Sunday, October 31, 2010

Openness - part 2

Without a shadow of a doubt, there is something profoundly wrong with me. Think about it. At the ripe age of 20, I chose the only boy who had the balls to make it clear from the get go that he was in charge. On our very first date, he told me off in no uncertain terms that I had parked my car in the wrong place at his dorm. I was literally stunned at the way my error put him in a dark mood and let's face it; any sensible girl would have got back in her car and headed as far in the other direction as she could get, as fast as she could get.

I often didn't take kindly to his lectures and I still don't always take kindly to them. My sense of my place in the dynamic has evolved such that I am largely at peace with it. Rest assured, however, that I still have my feisty and even bratty moments when I express my displeasure. He didn't take kindly to that over 30 years ago and he still doesn't take kindly to it today.

I talked about openness recently but it has to be said that openness with highly dominant men used to getting their way is a dangerous proposition. I simply can't put onto the airwaves any further comment about openness without that warning attached.

I tried, ever so politely this morning to point out to my darling husband that there was strong evidence over a period of decades to point to the fact that he was a control freak. He rejected it as out of hand. In fact, he said he was insulted that I should say that. Well, I have thought it for eons and perhaps that is where the thought should have stayed - locked in the recesses of my mind. Let's face it. He has passed the mid way point of his life. He has the courage of a lion and is not afraid to take anyone on. What makes me think that just by being open, I can effect any sort of change in him? As far as he is concerned, he does what he does with good intention and that should be good enough for me.

My training tells me this as well. I don't have any control and that is an irrefutable fact. Yet, I have powers of persuasion available to me and I should use them, eating the lion one bite at a time, so to speak. There is no use in walking up to the lion and telling him you want him to change, or move, or not eat you or anything else, now is there? You need to be more subtle with a lion than that. Where does openness get you standing before a lion, for heaven's sake?

And, that is not the only reason I think something is wrong with me. Look at my other choices in life. When I returned from the US what job did I take? What job did I actively seek out simply because I found the man who interviewed me so devilishly opinionated and dominant to the point of being difficult and stubborn? The job where I would need to be submissive to that man; thats what job!

Not to mention that I have a mentor who loves to push me; to instill notions into my head that I am an owned girl; that I should know my place and my purpose. What sort of girl willingly; nay, enthusiastically seeks having that in her life?

All my life, and I don't just mean all my adult life, but all my life, I have gravitated to men who exude a desire and a need for control. And, when they chose to control me, I loved it at the same time as I sometimes hated it.

Yet, it happens time and time again. I blissfully accept the control until I don't and I rebel. Then, there is upset for this reason and this reason alone: the dominant does not want openness at all if it means the submissive says something he does not want to hear. If what she wants to disclose disrupts his control over her, it totally destabilizes him and nothing can be put to right in his mind (or hers) until the submissive is back where she belongs: back in her place. So, what does she do? Of course, she gets back where she came from and she throws the notion of openness out the window as she goes.

I continue to believe that openness is a goal worth striving for but in reality it is ever so much easier said than done.

Saturday, October 30, 2010


Heer da ting: Cindi took a l'il break from her pluggiz n wen dat situ8shin reveeld, cindi had her pluggiz taken wey. If cindi nut appreshe8 dem n decide 4 hessef nut 2 yooos dem, den she ken hab l'il rest n nut eben tuchi dem 4 5 deys.

At ferst, dat nut such a bed ting 4 cindi. It neba comfirtibl dat she in da bed books, but she beri bizi n 4 few deyz she nut mynd. She nut reeeli miss dem. She wer at certin speshel momins in da dey dat normilli she wood poot pluggi in at dis tym, n it feel odd, but she funshinin ull rite so far. Or, so she tot. Onnir wood nut gree wif cindi bowt dat. She ashoooli aktin silli n ovareaktin n jus emoshinel. As eeach day wor on, she missin her pluggiz mor n mor.

Dis mornin, da restrikshinz ova. Tanki gudness! But, cindi nut hab chans 2 poot in pluggi as yet n wen reeeli evalu8 da situation, it a hol 9 deys since she pluggi. Dat far far far 2 lung! Wen onnir talkiz wif cindi dis mornin she nut behayd well n he nut et ull impressd. He tyrd of cindi n go wey 2 da jim n tel cindi 2 stop dis bed behavyor meed8li!

Wen onnir get bak he c dat cindi hab dat certin look in her iz - dat gilti, notti l'il bimbo look she gets - and he pick up da wide, flat wooden spatula n tek cindi bi da hand 2 da bedroom. He tek off her kimono n he now poot nakid cindi ova da bed n tie her hanz 2 da posts of the bed. She well stretched owt. N he tel cindi it tym she remynded of how she expekted 2 beehayv.

Cindi sey, "Pweeeeeeeez!!", but onnir def 2 her pleees. He thwack da horribl wooden tingi on2 cindiz bottom beri hard n she hooooowwwwwwl 2 da moon. Boy, duz dat sting! N den he do it nudder 5 tymz. Eech tym cindi hooooowwwwl n pull on da ropz, but she nut goin enewhere - nut eben ken mooov an inch. Her paw bottum beri red n stingi.

"Am gettin trew to cindi?"

"Yessiiii, def gettin trew."

"Sure? Nut need ene mor paddlin?"

"Noooo tanki."

"Well, it tym da bimbo yoooosd. Tinki best yoooosd in da ass cunt. Cindi gree?"

"Wuteva onnir wans."

"Gud cindi."

Cindi gotsa plenti yooos n she beri gr8fool, of cors. Bimboz liki dat.

"Cindi redi now 2 hab gud dey?"

"Beri redi."

"Wut cindi sey?"

"Tanki onnir, 4 da currekshin n 4 da yooos."

"Gud bimbo; in2 da showr n onnir wash his bimbo."

Der a morel 2 dis stori: Bimboz need der pluggiz n if nut get da yooos from da pluggiz, dey ken get owta cuntrol. Wen owta cuntrol, dey stert aktin silli n get bit miserabil. It jus nut a gud ideuh.

So, tankfooooooli, cindi bek 2 pluggeen eberi singel dey. Dat best. C, it liki dis. Pluggi da sem 2 a bimbo wut a secoooriti blanki liki 2 a babi. Unfortoon8li, it nut until it taken wey from bimbo ocasinli dat she ken c dat pluggi essenshil. She unastandz dat now n so happi 2 haf her pluggiz gin. She alredi stertin 2 feeel gr8 n she hab beri fun dey!

Sumtymz u donna no wut u got til it gone.

Thursday, October 28, 2010


If I understand correctly, what I am now being asked to do is to reach out and grab freedom - to let go completely and say whatever is on my mind; to not restrain myself or hold myself back but to simply reveal myself.

I've been around these parts long enough to know that 'openness' is part of the deal. The submissive is meant to open herself to the dominant/top and put herself in his hands. It is the beauty of the dynamic, is it not, that one soul can reveal itself to another, warts and all?

I think my hesitation and even confusion and resistance to the idea right now is that I have felt that I have made progress in my life - with relationships, with self-control, with finding my happiness and peace - by holding myself back. I learned to not refuse ideas just because they were not comfortable at the outset. I learned to accept my husband's will and way by holding myself back. And, I learned to stifle emotional pain by holding myself in check in various ways. If, for example, I was hurt by someone, I learned to find ways to compensate, or understand or even not to allow it to hurt me by hiding the hurt away.

It is fair to say that I have dealt with some of life's more difficult moments by burrowing deep inside of myself and putting on a pretty darn good show that I was perfectly all right and well able to cope.Then, in a moment of great vulnerability (I write this on the one day of the year that is personally difficult for me), I found myself being asked to not hold back any longer.

But, what if I said something that was not at all pleasing? What if I sounded impolite or disrespectful, I wanted to know. Then, in that case I should take my correction and learn from it. Dolls learn from correction, do they not?

Dolls do. But, I have kept a cocoon of safety around myself for so long now, I find myself wondering if I really can sloth it off.

One evening, long ago, I was with my mother alone at her house and it was completely still. The only sound was the fire. My little family was on the other side of the world and my very sick father was fast asleep.

"There's something very wrong, isn't there?" my mother asked me.

I began to shake. My mind tried to sloth off the hard shell of protection yet at the same time held onto it with all its might. And, finally, in a tiny voice that did not belong to me, I told her what I had held onto with a tight grip for several excruciating months. She listened patiently and reminded me that there was nothing she had not heard. The business she ran meant she knew about people and what happens in people's lives all too well. I unburdened myself and in so doing I think I freed myself from torturous pain.

This morning, whilst I did my Pilates class, my emotions were right at the surface and several times, I teared up. I fought with them until it was the relaxation component and my eyes were closed and then I let them fall down the sides of my face until there came a moment when I knew I had to get myself under control. I began to breathe deeply. I began to visualize calm and I listened to the instructor's words.

I was on a mountain top when she said, "Set yourself free". With the glider on my back, I took the lead of faith and soared into the open air, gliding effortlessly. I had set myself free. The tears dried up and I felt only exhilaration.

I didn't stop for coffee but hurried home to write here, only to find a message from my daughter in London - a divine message that any mother in the world would hope for with all her heart. And, now the tears flow again - good tears.

To be loved; to love: it is all I have ever wanted. So, perhaps it is time: time to embrace the openness that a good power exchange relationship demands. The time has come and what a perfect day to choose as the first step in the next chapter of this glorious dynamic they call a power exchange.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

The Training School - chapter 5

Nicholas closed the door and rearranged the chairs so that he was sitting directly opposite Lucille. He crossed one leg over the other and made himself comfortable. When he was settled, he stared at her for what seemed to her like minutes. If he was trying to make her feel unsettled he was doing very well. She called on her ability to appear cool and unflustered on the outside, even though she was a jumble of nerves inside.

“Lucille, tell me, what word do you use to describe your vagina?”

“What word?”


“Well...I say “vagina” if I am at the doctor.”

“And if you are not at the doctor...?”

“Then, I say ‘pussy’.”

Lucille did everything she could to hide the fact from him that she was rattled. She purposely kept her body still, consciously trying to project an image to him that this was not at all difficult for her. The last thing she wished to do was to have him know of how uncomfortable he was making her and how much she longed to walk out that door and away from his disturbing questions.

“And, what word do you use to describe your anus?”

“Gosh! Well, I think I use that word.”

“What word?”


“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I might say ‘ass’.”


Nicholas got up and walked over to a set of filing cabinets. Lucille was agitated now beyond the point where she could fully control it. She felt an internal upset that presented as a deep desire to express her distaste for him and his questions. Yet, she maintained an awareness that she didn’t want him to win by reacting in an out of control way. She felt like a fast cooker at risk of losing its lid.

He seemed in no hurry and his sudden distractibility only heightened her annoyance with him. In spite of her best efforts, she moved about in the seat and crossed her arms over her body until she was holding her shoulders. Finally, he found whatever it was he was looking for and he glanced through a file and then put it on his desk. He returned to his seat and crossed his long legs again.

“How many cunts do you have?”

“How many cunts?”



“Is that so?”

“Isn’t it so?”

“How many holes do you have?”



“Counting my ears?”

“Answer the question.”


“Name them.”

“Pussy, mouth and ass.”

“What is the true purpose of these three holes?”

“Well, if you mean what other purpose do they have other than the obvious they can be used for fucking me.”

“They are your three cunts.”

She could barely believe him; his audacity, the smug way he had of making such a statement and not blinking an eye.

“Are they?”

There was a hint of attitude in the response. She didn’t even try to hide it.


“Name these three holes again.”

Lucille simply couldn’t respond. This was ridiculous.

He waited.

“Nicholas...Sir...honestly, what do you want me to say?”

“Again Lucille, my command is perfectly straightforward. I will not repeat it.”

The hairs on Lucille’s arms were standing up in response to her upset.

“Pussy cunt.”

“Go on.”

“Mouth cunt.


“ Ass cunt.”

“Repeat that. Name your three cunts.”

“Pussy cunt. Mouth cunt. Ass cunt.”

Repeat . Keep saying them until I tell you to stop.”

“Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.”

She looked at him suggestively, seeking some confirmation that she could stop.

“Keep going, Lucille. Don’t stop.”

She must have said that line twenty times before he told her that she could stop.

“Good girl. Now, why should these holes be referred to as ‘cunts’?”

“Well...I can be entered in any of those places, I guess...”

“What is your status, Lucille?”

“My status?”


“I am submissive. Is that what you mean?”

“What status are you in the relationship? Top or bottom?”

“Ohhhhhhh, the bottom, of course.”


“And, what is your role in the relationship?”

“My role is to obey.”

“and to be used.”



“What does that mean?”

“It means that your role is to be available for your owner’s use in whichever cunt he wishes to use.”

She willed herself not to respond to this talk in an uncontrolled way. He was pushing at her and she wanted to close down to protect herself.

“From now on, you will use only these words to describe these holes. Now, what word would you use to describe William?”

“He is my husband.”

“Anything else?”

“My dominant.”

“He is your owner.”

“My owner?”

“Of course.”

“You own dogs and cats, Sir, not women.”

“There is nothing at all different between the relationships of a dog to its owner and yours to William, Lucille. You are an owned girl and you have an owner that you must obey.”

She was holding herself in as best she could but she had an urgent desire to tell him what she thought of his “tutorial”.

“Ohhhhh, do I? Comparing a grown woman with a dog, Nicholas is just not on. You really have a nerve! Just who do you think you are?”

She was up on her feet now and ready to walk out that door.

“Sit down immediately or I will tether you.”

“So, now you are going to tether me like a dog, are you? Just because I won’t take this bullshit?”

“Now, now. Surely William has a cage or a pole for tethering you when you display this temper...”

“A cage???”


“Nooooo, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a cage at all.”

“Then, we shall have to correct that anomaly.”


“Excuse me?”

“Sir, if you speak to me like that, naturally I am going to get angry.”


“Yes, naturally. Surely it is reasonable for a girl to be angry when she is provoked. It isn’t healthy for her not to express herself.”

“She is welcome to express herself so long as she is safely secured. I do not allow my dogs to run about the farm when they are worked up and barking. They are secured. This makes them feels safe and they are free to bark at their will. You too are free to express yourself, have your little the safety of a cage, if you wish.”

Lucille was breathing hard now. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d get up right now and punch him. She took a long, deep breath and tried to settle herself down.

“Sir, I am not having a tantrum.”

“What would you call it?”

“I am simply disagreeing with you.”

“Lucille, the sooner you understand that you are your husband’s property and that he may do with you as he pleases the better. For now I will do with you as I wish.”

Nicholas got up and gathered an exercise book and a pen and ordered Lucille to come to a single, school style desk and chair that was to the side of his desk.

“Sit down, Lucille.”

She sat.

“This is your discipline book and you will use it to write your lessons down. You will sit here and write down in this book 300 times,

‘This girl is the property of her owner.’

“Make sure it is in your best hand-writing, girl. I expect you to take pride in your work here. You have just enough time to get the work done before it is time for you to prepare for the evening.”

Lucille picked up the pen and wrote the line down. She tried to calculate how many lines there were to a page and how long this was going to take her. It was a tedious and boring task and yet she could feel bubbles of excitement emanating from somewhere in her throat. She had never written lines in her life, not even as a school girl and this had a sense of novelty and arousal about it. Even when her hand began to hurt, she carried on writing the lines in a dreamy sort of state, as if some deep longing was being satiated. She remained incensed at his words but it did not prevent her from feeling a level of enjoyment in the task.

Meanwhile Nicholas sat at his desk; worked on the computer, paid bills and made calls. All the while he kept a close eye on Lucille. If she slowed at the task or looked up he was right on it and chided her to get on with it. It made no sense to her but she felt a sense of care as she sat there under his tutelage and it comforted her.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Active versus Passive Submission

The notion of submission being active or passive as discussed in David's post is intriguing to me. I consider these sort of ideas in terms of how they refer to my own submission so that I give them 'grounding' and I'd like to suggest that my sense of submission has elements of both passive and active submission that relate to how I think and to the requirements of the dominant.

Let’s start with how I think. The subliminal messages we send ourselves are made up of all sorts of life lessons; what our parents and teachers said; what our friends say; what we read and how we process all that information. Somewhere along the line, I got the message that a submissive woman like me should not ask for things. Rather, when and if the dominant was ready he would give me what he thought I needed. As David said,

“Submission that is a restrained response, because the girl is often restrained, and it sets a tone or pattern, and she often feels that is what is expected of her. That she is expected to be quiet and calm and still and respond, and certainly is not expected to initiate.”

In the context of my life, that notion did not function so well. I have a busy husband with lots of thoughts to distract him away from what the inner needs of his girl might be at any particular time and being passive and biding my time proved to be frustrating and debilitating. I thought I had to wait for him to notice that I was in need of his attention for it to be a legitimate submission and so not only was I out of kilter but I felt that we were out of kilter. That road of passivity had many slippery slopes.

In fairness, I have always been encouraged to ask for what I want/need and if I went to my husband in his study and asked him for a spanking, he would accommodate me, at least nine times out of ten. Unless he was on a conference call, I think I could seduce him too, at least nine times out of ten. He is not impartial to some impromptu tender loving care and he would rise to the challenge presented to him. (Yes, I did enjoy typing that sentence.)

But, for far too long I had this inner thought that this was not the way it was meant to be. He was meant to be the all-powerful, all-knowing Dominant/Top and my place was to be passive and wait.

I am over that sort of thinking now and our conversations are much more fluid. I certainly recognize that tact at such times comes in very handy and politeness is a prerequisite, but I do not feel it is wrong or bad to be active in my submission any longer and I operate on a basis of co-responsibility as to my sense of my submission and how that is playing out in my life.

Yet, a submissive can easily go one step too far in pursuing an active style of submission. David noted,

“I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.”

This is not an uncommon mistake for me to make and I offer a couple of examples of the sort of situation where active submission can get out of control.

Recently, I felt a certain apprehension about a situation and I made that point to my mentor. He listened carefully, as always. Perhaps it was my tone or perhaps he had a sense that the matter had spilled into that grey area where my trust in him to handle things was put into question. It was my turn to register his state of mind. Did I not think that he had taken these matters into account?

I immediately recognized that my point had been made and noted but that I was within a hair’s breadth of damaging the fine balance of our relationship and I immediately reverted back to my place; reclaimed by status as the bottom/student. As I see it, one can walk up to the line and even peek over, but one really must not venture over to the other side. There is a sense of order and fitness of things here and one gets to sense that within the relationship and adjust one’s modus operandi accordingly. Hence, submission is a flowing sort of entity, with some parts of the river requiring passivity and other stretches requiring an active submissive response.

Another example would be conversations with my husband about financial dealings where he tells me what is happening and I listen. I am welcome to ask questions always but I am highly discouraged from asking the same question twice or from offering my advice too freely. Our dynamic has evolved in that my trust in him is expected. I may not fully agree with the process he used to get us where he wants to go but I should know this and I should know it well: he will take care of me.

I suppose that sounds rather passive. I am not active in the process. I have not initiated too much except to request clarification, or ask a question or expression concern over something. But, in my life, according to my dynamic, that is enough. The sensitive balance of who leads and who follows requires that degree of passivity to function well.

Much of what I write, here in this post or in the journal generally is about a loving relationship or a relationship with good intent and tenderness. It is a relationship in constant movement and back and forth and one where balance will go awry, even ever so slightly sometimes. Adjustments and corrections are just part of the deal and thus my submission will move – from passive at one time to active in another. One feels one’s way through this because at the heart of submission is that one wants to please. I don’t think it is possible to get away from this notion in the submissive’s mind.

A submissive will look to her dominant as a guide as to how to conduct herself and I would like to suggest this thought. If he says he would like to see her show some initiative, then the time has come for her to cast off her preconceived ideas of submission. If he wants to feel her return his kiss passionately, then why not?

I find myself intrigued with the quote from BDSM: A Kinkster’s Guide in David’s post:

“"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.”

It is the submissive mind set, I believe, to want to be subdued. I live for those moments when my husband comes to me and without fanfare takes me, is rough with me even and has his way. It goes to the core of what makes me feel alive; feminine; cherished (as odd as that may sound to some ears).

But, I cannot agree that I don’t want to be denied an orgasm necessarily because my mindset is that I do relish being controlled, be it subtle control which I find incredibly erotic or forceful control. In my mind, obedience is part of control and control is part of feeling the submission; or better put, part of feeling that I am interacting with the dominant. There is passivity to these situations and I think it is a passive submission for a reason: because I want to be dominated.

At the end of the day, each relationship will function according to the people involved but for it to truly work well I think the dominant has to get across how he would like his submissive to behave. This is often not a well defined statement of law but something said in passing and I have learned to listen carefully to the dominant. His preferences are there somewhere just as he observes her closely to determine best how to control his submissive to keep her happy and in her mode. I think the submissive needs to be light footed, moving effortlessly from a passive to an active submission according to the needs of the day.

The best thing she can do, in my opinion, is to throw out the door preconceived ideas of what a submissive does or how a submissive should act and instead interact with her dominant in a cohesive, interactive way.

P.S. I've just realized that today is Love our Lurkers Day! This is the day once a year when bloggers invite those readers who have never left a comment before to say hello, or tell us what is on their minds. I just adore it when someone new takes the plunge and leaves me a comment and I invite readers to take this opportunity to join the fun and comeraderie. You are most welcome as are the regular commenters, of course. And, thank you to Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts for continuing this initiative.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Unconditional love

I am partial to listening to interviews when there is enough time given to really explore a life and get beyond the surface details. Thus, I found myself quite engrossed in the life of Carrie Fisher as I listened to her being interviewed over the period of an hour. She's a remarkably honest woman and she spoke of her drug taking and her diagnosis of manic depression. (She says she doesn't say 'bi-polar' because it says nothing about the condition whereas 'manic depression' does, not to mention the fact that 'bi polar' sounds like one is describing a gay polar bear.)

I listened carefully to the words she used to describe the condition and I made notes (of course!). She noted that there are two types of bi-polar, 1 and 11, and that one is more difficult to live with than the other. Whichever one is hers,(she wasn't sure) it is the more difficult variety. The least difficult of the two bi-polars is, she said, "more portable". You can take that variety to a party.

In her case she said that she felt that either "the tide is in" or "the tide is out". Either life is "all good" or you are "not insulated" and "everything hurts".

In the manic phase, you "go faster than everyone, even yourself" and "your thoughts get banked up". The two phases definitely did not have equal time, she said, although it was hard to tell since by the time she knew she was in a certain phase, she had probably already been there quite some time. As well, there is a third phase, she said, somewhere in between those two extremes.

Medication and shock treatment (ECT) were marvellous, she explained, but ECT was the best because it did quickly what medication does slowly. She encouraged her interviewer not to think of images like 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' because these days it was a very simple procedure and very much to her benefit.

She acknowledged that it did make her forgetful, mostly about what occurred recently rather than long term memories and she did sometimes find it hard to find the right word. Still, she was more than prepared to accept these side effects to receive the benefits.

When not properly medicated, bi-polar made her feel that she "wanted to give up"; not suicidal because she would never do that to her daughter, she said, but it was an indescribably dark place.

Rehab provided her with the funniest moments of her life. "You find your community." You find the other people who have it and it is a sort of gallows humour, she explained. Certainly, I related to finding "my community"!

I related to Carrie's story in other ways too. I was reminded that my father had shock treatment when I was a very small girl. We didn't talk about it back then but I remember him telling a close friend about it; that he lost some memory but that it was a good thing and helped him, and it would help his friend too.

I remember being that little girl and finding my father in bed one afternoon and asking him if I could help him. "Where's your mother?" he wanted to know. I went and found her for him.

In fact, my father did not have bi-polar or any such condition but had convinced himself that his doctors were lying to him and that he was about to die and this spun him into a depression that the shock therapy lifted. I don't remember him being manic or depressed, but I do remember him being rather obsessive and needing everything to be 'just as he wanted it'.

He checked the lock on the door many times; that sort of thing as well. That is an interesting trait to me because I inherited that need to double check things and I made note when my third child said to me last week that he did the same thing. In many cases, we can't change who we are so being loved unconditionally is vital. Anyways, who of us doesn't have some trait that is rather 'odd'?

I heard a documentary maker talk of Glenn Gould, the famous pianist and Canadian readers particularly would know of him. The documentary maker had unearthed much new material about his life and the interviewer asked if he felt sorry for Gould at all?

He did. He said he was a man who needed to have things done in a particular ways - a perfectionist - and that stopped him having the intimacy with others that he so craved. It didn't seem a good enough explanation, I thought at the time of hearing that, but perhaps it speaks to the huge judgements we make of those in our lives and our inability to embrace them for who they really are. It is a very sad thought to think that a man who gave so much beautiful music to the world was unable to receive the love he so obviously craved.

I think I went through life not entirely sure that I was able to give my father what he wanted in a daughter. I didn't speak the language of cricket or football and he didn't speak my language of books and thoughts and ideas. Horse racing was the hobby we shared and I have fond memories of many afternoons spent at racecourses across this State.

But, I knew that I never could never give him the succor that only my mother could provide, no matter how hard I tried. They were deeply, profoundly connected. When he was dying, my mother, who cared for him day and night was exhausted to the point of collapse and I took a plane back home to give her some respite. I sent her into town to get her hair cut and have a few hours to herself whilst I cared for my father but it became a clock watching afternoon.

"When will your mother be back?" he seemed to ask every five minutes.

I really felt quite redundant.

My father's inexhaustible quench to live kept him going long after the doctors had specified and eventually I needed to return to my young family, back across the sea. I would telephone him, of course, but he was always rather into his own world after that.

One afternoon, with kindergartners about the house, I had an urgent need to talk to him and I rang him at the hospice where he had been for only a couple of days. We talked in the way we did. He was deep in denial and the hospice was a sort of hotel in his mind and he said the service was very good.

At one point I could hear a nurse asking him to end the call for her to do something and he said he had to go. We said our goodbyes but something deep inside me told me that I was unlikely to hear his voice ever again and I held the phone to my ear, waiting for I don't know what. And I heard,

"That was my daughter calling me from America."

They were the last words I ever heard from his lips. On some level, he had known it was me reaching out to him and those final words meant more to me than I could ever say. We didn't say "I love you" but it was there - there in his voice; there in so many moments of our shared lives.

He had loved me unconditionally and I loved him unconditionally too: accepted his idiosyncrasies as he accepted mine.

As we grow older, I like to think that we grow softer: more ready to accept, less willing to judge. We all want the very same thing: to be loved just as we are.

Sunday, October 17, 2010


I heard Hugh McKay speak the other day about his book, 'What makes us tick?'. He has identified 10 desires that we all have and one of them, of course, is the need to connect. No-one knows that better than me. I hate to think how many times I have typed that word over the past couple of years in this journal. We aim to connect in three important ways: with ourselves, with others and with the natural world/the cosmos.

In blogs I read regularly much thought has been given to the notion of balance and I can't deny that balance in life is important: time for oneself, time for others, time to work, time to play. You get the idea.

I feel extraordinarily guilty right now about that: that I don't have a balanced life. I still look after my family. I still have lovely times with my husband. We had a particularly connected day yesterday and I know that made him very happy. I still walk the puppies every day and I still engage with other people and place dates for events in the diary. I am still functioning all right on a superficial level.

But, on a deeper level, I know I am in trouble. I see a play or a musical event I'd like to see but have to really remind myself over and over, literally force myself to buy the tickets. I know I should arrange lunch with my mother but rather picking up the phone, I put it off to later. I would probably enjoy the Garden Day coming up but can't seem to be bothered to ring a friend to join me. At this time, I have such little motivation to engage with others that circle around my life - to arrange a dinner party or put together that outfit for the Derby.

I search my mind for the explanation for my ambivalence. Am I a bit depressed? Is a black dog chasing me, barking at my heels? I don't think so. The truth lies in the fact that at this time in my life I am engaging deeply with myself and that engagement with myself requires engagement with others who understand that process and don't find me barking mad for revelling in it.

I could sign up for the Garden Day. I could force myself to do it and I could spend a whole day talking about this and that. I suspect once I got there I'd enjoy myself as I almost always do: engagement with nature, a lovely lunch, possibly even some good conversation. But you see, the thought of it exhausts me right now; the effort required to dress up and say, 'Here I am as you know me to be. Here is Vesta. She will smile. She will engage. She will give you her full attention as you tell her about your trip, or your family, or your car park details for the Cup'.

I think what is happening to me is that I am becoming increasingly frustrated with splitting myself in two: one part "gurl" and one part bimbo, who seeks to be controlled and plenty of it. I am as trapped in the spider's web as any fly has ever been and the more I fight it the more bloody entangled I become!

I've broached the subject with my husband now three times; the possibility of heading out; catching a plane to see my daughter in the U.K. for a few weeks. "Where would you stay?" he wanted to know yesterday. "A little boarding house nearby," I suggested. And, I do desperately want to see her. I have been just fine about her being away but the need to see her enveloped me last Friday and the lack of her presence suddenly hit me like a shot. But mostly, the thought of running away from myself and my obsessive launch into this dark side of myself is incredibly appealing because the interaction with a unknown environment would force me to come to the surface and smell the fresh air; retrieve my balance.

To explore your own mind is very brave I think because once you start digging you just don't know what you are going to find.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Cindi luvz 2 play

Cindi cum owt 2 pley. Cindi luvz 2 pley. Cindi in beri pleyfoool moooooooood.

Onnir sed 2 cindi dis mornin on da fone, "Cindi such a greeeeeedi, greeeeedi slut." Dat wat he ses.

No y?

Coz no soona dat onnir yooos cindi, she wanna dat she yoooosd gin. She so offin had dat on her myn deeeez deyz. She wanna feeeel dat ull da holz filld n dat she jus objet. Nuuuuutttin on her mynd et ull; jus a blank sheet a paper.

N gess wut happins?

She get soooooo much nrgi from dat. She flyz hi like a kite in da sky.

Ya. Dat wut happinz. N cindi kenna get nuf dat. Dat a gorrrrrrgus plays up der in da sky, jus flowtin; flowtin along liki a clowd.


Sumtymz, cindi nut so much a greeeeedi slut but a pleyful l'il gurl. Cindi esk onnir bowt dat dis mornin 2.

"Cindi ebr akt liki l'il gurl?"

"Ull da tym," he sey.

Yaaaaa, dat troo. She get lectoooord bowt sum l'il ting n she pooot her hed owt frum unda da cubberz n she looki beri coy; jus notti l'il gurl.

N, sumtymz she beg 4 lenienci liki a l'il gurl 2.

"Pweeeeeeeeeeeez nut smacki cindi."

But, mek no difrins. Wen men wanna corekt a dolli, dey nut inrestd in dat l'il gurlz pleeeez; nut et ull. Owt cum da sadist hoo njoy da pleeeeez, but den ignor dem.

Cindi noz. Cindi noz wen dat sadist bak in town.

Den, best da she slutti gin.

N gess wot?

Dat soootz cindi.

Cindi luvs 2 pley.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


If the reader knew what to look for, it would be easy to detect when I am doing things in my life as instructed and when I am not. When I am doing things as instructed, it is a virtual certainty that my writing speaks of positive things, kinky things and erotic things and life sounds sweet. When I am not doing things as instructed the doubts kick in and the writing has a completely different tone.

If the reader knew to look between the lines what he or she would see is that I am in emotional turmoil and without the ability to express that pain anywhere else, I come to this web journal.

This morning I felt compelled to make a confession to my mentor that I had been neglecting to do regularly what I had agreed to do. It had been haphazard for several days. I recall laying in bed yesterday and really trying to come to terms with what was going on with me that I didn’t do what I knew would bring me comfort. Even to me, it seemed without reason or rhyme, no logic or sense.

He’s very shrewd, my mentor and he lay in wait really; provided space and the right environment and tone for me to make my confession which would surely come eventually – the clues were spread out like seeds. Did I think he was surprised by my confession, he wanted to know? No, I knew he knew.

He said something that really hit home. He said, “These are self-imposed wounds.” I could only agree. It certainly looked like self-harming, even to me. And then he said that it was an attempt to take control. I didn’t see that right away and I responded that another way to look at it was that I felt out of control and was looking for more control over me. That was my best guess.

I’ve done a great deal of research over these past few months in some sort of desperate attempt to understand everything that is going on – with me and in those who have this driving force to experience a power dynamic and so I did what I do best – research. I needed to know about ‘self harm’ and if that applied to me.

It seems that people who self-harm are finding life difficult and see self-harm as a way to cope. Yes, I am finding life difficult right now. One article suggested that people share their thoughts when they feel out of control or when there is temptation to harm. Well, I haven’t felt that I can do that. In fact, I have felt that I have no opportunity whatsoever to do that. So, I read on.

It was interesting to me to read that some people may self-harm and have no awareness of it. I didn’t have awareness of it until this morning. I have been aware that on the very odd occasion I have bitten myself or pulled a handful of hair so hard that it hurt in an effort to deal with conversations with my husband that frustrated me beyond my tether, but I had not connected that not doing the thing that would ease my worries was a form of self-harm at all.

Generally speaking, self-harm is the result of deep emotional pain; severe anxiety, feeling isolated and alone, stressed and angry about issues. I made a note of the following sentences.

“Extreme feelings such as fear, anger, guilt, shame, helplessness, self-hatred, unhappiness, depression or despair can build up over time. When these feelings become unbearable self-hatred can be a way of dealing with them.”

Although it was my choice, my idea and most certainly with consent that I entered a power exchange dynamic, I did so for more reasons that just a personal desire and inner understanding about me. I also requested a power exchange dynamic because it was so evident to me that my husband had already assumed control over my life. He had already taken control and as I saw it, if we had gone that far, it seemed sensible to learn all about power exchanges (I am sure he didn’t know that word existed before I told him) and make it work for both of us.

We did not begin the marriage this way at all. In fact, early in the marriage I suggested we make an investment which turned out to be lucrative and it rather amazed me when he spent a good deal of energy trying to get it off our books. Eventually, I capitulated even though I knew in my bones it was the wrong thing to do. At a certain point in our lives he advised that he was assuming control and he has held onto it firmly ever since. I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a woman with a submissive nature and I put my trust in him, despite having doubts that lingered in every sinew and kept me up at nights worrying what was to become of us. I signed when and where I was told to sign and gave over complete control to him in spite of the fact that our views on matters such as investment were poles apart.

If one takes the very long term view, all will be well but meanwhile these decisions have caused a great deal of pain and angst and continue to do so. The power exchange dynamic itself, and strategies I have employed to distract myself and to come to terms with the situation provide me with contentment and anaesthetize me from the anxiety I would otherwise experience. You see, I have absolutely no control; no say, no voice or vote. I must accept.

Even now, even here I cannot go into specifics because that would be breaking confidences. But, what I can say is that it is impossible for me to share this information with any other person in my life on the ground. Rightly or wrongly, I have felt it imperative to keep my worries to myself. It would upset my mother if I told her. It would spread like wildfire if I told friends. It is embarrassing and in any case, I don’t need pity. I just need to find ways to cope.

It was in an article on self-harm that I could see what was going on:

“When it is too difficult to talk to anyone, it (self-harm) is a form of communication about unhappiness and a way of acknowledging the need for help. Self –harm gives a sense of control that is missing elsewhere in life.”

I could see now, it was a bit like anorexia. Girls with anorexia feel like their lives are out of control and they control the one thing they feel they can – their food consumption. Is that what I was doing? Controlling the one thing I could – whether or not I put that ass plug in or not? And, was this a cry for help; an opportunity to reach out to another living soul and express how I felt by not complying and ultimately being found out?

I can only say that I appreciated his efforts to connect the dots more than I can possibly convey in words here – to break through my shell. With the very rare recent conversation with my husband about all this where I sought comfort ending in his angry words, I had bottled myself up, kept my distance from friends and was feeling more and more isolated until, having had a great run, self-harmed again.

I truly do believe that I am well suited to a power exchange dynamic but I admit I crave a sense of security – to not be subject to wild risk or very long term strategies and to live life in a rather contained sort of way. I have said to my husband countless times that I don’t crave wealth or fame. Rather, I seek only to feel that we are safe and secure and can move on with our lives; not in some holding pattern.

I think he sees my point and aims to pursue that goal now for all of us as best he can. It is so important when one cedes control to a dominant that one can trust him to act in ways that are best for you and whilst my husband’s intentions were good, the road has been extraordinarily rocky and uncomfortable for me for a very long time. Paradoxically, we don't talk about the situation hardly at all, at my request. I thought that by putting my head in the sand and living in my own world I could insulate myself from the pain.

I am appreciative to have realized what is going on with me. I understand now that my non-compliance relates to my urgent need to share my situation and be understood. I feel better already for having expressed myself. The road ahead seems much less daunting as it always does when there is a companion. Not that I need to discuss it at any length at all. Rather, I just need to be understood.

I continue to believe with all my heart that a power exchange is what works best for me so long as I have the opportunity to express myself when the need is overwhelming. I feel today a deep connection with all those souls out there suffering some issue like anorexia or self harm and their desire for some control over at least one aspect of their lives. I encourage you to share your thoughts. It doesn’t look nearly so bad when those thoughts are shared. If there is no-one else, by all means write to me.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010


At the heart of a power exchange is the notion that one person will decide what is best for the other. In these circles, it is an acceptable premise, with various provisos. But, it is a particularly audacious thought, is it not?

I watched a particularly good discussion a week or so ago around the topic of cancer. There were general practitioners and oncologists and patients and family of patients involved in the discussion. At one point the issue of who decides whether to pursue treatments that have little hope of succeeding, or who decides what to do next came up for discussion.

One oncologist was forthright in saying that adult children are not the best judge of these decisions and the decision should be discussed with a person of similar age – a friend, a spouse. One young girl disputed this saying that the decisions about her father’s treatment had been decided “as a family”. Doctors generally advised patients to formulate a plan ahead of time so that it was their decision.

Rationally speaking, it doesn’t always make sense that one person could know what is best for another. Two people can discuss what is best for a person and if they discuss it long enough and hard enough, perhaps the second person can know the first person’s mind well enough to make decisions for them. But, to suggest another person is better placed to know what they need and should have is often really begging the question.

When children are young we have no alternative but to make decisions for them. We sign them up at a particular school and guide them into certain activities and ways of doing things. We give them a good quality road map. But, where they ultimately go and even how they get there is really up to them.

One small example of this is that our eldest boy played soccer and somehow or other I don’t think we actually asked the next one if he wanted to play soccer all through school. We just assumed it until one day his desire for something else became so evident that I finally opened my eyes and realized that we had made a mistake. It then took a bit of talking for me to convince his Dad that we were both wrong but thank goodness we saw the light in time and he has enjoyed his other activities with gusto ever since. My point is he did not actually say what he wanted, fearful I suppose of disappointing us.

I don’t think it is at all impossible for one person to decide for another what is right for them, but I do think it is a very hard task and one that requires enormous diligence, attention and monitoring. Those with a submissive nature, well suited to the power exchange dynamic are not inclined to want dispute or upset in their lives and are inclined to go with the flow and accept things as they play out as best they can.

Yet, unless their mind is so well understood and explored that the other who makes the decisions for them knows it like the back of his hand, there is likely to be missteps, misjudgements and poor decision making as to what is really best for that person. When and if this occurs, the submissive partner is left to make do; to accept less of life; to compromise, which is something they do rather well (perhaps too well).

It may be that the submissive partner misjudged what in fact she needed, of course. The dominant partner knew best all along. It is entirely possible. Who can really judge that? I suppose if she is content and happy within herself that is a good judge of circumstances. Or, perhaps she puts on a good front for him wanting happiness so much she is prepared to appear happy and content for him, even convincing herself (mostly) that she is happy and content.

When one person has the power and the other has very little or no power, human nature being what it is, selfishness is likely to be an issue. I don’t mean that they buy 14 suits for themselves and keep the submissive in an old dress (although, that could happen). I mean that within his decision making, even if he intended for the decision to be in her best interests (on some level), is he not really making the decision based largely on his own criteria and his interpretation of the world?

Submissive women have an inbuilt mechanism where they give and they give and they give. If necessary, they can give up too much, if that is what he wants. They give in. It could be argued that it is incumbent on the submissive to make clear what she wants and needs out of life but I honestly don’t see that as the main game.

She has given her whole self over to him, and if that is what he wants then it is incumbent on him to do the right thing by her. He must know her mind well enough that he is in a position to make the right decisions on her behalf. As well, he must ensure that the decisions that he makes for her will allow her to live her life, not only with adequate sustenance for her inner life but with a sense that she has made the entirely correct decision to put her faith in him. Only then can a power exchange really thrive.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

About 'The Training School'

Readers may remember that I went to a Writers' Festival not so long ago and there I heard Bryce Courtenay speak. Rather than talk too much about what he wrote or even how he wrote, he used the time to talk about himself, which is actually the most interesting topic of all.

Bryce is an extraordinary story teller and although the talk went over the hour, I remember what he said almost word for word. He was asked about his childhood and he spent the early years of his life in an orphanage in South Africa; a dark and sinister orphanage where he was beaten almost daily.

He doesn't know how he came by the name he has but it is an English name and surrounded by Boers, who hated the English for what they did to them in the War (burning their homes and farms), they hated him too. It was almost comical when someone from the audience asked him if he had any scars from those times that he has carried into his adulthood. He rather sheepishly said that he had, alas, a thing about obese women because the Matron was obese and she beat him regularly.

One day in the orphanage, some awful man who came to beat him up every day (he's seven, mind you!) approached him as he regularly did and Bryce instinctively said,

"Please, please, please Mister, don't beat me. If you don't beat me, I'll...I'll tell you a story."

"What kind of story?" the man wanted to know. "It had better be a good story or I'll pummel you..."

"It's a very good story, " he assured the brute and he proceeded to tell him a story.

He got to a certain point in the story and said something like,

"I can tell you more of the story tomorrow."

Bryce said that it was very important that he keep hold of the story and have more for tomorrow because he wasn't saving himself here from one beating but all the beatings to come.

Every day, the man arrived and Bryce had more of the story to tell him, and in this way he saved his hide.

Many years later, he was listening to the radio and on came what they called a serial...maybe 'Blue Hills'. I remember my father had three radio serials that he listened to every morning while he did his book work, so I knew what Bryce was talking about.

"The bastards," he apparently said, "they stole my idea."

He believes that the serial was his invention, all those years ago!

'The Training School' is something of a serial. I only had the vaguest ideas of where the story was going when I began it and when I publish a chapter it is hot off the page. I definitely will have to adjust things. What you are reading is nothing more than a first draft.

So far, the story is pretty tame. The general idea is that there is a girl, Lucille who recognizes her submissive nature, has married a dominant man but remains hidden inside her shell. She has secrets that she keeps even from herself. The role of Nicholas and the others at the Training School is to get her to a point where she embraces her whole self, even her most deviant thoughts and desires. This is important not only in order that she understand more about her role and status in the relationship but also that she embrace her deepest, darkest needs and desires and thereby come to peace with them and her 'inner slut'.

It is rather interesting listening to feedback through the back channels. The views do vary a lot but I certainly do listen to each one of them. Please feel free to offer your thoughts. All constructive criticism is appreciated.

Meanwhile, it is time to take things up a notch or so, so buckle in for the ride, and close your eyes if you are squeamish.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

The Training School - chapter 4

On the way out to the garden, the girls went by a wall to wall bookcase and Lucille stopped to look.

“We are allowed to borrow the books,” Pammi told her. “as long as we return them to their same position. Nicholas has them all in a special order.”

An avid reader, Lucille was grateful to have something to divert her mind and she selected two books and took them out to the garden. The other girls seemed more interested in the magazines they had brought down with them from the bedroom. Lucille quickly became absorbed in re-reading ‘Anna Karenina’, one of her favourite books at university.

In the middle of the afternoon, completely absorbed in the story, she was oblivious when Nicholas stood at the double door leading out the garden quietly observing them. He coughed to announce his presence and she immediately looked up.

He should have been pleased with what he saw. In front of his eyes were three quiet girls, sitting as they had been instructed, with their bare bottoms directly on the garden seats. He came towards them and instinctively all three girls straightened themselves up as if to project the best image of themselves for him that they could. There was something about Nicholas that people responded to; not just the girls that were sent to him but all the people who entered his orbit. His high standards were projected in everything he said and did. People tended to react to this by behaving in a way that was pleasing to him.

“Girls, Susan has arrived. Please follow me to the study now.”

When the three girls entered the study their first sight was of a rather tall, lean girl, with long, wavy, red hair cascading down her back. She was standing in the corner closest to Nicholas’ desk with her face to the wall and her hands on the back of her head. The hem of her skirt had been hitched up into the waist band of her skirt and her round, bare bottom showed signs of having recently been soundly smacked.

“Sit,” he said to the three of them, and they sat down on the upholstered seats as they knew to do, all looking sorry for the girl who could not see them. It amazed Lucille how in a matter of hours, this new and incredibly humiliating way of sitting down was already beginning to feel almost natural to her. It was strangely stirring to her, though she would deny it of course if quizzed about it.

When they were all settled, Nicholas said to the girl in the corner, “Susan, are you ready to behave?”

There was no answer but Lucille knew she was very angry. She could clearly here her laboured breathing and the air she snorted through her nostrils, not to mention the fact that her shoulders and neck moved up and down in concert with her breathing.

The three girls watched as Nicholas walked to an umbrella stand by his desk and took from it a black riding crop. He lifted it into the air and brought it down on the chair closest to Susan, as if the chair’s seat were a substitute for her bottom. If she had any sense at all, Lucille thought, the girl would start co-operating around about now.

“Susan, are you ready to behave?” he asked her again as calmly as he had the first time.

“Yes, Sir.”

She sounded completely contrite; a different person.

“Turn around.”

Susan turned around, her hands still on her head. It was a deeply embarrassing moment for her, of course and Lucille tried not to look at her so as not to make it any more difficult.

“Have you anything to say, Susan?”

“I am sorry I was rude, Sir.”

She was a feisty one. Lucille could clearly see that. But, all girls were the same really. Their self-preservation skills kicked in when confronted with a nasty black riding crop in the hand of a man with resolve.

“Very well. You may take you hands down from your head and come and meet the other girls.”

Susan came towards them, her skirt still hitched into her waist band.

“Susan, I would like you to meet Lucille, Sherri and Pammi.

The girls said hello to Susan and she said hello back.

“Sit down, Susan, as you know to do.”

It seemed that Susan was well aware of what Nicholas wanted and she performed the move well. Perhaps they had already gone over this when alone and this was what the trouble had been about. Lucille could only hazard a guess.

“Very well,” Nicholas began. “Listen carefully, girls. I will only say this once. Whilst you are here at my school you are to follow my instructions. Listen carefully for commands and respond immediately.”

He paused, allowing them to drink in his words.

“You must always be honest with me. I will listen to what you have to say, so long as you say it politely. I have no interest in disagreeable girls and your best manners are always expected. Is that understood?”

Nicholas looked at each of them individually and one by one they said, “Yes, Sir.”

“Your owners have provided me with a list of goals for you and whilst there are daily routines that you will all do together, I will often be working with one girl separately. At those times, the rest of you will have chores to do and tasks to perform. You may ask questions so long as you do so politely. Now, are there any questions?”

Lucille had a burning desire to understand what on earth she was doing here. It had all been so sudden and it still felt surreal to her; that at any moment she would wake up and discover the day had simply been a figment of her imagination. She needed something very tangible to hold onto; something that would make sense to her.

“Sir, may I ask...could you please tell me...why are we here? What is the purpose of our time here?”

“Training, Lucille. You are here to be trained. That is what your owner wants – for you to be well trained before you return to him.”

She wanted to say, “but, trained how and for what purpose?” but she was worried this might come out as sounding impolite and so she simply said, “I see.”

“Any other questions?”

The girls shook their heads quietly.

“Very well. Now, Lucille, you will stay here with me for a tutorial. Sherri, Pammi and Susan, the three of you are to report to Mrs. MacNeice in the kitchen. You will be assisting her with food preparation and any other chores she has for you. Off you go and make yourselves useful. ”

The three girls left the room silently whilst Lucille watched them go, Susan's bare spanked bottom being the last sight she had of them. In one sense, the thought of preparing dinner never seemed quite as appealing as it did right at that moment and yet she was incredibly curious as to what this man could teach her.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Finally trained

Reederz may rememba dat cindi hab two puppies n dat dey beri notti sumtymz. Last week, dat da pitz! Cindi poot dem owtsyd da door in da cuntree, n dey run wey wen she ternd her bak. Da hol famili spent two howrz lookin 4 dem n dey pleyin der hartz owt at a bildin site wif nudder puppi.

Cindiz onnir sed dat dey hab lern der lessin n dey hab stey in der bed 4 an howr n nut cum owt. Dey new full wel dey in big trubbel 4 runnin wey n dey do az dey told 4 wuns.

Yesserdey, cindi took dem 2 da park bak in da citi n she talki wif onnirs of udder dogz n puppiz n dey tel cindi 2 tek da chans wif dem in da park. It time, dey sed.

2dey, cindi desyd 2 tek da chans. She took da puppeez bak 2 da park n tek off der leeds.

N gess wat?

Da puppeez sooooo wel behavd! Dey stey pretti close 2 cindi, beri socibil wif udder puppeez n cindi n da puppeez hab reeeeli gr8 time. She walk dem 2 da coffee shop n gif dem doggi tweets whyl she drink her coffeee, n dey beri kwiet. It beri, beri lubeli.

N, dis made cindi tinki...

Mebbe, dis how onnirz feel wen da dolliz beri well traynd. Der no nonsens. Dey polyt n agreeibl n no der plays n da onnirz fynd dem beri gud cumpini. N everbodi hab a swel tym.


Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Always a fucktoy

Chapter 4 of The Training School leads me to the commencement of the alteration of Lucille. As I tried to write this chapter today, I realized something crucial. Lucille must start her training...her the very beginning, in the same way that I once had to start at the beginning.

Today, I had to make a choice. I could try to remember how that felt and how that played out for me. Or, I could stop writing and go back and retrace my steps. I had a feeling that for the writing to be authentic and powerful, to describe the onset of the transformation that is seeded in her mind, I needed to revisit what that was like for me.

I've spent the best part of a gorgeous Spring afternoon at my desk, re-reading notes and thoughts that go back to that time. I was gob smacked! Although I feel that I have come a long way since those first few weeks when I was encouraged to reveal the inner workings of my mind, in fact the feelings that I had from the very outset of being anally trained were very rich, poignant, accurate and reflective of my needs, wants and deeply hidden desires.

This is why I had to stop writing the scene. I had to get back to the girl I was, before cindi was given life. I needed to remind myself of what it is was like to hold myself in check; to not allow my fantasies into the open air; to not acknowledge who (or what) I was and what would make me feel complete.

I needed to get back to a time in my life when what I heard, the possibility of a new way to live, filled me with an extraordinary excitement and rush - that my true self could be unveiled, in all her glory. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, the door had been opened for the unveiling of the slut I knew myself to be but dared not disclose; the slut who needed more use than any "lady" could ever confess.

It was very early days when this question was asked of me:

"What mind frame does being plugged put you in?

This was my response:

"Contained, highly sexual, deeply feminine, a sexual object, wanting to be used,waiting to be used, desperate really"

Wow! From the very first, I knew all that!

And, the next question was,

"What mind frame are you when not plugged?

Ohhh, so very much less. I knew that back then, too.

"There is no mistaking why you identify so much with being a fucktoy."

Why, I wanted to know.

"Because that is your essence."

When I began to write the scene when Lucille is told about the body modifications and the daily routines she must accept as part of her life, I felt I needed to hold back on her reaction to that. How could she possibly have such a fast response to such a brand new idea?

Re-reading my notes reminded me that it is not only possible but more likely than not. Although it is Nicholas who will transform her, he could only do that if she were already there.

And, quite suddenly, the question I have been asked, and answered, over and over, was completely understood.

"How long has cindi been a fucktoy?"


Monday, October 4, 2010


It is a great pleasure to be writing the story about Lucille and her experiences at The Training School. There is not much that I enjoy in life more than sitting at the keyboard immersing myself in the lives of characters I have invented. With your indulgence, I am anticipating the story will evolve over a considerable amount of time.

As I write and think about where I want the story to go; what I want to achieve for Lucille and how Nicholas and his employees might achieve that for her, many issues arise for me. In the past day or two I have reflected on the issue of ‘approval’ for we girls, born with a submissive nature.

As a quiet, reflective sort of young girl, I think I could have done with a lot more attention from my father, or an uncle or a grandfather. I remember that I was very sensitive. I didn’t let anyone know about that sensitivity that I can recall, but I took criticism very much to heart and I savoured a compliment.

I remember my mother telling me about a comment made by my Grade 3 teacher. My report was straight As but she said that I was unlikely to achieve that level going forward. I remember being terribly confused. If she had doubts about me, then I presumed that I should have doubts about myself. It kept me working hard, through school and through university and into the next qualification. I had that monkey on my back and I was trying to prove, I think, that her doubts were wrong.

I met a woman a few years ago who went to the same school as my daughter attended and we spoke of the past Headmistress. Apparently, on a particular school day she said to my acquaintance that she would struggle to achieve her goals. She just would not get the marks she needed. The woman told me that this put a fire under her and she committed her working life to proving to the Headmistress that she was wrong about her. She is now a leading pathologist in this large city and when a surgeon needs an urgent and top notch analysis of tissue, he/she has her on call. We girls can be dogged.

A member of my parents’ staff taught me to ride a bike and I remember being very scared, but with his encouragement, his assuring me that I could do it, I did master that bike. And, it felt great! It was a very similar story a few decades later when I learned to ski. I must surely have told that story on the journal. I would never have achieved if not for the one on one, bursting with enthusiasm but rather strict ski instructor who refused to allow me to fail. I think of both men very fondly and it provides me with much evidence that I respond to attention and to a rather stern approach. If he tells me that I can do it, then I can. Lucille is rather like that. She could hide in her shell her whole life if people let her, or, with attention she can shine bright.

Attention, however, is a bit of two edged sword. Attention is a most wondrous thing. It can make you feel that you are walking on air. And as you receive attention, the sort of attention that you have craved your whole life, you find yourself wanting to please. His approval of you basks you in bright, golden light and it is an aphrodisiac; intoxicating and addictive.

But, he does not always approve of you. Sometimes, you are told off, castigated and reprimanded and as incredibly arousing as that can be (this is a very kinky mind talking), it can also be very hurtful. It is a very sad place to be, that doghouse, and I think many submissive girls will climb mountains to be returned to the dominant’s good graces. It can give a girl that push she needs to get on with it and get through her barriers. Or, it can make her retreat – into herself and potentially, away from him.

If she decides to go, it is not because she wishes that. To the contrary, she would adore staying right where she is. But, her sense of self and her sense of identity have been threatened in some way and to protect herself, she feels safest far away.

I have been thinking about this decision; a decision I too have made in the past – to walk away rather than to bear the pain of the disapproval and I offer the reader this thought. A submissive girl puts herself on the line. She offers herself up to the dominant like a tasty and nutritious meal. He can chew on her and savour her and devour her. He can pretty much do whatever he wants with her, to a point.

She will, I believe, do virtually anything he asks of her so long as she feels that he is committed to her. Not necessarily married to her or ‘til death us do part’ committed to her. It may not be a lifelong association, it may not be permanent and it may not be a primary relationship. But, whatever the association, she needs to feel that even when he is disappointed, angry, mad, disapproving or punishing, she is still 'not bad'. Even when he disapproves, he still feels some tenderness towards her. Even when she fails temporarily, she is still fundamentally worth his time and his attention and he remains fond.

When I think back to Michael, who taught me to ride my bike, to the American man who taught me to ski, they transmitted to me a sense that they believed in me. And, I received that message subliminally and that gave me the strength I needed. I felt a sort of fondness. I felt a sort of care. And, that was all I needed to achieve my goals; the goal that they had in fact set for me.

There is no getting around it or over it or under it. A girl has to go through it. She has to find the strength within herself to try – to put herself out there and fly high. And, there is no doubting that men in her life play a very special role. Girls will take the lecture or the disapproval and bounce back up, so long as they feel that they, the very soul and core of them are accepted; never rejected. They need to feel some warmth.

It is an incredibly vulnerable state to be; to recognize the need for approval in oneself. It is not at all an easy place to be and the best advice I can offer the dominant is to dwell on that thought and really consider it. If she struggles, is she perhaps struggling with these feelings that are so very uncomfortable for her? In the hands of the right man armed with knowledge of what makes the submissive woman’s mind tick, there is nothing a submissive woman cannot do.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

The Training School - chapter 3

In spite of the issue at the commencement of lunch, Lucille enjoyed her meal. Nicholas was correct in saying that Mrs MacNeice provided great food. The roast lamb was the best she had ever tasted. There were no potatoes, but there was any other vegetable she could have wanted and plenty of string beans. No dessert was offered but there was a bowl of fresh fruit which was sent around the table after the main course dishes were taken away. Nicholas encouraged them to indulge in the fruits of the season – apricots, nectarines and peaches, fresh from the trees in the garden.

Nicholas was an excellent conversationalist once he got going on topics that interested him, she discovered and she found herself absorbed in his stories about country life and farming in particular. Nicholas, it turned out was the owner of a large holding of land on which there were hundreds of sheep. He had a Manager to run the day to day running of the farm whilst he oversaw the overall operations of it, along with other investments. It was easy to forget momentarily the reason why she was here. Under other circumstances, she would have admired him as a caring and engaging host. She had to keep reminding herself of his other side lest words fly out of her mouth before she had considered them carefully, which she had a tendency to do.

Pammi and Sherri both seemed very sweet girls if not a little lacking in confidence, she thought. They were particularly careful to be courteous, she noted, and twice Nicholas praised them on their manners. She took that to mean that there had been improvement over the week. Certainly, Nicholas’ attention to detail was punctilious and he observed them all closely. Sherri, a girl who was really a little too thin, Lucille thought, picked at her food until Nicholas said,

“Sherri, I want your food all eaten up. You won’t leave the table until your plate is clean.”

She ate with more relish after that. All in all, it reminded Lucille of the times she had been with her father to horse racing meetings and they had gone for afternoon tea in the members’ dining room. Everybody was careful to attend to the needs of everybody else at the table and there was a lovely congenial atmosphere, much as she imagined it was in the generation before her when life was more genteel and civil.

Over a cup of tea at the end of the meal, Nicholas asked Lucille how she felt about horses and she told him about the horse racing meetings which had been on her mind only minutes ago. She said it was unfortunate that she had not learned how to ride herself but she feared horses up close.

“We have six horses on this property that we use, mostly for rounding up the sheep and checking the boundaries. Most of them are gentle. I’d like to get you riding while you are here. There is no need to be afraid of them once you know how to handle them. I believe you could do that.”

“Oh no, I couldn...”

“Excuse me?”

In mid sentence, Lucille remembered what Nicholas had said – that if he said she could do something, she could do it. And, it stopped her cold. She didn’t want a lecture again and in some way, his insistence that she could do things that she had never done before was appealing to her. She could not imagine how he could make possible something she had never been able to do before, yet his blind faith in her to accomplish new skills gave her a shot of confidence that perhaps she could.

“Nothing, Sir. I will try, Sir.”

“That’s the way, girl."

Then, Nicholas referred his comments to all the girls.

“Now, our last girl, her name is Susan, will be arriving shortly. Sherri, Pammi, take Lucille up to the bedroom and show her where she will sleep. Then please show her the garden. I shall call for you later this afternoon when we will go over the rules and protocols all together. Dismissed.”

Lucille watched the other two girls for clues as to what she should do and followed their lead. In fact, both of the other girls were a few years younger than Lucille but they had a whole five days of knowledge here over her and that, for now, gave them seniority. In fact, they did nothing special but simply left the room quietly and orderly whilst Nicholas poured himself another cup of tea.

Once outside of the dining room, Sherri put her finger to her mouth to gesture not to talk and so Lucille, who was burning with desire to fire questions at the girls, simply followed them as they made their way upstairs.

Pammi opened the door to a large and really beautiful room, the walls a soft blue and the trim, shiny white. Lucille loved the architecture of these old farm houses with their big rooms, high ceilings and large windows and she noticed these features first. Then, her eyes went to the four single beds, two on one side of the room and two on the other. All four beds were exactly the same. The frame was of wrought iron with vertical bars leading to a horizontal bar at the top of the frame, ending at the height of Lucille’s waist. She had no idea why but the little beds spoke to her and she was lost for words.

The girls showed her where everything was and as Nicholas had said, the contents of her suitcase had been unpacked and put away. Everything in the room was exceptionally neat and ordered and the bathroom had obviously been remodelled in recent times with the long vanity unit having four sinks, one for each girl, two toilets and two showers. Four pure white fluffy towels hung on four individual towel racks.

As orderly as the space was, it was not without its creature comforts. There was a stylish glass vase filled with white roses at a round table at one end of the room, closest to the window, and next to the vase were some recent magazines: Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Madison. The drapes were beautiful; blue and white cotton in a small floral design which matched the colour of the walls perfectly. Lucille was impressed.

Now that she was alone with the girls she was anxious for them to tell her everything they knew and she began to ask them questions: what had happened and what should she know? Pammi, it seemed, had chosen to make herself their spokesperson.

“Lucille, we cannot talk about it. Nicholas told us both that we are not to talk amongst ourselves about what happens here and especially what happens in private, when we are alone with him or ...other people. He says that we will be punished if we do.”

“But, no one is here with us. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, for heaven sakes.”

“I am sorry. I can’t talk about it. But, I will give you some advice. Just obey. Things will go much better for you if you do. Don’t try to buck the system and don’t think that arguing will get you anywhere. Just be polite and obedient.”

Lucille had trouble processing Pammi’s statement. She anticipated that she could win the girls over and that together they could manoeuvre things to their satisfaction. She looked over at Sherri who was nodding her head in agreement.

“Are you two...frightened of something?”

In silence, Sherri walked to the round table and beckoned Lucille to follow her. She opened the drawer of the table to reveal three wooden backed hairbrushes of various shapes and sizes.

Sherri looked at Lucille and Lucille looked back at Sherry. The way their eyes met said it all.


“More like ‘ouch’.”

“Let’s go out to the garden,” suggested Pammi, who seemed to want to put an end to this turn of events. “It’s a very pretty garden and we can take some reading out there and wait to be called.”

Together, the three girls left the room and made their way down the stairs again and out to the garden in silence. They were all lost in their individual thoughts.