In my last post I made mention of how we have a tendency to think of our lives in story form. After all, a year begins with a sense of hope as to how things will go, there is a middle to the year, but it is not until the year is over that we can assess how things have actually gone and whether the year (the story) was a success or otherwise.
I had in my mind a thought to share my kinky notebook with you in this post and in so doing, to explore all the ways I feel I have grown over the past year. It didn’t work out so well. There is so much detail in that notebook of mine and it was getting ridiculously complicated. I hope you can take me at my word that I have definitely made lots of progress with my submissive state and as well, how I function as a complete human being.
It seems more prudent to write here in my last post of 2010 what I have yet to fully grasp in terms of being a submissive woman. This gives me a focus going into 2011 so that hopefully sometime next year I can report my issue is fully licked.
The biggest issue for me is that I have trouble getting into trouble. I find it damaging to my sense of self as a “good girl”. If I am in trouble, says my complex mind, then I am not perfect and hence I must be bad (and a huge disappointment and deserving of banishment).
This is a long, ongoing saga. I remember Rich (the man who helped me accept my submissive nature a few years ago) saying to me after I had or hadn’t done something or other, that I was a bad girl. I remember how I felt and there was nothing at all erotic about it. I felt awful.
We explored my feelings and I remember telling him that my mother used the word “bad” and still does. “Bad dog!” she will say. I remember asking her not to refer to my oldest son in that way. “You’re a bad boy!” I never get upset with my mother but at the time he was a confused two year old child and his mother was sitting in a hospital with tubes coming out of her. I was upset that I couldn’t care for my son and baby and she was upset that I was ill. She defended herself and I just went into my shell. I have always hated the thought of calling someone “bad” and I didn’t want to ever feel that I was bad. Rich tended to use the word “naughty” after that.
It is the absolute truth that I always wanted to be a good child and I was thought of as a good child. I was the good girl at school and at home and if I had revolutionary thoughts or idea or plans, I kept them to myself and quietly went about achieving my goals in a non-demanding and non-confrontational way.
I loathe being in trouble with my husband and one of my incredibly big breakthroughs is that I am able to say very easily now that “I am sorry”. It was hard to accept the blame for things; to accept my share of wrongdoing; to acknowledge that my lack of control, for example, was responsible for the argument we had.
I’ve always been relatively quick to apologize if you allow me a few minutes, hours or at most a day, depending on the circumstances. I want very much to put an end to the unpleasantness. But, in the heat of the moment, that could be very hard for me to do. On that score, the progress is truly significant.
The issue that remains is that I find myself wanting to avoid unpleasantness altogether. It has seemed to me that if I could just be strong enough to self soothe I could withstand almost any circumstance without sharing it or asking for support or forgiveness (or whatever I needed to share). If I withheld information and purported to be perfectly all right then unpleasantness would be avoided. I wouldn’t be in trouble in any way and I would not have disappointed in any way. I would not be thought of or called “bad”.
Of course, there is a price to pay for such a stand. The connection between the top and bottom is weaker, there is a sense of being a fraud and there is some resentment too that I was allowed to get away with this in the first place. The thinking goes, ‘if he paid a bit more attention, it would be patently obvious that I am not as good as I state. Nobody is that good, for Pete’s sake. Nobody is so self sufficient, least of all a submissive such as me!’
I am encouraged to “let go”. I have said in the past, “but if I let go, if I just naturally say what is on my mind, or if I tell you everything, I’ll be in trouble.” (or words to that effect) The response was quite simply, “Then, be in trouble and take the correction. Dolls learn from correction, don’t they?!”
Dolls do learn from correction, it is true. Yet the issue remains that to be transparent is to reveal myself as the flawed person that I am. I’m not nearly as strong as I’d like to be either but the thinking goes, ‘at least I can learn to be strong and stand on my own two feet, whereas to be so vulnerable, so liable to being hurt and to being rejected and thought of as a disappointment is just too painful’.
The way I tried to reconcile this problem in my mind is to be very mindful of the way that I communicate and I have found this strategy goes a long way. If I want to tell my husband something, or ask for something, or if I want peace to reign but still want to voice an opinion, I do it with a great deal of tact, with diplomacy, at an appropriate time and completely aware that it must sound and seem polite to his ears. If he chides me it takes rather a long time for me to find the courage to try again to be honest with him about my feelings, my needs or thoughts.
Be assured, over the year my life and my relationships are vastly improved. I am very happy. But, I cannot deny that I do withhold certain thoughts and feelings out of a sense that this brings peace and stability. I continue to doubt the thinking that asks the submissive to reveal all to her dominant, to get in trouble, to accept the correction, learn and drive on. I accept it in theory. However, to be considered less than perfect and to risk the abandonment or derision of the dominant is something I continue to find very difficult to do. I know this is not a good thing and somehow rectifying this flawed thinking in my mind is a high priority goal for 2011.
2010 has been a very fruitful and happy year for me. I’m an incredibly lucky girl and I know it. I have a husband I adore and who adores me. I have wonderful friends who support me, inspire me and sustain me. I have a terrific family and I have the opportunity to grow, to learn and to write. Who could ask for more?
May 2011 be a very happy, successful and loving one for you all.Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Intuition
The vast majority of the readers of this web journal reside in the United States and Europe and hence I doubt many of you know of the death of Ruth Park a few weeks ago. Ruth is the author of 'The Harp in the South', well known to many Australians who read that book in their final year at school. She was a prolific writer and perhaps some readers are familiar with 'The Muddleheaded Wombat' series heard on ABC Radio. My husband certainly remembers listening to them.
In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.
I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.
Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:
"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."
Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.
Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.
But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.
On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?
In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.
I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.
Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:
"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."
Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.
Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.
But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.
On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Home
I had been going out with my boyfriend for some time when one day he informed me that the company would be sending him to the United States for an extended period of time. We talked it over and agreed that I would go with him as his girlfriend. We were too young to marry. This news was not met with glee by the family on any level but they accepted it.
One day, the General Manager at my place of work offered me a lift home and whilst he had me as a captive listener he told me that he did not approve. It was not at all right that a young girl accompany a man across the seas unless she were his bride. Far better, he said, that we should marry before we left.
Time has a way of twisting the truth in one's mind and I suppose other people commented on the situation as well, but it is that conversation that has always stayed in my mind. Perhaps my 'boyfriend' and I discussed it some more. I don't remember. However, some time after that, he proposed and we did marry before we left to start our lives together as newlyweds on the other side of the world.
It wasn't entirely blissful in that first year. He travelled a great deal around the United States with his job and I was commuting into New York City each work day with my job - a job that paid the bills rather than fulfilled me. The land was foreign to me. It took time for me to understand how that continent worked and I missed my homeland. I felt awkward asking for tomAto on my sandwich when I so wanted to say tomuto. I found the summer stifling hot and the humidity draining. I had no understanding why people lived on wretched looking and smelling coffee. And, why were so many advertisements about heartburn? Just how did this country work?
I no longer remember quite why I went home to Australia later that year but I remember that before my journey back to the United States, I suggested that my husband not bother to come to pick me up at the airport. It would be midnight and I could catch one of those limousine taxis back to our town. He agreed.
The plane got in and I still remember being very tired but grateful to have the long journey over. I remember feeling neither here or there. Australia was no longer my home and nor was the land where we had settled. I just remember feeling displaced and rather lonely. I began to think about finding my way to the limousine taxi area.
One thing you don't know about me is that I am rather useless in a crowd. It is often just one big blob of people to me and I have trouble seeing any one person in particular. Yet, when I looked into the crowd at this moment, I could see quite clearly that there was my husband, wearing the big brown sweater that I had knitted for him.
I think that even though the details of events get a bit hazy as we age, we do still tend to remember how we feel at any moment and at that moment I felt that I had come "home". Wherever he was, that was my home. And so it is to this day.
One day, the General Manager at my place of work offered me a lift home and whilst he had me as a captive listener he told me that he did not approve. It was not at all right that a young girl accompany a man across the seas unless she were his bride. Far better, he said, that we should marry before we left.
Time has a way of twisting the truth in one's mind and I suppose other people commented on the situation as well, but it is that conversation that has always stayed in my mind. Perhaps my 'boyfriend' and I discussed it some more. I don't remember. However, some time after that, he proposed and we did marry before we left to start our lives together as newlyweds on the other side of the world.
It wasn't entirely blissful in that first year. He travelled a great deal around the United States with his job and I was commuting into New York City each work day with my job - a job that paid the bills rather than fulfilled me. The land was foreign to me. It took time for me to understand how that continent worked and I missed my homeland. I felt awkward asking for tomAto on my sandwich when I so wanted to say tomuto. I found the summer stifling hot and the humidity draining. I had no understanding why people lived on wretched looking and smelling coffee. And, why were so many advertisements about heartburn? Just how did this country work?
I no longer remember quite why I went home to Australia later that year but I remember that before my journey back to the United States, I suggested that my husband not bother to come to pick me up at the airport. It would be midnight and I could catch one of those limousine taxis back to our town. He agreed.
The plane got in and I still remember being very tired but grateful to have the long journey over. I remember feeling neither here or there. Australia was no longer my home and nor was the land where we had settled. I just remember feeling displaced and rather lonely. I began to think about finding my way to the limousine taxi area.
One thing you don't know about me is that I am rather useless in a crowd. It is often just one big blob of people to me and I have trouble seeing any one person in particular. Yet, when I looked into the crowd at this moment, I could see quite clearly that there was my husband, wearing the big brown sweater that I had knitted for him.
I think that even though the details of events get a bit hazy as we age, we do still tend to remember how we feel at any moment and at that moment I felt that I had come "home". Wherever he was, that was my home. And so it is to this day.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Fear
I want something and I want it right now. I want to be asked a series of questions; badgered with a set of queries that lead me down a drainpipe with no way to ascend.
I want to be interrogated until I let something slip - some small detail that I had never intended to disclose, yet now have no choice but to reveal.
I want to feel the uncertainty and consternation of not knowing what he will say next.
I want the thrill of fear.
I want to experience the exhilaration of knowing that the next step is not mine.
I want to feel the control of the other and to be aware that I have no control at all.
I want to be reminded that I have no will of my own and that my only "choice" is to accept that I have no choice.
I want to dig deep into that dolli state of mind.
Fiendish folly; fearsome fright; fully fortified.
I want to be interrogated until I let something slip - some small detail that I had never intended to disclose, yet now have no choice but to reveal.
I want to feel the uncertainty and consternation of not knowing what he will say next.
I want the thrill of fear.
I want to experience the exhilaration of knowing that the next step is not mine.
I want to feel the control of the other and to be aware that I have no control at all.
I want to be reminded that I have no will of my own and that my only "choice" is to accept that I have no choice.
I want to dig deep into that dolli state of mind.
Fiendish folly; fearsome fright; fully fortified.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Happy holiday
The festive season is well underway and in a few days, it will be Christmas. This is my last opportunity to wish all readers, whatever your faith, a very happy holiday.May it be filled with fun and good cheer. Stay safe and well, spread the joy and have a very happy, blessed holiday.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The whole entity
In my last post I expressed some frustration that my true nature is kept under the radar. I don't necessarily look like a person with kinky thoughts running through her mind night and day is meant to look. Certainly most people don't respond to me in any particular way that relates to my submissive nature. Only the rarest of people have caught on to what lies below the surface and have sought to interact in person with the whole entity that is me.
Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".
I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.
But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?
On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.
I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.
And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.
I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.
Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.
I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.
There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.
Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".
I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.
But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?
On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.
I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.
And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.
I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.
Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.
I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.
There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Perception
A few days ago, as part of the preparation for the holidays, I had my nails refilled. This event takes place every two to three weeks and I go to the same nail salon with the same Chinese girls. I sat down and put out my hands, as you do. She gasped.
"So long."
"Yep"
I've been through this so many times now I am almost oblivious to their reactions. They do a little shrug, maybe a few words about how I must "be careful" and then go ahead and do the refill. But, there have been times when I have been intimidated by these girls. Their 'encouragement' to "make shorter" my nails has had me agreeing to take off some length. I seem to be an anomaly to them, that I should want nails longer than the other clients, but I have learned to stand my ground.
It was more than irritating therefore when a young woman, about fifteen years younger than me, blew into the salon saying that she needed a new set of nails and could it be done immediately. They were frantically busy but squeezed her in - the woman with the very long dyed hair with a part in the middle of her head. I was curious about her and gobsmacked when I looked at the length of her new nails. Not a single word of concern or negativity had been raised about the length of her nails - almost twice as long as mine! She wasn't encouraged to "be careful" and nor did they shake their heads at the length she had instructed her girl to cut them. Quietly and without fanfare she was getting the longest set of acrylic nails I had ever seen, apart from photographs!
I have to think that my appearance led them to feel a certain way about me, whereas her appearance and her whole persona (I wondered if she might be a domme/switch) led them to feel an entirely different way about her. I really have no idea as to where the truth lies and can only speculate.
All my online friends are the most regular looking of people, really. There would be no reason at all for a passerby to feel that he or she is in the midst of kink. I think we are virtually undetectable. Yes, the wearing of a corset perhaps says something. Possibly, a few tattoos give a clue. A certain kind of shoe might suggest something. But I don't think anybody could be sure about any of the people I know, including me. There is nothing to suggest the thoughts that are racing through our minds; our desires for a certain kind of handling. People might wonder but they can't know anything by our appearance.
In the same way, I may be barking up the wrong tree entirely to call this girl with the very long nails a domme/switch, or into kink at all. She may, quite simply, love very long nails. Who is to say? Yet, I sense I am right about her; feel almost sure that she has a secret and that made her very interesting to me.
Here's what I think: The man of her life, a very dominant man indeed, has instructed her to get a set of nails of an inch in length and for them to be done by the end of the day. It was a work day for her and immediately collecting her child from school (she had a rather naughty little boy with her who she was having trouble controlling, which made it all the more interesting to me that she might be a domme/switch) she drove fast to the nail salon and without an appointment used her assertive style to get their co-operation. They sensed she was unlike their other clients and didn't bother to try to control her, rather fitting her in and doing what they were told. Upon leaving the salon, she would scoop up the naughty little boy and race home to tidy up the house, prepare dinner and await her man, who would be delighted to see the claws at the end of her fingers. Her top appeased, they would settle into a night of lovely debauchery.
Now, who in the salon would think that scenario of me? Who would ever believe that my instruction to them to have my nails a certain length came to me as a command? Who would ever think that I was going home to a night of slutty, kinky play? Who would ever look at me and think, 'There's a slut if ever I saw one!"
It has made people watching all the more fun for me. I look at the most regular of people and try to guess what is going on in their very private minds. Could they be thinking what I am thinking? What sluts!
"So long."
"Yep"
I've been through this so many times now I am almost oblivious to their reactions. They do a little shrug, maybe a few words about how I must "be careful" and then go ahead and do the refill. But, there have been times when I have been intimidated by these girls. Their 'encouragement' to "make shorter" my nails has had me agreeing to take off some length. I seem to be an anomaly to them, that I should want nails longer than the other clients, but I have learned to stand my ground.
It was more than irritating therefore when a young woman, about fifteen years younger than me, blew into the salon saying that she needed a new set of nails and could it be done immediately. They were frantically busy but squeezed her in - the woman with the very long dyed hair with a part in the middle of her head. I was curious about her and gobsmacked when I looked at the length of her new nails. Not a single word of concern or negativity had been raised about the length of her nails - almost twice as long as mine! She wasn't encouraged to "be careful" and nor did they shake their heads at the length she had instructed her girl to cut them. Quietly and without fanfare she was getting the longest set of acrylic nails I had ever seen, apart from photographs!
I have to think that my appearance led them to feel a certain way about me, whereas her appearance and her whole persona (I wondered if she might be a domme/switch) led them to feel an entirely different way about her. I really have no idea as to where the truth lies and can only speculate.
All my online friends are the most regular looking of people, really. There would be no reason at all for a passerby to feel that he or she is in the midst of kink. I think we are virtually undetectable. Yes, the wearing of a corset perhaps says something. Possibly, a few tattoos give a clue. A certain kind of shoe might suggest something. But I don't think anybody could be sure about any of the people I know, including me. There is nothing to suggest the thoughts that are racing through our minds; our desires for a certain kind of handling. People might wonder but they can't know anything by our appearance.
In the same way, I may be barking up the wrong tree entirely to call this girl with the very long nails a domme/switch, or into kink at all. She may, quite simply, love very long nails. Who is to say? Yet, I sense I am right about her; feel almost sure that she has a secret and that made her very interesting to me.
Here's what I think: The man of her life, a very dominant man indeed, has instructed her to get a set of nails of an inch in length and for them to be done by the end of the day. It was a work day for her and immediately collecting her child from school (she had a rather naughty little boy with her who she was having trouble controlling, which made it all the more interesting to me that she might be a domme/switch) she drove fast to the nail salon and without an appointment used her assertive style to get their co-operation. They sensed she was unlike their other clients and didn't bother to try to control her, rather fitting her in and doing what they were told. Upon leaving the salon, she would scoop up the naughty little boy and race home to tidy up the house, prepare dinner and await her man, who would be delighted to see the claws at the end of her fingers. Her top appeased, they would settle into a night of lovely debauchery.
Now, who in the salon would think that scenario of me? Who would ever believe that my instruction to them to have my nails a certain length came to me as a command? Who would ever think that I was going home to a night of slutty, kinky play? Who would ever look at me and think, 'There's a slut if ever I saw one!"
It has made people watching all the more fun for me. I look at the most regular of people and try to guess what is going on in their very private minds. Could they be thinking what I am thinking? What sluts!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hard werk keepn up wif a bimbo
Cindi in a beri beri slutti frame of mind rite now. She nut sur y zactli but her totz beri slutti ndeed. She beri calm, reeeelaxd n she hab meni tots bowt yoos.
Cindi receeevd a beri notti moovn pikki az a prezzi n dat bimbo hab ull da holz yoosd at wuns. Der a man in front hoo hold her hed stil, n a man unda her n a man at bak her n da bimbo looki beri beri satisfyd. Dat reeeli did sumtin 2 dis bimbo n she alredi looki it sebril tyms dis morning n tot bowt it 2, whyl she Christmas shoppin.
Bimboz beri free, n feel beri liber8d 2 speriens ull sortsa tots. Of cors, dis bimbo only intimit wif her onnir but dat nut meen she nut hab beri slutti tots.
Now, y da bimbo feel so free, so calm n so happi rite now? Well, mebbe she jus progresd 2 sum new level of satisfakshin after lotsa hard werk. N also, her onnir njoyn yoosn her lots, n pluggiz njoy her 2 n dat make her mynd n her bodi beri redi 4ebin mor yoos n ebin mor slutti tots. Bimboz beri hungry lil tingz.
It beri inerestin 2 cindi dat ebin tho her tots so streeemli slutti, she consentraytn radda well n gettn trew all the tings on her ‘2 do’ list. Dat soooo pleeeezn 2 cindi – dat she reeechd da poynt wher she hav beri notti tots but she stil abel do her werkiz az wel.
Da kestun 4 cindi – wil da notti moovn pikki she sent ebr leef her myn? She strongli dowts it. But, def feeel bit sorri 4 da men sumtymz. Looki dis wun in da pikki abuv. He looki just exhaustd! Nut ez 4 onnirs n da men in da bimboz myn keepi up wif her. Oh wel! Spoz dat da prys dey pay 4 habin bimboz!
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Training the doll
It occurred to me recently that I have never really written directly about what my time in training as ‘the doll’ has been like. I’ve written as ‘cindi’ so you know something about what I experience. However, I don’t think I have said much at all about what the training has meant to me. It has meant a great deal; changed and altered me in ways I could never have imagined at the outset. It sustains me; fulfils me; consoles and comforts me; allows me to sink into my alter ego in a way that provides me with sustenance and energy. It has been the greatest of gifts in my life and this post is my attempt to explain that process.
From the outset, I was given limits and boundaries; contained. I was told that the only appropriate way for a doll to talk was in the third person. This seemed relatively natural to me from the outset and very soon, completely natural. Over time, words such as “are” ,” is” and “am” were denied. It took a few days for me to get the hang of it but I never for a moment rejected the idea. At least, I have no memory whatsoever of a rebellious thought towards the limit imposed.
There is one day when the limit was new that stands out in my memory where I was making mistake after mistake and eventually he had had enough of it. I earned myself 100 lines and was told immediately after completing the lines that I was to type the first thing that entered my head. I was truly ashamed to discover that I had made another mistake and that sense of shame stayed with me for a long time. I vowed never to do it again, and whilst I must surely have made the odd error over the next few weeks, I accepted my limit into my heart and embraced it as the way I would always speak with him.
There have been fleeting moments, I admit, when I have thought how wonderfully bold it would be to write across the page, “IS IS IS IS IS IS” but I know in my heart that this word is not for the doll, and the victory would be so short, and the consequences so uncomfortable for me, that I have never done this and never will do this. I speak the language of the doll happily.
As well as speaking in the third person and without the words associated with identity (for example, “I am”), I speak not English but ‘bimbo speeki'. I don’t use the spelling of the English language but rather the spelling that comes (cumz) naturally if one had never been schooled. I am free to express myself in a way such that the rules of language and spelling had never been imposed on me.
All put together, my form of communication is very liberating and immediately places me in my dolly headspace. It is anything but a chore; anything but an imposition; anything but insulting to me. It is the language I use to enable me to feel free; liberated. It is my window into the soul of a sexual, hungry, single minded being whose desire is to please and serve; to express her sexual energy and her understanding of her role; her purpose; her place.
My desire to live more as ‘the doll’ and to experience the mindset of the doll was made more possible with physical limits. I was instructed to get a set of acrylic French nails. Eventually, I was told to make them longer – one centimetre. I initially failed to comply and found myself staring straight into his resolve to be obeyed. Unless I complied there was nothing else to talk about. I returned to the salon and started again from scratch.
I adore my nails and on the odd occasion when one is broken (usually due to my loss of focus on the limits of a doll) I feel wretched until it is fixed. The nails contain me in a number of ways. Most importantly, they slow me down. I must cautiously open a drawer to get out a pot, for example. I must consider how I might attend to a chore or if I can pick up something heavy with one hand or two. I must take my nails into consideration at all times. I hear the clickety clack of them as I type right now. I notice them as I gesture to talk to someone or as I move in Pilates class and place them carefully on the floor as I bend. They are as natural to me as if I was born with them and I simply cannot consider living without them. They are the hands of the doll.
The attire of the doll was considered. I have always been a fairly conventional girl. As I look back on my working life in an office, pants were never for me. As a PA, I considered it my role to look a certain way and skirts and dresses were always my choice. But, away from a corporate role, I had wandered into dressing casually in jeans and pants more than was necessary.
In my headspace as a doll, pants felt no more right to me than they did in the office and my choice is nearly always a dress or a skirt and top/shirt. There are times when pants are worn. I don’t deny that. But, those days are very rare and they have a purpose to them. New items of clothing are carefully considered and the question in my mind is ‘Does this outfit make me feel like the doll?’
The doll is not overindulged and thus a great many items in my wardrobe were given away. They needed to be appropriate and pretty. There was no reason for the doll to have a wardrobe overflowing with garments and I learned to appreciate the value of less items, well organized. This pleases me enormously and keeps the doll ever present.
Whilst the limits of language, nails and dress were vital, I think the most significant lesson and limit of all for the doll has been behaviour modification. I don’t say this lightly for it has also been the hardest limit to embrace.
I am, generally speaking, a polite individual. I treat people with respect when I speak to them and I am a ‘live and let live’ sort of person, but my behaviour required modification to reach the high standards required of a doll. Most importantly, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Hurt feelings, anger, a sense that I was being put down, all played into inappropriate responses.
To give an example or two of this, one time I was hurt by a comment and before I knew what had happened I responded with sarcasm. I was told to go away and think about my response and I remember an acute sense of confusion that I should be abandoned at a time when I felt hurt. On another occasion, I was stung by words that I thought related to me and I fired off an email expressing my hurt feelings and confusion.
It took time for me to learn to slow my responses down; to think about them and try to deal with them myself and make sense of them; to not allow my emotions to bleed all over the page. I learned to ask to speak to him to clarify a statement. I learned to open my mind to see matters from his perspective. I learned to trust. I learned to give over control and to stop trying to control (though that lesson is an ongoing one, for sure).
Of course, much of this training occurred by way of a special limit. I was introduced to anal training almost from the outset and discovered its benefits almost immediately. But eventually, the directive was to use my plug more than I did not – every night and part of every day. This was a limit I found that pushed me to the brink of rebellion and sometimes headlong into war. Yes, the benefits were undeniable and the doll present, but the command challenged my ego profoundly. ("Cindi tinki she 2 speshel 4 dis rule.") I would comply for long stretches only to use some excuse or other to take liberties for a day; sometimes longer. I would eventually confess. The aberration would be discussed; often punished by way of denial. For a doll, this has great meaning.
Over time, I would come to see that this way of life was right for me; that it brought me peace, fulfilment and sexual pleasure and that the need to rebel had become redundant. In fact, the doll required bigger, more challenging plugs. Over time, it became apparent that the doll and I were interchangeable and that to deny what helped and nurtured was to be stubborn and appear to self-harm. Ultimately I accepted that for as often as possible, to live as the doll was to live in harmony with my true nature.
Are there moments when I wish I could discuss with him something relating to my everyday life? Of course! We were friends before I was the doll and he, the trainer. Yet, I have come to see that this time when I may only speak with him as the doll is the greatest of gifts and much more significant and valuable than any other conversation could ever be.
In any case, I have learned that as the doll, I may ask questions or ask to discuss a topic that might be bothering me in ways that allow free expression of a sort. Good behaviour, politeness and a show of care, kindness and consideration are all rewarded in their own way. Most importantly, there is a sense of continuity, of trust, of deep and abiding friendship and respect for one another’s lives as individuals and as partners of two highly (and separate) successful marriages that is extraordinarily rare, I think; perhaps unique.
My training as a doll has brought and continues to bring me great happiness, fulfilment and succour. It has relieved me of bad habits and behaviour which held me back in my marriage to a darling but demanding man and given me limits and boundaries which keep me feeling safe and nurtured. It has encouraged kindness and in return provided me with the kindness of others. It has shown me how to live according to my nature and my needs and has fulfilled and transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. My marriage is better; my life is richer; I am softer and much more fulfilled; content.
I look forward to new challenges. Dolls need challenges. Complacency is not for them and so the road will never be entirely easy but nor will it ever be (God willing) without the care, consideration and thoughtfulness of a dominant man. The doll’s trust, obedience and kindness makes for the completion of the dynamic that is a special kind of love; a spiritual connection that goes to the heart of all that is good. Dreams really do come true for good dolls.
From the outset, I was given limits and boundaries; contained. I was told that the only appropriate way for a doll to talk was in the third person. This seemed relatively natural to me from the outset and very soon, completely natural. Over time, words such as “are” ,” is” and “am” were denied. It took a few days for me to get the hang of it but I never for a moment rejected the idea. At least, I have no memory whatsoever of a rebellious thought towards the limit imposed.
There is one day when the limit was new that stands out in my memory where I was making mistake after mistake and eventually he had had enough of it. I earned myself 100 lines and was told immediately after completing the lines that I was to type the first thing that entered my head. I was truly ashamed to discover that I had made another mistake and that sense of shame stayed with me for a long time. I vowed never to do it again, and whilst I must surely have made the odd error over the next few weeks, I accepted my limit into my heart and embraced it as the way I would always speak with him.
There have been fleeting moments, I admit, when I have thought how wonderfully bold it would be to write across the page, “IS IS IS IS IS IS” but I know in my heart that this word is not for the doll, and the victory would be so short, and the consequences so uncomfortable for me, that I have never done this and never will do this. I speak the language of the doll happily.
As well as speaking in the third person and without the words associated with identity (for example, “I am”), I speak not English but ‘bimbo speeki'. I don’t use the spelling of the English language but rather the spelling that comes (cumz) naturally if one had never been schooled. I am free to express myself in a way such that the rules of language and spelling had never been imposed on me.
All put together, my form of communication is very liberating and immediately places me in my dolly headspace. It is anything but a chore; anything but an imposition; anything but insulting to me. It is the language I use to enable me to feel free; liberated. It is my window into the soul of a sexual, hungry, single minded being whose desire is to please and serve; to express her sexual energy and her understanding of her role; her purpose; her place.
My desire to live more as ‘the doll’ and to experience the mindset of the doll was made more possible with physical limits. I was instructed to get a set of acrylic French nails. Eventually, I was told to make them longer – one centimetre. I initially failed to comply and found myself staring straight into his resolve to be obeyed. Unless I complied there was nothing else to talk about. I returned to the salon and started again from scratch.
I adore my nails and on the odd occasion when one is broken (usually due to my loss of focus on the limits of a doll) I feel wretched until it is fixed. The nails contain me in a number of ways. Most importantly, they slow me down. I must cautiously open a drawer to get out a pot, for example. I must consider how I might attend to a chore or if I can pick up something heavy with one hand or two. I must take my nails into consideration at all times. I hear the clickety clack of them as I type right now. I notice them as I gesture to talk to someone or as I move in Pilates class and place them carefully on the floor as I bend. They are as natural to me as if I was born with them and I simply cannot consider living without them. They are the hands of the doll.
The attire of the doll was considered. I have always been a fairly conventional girl. As I look back on my working life in an office, pants were never for me. As a PA, I considered it my role to look a certain way and skirts and dresses were always my choice. But, away from a corporate role, I had wandered into dressing casually in jeans and pants more than was necessary.
In my headspace as a doll, pants felt no more right to me than they did in the office and my choice is nearly always a dress or a skirt and top/shirt. There are times when pants are worn. I don’t deny that. But, those days are very rare and they have a purpose to them. New items of clothing are carefully considered and the question in my mind is ‘Does this outfit make me feel like the doll?’
The doll is not overindulged and thus a great many items in my wardrobe were given away. They needed to be appropriate and pretty. There was no reason for the doll to have a wardrobe overflowing with garments and I learned to appreciate the value of less items, well organized. This pleases me enormously and keeps the doll ever present.
Whilst the limits of language, nails and dress were vital, I think the most significant lesson and limit of all for the doll has been behaviour modification. I don’t say this lightly for it has also been the hardest limit to embrace.
I am, generally speaking, a polite individual. I treat people with respect when I speak to them and I am a ‘live and let live’ sort of person, but my behaviour required modification to reach the high standards required of a doll. Most importantly, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Hurt feelings, anger, a sense that I was being put down, all played into inappropriate responses.
To give an example or two of this, one time I was hurt by a comment and before I knew what had happened I responded with sarcasm. I was told to go away and think about my response and I remember an acute sense of confusion that I should be abandoned at a time when I felt hurt. On another occasion, I was stung by words that I thought related to me and I fired off an email expressing my hurt feelings and confusion.
It took time for me to learn to slow my responses down; to think about them and try to deal with them myself and make sense of them; to not allow my emotions to bleed all over the page. I learned to ask to speak to him to clarify a statement. I learned to open my mind to see matters from his perspective. I learned to trust. I learned to give over control and to stop trying to control (though that lesson is an ongoing one, for sure).
Of course, much of this training occurred by way of a special limit. I was introduced to anal training almost from the outset and discovered its benefits almost immediately. But eventually, the directive was to use my plug more than I did not – every night and part of every day. This was a limit I found that pushed me to the brink of rebellion and sometimes headlong into war. Yes, the benefits were undeniable and the doll present, but the command challenged my ego profoundly. ("Cindi tinki she 2 speshel 4 dis rule.") I would comply for long stretches only to use some excuse or other to take liberties for a day; sometimes longer. I would eventually confess. The aberration would be discussed; often punished by way of denial. For a doll, this has great meaning.
Over time, I would come to see that this way of life was right for me; that it brought me peace, fulfilment and sexual pleasure and that the need to rebel had become redundant. In fact, the doll required bigger, more challenging plugs. Over time, it became apparent that the doll and I were interchangeable and that to deny what helped and nurtured was to be stubborn and appear to self-harm. Ultimately I accepted that for as often as possible, to live as the doll was to live in harmony with my true nature.
Are there moments when I wish I could discuss with him something relating to my everyday life? Of course! We were friends before I was the doll and he, the trainer. Yet, I have come to see that this time when I may only speak with him as the doll is the greatest of gifts and much more significant and valuable than any other conversation could ever be.
In any case, I have learned that as the doll, I may ask questions or ask to discuss a topic that might be bothering me in ways that allow free expression of a sort. Good behaviour, politeness and a show of care, kindness and consideration are all rewarded in their own way. Most importantly, there is a sense of continuity, of trust, of deep and abiding friendship and respect for one another’s lives as individuals and as partners of two highly (and separate) successful marriages that is extraordinarily rare, I think; perhaps unique.
My training as a doll has brought and continues to bring me great happiness, fulfilment and succour. It has relieved me of bad habits and behaviour which held me back in my marriage to a darling but demanding man and given me limits and boundaries which keep me feeling safe and nurtured. It has encouraged kindness and in return provided me with the kindness of others. It has shown me how to live according to my nature and my needs and has fulfilled and transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. My marriage is better; my life is richer; I am softer and much more fulfilled; content.
I look forward to new challenges. Dolls need challenges. Complacency is not for them and so the road will never be entirely easy but nor will it ever be (God willing) without the care, consideration and thoughtfulness of a dominant man. The doll’s trust, obedience and kindness makes for the completion of the dynamic that is a special kind of love; a spiritual connection that goes to the heart of all that is good. Dreams really do come true for good dolls.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Flash Fiction Friday: The Threesome
As I put my arm around her I felt her shivering with desire but it was still tenuous; liable to explode in my face. I’d led her to this moment; gradual, encouraging suggestions. Just when I dismissed the idea for lack of interest, she said she wanted to do it, for me. But, she was the aggressor here; hedonistic, hungry and assertive. She ground on my leg, spread herself; used her fragile, feminine claws to claim Becky while her full, parted lips moved in on her and overwhelmed her completely.
For now, she was a sexual creature abandoning her sense of jealousy that she should share my attentions. Time would tell if this was an aberration. Support; control; assure; adjust; pleasure and enjoy. Keep my fingers crossed.
(Image source: "King Sol" by Carolyn Weltman)
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
The Other Side of Agnes
You may wish to read here first.
“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”
“A baguette?”
“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”
“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“Suppose?”
“You are right.”
“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”
“I love seafood.”
“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”
“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”
She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.
Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.
“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“Is that what I need?”
“Certainly.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.
“Here we are.”
He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.
“To a balanced meal.”
Agnes smiled.
“To a balanced meal.”
She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.
When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.
“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”
“Your father is right.”
“He is?”
“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”
“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”
“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”
“You are playing with me!”
“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”
“Whatever you say, Frederick.”
“Ah, the girl is trainable.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He ignored her question.
“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”
“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”
“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”
“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”
“Oh?”
“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”
“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”
“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”
“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, that is nice to know.”
The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.
She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.
“Do you live alone, Frederick?”
“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”
“Do you have children?”
“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”
“Do you get lonely living alone?”
“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”
“May I ask what you do?”
“You may. I am a banker.”
“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”
He smiled at her simplistic response.
“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”
“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”
“There is no need, Agnes.”
“Well, father says...”
“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”
Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.
Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.
At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.
“I shall walk you home.”
She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.
He stopped and turned towards her.
“Agnes? Is something wrong?”
“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
She remained silent.
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
“With you.”
He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”
“A baguette?”
“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”
“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.”
“Suppose?”
“You are right.”
“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”
“I love seafood.”
“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”
“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”
She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.
Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.
“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“Is that what I need?”
“Certainly.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.
“Here we are.”
He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.
“To a balanced meal.”
Agnes smiled.
“To a balanced meal.”
She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.
When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.
“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”
“Your father is right.”
“He is?”
“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”
“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”
“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”
“You are playing with me!”
“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”
“Whatever you say, Frederick.”
“Ah, the girl is trainable.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He ignored her question.
“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”
“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”
“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”
“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”
“Oh?”
“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”
“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”
“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”
“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, that is nice to know.”
The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.
She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.
“Do you live alone, Frederick?”
“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”
“Do you have children?”
“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”
“Do you get lonely living alone?”
“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”
“May I ask what you do?”
“You may. I am a banker.”
“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”
He smiled at her simplistic response.
“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”
“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”
“There is no need, Agnes.”
“Well, father says...”
“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”
Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.
Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.
At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.
“I shall walk you home.”
She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.
He stopped and turned towards her.
“Agnes? Is something wrong?”
“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
She remained silent.
“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”
“With you.”
He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Daydreaming
This time of year is especially busy where I live. We've been through preparation for exams, the exams, the events that lead to the end of the academic year...the Carol Service....and so on. Finally, that all ended and my body said, "Enough!". It was time to get some good sleeps.
With some catch up on sleep, my body and mind moved into a new phase, that of resuming kinky thoughts with a new found gusto. I've barely slept at all last night between my lusty thoughts, my husband coming to bed late and getting up early to leave for the airport again. I had planned to return to sleep once I said goodbye to him but instead my thoughts had me in the most cuntstrained of situations...
Not only did I have an owner, and a very strict one at that, but since he was a very busy owner he had employed a woman to supervise me. In the past, such a woman (in my mind) has been a big boned, strong and ample sort of woman but this time she was quite petite, rather beautiful features and she wore her hair in a french twist.
I really don't feel that I can tell you everything they did to me. It is acutely embarrassing. Let me try...
His driver was on stand by to take him to the airport and he called me into his study. He checked to see that I was plugged, that I was well constrained and contained within my corset, and he had me kneel and pleasure him with my mouth cunt. (He always used those words and so must I.) The woman looked on. He took his pleasure and had me clear him up and as an afterthought he advised me that it was best that he mark me, so that while he was gone I had a constant reminder of my connection to him. He had her fetch the cane, and as I bent over the desk as told, and while my owner lifted up my skirt, she held down my head.
He delivered 12 swift strokes of the cane and before I could barely thank him and wish him adieu he was gone, but not without cautioning me that whatever Madam said was at his instruction. I was to do exactly as I was told.
Whether she was sadistic or merely following instructions is hard to say. The days were certainly challenging and containing with her. She kept me plugged night and day and insisted that I use the toilet when she deemed it proper to do so. She had determined that I should evacuate my bowel in the morning and when I could not do so, she said I would sit there until I did. An hour later, she thought the strap would assist me, and twenty five welts to my bottom later, I told her that I was, in fact, able to use the toilet at her command. The fact that there would be no reprieve had kicked my brain into action (and the threat of another 25 of the strap in half an hour's time also probably helped.) It seems her task was to make my day orderly in every way, and she was determined to fulfil her orders.
Each day I had certain lessons to learn and later she sat me down to write hundreds of lines to ensure I understood my lessons well. There would no permission to leave the seat and so I stopped bothering to ask. I learned as well that I must slow myself down and attend to my handwriting very carefully. She had given me a fountain pen with which to write and the slightest imperfection earned me another page of lines. I soon learned it was best to do the task and all tasks she set, properly and with pride.
I dressed and undressed when told, ate and drank what I was given, bent over to be plugged or unplugged, beaten or felt. I wore jewellery from my nipple rings to remind me of my position. I went to bed as directed, woke up when instructed and didn't dare to touch my own body in any way at all (she seemed to be always watching and tied my hands to the bed post at night). Eventually, with the assistance of Madam I learned that in my owner's household I had no say, no control, no power; no will of my own at all.
Upon his return, my owner noticed the changes in me immediately. He talked of a serenity that had come over me and a clear understanding of my place; my status; my position. I can only say that I was very happy; content and peaceful. I felt the strongest of connections to him. That he had ordered and directed this adjustment to my thinking made me feel that I belonged to him and I wanted nothing more and nothing less than that...
Sleep or no sleep aside, the day demands that I focus on business matters and there my dream must end. I promise to put up the next interlude between Agnes and Frederick soonest.
With some catch up on sleep, my body and mind moved into a new phase, that of resuming kinky thoughts with a new found gusto. I've barely slept at all last night between my lusty thoughts, my husband coming to bed late and getting up early to leave for the airport again. I had planned to return to sleep once I said goodbye to him but instead my thoughts had me in the most cuntstrained of situations...
Not only did I have an owner, and a very strict one at that, but since he was a very busy owner he had employed a woman to supervise me. In the past, such a woman (in my mind) has been a big boned, strong and ample sort of woman but this time she was quite petite, rather beautiful features and she wore her hair in a french twist.
I really don't feel that I can tell you everything they did to me. It is acutely embarrassing. Let me try...
His driver was on stand by to take him to the airport and he called me into his study. He checked to see that I was plugged, that I was well constrained and contained within my corset, and he had me kneel and pleasure him with my mouth cunt. (He always used those words and so must I.) The woman looked on. He took his pleasure and had me clear him up and as an afterthought he advised me that it was best that he mark me, so that while he was gone I had a constant reminder of my connection to him. He had her fetch the cane, and as I bent over the desk as told, and while my owner lifted up my skirt, she held down my head.
He delivered 12 swift strokes of the cane and before I could barely thank him and wish him adieu he was gone, but not without cautioning me that whatever Madam said was at his instruction. I was to do exactly as I was told.
Whether she was sadistic or merely following instructions is hard to say. The days were certainly challenging and containing with her. She kept me plugged night and day and insisted that I use the toilet when she deemed it proper to do so. She had determined that I should evacuate my bowel in the morning and when I could not do so, she said I would sit there until I did. An hour later, she thought the strap would assist me, and twenty five welts to my bottom later, I told her that I was, in fact, able to use the toilet at her command. The fact that there would be no reprieve had kicked my brain into action (and the threat of another 25 of the strap in half an hour's time also probably helped.) It seems her task was to make my day orderly in every way, and she was determined to fulfil her orders.
Each day I had certain lessons to learn and later she sat me down to write hundreds of lines to ensure I understood my lessons well. There would no permission to leave the seat and so I stopped bothering to ask. I learned as well that I must slow myself down and attend to my handwriting very carefully. She had given me a fountain pen with which to write and the slightest imperfection earned me another page of lines. I soon learned it was best to do the task and all tasks she set, properly and with pride.
I dressed and undressed when told, ate and drank what I was given, bent over to be plugged or unplugged, beaten or felt. I wore jewellery from my nipple rings to remind me of my position. I went to bed as directed, woke up when instructed and didn't dare to touch my own body in any way at all (she seemed to be always watching and tied my hands to the bed post at night). Eventually, with the assistance of Madam I learned that in my owner's household I had no say, no control, no power; no will of my own at all.
Upon his return, my owner noticed the changes in me immediately. He talked of a serenity that had come over me and a clear understanding of my place; my status; my position. I can only say that I was very happy; content and peaceful. I felt the strongest of connections to him. That he had ordered and directed this adjustment to my thinking made me feel that I belonged to him and I wanted nothing more and nothing less than that...
Sleep or no sleep aside, the day demands that I focus on business matters and there my dream must end. I promise to put up the next interlude between Agnes and Frederick soonest.
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