Saturday, February 26, 2011

A question

The power exchange relationship has a philosophical issue attached to it for me; a feature that makes it difficult for me to live and embrace. If the point of the arrangement is that the dominant of the relationship has control and the submissive accepts that she has no control, what does she do with her thinking mind?

I’ve rolled these ideas over in my own head, with my husband and with a few other people and the advice is this: I am welcome to discuss. I am welcome to share my opinion. My views, thoughts and opinions will be taken into account but I have no control. The decision will ultimately be made by my dominant and I must make my peace with this, regardless of the outcome of the decisions. I should have faith that his way will be all right in the end.

I am confident that I don’t have all the answers. I am confident that I don’t want control. But, sometimes, I just know that I am right. It doesn’t happen all the time but it does happen. I know in my bones that my dominant is making a mistake; a mistake that could see him suffer, me suffer and the whole family suffer. What then?

I have agonized over this dilemma for years. Trust me when I say that I wish I didn’t have these feelings. And yet, I do; I do have these feelings. Even my husband will concede after the fact that I was right.

This is not a current issue. In fact, at the current time I support his efforts entirely because I agree with his approach entirely. Rather, this issue is one that goes around and around in my head. Can it really be right for me to sit back and watch events play out when I could prevent a lot of suffering? Should I be more assertive when I have these strong feelings?

In the main, I live in a ‘submissive bubble’ of my own making passing over responsibility to my husband regardless of my own ideas, thoughts, concerns, worries and feelings about an issue. We discuss. We talk. We consider together. But, ultimately he goes his own way.

I wish with all my heart to find my peace with this issue in my mind that disrupts my ability to truly and completely embrace this lifestyle. My question is this: Am I really doing the right thing by not being more assertive and accepting with grace the outcomes of my submission? If I could be completely confident that I am doing the right thing then it is game over and case won. Then, I could be happy for ever and ever and ever...

Tuesday, February 22, 2011


When cindi growing up, she dansd n dansd. She took ballet classz n jazz classz n rehersed 4 consertz practikly ull da tym. Satirdayz, Sundeyz n lotsa tymz afta skewl 2. She dansd wey da yeerz so happilee. Wen she dansd, she beri joyfoool n kerfree.

Wen cindi grew up she 4got bowt how happi da dansn maki her n insted she rite. She liki rite, speshelli wen she make da storeeeez up.

But, l8li, cindi wunderd, 'Hmmmmm, wut else gud 4 cindi dan da ritin?'

2nite, cindi had da impuls 2 dans. It cum owta no where reeeeeli n it beri ergint. So, cindi pooot in da IPod 2 her eeerz n she pley Andrea Bocelli reeeeli lowd. It beri l8 - alredi 11 at nite but cindi go owtsyd n in da moonlite she dans n dans. She dans she much 2 da boootifoool muzik, she pantin.


She so feel so happi n enrichd. Dansn unda da starz n da clowdz n da sky. It sucha wunderfoool speriens 4 her!

Der lotsa awfoooool tingz happinin. Now, der da erthkwake in Christchurch in New Zealand! It mek bimbo so beri sad coz she n onnir so fantastikly happi wen dey go 2 dat booootifooool plays n now it full of hartake 2nite.

But, dansin unda da starz 2 da boootifoool muzik, it remyn bimbo of ull da gud tingz, n her hart filld wif joy gin. Tinki she dans owt der gin beri soon. Hoo ker da frooot batz ster at her az dey fly past!


It was wonderful to talk with O (O = owner) on the phone last night and feel the energy in his voice. Those nasty types really have played a very dirty hand but he and others have come out of their shock, of their sense that they are doomed and begun to fight back. I know that I am not meant to have a voice in the business but on this one, I think a lot of my anxiety stemmed from believing so strongly that they should ignore the threats and fight back. They were all throwing away years of very hard work and dedication and I just couldn't see that as being the right response. On the phone last night, I felt able to support his efforts to right the wrong as best he could. It may not be perfect, but it can't be as bad as letting those men walk all over them with their underhand, bully boy tactics!

One of the facts about life that I have found so hard to accept is that we are not all brought up with the same moral code. We don't all know wrong from right. For some people the code is, 'the end justifies the means'. As a submissive, it can be hard to know what the right response is. How lovely it would be to remain in a submissive bubble! But, one does have to be on the alert for people with a different code and that means that submission is something that we can't always live.

It is my nature to be polite to people and to try to get what I need or want from people by being co-operative and considerate and so on. Sometimes, those behaviours are seen as weakness. People with their own interpretation of a 'moral code' can take advantage of what appears to be a 'submissive' type. For this reason, I think it important that a submissive person (a slave or bottom or what have you) continue to sharpen her assertiveness and her ability to demonstrate conviction of her cause. A good Dominant is likely to encourage that, I think, because it is so very difficult to live in this world without those skills. O tends to think of himself as my protector because I can't handle the cruel side of the world and that is partly true but as well, I am a survivor and I do want to succeed rather than fail.

As well, I think feeling that one is capable in the world to stand on one's own two feet and to defend one is part of what makes a strong individual and keeps depression away. Depression is often founded on feeling hopeless and a sense of feeling hopeless comes from feeling that there is nothing one can do to make things better. Being no more than an observer is very stressful to me when I feel that I have something meaningful and worthwhile to contribute.

I have tried not talking to O at all about business matters but whilst I can happily remain in a bubble for so long, reality waits for me. I think we have to keep the communication channels open, for me to remain respectful but able to give my point of view. This has risks and must be delicately handled but if we don't do this, O is at risk of being isolated in his thoughts. I continue to believe that a third party; someone who cares about him and is watching his back, should be able to speak. No one in this world cares about him more than I do. I do not want control but without a voice, I feel nothing but despair when things are going wrong and I feel denied the opportunity to help.

The saying goes that 'two heads are better than one' and in our case, so long as the second head remains respectful and handles matters delicately, I think that is the best policy. It feels incredibly hopeful and very, very right that whilst our roles remain and he will ultimately make the final decisions on our behalf, we live out those roles united as to an approach. I think it is a relief to him to have an open exchange of ideas and that whilst he enjoyed that I was happy in my submissive bubble removed from worry, he may have felt somewhat estranged. The power exchange is right for us but the extreme delineation of roles was very stressful and unsustainable.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

When not to submit

When I visited the UK last year with my husband, we bought tickets to see Blenheim Palace. Blenheim Palace is a stunning palace and the gardens are so very beautiful (we walked for hours in the grounds) but most special to me was that it was the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill and in his honour there is a permanent exhibition.

I was able to read the original letters he wrote home to his parents whilst at a horrid boarding school where he was incredibly miserable. There is no mention of his misery; not a single word. Rather, he assures his parents that he is doing his best, trying hard to improve all the time and that he hopes that they are well, comfortable and enjoying life. I felt very touched to think of this little boy’s generosity of spirit.

Of course, we all remember him for his great rallying war speeches, although he was humble about that as well. As far as he was concerned it was the nation that had “the lion heart” whilst he simply had “the luck” to be called upon to give the roar.

Although we are aware of his “black dog” he had a lovely sense of humour, a variety of interests including a great skill for painting and a passionate devotion to his wife, Clementine.

Of all Churchill’s quotes, it is this one that resonates with me:

“One ought never to turn one's back on a threatened danger and try to run away from it. If you do that, you will double the danger. But if you meet it promptly and without flinching, you will reduce the danger by half. Never run away from anything. Never!”

As a woman with a submissive nature, there is an inclination to let life do with me what it will. I sometimes feel that I don’t have the strength to fight the dogged nature of those people who display narcissistic tendencies. Part of the reason that I live fairly quietly is that I feel so surrounded by people who are chasing more and more money, unperturbed by who they destroy to get at the next pot of gold. I question if these people have any understanding of the essence of life or that when they reach the end of their lives they will have learned anything at all.

Having said that, there have been times when I have refused to run away from danger. I’ve stood my ground, faced danger square in the face and refused to surrender to it. When a psychologist told me when my son was three years old that he would never go to a regular school, I vowed to prove him wrong. Not only did he go to a high achieving school and graduate, but he was Captain of one of the sports and is tackling university wonderfully well in the third year of a course highly suited to his interests and talents.

A dear friend said to me just yesterday, “I hate to feel a victim.” I hate to feel a victim too and I have turned disaster into success by meeting danger “promptly and without flinching”. Many, many women would have walked away from situations that I faced, accepted and turned around.

Although I do have a submissive nature I choose not to submit to those who behave dishonourably, wickedly or underhandedly. I have come out of my lovely ‘submissive bubble’, (where, frankly, I would much rather be) to take a hard look at the callous and devious behaviour of some bad men. I am not sure who said, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself” but the phrase was often quoted to me earlier in life and I draw on it now.

There are too many men who put on a white shirt and tie and go to the office to do heinous things; men who believe that their fortunes that they probably got in a variety of dubious ways, allow them to ride rough shod over people merely for sport.

If we are to be proud of our societies, we must challenge this behaviour and call for ethics in business to be revived. A good place to start would be to make the law available to all, instead of the very wealthy. I fear that greed is taking us over. If we don’t fight against greed and underhand tactics, where will it end? For these reasons, I have no choice but to leave my submissive nature at the front door.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

A way to love

I love it when authors inject into their writing statements that are presented as fact. It is particularly wonderful when you find yourself agreeing along with the author as you read them, or better yet, realizing just how right they are and wondering why you didn’t think of that first.

I watched this year’s BAFTA awards tonight; at least, the re-run of the ceremony. I enjoy watching how the British do it. There is no razzmatazz but some very lovely moments, such as the director’s tribute to Natalie Portman who gave “her heart and soul” to the project and without requirement, began training for the part a year before they began to shoot it, we were told. That is commitment!

I was truly delighted to see just how well ‘The King’s Speech’ did at the BAFTAs. I heard the director of the movie being interviewed last week on the radio and thought he sounded a delightful man; incredibly hard working. I loved the movie myself having grown up with my grandmother who was fascinated with the Royal Family and of course the movie was done with impeccable taste and restraint.

The last scene of the movie between Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush when they recorded the speech live to be broadcast across the United Kingdom as they prepared for war is not easily forgotten. Rush captured perfectly that Aussie irreverence and I agreed with the Director when he said that an Englishman could not have achieved with the King what this man from the antipodes could, with his constant banter and his refusal to be impressed that his client was the King of England, or just about to be crowned King anyway.

At some point during the BAFTA ceremony they played a pre-recorded interview with Firth about the relationship between the two men and he said, (and I wrote it down word for word), “Like all relationships that are meaningful, it’s not smooth.” It was one of those statements of ‘fact’ that leaves you wishing you had said it yourself.

No meaningful relationship is smooth. No meaningful relationship is meant to be smooth. You have to have the foresight and the faith to believe in a relationship; to get from one good period to the next; to withstand the not good periods and recognize that they will pass; that this too shall pass.

After all that I have written about the power exchange relationship I still don’t feel in the least qualified to make a statement of fact. Sometimes it works abundantly well. Sometimes, it is an abject failure. Sometimes, I think it is quite simply, flawed. I don’t feel that way about love. Love is sometimes turbulent and wild; sometimes elegantly simple and smooth. But, it endures if the will to keep it alive is there; if the faith is strong and the feelings real and deep. It can survive catastrophes and even neglect and betrayal. It forgives. It continues to revive itself and to withstand. It runs deep down in the heart and the soul. Like all relationships that are meaningful, it is not smooth.

I’ve never for a single moment believed that a D/s relationship can have the meaning that I would wish a relationship to have, if there was not some modicum of love involved; of one kind or another. At the very least, love is a feeling of warm personal attachment for another person. The more I think about the model of a power exchange relationship and the more I live it, the more convinced I am that it requires more love and less rigor; more connection of two human souls who embrace one another’s human frailties and less dependence on rules and rituals; more interconnectedness and open communication and less dependence on roles.

The power exchange has huge power and appeal for me as an erotic medium. I am endlessly turned on by living it and learning about it. However, what is truly significant to me is that it is a way to express one’s love for another human being. Without that, I’m afraid it has very little to offer me at all.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011



Cindi nut heer

Hoo dis?

Der no hoo heer

Wut dis?


it heer?

Ya. it nut tinki. it hab no wureez. it nut ebn hab iz; no mof, no fays et ull.


Ya. it flowtz jus unda da watr. it myn empty. No totz. it kerfree. Joyfool. Happi. Cuntint.

Dis it got holz?

Def. Tree holz. it plezir objekt. Getz plezir. Givz plezir.


Dis objekt hedless. Dis objekt lib8d. Dis objekt wanna pley. Da hoo liki do dat?



Sunday, February 13, 2011

Agnes makes lunch

Agnes brought Frederick’s keys up to the lock of his door. She located the apartment key, opened the front door and walked in. Without Frederick with her, everything felt very different to her. She was aware of the silence and she was conscious of the fact that she was alone, surrounded by all his possessions.

She had a task to complete and she was anxious to get on with it but first of all she wanted to take this opportunity to look around, uninhibited; to just let her eyes go where they would without Frederick possibly observing her as she did.

She tried to imagine Frederick within the framework of his life; a single man with a good many interests and no doubt, many friends and past lovers. Had he committed to remaining a bachelor? He seemed very settled in this singular life. Perhaps all he needed was already here, she pondered. He was comfortable. He had his books. He had sufficient technology to keep up with associates and friends. Every last chair or table or painting had been chosen and distributed around the apartment solely for his pleasure and comfort. Everything had a place and there was a place for everything. Perhaps he was a man who would always live this way and there was no place for a woman to live here permanently.

Agnes thought about her family home; all the comings and goings of a busy household. Her mother had a large pot of soup cooking on the stove most days to feed her growing children and the house was invariably in organized chaos. No matter how many times her mother requested that the boys leave their shoes in the mudroom, shoes and sweaters were often strewn about the house, along with homework and books and notes and movies to be returned to the video store. Invariably, somebody would be lounging on the couch reading the newspaper or one of her younger brothers would be absorbed in their Game boy, unaware of the existence of anybody else. She could not remember the last time she was in the house completely alone as she was now alone in Frederick’s apartment.

Agnes pulled herself out of her thoughts and reminded herself that she had a task to complete. She went to the kitchen and familiarized herself with the room, first opening the refrigerator and gathering all the contents she could find to make tasty sandwiches. She found some cooked chicken in a container; that was a good start. In another container was what appeared to be freshly made coleslaw. Then she opened a drawer and found lettuce, bean shoots, celery, cucumber. The smell of the vine ripened tomatoes had hit her nostrils the moment she walked into the kitchen and she took one from the lovely wooden bowl on the granite kitchen bench and a few sprigs of the basil plant next to it.

From the bread container, also on the bench, Agnes cut four slices of bread and carefully she began to cut and prepare the food and then pile it onto the bread. She was beginning to enjoy the task of creating an appetising lunch for them. She took care to find some mustard and to sprinkle some salt and pepper onto the food before she closed the sandwiches with the other slices of bread and cut them diagonally both ways to make eight pretty quarter sandwiches that she could display on the plates when she got down to the courtyard.

Bit by bit, Agnes gathered what they would need; plates, glasses, wrap for the sandwiches, a peach and an apple, a bottle of mineral water and some napkins. She placed all the items in the wicker basket which was exactly where Frederick said it would be. Then, she returned the kitchen to exactly the state in which she had found it. Her inner instinct told her that Frederick would want her to do that and not to leave anything out of place.

Agnes was ready to collect the picnic basket and return to him when she wondered if she might take this chance to look about his apartment just a minute longer. As quietly as a mouse she moved out of the kitchen and towards Frederick’s bedroom, noticing his choice of paintings along the hall as she went – modern and rather angular. She approved of his choices and her photographer’s eye felt that he had a keen eye himself.

She entered the bedroom. She wanted to understand him and to know him in a way that she only could when she saw how he lived and what choices he made. She walked about the room surveying it all at her leisure and at close range. The book on the top of the small pile of books on his bed was a biography of Francois Mitterrand. She read the spines of the other books in the pile and noted that one book was about design, ‘Bringing Tuscany Home’ and another, a novel, ‘Consequences’ by Penelope Lively. She thought she might have seen that one in the book store. He appeared to be an avid and wide reader and she approved of that, books being one of her great joys.

She knew she should not, but she could not resist the temptation and she opened his cupboard doors to reveal his clothes, perfectly aligned and presented. His crisp white shirts were all hung beside one another and next to them were his pants and then his dark suits. There was a pile of sweaters – a light blue one, a navy one and two black. She opened the drawers to discover that he had several pairs of the same socks, some black, some brown and two beige; perhaps a dozen pairs of the same style underpants. His shoes were neatly displayed on the shoe rack.

She was surprised to note that he clearly loved his leather boots; a black pair and a brown pair to the ankle and a high pair too; shiny black to the knee and with laces. She smiled for boots were something that Agnes adored too. She had her eye on a gorgeous black leather pair in a store close to work. She was hoping that there might be a sale soon for the price was the equivalent of two weeks’ wages and she simply could not afford them no matter how in love she had fallen.

He was a most orderly man, she realized, but not extravagant with himself either. Here was what he needed but not at all to excess. Agnes thought about the mess in her wardrobe and realized that before she could ever have him over to her little apartment she would need to sort herself out. He would be appalled to see the state of her wardrobe in its current state. She closed the wardrobe carefully. He would never know she had been snooping.

Agnes’ eye returned to the odd shaped chair and she wondered again about the shape. She was well aware that modern, urban furniture sometimes meant that chairs were unusual shapes but she had never seen anything quite like Frederick’s chair. She had an impulse to sit on the chair but moving towards the side of it that was straight and higher than the other but with a curved finish, she bent over it instead. The palms of her hands found their way onto the seat. Her mind was filled with thoughts as to how Frederick may have used this chair with women; if he was still using this chair with women; how recently he had made love to a woman in this chair.

Agnes thought to look on his desk. Perhaps there were photographs there that would give her some clues. She was right. There were a few group photos; possibly one was a family shot with siblings and their children and the other, perhaps a group of male friends. There were three separate photographs of women. They were all pretty and they all seemed more sophisticated and older than her. It didn’t make her feel any more secure. She picked up a photograph of one woman; blonde with brown eyes and a lovely smile. She was very pretty and soft looking and Agnes was curious as to who she was and what she meant to Frederick; surely she was important if her photograph was so prominently displayed in his every day eyesight.

She moved closer to the desk to be sure to put the photo frame back just as she had found it but she unwittingly brushed against the side of the desk and in so doing disturbed a pile of papers on his desk. They fell to the floor in a jumble. Her heart lurched and she went down on her knees to gather them, trying to figure their original order. She did her best but the facts were she had no idea at all which papers were on the top of the pile and which on the bottom.

She suddenly had an urgent desire to leave the apartment and be on her way. She wanted to rid her mind of these thoughts immediately. She collected the picnic basket and the keys and made her way out of the apartment and back to Frederick, doing her best to expunge the thought that Frederick should ever find out what she had been doing in his apartment all alone.

She needed to settle her mind before she returned to Frederick and so as she moved the foliage aside to make her way down the stairway, she again found herself in the intrepid jungle, this time a foreigner with her medical supplies and equipment in her basket looking for an, as yet, undiscovered specie. When she spied Frederick in the distance, she smiled. Ah, there he was! Her undiscovered specie; a man she very much wanted to explore herself.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Yoozn bimbo

Cindi receefd dis lovely pikki a whyl go az a prezzi n she reeeeli luvd it. Dis pikki pleyd on da bimboz myn. She offin tinkz bowt it. Bimboz beri much dis wey inclynd. Dey alweyz lookn 2 get yoosd in new n wunderfool weyz.

Bimbo nut beri alyv dis week. Da gurl took obr n bimbo hab keep low profyl. Dis med her sad n dis morning onnir wan 2 relax da bimbo n bring her back 2 lyf.

First, bimbo n onnir talkiz beri calmly n kwietli n dis med cindi happi. It a beri gud talkiz. Onnir sey dat it tym 4 bimbo 2 get relaxd. Bimbo sey she nut sur but onnir sey dat the way it goz. He desydnn 4 hissef.

Onnir get some his rope and tie da bimboz hanz up reeeli wel. Der no wey she can moov dem sept to put da palms 2getha reeli. He gif bimbo a nys rub 2 sooth her paw tyd musselz n den he sey dat he wanna yoos da holz.

He poot a pillo unda cindiz tummi 2 rays her bit n he enter her asscunt. Dis feelz jus gr8. But, soon enuf bimbo stert 2 thinki bowtz dis beri speshel pikki n she begin 2 pull up her legs so dat dey unda her, liki da bimbo in the pikki.

“Ohhh, cindi wanna mor cocki,” sey onnir n he wayt 4 cindi 2 get in da sem posishin dis bimbo in da pikki.

Dis new posishin fantastik! The sens8shnz beri powafool n alredi da orgasmic feelinz cumin thik n fast 4 cindi. But, dis new sens8shin doin ebin mor 4 onnir n he beri beri arowzd. He grab bimboz her n hold her tite n he begin 2 bite her – l’il nips on da sholderz.

He nut jus wanna tek bimbo but he wanna gif her da fuckin of her lyf – long n hard n fast – n bimbo screeemn in2 da sheet. She asaloootli on fyr n habin da tym ob her lyf. He tek wun han n rub her pussy cunt wich neerli blowz her myn.

Finalli, afta she tinki she mey xpyr frum plezir, onnir leeef his cum in bimboz ass cunt. She profeshinel bimbo n dis pleez her mor dan she ken sey. She totelli sate8d.

B4 onnir goz 2 tek a showr he sort bimbo owt n put a pillo unda her hed and a blanki ovr her n bi da tym he bak, she fast sleeepiz bi bi. She sleep nudda 3 howrz b4 she waki gin n wen she duz finely waki, she feel beri beri happi n cumpleet n reestord. She hab beri happi dey wif onnir, nut doin ull da much but so beri foolfild.

It beri importin 2 yoos bimboz regirlee. Dis keepz dem happi n invigor8z dem. Bimbo kenna stress dis hili nuf.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Take a load off, Vesta

I am learning so fast right now that my knowledge of myself is growing by the hour. Here’s a revelation for you (and me). I am a perfectionist! The initial tests spell that out without a shadow of a doubt. I didn’t know that yesterday but it is as clear as day today. Apparently, everyone around me has known this all my life, but that’s the way these things go, it seems.

I have super high expectations of myself. I hate to make a mistake. I especially hate to make a mistake that could jeopardize the happiness of my family. Want an example? I beat myself up over the fact that I didn’t put a sports shirt into my son’s sports bag. In my haste, I grabbed two pairs of shorts. “Anyone could have made that mistake, Mum,” he said, even though he’s a perfectionist himself. He made me feel better, but only slightly.

So, let’s take this poor sod of a girl laden down with her perfectionism and put her into a power exchange. What might happen, you ask? Well...she might just get very hard on herself, try her guts out to be pleasing and when she fails the odd test or receives some constructive criticism, beat herself over the head about it. That is what I have been doing. I have been trying to be the perfect submissive; accepting containment willingly, following commands, displaying endless patience and tolerance and believing that I am no longer entitled to express my own point of view or any of my emotions that are less than pleasing, enticing or erotic. Bottom line: I have been trying to be super human.

So, what’s the initial plan to alter that? Well...I have to go back to being relaxed for starters. This anxiety laden state has nothing going for it at all. Give it a wide berth. Breathe deep. Recognize that the situation isn’t nearly so bad as I have been painting it. Exercise: do some yoga and meditation. Have a glass of wine and an early night. And, let’s not forget Mr. Ringo! Something tells me that he can provide the sort of relaxation that should work wonders. And, perhaps it is time for that analysing Vesta to have a rest, too. It’s time for cindi to come out and play. Hooz redi 2 pley wif cindi?? Cum owt, cum owt wereva yooz hydin.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Writing to write

Recently, I was offered the thought that I wrote to impress: to impress the reader. The opinion I was given was that I didn't write to write, to express myself, or to figure things out, but rather so that people would say that I was a good writer. It was felt that I was still ego laden.

These words have had an amazing effect on me. Frankly, I am troubled by them every day. I have conjured all sorts of ideas to resolve this: from writing only on my private blog, to opening a new public blog to writing differently here on Vesta.

On top of that, this particular period of time is very difficult for me as I begin to express all of myself verbally; something I am not at all comfortable with or have done before. When I told my doctor that I wanted to see a psychologist and why, I was aware that my voice had changed; that these revelations were in fact, an out of body experience. Somebody else was saying all this; surely it couldn't be contained, happy, in control, can cope with anything Vesta!

In the past few days, my inner turmoil has not just seeped out, but emotions have gushed in much the same way my country experienced an inland tsunami: in an abrupt, wild and threatening manner.

Whilst the waters are receding now and I'm returning to normal too, it occurred to me this morning that perhaps now is a good time to try to write in a way that is more true. This will not impress the reader. This is quite simply the free flowing and open thoughts of a submissive woman run off the rails but desperately trying to find her way back to a lifestyle that means everything to her. This is Vesta as you haven't seen her before.



It came up a few weeks ago with M (for Mentor). I said, or rather cindi said, that she didn’t think that containing her emotions was a good idea and he replied that bimbos (non thinking fuck toys like cindi) didn’t need to contain themselves. Rather, they needed to be contained.

I deduced from that comment that it was all right to express my emotions, although I remain unconvinced of this fact. I think that the men I know want what they want and that includes a self contained, self evolved woman (or fucktoy, as the case may be).

O (for owner) is often completely absorbed in his own thoughts and projects, preferring to work into the dead of the night. It would suit him if I were happy, self-contained and able to always bounce back fast when he speaks to me in a way that I perceive as rude and uncaring (but which he forgets about the moment the words have passed his lips).

He wishes me no harm but at the same time is hopeful that I can take care of myself in stretches of time when he wishes to hyperfocus on his projects. That I give the impression that I am coping is what he takes to be true. He’s not inclined to delve further than that and I’m not inclined to express the distress that lays below the surface at those times when it is clear he wishes to be left alone to think or work.

In much the same way, M wants to interact with cindi. In fact, it is the only form of interaction available. Cindi, being a fucktoy doesn’t think and she doesn’t worry. She is playful, joyful; happy and obedient. She is contained and as I see it, her emotions must be contained, too. Hence, she can’t communicate if she is experiencing negative emotions for any reason. She simply doesn’t come on.

All hell broke loose yesterday. The dam burst and my emotions, long contained were released. I said a lot of things. I was very blunt. I need attention regularly, not sporadically. I want more sex. Stuff like that. But, the biggest thing I said was that I had put a lot of work into myself and he had put next to none into himself. It was time to stop referring to my behaviour and to look at his behaviour if we were to get this thing right.

“I want to have fun. I want joy in my life. I don’t want to just cope. I want to live my life. If you can’t do that, tell me now.” I remember saying that. I didn’t exactly mince words.

I had come to the end of my rope and he knew it. I needed him to hear me and I needed things to change. To his great credit, he let me rant and he comforted me the best way you can comfort a woman that has lost the plot.

I have taken and taken and taken until I can’t take any more. I need real change. I need him to look at life in a new way. Somewhere in there I think I said that I wanted to go live alone. The pain of living with a man who couldn’t embrace me for who I am was so burdensome; it seemed an agonizingly slow death. Better to just cut my own throat, was the thinking going on in my head, as best I understand it myself.

Seeing more clearly than I, he said that it was more of him that I was really asking for – not to go away - and that’s right. I need him to sort his affairs, and be prepared to enjoy the rest of his life as I want to enjoy the rest of my life.

Am I anxiety laden? Of course I am. I have been in the pressure cooker for far too long and I am making one huge leap up and out of there.

I want to live with my heart and soul filled with joy and peace and contentment. I want to live according to my nature. I want lots of lovely sex. I want what I want too.

Contain me to your heart’s content. Great! Remind me of my place. Fantastic. I’ll play and play and play. I adore to play. But contain my emotions at your peril for I am an emotional soul. I do experience all the emotions and I need to express them. It can’t always go the top’s way. I serve willingly and enthusiastically but I am a complete human being and I ask for care. Care for me, all of me (even the parts you don't necessarily want or like) and yea shall receive in abundance. That’s a promise.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Pleasure bound

One of the little disappointments of my life over the past few months is that I would like to have been bound more. No matter how uncomfortable I feel when I am bound, it feels good.

I love the entire process of being bound except perhaps the very last stage. I love watching him handle the rope; watching his hands as he manipulates it to be the right length for the job. I love watching his face as he moves my body to the position he wants it. I love the moments where I stay completely still as I am bound tighter; less able to move at all.

One of my very favourite days was some time ago shortly after he had bought a very long rope. The length of the rope called for only one thing; for him to horizontally wind it around my torso until I was almost lost in the rope. Think Olive Oil and you will be on the right track. The photos don’t lie. I looked like I had gone to heaven.

More recently, over this summer he had me take off my clothes and bend over the edge of the bed on my knees at the holiday house; just a regular height, that bed. He put the palms of my hands together behind my back and then he tied me at the wrists. It was uncomfortable but it felt good.

I feel certain I had mentioned to him several times that I hurt a muscle in my arm in a power bar class that is still healing but he obviously forgot that fact and I didn’t want to remind him. So, the binding of my arms was particularly uncomfortable and yet it felt terrific.

Next he tied rope around my throat, tight enough that when he pulled on it a little at the back I was slightly panicked. I like that feel a lot. Next, he tied some rope between my rope collar and the rope around my wrists that forced my head back. Then, he left me to stew. F a b u l o u s! Maybe fifteen minutes later, he kneeled behind me and had his way. This was seriously uncomfortable but only heightened the pleasure for me.

Eventually, a girl must be undone and this is a two edged sword for me. I want the relief but I also wonder if I could have stayed bound a little longer. I remember this thought as a young child. I would be terribly uncomfortable; perhaps desperately hot. I would secretly wonder how long until some merciful moment would allow me to be cool again. Then, it would happen; perhaps a cool change in the weather, or getting into an air conditioned car. I would feel a huge sense of relief but also a bit of disappointment. Perhaps I might have managed to go a few minutes more in my discomfort. Even as a child, I thought this a very perverse thought.

Whilst I struggle to put into words what I love about being bound I can say this: that I love to be physically contained, to lose any and all control, to be the focus of attention and to feel the energy pass between my husband and myself. I thrive on this sort of humiliation; of being reduced, captured and caught. I suspect time spent in a cage would be absolutely thrilling. (I had a tumblr pikki of a girl in a cage but the above pikki won by a hair’s breath.)

It is almost time to go to bed and if my husband were to come and tie me tight – wrists and ankles and a rope between those two – I would sleep like a baby. Such is the stuff of dreams!

Monday, February 7, 2011

Agnes - Into the Courtyard

follows on from Frederick - Into the Courtyard

As Agnes proceeded along the stairway she discovered foliage was in her way and she slowed right down so that she could move the overgrowth out of the way of her face. Her imagination was starting to come into play and she had put herself into a jungle sort of scenario with Frederick along to protect her from all the wild creatures. It was a game she often liked to play; to imagine scenarios in her head and she slipped into the role of a jungle explorer quite easily. Even better, there were no mosquitoes to deal with here, although she did look above her from time to time to check for snakes, so able was she to enter a world of her own creation.

When Agnes found that she had landed into a small pond, she was quite disoriented for a moment and she stopped dead. Fortunately, Frederick told her where to go and she stepped across the stepping stones that led to the open space of the courtyard. She found it rather magical and she told Frederick so, although she didn’t want to let on all was going on in her mind. She held onto her imagination as a lovely secret and had never shared that with anybody.

She was impressed with what Frederick had done with the garden and she liked to hear him talk about it and how it had come to pass that he cared for it. She very much liked people to be multi-layered, to have various interests and even to be complicated. She liked that Frederick was a surprise package. She found so many boys so dull and one dimensional and felt privileged to be in the company of this sophisticated man. She worried that she was not interesting enough for him.

It had been rather humid amongst all the plants and Agnes was used to getting much more sleep than she had last night. Perhaps she had not drunk enough water, she wondered, for she felt a little dizzy. She tried to ignore the sensation but it was not going away. She eventually had to tell Frederick before she fainted and he was quick to sit her down.

Agnes felt Frederick place his arms around her shoulder and pull her in. He seemed to be looking at her in a concerned way and it embarrassed her. She didn’t like the fact that she felt unwell in front of him. Yet, as he touched her hair or moved his hand on her shoulder slightly and seemed so generally solicitous of her, she began to realize that he was not at all cross with her but genuinely caring and looking to ease her discomfort. She felt very warm towards him. He was a good man, she felt.

Absentmindedly, she murmured in response to these gestures of kindness until she felt moved to hold his fingers across the palm of one hand and to rub his index finger. The giddiness had gone and although she did not feel entirely well, she did not want to ruin Frederick’s plans. She willed herself to be perfectly all right.

“I think I am feeling better now...”

As they got off the bench and proceeded with the tour Agnes was very aware of how Frederick was holding her. He had taken her by the wrist and this was a new feeling. It left her powerless and she liked the sensation of being led in this way. She felt very soft; rather small; happy. Agnes loved the way that Frederick took the initiative to move her body this way and that as he pointed out various details around the courtyard. She loved being shown about and given this very private tour. It made her feel special in his eyes.

When his mobile phone rang and he excused himself to take the call, he made it clear he wanted her to wait right there. In spite of what he had directed, she had the thought that he would be on the phone at least a few minutes and in that time she could do a little exploring herself. For reasons she didn’t know entirely, she felt drawn to a corner of the garden where there were tall bushes. She wondered if she could hear a sound coming from that direction; perhaps the chirping of birds. She wandered towards the bushes.

Just as Agnes almost disappeared into the bushes, she felt an arm yank her back. Shocked for a moment, she realized it was Frederick and he did not look amused. Although his words were measured, she could sense some agitation. She wanted to explain herself; that she meant no harm and was just filling in time but her explanation and her flattery of what she saw seemed to make him even more agitated. She felt the need to apologize but even that was unacceptable to him.

“It is not enough to be sorry. You need to be careful,” he responded.

For the first time, she felt the age difference between them acutely; a young, inexperienced girl with a mature sophisticated and professional man who was making it clear that he meant what he said. She was embarrassed at the sudden chiding and felt foolish. She looked down and realizing that he was expecting something of her, she quietly said, “Yes, Sir”.

She was confused by his sudden change in demeanour and she felt put off her balance. This was a side of him that she had not seen before. Yet, as quickly as the friction had arrived, it was gone and the Frederick she knew before that moment returned. He pointed to a spot where he liked to picnic or to lie out on a blanket. It was as if her wandering away had never taken place. She felt a bit confused.

He put his arm around her, smiled and continued on with his explanation about the building and garden and the story of it all. It interested her well enough for she was also interested in these topics and she tried to pay attention. Her mind kept wandering off to thoughts about Frederick and her own behaviour. She was going over it in her mind wanting not to make a similar mistake again.

Returning to the grassy area, Frederick asked her if she was hungry and although she wasn’t really hungry as yet, she said she was a little hungry, working on the basis that he must be if had mentioned it. He held out his keys to her and asked her to return to the apartment and put together some lunch in a basket and bring it down.

This request surprised and worried her. It had never occurred to her that Frederick would allow her in his apartment alone. Most of all, she worried that she would not be able to prepare the food in the manner to which he would approve. He seemed to do everything so effortlessly and to have strong opinions. She didn’t want to do something that made it any more evident that she was really just a simple, young girl with no particular abilities or finesse. At least, that is how she felt about herself.

Perhaps to him, she looked like she knew what she was doing with her life, but inside her head, she lacked enormous self-confidence and questioned why he would want to spend time with her in the first place. His reassurances gave her the confidence to accept the challenge and she walked towards the stairs, trying to evoke the feeling that she was under control and had more than enough confidence to accept any challenge. It was something that she did all the time around Paris, standing tall and walking with a gait that suggested she was a woman who knew herself and her power. It was her mask.

As Agnes walked up the spiral stairs her mind was focussed on making the picnic as delicious and enticing as she possibly could. This man had got under her skin and more than anything, she wanted him to be pleased not with just her but with every move she made and every last little thing she did.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Agnes - Friday morning

When Frederick began to massage her leg, Agnes felt herself drop into a pleasure zone. She adored being touched in this way and would take as much of it as he was willing to offer. When he pulled her into a sitting position on the side of the bed, her body readily complied.

She liked the fact that he was telling her what to do. It felt very right to her for she had no ideas herself in this situation. She went into the bathroom and took off her clothes and placed them on a hanger she found. Once alone, she took a few moments to metaphorically ‘pinch herself’. Was this really happening to her? She felt giddy with excitement and hugged herself.

She loved his bathroom. It was simple with neutral tiles on the walls and darker ones on the floor. His towels were thick and dark chocolate brown. His soap was handmade with the hint of vanilla and the shampoo and conditioners were matching bottles and expensive looking. Everything was spotlessly clean. She felt so indulged.

By the time Agnes had her shower and washed her hair, she felt fresh and clean. She put a towel around her body and one around her wet hair. She walked into the bedroom, all the way this time and saw that Frederick had laid out something for her to wear on his bed, as he had said he would. She picked up the garment, surprised that he should have something for her to wear at all really and delighted that she should find it so appealing.

It was a cotton shift of a pink and white design. She took off the towel from around her body as well as the towel around her hair and put the shift over her head. In his long mirror she surveyed herself and liked the look. She felt good in it. It was the sort of garment that she imagined she might wear if she were ever to go to an island. She was aware that she was wearing no bra or panties but she tried to think of the shift as like a nightgown. She never wore panties or bra under those either.

Agnes returned the towels to the bathroom and then attended to her hair as best she could. She saw no comb or brush. She did find some moisturizer and she was pleased to moisturize her face even if she had no makeup to apply. She hung the towels up straight and even on the towel rack. Her mother had trained her well in the art of being a good guest. With a quick check of her appearance in the mirror she ventured out into the hall.

Agnes could see Frederick sitting at his desk and she wanted to be reassured that she looked all right. “How does this look?” She felt a little self conscious when he gestured to her to display herself but she turned in a circle as instructed, rather enjoying his focus and pleased by his obvious approval.

“I think I...” she began, but he put his finger to his mouth and shushed her. Agnes stopped talking mid sentence, confused. She didn’t know what to do and she simply stood there feeling embarrassed.

When Frederick began to do her hair, she melted; putty in his hands. She wondered if he had any idea the positive effect that this was having on her. She stayed perfectly still and would let him do whatever was his pleasure. When he turned around and with gestures asked if this was what she had intended to ask about, Agnes instinctively put her palms together and bowed in much the same way she once saw a geisha girl bow in a movie. She liked this game more than she dare let on.

When Frederick led her to the kitchen table and took a piece of rope which he wound around her waist twice, she was silently mesmerized. His comment that they may need the rope later enticed her and aroused her in ways she had never before imagined. At no point did she have the slightest desire to question him or to object. Why would she object to something she found so pleasing and so right? The shrug of the shoulders was merely to keep him off the scent; from knowing how much she loved it all.

To be fed nutritious food, prepared by Frederick himself and on her behalf gave her a warm glow and she happily ate the delicious but simple fare in silence. She also was happy to sit in silence on the couch where he placed her whilst he readied himself for the day. She was in her own little bubble of excitement and anticipation and sitting still and silent was the perfect thing to do as she contemplated her situation.

Yet as she waited, thoughts and questions began to flood her mind and when she saw Frederick she had an impulse to speak that she did not ignore. But, the moment she began to form a sentence he corrected her by putting a finger to his lips. Again, she silenced herself mid sentence, a little annoyed with herself for giving in to her impulse so easily.

He gestured to her to put on her sandals and then he led her out the front door onto a broad balcony and down the spiral stairway into the garden below. Her heart was pounding. Only when she felt she might asphyxiate did she remind herself to breathe.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Flash Fiction Friday: Double dose doubly good

(Source image: Playboy Playmates Karissa and Kristina Shannon)

Bob was tired of Janice’s complaining, bitchy ways. He was on the cusp of divorcing her when by chance he met a man in a bar who talked of his invention that turned complaining girls into wanton, greedy, cum-seeking sluts. The thought was irresistible and he bought it right there and then.

As instructed, Bob fucked Janice blind first and without question she lay down in the contraption with the promise of even more pleasure. The man’s instructions had been clear but Bob figured a double dose could be doubly good.

He was right. When he opened the lid, Janice had the body and mind of the fucktoy of his dreams. But, she also had a twin. He now had at his beck and call, two service toys ready to play.

Tennis, anyone?

Flash Fiction Friday!

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Just saying...

For the third day, my 'owner' has worked from his study in the house and for the third day in a row he has had very little sleep. This being the third day of living on the edge, my defences are wearing down. I have felt an urge to sit and write, to calm myself and settle myself by getting something down on paper but there are constant interruptions putting my nerves on edge.

I abandon the idea. I exercise. I clean the kitchen. I do the laundry. I do anything at all that will give my body momentum in lieu of my mind and thereby, with any luck, combat that sense of agitation I feel.

He finds me. He asks a question about the credit card bill. Then, he wants to know if the Internet is down. It is. I was waiting for him to get off the phone to ask him if it was okay to reboot but he tells me I am wrong. I should reboot if it goes down. “I was in the middle of doing something,” he chides, which is exactly the reason why I was previously told to wait and ask!!

I bring him some lunch and hear him clearly frustrated with the answers he is being given by the person on the other end of the phone. I drop the food and run. But, he comes to tell me what fools the people at the bank are and how they managed to inconvenience him again. I nod. I listen. I hope the explanation is over soon.

I retreat to the laundry and he comes to tell me he is sorry. I try to explain, again, that I find all this commotion tough to be around since there is nothing I can do to make it better and is it at all possible that not having hardly slept at all for three nights, he might be a little grumpy due to lack of sleep?

He expresses his lack of understanding. If he was not directing the upset towards me why should I be bothered to listen to upset directed at someone else? Again, I try to explain that I find it tough to have my day engulfed in this way, and that I’d like an opportunity to retrieve what I can of my day.

“You need a spanking,” he says.

Well, maybe I do. Maybe that is exactly the best outcome because it would settle him down; give him a sense of control over himself to feel that he is controlling me by spanking me. I’m not saying that it wouldn’t do me good, too. I’m just saying...

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

The Ego and letting go

I have a strong sense of self. There is no doubt about it. I didn't come down in the last shower. I am no spring chicken and I know who I am.

Why do I write here? I see it as something of a personal journey; chronicling that journey and getting my thoughts down in a structured and coherent way. Yes, it can be read by whoever wishes to come along and read it but for reasons I am not entirely sure about, this way of getting down my thoughts provides a bit more discipline and structure for me.

I have a private blog with no readers whatsoever and no one but me knows the code. I guess you could say that it is more 'stream of consciousness' writing over there but as well, it is overly dramatic and in some ways not authentic, because it is writing at the top of my head, without thought and embarrassingly so. More than that, it would be hurtful to others for it is emotions gone awry and what I say in one moment can be negated in the other.

So, I come here to try to write down my story in a way that bares some weight; in a way that is true. In my mind, if my words are to be read by others, they need to have some measure and every word needs to be true and to feel right. I don't re-read my posts hardly ever, but if I did, I want to be proud of them; that I said what I meant but also that I applied some guidelines to my thought; that I didn't type so very much on the tips of my fingertips that I typed without some thought as to whether the words would stand the test of time.

Am I aware of the reader? Do I care what the reader thinks? Well, sometimes, I monitor what I say for a few reasons. I am aware of a few particular readers, though I try not to let that influence what I say.

Are some posts unnecessary? Yes, more than likely some posts did nothing more than indulge my desire to write something; anything at all. From the youngest age, I picked up a pen and wrote as my way of expressing myself and I love to write; to create sentences and paragraphs and posts and stories. I can't write very much with a pen these days, unfortunately. I love to type my thoughts because I think too fast most times to write them all down with a pen. Though interestingly, if a thought is very important to me, I write it into one of my kinky notebooks that travel with me wherever I go and to which I refer constantly.

A new school year began here today. The heat wave is over and there is some coolness to the air. It feels like a good moment to try something new - to move into the next chapter of this journey of discovery. So, for this next chapter, a conscious effort will be made to write as if I am writing for myself alone; as if there were no readers at all. And, let's see how that goes, if something changes and there are a whole new set of lessons to learn; if I can let that ego slip away and provide me with new sights and insights.