Thank you

Some readers will be aware that recently I was unsure as to whether to continue writing here and that I made a determination to keep writing. As one reader rightly pointed out,  I would stop writing when the need to write here went away. Of course, there is no knowing about the timing of such things in advance. It happens when it happens.

Some readers may also be aware that the anniversary of my birth day is a difficult day for me. I have never really come to terms with this. I can offer no plausible explanation. I have just come to accept it as a fact.

Today is my birthday. Today, I am fifty five years old. Curiously, I have written 555 posts here. For reasons I can't fully explain, today is the day I have decided to write my last post here on Vesta.

It seems only fair to offer those readers who have read here over time and come to know me through these pages, some sort of explanation. Generally speaking, I feel that "Vesta" has said all that she should say. For a long time, I worked on the basis that I could combine Vesta and cindi into one entity: thus they are both on these pages. I was wrong. They are really two quite separate entities and the entity that needs a voice from now on is not Vesta but cindi. I am most happy and most myself when cindi  is at the forefront of my mind.

For a long time, I held onto independence of thought (Vesta) at the same time as I craved (and continue to crave) that state of grace that is cindi. I am most happy when I have a very deep connection; when I accept my nature; my place and the limitations and advantages of that place. Both my heart and my head tell me that this place of grace is most easily attained in a quiet place; that as long as I hold onto the position of hosting this site I won't reach the place that I seek.

I want you to know that I leave here in excellent shape. I have just returned from having lunch with my husband in the city. I lost count of the times he told me how beautiful I looked; how "hot" I still am; how lucky he is to have me; how happy I have made him; how much he has revelled in the places I have taken him on this journey (and whilst journeys have no end if you are a wanderer, the lucky ones do reach moments when they feel they have arrived).

I am rich in love. A loving husband, the soul mate of my life and four handsome, intelligent and loving children have made my life abundantly rich.

I don't discount either the great feelings of warmth I have felt here. I felt truly wrapped in your care a few weeks ago when you wrote in to speak with me. I had thought perhaps I no longer resonated with you.

Although he will forever be anonymous, I give huge credit to my mentor of the past few years. I don't know how he did it but he tapped into my soul, my heart and the very essence of me to truly transform my mind. Words cannot convey my gratitude. Words cannot convey how sorry I am for the times I disappointed him.

For me, submission is synonymous with connection: a connection between people that is felt in one's heart, one's soul and the deepest recesses of the mind. It is not for everyone but it is very much for me. Whilst I no longer will write here, nothing has really changed. I still believe in love. I still believe in being true to one's nature. I will still live as I was meant to live.

The blog will remain. You are welcome to read here as it pleases you, whenever it pleases you. I wish you all the very best and shall think of you fondly. Thank you for having me and for taking such good care of me. You were very kind.

With love,
Vesta
xo

Forever

There is something about the word 'forever' or 'never' that is just so abundantly challenging. One immediately thinks of all the days and nights to come; of the years folded out in front of one's eyes and dismisses the idea as laughable.

"What do you mean I can never...?"

But consider this: I can never read this screen in front of me again without putting on my reading glasses. Never again. I have accepted that. It is a bore and bothersome but I can either accept that limitation or not bother reading and writing here at the computer. Case closed. I accept it.

When I was being 'trained' I had to accept my limit of 'bimbo speeki' if I wanted to talk to my mentor. I knew that I could NEVER use regular language. For some weeks or even months, I found that concept an enormous struggle. Over time, the limit became like the closest of companions and I revelled in the knowledge that I never ever had to decide how to speak. I stopped railing against the limit. I embraced the limit. I LOVED the limit. I MISS the limit.

Last night, I was prepared to say that a 'forever' limit on my sexuality was out of the question. This morning I feel more open about that.

Fear

One of my greatest pleasures over the past several years since I have explored the power exchange arrangement is that I get to experience fear. Not in my childhood I don't think, at least I don't remember a situation right now, but since I have been an adult I have so enjoyed being a little frightened.

I don't enjoy the sort of fear where I truly fear for my life or safety, of course, but I adore feeling the sort of fear where I get a tickle in my throat and my heart skips a beat; where the world stands still for a moment or two and I realize that I am in one of those moments where the Dominant has pulled me up with a round turn.

I have a love/hate relationship with those moments. On the one hand, I never feel more alive than in such a moment but on the other hand, I know I will pay. Big time.

I try to distract. I beg for forgiveness. I express my sorrow to the extent I can. Fear pulls me over to the side of the ledger where I try to expunge myself from consequences.

If I am not let off the hook, not only do I get to experience fear but I get to experience force. That is, I am forced to push through the fear and experience it completely.

There is no education quite like the lesson of fear pursued in its entirety. The Dom will have his way and I will accept my place of subservience.

What a thrill.

Age

Bart's currently writing a critique of a story of mine. He hasn't finished because he really  is flat chat with his life. I don't know how he manages to do what he does and I know he'll pull through. I'm not worried, even though I have to write a report on the effect of his critique on me and how I felt about being 'critical friends' in a pretty short space of time. Quietly and privately we are probably both freaking out, but in our messages to one another we say things like, "No worries" That's cool" "The story is in desperate need of a woman's point of view or "I know the story should probably be 50,000 and not 3,000. I'm completely open to critical analysis."

We are, in fact, both noobie writers, trying our hearts out; wanting to hold onto what is core in ourselves but knowing that we have so much to learn. We both love the course. We both love our lives. And we are both happily married. It is a great partnership.

Bart and I have incredibly different styles of writing; write in completely different genres. Whilst he couldn't send through a finished product he sent what he had done so far  this morning and how fascinating it is to read the thoughts of a young man (I'm sorry but for me 30 is only just starting out in life) and how he relates to the thoughts of a woman who dreams of control and of submitting to a man.

I must say he has not wilted from the task and I am very proud of him for that. But, his age (and my age) did show through when he wrote that I used "antiquated" language for the woman which forced him to think of her as having a "staid world view" as opposed to her "violent" fantasy world. He was referring to words like "bottom" and "hospital corners" (when making a bed). I had to stop and digest that; that my choice of words was giving me away. I suppose young men always say "ass" these days, do they? Hmmmm My female yoga teacher always refers to the "bottom" and she is 29. He certainly has a point. As a contemporary young male, he noticed these things and so he should.

What really had me sit up was when he said that the young woman in question associated the man she met who did eventually control her, seduce her and bed her with the Headmaster in her dreams. He made that leap in his mind. Well, I had not intended that. I didn't mean for a reader to think that she wanted the Headmaster. I intended that the fantasies of tight control meant to tell the reader that she was open to tight control; but not with the Headmaster. The Headmaster is gruff; inflexible; shows no mercy and no affection of any kind. He just dishes out discipline because that is what gets results. If girls know they will get the cane then they will obey. It suits him. It works. But, that is all it is. Nothing else. She doesn't want that at all! She wants to be loved; to be kissed and cuddled. Sure, some days may have her thinking he is a bit of nasty old Headmaster. But, she doesn't want the Headmaster!

Something got lost in the translation; probably the best reason so far to expand this story into a much longer story where I can really explain and explore this woman's state of mind. You have to feel a little sorry for Bart. I mean, what are the chances that he would get the kinky woman writer? How often must one come along - perhaps one every five years? Perhaps the next story could be a simple murder mystery. I saw a production of Sweeney Todd recently. A little murder might be nice... Honestly, I really can't imagine it. Poor Bart will just have to do his best with that sweet little lady who talks about hospital corners and bondage and discipline all on the same page. Ohhhhh dear.

The greatest thing...

I saw my psychologist for the last time this week . We hadn't had a session since August but she wanted to know that I was all right before we went our separate ways. And, you know how I like to please people... So, we did that and she asked how I felt and I answered her questions.

Then, she told me how well I had done; how hard I had worked and how well it had all gone and feeling the need to reciprocate (that's what well mannered people do after all) I thanked her for her assistance and she said it was entirely her pleasure...she photocopied something she wanted to give me...I wrote her the cheque, she gave me the receipt and we were drawing things to a close. She wanted me to know that it was never entirely over between us...that if I ever wanted an emergency session to ring her mobile...that if I wanted to talk over something next year that she would be here. Very sweet; very reassuring. Very caring and kind.

I felt moved to ask her something about her life. I asked if she was still very busy and she said it was hectic; that before Medicare changed the rules people had come to her for the classic problems - anxiety and depression. But, now that Medicare paid the bulk of 12 (now 10 sessions) people presented with other issues.

"What sort of issues are they," I asked
"Existential issues."
"Like, what is the meaning of life?"
"Yes."
"Oh dear."
"I hate it. I don't have the answers."
"No. Do you think people are placing too much emphasis on performance? Forgetting that at the end of the day all that matters is the connections we make?"
"Yes. Connections is all that really matters. Nobody dies worried about much else than if they loved and were loved adequately."

How about that! All that time I was seeing Michelle I was not sure we were enough alike and it turns out we were entirely the same.

Limbo

I have received some lovely and very helpful comments to my last post and I do intend to respond to each one of them. If you put them together they tell a story - little fragments of me as you have come to know me. I just put up Jake's comment. He made me laugh. Ah, Jake, if you only knew how little self-control I have. Of course, I would peak at it! It would be like saying, "See that New York cheesecake on your desk? Well, you are not to touch it! Now, honestly what are the chances that I would be able to walk away?? So it is with the Vesta/cindi blog.

Anyways, heaven only knows why thoughts are gushing out of me at this time but that's what is happening. So, for now I am just going to keep putting the thoughts down here and see if I can read the tea leaves. Part of me hates that Sir J is right; that I am not ready to put this thing down. It makes me so desperately want to put it down...that I have this need still...but he is right. I feel there are things that have to be expressed or I will explode.

I don't know how to say it any other way. What happened to me over the past two years was a true transformation. It wasn't something I expected to go away and it didn't go away. If anything, things got more intense in the past few months and cindi became a much bigger part of my life. My husband calls me cindi almost exclusively. He has become adept in taking me to that mindset and keeping me there. It is a completely freeing, 'out of body' experience and afterwards, I don't hit the ground for many hours. I float in a bubble of satisfaction. You simply can't take the smile off my face. For opening "Pandora's box", I will be forever grateful.

But, there are emotions going on within me and for some weeks now that are not so attractive - a sense of sadness mixed in with a sense of waste and even some anger and disappointment. He tried his best, I think, to prepare me and encourage me and help me to understand his decision but cindi never really did understand. She said to him several times comments like, "But how dis ebin pussibl. Wood leef babi lone? How ken leef cindi lone n nebr chek in on her?" One of the last things he said to cindi was that it was "ber sitin"and that cindi "hab lots trennin". That is true. She did have lots of training and maybe it was time for her to venture out into the world all on her own.

I am not proud to say that I cannot overcome my feelings of "abandonment". I want to overcome them and on certain days I convince myself that I have overcome those feelings. But, honestly they never go away. And, in amongst those feelings is the sense of waste. "Such a waste" someone used to say regularly and that is how I feel. What arbitrary measure is being used here to deny cindi?

Of course, I'm aware enough of the real world and its limitations to acknowledge that there are good reasons for caution and restraint. I do understand. But, cindi does not really understand at all. Her sense of faith and trust and loyalty and smallness doesn't allow her to understand such a grown up notion as that someone is there, alive, well and breathing but not able to speak to her; absent for an unknown length of time; quite probably forever.

And, she wonders, would it have been better to say "bi bi" without hope rather than "c u l8r" and be left wondering forever if he might return to give her some energy some day? Is she stuck in the land of limbo, poor bimbo, unable to accept?

There is no regret here. It is a far, far better thing to have had this thing and lost it than never to have had it at all.I will never feel differently about it. I feel ultra confident about that statement. And, cindi is not just sitting on the shelf pining either. She is getting on with life, is cindi. It is just that she lost her friend and that is rather sad.

Crossroads

I am just going to write the thoughts as they come...

I was having a shower last night when a thought demanded my attention...maybe I should close the Vesta blog...go and close it right this instant. The thought was strong and as I let it wash over me, I realized that the thought was about the sense I had been having that "Vesta" or "cindi" or a combination of both those entities was making it difficult for me to move on. I had been at this writing course for a couple of months now and still all the thoughts and all the ideas led back to sex and kinky sex at that. If I closed the blog and shut off that avenue to express all that, maybe my mind could free itself to think about other things to write.

I willed myself to go to sleep but by 5 am I was awake again and the thought returned. But, how would I do that? Leave the blog there but take away my reading list (thus making it more difficult for me to read other blogs)? What of my friends? If I close the blog do I cut myself off from the email address(es) from where I communicate with them? Do I give a select few my real life address instead? I just didn't have all the answers - wasn't sure what to do about the details - worried that I would pine without this outlet...so many details to consider. What of my tumblr account? I love my tumblr account (which was a gift to me) and the opportunity to record a photograph that turns me on. But, how do I keep that account open if the rest is closed?

In some curious way, it feels that my sexuality has taken over my life. I am not at all sure you are meant to feel this way in your mid 50s. Aren't you meant to move onto other concerns and interests by now? Aren't you meant to write about social issues and the world at large and all the thoughts that go through regular (non-kinky) peoples' heads?

Rather than settle down, my sexuality is stronger than ever. My fantasies are rich and detailed and full of containment and power over me...all sorts of restraint and and taking control of me. My body responds to those thoughts; continually and repeatedly looks for touch and use; hungers for it.

I correspond with a girl not unlike me and I just read her latest entry. It is so apparent why we were hooked up with each other (put in contact, I mean). We are so alike; fixated really on sex and control. I've lived a quieter life than she has but our minds relate to one another in a way few other minds do.

Yes, I go about my life and I achieve and function. But, this has been an obsession for sure and maybe the outlet of this blog is merely feeding that obsession. Maybe if I stopped writing here I could simply focus on my writing assignments and start a little novel and just be like a regular 50+ year old woman.

This year has been so full - of travel, of change, of loss and of love. I am blessed as a woman and a human being; incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by love and family; thrilled to have learned what I have and to have the opportunity to learn to write well via this course. It is a stroke of luck to have Bart who was a bit surprised but not shocked by the short story of lust and control that I sent him - who was willing to see it as a first draft with potential just as I saw the potential in the first draft he sent me.

But, it can't continue like this, can it? Such characters are so vastly in the minority. I am so vastly in the minority. I think my thoughts and my characters and my plots have to deal more with the other 99.9% of people in the world.

I have long held the view that these wants and needs of mine (and presumably yours) live in many more people than are willing to admit to them. But, even Bart called it "racy" and Lord knows what the faculty people will think of it.

Part of me says the solution lies in letting the short story format go...in creating stories about lust and desire and  love and conflict and struggle that evolve over many more thousands of words; that that might provide the opportunity to show how these things come to pass; what makes us tick in a more convincing and acceptable way.

If I close the blog, will my thoughts move on to other subjects or will I simply frustrate myself losing the opportunity to say here what is more likely to receive a sympathetic audience?

I feel that I have reached some sort of crossroad in my life and development and I honestly don't know which path to take. Has anyone any thoughts? Thank you.

On being a girl

It is so lovely being a girl. I can't begin to imagine what life woud be like were I not a girl. Poor old boys don't have nearly half the fun. This morning, I woke on fire. Does that happen to boys? Well, it does to me frequently. I lay there imagining the most strict of discplinarians in my life, providing me with intense limits and once I had done that I was ready to greet the day.

It turned out to be a glorious morning. The birds were chirping away in merriment (there is very little bird life in Italty. I have no idea why...) and the sun was mild but warm creating the perfect light. And, I didn't feel jet lagged any more and when I looked in the mirror my face had lost that tired look. Why, I looked pretty good - skin glowing, eyes clear and bright. Yayayayay.

I thought about my day. It was...Tuesday. Maybe my husband and I would go to the market...maybe not...but I did have meditation class at 1.00 o'clock and I looked forward to getting back to that. Surprisingly, my concern about the work I had to do imminently had passed. I would certainly need to get it done and get it done in a timely way but it was do-able, I decided.

I thought about what to wear, and remembering that the weather forecast was for a warm 25 celcius degree day, I thought about what sort of summer outfit I wanted to wear. I remembered the dress I had bought in Venice.

We had been gliding along the narrow laneways on our way to San Marco from Dossidoro, my husband was on the phone and we walked past a small boutique with a navy blue linen dress on the mannequin at the door. The shop keeper had pinned a sign to the dress stating that it was reduced from 143 euros to 50 euros. I am not a hunter but I am a gatherer and I tapped my husband on the shoulder to say that I was going in. He followed me in but was standing in a separate part of the store to make his call.

Without a common language I pointed to the dress, the shopkeeper took it off the mannequin, pointed to the change room and I tried it on. It was a perfect fit I discovered when I came out to the mirror and I walked to my husband and asked in his ear, "Do you like this?". He nodded and within another minute I had handed over 50 euros and we were on our way. (I don't really like carrying money when I am with my husband, not wishing to make my own purchases, but a girl knows a bargain when she sees one. Trust me. She is born with this skill.)

When we got home from our trip I hand washed the dress and ironed it up (It is a very soft linen. It does crease but in a very soft way; quite unlike the sort of linen dress I have had before which put me off linen as a fabric.) and this morning when I put it on I was delighted with it. It actually has a French (tres jolie) feel to me; very feminine and very Spring and it made me feel very feminine and happy.

That prompted me to get out a more chunky set of pearls than I usually wear day to day and that again prompted me to put on a full apron that an old lady friend had made for me many years ago and which I keep to remember her.  It is decorated with a little lace on the sides and I felt very homely in it; very 1950s. It made me smile.

That prompted me to make blueberry pancakes and that made my son very happy. Suddenly, all the world looked and smelled and tasted great. Huuuummmm. Right here, right now, all is well in my world...

Do men have these lovely moments when the world feels so right....when your outfit makes you sing, and you feel prompted to do nice things for the people in your life? Do you think of a shirt you bought when you travelled and it conjurs up all sorts of romantic notions? Do you feel happy just because you woke up feeling alive and manly and vibrant? Or, is that why you have us around?

Feet on the ground

For reasons I can't quite tap into, I haven't had a great desire to talk about our holiday. But, the simple fact is that it was divine - three whole weeks to spend with just my husband: no kids, no responsibilities, no house to keep, no extra curricula activities. We made love over and over and there was  one particularly memorable morning where it seems that my moans and groans that spanned an hour and half were overheard. The Canadian husband shared that information with us over dinner once he realized that it was we who occupied the apartment closest to the pool. Oh well!

Of course, it is not always that easy to put one's feet on the ground - to get on with the business of daily living: school runs and messy kitchens and needing to put everybody else's needs in front of your own. I do understand the process of accepting the mundane again after such a dreamy, ideal time. Having said that, I find myself particularly out of kilter this morning and I don't like that feeling one little bit.

What I do know is that when I feel that way, I need to put my house in order and I mean that quite literally. I need to make it appear orderly and in that way, I feel more in control.  So, I have done that but the restless feeling remains. Right now I should be having a late breakfast, or an espresso and a little bun in Radda, or Castellina in Chianti or in Sienna or Rome... Or, I should be being used, just wallowing in the glory of being used; fucked and fucked and fucked.

I think my body became used to daily use and not just for a few minutes but for hours. I think I became used to a little life with just my husband and me and the strangers we met. I think my taste buds became acquainted with crusty, thick Italian bread and ripe tomatoes and mozzarella cheese and wine. Lots of wine.

We are both feeling the loss; both talking about the next trip; both wondering why we have to work; to think. He's missing his rented Mercedes and zooming around all those corners. He asked for prosciutto when I went to the market yesterday. I'm missing the Tuscan hills; the sounds of guns in the still morning air and I am missing the changing of colour of the trees that must surely be taking place now. In my mind's eye I see the monastery we visited and  already the leaves on the grape vines must surely be witness to reds and oranges. How lovely it would have been to have seen that.

Of course, I am fiddling here while Rome burns. I simply must start that assignment. But, what a bore it is to be so responsible! Exactly how old do you have to be to be reckless and carefree and do as you please?

I know. I know. This feeling will pass. But, when?

Lovely long nails

When I get my weekly writing assignment in there is a little window of opportunity, before I think about the next one and the major assignment to be done, to have a little fun. Call me strange, but coming to this web journal is what I call fun. So, here I am.

Today has been a good day. I went down to the nail salon and asked for a new set and when it was time to determine the length, I made sure they kept them long; longer, in fact, than I have ever had them before. Times have moved on and I don't have the pleasure of sharing that information with anyone any more. Remember when getting a long set of nails was incredibly hard for me, in spite of expectations? Well, now I don't really have any expectations to deal with, except my own. A set of long nails was what *I * wanted today. I recall that thought actually earlier today as I sat there. It was a little lonely to know that my sharing days were over; that I wouldn't get the pleasure of making someone else happy. But, even so, I knew that I needed very long nails right now and I was entirely correct about that.

For one thing, they are incredibly beautiful. My fingers look amazing and I feel very graceful; contained; at peace. My husband wanted to see them, of course and he wondered if I would be able to manage. "Are you sure you can type all right with them?" he asked. But, I can type perfectly well with them. In fact, I feel more balanced and able with them this length than the way they were before.

It is a strange and wondrous thing how much I took to heart all that I learned over the past couple of years. So much of the 'education' has become ingrained; so much of what I learned feels as if it was always this way; as if *I* was always this way. Of course, I was not always this way. I never pined for long nails before I learned how to have the mindset of a doll. I had no real idea that by being contained in various ways I would find my peace and my contentment. It didn't really occur to me that I was desperately in need of being saved. But, I was. I was desperately in need of being saved.

It is true. I had lots and lots of training. I have changed for good; for the good. But, ohhhh, how utterly marvellous it would be to share such a day as I once did. My goodness, you would think I would stop missing those conversations. But, I strongly suspect, I never shall.

Roots in the ground

I always knew that I was going to have to hit the ground running. There was the fact that three weeks washing was awaiting me (yes, I did show him how to use the washing machine), that one son had been ill and still needed attention, that the school term had already begun, that I was late with a big writing assignment, that two suitcases needed to be unpacked and so on and so on...

At first, I recognize that I have a mountain to climb and I just put one foot in front of the other and climb. But, by day three, I feel rattled. I want my house (and my life) in order. I want some time to myself to get things done. I want some sleep and I want to go to the nail salon and get a new set of nails.

I wouldn't exactly call this perfectionism. Would you? I just want my ducks in a row, that's all. Is that a tinge of OCD? Whatever you call it, I want it.

There is where the submission comes  in because I know I need to submit to the chaos; to accept it; nay, even embrace it and recognize that instead of letting it derail me internally, I can simply continue to chip away at it and one day soon, I will look around and most things will be in their place. I will be in my place. And, all will be right in my world.

"Right here, right now, all is well in my world. Huuuuummmmm. Huuuuuuuum." My meditation teacher is a "recovering perfectionist" and every lesson, this is what she says.

When things get hectic and when there is this sense that you don't know in what direction to go because there is work in all directions, the trick is to stand still for a minute or two and register that this is just a little thing. Really, nothing is wrong at all.

Life is so often a state of mind. Turn your thinking around and turn your life around.Take a deep breath; let the stress go.

Keep in mind the root chakra; imagine those roots that exist in your body and make their way down into the earth, grounding you; supporting you.

I asked my meditation teacher before I went on holiday what I might do to ease migraine headaches which I felt was related to certain types of cloudy light.

"Remember, your root chakra," she said. The more you are supported by your roots, the less migraine headaches you will have."

I do that now. If I feel a little head achy I stop and feel the support of the earth under my feet and when I open my eyes, my head feels clear.

So much of what we feel, good or bad, relates to our thoughts and perceptions rather than what life is dishing up. I am in an untidy state and I don't like it. But, it won't last forever and it won't exactly kill me to deal with it. Everything will be entirely all right. Everything is just fine.

(P.S. If you were wondering if this is for you, my dear, you are entirely correct.)

Mrs. Robinson

Writing about my inner most secrets here is completely comfortable for me. I have been doing it for years now, after all. I would surely have given up a long time ago if I felt squeamish at all.

Talking about such matters face to face is an entirely different matter. Sure, I discussed issues face to face recently with men I had made friends with on the Internet, but I knew they were like minded souls who had no issues at all with any matter I had raised here. It was not difficult. On the contrary, it was a pleasure.

I don't bring up matters of my sexuality with other people - people who I assume are of the vanilla persuasion. When someone else does - "Would you like a spanking?" one friend asked his wife when she was cheeky one time when we visited them. "Ohhh, yes please," she responded enthusiastically - I try to pretend I haven't the slightest idea what they are talking about. I can suddenly get terribly shy as if, were I to acknowledge their repartee, I am making a complete confession.

Now that I am doing a writing course I find myself unwilling to hide completely. I have spilled a few more beans as each week has gone by. We were discussing "Theory" this past week and what that might mean to a writer when I realized that my style of writing lends to the theories of psychoanalysis, which was entirely suitable to discuss. This felt very liberating; allowing my inner self to seep out into the real world.

We are required to partner up with another student for the purposes of critical evaluation. Perusing the list of participants it was not lost on me that in my group there was a sole male student who just happened to be currently living in China. Bart (we shall call him) was my man! If anyone was going to accept my kinky nature it was Bart: bright, 30, adventurous, an intrepid traveller with an astounding imagination; much more imaginative than me and writing in the sc-fi genre.

We were meant to team up in week 5 but I laid out my case early. Why didn't we team up, I suggested. I was interested in peace and calm and he was interested in chaos and confusion. We would be good for one another: get ourselves out of our comfort zones. Bart took to the notion immediately and I laugh every time he sends me an email. Here I am thinking that I am telling him something that will shock and he returns a salvo back far more shocking than I could ever be. He has turned out to be wonderful value.

Perhaps, he is simply smarter than me for he managed to make me comfortable enough that I have just sent him one of my naughty stories to critique. There is an f-word but absolutely no c-words in the story so I didn't throw it all at him at once but even so I get the feeling that he sitting there in China right now saying, "Ohhhh myyyy Godddddd" as he is reading it, wondering how he will ever be able to critique it. Of course it goes both ways. It won't be exactly cheesecake to critique his sci-fi first draft of chapter 1 either, but nothing is for free, right?!

I think I sensed the free will and open mind in Bart from the get go and I have chosen well, I think, but even so, I do feel a bit naughty; a bit "Mrs Robinson" like. He is after all nearly half my age and here I am introducing him to the thoughts of a woman who wants to have all sorts of naughty things done to her. Will he think the thoughts mine, will he think I have an over active imagination, or will he think that this story girl is simply a product of a writer's mind? I really would rather not know the answer to that question, but the problem with the young sometimes is that rather than let such a question sit out there unanswered he is likely to engage, and with gusto. It is his style to have strong opinions and colourful language.

I've often wondered about Mrs. Robinson; the pleasure she took in educating Dustin Hoffman; his wide eyed wonder at it all. But something tells me that Bart won't be wide-eyed at all. He'll respond as if he knew the inner thoughts of a kinky woman all along and then it will be he that will try to teach me a thing or two. Typical.

What age is 'cindi'?

On my travels my husband and I had the pleasure of sharing a glass of wine with a Dominant friend of mine and he asked a most intriguing question: how old was cindi?

I did not always understand that cindi was so child-like. It was pointed out to me by a dolli friend of mine and when I asked my mentor if he agreed that cindi was rather young, he agreed immediately. Honestly, that was a surprise at the time to me. But, I do get it. If one reads the 'bimbo speeki', the gay abandon with which she embraces new things, the way she wishes to please and the way she seeks praise, it is all the workings of a young girl. Maybe, she is about 8. It is awfully hard to pin it down but she often feels very young to me and to those who interact with her.

She can be mischievous. Recently, her owner showed her how to use the hotel safe and figuring that she could get her owner to handle that with her wiles, "Could onnir do dat 4 cindi?" she asked sweetly, he turned her over and spanked her bottom. "cindi has to listen to instructions and learn to do things for herself sometimes," he chided. And, when she got the combination wrong, she was spanked again. She sat on the bed and pouted about that. cindi always tries to get her own way, figuring that she is cute enough to achieve that, you see. Maybe that is why the 'hooz' can be rather strict with her...

It is complicated because sometimes cindi is a much bigger girl (or doll really); big enough to have and enjoy rather lurid sexual encounters. But, at the height of those encounters, when she is in a high state of arousal, she often reverts to a baby girl. She will suck her hands, her thumb, a few fingers for comfort and often she is heard to say, "Ba ba, baba baba, ba ba" as she goes back to a time when she knew nothing else but pure pleasure (or discomfort) and she depended on an adult for everything.

Whatever her age, and it varies from one experience to the other, cindi is awfully keen to impress; to receive the praise of her owner and to relish her status.

A few days ago she asked her owner why he almost always called her 'cindi', or very often just 'bimbo' these days when before he found it so hard to do. He told cindi that that is who they had become: cindi and owner; that was who they are now. Gosh, but that made her smile!

Control of a different kind

I am not refuting the value of orgasm control, of the benefits and value of this technique of control, but it is not at all the way I was trained; the way cindi was trained, I should say. She was strongly encouraged to have her sexual desires, needs and wants met practically all the time. She was tightly controlled but her orgasms never were. The more, the merrier.

Of course, the training was long-distance and on line but a method quite the opposite to orgasm control was used: namely that of the doll appreciating her needs and wants in the form of embracing the slut within her: all the time. Her pluggiz kept her in a state, day and night; a slutty, wanton fucktoy and orgasm control simply didn't suit those purposes.

Let's face facts: the doll was greedy. If she had to be disciplined and she did, her pluggiz were taken away, and that, let me assure you, was much, much more controlling than denial of an orgasm could ever be! It was not just the denial of immediate pleasure but so much more. It ground her to a halt.

That training has endured - lasted long after the training ended; cemented itself in my mind. His wants became my wants and the control became my enduring need.

If you can take a pluggi away and get that response perhaps you can take an orgasm away and get a similar response - a burning, never ending desire to orgasm. Perhaps.

Or perhaps my training was tailor made for me. He felt he was in the presence of a doll and he simply reinforced his gut instinct. My God, he was not wrong.

Conflict

In some ways, taking control of someone is a bit like the crux of a story. In a story there must be conflict and presumably if someone wants to be controlled, there is conflict within her (or him).

A top needs material with which to work. He must decide what he wants to do with this person and what he hopes to achieve. If he is to set limits, and they all do, then he must decide what are the appropriate reasons to set those limits. There must be something about this person he aims to alter.

Some people may disagree with this notion of mine. They may say that the dominant person can do as he pleases. All she need to do is please him but I find that far too simplistic and not at all sustaining. If he cares for her as a human being, possibly even loving her (hopefully so, in my opinion) then he wants to make her better. Even if she is already good, she could be better. This is his over riding thought.

To this end, I find all sorts of limits perfectly appropriate. If he wants to stop her eating french fries, or smoking cigarettes or limit her to 3 glasses of wine a week, all of that is perfectly okay, as far as I am concerned. Perhaps he wants to tone her body, or help her to live longer or get her tryglicerides down. Why not? If she is under his control, she should be delighted he cares. (I love being controversial sometimes. Have you noticed?)

I'm not entirely sure why a Top would want to put a girl on orgasm control really. Maybe that just suits my purposes. I consider that something bordering on 'non negotiable' but if I am to be entirely honest, I think it would do me the world of good to have a Top demand this. It goes to my wanting to be controlled and wanting to hold onto that part of my life at the very same time, which probably isn't a good thing.

There remains conflict within me. There is still a wealth of material about me with which to work. I was probably a pretty decent person to begin with. I am vastly better now but there is still improvement to be made. Folks, the story ain't over yet.