Wednesday, September 28, 2011


We spent some quality time with our daughter and her new (and much adored) boyfriend recently and I am delighted to write that my husband found the young man as agreeable as I had found him some months ago when I visited her in April. He is bright, well-spoken, considerate and most importantly, he adores our daughter. More than that, my husband found him grounded, practical; more than capable of running a business or forging a career.

My daughter and I shared some time alone after that whilst we purchased a winter jacket for her and walked home through Hyde Park on an unexpectedly balmy night last night and she shared her boyfriend's impression of us. Ahhhhhh! Of course! It was not just us analyzing him but he analyzing us!

I thought to share two of those impressions here on the journal:

1) My husband and I are rather competitive.

Now, this came as a shock at first. I can't stand it when couple compete with one another and I said that this surely was not right. But, as she laid out her case, it was clear that we do compete on a certain level. If I finish my meal before him (because he has been doing all the talking and I have been the one listening and eating) he will say, "You got through that fast". I hate hearing that. Any girl would hate hearing that and so I make a deliberate effort to eat slowly almost all the time until the next time he catches me out and repeats the phrase again.

We were walking along High Street in Kensington when he said to me, "I really loved the Portrait Gallery. I don't think you realize just how much I love history." I replied, "Darling, I have been with you for 35 years. You think I don't know that? I studied History as a Major and you know much more than I do." He looked at me, startled that I should say such a thing and then said, "Can I have that in writing?"

That is two of hundreds of examples. Shockingly, it seems we do compete.

2) I respond to my husband like a little girl:

It seems that I make quite a few naughty comments; comments I know I shouldn't and to protect myself or if I am scolded for them, I react by looking like a naughty, little girl.

That can't be right!? Or is the young man right about that as well?

What a hoot it must have been to be a fly on the wall - he analyzing us and we analyzing him. I am not at sure he is actually too observant.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Notz frum holidey

cindi habbin fun tym trabelin rown. She bin 2 Hyde Park n she bin owt 2 Windsor Castle. She ebin wen 2 da Evensong at St. George's Chapel where she sit rite next 2 da boyz in da choir. Dat lotsa fun 4 cindi!

It a beri gud ting dat onnir approoovz ob dortaz boyfrend. He def got da seel appproooovel. Phew! So, cindi n onnir hab sum beri nys meeelz wif dem.

It seemz dat onnir tink dat cindi bit fysti l8li n so dis mornin he sed dat cindi needd sum treetmin. She hab ull da hoz filld n onnir fors her hab lotsa lotsa orgazmz until she beggin, "Pleeeeez, pleeeeez, dat nuf!" But, onnir tinki dat cindi needz unnerstan dat she nut da wun in charj n dat she jus objekt hoo neeedz akept wut she gibben. Dat wat he sed.

Ob ull da tingz onnir pak in his sootcase da oddist ting dat he pak da woodin herbrush n he yoos dat on cindi. "No cumplaynin, cindi," he sey.

Neweyz, tinki dat dis ull beri gud 4 cindi ashooooli. She feelz beri settld n in her ownd plays, n dat alweyz a gud ting. No mattr how far from home, toyz alweyz toyz, rite?

Thursday, September 22, 2011


I am going to be travelling for a while but since I anticipate Internet access most places I go, I hope to continue to write in this journal over that time. As any traveller knows, the time leading up to travel is hectic and this was particularly the case this time as I waved my youngest son off on a longish school trip at the airport last night. I have not only been thinking about what I had to do before we all left home but also what has to be organized for when I return. You know the drill, I am sure.

Recently, I met Anna. We worked on a raffle together and I found her to be one of the most charming women I have ever met. A seriously bright woman, her parents were escapees from Poland. Everything about her was adorable - her conversation was incredibly interesting, her adoration and love of her two boys palpable, her commitment to do the raffle just right admirable and her simple but elegant style very appealing.

She is going through a tough spot right now experiencing menopausal sweats that had made it necessary for her husband to bring into the bedroom a separate bed that has been placed beside the "marital bed". I found her embarrassment and yet her honestly about the matter endearing. In every conceivable way, she was completely appealing and anyone at all would be hard pressed not to find her an attractive human being.

After our event I suggested we meet again at the lunch in late October and she thought that was a marvellous idea, but like so many marvellous ideas expressed in the moment, I doubt she thought I would do anything about that. So, a few days ago I rushed off an email to her and said how much I would love to sit next to her and that I was going away but I could I leave it in her hands? She just wrote back to say, in the most charming of ways that it was delightful to hear from me and that she was organizing a table and we would indeed sit together; that I should have the most marvelous vacation; to leave it to her.

Anna had me thinking...Can you equate charm with submissive qualities? I suspect I am drawing a long bow here. Yet, if a submissive woman is a desirable and enticing commodity (and dominant types do seem to think so) then can charm be taught/encouraged/insisted upon? Or, is Anna's type of charm, the essence of a beautiful and graceful woman, simply granted at birth? All I know for sure is that when I am in the presence of a charming person, man or woman, they light up the room. As I go about my travels, I shall keep my eyes open for more of them.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011


I received your call and knowing how much it meant to you I retrieved your precious gloves and travelled to you.

You were indistinguishable, one of hundreds of young men in camouflage. I understood that if you could have come to me you would.

I hung about for a while; tried to look unobtrusive; as if I had a good reason for being there but as a mother, I knew I stuck out as the one object that did not belong.

I returned to the car and sat and thought through my options. Every one of them returned to the fact that you relied on me; that I was obligated to solve this; to get to you.

I began to see boys older than you make their way to the waiting buses and so I moved closer to them in the vain hope that one of them might be you.

Closer to the oval again where you most likely were, I made my way up to the top of the crescent and then slightly down it.

All the boys were on their feet and lined up now and I felt my chances slipping away. Yet, I stood there with the faintest of hopes that somehow you were watching me and that something would give.

The oval felt very still to me. I wondered if this was the sort of hush that occurs before battle. The thought fleeted through my mind when I caught hold of a move in the ranks. I suddenly saw you, tall and thin as a beanpole, as handsome as all get out and as quiet as a mouse, make your way towards me. I, in turn made my way towards you.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you said.

“That’s all right.”

I desperately wanted to hug you but I knew the rules. No displays of love in school uniform and especially not in cadet gear.

“Have a good time,” I offered.

As I moved away you reached out to me and caught me with your impossibly long fingers, kissed me on the cheek and wrapped your arms around me.

“God, but I love you so much,” I said.

“I love you too, Mum. Thank you.  See you soon.”

 You walked your way and I walked mine.

They were just a set of gloves but so much more than a set of gloves.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Self soothing

In my younger days, when my husband said something to me that offended me, I would, surprisingly enough, feel offended. I would feel out of sorts because even if I told him that he had offended me or that the comment wasn’t called for, he would not necessarily acknowledge that he had done something wrong and/or apologize. He, to put it in a nutshell, would stand on his dignity. 

It could leave me feeling out of sorts and not feeling particularly close to him for minutes, hours or sometimes, days. Such a situation presented itself on our first date, so technically speaking, it should have come as no surprise and I should have been ready for his flamboyant approach to life, but are you ever really ready?

The pattern often was that eventually I would go to him and sort it out. I would take that responsibility on myself because I do so deplore that feeling of discord with someone. Sometimes, he would come to me and rough me up a bit psychologically – sort of, cajole and tease me out of my funk. He got his girl back without actually acknowledging his mistake and that worked well for him. Of course, occasionally he would admit that he may have been indiscreet or spoke without taking into account my feelings. He knows he has a temper and when younger, he would say “sorry” to me quite frequently.

Time wore on and I searched for a better way. I read about the process of ‘self soothing’ and this, for me, was the answer I had been looking for. I didn’t need to allow his sense of drama, or speaking without really thinking or telling me off without knowing all the details of the situation, derail me. I could go away and “cleanse myself”. I could use deep breathing and silence to settle me down. 

Perhaps later, when the situation had passed on I might note that it was upsetting when he got cross without giving me an opportunity to explain, or whatever, but the point was that I wasn’t bogged down with feelings of anger or upset at what seemed an unfair situation. I had yet to recognize that it was my comments that were often at fault in the first place and I had to learn how to say certain things such as what I wanted from him.

I frequently use a method of not saying much when he needs to verbalize his emotions out in the air; my air space particularly. I use an enormous amount of tact these days and this pays the most wonderful benefits for both of us because when his emotions are whirling, to confront him or accuse him at that moment has negative consequences. He won’t respond to the rightness or the wrongness of the matter there or then but merely digs in his heels and asserts his position. Far better to self soothe, to hold my tongue and bide my time until it is the right time to tell him how that little episode affected me or what my intentions really were.

Even then, it is rare I will go into too much depth about it. I am most likely to brush over the event, perhaps noting that he may have been unreasonable. We both know he can be unreasonable at times and even after the fact I have to watch how and what I say. He can still be feisty about it hours and hours later and what is the point in reheating the stew really?

This is all to suggest that my husband doesn’t take my feelings into account which is certainly not at all true. He is a very sweet, kind and considerate husband and expresses his love for me in a countless number of ways.

But, from the very first day, he made it patently clear that any girl who called herself his girlfriend would understand who held the power in the relationship. Tackle him if you wished, but be prepared for a long, protracted discussion about the fitness of your argument and complaint. 

The mentoring gave me ample opportunity to hone my skills in self soothing (boy, are they alike!) and except for those absolutely stupid moments when I choose to tackle I find I have self-soothing down to a fine art. When you give yourself  the responsibility of calming yourself and settling yourself; enabling yourself to think rationally and clearly in any situation, solutions present themselves much more easily and much angst is avoided.

I don’t see this as giving in, or not having a voice but rather using my voice to maximum effect in the most appropriate ways and moments. It certainly has aided harmony.

Friday, September 16, 2011


If any one of my friends knew of me as I express myself here or in 'bimboland' it would distress them, I think. It wouldn't just be a shock, it would be disorienting and confusing and enough for them to wonder if they should continue to associate with me.

I agree it is an obsession. I think about sex, humiliating scenes and extreme containment rather a lot. I venture to say I think about it every day and sometimes many times in a day. Whilst I don't really know why I am fixated on these topics I do know that it has something to do with finding a sense of peace within myself - stripping myself down to the bare minimum; the primal me.

I am at a bit of a loss why this sort of preoccupation is not a lot more prevalent; why I should be the aberration. Is it so strange to want to be tied up, beaten, used and objectified?! Oh, yes, I see. I suppose it is.

But honestly, I am not doing anyone harm and nor am I doing myself any harm here. I find it abundantly relaxing and invigorating to think these thoughts and to experience these states. My body fills with 'feel good' endorphins and enables me to return to the real world and give.

My son and I have divided perfectionism up into two categories - the perfectionism that works for you and the perfectionism that works against you. You can have an obsession to draw marvellously and keep trying to hone your craft. That is perfectionism that works for you.Whereas you can feel that your drawing is never good enough and you crumple up each one and throw the drawings away and that is a perfectionism that is working against you. Having an obsession/craving/strong desire to be a wonderful drawer is perfectly healthy so long as it is kept in balance. We must do more than draw.

This obsession of mine brings me closer to the 'inner me'; brings me closer to my husband; to a sense of the Divine in all things and within me. It softens me, reduces me, relaxes me and comforts me. It allows me to feel that I am living as I want to live; as I am meant to live. It makes me happy. It is a solace; a quiet place in a very loud world. It is a source of light and a source of good.  It is not all of me but it is the essence of me; something that can't be separated from me.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Getting control

If we are each a story waiting to be told, what of the content of the story; the ebb and flow; the conflict, the drama; the end?

Are we ships in the night waiting to see how we will fair at sea, or do we have some control over the outcomes of the journey? Certainly, it is not for us to steer the stars or command the winds.

It is said that some people are "lucky" and some are not so lucky. Some are lucky in love, in luck, with money, in business.

What makes a person satisfied with his life; able to look back on his or her life and feel content that it was lived well?

I wonder how often an individual may ask throughout life: what am I doing? Am I doing my best?

The simple fact of life is this: Things happens and people react and how they react determines what happens next. It may seem like life is random and chaotic but perhaps it is the individual that behaves randomly and chaotically.

I have an unquenchable thirst to explore human behaviour and until now I have largely done that by exploring my own mind. What makes me tick?What makes me happy, satisfied, thrilled, despairing?

The most exciting and awesome discovery of my entire life is that I have the ability to control my responses and reaction to events: to have a say in the outcomes of my own life - not just by using my intelligence and organisational abilities but by strengthening my mind to react in the best possible way.

I can't control my story but I can control how I react to the telling of my story. I'm certainly not perfect at it. I still can be disappointed, sad, regretful; wishful. But, I have taken on board that whilst I can't control any one's behaviour, I can control my own.

I liken it to my learning about writing. I have always had some ideas to play with but I didn't necessarily (and still don't) know all the possibilities of what I could do with those ideas and words. I had an understanding that if only I could turn my mind in another direction I could assist how my life played out, but I didn't necessarily have the tools to enable me to do that.

Until our last day, we never stop learning about ourselves and what it is to be human; to be the best human we can be. This is what gives life a never ending quality: the sheer mystery of living amongst all these people and what they might do next, and why. This is my motivation to write.

Monday, September 12, 2011

So much less

At the current time, my life is incredibly full and complex. There is so much to do and so little time to get it all done. It will be some kind of miracle if in the next 10 days I can do what I have to do.

Yet, I come here to this web journal of mine to write a little something. I do that because this web journal is my retreat from the real world of 'to do' lists, of people who rely on me, of people for whom I am responsible. In this little space, I can be just the essence of myself. I can be nothing more than an object; a plaything; a doll; at best, just a hole.

When the world of responsibility and labour gets too much and my head spins with all the details of not just my life but many lives, it is this space which soothes and settles me.

I heard yesterday of a man who killed two wives and several other people, it seems. His victims were nurses of a certain age: women who had served all their lives and he enchanted them by providing them with attention and being of service to them. Suddenly they had a man in their lives who would have dinner waiting for them; who was willing to give them a back rub. Having fallen in love, their money was his for the taking and when he was ready, he planned their demise.

It is understandable; a woman being attracted to a man who offers care. The vast majority of women work very hard; care very deeply and happily give to their families quite selflessly. A man who offers them attention and affection; who is willing to tend to them is certainly an aphrodisiac.

The woman with a submissive nature is giving; caring; unselfish. Service is part of her makeup and she tends to go the extra mile to see that all is well in her home. Perhaps this is why she can so readily melt into a very small space; to find succor in giving up all control; to let go and simply follow instructions; to allow her body to be used (and thus pleasured) at will.

Seeing the need to bunker down to my small space after months of intense labor, my Owner objectified me on the weekend because it was clear that I needed that. As he "used" me he talked quietly to me: "You are just a hole, cindi; a hole for me to use...You need your holes filled...A hole needs no words...Just do as you are told...

As the minutes wore into hours I could feel my state of mind soar. I felt revived and revitalized. I felt lighter; brighter; energized. I floated through the rest of the day and my invigorated state of mind was evident to me and to him.

Some time ago, I underwent a transformation of sorts and it was not for the short term. I know who I am and I know what I need and what is good for me.

When I am less, I feel so very much more.

Friday, September 9, 2011


The complexity of some women is that they like things to be steady, calm and ordered at the same time as they need challenge in their lives. They take the time to organize their lives and those in it because they want to feel ‘in control’. At the same time as they want to feel ‘in control’ they need to experience challenge. They want to go out of their comfort zones.

For a partner handling both of these impulses it can be tricky, no? Making love or accepting a command would be good for both of you, but how to keep her mind off all the other things she has racing through her head? How to impact that desire of hers to seek  her own comfort and follow her own impulses; to make her own choices? These are the questions you ask yourself.

Part of her just wants to sink down in the warm comfortable bed and go 'ni ni' but the other part of her would rise to any challenge you offer her too, yes? Well, not necessarily. She is caught between her two needs – that of slumber and that of having her mind (via her body) stimulated.

She says she wants to go to sleep. You say you want her to do as she is told. You banter back and forth. It isn’t so much that she hopes that you stop repeating yourself as that she needs to feel your control, your insistence, a little force.

When she is sure that you will not waver, that you mean for her to obey you no matter how long it takes, she concedes. “Very well,” she says, possibly a little petulantly; maybe in a resigned tone.

Off she goes to fulfil your demand. Quite suddenly, she is not sleepy any more. She feels bright, alert, switched on. She offers these observations to you and you say, “Imagine that”, as if it were a revelation; as if this outcome had never occurred before. She likes to pretend that there is no sarcasm in that remark, even though she knows it is there.

The dynamic between the two of you is restored. When she does fall to sleep, it will be with a lightness of being. She followed instructions. She pleased you and you are proud of her. She glows. You prevailed. Right now, all is well in your world.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Childlike helplessness and vulnerability

I read these words, "childlike helplessness and vulnerability" and a wave of memories came flooding back to me. Discerning Dom was actually talking about stories with a spanking theme wherein the person was back at school getting spanked (or much worse) but for me the memories of my experiences with childlike helplessness and vulnerability were as cindi.

You really can't imagine how small I was within that persona and just how vulnerable I truly felt. You can't possibly know these things unless you experience them. There he was thousands of miles away from me and yet I felt completely helpless and totally at his mercy.

I play a very honest game or to use another phrase, I play a very straight bat. I don't pretend to follow orders if I don't follow them no matter how far away the Top. If I didn't do what I was meant to do, I told the truth.

Why did you do that, I can hear some of you say? Well, for one thing I wanted the most authentic experience I could possibly get. And for another thing, he was uncannily brilliant at detecting if I wasn't telling him the whole truth. But, most important of all, cindi is a doll. cindi just isn't capable of those girl type behaviours. In the head space of a doll, cindi knows what is expected of her and she knows that if she lies or disobeys, the axe will fall.

I don't have to search my mind for examples of when cindi felt vulnerable and helpless. They are front and centre in my mind. The first example that comes to mind is when the doll maker was upset with her for disobeying his instructions. She knew she was in trouble but she figured that he would eventually forgive and forget her mistake. But, time just didn't seem to be healing the wound and whilst she mustered the courage to one day say "hi hi" she was paralyzed in her efforts to say any more. He seemed confused and cindi typed in "cindi duzznt no if she lowd 2 sey netin mor". cindi waited for direction. cindi knew her place and cindi understood that she must impress, cajole, tantalize and most importantly obey mr. _. To disappoint him, to earn his ire, to be summarily lectured for her poor behaviour was terrifying in the extreme.

When cindi was in the good books she twirled her party dress like a little girl. She giggled and laughed and exhibited the abandon of a little girl in a candy shop. When she was in trouble she put her head down and listened to the lecture and said that she was very sorry and hoped that she was not sent away to think about her bad behaviour. Her happiness relied on him being proud of her, satisfied with her, entranced by her.

cindi was as helpless as a small child, vulnerable to the whims of her guardian. I would argue that cindi was considerably more vulnerable and helpless than a girl in a school with a headmaster that makes use of a cane. Headmasters tend to cane and move on and tomorrow is a new day, but to this day cindi could tell you of every time she disappointed and of every time she failed to impress. It was that terrifying to her and the wounds caused by her misbehaviours seemed to have a permanence about them.

Some days I look back and perhaps like you, wonder why cindi kept returning to a place where she was so helpless and so very vulnerable. The answer is simple. cindi had a childlike innocence, complete trust and faith and a reverance for her guardian. He understood her needs better than anyone ever could, looked out for her and kept her safe; had her best interests at heart. In that very safe place, with his guidance, direction and care she could come alive and thrive. It made her indescribably happy.

Sunday, September 4, 2011


Why do I write in this journal? I write here because I want to reach my soul and I hope to reach another soul; perhaps many souls. Communication that comes from one soul and reaches another soul is what my writing is about.

I want to say what few do. I want to express my drive towards some unknowable thing. I want to reach deep into myself and find out what is true and unchanging. I want to reach the real me.

Yet, the real me frightens me and sometimes I have to back away from her. She is such a greedy, demanding slut. She wants what she wants and she wants it when she wants it. She is no submissive. She demands. Give me. Give me. Give me. That is her mantra.

So I try to back away from her. I try not to give her air. I try to smother her with talk of good submissive qualities; to care about the other.

No matter what I do that harlot rises up. Fuck me. Love me. Pay attention to me. Brush my hair. 

“You are meant to say please,” I tell her. She looks at me like a little girl caught out and you can see her brain working. The clever bitch knows how to work people and in her sweetest little girl voice she says, “Pleeeeeze brush my hair.”

There’s no stopping her. There is no keeping her locked up. She beguiles. She bewitches. She demands. She pleads. She does whatever she needs to do to get what she wants. The submissive part of her personality is a bit of a hoax. She is no submissive that one. She is just a greedy, selfish, brazen whore.

Saturday, September 3, 2011


I am so happy! I have begun my writing course and am meeting fellow writers in my tutorial group. I haven't quite mastered 'Blackboard' but I will. I have been to a Writer's Festival this week and only wish I could have spent more time there. There were wonderful writers there from the USA, from Ireland; all over the world really. I learned so much. My notebook is brimming over with ideas.

I have had fun reading 'The Spanking Collection' mentioned in my last post and all in all, I woke up this Saturday morning desperate to get down a story and it has been a long time since that has happened, I assure you.

I am sorry that I can't share it here. I may need to share it with my tutorial members and we don't want an overlap with this blog now, do we? But, I have sent it off to a few close friends to read in the hope of some feedback. My only regret is that I can't send it to someone who would have enjoyed my enjoyment of the tale very much I think. I guess you can't have everything. But, I am greedy and I want everything!

Isn't it funny how the world can change on a dime?! I feel so inspired quite suddenly;  as if everything is going to be all right. Yay!

Friday, September 2, 2011

Spanking stories

I am delighted to advise readers that a new anthology of spanking stories entitled 'The Spanking Collection' has been published and what makes this anthology special is that all profits will go to charity. There are wonderfully entertaining stories by people you may or may not know as yet - Abel of 'The Spanking Writers is represented as is the Discerning Dom along with other well known people within the spanking  and BDSM scene such as Zille Defoe.

I strongly encourage you to purchase your own copy of the anthology. There is a remarkable variety of stories there  - definitely something for everyone and many of the stories oooze with erotic humiliation. This happens to really press my buttons. Perhaps some of you already knew that!

It is hard to choose one sentence from the anthology to wet your appetite. There are so many sentences I could choose but in a way this one sums up the appeal of the anthology nicely:

"Whether erotic punishment or punishing eroticism, she drank in each fiery sensation."


Okay, so follow the link below and in no time all these delightfully kinky and erotic stories could be yours:

Happy, happy reading.