For some weeks now, the idea of expressing ideas in the form of an essay or post or article has not held much appeal, whilst the idea of expressing ideas through stories has held plenty of appeal. In a scene or a story there is so much to be said about how I feel about how a submissive girl responds to the energy a dominant man brings to her. I know that I should explore characters who don't respond the way I might respond but I feel that this is the way it is for so many of us. The girl goes about her life and something about the way she acts, or moves, or looks or observes the world gives a dominant man some sort of inkling that she is the kind of girl that he is looking for/appreciates.
I'm not altogether sure that a girl with a submissive nature is out on the prowl in quite the same way that the man keeps his antenna up. She's more inclined to go about her business, I think, and if something comes across her path that interests her, she notices and enjoys. It is a rare day in her life when she actually makes a move. At least, that's what I think. I'm not at all the sort of girl to make a move but I'm mature enough these days to not be shy about noticing men about me; to enjoy watching them in action.
Australian men of a certain age can be extraordinarily handsome. I was in the supermarket choosing vegetables in the past few days when a man of mid 30s perhaps, came in my direction. They tend not to be able to shop without making a call. "Honey, did you want the flat leafed parsley or the regular?" And so, he was on the phone when I spied him. A dishy, wide eyed, clean skinned, well built hunk of a guy in a lovely striped suit. In my younger days, I might have ensured he didn't catch me checking him out, but I felt not a tinge of embarrassment when we caught eyes and it was evident I was enjoying the scenery. It was something about the way he walked in as if he owned the environment about him; as if the store were there for his private convenience.
My oldest son is just like that. There really is not an environment which he doesn't own for the time that he is there. Whether it be a small town in Mexico or a golf course in Dubbo, whilst he is there, he dominates the space; enjoys it, makes use of it and leaves his presence felt. He oozes a sense of self and a special quality that life is for living. He takes those in his company along for the ride and whilst they are with him, they feel a certain kind of pleasure that he has graced them with his company. I don't say this because he is my son. I have nothing to do with it at all. He was born this way.
I feel sure that I married the man I did because I responded to his energy for life. He had no sense of fear. He didn't know where he was going but he knew that he was on his way. Thirty years later, he remains enthusiastic about so much. Everything is achievable and solvable and setbacks are merely that. "Leave it to beaver," he says, and I do.
My females characters are especially vulnerable to men who wish to "feed" on submissive girls like them because they are so easily infected by their assertiveness, their charisma and their ability to engineer a situation. A man taking the initiative is exactly what turns submissive girls on and so you might buy them a cup of coffee and suddenly whisk them off to show them your etchings before they can stop themselves to say "no". They are intoxicated by a show of force, or at least an assumption that they will follow along. Something in the pit of their stomach says, "I can't pass this up. This is just too delicious. This is just way too much fun..."
The girl in the upcoming scene, Agnes, is in a terribly vulnerable position. Frederick is much more mature, worldly and sophisticated. He is older; more than capable of getting what he wants and she truly does want to explore what he is offering. But, is she just another feather in his cap; another notch on his belt? Is he merely hungry and looking for a meal to nourish himself before he moves on again or is he genuinely interested in her as an individual?
I certainly don't think that submissive girls walk about looking for "the one" necessarily, but no girl wants to feel that she is being 'used' in the sense of 'used up'. She doesn't want to feel like a dill when a few dates, weeks or months later, he says, "it's not you, it's me/you're too good for me", and so she tempers her own appetite for dishy, dominant men with a sense to hold back: look and see.
And so for Agnes it is one step forward and two steps back as Frederick tries to overcome her 'thinking' brain and appeal to the hidden desires below the surface. He seems to have played his cards just right - given her enough time to digest the pros and cons - to have her eating out of his hands.
I am delighted to say that you not only have Agnes' version of events now but those of Frederick. Frankly, sometimes I am just appalled at how manipulative dominant men can be!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Owners know best
As I recently explained in a previous post, I asked my husband for a weekly ‘correction’ and this takes place on a Saturday morning. He’s taken to the scheme like a duck to water and if there is any backchat or bratty behaviour during the week, I can hear him talking to himself just loud enough for me to hear.
“Oh, that’s going to cost...”
This past Saturday morning we both slept in and found ourselves with precious little time to do a number of things before we were due at an event. When my husband assured me we could still fit the correction in, I assured him with an equal amount of vigour that we were already well behind schedule. But, it was clear he didn’t want to let it go entirely, and he turned me over and spanked away at my bottom. Deep down inside, I knew that the matter would carry on to Sunday morning and the thought wasn’t entirely welcome.
Do you ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Well, this (Sunday) morning was one of those rare mornings for me. I just didn’t feel like any attention at all. My bottom was sore from the previous day’s spanking and I felt annoyed with nothing in particular but everything in general. I saw with one open eye, my husband collect his cane on the way back from the bathroom (I just knew he felt that the correction process was not satisfactorily completed!) and I simply didn’t fancy a caning on an already sore bottom. I can be funny like that. I made a number of excuses as to why I really ought to get up. He let me and my bad mood go on our merry way but whispered in my ear in the kitchen shortly thereafter that by day’s end he would have his way with me. I put the thought to one side but remained a bit detached from it all.
Mid-afternoon I was surprised to see my husband put together a tray of nachos for the boys and one girlfriend. He took the tray over to them at the television as they watched a movie and then he moved over to me at my desk.
“Cindi, while the children are occupied I need to see you in the bedroom.”
“But...but, I don’t want to go to the bedroom.”
“Oh yes you do, cindi. It is in your interest to go there right now.”
He guided my body with his body towards the bedroom. It isn’t easy for me not to smile at such moments. One part of the brain really does not want to go, but there is another part of the brain that loves that he is insisting. Although I am very ‘in the moment’ at such moments, I was, in fact, aware of the change in my voice. It became rather little; like a little girl who says to her daddy, “But, I don’t want to go home yet, Daddy. Please, can’t we stay at the fair just a little longer?”
Once he had me in the bedroom, he told me to crawl around to his chair.
“I don’t want to crawl.”
I could hear a drawer of his dresser being opened and that meant, I thought, he was reaching for any one of several nasty implements.
“I’m crawling, I’m crawling!!”
When he had me where he wanted me, on my knees in front of him as he sat in the bedroom chair, he used the rope that he had in fact retrieved from the dresser drawer to tie my hands together. And, once he did that, he put the 0 ring gag securely in my mouth. The dribbling began almost instantaneously.
Once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged, he bent me over the chair and took off my sneakers and socks and panties and jeans (Oh, come on! I took the dogs for a walk in the rain and it is the first time I have worn pants in eons, I swear!). And, once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged and all the bottom clothing off, he proceeded to spank my bottom. And, once he had my wrists secured, my mouth gagged, my bottom clothing off and my bottom good and red, he covered my eyes firmly with a black, velvet blindfold.
“Feeling more submissive now, cindi? That’s the way!”
I simply slobbered a bit more (the juices from my mouth were just ridiculous) and nodded my agreement, as I was told to do.
“Time for your pluggi, cindi.”
He returned in moments and wasted no time in putting the plug in place and pushing away on it.
“There you go cindi. Doesn’t that feel much better for a little dolli like cindi?”
I nodded as I was told to do.
“I know what you need, cindi. You just leave it to owner to attend to you; there’s a good doll.”
I know readers would appreciate around about now knowing what cindi felt. Well, she did feel without a shadow of a doubt that it was in her interests to follow all commands very closely. She was very aware that her owner expected that and she never for a single moment anticipated that she would not now do exactly as she was told. She was very much in the mindset to be a very good, well behaved doll; cum what may!
“Up you come, cindi. Just move when I tell you. Over here. That’s the way. Climb onto the bed now, cindi. That’s a good dolli. Over the pillows. Arms out straight. Owner is going to fuck you, cindi. He’s wanted to do that all day. He’s going to fill that pussy cunt of yours with his cum and you are going to do exactly as you are told and feel his cock pounding away...”
Owner never stopped talking, in fact. He made it very clear that his doll had absolutely no say in what was to happen and that her pleasure was of no interest to him today at all. As her breathing pattern became rather short and even panicked, with the O ring gag making it impossible to register any sounds other than those such as “humph”, and her mouth dribbling out oodles of saliva, he took a moment to pull the top cindi was wearing over her head. The restraints around her wrists made taking it completely off impossible and so it dangled over the rope.
Now, he entered cindi’s pussy cunt and all her holes were filled. Cindi felt completely invaded and overpowered. Here was her owner on top of her, fucking her hard and telling her to take it, to accept it, to be a good doll and stay still while he had his way. Her mind returned to a film clip she had seen years ago when a woman is being raped in a hallway. She is upset, naturally, but at the same time she appears to be experiencing arousal (or was that just cindi watching it?).
Cindi imagined that the person on top of her was a stranger; someone to whom she had not given consent, and she experienced that thought as a very erotic one. She was being fucked and aroused and pleasured by an unknown man who had complete control of her and she was worried enough to be panting; taking short, panicked little breaths; but she was not troubled enough to not be very aroused.
And, then she felt the ‘mysterious man’ on top of her become very aroused himself. He was groaning and moaning and taking urgent, harsh and fast thrusts inside of her until she felt him cum inside of her and heard him gasp for breath as he climaxed. He lay on her for a while and then he gave her little bites on her neck and all over her upper back. Powerless, she stayed still and accepted the bites but she registered her complaints vocally with some squeals.
“Don’t you like pain, cindi? That’s news.”
And, then he left her; blindfolded, hands tied together, mouth dribbling and gagged; cum oozing out of her. She heard the shower and in no time she heard him return. She was surprised how quickly he returned to her but then her mind had been completely emptied and laying there as the fuck toy she was, it was not at all surprising that she had no idea of time. The stranger took off her blindfold, took the gag out of her mouth, and untied her wrists.
“Into the shower, cindi.”
When she returned, her clothes were laid out on the bed and she got into them and some slip on shoes (not the sneakers – dollies don’t wear sneakers).
“Crawl to owner.”
She did.
“What do you say?”
Cindi was momentarily confused. She gets particularly dumdum sometimes.
“Tank you?”
She felt a series of hard swats over her jean clad bottom.
“What do you say?”
“Tank you, onnir.”
“After all this time, cindi. You should know better, by now.”
“Cindi sorri.”
“All right, cindi, off you go. Return to your work.”
If the reader is in any doubt, cindi had a very relaxed late afternoon and evening and so too did her owner, who could be heard whistling about the house. The day didn’t work out exactly as cindi had anticipated but then again, it was long ago established, that this was what was best. Owners always know best.
“Oh, that’s going to cost...”
This past Saturday morning we both slept in and found ourselves with precious little time to do a number of things before we were due at an event. When my husband assured me we could still fit the correction in, I assured him with an equal amount of vigour that we were already well behind schedule. But, it was clear he didn’t want to let it go entirely, and he turned me over and spanked away at my bottom. Deep down inside, I knew that the matter would carry on to Sunday morning and the thought wasn’t entirely welcome.
Do you ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? Well, this (Sunday) morning was one of those rare mornings for me. I just didn’t feel like any attention at all. My bottom was sore from the previous day’s spanking and I felt annoyed with nothing in particular but everything in general. I saw with one open eye, my husband collect his cane on the way back from the bathroom (I just knew he felt that the correction process was not satisfactorily completed!) and I simply didn’t fancy a caning on an already sore bottom. I can be funny like that. I made a number of excuses as to why I really ought to get up. He let me and my bad mood go on our merry way but whispered in my ear in the kitchen shortly thereafter that by day’s end he would have his way with me. I put the thought to one side but remained a bit detached from it all.
Mid-afternoon I was surprised to see my husband put together a tray of nachos for the boys and one girlfriend. He took the tray over to them at the television as they watched a movie and then he moved over to me at my desk.
“Cindi, while the children are occupied I need to see you in the bedroom.”
“But...but, I don’t want to go to the bedroom.”
“Oh yes you do, cindi. It is in your interest to go there right now.”
He guided my body with his body towards the bedroom. It isn’t easy for me not to smile at such moments. One part of the brain really does not want to go, but there is another part of the brain that loves that he is insisting. Although I am very ‘in the moment’ at such moments, I was, in fact, aware of the change in my voice. It became rather little; like a little girl who says to her daddy, “But, I don’t want to go home yet, Daddy. Please, can’t we stay at the fair just a little longer?”
Once he had me in the bedroom, he told me to crawl around to his chair.
“I don’t want to crawl.”
I could hear a drawer of his dresser being opened and that meant, I thought, he was reaching for any one of several nasty implements.
“I’m crawling, I’m crawling!!”
When he had me where he wanted me, on my knees in front of him as he sat in the bedroom chair, he used the rope that he had in fact retrieved from the dresser drawer to tie my hands together. And, once he did that, he put the 0 ring gag securely in my mouth. The dribbling began almost instantaneously.
Once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged, he bent me over the chair and took off my sneakers and socks and panties and jeans (Oh, come on! I took the dogs for a walk in the rain and it is the first time I have worn pants in eons, I swear!). And, once he had my wrists secured and my mouth gagged and all the bottom clothing off, he proceeded to spank my bottom. And, once he had my wrists secured, my mouth gagged, my bottom clothing off and my bottom good and red, he covered my eyes firmly with a black, velvet blindfold.
“Feeling more submissive now, cindi? That’s the way!”
I simply slobbered a bit more (the juices from my mouth were just ridiculous) and nodded my agreement, as I was told to do.
“Time for your pluggi, cindi.”
He returned in moments and wasted no time in putting the plug in place and pushing away on it.
“There you go cindi. Doesn’t that feel much better for a little dolli like cindi?”
I nodded as I was told to do.
“I know what you need, cindi. You just leave it to owner to attend to you; there’s a good doll.”
I know readers would appreciate around about now knowing what cindi felt. Well, she did feel without a shadow of a doubt that it was in her interests to follow all commands very closely. She was very aware that her owner expected that and she never for a single moment anticipated that she would not now do exactly as she was told. She was very much in the mindset to be a very good, well behaved doll; cum what may!
“Up you come, cindi. Just move when I tell you. Over here. That’s the way. Climb onto the bed now, cindi. That’s a good dolli. Over the pillows. Arms out straight. Owner is going to fuck you, cindi. He’s wanted to do that all day. He’s going to fill that pussy cunt of yours with his cum and you are going to do exactly as you are told and feel his cock pounding away...”
Owner never stopped talking, in fact. He made it very clear that his doll had absolutely no say in what was to happen and that her pleasure was of no interest to him today at all. As her breathing pattern became rather short and even panicked, with the O ring gag making it impossible to register any sounds other than those such as “humph”, and her mouth dribbling out oodles of saliva, he took a moment to pull the top cindi was wearing over her head. The restraints around her wrists made taking it completely off impossible and so it dangled over the rope.
Now, he entered cindi’s pussy cunt and all her holes were filled. Cindi felt completely invaded and overpowered. Here was her owner on top of her, fucking her hard and telling her to take it, to accept it, to be a good doll and stay still while he had his way. Her mind returned to a film clip she had seen years ago when a woman is being raped in a hallway. She is upset, naturally, but at the same time she appears to be experiencing arousal (or was that just cindi watching it?).
Cindi imagined that the person on top of her was a stranger; someone to whom she had not given consent, and she experienced that thought as a very erotic one. She was being fucked and aroused and pleasured by an unknown man who had complete control of her and she was worried enough to be panting; taking short, panicked little breaths; but she was not troubled enough to not be very aroused.
And, then she felt the ‘mysterious man’ on top of her become very aroused himself. He was groaning and moaning and taking urgent, harsh and fast thrusts inside of her until she felt him cum inside of her and heard him gasp for breath as he climaxed. He lay on her for a while and then he gave her little bites on her neck and all over her upper back. Powerless, she stayed still and accepted the bites but she registered her complaints vocally with some squeals.
“Don’t you like pain, cindi? That’s news.”
And, then he left her; blindfolded, hands tied together, mouth dribbling and gagged; cum oozing out of her. She heard the shower and in no time she heard him return. She was surprised how quickly he returned to her but then her mind had been completely emptied and laying there as the fuck toy she was, it was not at all surprising that she had no idea of time. The stranger took off her blindfold, took the gag out of her mouth, and untied her wrists.
“Into the shower, cindi.”
When she returned, her clothes were laid out on the bed and she got into them and some slip on shoes (not the sneakers – dollies don’t wear sneakers).
“Crawl to owner.”
She did.
“What do you say?”
Cindi was momentarily confused. She gets particularly dumdum sometimes.
“Tank you?”
She felt a series of hard swats over her jean clad bottom.
“What do you say?”
“Tank you, onnir.”
“After all this time, cindi. You should know better, by now.”
“Cindi sorri.”
“All right, cindi, off you go. Return to your work.”
If the reader is in any doubt, cindi had a very relaxed late afternoon and evening and so too did her owner, who could be heard whistling about the house. The day didn’t work out exactly as cindi had anticipated but then again, it was long ago established, that this was what was best. Owners always know best.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Warm my heart
Offer sweet love to me
Hold me tight
Make me feel right.
Fill me with good cheer
Keep me close
No need to be verbose.
Let me support you
Allow yourself to soften
I need this more often.
Your thoughts take you over
Lost in endeavour
But we can’t live forever.
Life is for living
The days are ours to chart
Come warm my heart.
Hold me tight
Make me feel right.
Fill me with good cheer
Keep me close
No need to be verbose.
Let me support you
Allow yourself to soften
I need this more often.
Your thoughts take you over
Lost in endeavour
But we can’t live forever.
Life is for living
The days are ours to chart
Come warm my heart.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
A story for Thanksgiving
Each year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a bit wistful for our life back in the United States. We lived in a country town where all the children went to the same town schools, parents met at the edge of the soccer or lacrosse field on Saturday mornings and life was dictated according to the seasons. My children got off the school bus, threw their bags through the kitchen door and went off into the woods to play with the other neighbourhood kids for hours; whatever the weather. The house was small but very cosy and we loved our lives there.
We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.
I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).
The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
FANTASY No. 2
Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.
“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”
“No Sir.”
“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”
Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, girl?”
“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”
“Pay attention, girl!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now, where was I?”
“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”
“Quite right!”
“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.
“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”
Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.
Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.
“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“Then, let’s begin.”
Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.
Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,
“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”
“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”
And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.
“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”
Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.
“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”
“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”
Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.
Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.
“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
l
“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”
Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.
“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."
We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.
I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).
The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.
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FANTASY No. 2
Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.
“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”
“No Sir.”
“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”
Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, girl?”
“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”
“Pay attention, girl!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Now, where was I?”
“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”
“Quite right!”
“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”
“Yes Sir.”
“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.
“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”
Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.
Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.
“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“Then, let’s begin.”
Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.
Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,
“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”
“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”
“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”
“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”
And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.
“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”
Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.
“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”
“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”
Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.
Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.
“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”
“Yes Sir.”
Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
l
“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”
Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.
“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tik tok goz da clock
Cindi in beri dreeeemi plays. She nut fed nuf 4 such a long tym n her tung hangin owt waytin 4 sum sustenins. She tuch her fays; yoos her fingerz n hanz 2 serkil da skin on her 4hed n fays n she close her iz n majin dat she takn off da shelf n pleyd wif 4 luuuung pley sessin.
Cindi feeln beri slutti. She longn 4 yoos in eberi wey n she wanna feel jus liki objet - nuttin in her hed et ull. Empty. Ooooooooo, so yummmi dat!
Cindi nut gone. Cindi nut need cum lyv. Cindi heer jus bowt ull da tym.
Waitin.
Tik tok. Tik tok goz da clock.
Ene hoo wanna pley?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Camilla's journey to Ithaca
Camilla lay in his arms on the bed. It never failed to amaze her how such an old man could make love so well; so much better than the college boys she knew. She had asked him what was that special thing he did with her clit to make her cum so hard, but he had refused to tell her, saying that she would only reveal it to other boys and not return to him. She scoffed at the idea but he was firm and remained tight lipped.
They chatted about all sorts of topics. When she said that she was tired of her studies and wanted to get on with her life, he listened quietly, and then said,
“Darling, you are on your journey to Ithaca. No need to rush.”
“Ithaca? What do you mean?”
He looked shocked; even annoyed.
“Don’t tell me you have been educated at one of London’s finest schools and it’s most esteemed university not to know the poem ‘Ithaca’? You have never read ‘The Odyssey?”
She had sat up now and out of his arms. His words stung her. He’d done this once before; implied that she was some sort of imbecile because she didn’t know something he thought she ought to know. She felt completely out of his league; a fraud for even being in his company. She looked away from him so that he could not see the tears welling in her eyes.
“What on earth are they teaching the young people these days? It’s a crime not to know these very basic things!”
She didn’t speak. She was much too upset to speak.
“Camilla, I’ve hurt your feelings...”
“No, not at all. I’m fine.”
“Look at me, darling.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Come now; show the old man your pretty face.”
She turned back towards him and it was evident from the shattered expression in her eyes that he had cut her to the quick. He held her gently in his arms and rocked her a little from side to side and the gentleness of the movement encouraged the tears to spill onto her cheeks. When she had recovered she pulled back from him a little so that he could watch her as she talked.
“You’re right, Daniel. I am ignorant.”
“You’re no such thing. It is not my place to make you feel that way at all and I was wrong to do so. You are a bright girl who learns fast. I’m a thousand years old, darling. We old guys can be full of ourselves.”
“No, really, Daniel, I want to know the things that you know. I am fascinated really at all the things you know and I so wish you would teach me. I love it when you suddenly break out with the lines of a poem or a play. You have so much knowledge. I want to know your mind.”
“Oh sweetheart, you are such a dear, dear girl. Of course I will teach you anything you want to know.”
“Well, what about this journey to Ithaca? Why did you mention that just now?”
“You said that you were impatient to get on with your life and the poem talks of this – of the need not to be impatient on life’s journey. Would you like to read it, darling?”
“Yes, I very much would. May I?”
“Of course, you may. Come with me.”
He took her by the hand and both naked they walked along the hall way and into his library; a room with floor to ceiling bookcases. She watched amazed as within those hundreds and hundreds of books he laid his hands on the book he wanted almost immediately. He opened the book to the desired page and handed it to her.
“Read it, Camilla. Slowly. Carefully. Enjoy it. I shall make us a pot of tea and when I return we shall talk about the poem.”
She watched him leave and wondered what it was he saw in her; a lowly young girl with so much to learn about life while he was esteemed and beloved by the whole university; an icon and a truly gifted man.
She turned her attention to the poem on the page and focussed hard on the beautiful words. More than anything in life she wanted to impress him; for him to be proud and pleased.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Enough
He had been sitting at his desk all afternoon. Regardless of the fact that it was a beautiful sunny Saturday he pored over the papers in front of him, fiscally focused.
She had been looking forward to the weekend; an opportunity to reconnect with him after a long stressful week. He had relied on her to follow his instructions and allow him to get on with his work unheeded but unwittingly she had done the wrong thing and felt the sting of his disapproving words.
She kept herself busy in all other areas of their home except, of course, the one he was in. She cleaned the bathroom until it shined, and made the house look pretty and neat. She baked. And, on a tray she placed a cup of hot coffee and a piece of the flourless orange cake he could never resist.
She quietly and hesitantly opened the study door, fearing that she might be denied entry with his growl to not disturb. But, he said nothing as she walked towards his desk and placed the tray to one side.
She stood there in silence and after several seconds he gestured to her to come around to stand beside him as he sat. She did so and he brought his hand out to quietly tap her bottom twice.
"Good girl. Leave the old man to work now."
She moved away and left the room; closed the door as quietly as she had opened it.
It was very little but enough. She returned to her tasks feeling lighter and loved.
She had been looking forward to the weekend; an opportunity to reconnect with him after a long stressful week. He had relied on her to follow his instructions and allow him to get on with his work unheeded but unwittingly she had done the wrong thing and felt the sting of his disapproving words.
She kept herself busy in all other areas of their home except, of course, the one he was in. She cleaned the bathroom until it shined, and made the house look pretty and neat. She baked. And, on a tray she placed a cup of hot coffee and a piece of the flourless orange cake he could never resist.
She quietly and hesitantly opened the study door, fearing that she might be denied entry with his growl to not disturb. But, he said nothing as she walked towards his desk and placed the tray to one side.
She stood there in silence and after several seconds he gestured to her to come around to stand beside him as he sat. She did so and he brought his hand out to quietly tap her bottom twice.
"Good girl. Leave the old man to work now."
She moved away and left the room; closed the door as quietly as she had opened it.
It was very little but enough. She returned to her tasks feeling lighter and loved.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Over to the other side
I chose to pursue English Literature when I was at university. The poet that most affected me was Emily Dickinson.
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.
There is another lovely poem of hers:
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?
I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.
But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.
What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.
What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.
And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.
There is another lovely poem of hers:
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.
She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?
I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.
But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:
What Are Little Boys Made Of?
What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.
What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.
What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.
What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.
And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?
Monday, November 15, 2010
Asking
A weekly ‘correction’ has been an idea that has appealed to me for a long time. As much as the idea of a punishment has an erotic appeal to me and is most certainly a big factor in so many of my fantasies, in reality I don’t respond to corporal discipline all that well. My husband isn’t inclined to that since he realized that corporal punishment brought out the feisty, rebellious side of me and he couldn’t see the point in having corporal discipline if it wasn’t doing us good.
Maybe a month ago now, I came to him with the suggestion that we have a weekly ‘correction’. It would be at the same time each week but other than that the details of it were up to him. He expressed his concern. He loved me. He didn’t want to inflict pain on me really. But, didn’t he get excited every time he did do that? Yes, he assured me he did. So, if I was asking him to give me a weekly correction, asking for him to inflict pain, was he all right with that? More than all right apparently because although it was not Saturday morning, the time agreed, he thought we should start right away.
Out came the ropes to tie me to the bedroom chair very securely and into my mouth went the ball gag. It had been a long time since I’d felt more than a few strokes of the cane, and although my mouth was filled I managed to scream my way around the gag with every stroke. But, I loved every nasty minute of it, the lovely sex afterwards and the delicious feel of being sore every time I sat down over the day.
The following Saturday, I was tied to the bed. Arms stretched out and tied to the front and back right post of the bed, but my feet were left alone. This time he used the ring gag and his choice of implement was a flat thick wooden slicer, the sort you use to turn something in a flying pan. From the first wack of that implement I registered my protest with deep, guttural shrieks. It stunk like the bejesus and I swear the cane is easier to take than a paddle. But, on he went to all intents and purposes having a swell old time flaying into my backside while I pulled on the ropes in some vain attempt that I could actually get away. Yet, low and behold, the sex afterwards was heavenly and my state of mind all weekend wonderfully elevated. Off to the races we went and my little heart was filled with joy and love.
This past weekend, I woke on Saturday morning laid low. My throat was very sore, my head ached and it was clear this girl wasn’t up to a thrashing. On Sunday morning, I feared that he would let it go; let me off the hook. I knew I didn’t have the courage to ask again. But, he came through with flying colours. We spoke of walking the dogs to a breakfast place and agreed to do that and I thought that was that but just as I was thinking of a shower, he told me the correction needed to come first.
Over the bed again (it’s high and I can bend over it at hip level) and tied tightly to the bedposts and this time, my ankles too. I was utterly and completely secured.
“Think about the past week. Is there anything about your behaviour that requires correction?”
I tend to go to water at these moments.
“Ummmm, I can’t think of anything...”
“Well you better hurry up because if you don’t, it won’t bode well for you.”
“Well, I answered you back a couple of times. I was a bit argumentative a couple of times.”
“Yes, you were. Unnecessarily so. Anything else?”
“I...I don’t think so...”
“Well, there is the issue of the petrol gauge being on empty again and we didn’t deal with that yet so that will have to be taken into account, won’t it?”
“Yes, owner.”
“Hmmmmm”
I’ve never managed to convince my husband that a girl needs a warm up before a caning. He brought his hand down a few times but it had little bearing on the fact that the first stroke bit into me and had me howl.
“May I please have a gag for my mouth?”
I do so much better when I can focus my energies on something in my mouth.
“Certainly. Which one would you prefer?”
“The cocki gag please.”
So, in it went and I felt ever so much better. For a guy that shows reservation with corporal punishment I have to give my husband full marks in acting since he certainly appears to be enjoying himself as he wallops my bottom and produces red stripes across white skin.
I did not cry but I did come up as high as I could a few times towards the end, rather like a horse neighs his protest up into the air, only to find that my restraints were tight and binding and I had nowhere to go.
One of his favourite little tricks is for me to think that he is done. He will come to me and be tender with me, perhaps rubbing my bottom a little or touching my face as I breathe hard and go into the phase of recovery.
“A few more, I think. Not quite done yet.”
But, again, the sex was very, very good and the day, a perfectly happy one.
We are only three weeks into this ritual but it is going very well. It meets my needs and I honestly don’t think it is onerous for him. I’m not getting that impression.
But, I did need to ask for this. It was not going to happen if I did not ask. I would encourage others who are cognisant of a need to discuss that need with their partner and see if you can’t come to an arrangement. Asking is not easy but then again, not getting for what you need has no upside at all.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Lord Byron
I have been given the task of producing my favourite poem, of about 14 lines for my son to learn and recite to the class. Out came my favourite anthology of poetry from my university days that has travelled around the world several times. I wandered all about it but always knew that Lord Byron would win the day. He was a most difficult man but that's my speciality and he had such a way with words...
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Profile of Lily: a masochist
I was walking my puppies at the park when a girl I shall call Lily engaged me in conversation. At first it was all about the dogs and we chatted amiably, but she flitted from one subject to another and dispersed into the conversation enough of her opinions for me to know from the outset that she had some eccentricity or other. I don’t always enjoy eccentricity in conversations with strangers any more than I enjoy receiving phone calls from strangers trying to tell me that I am the winner of a holiday package, but I felt not the least unease as I spoke to her. Rather than making excuses that I needed to get moving, I found her rather fascinating and was keen to know more about her.
She moved through a variety of topics and her own personal life story at enormous speed and in the course of thirty minutes I knew a great deal about her. Her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. Although she didn’t say so specifically, he must have been a mean drunk because apparently he told her constantly that he hated her. She had wanted to be an actress but she thought that perhaps she lacked the confidence to follow through with that desire due to the messages she received as a girl. It was the one and only time during our conversation that she expressed any regret or self-pity, or any sense at all that she was looking backwards and not forwards.
There was considerable mental illness on one side with her grandparents. One grandfather tried to take his life many times and her sister tried to take her life nine times, although she is relatively stable now “compared to what she was”. She feels fortunate to have the genes of the other grandparents who were creative and resilient. To generalize, she said that her family was quite “mad”. It was not a complaint. It was a statement of fact.
She told me that she had been an art and drama teacher but that state government policies had closed down half the art, drama and media courses in public schools at the time of her graduation (she is right) and that most of her contemporaries never worked in the profession for which they had been trained. She did procure a job at a local secondary school but the Principal and Vice Principal had been having an affair for years, the school was in chaos and the “bastard” made sure that she didn’t get her job back in the new academic year. (New teachers are often employed here year by year, with no certainty of what the next academic year will bring.)
She’s done other jobs, not focussing at all on money but rather looking for “experiences”. She worked in a prison for a time conducting an art and drama course for the inmates and she started up an after school care program at a school where those children could be involved in art and drama at least in an after school capacity. I suspect that she has considerable creative talent and great flair when working with other people, especially children but that her difficulties with order and with keeping up with the paperwork required for such jobs meant that people could feel she was not performing as required. Although she was wholly responsible for the only dog that she was walking for payment, she rarely checked to see that he was still there. To be fair, the dog chose to be by her side the vast majority of the time.
From what I could make of it, right now she is just walking the dogs for her income although she may sell some paintings. She referred to herself as both a writer and an artist. There was no question she was very articulate and well read, with a strong interest in film (her major), although she had no interest in print or television media whatsoever seeing it as mere manipulation, untruthful and unworthy of her time.
Most of all, Lily likes to move, to walk, to be outside and to engage in conversation with others. She said that she could tell right away that I wasn’t put off by anything she had to say and this prompted her to go on. She said that was rather unusual. She loved going back to study as a mature age student although she admits she “starved” to do so and her family were completely unsupportive of this initiative.
She was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) at the age of 44 but I strongly suspect she means ADHD since she has clearly been very hyperactive. She seems less the kind of person that would get lost day dreaming in a classroom as she would be in trouble for expressing herself inappropriately. In fact, she said social situations have been difficult since she would interrupt people when they were speaking and not realize that it really bothered them.
Lily has been all over the city looking for help for many years. She said that even psychiatrists at the top of their profession had been unable to help her until one day she looked up the yellow pages phone book and decided to make an appointment at the medical centre where I happen to go. In fact, she found herself sitting in front of my doctor. She couldn’t remember his surname at the time but she knew his Christian name and I volunteered his surname. She was gobsmacked that we should share the same doctor but as soon as she had began to speak of what a wonderful doctor she now had and how he had saved her life, I knew of whom she spoke.
Chris is a man who has made it his business to understand various neurological conditions, most especially ADD/ADHD and somehow or others the gods have sent many troubled people his way to be helped. We have spoken of it often for various reasons not to mention that there have been incidences where we needed to stop what we were doing whilst he took a call from some institution that was holding a patient of his who had asked them to ring him. He would politely tell the caller he had made great strides with the person they were holding, to please advise him when his patient was to be released and to tell him or her to come and see him then; that together they would sort it out.
Chris sent Lily off to a psychiatrist and had her assessed so that he could prescribe suitable medication, gave her the titles of books to read, the names of people who could assist her with setting up positive thinking modes and order in her life. They get together to review regularly. She told me that a great many things had fallen into place in her life. She now realized why she had behaved as she had all her life and she was able to articulate her personal characteristics with great clarity. She said that ADD people are not just anxious at times of great stress, but they are anxious a good deal of the time. Whereas most people walk into a room and wonder for what purpose they did so every now and again, this kind of distractive behaviour occurs to her all the time.
Being a girl with ADD was especially difficult she thought, because she can’t do what girls are expected to do: to keep the house neat and tidy. ADD people can’t stand to be bored, requiring constant stimulation of their frontal lobes to feel good and so doing things that are boring to them is like water torture. They hypo focus, she said, and so become immersed in projects wanting to know everything about a subject of interest. Often, what needed to get done was put aside for other pursuits that were more compelling.
She felt proud of herself that she hadn’t given up and had the tenacity and the resilience to go on. In fact, she clearly loved life, lived alone in an apartment that was expensive for her but she was paying her way , rode her bike everywhere, loved animals and nature and most of all, she loved talking to people. She talked in detail about internal pain and how people can feel desperate to do anything to stop the pain; that her sister discovered the strategy of self-harm to avoid pain by chance. A mirror broke and shattered and she discovered that a shard of glass that cut her skin had helped. However, she expressed disdain for people who took their life if it involved other people. If they wanted to take their lives that was all right but if they decided to jump in front of a train and destroy the life of a train driver who got to relive the images all his days, then that was very wrong.
She offered all this information very freely. There was no need for me to tell her anything about myself at all and since I remained interested in what she had to say, I only needed to agree, to nod, to express interest or to ask for clarification and that kept the conversation moving on. There came a moment when she wanted to tell me something that she considered “private” and her pace slowed somewhat and her voice dropped.
“This is rather private, but, you know, my father was a sadist and perhaps because of that and the way he treated me, I am attracted to sadists. I identify as a masochist.”
I gave nothing away. I merely nodded in acknowledgment. Eventually, we began to walk and talk on our way out of the park with the dogs and she asked me what star sign I was and I told her that I was a Scorpio. She felt sure that I was, she told me and she proceeded to tell me all about myself. I don’t give hardly anything away on the surface but underneath I feel very deeply and have great empathy for people. I am very curious. I care a lot about people.
“I’m Lilly, by the way.”
“Vesta.”
“Well, it has been wonderful talking to you, Vesta. I am so happy to meet you.”
“It has been wonderful to meet you too Lily. Do you come to this park regularly?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Then, we shall see one again.”
We said our goodbyes and my head was full of what this amazing woman could achieve if we could only get it (and her) organized. We had spoken of the need for educators to understand conditions such as ADD so that students could be better cared for and have better outcomes and I suggested that she would be an ideal person to talk to groups of students about her life and what had helped her. She agreed she would love to do that and had considered it, but of course whether the education department would fund it so that she had an income from the work is another matter.
Lily is articulate, engaging, bright and well versed in conditions that have made life a challenge for her and her family. It is the sort of story that could turn life around for many students who would connect with what she had to say in ways particular to them.
When I told my husband about her my main concern was that she was so vulnerable to sadists who would simply use her and spit her out for her submissive state of mind and I admit I have a desire to shelter her from harm. In the hands of a caring, attentive and loving sadist, I really think she could shine.
She moved through a variety of topics and her own personal life story at enormous speed and in the course of thirty minutes I knew a great deal about her. Her father was an alcoholic who drank himself to death. Although she didn’t say so specifically, he must have been a mean drunk because apparently he told her constantly that he hated her. She had wanted to be an actress but she thought that perhaps she lacked the confidence to follow through with that desire due to the messages she received as a girl. It was the one and only time during our conversation that she expressed any regret or self-pity, or any sense at all that she was looking backwards and not forwards.
There was considerable mental illness on one side with her grandparents. One grandfather tried to take his life many times and her sister tried to take her life nine times, although she is relatively stable now “compared to what she was”. She feels fortunate to have the genes of the other grandparents who were creative and resilient. To generalize, she said that her family was quite “mad”. It was not a complaint. It was a statement of fact.
She told me that she had been an art and drama teacher but that state government policies had closed down half the art, drama and media courses in public schools at the time of her graduation (she is right) and that most of her contemporaries never worked in the profession for which they had been trained. She did procure a job at a local secondary school but the Principal and Vice Principal had been having an affair for years, the school was in chaos and the “bastard” made sure that she didn’t get her job back in the new academic year. (New teachers are often employed here year by year, with no certainty of what the next academic year will bring.)
She’s done other jobs, not focussing at all on money but rather looking for “experiences”. She worked in a prison for a time conducting an art and drama course for the inmates and she started up an after school care program at a school where those children could be involved in art and drama at least in an after school capacity. I suspect that she has considerable creative talent and great flair when working with other people, especially children but that her difficulties with order and with keeping up with the paperwork required for such jobs meant that people could feel she was not performing as required. Although she was wholly responsible for the only dog that she was walking for payment, she rarely checked to see that he was still there. To be fair, the dog chose to be by her side the vast majority of the time.
From what I could make of it, right now she is just walking the dogs for her income although she may sell some paintings. She referred to herself as both a writer and an artist. There was no question she was very articulate and well read, with a strong interest in film (her major), although she had no interest in print or television media whatsoever seeing it as mere manipulation, untruthful and unworthy of her time.
Most of all, Lily likes to move, to walk, to be outside and to engage in conversation with others. She said that she could tell right away that I wasn’t put off by anything she had to say and this prompted her to go on. She said that was rather unusual. She loved going back to study as a mature age student although she admits she “starved” to do so and her family were completely unsupportive of this initiative.
She was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) at the age of 44 but I strongly suspect she means ADHD since she has clearly been very hyperactive. She seems less the kind of person that would get lost day dreaming in a classroom as she would be in trouble for expressing herself inappropriately. In fact, she said social situations have been difficult since she would interrupt people when they were speaking and not realize that it really bothered them.
Lily has been all over the city looking for help for many years. She said that even psychiatrists at the top of their profession had been unable to help her until one day she looked up the yellow pages phone book and decided to make an appointment at the medical centre where I happen to go. In fact, she found herself sitting in front of my doctor. She couldn’t remember his surname at the time but she knew his Christian name and I volunteered his surname. She was gobsmacked that we should share the same doctor but as soon as she had began to speak of what a wonderful doctor she now had and how he had saved her life, I knew of whom she spoke.
Chris is a man who has made it his business to understand various neurological conditions, most especially ADD/ADHD and somehow or others the gods have sent many troubled people his way to be helped. We have spoken of it often for various reasons not to mention that there have been incidences where we needed to stop what we were doing whilst he took a call from some institution that was holding a patient of his who had asked them to ring him. He would politely tell the caller he had made great strides with the person they were holding, to please advise him when his patient was to be released and to tell him or her to come and see him then; that together they would sort it out.
Chris sent Lily off to a psychiatrist and had her assessed so that he could prescribe suitable medication, gave her the titles of books to read, the names of people who could assist her with setting up positive thinking modes and order in her life. They get together to review regularly. She told me that a great many things had fallen into place in her life. She now realized why she had behaved as she had all her life and she was able to articulate her personal characteristics with great clarity. She said that ADD people are not just anxious at times of great stress, but they are anxious a good deal of the time. Whereas most people walk into a room and wonder for what purpose they did so every now and again, this kind of distractive behaviour occurs to her all the time.
Being a girl with ADD was especially difficult she thought, because she can’t do what girls are expected to do: to keep the house neat and tidy. ADD people can’t stand to be bored, requiring constant stimulation of their frontal lobes to feel good and so doing things that are boring to them is like water torture. They hypo focus, she said, and so become immersed in projects wanting to know everything about a subject of interest. Often, what needed to get done was put aside for other pursuits that were more compelling.
She felt proud of herself that she hadn’t given up and had the tenacity and the resilience to go on. In fact, she clearly loved life, lived alone in an apartment that was expensive for her but she was paying her way , rode her bike everywhere, loved animals and nature and most of all, she loved talking to people. She talked in detail about internal pain and how people can feel desperate to do anything to stop the pain; that her sister discovered the strategy of self-harm to avoid pain by chance. A mirror broke and shattered and she discovered that a shard of glass that cut her skin had helped. However, she expressed disdain for people who took their life if it involved other people. If they wanted to take their lives that was all right but if they decided to jump in front of a train and destroy the life of a train driver who got to relive the images all his days, then that was very wrong.
She offered all this information very freely. There was no need for me to tell her anything about myself at all and since I remained interested in what she had to say, I only needed to agree, to nod, to express interest or to ask for clarification and that kept the conversation moving on. There came a moment when she wanted to tell me something that she considered “private” and her pace slowed somewhat and her voice dropped.
“This is rather private, but, you know, my father was a sadist and perhaps because of that and the way he treated me, I am attracted to sadists. I identify as a masochist.”
I gave nothing away. I merely nodded in acknowledgment. Eventually, we began to walk and talk on our way out of the park with the dogs and she asked me what star sign I was and I told her that I was a Scorpio. She felt sure that I was, she told me and she proceeded to tell me all about myself. I don’t give hardly anything away on the surface but underneath I feel very deeply and have great empathy for people. I am very curious. I care a lot about people.
“I’m Lilly, by the way.”
“Vesta.”
“Well, it has been wonderful talking to you, Vesta. I am so happy to meet you.”
“It has been wonderful to meet you too Lily. Do you come to this park regularly?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Then, we shall see one again.”
We said our goodbyes and my head was full of what this amazing woman could achieve if we could only get it (and her) organized. We had spoken of the need for educators to understand conditions such as ADD so that students could be better cared for and have better outcomes and I suggested that she would be an ideal person to talk to groups of students about her life and what had helped her. She agreed she would love to do that and had considered it, but of course whether the education department would fund it so that she had an income from the work is another matter.
Lily is articulate, engaging, bright and well versed in conditions that have made life a challenge for her and her family. It is the sort of story that could turn life around for many students who would connect with what she had to say in ways particular to them.
When I told my husband about her my main concern was that she was so vulnerable to sadists who would simply use her and spit her out for her submissive state of mind and I admit I have a desire to shelter her from harm. In the hands of a caring, attentive and loving sadist, I really think she could shine.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Intermission
I have been writing here regularly for quite some time now and to say that I have been absorbed in issues relating to the power exchange relationship is an understatement.The time has come to take a little self-enforced break from writing on these pages. I am literally forcing myself here, by making this statement, to stay away for a little while from considering and expressing my thoughts on this subject.
Knowing myself as I do, I suspect that my thoughts will take another form and that my files will soon be encumbered with another story or two that I might be able to share with you upon my return. And, I will return because I only have so much will power. Best wishes.
Knowing myself as I do, I suspect that my thoughts will take another form and that my files will soon be encumbered with another story or two that I might be able to share with you upon my return. And, I will return because I only have so much will power. Best wishes.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Knight
A girl seeks out and consents to a power exchange because she enjoys and desires to be controlled. The situation may not always go the way she would like, but fundamentally she is uplifted by the control of her, not to mention that she gets off sexually on the control. Sometimes, the control in a relationship isn’t so uplifting. Sometimes, the behaviour is more controlling than exhibiting control.
Often when I read about this situation, it is a ‘them versus us’ sort of discussion. The good guys control intelligently and with empathy and the bad guys are just controlling. But I’d venture to say that in any man’s life who considers himself a top or a dominant, there are moments of which he is not proud. Possibly, he was rather selfish in his younger days. Perhaps, he had issues with anger management or perhaps being controlling got him what he wanted, which was for the other person to do as he said. Perhaps he still is challenged by recognizing the difference between the two strategies to this day.
When we speak of submissive women, no matter what their accomplishments, we speak of women who want to please their men and have a giving sort of nature. They tend, if they feel it necessary, not to be slow in taking the blame for an argument or to feel that an upset was in some way their fault, even if it was not. In all likelihood, they are as capable of poor behaviour as any other person that walks this earth but they look to restore the harmony soon after and only feel right within themselves when the balance of power is restored.
It can therefore be surmised that should their dominant or top become controlling with them, they are particularly vulnerable. A submissive woman may be able to stand on her two feet in an economic sense or if she had to, but her strongest tendency in life is to find a strong, deep and abiding connection with a man on which she can depend for her needs. Controlling behaviour will lead to confusion and dismay but in the relationship she shares with him, she may feel that it is her responsibility to make it right nonetheless. She has placed herself in a most vulnerable position and before the thought of ever leaving pops into her head, she will exhaust all avenues to make it right.
There can be no doubt that in her mind she wants a white knight; a rescuer, a valiant and good man. This is no small order and older dominants who write in this space have earned their stripes most likely with many battle scars along the way that they could recount, but never will! It is completely absurd to say that the dominant is always right because along the way to where he is now, he most likely made dozens and dozens of mistakes. Wisdom is rarely found in the young, headstrong man; let’s face facts. It is no wonder that so many girls are fixated on ‘daddies’ because an older man provides the wisdom of a lifetime of mistakes whereas the younger man still has so many more to make. Let me be clear: I’m not saying that only old dominant men know what they are doing. Some men are born to lead and to control with finesse and intelligence and can do so no matter what their age, but they are the exception to the rule, I think.
My point is that it really is a worthwhile exercise for any dominant/top and for any submissive as well to consider what strategies a dominant may use to control her. Is he playing fair; acting with honour and as the white knight would? If a submissive fears her dominant or top, not the consequences of her actions but the physical or emotional toll of experiencing his displeasure, I suspect that the situation has wandered over to the side of controlling. We will displease dominants for sure, time and time again, because we are human. Disobedience and rebellion must surely get tiring to deal with, but if the submissive obeys out of real fear, that is a red flag.
It seems to me that the dominant should feel compelled not to use those age old manipulation tricks on his submissive. He has been placed in a position of trust and making her feel guilty whilst refusing to take any guilt himself, withdrawing from her should she displease, being passive-aggressive (stubborn or procrastinating), impacting her self-confidence and exaggerating (or minimizing) what she had done to get the upper hand are all strategies that don’t allow the submissive to think of her dominant as her shining light.
Of course, he will correct and discipline her but it needs to be logical, fair and reasonable. She needs to understand exactly what it is she had done; what she should do in the future and why. She’s a bright girl and she will see through the above strategies for what they are: manipulating the situation to his favour. And why did he manipulate the situation? Because he could! But, how many times is she going to fall for that before her feelings for him change? That is the real question.
In a power exchange there is always a boss; always the same person to take that role. The submissive should always know that it is not her. I believe that. At the same time, she never seeks a controlling dominant/top. She seeks a thinking, emotionally intelligent and mature man who will control her by the force of his evident good will towards her and love and affection for her.
Often when I read about this situation, it is a ‘them versus us’ sort of discussion. The good guys control intelligently and with empathy and the bad guys are just controlling. But I’d venture to say that in any man’s life who considers himself a top or a dominant, there are moments of which he is not proud. Possibly, he was rather selfish in his younger days. Perhaps, he had issues with anger management or perhaps being controlling got him what he wanted, which was for the other person to do as he said. Perhaps he still is challenged by recognizing the difference between the two strategies to this day.
When we speak of submissive women, no matter what their accomplishments, we speak of women who want to please their men and have a giving sort of nature. They tend, if they feel it necessary, not to be slow in taking the blame for an argument or to feel that an upset was in some way their fault, even if it was not. In all likelihood, they are as capable of poor behaviour as any other person that walks this earth but they look to restore the harmony soon after and only feel right within themselves when the balance of power is restored.
It can therefore be surmised that should their dominant or top become controlling with them, they are particularly vulnerable. A submissive woman may be able to stand on her two feet in an economic sense or if she had to, but her strongest tendency in life is to find a strong, deep and abiding connection with a man on which she can depend for her needs. Controlling behaviour will lead to confusion and dismay but in the relationship she shares with him, she may feel that it is her responsibility to make it right nonetheless. She has placed herself in a most vulnerable position and before the thought of ever leaving pops into her head, she will exhaust all avenues to make it right.
There can be no doubt that in her mind she wants a white knight; a rescuer, a valiant and good man. This is no small order and older dominants who write in this space have earned their stripes most likely with many battle scars along the way that they could recount, but never will! It is completely absurd to say that the dominant is always right because along the way to where he is now, he most likely made dozens and dozens of mistakes. Wisdom is rarely found in the young, headstrong man; let’s face facts. It is no wonder that so many girls are fixated on ‘daddies’ because an older man provides the wisdom of a lifetime of mistakes whereas the younger man still has so many more to make. Let me be clear: I’m not saying that only old dominant men know what they are doing. Some men are born to lead and to control with finesse and intelligence and can do so no matter what their age, but they are the exception to the rule, I think.
My point is that it really is a worthwhile exercise for any dominant/top and for any submissive as well to consider what strategies a dominant may use to control her. Is he playing fair; acting with honour and as the white knight would? If a submissive fears her dominant or top, not the consequences of her actions but the physical or emotional toll of experiencing his displeasure, I suspect that the situation has wandered over to the side of controlling. We will displease dominants for sure, time and time again, because we are human. Disobedience and rebellion must surely get tiring to deal with, but if the submissive obeys out of real fear, that is a red flag.
It seems to me that the dominant should feel compelled not to use those age old manipulation tricks on his submissive. He has been placed in a position of trust and making her feel guilty whilst refusing to take any guilt himself, withdrawing from her should she displease, being passive-aggressive (stubborn or procrastinating), impacting her self-confidence and exaggerating (or minimizing) what she had done to get the upper hand are all strategies that don’t allow the submissive to think of her dominant as her shining light.
Of course, he will correct and discipline her but it needs to be logical, fair and reasonable. She needs to understand exactly what it is she had done; what she should do in the future and why. She’s a bright girl and she will see through the above strategies for what they are: manipulating the situation to his favour. And why did he manipulate the situation? Because he could! But, how many times is she going to fall for that before her feelings for him change? That is the real question.
In a power exchange there is always a boss; always the same person to take that role. The submissive should always know that it is not her. I believe that. At the same time, she never seeks a controlling dominant/top. She seeks a thinking, emotionally intelligent and mature man who will control her by the force of his evident good will towards her and love and affection for her.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Put away
It is the long weekend here and my husband is currently away. It seemed an ideal time to free myself of my need to experience control and I have wallowed in freedom - gone to bed when I wished, dressed when I wished, ate when I chose and just focused on me (and my boys).
It was interesting then, to wake this morning and discover that I had an urgent desire to write about something - anything - that would give me at least the illusion of being controlled. I felt absolutely exasperated that I was on my own with nothing but a pluggi to ground me to a sense of control!
The story was written in a little over an hour. It is the machinations of a kinky, submissive girl and perhaps only pleasurable to me. But, I put it here and if it should bring you pleasure too, then be my guest and have a read:
PUT AWAY
“Come and sit by me.”
She stood in front of him and with her eyes solicited further information.
“On the floor by my heel. Raise your skirt and part your cheeks; sit cross legged on the floor; palms down.”
She turned away from him and spread her cheeks so that he had a perfect view of her ass cunt, as she knew he wanted. She sat as instructed with her ass cheeks directly on the carpet. She felt pressure on the top of her head as he brought it forward so that all she could view were her own breasts. She heard him pick up the newspaper that he had put down on the table beside him when she had entered the room and then there was silence again.
She had no idea of how much time passed. There was no clock in her vision even if she dared sneak a peek but he was an avid reader and she never anticipated that this would be a short affair. Within several minutes she was aware of some discomfort as her legs became used to the position and as usual she found she had strong unrequited desires to move her hands to scratch an itch or adjust her hair. She spoke internally to herself regularly as a reminder to do only what he had told her. She wanted him to be pleased but on a practical level, she did not want to experience his displeasure.
At last, he put down the paper and his hands found her pert breasts. Her nipples were standing up for him since the room was a little cool for one so exposed. He tugged at the small rings in her nipples and the sensations went straight to her pussy cunt. There was nothing as predictable as her state after he had her wait for an hour or more; so close to him but untouched.
“Prepare for bed, darling.”
She raised herself off the floor and left the room. She took her shower and scrubbed herself clean; brushed her teeth. She applied her night time facial cream, rubbed a body moisturizer into her arms and legs and feet. He had yet to arrive. She sat on her wooden chair beside the bed and read on in her current novel, hoping that he would arrive soon. She longed to get under the covers.When she heard his feet on the floorboards in the hall outside she closed her book and put it down on her bedside table.
“Let’s inspect you.”
She immediately bent across the high bed. He had designed the bed himself and had it custom made so that she could be bent across it at the height of her hip. He spread her cheeks open and stretched her ass cunt as much as he could. He held it open like that for his own pleasure more than her embarrassment. This routine was common and she was used to it. He took a wet wipe from its packet and ensured that her ass cunt was scrupulously clean. Then, he opened her pussy cunt lips and breathed in her scent. He brought his hand to her pussy cunt and felt the slick surface; teased her bud with his tip of his thumb.
He had her stand and she raised her arms as soon as he indicated that she should do so; opened her mouth cunt when he touched her lips and stood still while he checked with a tissue that she had dried her ears.
“All scrubbed clean. That’s a good girl. Now, over the bed again.”
She tipped herself over the bed.
“Which hole would you prefer to be used?”
“The ass cunt, please.”
“Such a polite girl! If you wish.”
She was aware of him placing the rubber over his cock, a little lube on her ass cunt and he glided almost effortlessly into her. She let out a long sigh. She revelled in the luxury of having him inside her and feeling the fullness; no longer empty. But, he was hungry tonight and within moments he began to thrust, hard and fast. She grunted as his cock fucked her and with no restraints to hold her or a mouth gag to bite, she had no choice but to suck on the skin of the fleshy part of her arm near to her shoulder for some relief from his persistent grinding.
Without a word but with moans of pleasure he spurted wads of cum into her ass cunt until he was totally spent and lay down on her back. She was aware of his sweat and was grateful when he raised himself again and brought a tissue to wipe some of the cum away. He left her then and went to the bathroom and showered.
When he returned to her she first felt his hand lube her ass cunt and then she felt her night plug being placed into her. It was his way to fuck her with it – in and out, in and out – until with one deep push he inserted it into place. He had her stand and she moved to assist him as he put the chastity belt on her and locked her in.
“Time to be put away.”
He pulled the covers back. He watched her get into bed and settle herself on her side and place her palms together under her right facial cheek, as she was inclined to do. She may just have been fucked like a slut but now she was more like a little girl.
He bent over her, brought the covers up high and tucked her in; smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.
“Good girl. Straight off to dreamland.”
He turned off the light and closed the door. He would work in his study now for at least an hour. Her pussy cunt throbbed but of course, touching herself had been rendered impossible. She squeezed as hard as she could but without his countdown, her orgasm eluded her and she gave up and drifted into sleep. What she dreamed is anybody’s guess.
It was interesting then, to wake this morning and discover that I had an urgent desire to write about something - anything - that would give me at least the illusion of being controlled. I felt absolutely exasperated that I was on my own with nothing but a pluggi to ground me to a sense of control!
The story was written in a little over an hour. It is the machinations of a kinky, submissive girl and perhaps only pleasurable to me. But, I put it here and if it should bring you pleasure too, then be my guest and have a read:
PUT AWAY
“Come and sit by me.”
She stood in front of him and with her eyes solicited further information.
“On the floor by my heel. Raise your skirt and part your cheeks; sit cross legged on the floor; palms down.”
She turned away from him and spread her cheeks so that he had a perfect view of her ass cunt, as she knew he wanted. She sat as instructed with her ass cheeks directly on the carpet. She felt pressure on the top of her head as he brought it forward so that all she could view were her own breasts. She heard him pick up the newspaper that he had put down on the table beside him when she had entered the room and then there was silence again.
She had no idea of how much time passed. There was no clock in her vision even if she dared sneak a peek but he was an avid reader and she never anticipated that this would be a short affair. Within several minutes she was aware of some discomfort as her legs became used to the position and as usual she found she had strong unrequited desires to move her hands to scratch an itch or adjust her hair. She spoke internally to herself regularly as a reminder to do only what he had told her. She wanted him to be pleased but on a practical level, she did not want to experience his displeasure.
At last, he put down the paper and his hands found her pert breasts. Her nipples were standing up for him since the room was a little cool for one so exposed. He tugged at the small rings in her nipples and the sensations went straight to her pussy cunt. There was nothing as predictable as her state after he had her wait for an hour or more; so close to him but untouched.
“Prepare for bed, darling.”
She raised herself off the floor and left the room. She took her shower and scrubbed herself clean; brushed her teeth. She applied her night time facial cream, rubbed a body moisturizer into her arms and legs and feet. He had yet to arrive. She sat on her wooden chair beside the bed and read on in her current novel, hoping that he would arrive soon. She longed to get under the covers.When she heard his feet on the floorboards in the hall outside she closed her book and put it down on her bedside table.
“Let’s inspect you.”
She immediately bent across the high bed. He had designed the bed himself and had it custom made so that she could be bent across it at the height of her hip. He spread her cheeks open and stretched her ass cunt as much as he could. He held it open like that for his own pleasure more than her embarrassment. This routine was common and she was used to it. He took a wet wipe from its packet and ensured that her ass cunt was scrupulously clean. Then, he opened her pussy cunt lips and breathed in her scent. He brought his hand to her pussy cunt and felt the slick surface; teased her bud with his tip of his thumb.
He had her stand and she raised her arms as soon as he indicated that she should do so; opened her mouth cunt when he touched her lips and stood still while he checked with a tissue that she had dried her ears.
“All scrubbed clean. That’s a good girl. Now, over the bed again.”
She tipped herself over the bed.
“Which hole would you prefer to be used?”
“The ass cunt, please.”
“Such a polite girl! If you wish.”
She was aware of him placing the rubber over his cock, a little lube on her ass cunt and he glided almost effortlessly into her. She let out a long sigh. She revelled in the luxury of having him inside her and feeling the fullness; no longer empty. But, he was hungry tonight and within moments he began to thrust, hard and fast. She grunted as his cock fucked her and with no restraints to hold her or a mouth gag to bite, she had no choice but to suck on the skin of the fleshy part of her arm near to her shoulder for some relief from his persistent grinding.
Without a word but with moans of pleasure he spurted wads of cum into her ass cunt until he was totally spent and lay down on her back. She was aware of his sweat and was grateful when he raised himself again and brought a tissue to wipe some of the cum away. He left her then and went to the bathroom and showered.
When he returned to her she first felt his hand lube her ass cunt and then she felt her night plug being placed into her. It was his way to fuck her with it – in and out, in and out – until with one deep push he inserted it into place. He had her stand and she moved to assist him as he put the chastity belt on her and locked her in.
“Time to be put away.”
He pulled the covers back. He watched her get into bed and settle herself on her side and place her palms together under her right facial cheek, as she was inclined to do. She may just have been fucked like a slut but now she was more like a little girl.
He bent over her, brought the covers up high and tucked her in; smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.
“Good girl. Straight off to dreamland.”
He turned off the light and closed the door. He would work in his study now for at least an hour. Her pussy cunt throbbed but of course, touching herself had been rendered impossible. She squeezed as hard as she could but without his countdown, her orgasm eluded her and she gave up and drifted into sleep. What she dreamed is anybody’s guess.
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