Monday, March 29, 2010

Boarding school life

Regular readers would know by now that I have both a rich fantasy life and a soft spot for a spanking scenario and/or story. I left school a long time ago but I remain faithful to the fantasy of being a student at a very strict boarding school. My parents, most particularly my father, is in full agreement with the philosophy of the school that a young lady requires training in the finer arts of being a good wife for her to soon to be husband. To that end, lessons at the school go beyond the normal curriculum offered at most other schools and a Master or Matron has full access to a girl. Naturally, there is no sexual contact between a Master and a girl, but nonetheless a girl's nakedness is necessary to impart many of her lessons.

Girls sleep four to a room and each girl has a bed just like the one in this photograph. Such a bed is invaluable in the school of my fantasy life. Girls often wait for Matron standing at the edge of their beds, and of course they are naked when they do so. On some evenings, Matron will wish to inspect the girls. Not only will she be inspecting that their fingernails and ears are scrupulously clean, but their entire body.

"Spread your cheeks, girl," is an instruction she will often give the girls. Not only is she checking for cleanliness but also for progress, for at this school a girl is trained such that all her openings will be readily available for her soon to be suitor and husband.

And, of course, Matron, in conjunction with the schoolmaster, will have made notes on a girl's behaviour and progress for the day, or lack thereof. Should a girl's behaviour found to be wanting, and heavens knows, it so often is, the bars of the bed will be perfect for Matron to tie the girl to whilst she takes from the bedside table a wooden hairbrush with which to admonish her. Many is the night when the girls are sent off to sleep with brandished bottoms in hope that the following day will see improvement in their abilities to please.

Sometimes, Matron chooses to leave a girl bent over the edge of the bed for an hour or more prior to bedtime before she is untied, in order that the other three girls may make note of her marked and bruised backside. There is nothing so salutary, she thinks, than observing another's punished bottom and doing one's best to avoid a similar outcome.

Sometimes, Matron also uses the frame of the bed as the perfect place to bend a girl to insert a plug into her ass before the girl is tucked into bed for the night. But, perhaps I've shocked you enough for now with my fantasies. So many of you read the perversions of my mind; download the photographs, but still, I worry that it all too much. The comments don't exactly fly into my email inbox. Or, do you want more and are too shy to say?

I wonder...

Sunday, March 28, 2010

The Strap

A lovely family get together on the weekend in a relaxing, country garden led to some really interesting and, for me, kinky thought-inducing conversations. It was the kinky thought part of the day that I thought you folk might be interested in...

The matriarch of the family, a most beloved woman, and apparently the best granny a child could ever ask for, or so I was told by endless grandchildren, had married a man who it seems was a strict disciplinarian. He had a strap and he was not shy about using it if the children were naughty. The story was told to me by the son but it seems that his three sisters’ bottoms were not spared either, and they were all pretty familiar with that piece of leather routinely used to correct their behaviour.

Sometimes, when Hamish deemed that his son needed correction, his mother would intervene. Now, she didn’t intervene in the usual way that mothers do. She didn’t say, “Oh, Hamish, please don’t belt my darling son. He’s a good boy really and I am sure he meant no harm.” (Or words to that effect). Instead she would say to her husband,

“I’ll handle this, dear.”

She’d take the strap from him and take her son to the study whereupon she would close the door and say,

“Now, when I hit the arm of the couch make sure you yelp loud. Got it?”

And, on would go the charade with this dear woman belting away at her couch whilst her son yelped away on cue, eventually whimpering his way out of the room to have a little mock cry in his room.

It was the story he wanted to tell on her passing, all these years later. His much loved mother had been his protector when he was a boy and continued to love him and all her great big family with exuberant abundance to her dying day.

I was not surprised to hear the story really. She was an amazing woman, the likes of which won’t be seen again, nor the times in which she lived. I relished the opportunity to see the photographs of her life on display and there was one of her sitting with her husband. They looked completely at one, and he not at all the disciplinarian of his son’s story to me. And yet, there was a steely looks in those eyes that I would have missed on first glance.

How clever she was to keep him happy and content! She had him think that she was in accord with his disciplinary views whilst she went about bringing up of the children in her own way. For you see, she was no ‘walk over’. She had most exacting expectations of behaviour of the children and when she gave away money to the grandchildren towards the end of the life, she did it a few years before she died, so that she had some input as to what they did with the money.

“She didn’t exactly give instructions as to what we were to do with the money,” explained one grandchild to me, but she made it clear in her letter to me that I was to think carefully about how I would spend the money.” She said that if I were to buy a house, it should be a house “to raise a happy family” and “a welcoming home.” She wanted the best of the past to remain in their lives and for their lives to be led in a noble and nourishing way. Born nearly a hundred years ago, she was a woman who embraced the youth, absolutely adoring the babies, but holding on with all her might to a more genteel time when manners, etiquette and hospitality were exemplary.

This morning, my mind is filled with those times, of fathers who disciplined with the strap and of daughters who either did as they were told or were corrected for their behaviour. Of course, I know that in reality, it is not like a film of the outback where Sam Neill is playing a part of the strict father and has a manly study in which he takes his daughter for punishment. My mind, however, is a whole other thing and when I think about these sorts of events they are translated to be something very arousing.


I’ve been sent home with a note from the school master, you see. He’d been scolding me for not doing all of my homework and had written a letter to my father advising him that his daughter was not attending to her school work sufficiently well. I am told to give the letter to my father that evening and return it to him the next morning before school, signed. In this way, he can be sure that the letter is seen by my father, and of course, he’ll want to know what action my father took.

I feel a sense of dread at having to take the note from him and I consider whether to appeal to the schoolmaster to deal with me himself. Must we tell Father? But, I’ve tried that before. The schoolmaster considers it imperative that fathers be advised of unacceptable behaviour and his suggestion in the past was that he punish me himself but that a letter to Father advising him of this would still need to be delivered. The chances of double punishment were too great to risk.

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

My afternoon is miserable and when I finally tell Mother that I have a note to give to Father from the schoolmaster she simply sighs, and tells me that I should knock on his study door immediately after dinner. Mother is not like Hamish’s mother at all! But, she has the good sense to know that it is better to feed Father a good meal first before notes from schoolmasters are delivered.

I am especially quiet at dinner. My appearance is clean and neat and my manners beyond reproach but I don’t have much of an appetite. Even so, the policy is that all food presented must be eaten and I don’t dare to leave a morsel. In this way, Mother has been kind because she has quietly instructed Molly, the woman employed to help Mother with me and all my siblings, that Margaret should only have a small helping this evening.

When dinner is over and the girls have finished clearing the dining table, Father resides to his study and tonight, Mother asks me to bring Father his pot of tea. I already have the letter in my pocket and I take from her the silver tray. Our eyes do not meet.

I knock on the door, as required. “Enter” says Father. I place the silver tray with the tea service upon the grand oak desk.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“You are most welcome, Father.”

Father has already returned to his writing.

I go and stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, one wrist above the other.

“Excuse me, Father...”

“Yes, Margaret?”

“Mr. Draculas asked me to give you a note.”

I take the note from out of my pocket and hand it to him and return my hands to their submissive place behind my back.

Father sighs. Another naughty child to deal with...

He reads the note and looks up.

“Margaret, I pay very good money for you to have the opportunity to receive a good education. You must give your full attention to your studies. Mr Draculas is perfectly correct. You need a reminder of your place, girl, and of my expectations of you. Fetch me the strap.”

Although I am certain that these words will be spoken the moment Mr Draculas has begun to write the note, my stomach does a double back flip. I am stricken with fear but know that no good will come from dragging my heels or begging for mercy. On the contrary, Father wants to see a contrite girl; a girl that knows that her correction is for her own good and very much deserved.

I walk to the door I have come through and from the hook at the back of the door I gather the strap and pass it over to Father.

“Assume the position, Margaret, over the desk.”

Whilst Father stands up and walks around the desk, I move closer to it and before bending over the desk, reach under my skirt to take down my panties to my knees. I grip the other side of the desk tightly. I already know that if I raise myself up I will only prolong the correction and so I must hold the edge very firmly indeed. It is Father who gathers the skirt up over my back to reveal my bare bottom.

“Count the strokes please, Margaret.”

Without wasting time, Father begins the task of turning my pale bottom first pink, then a light red and then a deep, scarlet red. Throughout the correction, I do my best to call out the numbers with some self control and decorum.

“Four, thank you, Sir.”

“”Niiiiine, thank you, Sir.”

Twwwweeeeelvvvvvvve, thank you, Sir.”

Finally, Father returns the strap to the hook on the back of the door.

“Attend to your clothing, Margaret.”

Father returns to his seat.

“Have you anything to say, Margaret?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for providing me with discipline, Father. My punishment was richly deserved and I shall try much harder to rise to your expectations.”

“Very well, my dear. I am sure you will. You are a good girl when you try your best. Now, I have signed the letter and it must be returned to Mr. Draculas first thing in the morning. Please give him my thanks for bringing the matter to my attention. Now, go and do your homework immediately, please.

“Yes Sir.”

I turn, ready to exit at a fast pace.


I turn back.

“Yes, Father?”

“Two hundred lines, please, to be done straight after you have completed all your homework.

‘School girls who do not attend to their tasks shall be corrected with the strap.” Give them to Mr. Draculas, please. We don’t want him thinking I am going soft on you.”

“No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

I return to my room and with a quick rub of my tender bottom, begin my tasks.


At a certain point of the afternoon yesterday, my husband sidled up to me and whispered, “What are you thinking, cindi? If only they knew!!”

If only, indeed!

Friday, March 26, 2010

Eroticizing submission

It has been pointed out to me by a dear friend with my best interests at heart, that I tend to "eroticize" my submission. I can't disagree with that. I do find the act of submission incredibly erotic on so many levels that my mind is (eventually) able to eroticize just about anything related to domination and submission; at least, as it has been presented to me thus far. Now, if someone were just straight out horrible or abusive or inattentive that would not be erotic but even being told off or dismissed, which in the moment is not remotely pleasant to me, is ultimately erotic to me. It is just the way my mind processes it all and what keeps me humming along. I get a great deal of enjoyment out of it all, so long as the connection remain strong.

I find this photograph incredibly erotic: a total turn on, and stunningly beautiful. I imagine it is a dominant man's great joy to have his submissive dressed in such a way. She is available to him at a moment's notice; whenever he pleases. He can stroke her, or feel her or spank her, according to his whim, or if she should provoke him in some way: perhaps by merely existing! There are no panties to soak up her juices or to distract her from the fact that she is all woman or her true purpose. And, she revels in the knowledge that she may be found enticing by him; his play thing. She may go about her duties suitably attired but ready for him: at his beck and call.

We can see that she has already been spanked quite soundly and been told to kneel to remind her of her place. Perhaps he did it himself, or perhaps he called for his stocky Scottish house maid to attend to the task before he spoke with her himself. Some may say that she is now suitably chastened and repentant. Perhaps, she is hopeful he will dismiss her soon to go about completing her duties. Surely the Master of the house will have mercy on her and send her on her way.

Oh no! Not at all! Her mind is awash with pleasure, her juices (and her creative juices) are flowing and she sits in silent waiting, forever hopeful that he will be unable to hold himself back from touching her, caressing her, feeling her and fucking her.

Lucky l'il thin!

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

In love with leather

Upon reading Deity’s evocative post about his girl’s newly acquired ballet boots, I was prompted to consider what any item of leather might mean to me. I thought hard but nothing immediately came to mind. I love a number of leather items I own but I would not call any of them "obsessions". I happen to have a few obsessions but they are not made of leather. That is a topic for another day. Then, I thought about two men whom I know well and what an item of leather had meant to them. And, that made me smile with three rather poignant and most pleasurable memories.

First, I have a story about my husband. The two of us were having a dirty weekend in New York City. We were having a most enjoyable stroll down Madison Avenue when my husband saw a lovely men’s shoe store and he gestured that he wanted to enter. It was one of those stores where you enter if they allow you to enter. You know what I mean. So, in we went and my husband spotted a pair of ankle boots. They were beautiful soft leather and a really decadent, sexy pair of boots, I must say. He tried them on and was clearly in love. He simply could not hide that fact. I knew. The salesman knew. The price was ridiculously high and it never entered my head that my husband would actually buy them. He is a generous man but very rarely chooses to spend money on himself unless necessary. You could see him thinking but he wasn’t saying much. He took a look at the price again.

“Is this your best price?” he asked the smooth Italian salesman.

“I could ask for more, Sir, if you prefer...”

We both laughed. It was such a silly question but he can’t help himself.

There was silence for what seemed the longest time. Then the salesman said, in his honey smooth Italian accent,

“Oh come on! You know you want them...”

I was laughing wildly now. He had my husband’s number and that was all there was to that!

“Okay. I’ll take them.”

He has absolutely adored those boots and still enjoys wearing them to this day.

The second story is about the man for whom I worked. One year he brought back from Italy a beautiful soft leather briefcase. He really loved it, and it sat on the chair in the corner of the office right beside his big, leather embossed wooden desk. I can’t tell you how often he looked over at the briefcase, how often he smelled it to take in its aroma, and how pleased he was to pick it up again one more time when he went off to a meeting.

One day, a good friend and a board member made note that he seemed to be really enjoying his new briefcase. My boss replied rapturously,

“I could marry it!”

We all fell about laughing because it was the truth!

And, one more story because you are such good listeners...

One year, I was given a voucher to Bloomingdales department store. There was a sale going on too and I acquired a lovely, very soft brown leather jacket for a very good price. I bought it home and showed it to my husband who adored it the moment he saw it.

“Take everything off and put on the jacket,” he said.

I did that and down on the bed I went. He thoroughly enjoyed making love. But, was he making love to me or the jacket?

I am still not quite sure!

Monday, March 22, 2010

Sexual explorations

Sex is a significant part of my power exchange relationship. In essence, a power exchange is an expression of one’s sexuality along with one’s nature. A submissive looks to sexually submit and a dominant looks to sexually dominate. My need for satisfying sex with my husband, however, is not only about maintaining the connection with him but also with providing me with a life force obtainable in no other way. I am fully aware of myself as a sexual entity and I have a strong desire for my body to be serviced as well as to be of service to him.

I’ve spoken before about my response to reading ‘The Story of O’. It was as if someone had taken a match to an unlit fire and very soon the heat was overpowering. The images that the words evoked for me in numerous scenes brought to life a part of me that I barely knew existed. For years and years, even now, I only need to read a passage to feel a desire for sex that comes from the pit of my soul. The alteration of her wardrobe such that O was more available to Sir Stephen, the use of all her body for his pleasure (and hers), the acceptance of his commands without complaint, her willingness to accept physical correction are all features of her training that leave my body ready and wanting a sexual encounter of my own. In those moments of reading the words (or later just thinking about it), I have become the girl and revel in my own demise.

I liken that response to the sub space (which can last for months or even years), when a woman unearths her submissive side. I suspect I am not alone when I say that unearthing that aspect of one’s nature creates a sexual drive which appears to have no end. One climax simply leads to the desire for the next climax. I recall that my sexual appetite was voracious and there eventually came a time when, deliriously happy as he was, my husband rejected my latest advance citing utter exhaustion and a desperate need for some sleep.

Of course, there are periods when one gets on with life but I am never truly completely happy in my skin unless my sexual drive is high and I am aware of my body as a sexual object. I want to be aware of my primal drive and need for sex in a lusty sort of way; not something that my husband can unearth but that is there on the surface. I know the submissive is meant to provide service, and be “ready for use” but frankly, I am often the one who needs servicing. I love to be ravished; held down, plundered without notice. When my body has felt the relaxation that can only come from an intense sexual experience and a deep orgasm, I experience a pleasure in living that surpasses all other experiences. I am blissfully content in spite of the fact that nothing has actually changed in my life except the great sex. I see life through a different pair of eyes. My sexual appetite is (temporarily) replete and my body flushed with endorphins.

A girl cannot be trained in terms of achieving a successful power exchange relationship without attention to her sexuality. Although I always enjoyed sex, the training that I have undergone has provided me with a new way to perceive my body. I have truly embraced all my lessons and relish the opportunity I have been given to approach my sexuality with fresh eyes. Society demands that we must accept the established code of conduct but no demand is made on us to hide our sexuality from ourselves. My mind willingly accepts all the reminders enforced on me that I am an object of desire; a desirous object. Who would not enjoy the reinforcement of one’s own long held notions; that sex is good; that one’s sexuality should be constantly present, or at least just below the surface?

On one level, I am a traditionalist; married for many years, not interested in sex with other people and only attracted to men. On another level, I am totally open to suggestion in relation to my own sexuality in the search for fulfilment and enlightenment. Of course, I could not embrace my lessons if I was not a submissive woman and for me this is the gift of having been born with a submissive nature. I am not just learning my place but the place within my mind that allows me to explore in this way with such conviction and assuredness. In this way, I think a submissive woman may consider herself blessed.

Friday, March 19, 2010

What's it all about, Alfie?

Last night, my husband was cross with me. He had come to bed and once he does that he expects me to turn my lap top off right away. If he’s busy in his study, I can type away on the lap top until I knock myself out. He knows that I know when I should settle down for the night to get adequate sleep but he’s not inclined to set bedtimes or micromanage me in this way. And, if I complain the next day about being tired, he’ll remind me as to why I am tired and assure me that I’ll get no sympathy from him.

But, if he comes to bed, then he has no interest in my preoccupations and thus when I did not put away my favourite toy immediately I got ‘the rounds of the kitchen’. And, rightly so!

I tried cuddling into him but he said he was “too hot” and I tried opening up an erotic conversation but he said he didn’t want to talk about that right now.

“Goodnight,” he said with an air of finality.

“Goodnight,” I replied with an air of resignation.

Back in the doghouse again...

In the morning, upon waking I felt him reach for me and, of course, that is my cue to cuddle into him. I lay there, relieved that he wanted to cuddle, and I said, in a little girl voice,

“I’m sorry.”

“That is all I wanted to hear,” he said. “You know what is right.”

And, I do. I do know what is right. But, before we transformed our relationship into a power exchange relationship I did have a great deal of difficulty with those three little words.

I am sorry.

You see, so often when my husband was angry with me, he would raise his voice. The focus would shift from my wrongdoing to his behaviour when telling me off. My "sensibilities" were offended that he was telling me off like an irate schoolmaster and in this state, apologizing was virtually impossible for me. Letting it go was impossible for him. Our stand offs could last for a long time!

It may seem a little thing to you, but my willingness to acknowledge my wrongdoing, accept my scolding, and to offer my apology immediately is a big step for me. For my husband, it is one of the great blessings of our power exchange relationship.

The issuing of punishments is not really his thing. I imagine many a dominant man out there would suggest that the removal of the lap top for a week might have me thinking twice before being tardy about turning it off again. But, acknowledgement of the error is what was important to him.

And, in any case, he knows full well that a good old-fashioned scolding is far worse to me than any punishment he could dish out. It is a rare day when he delivers a punishment – the cane or the removal of a privilege, for example. His words of disapproval, his dismissal of me, banishment occasionally, are perfectly adequate for him to make his point. And my words of apology are nearly always enough for him as recompense of the error.

Now, don’t let me lead you astray. He loves to threaten me.

“By God, you are overdue for the cane, little girl!”

“Why don’t you repeat that? Repeat that, and see what happens!!”

“Where is that paddle? What have you done with it? When I find it I’m going to enjoy turning your ass red!”

“Did you touch yourself today, cindi? Did you???”

I’m corrected quite routinely.

“Beating your ass gives me such a bar” is one of those remarks of his that always make me smile.

There are many faces to this dynamic of ours. Love, harmony, connection, fun and pleasure is a huge part of what it is about for us.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Spanking memories

When I was young my parents were very busy running a business. I did not see a lot of them. They employed two wonderful Italian women, one that was there by day and one by night and they were surrogate mothers in many ways. I became good friends with one of their daughters, in particular, and I was often over at her house or at the ‘coffee lounge’ her father ran.

In my home life and early school life, there was no spanking. There really was not even discipline. I did my homework and music practice without being asked. I got myself ready for school. I did my chores. I truly was very (and pathetically) good.

In the life of my friend, however, there was spanking and discipline. My friend’s mother was not always there with us when I was at their home and it always intrigued/appalled me that there was this rather odd and creepy neighbour who was in charge of us.

One day, my friend suggested we pull up some cucumbers from the garden and just eat them; right there, just like that. She devoured hers but I was not all that keen on cucumber without it being sliced. Anyway, maybe we did something else other than eat the cucumbers. It is a long time ago now. But, this neighbour had a fit, in Italian. I didn’t know what he was saying but it seems we were in big trouble. I was scared out of my wits.

He took my friend inside and soon thereafter, I could hear him strapping her hands with his belt. It was totally surreal to me. I had never seen or heard anything like this and I did not like hearing my friend being hurt. I expected to be next but it seems that I was just that Aussie kid from down the street and untouchable. I was spared the strap. He growled at her in Italian and I think the idea was for her to tell me later in English what it was all about but she did not want to talk about it.

There was another Italian man; dark, quiet; mysterious. When I looked out my bedroom window I often saw him standing on the corner, resting on a cane. I found him terribly creepy for reasons I can’t explain and I asked my parents about him. It seems that he said that he had hurt his back and whilst waiting for the compensation case to be settled he hung out where people could see him, using the cane to walk. (When the case was finalized and he received his payment he threw away the cane and was able to walk perfectly well. It was quite a co-incidence.) If I put myself back in my girlhood, I can still feel the same foreboding sense when around him. I travelled a long way out of my way to avoid him and felt sick whenever I saw him. I simply cannot explain that.

My mother was friends with a woman and her son was a good friend of my brother. Once, the family of four took me with them on a trip to the country. I can’t remember why they took me but I remember the conversation in the car. We were probably being a bit naughty in the back seat. Well, probably the sons were being naughty. I’m not kidding here. I truly was very, very good back then.

In an ominous voice the father said,

“If you keep doing that John, you know what will happen when we get home, don’t you?”

John was very agitated when he said that and he replied,

“You’ll take off your belt and beat me.”

I was in shock. I was living a truly sheltered life as far as these things were concerned.

“That’s right,” said the father.

I felt I had been given to vagabonds for the day. Who talked like this?

One day, a girlfriend and I went for a walk around the neighbourhood and to the sea. We were passing a house when we heard,

“Oh, no! Please father, no more! Pleeeeeese, no more.”

We could distinctly hear the sound of leather coming down on bare skin. We looked at each other in silent dismay. Could this really be happening to this poor boy?!

A few years later, my family moved to the country and for the first time in my life I went to school with girls and boys. They were a rather naughty lot of scallywags, the boys, but I liked them. One boy was always in trouble. There was this very mean teacher at that school and I guess he was in charge of discipline because one could often hear the strap being used liberally from his office. I don’t think I ever said a single word within 50 metres of that office. I was not giving him reason to strap my hands.

On this particular day, a young, innocent lass fresh out of university was conducting her History class when this nasty teacher strode by and saw her unable to control the class. He instructed the red haired, naughty boy to come with him and right outside the classroom, in our line of vision, he strapped his hands. I can still hear the piece of leather coming down. I can still see his outstretched hand. I can still see his reddened hands when he showed the other boys later. I honestly felt that I was in an asylum. Who did these things to children?

Is my kink, my desire to be controlled and spanked and whipped, anything at all to do with these memories? Have I in some way eroticized those awful images? I have no idea. All I can say is that I have wanted to be spanked from the age of five or so. Whilst waiting for the bath to draw I would bend over and touch my toes and imagine what it would be like to have someone behind me wielding an implement over my soft, white cheeks. So, if those images are responsible for my kink, I guess some of those sorts of images occurred at a very young age. I have no way of knowing when I first observed one of these horrid events.

I have always loathed the thought of someone else being hurt. I hated those movies about ‘Tom Brown’s School days’ when they caned a boy for whistling or whatever, at the same time as I held my breath, overcome with a desire so overwhelming that I did not know what to make of my own reactions. In bed that night, I would transpose what had happened to the small, dear little schoolboy onto me. I was no longer appalled. I was wet with desire. (Picture me on an overseas flight in my thirties with Roald Dahl's 'Boy' as my entertainment - appalled and burning with desire at the very same moment...)

And, so it goes. I would move mountains to defend my children from some situation where they were to be beaten at the same time as I crave it for myself; day dream about it; write about it; hope.

The only difference with my daydreams these days is that when the nasty, nasty man puts down his cane or his belt or his whip after punishing me, he takes down his pants and plunders me, not once but three times. I guess that makes me not only kinky but perverted. Oh well!

Monday, March 15, 2010


At week's end, I experienced a weariness that could be fought no longer, and advising the boys of food in the refrigerator should I fall asleep, I took off my clothes and climbed under the covers. At 8.30 pm I began to wake but was very groggy. My husband was by my side; now kissing me; now telling me he would be right back. He soon returned with an omelet and a strong cup of tea; perfect.

One of the best things about a good marriage, or any meaningful union between two people is that it is life affirming. No one set back up, argument or period of neglect can cause it irreparable harm. It is the coming together of two souls and it endures, so long as it is tended, forever.

In recent weeks, I felt the absence of my husband, acutely. He has been in and out and we have been to events together, but my soul and my body were hungry for him; for the life force that he is and for the succor he provides me. Without him to nourish me, I became listless and very sleepy; as if I had not enough oxygen to breathe adequately or energy to get through a day.

On Friday afternoon, unlike me, I had sent him a link to my last post and on Friday evening he began the task of healing me. Dinner on a tray propped up on pillows was just the beginning. On the Saturday, he allowed me to vent. All the emotions I had been holding in to enable him to get on with his ventures were released and he patiently listened, whilst reminding me of the realities of the situation.

On Saturday evening, at a concert, the music of two sensational guitarists allowed my mind to soar to that higher realm where only divine music can take you. On Sunday morning, the two of us walked our two puppies and we shared a light, healthy breakfast out. We had not done this for ages and it was lovely to be back to being light hearted and revelling in one another's conversation on a warm weekend morning.

Sunday afternoon found us in the exquisite garden of dear friends eating sensational food and enjoying the company of their guests. I gathered oodles of information about Italy that really had me panting to visit. By Sunday evening, I had returned to my bed again, but totally happily and reinvigorated. It was what I needed; the indulgence of a lovely weekend with my husband.

Sprinkled amongst these events was lovemaking; sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but always profound. We were providing one another with an energy that is only found when two hearts come together and become one.

My weekend is over now and as I sit here this Monday morning, I find my puppies adorable, the sun sitting in the sky just right; my life, not perfect, but complete. This, he gave to me.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Here I am

When Meryl Streep as Karen Blixon in ‘Out of Africa’ walks about her farm for the last time, she wonders if Africa will remember her; the colour of the dress she has worn, perhaps.

If I should need to leave, I too wonder if the reader will remember anything of me; not as a submissive girl, the property of her owner, but just me; the girl who came into the world alone with her own individual personality to express to the world.

I think I chose my husband because I saw strength and a sense of adventure in him that I did not have. And, I think he chose me because he saw the softness of his mother and loved the ‘little girl’ sense of me that is still so often present.

To that end, we are good partners for one another. But, the truth is that I have never really fully come to terms with the fact that I have so little say over my own life.

In so many ways, my natural instincts were in accord with his wants and there was nothing to talk about. I quite instinctively put him and the children first and so we never needed to discuss things like the giving up of a career and so forth.

Even at university I quite naturally collected his washing to wash and iron and return. It did not occur to me that this was odd in any way. When we married, the cooking and the cleaning and so on was my responsibility, in spite of the fact that I worked full time, too. Very naturally, the roles were clear and he was boss.

Of course, we are two individuals and so our priorities did not, and still don’t always line up. He comes from a farm where the house was not nearly as important as the farm, and I come from a background where privacy was in short supply and thus a house of my own was very important to me. My need to make a house a comfortable, appealing home was much more important to me than it was to him and this has remained the case. We will renovate this house only when he is motivated to do so.

My husband’s sense of investment is also very different to mine. We approach investment from different places with me having less comfort with risk. At times, we have disagreed completely on a strategy and yet I have yielded to his point of view. I have signed on the dotted line exactly the way he told me to sign, against all my instincts. We invest as my husband decides.

We also approach time differently. I believe in getting up, doing a day’s work and then relaxing. I am a day person. My husband, on the other hand is a night person. He needs less sleep than me and likes to work late at night. I’ve talked to him about the possibility of keeping similar hours to the rest of the family but he has been unable to see things my way.

Accepting myself as a woman with a submissive nature allowed me to find peace with the man I love. I would no longer talk with him and ask if he might come a little more my way with how he saw the world. Rather, I would accept; acquiesce; let go of the thoughts in my own mind and accept that my life was in his hands; come what may. It was a thrill to let it go; to be so happy that I still saw the things I wanted to do with the house, for example, but in my new state of happiness with him, they barely mattered any more.

The saying goes that two heads are better than one. It was fun in those earlier days to share the load, actually. We made decisions together. He brought in the pay check once the children were born but I had made a good investment and felt proud to bring in a not too shabby annual income on my own which went into the mutual account. We renovated a house together and delighted in each new improvement.

It was when he acquired his own business that he acquired all the power. All decision making would fall to him now and whether I approved of a decision, or not, was of no importance. I confess I did not handle at all well the sense of foreboding I felt in the pit of my stomach each day for some time there. I don’t have his specific financial skills but I do have strong instincts about people and I felt great concern.

In one important moment in our lives, it dawned on me that my words expressing concern for a strategy of his would have no impact and it was in this moment that I instantly came to understand that my fate was no longer in my own hands; that my destiny was tied to him in a very new way. I had absolutely no say. I had the eyes to see but no power to act, convince, alter or save.

Time passed. I read and read searching for the light; for that change in my mindset that would allow me to find peace with a life where the giving away of your destiny to another is not only accepted, but right and good.

Here I am.

If I should need to go, I hope you will remember that above all things, I gave it my all.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Cow slut

She licks her lips. With the tip of her tongue she touches the far right of her top lip and follows the lip with her tongue all the way to the far left. She closes her eyes; tilts her head to the left.

She hears the bells; only the bells: Honey Nectar. It is a chanting sort of sound; a spiritual chant and it takes her deep into her psyche; that place not seen on the surface.

She is wearing clothes yet she can sense her body as well as if she were naked. Her breasts sit up and she is aware of her openings; of her desire to be captured.

She can almost feel his tongue on the side of her neck and the little sting of a bite on her upper back. She can almost feel the warmth of his hand as it glides down her long arm. Her pleasure in being touched as always has her fall further down into herself where she desires to feel much more.

His hand is at the back of her neck and with slight force he guides her forward. She opens her mouth and as she does she registers the familiar scent of his cock at her nostrils and then tastes the warm smoothness in the sides of her mouth. It is a comfort to her.

The girl sits at her desk and imagines. Her eyes are closed. Her hands type freefall. She breathes deeply and lets out a sigh. Her head is lowered. Is he really not there?

She is so still she is almost asleep but suddenly there is a new thought and a new mood. He has moved her; directed her to kneel and now she bends into the chair; naked, vulnerable, expectant; ready, wide awake and alert. Her breathing is shallower now and her eyes wide open. She listens with intensity for a clue.

She senses him close behind her and a moment later she feels the sting of his hand as it makes contact with her naked cheeks. He strikes her over and over again and the sensation prompts her to pout out her pussycunt; to embrace her captivity. Instinctively, she tries to move to the side to escape his warm hand and she feels his left hand on her neck now. She accepts she is in an inescapable position and this thought helps her as she burrows down in her mind. He delivers slap after slap and she sinks further into her wantonness.

She must choose whether to scream or implode. She opens her mouth and then sticks out her tongue, but brings it back in her mouth and sucks on her invisible gag instead, until the grunting takes over. She visualizes the cow mooing at the crest of the hill as the bull has its way.

He removes his clothing with abandon and without hesitation, takes her. With her plug in her ass, his cock sends shudders of intense pleasure inside of her and now she is that cow; lost to her own pleasure and delight. She bellows from deep in the back of her throat.

The music has stopped. The bells have ceased to ring and she opens her eyes; looks up at the page and her mouth forms a wry smile. Cow sluts, mind fucks; sweet day dreams.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


For us, the death of our much loved, seventeen year old dog required a long period of grief. We had no desire for a new dog for two years. But, there came a time as we watched the older children develop independent lives when we realized that a dog for our younger son was going to be important. We considered different breeds but one day before Christmas we went to visit a litter of puppies of the same breed.

In fact, only two were left and my worst fears were realized when the two children with us and my husband wanted them both. I love dogs but I have many years of experience with this and I knew that the care of the dogs, in large measure, would fall to me. I would be the one to feed them, train them, deal with them and walk them. It is just the way it is, no matter what family members say on the day of purchase.

For some months now, I have accepted their misbehaviour as part and parcel of puppyhood. I have cleaned up their piddle puddles and accepted the mess they have made with a fair degree of cheerfulness. But, enough is enough. I am over it!

I have tried being very strict and that has not worked. I have tried leaving them outside for hours only to find they urinate on my dining room carpet the moment my back is turned. I have tried shunning them, lecturing them, freaking out at them. Nothing works.

What works is my husband’s voice or the voice of my two older boys. They listen to them.

“What have you done? Get outside!” my husband says at them.

And, out the dog door they go at a fast clip. But, they just won’t take me seriously.

I know that dogs and submissive women have been compared to one another. I don’t reject the notion as out of hand and I consider what I know about that: set rules, have rituals, be firm, praise the good, admonish the bad; correct.

It all sounds so easy...if you are a dominant sort. But, for me, it could not be harder. Why can’t they just behave??!!!

I know my attitude is all wrong. I remember saying to my husband more than once in the past,

“How can the children do this to me!? Their mother! The person who does anything and everything for them! Why can’t they just behave!!!!”

And, then he gets cross at me and tells me that it doesn’t work that way and that children have to be trained.

“If you want them to put away their clothes then stand over them and watch them do it and don’t leave the room until it is done,” he has said, exasperated with me.

Is that what I am meant to do with the puppies? Waste my life standing outside waiting for them to urinate, and then do it again, eight times a day?

What in the hell am I to do!?

Sunday, March 7, 2010


I don't write here as often as I used to and whilst that can be attributed to a few factors, I think the most significant reason is that I have changed and I don't feel as comfortable here as I used to do. Regular readers know that I am being mentored and the goals of the mentoring are not in line with the original goal of this blog, which is interesting in itself for the idea of having the blog in the first place was really his. But that was then and this is now. Before the blog, I was just a gal who enjoyed writing stories about submission in her free time and he was someone who was willing to read the odd story and give me a comment.

Mentoring is a topic of D/s that I find very interesting. I've commented over on another blog about that recently and I have a couple of correspondents that I keep in touch with in relation to that topic. I have had two mentors myself and of course, a friend with more experience than another can be a mentor of sorts, too. There is no reason why a man exploring his dominance can't be aided by a dominant with more experience, either.

You might have noted that I didn't say "older" dominant in that last sentence and I did that with intention. A mentor or guide or a person who companions another need not be older at all. As Mr. Cross pointed out, age does not have much to do with mentoring a girl per se and so it is that a mentor not need be older.

I never mention my mentor by name. My previous mentor was mentioned by name but that was one we made up to preserve his anonymity. My current mentor could not care a hoot if I mentioned him by name but I don't because, well...I just don't. I'd rather be discreet. Yet, I do feel the desire to talk a little bit about the mentoring and where we are because it might help to explain why this blog can be a bit tricky for me now.

I'm not going to go into the details of the mentoring because it is highly specific to my needs and preferences and I don't feel the need for approval or comment, or to share the specifics of the mentoring. I think it should suffice to say here that the mentoring and the results of the mentoring give me great satisfaction and contentment. Rather, what I thought to share was my observations of what makes a great mentor.

A mentor needs to be able to give a little time on a fairly regular basis in the same way that a girl needs to put aside some time for the mentoring. Of course, my mentor is on the Internet, so in this case, I'm referring to online time.

He (or she) needs to ask lots of questions. He needs to know the person he is mentoring rather well. What does their life look like? What do they want? Of course, what they want can be an evolving thing so he needs to be ever vigilant about that.Let's face it, a submissive girl isn't necessarily going to share everything unless he asks very specific questions.

I think a mentor needs to be strict. Naturally, each mentor has his own style, but the respect has to be there (both ways) and when the gal (in my case) agrees to do something, then it is right that his expectation is that she carry through on the task. I've managed to sweet talk myself out of trouble over time and my mentor just isn't the type to fall for that. Whilst I loathe being in trouble at the time, I look back on those moments and realize he had no alternative. I like to think that it was a bit hard on him to be hard on me but either way, I'm grateful for the high expectations.

Since a good mentor is more than willing to scold (did I mention how much I hate that?) he needs to be able to give praise when expectations are met and on this score I give my mentor a ten out of ten. His enthusiastic giving of praise for my accomplishments is really a secret and essential ingredient, as far as I am concerned.

A good mentor must not only be willing to lead the horse to water but insist that she/it drink. Various strategies come into play with this but in my experience it is high expectations that is significant. Keeping a promise, telling the truth, obeying a command are all critical in getting a girl to the next level and knocking down her limits to reveal more of her true desires. Without high expectations on his part, she can't get there. She may be highly motivated but the value and strength of a mentor is really 'companioning' her on her own journey. I've lost count of the number of times I needed a push to do something I wanted to do before I experienced success.

Mentors must have goals in mind and it seems to me that the girl need not necessarily know what comes next or how a goal is to be achieved. A good mentor keeps a girl on her toes and slightly off balance; at least in this space.

Trust is key. A mentor has to be able to trust his girl and for this reason, I've been up front with my failings. When I'm being corrected I curse myself for being so honest but I don't think we'd be as far down the track without my honesty. Similarly, a girl must trust her mentor. There just isn't one single thing that my mentor has ever done to question my trust in him, even when I have been confused or disenchanted. The issue was always mine and not his and luckily, I had the good sense to recognize that...eventually.

Above and beyond all those very significant factors a mentor and the girl being mentored needs to have a relationship, I believe, where they are teacher and student. And, on this point I would like to share an example with you of what I mean. It related to language reduction - removing words from my vocabulary. On this particular day, I was making mistake after mistake. I didn't mean to make the mistakes but I was unfocused and in a way that made clear that I was failing. If I had been in the right state of mind, I would not have failed. He had had enough and set a punishment to be done "right now". It was tedious and laborious (although erotic) as it was meant to be, and at the end of the task he asked me not to think but to write down my first thought. Can you imagine my mortification when I immediately made a mistake?

"Oh the shame," I wrote, because I was really dreadfully ashamed.

But, here's the thing. So was he. His student had failed and he was upset about that.

What's my point? A mentor and girl need to be engaged with the process. This is not just for kicks. There is a serious side to the mentoring with goals to set and achieve. Nothing less than transformation of mindset is good enough. When you understand this about the mentoring process, you understand everything.

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I'm a lucky, lucky girl to have a mentor in this space of the highest caliber. I suspect they don't come along very often but when they do, they are gold. I get a great deal out of it and I can only hope that he does too; that I am worth the effort. A good teacher is not made. A good teacher is born.

So, you see, writing here is not easy. I would never say "I" in my messages to him. I would never say "I am..." This is so perfectly natural to me now that writing in the way I must on this blog seems rather...foreign. I continue to mull on how to deal with the anomaly and I thank you for your forbearance.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Power Exchange

Unable to get back to sleep she got up quietly so as not to to disturb him. She went to the bathroom and inserted her butt plug. It was something she did for comfort. She went to the computer and did some reading; some chatting. As dawn broke, she heard the birds begin to sing and she felt a heaviness. Another day was about to begin and she should have got more sleep.

More than that, she was aware of a lack of power. She derived her power from her owner but distracted, worried and engrossed with complicated strategic thought, she had been left to her own devices. She had not been charged up.

She understood and she understood him. There was so much at stake for so many people and he needed to use all his stores of his own power for that purpose. He had nothing left over for her at this time even though her stores were becoming worryingly diminished.

She returned to bed and lay beside him, not touching him and not wishing to disturb his sleep. Possibly, she hoped that a little power may be obtained by the close proximity to him, at least.

He reached out and felt her; pulled her toward him and they lay together for a few minutes in silence. He had noted that her skin was cold and he was warming her with his body. A little watt of energy passed between them. The positive and negative energy felt the connection. She reached down and felt his cock. It hardened instantly and wanting, she bent down and opened her mouth cunt; stroked it and loved it. She enjoyed experiencing his arousal.

He felt down between her legs and felt her butt plug. He instructed her to take off her gown. She didn't need to be told twice. He told her to bunch up a pillow and lay over it and instantly he entered her from behind.

He felt her mouth cunt emit sounds of pleasure and as she continued to make soft, sweet sounds she could feel him come to life, as if an electrical plug is attacked to the source. She moved with him, wanting to feel everything; to experience it all.

Soon, he wanted to see her; to wrap himself in her arms. He turned her over and she wrapped her legs and arms around him and enveloped him. She kissed him and he kissed her; her nipples, her ears, her mouth.

He was hungry now; engrossed in desire and wanting to see him satiated she squeezed the muscles of her pussy cunt tight and smiled as she instantly heard the roars of the jungle in her ear as he came hard and long inside her.

They stayed wrapped in one another's arms for a few moments more as the clock ticked and the march of time demanded to be heard.

It was short but long enough. She had found adequate energy within herself to kick start him into life and in so doing, she had been recharged herself. The power exchange had been circuitous; both a negative and a positive charge had been required.

And, then there was light.

Monday, March 1, 2010


A few months ago, seven months actually, a cyberspace friend and I talked about collaborating in a little story. I can't reconstruct how we came up with this theme but as the conversation evolved it became apparent that my job was to get a group of girls out of their relatively comfortable lives and deliver them into the hands of a sadist who would have complete control over them until such time as they were suitably trained for the next stage of their lives.

We talked a little over the next day or two as to how the story would unfold and with each passing moment it was apparent that poor little Vesta was in way over her head. These poor, darling little things were about to undergo a series of trials and it was she who had to lead them there with her pen.

Now, I have written many a story before where a poor l'il thing has undergone a sound whipping or what not, but in all those stories that was me. I was not hurting anybody else. I was only hurting me. In this story, there are no less than twelve young damsels in distress and they can't all be me, now can they?

This has been a dilemma in my mind and I'm sure the dear friend in question long gave up hope of receiving the requisite first chapter of our lurid tale. But, if that is so, well he made a big mistake, didn't he? (giggling madly here...)

For, when he wakes up, what he will find in his in box is the first draft of a story that leads all twelve girls to his door in the one hit (possibly not the best word there!).

There is a quiet, reserved, earnest and intelligent one (that's me) and there's a bold, brassy, beautiful one. And, there are ten others - ranging in size, age, nationality, background and personality.

And, guess what? They have all signed an indemnity clause; all left their mobile phones at homes; all ready to be challenged.

See! Little Vesta isn't a scaredy cat at all. She's up for it. Let's see what the man in question plans to do with his darling dozen...

Yayayayayayayayayayay! This is going to be soooooo much fun!!