehow or others the gods have sent many troubled people his way to be helped. We have spoken of it often for various reasons not to mention that there have been incidences where we needed to stop what we were doing whilst he took a call from some institution that was holding a patient of his who had asked them to ring him. He would politely tell the caller he had made great strides with the person they were holding, to please advise him when his patient was to be released and to tell him or her to come and see him then; that together they would sort it out.
Chris sent Lily off to a psychiatrist and had her assessed so that he could prescribe suitable medication, gave her the titles of books to read, the names of people who could assist her with setting up positive thinking modes and order in her life. They get together to review regularly. She told me that a great many things had fallen into place in her life. She now realized why she had behaved as she had all her life and she was able to articulate her personal characteristics with great clarity. She said that ADD people are not just anxious at times of great stress, but they are anxious a good deal of the time. Whereas most people walk into a room and wonder for what purpose they did so every now and again, this kind of distractive behaviour occurs to her all the time.
Being a girl with ADD was especially difficult she thought, because she can’t do what girls are expected to do: to keep the house neat and tidy. ADD people can’t stand to be bored, requiring constant stimulation of their frontal lobes to feel good and so doing things that are boring to them is like water torture. They hypo focus, she said, and so become immersed in projects wanting to know everything about a subject of interest. Often, what needed to get done was put aside for other pursuits that were more compelling.
She felt proud of herself that she hadn’t given up and had the tenacity and the resilience to go on. In fact, she clearly loved life, lived alone in an apartment that was expensive for her but she was paying her way , rode her bike everywhere, loved animals and nature and most of all, she loved talking to people. She talked in detail about internal pain and how people can feel desperate to do anything to stop the pain; that her sister discovered the strategy of self-harm to avoid pain by chance. A mirror broke and shattered and she discovered that a shard of glass that cut her skin had helped. However, she expressed disdain for people who took their life if it involved other people. If they wanted to take their lives that was all right but if they decided to jump in front of a train and destroy the life of a train driver who got to relive the images all his days, then that was very wrong.
She offered all this information very freely. There was no need for me to tell her anything about myself at all and since I remained interested in what she had to say, I only needed to agree, to nod, to express interest or to ask for clarification and that kept the conversation moving on. There came a moment when she wanted to tell me something that she considered “private” and her pace slowed somewhat and her voice dropped.
“This is rather private, but, you know, my father was a sadist and perhaps because of that and the way he treated me, I am attracted to sadists. I identify as a masochist.”
I gave nothing away. I merely nodded in acknowledgment. Eventually, we began to walk and talk on our way out of the park with the dogs and she asked me what star sign I was and I told her that I was a Scorpio. She felt sure that I was, she told me and she proceeded to tell me all about myself. I don’t give hardly anything away on the surface but underneath I feel very deeply and have great empathy for people. I am very curious. I care a lot about people.
“I’m Lilly, by the way.”
“Vesta.”
“Well, it has been wonderful talking to you, Vesta. I am so happy to meet you.”
“It has been wonderful to meet you too Lily. Do you come to this park regularly?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Then, we shall see one again.”
We said our goodbyes and my head was full of what this amazing woman could achieve if we could only get it (and her) organized. We had spoken of the need for educators to understand conditions such as ADD so that students could be better cared for and have better outcomes and I suggested that she would be an ideal person to talk to groups of students about her life and what had helped her. She agreed she would love to do that and had considered it, but of course whether the education department would fund it so that she had an income from the work is another matter.
Lily is articulate, engaging, bright and well versed in conditions that have made life a challenge for her and her family. It is the sort of story that could turn life around for many students who would connect with what she had to say in ways particular to them.
When I told my husband about her my main concern was that she was so vulnerable to sadists who would simply use her and spit her out for her submissive state of mind and I admit I have a desire to shelter her from harm. In the hands of a caring, attentive and loving sadist, I really think she could shine.
She moved through a variety of topics and her own personal life story at enormous speed and in the course of thirty minutes I knew a great deal about her. Her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. Although she didn’t say so specifically, he must have been a mean drunk because apparently he told her constantly that he hated her. She had wanted to be an actress but she thought that perhaps she lacked the confidence to follow through with that desire due to the messages she received as a girl. It was the one and only time during our conversation that she expressed any regret or self-pity, or any sense at all that she was looking backwards and not forwards.
There was considerable mental illness on one side with her grandparents. One grandfather tried to take his life many times and her sister tried to take her life nine times, although she is relatively stable now “compared to what she was”. She feels fortunate to have the genes of the other grandparents who were creative and resilient. To generalize, she said that her family was quite “mad”. It was not a complaint. It was a statement of fact.
She told me that she had been an art and drama teacher but that state government policies had closed down half the art, drama and media courses in public schools at the time of her graduation (she is right) and that most of her contemporaries never worked in the profession for which they had been trained. She did procure a job at a local secondary school but the Principal and Vice Principal had been having an affair for years, the school was in chaos and the “bastard” made sure that she didn’t get her job back in the new academic year. (New teachers are often employed here year by year, with no certainty of what the next academic year will bring.)
She’s done other jobs, not focussing at all on money but rather looking for “experiences”. She worked in a prison for a time conducting an art and drama course for the inmates and she started up an after school care program at a school where those children could be involved in art and drama at least in an after school capacity. I suspect that she has considerable creative talent and great flair when working with other people, especially children but that her difficulties with order and with keeping up with the paperwork required for such jobs meant that people could feel she was not performing as required. Although she was wholly responsible for the only dog that she was walking for payment, she rarely checked to see that he was still there. To be fair, the dog chose to be by her side the vast majority of the time.
From what I could make of it, right now she is just walking the dogs for her income although she may sell some paintings. She referred to herself as both a writer and an artist. There was no question she was very articulate and well read, with a strong interest in film (her major), although she had no interest in print or television media whatsoever seeing it as mere manipulation, untruthful and unworthy of her time.
Most of all, Lily likes to move, to walk, to be outside and to engage in conversation with others. She said that she could tell right away that I wasn’t put off by anything she had to say and this prompted her to go on. She said that was rather unusual. She loved going back to study as a mature age student although she admits she “starved” to do so and her family were completely unsupportive of this initiative.
She was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) at the age of 44 but I strongly suspect she means ADHD since she has clearly been very hyperactive. She seems less the kind of person that would get lost day dreaming in a classroom as she would be in trouble for expressing herself inappropriately. In fact, she said social situations have been difficult since she would interrupt people when they were speaking and not realize that it really bothered them.
Lily has been all over the city looking for help for many years. She said that even psychiatrists at the top of their profession had been unable to help her until one day she looked up the yellow pages phone book and decided to make an appointment at the medical centre where I happen to go. In fact, she found herself sitting in front of my doctor. She couldn’t remember his surname at the time but she knew his Christian name and I volunteered his surname. She was gobsmacked that we should share the same doctor but as soon as she had began to speak of what a wonderful doctor she now had and how he had saved her life, I knew of whom she spoke.
Chris is a man who has made it his business to understand various neurological conditions, most especially ADD/ADHD and somehow or others the gods have sent many troubled people his way to be helped. We have spoken of it often for various reasons not to mention that there have been incidences where we needed to stop what we were doing whilst he took a call from some institution that was holding a patient of his who had asked them to ring him. He would politely tell the caller he had made great strides with the person they were holding, to please advise him when his patient was to be released and to tell him or her to come and see him then; that together they would sort it out.
Chris sent Lily off to a psychiatrist and had her assessed so that he could prescribe suitable medication, gave her the titles of books to read, the names of people who could assist her with setting up positive thinking modes and order in her life. They get together to review regularly. She told me that a great many things had fallen into place in her life. She now realized why she had behaved as she had all her life and she was able to articulate her personal characteristics with great clarity. She said that ADD people are not just anxious at times of great stress, but they are anxious a good deal of the time. Whereas most people walk into a room and wonder for what purpose they did so every now and again, this kind of distractive behaviour occurs to her all the time.
Being a girl with ADD was especially difficult she thought, because she can’t do what girls are expected to do: to keep the house neat and tidy. ADD people can’t stand to be bored, requiring constant stimulation of their frontal lobes to feel good and so doing things that are boring to them is like water torture. They hypo focus, she said, and so become immersed in projects wanting to know everything about a subject of interest. Often, what needed to get done was put aside for other pursuits that were more compelling.
She felt proud of herself that she hadn’t given up and had the tenacity and the resilience to go on. In fact, she clearly loved life, lived alone in an apartment that was expensive for her but she was paying her way , rode her bike everywhere, loved animals and nature and most of all, she loved talking to people. She talked in detail about internal pain and how people can feel desperate to do anything to stop the pain; that her sister discovered the strategy of self-harm to avoid pain by chance. A mirror broke and shattered and she discovered that a shard of glass that cut her skin had helped. However, she expressed disdain for people who took their life if it involved other people. If they wanted to take their lives that was all right but if they decided to jump in front of a train and destroy the life of a train driver who got to relive the images all his days, then that was very wrong.
She offered all this information very freely. There was no need for me to tell her anything about myself at all and since I remained interested in what she had to say, I only needed to agree, to nod, to express interest or to ask for clarification and that kept the conversation moving on. There came a moment when she wanted to tell me something that she considered “private” and her pace slowed somewhat and her voice dropped.
“This is rather private, but, you know, my father was a sadist and perhaps because of that and the way he treated me, I am attracted to sadists. I identify as a masochist.”
I gave nothing away. I merely nodded in acknowledgment. Eventually, we began to walk and talk on our way out of the park with the dogs and she asked me what star sign I was and I told her that I was a Scorpio. She felt sure that I was, she told me and she proceeded to tell me all about myself. I don’t give hardly anything away on the surface but underneath I feel very deeply and have great empathy for people. I am very curious. I care a lot about people.
“I’m Lilly, by the way.”
“Vesta.”
“Well, it has been wonderful talking to you, Vesta. I am so happy to meet you.”
“It has been wonderful to meet you too Lily. Do you come to this park regularly?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Then, we shall see one again.”
We said our goodbyes and my head was full of what this amazing woman could achieve if we could only get it (and her) organized. We had spoken of the need for educators to understand conditions such as ADD so that students could be better cared for and have better outcomes and I suggested that she would be an ideal person to talk to groups of students about her life and what had helped her. She agreed she would love to do that and had considered it, but of course whether the education department would fund it so that she had an income from the work is another matter.
Lily is articulate, engaging, bright and well versed in conditions that have made life a challenge for her and her family. It is the sort of story that could turn life around for many students who would connect with what she had to say in ways particular to them.
When I told my husband about her my main concern was that she was so vulnerable to sadists who would simply use her and spit her out for her submissive state of mind and I admit I have a desire to shelter her from harm. In the hands of a caring, attentive and loving sadist, I really think she could shine.
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