Climbing the mountain

 The trance that I spoke about recently in the last post was much awaited. The reason for this is that two months earlier, my submissive mindset had been removed. I wouldn't have ever thought this was possible if I hadn't experienced myself. 

I'm not sure that it was intended for me to have such a hard time of it, or so it was said later, but that was certainly the outcome. My mind has been kinky for 60 years, so to suddenly have trouble accessing it, in spite of my best efforts, was discombobulating and confusing.

I don't think the hypnotist cared a dot. I think it was designed that way for a couple of reasons, for my best interests. First of all, he needed to be sure that I was 'independent' enough to go into a permanent D/s style relationship. He wanted me to tend to myself, my needs, my goals, my Self. Secondly, I think when you deprive someone like me of their thoughts that provide succor, you build up an intense demand to have your deepest desires met, to get to the 'just BE submissive' part. I'd offered him access to this blog and of course it wasn't lost on him that I had been evaluating submission. Now it was time to practice it and simply be in that mode.

It didn't always go the way it was expected to go. At one point, I walked away. I wasn't used to someone else deciding such a thing on my behalf or to use such methods.

Anyway, it was a flat tire, the car was still in good working order, and so we resolved that problem with a telephone conversation where I could tell he was using all his persuasive powers to get me back on the road.

 I dilly dallied, and finally said, "....okay..." 

"No, no, you don't have to decide now. Take some time to think about it."

An excellent strategy, I must say. The guy is good. I emailed the next day and said I was ready to go.

In the trance that followed on a few weeks after that conversation, I did identify as a slave. He has written a great deal of material about kink and yet in all that material there was one paragraph that deeply resonated as to my circumstance.

He explains that someone who identifies as a slave has willingly and with full consciousness surrendered their right to say 'no'. It's a bit like owning a car, he says, and then giving it away. She no longer needs a car, doesn't want the car anymore and willingly and with full consciousness gives it away to her partner. First, she needed to own the car before she could give it away.

That's what happened to me. I think. I needed to feel what it was like to be 'just a girl in control of herself' to, with full consciousness, surrender that independence in order to develop interdependence.

He was issuing commands, and I was complying. Nothing seemed difficult about that...until the orgasms were so ongoing, and I was tiring, that, unwittingly, unconsciously, as if I were with my husband and might request mercy, my throat formed one tiny word, 'please'. If it were conscious, I wouldn't even have tried this. I assure you; it was completely unconscious.

'Please what?' he asked, softly, as soft as my 'please'.

I can't remember what I said. Maybe, 'please may I stop?'

His voice became deep and powerful. There's no way I can remember everything that he said but it went something like this.

'How dare you be so disrespectful. Did I tell you to stop? You do as you are told. You'll keep going as long as I tell you to keep going. Don't you dare stop!'

Like that.

Yeah. I had willingly and with full consciousness surrendered the right to say no.

Did it feel right? Did it feel good?

It felt fantastic.

He has a keen sense of when to demand, and when a girl complies satisfactorily, or exceedingly well, I don't know, he rewards. That's when he told me the story, and when I sat on the floor with my left face cheek on the upholstered seat and listened with the rapture of a little girl to his story about ancient times and me being brought to the household of slaves to be trained.

Maybe ten days later, after quite a bit of back and forth with my husband, some ups and downs in our lives, I committed to establishing a power exchange for life. I took on the mindset of a slave.

There hasn't been any sex since then, so what does that mean for me at this point? It means, in my mind, that just as a slave may have a volatile Owner, an anxious Owner, but still is a slave, serving, so am I. That may not sound like much, but it is a lot to me, and it feels right.

Two little anecdotes from my morning. On the way to yoga, I played music in the car and on came 'Climb every mountain'. Barbra Streisand and a male singer do a little chat first and Barbra says, 'If you want something you never had, you have to do something you've never done.' I have heard those words many times but today it meant something very personal to me.

Then, the yoga class was led by a young woman who is into deity stories and such and she told little stories while we held poses and said at one point that a pose was in service to Lord somebody.  I believe we were performing 'Humble Warrior' at the time. These service poses have always felt right to me.

Towards the end of the class she said, 'We are so often in service to others, and this can come naturally to some of us, but we find it more difficult to be in service to ourselves.

The slave mindset is, in fact, in service to myself.  It feels so natural and such a relief to just be who I am. I climb the mountain, one step at a time, inching forward to my dream.

When three is not a crowd

My sexuality is expressed through thoughts of having someone control me. Thus, I'm aroused by the thoughts of my partner being direct about what he wants.

'Take your clothes off.'
'Come here.'
'No, you don't need a second coffee.'
'I'd like you to have your breasts pierced and I've arranged an appointment for tomorrow.'
'Bend over the bench. It is time for your inspection.'

All these sorts of words, whether in reality, in a story or in my imagination, arouse me. I am not comfortable having much wiggle room nor am I naturally inclined to ask or initiate situations in general, though I continue to try to modify this instinct to allow for more assertiveness.

This morning my mind stretched over other landscapes. What if he were to say this:

'I have arranged for us to play with another girl and I'd like you to dominate her. I'd like you to hurt her. She has given her consent to this and it would thrill me for you to do this.'

I've already vaguely sketched out in my mind something like this scenario because I am such an afficionado of films like 'Story of O' where the man's love interest is asked to carry out sadistic behaviours towards another girl.

I honestly don't think there is the vaguest sadistic streak within me, but if asked to do this in a no nonsense way, it seems almost impossible that I would refuse. She has given her consent to the experience, it would make the man I love thrilled, and (wait for it) I kinda like the way an implement feels in my hand. I've whacked myself with a few implements and found it something I could do without difficulty, so it makes sense that I could bring a paddle or a whip down on a girl's backside, if told to do so, and not be distressed about it.

As a submissive, one is familiar with the sting or thud of implements. Sure, it hurts, but the experience can also be very profound, cathartic, joyful, enriching and satisfying. Knowing that those cries of panic and distress can be transformed into something deeply arousing and fulfilling could well make the dominant experience something that wouldn't be at all arduous to perform.

Honestly, I've never allowed my mind to focus on giving rather than receiving pain in this way ever before, at least not in my conscious mind, but it is has to be said, under the right circumstances, it could be deeply rewarding for all participants.

To watch someone 'fly' must be a real trip. I saw this happen once in a documentary, where this older woman had a girl on a fucking machine who was spaced out on the most profound orgasms. Over the older woman's face was an expression of such elation that she had enabled the joy and release. I paid particular attention to that and found it to be both erotic and tender.

What I continue to feel is that I don't have the personality to insist on outcomes, to demand my way or to exert my force on another person. If they said, 'No more', I'd say, 'Okay, I'm sorry, are you ok, sweetie?' rather than, 'Oh that's too bad because I'm not finished yet.' There's no way it would be a good idea to leave me in the room on my own because I'd botch the experience, but if the sadistically/dominant oriented man was with me, yes, I could do his bidding in this way. I know I could.

No Need to Apologize

Typically, we're  brought up to believe that it is important to apologize for wrong doing. 'I am sorry' is a phrase that often ends an argument, and/or makes someone feel better, and/or that brings closure to the upset.

It gets a bit more tricky when both people feel that they should be apologized to, which can lead to no apologies at all, or the old standby, 'I'm sorry if you're sorry too'. Then, regardless of 'fault' the two people just drive on, no matter who really was at fault.

It really bothers my husband when I don't apologize when he thinks I should, which can be complicated by the fact that he has often spoken rudely (in my opinion) after the initial offence, which makes it hard to apologize, because I think he should apologize also for being offensive.

On the other hand, part of the training that I have undergone was about not needing to apologize. The theory there was no apology was required on either side, but rather that there was a cosmic sort of understanding that the other person was sorry about whatever had gone down. Rather than bother about fault and hence apologies, it was only necessary to drive on in a spirit of this mutual understanding that things would go awry sometimes, but the best intentions were always meant.

To date, there was only one "sorry" and this was early on in the association and really meant absolutely nothing, now that I think about it, because the same behavior pattern has remained. Always, however, there was plenty of encouragement that apologies were not needed or wanted, the subtext being that I shouldn't expect them either, of course.

If I recall correctly, there was one major statement that an event that occurred was not my fault and this was a big, big thing in our friendship. Completely unsure of what I could have possibly done to cause the rift it was a statement that meant a great deal to me.

On the flip side of the coin, I apologize quickly and fully for wrongdoing. My 'brief' is completely clear to me and I know when I err. I give my regrets sincerely. I don't recall getting "that's okay" in exchange. If I've erred then apology or not there's usually more to be said on the matter. I rather think that the two sides aren't entirely balanced on this issue, but there you have it and in any case, that's in line with the arrangement anyway. We never shot for equality of any kind.

In the midst of this, I've struggled to put that practice into practice at home, until it suddenly occurred to me how much sense it made for the life I live. Let me explain.

My husband has a volatile nature; very sweet, but inclined to flare up at a moment's notice, the tone deepening and the pitch increasing as it suits him. So, over the years he's needed to apologize endlessly really. As a young man, one knew he'd lose it and then the apology would happen soon after. I got to the point of encouraging him to try to not lose it in the first place but decades later it's clear it is impossible. For some years, on the whole, he gave up apologizing. I noted it, smarted about it and got my nickers in a knot about it. If he didn't apologize, I felt, it meant he didn't get that it was troubling to be on the receiving end of a ranting man. I could be upset for hours.

More lately, he's gone back to apologizing and I think that is because he is more aware of his vast changes in moods and I think he'd like to do something about it (but can't), so he apologizes instead. Some upset remained. I tend to talk to myself in the shower about it, to get privately  upset and it is that upset that can ruin my mood.

But, then the penny dropped. There was something to the idea that if you didn't expect an apology, you didn't need to get upset at all. Better, I pondered, to accept his short failing on this matter and see it for what it was. Privately, he was sorry, and  also most likely to make up for it in some other way. More than anything else, this avoids a huge amount of angst on my part. I acknowledge him as flawed, but loving, that he appears to be vaguely aware of the flaw, at least after the fact, and likely sorry. The great part is that I don't allow it to encroach on my mood. Win:win.

I am not at all sure that my husband is willing to accept a 'deal' about this and I don't even suggest it. It's a private deal with myself. So, in those moments when I slip up, he's likely to want me to say "sorry", although I do also think that there have been many times when he has let it go, because it was such a slippery slope when we had both done wrong.

This decision on my part to not expect apologies is part and parcel of a newly embraced feeling of comfort with the philosophy of being 'the bottom'. If one takes to heart that one follows directions regardless of whether one likes them or not, then there's an intention behind that there will be the odd issue, but that the trust between the two of you means that the best intentions were always in place. More than that, it means that there will be moments when the 'bottom' doesn't care for what is going down but that's the agreement, the 'informed consent' that this is the sort of relationship wanted and desired; at the very least, agreed upon.

In some respects, that sort of policy also ensures the 'Top' and the 'bottom' are always working to make it the best possible relationship it can be. An absence of apology doesn't mean that the offense hasn't been noted and in this way there's an even bigger commitment for both people to do better next time. If the Top isn't sincere about wanting to be the best he can be under this arrangement then that too will be duly noted in good time. This only works when both people desire to improve and progress in their submission and dominance, I think. At least, that's my feeling upon writing, and a concept I've been mulling over for some weeks. I certainly wouldn't advocate it to the populous at large by any means but for those involved in a power exchange dynamic it may be an option worth considering.

The other side

I was immediately attracted to this photograph. I grew up on these sort of images. As a young girl, my best friend and I would study the latest Vogue and see page after page of photographs of serene looking and beautifully dressed and coiffed women. It helped that my best friend's mother had a hair salon and we often went there to get the latest hair do.  A few years later found us at a 'deportment school' and somewhere or other I still have the little prize I was given there for coming 'Top of the Class',  I think it was.

So, you see, right from the get go I was really made for the dolly state of mind. I love to be 'at one' with my home. I love to arrange the flowers, to make a meal from scratch, to have a dinner party, to be alone at home; me and my house. Sometimes my husband will come home at the end of the day and say, "Look at you, all dressed up and nowhere to go!" because I often do change into something nice in the middle of the day - get all 'dolled' up. I think that harks back to the fact that my mother often changed her clothes for evening and I must have taken note of that and stored it away.

Of course, the other side to dolls is that men like to mess them up. The more time and effort the girl has gone to to make herself attractive, the more 'together' she looks, the more he enjoys defiling the well presented, domestic goddess. There are two sides to every story and certainly two faces to many women. But, it's pleasing (and a tease) to present oneself immaculately, I think, and have them wondering if there's another side.

Naughty Samantha

A woman I know very well is gay and in the time I have known her over the decades she's had five partners. All her partners have been 'the boss'. She's been submissive to them all and what they say goes. I was sitting next to the last partner at a dinner a few years ago now, the partner before the current one, when she told me that Jan had wanted a particular painting and she had bought it for her. However, she was not permitted to hang it until she did something that she had been told to do. Since she hadn't complied with the command the picture had not been hung. Wow! I didn't think that a woman could be quite so committed to instilling obedience in a partner but it seems I was quite wrong about that. I've since come to understand that 'Mistresses' can be quite committed and severe with a submissive woman 

On a side note, Jan once called me and asked me if I'd help her at her new place of employment. She had a huge event happening over several days and she'd got clearance to pay me for a week's work. I came into the office only to find that Jan was twiddling her thumbs while Rome burned. She was sweating the most minor of details whilst very big issues that just had to be done were being left undone. It was a bit of a case of the blind leading the blind, a submissive leading a submissive, but I knew enough to know that it was now my job to give the orders.

"Okay, let's get all the tasks up on the board and prioritize them," I told her. "I'll do this while you do that..." and job by job we got to where we needed to go. Perhaps in any relationship someone has to step up to the plate and take the lead.

I came across this photograph some weeks ago and instantly, I loved it. They seem about the same age to me so I'm guessing they're in a relationship where the girls in jeans is the boss. I am not sure, of course, but I'd say the naked girl has been taken down to the basement for a good, hard paddling. But, she's not quite off the hook yet. The jean-wearing girl is still as mad as hell about her behavior and keen to teach her a lesson she won't forget - that speaking back immediately after a paddling is only asking for more punishment. So, on her knees she was told to get and she could crawl up to her bed. She could forget about dinner tonight, too!

"You just behave yourself!" she commanded as she swung her arm back to give her the hardest smack she could muster under the circumstances.

On the naked girl crawled, making her way into bed, as told.

"And when you're sitting on that bottom tomorrow maybe you can remember what earned you those bruises. You just think about that!" she said, as she turned off the light and left the room.

The naked girl felt about six years old. She didn't like being in trouble but she didn't always like having to do what she was told. That was the thing. Jen had really smacked hard tonight. Maybe it was time she started to listen.

Samantha felt humiliated but even she was willing to admit that she had been rather badly behaved and she did deserve what she had got. In fact, the more she thought about the paddling the more she came to see that it gave her a safe sort of feeling to know that when she did behave badly she was accountable to someone. Jen was prepared to punish her and although she didn't like being punished she did like the safe and secure feeling that it gave her.

In fact, now that she was in her bed naked with a hot backside she also had a very warm feeling towards Jen. She wished that they could make love but Jen never allowed that if she'd earned a spanking.

Samantha waited for Jen to come to bed. She waited until the lights were out and it was dark and still.

"Jen?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I was bad."

"Well, I appreciate you saying you are sorry, Samantha."

"Jen?"

"Yes, Samantha?"

"You only call me Samantha when you are cross."

"Well, I'm not especially happy with your behaviour tonight."

"I know I was bad. Thank you for punishing me."

"Well, that's a first."

"I love you Jen."

"I love you too, Sam."

"I'll be good from now on."

"We'll see. Off to sleep now."

"Jen, can I spoon in?"

"Are you sure you've learned your lesson."

"Oh, I am completely sure."

"Spoon in then. Off to sleep now. Night night, Sam."

"Night night, Jen."

P.S. Sam really enjoyed her breakfast the next morning. Jen got up a little early and made Sam scrambled eggs and mushrooms on sourdough toast, her favorite breakfast. She felt a little sorry for her having to sit all day in the courtroom on such a very sore bottom. Still, if you do the crime... Being a prosecutor, Sam understood that.

Abandonment

Last night just before I went off to sleep I gave myself the little treat of reading a few people's blogs. One link led to another and I found myself on the blog of a man who wrote that he wasn't interested in submissives. He wanted a slave.

From there he went on to discuss his feelings about a woman whose blog he had read who must surely have self-esteem issues, he determined, because she objected to a Dominant using 'abandonment' techniques.

He felt this  a ridiculous thing to suggest and he strongly disagreed because what if the man was going out of town for four days? What would happen to the her then? No. She clearly needed to work on herself before she could give herself over to a Dominant if she thought he wasn't going to do whatever he wanted to do and that included abandoning her as he thought fit.

First of all, blind Freddy knows that the woman wasn't talking about her man going out of town for four days and leaving her on her own. That's not abandoning her; that's going out of town for four days. Abandonment is when the Dominant breaks off contact and/or communication with you as a mean of discipline or for some other emotional/psychological reason, without explaining himself. Abandonment is when the submissive is left bereft and in emotional pain. Abandonment is when the submissive is left confused and feeling unloved.

I sat back on my pillows and tried to get into the mind of a man who would write and would think such things. I think he was totally genuine and sincere in what he wrote. I think he believed it. So, I ask myself, are there men in the world who simply don't have the empathic gene? Are there men in the world who intentionally cause emotional pain to a woman; who can't find it in themselves to walk in her shoes and understand what it is to have a submissive nature and to be intentionally treated in this way...or even sub-consciously treated this way? Does one's heart not speak to them and demand that they communicate with their submissive and find a better way to deal with the issue at hand?

I've seen what happens when men fall out of love with their wives (and fall in love with another woman). I don't blame them necessarily for that, of course, but I do question why the love and the life they shared for over three decades is forgotten as they make financial settlements so arduous and painstaking and as they distance themselves from the children they once bounced on their knee.

Are there some men whose hearts are permanently in winter? I have to believe this is so from what I read. The definition of abandonment is:  'To withdraw one's support or help from, especially in spite of duty, allegiance, or responsibility; desert: abandon a friend in trouble." Is that what a man is entitled to do with the woman who has given herself to him? That's okay? That's kosher?


Communication failures are going to happen because as clever as we are, we're human and inclined to make mistakes. I can understand a man temporarily abandoning a woman, perhaps even unwittingly, and I can understand a woman temporarily feeling abandoned but the man returning to her to make his real feelings for her and the purpose of his actions understood. But, to say that abandoning her is his right? Oh boy, that really stinks.

 

Containment

My husband and I went out for dinner last night; back to the same Italian restaurant that we went to after my very first spanking. I felt rather nostalgic about that and so wished that I was sitting on a sore bottom. Nevertheless, we had a lovely time. The food was just how we liked it, we polished off the bottle of pinot we brought along and we thoroughly enjoyed conversing together.

I had got dolled up and I think I looked good. I was in a new black dress. At some point during the meal he looked me over and said, "I suppose you are going to tell me that you've had that dress for ages." I laughed. It is a private joke of ours that I tend to say to him, "This? Oh, I have had this dress for years. You have already seen me in it a few times now." Instead, I said, "It's new. Do you like it?" And he said, "It looks lovely."

 I was also wearing a new pair of pearl ear rings - much more detailed than I would usually wear but a jeweler friend had showed them to me and I liked the idea of wearing something a bit different. "And, the ear rings are new, too. What do you think of them?" "I like them," he said. "Not too much?" "Well, they are a bit eccentric, but I like them on you." I think he must have liked the overall look because he took a few photographs of me before I left and I was pleased to see that I am starting to look my vibrant self again. I've got my condition under control and I definitely feel better.

In an ideal world, my husband would take a little more interest in my purchases. (My God, I hope he never reads this.) He'd sit on the bed and watch while I removed something from my wardrobe to make room for the new purchase. If I bought a new dress, then he'd watch while I chose an old dress to give away. This is a regimen that I really want to put into consistent practice. I'm not fantastic at this but I do try to achieve this goal. I certainly am happy to remove anything that doesn't work or that he doesn't like or that is just too old or outdated but I haven't managed to put this regimen in place immediately that I purchase something. It's something I continue to work on because the thought pleases me very much.

It's not easy for my husband to want to restrict me. If I ran about town purchasing expensive items all the time and was out of control he'd soon pull me up. But, I don't do that and he loves to see me look good. His feeling is that so long as I don't go overboard and as long as I am purchasing items that he likes, no harm is done. Not so long ago he said to me, "Why don't you wear that Spanish dress..." I said, "The one with layers? Darling, I bought that when I was 22. That bit the dust." He was incredulous how time how flown so fast! So, you see, he's not inclined to have me give things away. This minimalism is a project for me to do alone now and I am. It suits my dolly state of mind, you see.

There was another moment over dinner that was worthy of note. We had a nice Italian waitress but as my husband read the menu she looked straight at me and asked me what I wanted to order. This has got me into trouble before and I didn't want to be in trouble. My husband expects all orders to be given through him. Caught in a bind, I said to him, "May I please give her my order?" "Yes, you may," he said. This was quite unusual but I went ahead and told her I'd have the Scallopini au vino. If she noticed the dynamic between us, she didn't comment. The restaurant tends to be frequented by mostly older Europeans so she is probably ready for anything.

Recently, we went to dinner at our Club and when we entered the restaurant area the young male waiter looked directly at me. "We have a reservation," I said. When we were seated, I was told off. It's not my place to respond to waiters but I have felt compromised when they look to me for direction. Anyways, later on this rather cocky young waiter put the bill directly in front of me. My husband said, "He thinks you are in control of this relationship." I laughed. "Why on earth would he think that?" "Because of what you did earlier." Again, I was read the riot act about talking to waiters. And, I definitely did learn my lesson...won't be doing that again any time soon...

I must say, and there are no surprises here, that I enjoy feeling like a doll. I enjoy dressing up like a doll, being taken to dinner like a doll; treated like a doll. I like to be contained in any number of ways. I am very happy to be owned and very happy to be pleasing.

The fitness of things

To set the scene, I was driving and my youngest son was in the passenger seat beside me. He was biting into his bacon and egg muffin. The radio was on; not on my usual channel because my daughter had borrowed the car and naturally she changed the radio channel. Although trained in classical music to a high standard, she loathes my choice of music.

On any other day, my son and I would have been listening to the guest weather and some calming and refined classical music. Today, we were listening to a panel of people with strong, Aussie voices discuss whether Seal was cool or a sleaze. Apparently, this all came about because he kissed Ricky Lee on the show last night (his "mentor" on our version of 'The Voice') at an inappropriate time. After the panel all gave their thoughts on the matter, they turned it over to callers, some of whom were a little "grossed out" and others who thought he was "totally cool".

I try not to talk on the way to school. The young man is usually chowing down on some breakfast and unless we need to talk we often don't say much. Today, he looked up from his English muffin to say,

"Is this what people really care about? Is it that important to them who kissed who at what time and for how long and in what manner? Who are these people?"

For a young man who is immersed completely in a variety of activities and who enjoys 'The Voice', this sort of public discussion of a minute detail as to what a person did at a given moment is not worthy of discussion in the media.

Also, the school he attends works hard at fostering a spirit of co-operation and increasing empathic skills through an almost limitless array of activities and opportunities for growth, so pillory of someone, passing judgment by the media if you will, without a very good reason goes against what he thinks is right.

Personally, I don't like this sort of thing either. Why should anyone have to wake up and overhear people talking about him like that just because he is on a television show? What ever happened to the 'fitness of things'?

Dreams, threats and electric cords

My husband rarely shares his dreams with me in great detail, although I do know when he is dreaming usually because he will inadvertently move or call out and I know that he is chasing off a robber or trying to save us from a calamity or whatever. This morning he wanted to tell me about what he had dreamed. Apparently, he had been whipping me with an electric cord and it had left incredible markings, he said, and I had been crying out begging him to stop. I acknowledged the dream but I didn't ask any questions because I had a sense of what the dream had done to his state of mind.

Unsurprisingly, he soon blindfolded me and the games began. Just before the blindfold went on I took note of the time - right on 9am. And, when he took the blindfold off I noted that it was 12.25. Some dream, huh?

In the midst of such play I am never cheeky. It just wouldn't make sense to be cheeky when one is tied to all four bedposts, or is wearing a tight, tight corset and nothing else, or is being flogged with a flogger, or penetrated with various paraphernalia or having one's breasts sucked or twisted. I simply burrow deep down into a space in my mind where I have no say and what happens, happens.

It was at the 11.30 am mark that I dared to ask if I may know the time. Two and half hours. I had thought it much closer to three hours. I was aware that my patience was starting to wear thin but a word or two out of place, even at the end of a play session spoils it entirely for  him (and thus me) and I kept in my dumdum place through to the very last moment when the blind fold came off. (At one point I asked if the rope around my wrists could please be loosened and another time further down the track I asked if I may please be released from my corset because my efforts to procure enough oxygen felt thwarted, but each time I was extremely polite and patient so no problem there.)

When he had taken off the blindfold and I was starting to rub my eyes to acclimatize to the light he issued a warning. I was not to rebel in any way just because I had been contained all morning. Not a word of cheekiness was to pass my lips all day or I'd find an "electric cord" wrapped around my bum. Do you know, even after all that I almost said, "But, you don't have an electric cord" when I remembered that the iron's electric cord had an issue last year and thinking one day that he would fix it, he kept it in the garage. I recall seeing it there recently and in the nick of time I stopped myself from saying anything. The fun of saying the cheeky comment wasn't worth the risk that his dream was still in his mind. I haven't ever been whipped with such a thing but judging from what happened in the dream, it has a sting that I don't think I want.

If a threat is to be believed and there is a chance it will be carried out, threats can indeed modify a girl's behavior. It doesn't always work, mind you. I've allowed temptation to take me to the dark side before but I have always regretted it; always given myself a talking to as to why I can't push the words back down. Yet, I think I am definitely improving. It's almost time for bed, and I have been an angel all day. There is hope for me yet!

Expressing upset

In a marriage or committed relationship, there are going to be times when one person is feeling down and the other person picks them up. The tables will be reversed constantly and there is an understanding that one person will be strong when the other is feeling weak. In a power exchange relationship the situation is no different. Just because one is the leader of the arrangement doesn't mean that he or she is going to always feel strong; confident; able; well.

Yet, those times when the dominant is not feeling himself are hard on the submissive. I don't think there is any doubt about that. We do tend to rely on the dominant for a source of energy. We come to depend on that in the same way that the dominant anticipates that the submissive will always be her sweet submissive self. Life isn't quite that perfect. I have said many times that I am happiest when we are both operating 'in the zone'. I love to feel the dominance and he loves to feel my submission to him. This is the optimum arrangement; the perfect day.

However, I am well aware that it is very important for all people to take responsibility for their own emotions as well as to set limits for their emotional well being. Of course, some power dynamic relationships have aspects of  Narcissist/ co-dependent about them. One partner may need the others approval and attention to feel good about him or herself whilst the other partner is inclined to enjoy admiration and being in complete control.

All is well in a relationship where these two components of personality are in play until something gives. Perhaps, the partner with control withdraws attention, for whatever reason. For the co-dependent, this state of play will lead to a sense of withdrawal: depression, anxiety and mental pain. Time lapses and the narcissistic partner gives a 'shot'  of attention and the co-dependent partner feels better again, only to feel worse the next time it happens. A vicious cycle is suddenly in place that leads to emotional torment.

In a situation like this, I am not at all sure that it is a good idea to think of one person as the bad guy and one person as the victim. I think what is important is that the vicious cycle is broken. This is going to take the hard work of both people involved. There is no easy fix here. Realistically, I think you have to start with yourself. I think you have to open your eyes to your own involvement in this unhealthy  dynamic.

For many people with a submissive nature it goes against the grain to set limits as to what they will accept of their partner, but healthy people in healthy relationships do have limits. I don't mean that they won't do something that is, in their estimation, unacceptable such as...I don't know...play with animals.... I mean that they won't tolerate this or that manipulative behavior from their partner.. They won't allow their partner to manipulate them full stop.

People with submissive natures are inclined to give in; to be soft; to want to please; to humor the other person and to agree, even if they don't really agree at all.

In a power exchange relationship it is very important to know within yourself what is acceptable to you and what is unacceptable and to voice those issues when they occur. The other person may not like that but it is important for both members of the relationship not to allow an unhealthy relationship to evolve. It is entirely appropriate and healthy for the bottom of the relationship to express her concerns, her disagreement and the fact that something that the top is doing is unacceptable to her. It is important to do this in optimal ways, of course. That's key. But, the bottom line is that it must be done.

It is about checks and balances and sometimes the bottom is going to need the top to settle down and contemplate his own behavior for a time, rather than hers. Respect is a mutual thing in a power exchange relationship and if she is deeply upset and unsettled, she is probably upset for good reason. Mutual respect and open communication should allow a relationship to grow.

No-one likes to make mistakes. No-one wants to feel shame or guilt. We all want to be admired and loved. We can all be inclined to be self-centered or to lack empathy for the other person. It makes sense therefore that the more we check in with one another about conduct unbecoming, the better off we all will be.

The power exchange relationship is the perfect place to put this into action. I see the power exchange dynamic as a fluid thing; two people working well together to make the perfect whole. Perfection won't happen unless the submissive sees it as her duty to take some responsibility to see that the relationship remains in a good state of health. She is responsible for her own mental health and also for speaking up when she believes it important to do so. The wise top will (eventually) understand that her intentions are entirely honorable and appropriate.

Justice

I have a strong tendency to give people the benefit of the doubt. Even if they have done the wrong thing, I am not inclined to want them to suffer. I tend to think that there were extenuating circumstances or that maybe they were bullied on the schoolyard or that they don’t feel loved, to name just a few reasons why I don’t have black and white feelings about ‘justice’.

It is probably a good thing that I did not become a teacher, or a prosecutor or a judge or any such person who had to make the hard decisions about people’s behaviour. Prison movies freak me out and stories like ‘Oranges and Sunshine’ are not for me.

Yet, I have craved a situation where someone has the right to judge me – to direct me and order me; to discipline and punish me for even the most minor acts of disobedience. I have desired and made myself vulnerable to the sort of treatment that I could never inflict on another human being.

I never stop wondering why this is the case. I find it endlessly baffling that I should judge myself a success or failure according to how completely I am able to submit to another human being’s version of what I should do and how I should do it.

It embarrasses me to type that when I succeed in obeying completely I feel elevated and a success and when I don’t succeed in obeying completely I feel desolate and an abject failure – so despairing of my own disobedience that it can lead to a type of temporary paralysis and depression.

But, I know I am a decent person. I never break the law and I care for other people. I work hard and do what I can to help people in all sorts of ways. I try to be virtuous and to improve myself. I just don’t understand why I take the ability or inability to submit so darn seriously.

I recognize that life should be made up of a healthy dose of fun and there is much that is fun and arousing in submission. Surely we would not do it if there wasn’t some fun and arousal to be had.

Yet, the state of a submissive is that sometimes there is negative emotion to be dealt with – anger or at least frustration, upset, embarrassment and shame, along with accompanying feelings of regret and insecurity if we feel that we have not risen to expectations.

In fact, we accept punishment readily and even thankfully when a submissive such as me could never consider treating another human being in such a way.

I sometimes sit with myself and silently ask myself, “What are you doing?” Why am I tougher on myself than I could ever be on anyone else and why do I crave to be treated in such a way that will ultimately mean that I will judge myself so harshly – a “failed” submissive, potentially?

I have not the slightest clue but if you do, please don’t hesitate to enlighten me.

Lyf wiffowt pluggiz

As splaynd yesserdey, in da nite tym wen gettn redi 4 beddi bi, dis pluggi tym. As cindi rytz deez werdz, dat da tym 4 her - gettin redi 4 bi bi. But, cindi nut poot in her pluggi 2nite n nut onli dat. She nut poot in her pluggi 4 a week - mebbe lungr dependin on how deez posts bowt her pluggiz reseeevd.

Heer da ting bowt pluggiz n lissin kerfoooli 2 deez werdz coz dey da most importin ob ull...

It a privilig 2 pluggi. Nut ull bimboz hab pluggiz n pluggi priviligz. N, if a bimbo nut tek ker her pluggiz or if she neglekt dem, doz privigz remooovd 4 a tym til da bimbo ern dem bak. Dem da rooooolz.

It herd 2 poot in2 werdz how dis fekt bimboz. For dem, seben deyz a beri lung tym. Bimboz ten 2 lib in da momin n nut so gr8 at tinkin so far hed. Sebin deyz sownz a lyftym wen it cumz 2 nut pluggyi-n.

Dis nut da ferst tym dat cindi nut hab her pluggiz 4 dis mownta tym. Tinki ebin lunga dat tym ashoooli. She nut follo instruknz n she tol nut 2 ebin tuchi doz pluggiz til furda notiss.

Dat tym, cindi wen down hill pretti fast n bi da tym she told 2 rite bowt how she feelz bowt da pluggiz in orda 2 ern dem bak, she kenna ebin sayv hessef. She hab no power left; no energi et ull. Den, wun nite bowt 3 nytz l8r, she rote bowt how da pluggiz fekt her. She ern dem bak. She told 2 go poot bak in pluggi n instantli ull da power retirn n she feel gr8 gin.

Sumtymz, cindi feelz so tyrd at ni ni tym she wunderz if she hab da energi 2 pluggi. It seemz liki it jus so ez 2 fall in2 bed wiffowt pootn in her pluggi. But, heer da ting: if she go wiffowt her pluggi, she nut neerli so happi or cuntint. It so beri much werth da effirt.

Wen bimboz nut do as tol, dis nut jus fektz dem n der statamyn. Dis afekz da onnirz statamyn. Tinki onnirs sumtymz feel dat da bimboz nut ker 4 dem. Dis jus nut troo. Sumtymz, bimboz bit lazi or totles. But, cindi ken c dat dis ken cumstrood az nut kerin.

Bimboz ker. Bimboz ker a gr8 deeel n it portin 2 bimboz dat onnirs happi n contin, nut jus wif dem but wiffin demseffz. So, bimboz must nut lazi or unfocussd. Bimboz do az tol 4 meni meni reeezinz.

Bimboz nut perfekt. Onnirz nut perfekt. Dey bof maki mistekz. But, bimboz tri alweyz gud n wel behayvd n dey unnerstan dat der displin wen dey nut. Dat ok. Dey spekt dat. Da cunnekin musta restord.

But,it justa dey 2 in da lyf ob bimbo wiffowt her pluggiz n justa wayt n c...bi da enda of da week, bimboz powa les n she hanka 4 her pluggiz. Dat feelin alredi der ashooooli. Paw cindi.

Fear

I want something and I want it right now. I want to be asked a series of questions; badgered with a set of queries that lead me down a drainpipe with no way to ascend.

I want to be interrogated until I let something slip - some small detail that I had never intended to disclose, yet now have no choice but to reveal.

I want to feel the uncertainty and consternation of not knowing what he will say next.

I want the thrill of fear.

I want to experience the exhilaration of knowing that the next step is not mine.

I want to feel the control of the other and to be aware that I have no control at all.

I want to be reminded that I have no will of my own and that my only "choice" is to accept that I have no choice.

I want to dig deep into that dolli state of mind.

Fiendish folly; fearsome fright; fully fortified.

Training the doll

It occurred to me recently that I have never really written directly about what my time in training as ‘the doll’ has been like. I’ve written as ‘cindi’ so you know something about what I experience. However, I don’t think I have said much at all about what the training has meant to me. It has meant a great deal; changed and altered me in ways I could never have imagined at the outset. It sustains me; fulfils me; consoles and comforts me; allows me to sink into my alter ego in a way that provides me with sustenance and energy. It has been the greatest of gifts in my life and this post is my attempt to explain that process.

From the outset, I was given limits and boundaries; contained. I was told that the only appropriate way for a doll to talk was in the third person. This seemed relatively natural to me from the outset and very soon, completely natural. Over time, words such as “are” ,” is” and “am” were denied. It took a few days for me to get the hang of it but I never for a moment rejected the idea. At least, I have no memory whatsoever of a rebellious thought towards the limit imposed.

There is one day when the limit was new that stands out in my memory where I was making mistake after mistake and eventually he had had enough of it. I earned myself 100 lines and was told immediately after completing the lines that I was to type the first thing that entered my head. I was truly ashamed to discover that I had made another mistake and that sense of shame stayed with me for a long time. I vowed never to do it again, and whilst I must surely have made the odd error over the next few weeks, I accepted my limit into my heart and embraced it as the way I would always speak with him.

There have been fleeting moments, I admit, when I have thought how wonderfully bold it would be to write across the page, “IS IS IS IS IS IS” but I know in my heart that this word is not for the doll, and the victory would be so short, and the consequences so uncomfortable for me, that I have never done this and never will do this. I speak the language of the doll happily.

As well as speaking in the third person and without the words associated with identity (for example, “I am”), I speak not English but ‘bimbo speeki'. I don’t use the spelling of the English language but rather the spelling that comes (cumz) naturally if one had never been schooled. I am free to express myself in a way such that the rules of language and spelling had never been imposed on me.

All put together, my form of communication is very liberating and immediately places me in my dolly headspace. It is anything but a chore; anything but an imposition; anything but insulting to me. It is the language I use to enable me to feel free; liberated. It is my window into the soul of a sexual, hungry, single minded being whose desire is to please and serve; to express her sexual energy and her understanding of her role; her purpose; her place.

My desire to live more as ‘the doll’ and to experience the mindset of the doll was made more possible with physical limits. I was instructed to get a set of acrylic French nails. Eventually, I was told to make them longer – one centimetre. I initially failed to comply and found myself staring straight into his resolve to be obeyed. Unless I complied there was nothing else to talk about. I returned to the salon and started again from scratch.

I adore my nails and on the odd occasion when one is broken (usually due to my loss of focus on the limits of a doll) I feel wretched until it is fixed. The nails contain me in a number of ways. Most importantly, they slow me down. I must cautiously open a drawer to get out a pot, for example. I must consider how I might attend to a chore or if I can pick up something heavy with one hand or two. I must take my nails into consideration at all times. I hear the clickety clack of them as I type right now. I notice them as I gesture to talk to someone or as I move in Pilates class and place them carefully on the floor as I bend. They are as natural to me as if I was born with them and I simply cannot consider living without them. They are the hands of the doll.

The attire of the doll was considered. I have always been a fairly conventional girl. As I look back on my working life in an office, pants were never for me. As a PA, I considered it my role to look a certain way and skirts and dresses were always my choice. But, away from a corporate role, I had wandered into dressing casually in jeans and pants more than was necessary.

In my headspace as a doll, pants felt no more right to me than they did in the office and my choice is nearly always a dress or a skirt and top/shirt. There are times when pants are worn. I don’t deny that. But, those days are very rare and they have a purpose to them. New items of clothing are carefully considered and the question in my mind is ‘Does this outfit make me feel like the doll?’

The doll is not overindulged and thus a great many items in my wardrobe were given away. They needed to be appropriate and pretty. There was no reason for the doll to have a wardrobe overflowing with garments and I learned to appreciate the value of less items, well organized. This pleases me enormously and keeps the doll ever present.

Whilst the limits of language, nails and dress were vital, I think the most significant lesson and limit of all for the doll has been behaviour modification. I don’t say this lightly for it has also been the hardest limit to embrace.

I am, generally speaking, a polite individual. I treat people with respect when I speak to them and I am a ‘live and let live’ sort of person, but my behaviour required modification to reach the high standards required of a doll. Most importantly, I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. Hurt feelings, anger, a sense that I was being put down, all played into inappropriate responses.

To give an example or two of this, one time I was hurt by a comment and before I knew what had happened I responded with sarcasm. I was told to go away and think about my response and I remember an acute sense of confusion that I should be abandoned at a time when I felt hurt. On another occasion, I was stung by words that I thought related to me and I fired off an email expressing my hurt feelings and confusion.

It took time for me to learn to slow my responses down; to think about them and try to deal with them myself and make sense of them; to not allow my emotions to bleed all over the page. I learned to ask to speak to him to clarify a statement. I learned to open my mind to see matters from his perspective. I learned to trust. I learned to give over control and to stop trying to control (though that lesson is an ongoing one, for sure).

Of course, much of this training occurred by way of a special limit. I was introduced to anal training almost from the outset and discovered its benefits almost immediately. But eventually, the directive was to use my plug more than I did not – every night and part of every day. This was a limit I found that pushed me to the brink of rebellion and sometimes headlong into war. Yes, the benefits were undeniable and the doll present, but the command challenged my ego profoundly. ("Cindi tinki she 2 speshel 4 dis rule.") I would comply for long stretches only to use some excuse or other to take liberties for a day; sometimes longer. I would eventually confess. The aberration would be discussed; often punished by way of denial. For a doll, this has great meaning.

Over time, I would come to see that this way of life was right for me; that it brought me peace, fulfilment and sexual pleasure and that the need to rebel had become redundant. In fact, the doll required bigger, more challenging plugs. Over time, it became apparent that the doll and I were interchangeable and that to deny what helped and nurtured was to be stubborn and appear to self-harm. Ultimately I accepted that for as often as possible, to live as the doll was to live in harmony with my true nature.

Are there moments when I wish I could discuss with him something relating to my everyday life? Of course! We were friends before I was the doll and he, the trainer. Yet, I have come to see that this time when I may only speak with him as the doll is the greatest of gifts and much more significant and valuable than any other conversation could ever be.

In any case, I have learned that as the doll, I may ask questions or ask to discuss a topic that might be bothering me in ways that allow free expression of a sort. Good behaviour, politeness and a show of care, kindness and consideration are all rewarded in their own way. Most importantly, there is a sense of continuity, of trust, of deep and abiding friendship and respect for one another’s lives as individuals and as partners of two highly (and separate) successful marriages that is extraordinarily rare, I think; perhaps unique.

My training as a doll has brought and continues to bring me great happiness, fulfilment and succour. It has relieved me of bad habits and behaviour which held me back in my marriage to a darling but demanding man and given me limits and boundaries which keep me feeling safe and nurtured. It has encouraged kindness and in return provided me with the kindness of others. It has shown me how to live according to my nature and my needs and has fulfilled and transformed me in ways I could never have imagined. My marriage is better; my life is richer; I am softer and much more fulfilled; content.

I look forward to new challenges. Dolls need challenges. Complacency is not for them and so the road will never be entirely easy but nor will it ever be (God willing) without the care, consideration and thoughtfulness of a dominant man. The doll’s trust, obedience and kindness makes for the completion of the dynamic that is a special kind of love; a spiritual connection that goes to the heart of all that is good. Dreams really do come true for good dolls.

The Knight

A girl seeks out and consents to a power exchange because she enjoys and desires to be controlled. The situation may not always go the way she would like, but fundamentally she is uplifted by the control of her, not to mention that she gets off sexually on the control. Sometimes, the control in a relationship isn’t so uplifting. Sometimes, the behaviour is more controlling than exhibiting control.

Often when I read about this situation, it is a ‘them versus us’ sort of discussion. The good guys control intelligently and with empathy and the bad guys are just controlling. But I’d venture to say that in any man’s life who considers himself a top or a dominant, there are moments of which he is not proud. Possibly, he was rather selfish in his younger days. Perhaps, he had issues with anger management or perhaps being controlling got him what he wanted, which was for the other person to do as he said. Perhaps he still is challenged by recognizing the difference between the two strategies to this day.

When we speak of submissive women, no matter what their accomplishments, we speak of women who want to please their men and have a giving sort of nature. They tend, if they feel it necessary, not to be slow in taking the blame for an argument or to feel that an upset was in some way their fault, even if it was not. In all likelihood, they are as capable of poor behaviour as any other person that walks this earth but they look to restore the harmony soon after and only feel right within themselves when the balance of power is restored.

It can therefore be surmised that should their dominant or top become controlling with them, they are particularly vulnerable. A submissive woman may be able to stand on her two feet in an economic sense or if she had to, but her strongest tendency in life is to find a strong, deep and abiding connection with a man on which she can depend for her needs. Controlling behaviour will lead to confusion and dismay but in the relationship she shares with him, she may feel that it is her responsibility to make it right nonetheless. She has placed herself in a most vulnerable position and before the thought of ever leaving pops into her head, she will exhaust all avenues to make it right.

There can be no doubt that in her mind she wants a white knight; a rescuer, a valiant and good man. This is no small order and older dominants who write in this space have earned their stripes most likely with many battle scars along the way that they could recount, but never will! It is completely absurd to say that the dominant is always right because along the way to where he is now, he most likely made dozens and dozens of mistakes. Wisdom is rarely found in the young, headstrong man; let’s face facts. It is no wonder that so many girls are fixated on ‘daddies’ because an older man provides the wisdom of a lifetime of mistakes whereas the younger man still has so many more to make. Let me be clear: I’m not saying that only old dominant men know what they are doing. Some men are born to lead and to control with finesse and intelligence and can do so no matter what their age, but they are the exception to the rule, I think.

My point is that it really is a worthwhile exercise for any dominant/top and for any submissive as well to consider what strategies a dominant may use to control her. Is he playing fair; acting with honour and as the white knight would? If a submissive fears her dominant or top, not the consequences of her actions but the physical or emotional toll of experiencing his displeasure, I suspect that the situation has wandered over to the side of controlling. We will displease dominants for sure, time and time again, because we are human. Disobedience and rebellion must surely get tiring to deal with, but if the submissive obeys out of real fear, that is a red flag.

It seems to me that the dominant should feel compelled not to use those age old manipulation tricks on his submissive. He has been placed in a position of trust and making her feel guilty whilst refusing to take any guilt himself, withdrawing from her should she displease, being passive-aggressive (stubborn or procrastinating), impacting her self-confidence and exaggerating (or minimizing) what she had done to get the upper hand are all strategies that don’t allow the submissive to think of her dominant as her shining light.

Of course, he will correct and discipline her but it needs to be logical, fair and reasonable. She needs to understand exactly what it is she had done; what she should do in the future and why. She’s a bright girl and she will see through the above strategies for what they are: manipulating the situation to his favour. And why did he manipulate the situation? Because he could! But, how many times is she going to fall for that before her feelings for him change? That is the real question.

In a power exchange there is always a boss; always the same person to take that role. The submissive should always know that it is not her. I believe that. At the same time, she never seeks a controlling dominant/top. She seeks a thinking, emotionally intelligent and mature man who will control her by the force of his evident good will towards her and love and affection for her.

The Training School - chapter 5

Nicholas closed the door and rearranged the chairs so that he was sitting directly opposite Lucille. He crossed one leg over the other and made himself comfortable. When he was settled, he stared at her for what seemed to her like minutes. If he was trying to make her feel unsettled he was doing very well. She called on her ability to appear cool and unflustered on the outside, even though she was a jumble of nerves inside.

“Lucille, tell me, what word do you use to describe your vagina?”

“What word?”

“Yes.”

“Well...I say “vagina” if I am at the doctor.”

“And if you are not at the doctor...?”

“Then, I say ‘pussy’.”

Lucille did everything she could to hide the fact from him that she was rattled. She purposely kept her body still, consciously trying to project an image to him that this was not at all difficult for her. The last thing she wished to do was to have him know of how uncomfortable he was making her and how much she longed to walk out that door and away from his disturbing questions.

“And, what word do you use to describe your anus?”

“Gosh! Well, I think I use that word.”

“What word?”

“Anus”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I might say ‘ass’.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm”

Nicholas got up and walked over to a set of filing cabinets. Lucille was agitated now beyond the point where she could fully control it. She felt an internal upset that presented as a deep desire to express her distaste for him and his questions. Yet, she maintained an awareness that she didn’t want him to win by reacting in an out of control way. She felt like a fast cooker at risk of losing its lid.

He seemed in no hurry and his sudden distractibility only heightened her annoyance with him. In spite of her best efforts, she moved about in the seat and crossed her arms over her body until she was holding her shoulders. Finally, he found whatever it was he was looking for and he glanced through a file and then put it on his desk. He returned to his seat and crossed his long legs again.

“How many cunts do you have?”

“How many cunts?”

“Yes.”

“One.”

“Is that so?”

“Isn’t it so?”

“How many holes do you have?”

“Holes?”


"Mmmm-hmmmm”

“Counting my ears?”

“Answer the question.”

“Three”

“Name them.”

“Pussy, mouth and ass.”

“What is the true purpose of these three holes?”

“Well, if you mean what other purpose do they have other than the obvious they can be used for fucking me.”

“They are your three cunts.”

She could barely believe him; his audacity, the smug way he had of making such a statement and not blinking an eye.

“Are they?”

There was a hint of attitude in the response. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“Certainly.”

“Name these three holes again.”

Lucille simply couldn’t respond. This was ridiculous.

He waited.

“Nicholas...Sir...honestly, what do you want me to say?”

“Again Lucille, my command is perfectly straightforward. I will not repeat it.”

The hairs on Lucille’s arms were standing up in response to her upset.

“Pussy cunt.”

“Go on.”

“Mouth cunt.

“Good”

“ Ass cunt.”

“Repeat that. Name your three cunts.”

“Pussy cunt. Mouth cunt. Ass cunt.”

Repeat . Keep saying them until I tell you to stop.”

“Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.”

She looked at him suggestively, seeking some confirmation that she could stop.

“Keep going, Lucille. Don’t stop.”

She must have said that line twenty times before he told her that she could stop.

“Good girl. Now, why should these holes be referred to as ‘cunts’?”

“Well...I can be entered in any of those places, I guess...”

“What is your status, Lucille?”

“My status?”

“Mmmm-hmmmm”

“I am submissive. Is that what you mean?”

“What status are you in the relationship? Top or bottom?”

“Ohhhhhhh, the bottom, of course.”

“Mmmmm-hmmmm”

“And, what is your role in the relationship?”

“My role is to obey.”

“and to be used.”

“Used?”

“Certainly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your role is to be available for your owner’s use in whichever cunt he wishes to use.”

She willed herself not to respond to this talk in an uncontrolled way. He was pushing at her and she wanted to close down to protect herself.

“From now on, you will use only these words to describe these holes. Now, what word would you use to describe William?”

“He is my husband.”

“Anything else?”

“My dominant.”

“He is your owner.”

“My owner?”

“Of course.”

“You own dogs and cats, Sir, not women.”

“There is nothing at all different between the relationships of a dog to its owner and yours to William, Lucille. You are an owned girl and you have an owner that you must obey.”

She was holding herself in as best she could but she had an urgent desire to tell him what she thought of his “tutorial”.

“Ohhhhh, do I? Comparing a grown woman with a dog, Nicholas is just not on. You really have a nerve! Just who do you think you are?”

She was up on her feet now and ready to walk out that door.

“Sit down immediately or I will tether you.”

“So, now you are going to tether me like a dog, are you? Just because I won’t take this bullshit?”

“Now, now. Surely William has a cage or a pole for tethering you when you display this temper...”

“A cage???”

“Certainly”

“Nooooo, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a cage at all.”

“Then, we shall have to correct that anomaly.”

“Nicholas...”

“Excuse me?”

“Sir, if you speak to me like that, naturally I am going to get angry.”

“Naturally?”

“Yes, naturally. Surely it is reasonable for a girl to be angry when she is provoked. It isn’t healthy for her not to express herself.”

“She is welcome to express herself so long as she is safely secured. I do not allow my dogs to run about the farm when they are worked up and barking. They are secured. This makes them feels safe and they are free to bark at their will. You too are free to express yourself, Lucille...to have your little tantrum...in the safety of a cage, if you wish.”

Lucille was breathing hard now. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d get up right now and punch him. She took a long, deep breath and tried to settle herself down.

“Sir, I am not having a tantrum.”

“What would you call it?”

“I am simply disagreeing with you.”

“Lucille, the sooner you understand that you are your husband’s property and that he may do with you as he pleases the better. For now I will do with you as I wish.”

Nicholas got up and gathered an exercise book and a pen and ordered Lucille to come to a single, school style desk and chair that was to the side of his desk.

“Sit down, Lucille.”

She sat.

“This is your discipline book and you will use it to write your lessons down. You will sit here and write down in this book 300 times,

‘This girl is the property of her owner.’

“Make sure it is in your best hand-writing, girl. I expect you to take pride in your work here. You have just enough time to get the work done before it is time for you to prepare for the evening.”

Lucille picked up the pen and wrote the line down. She tried to calculate how many lines there were to a page and how long this was going to take her. It was a tedious and boring task and yet she could feel bubbles of excitement emanating from somewhere in her throat. She had never written lines in her life, not even as a school girl and this had a sense of novelty and arousal about it. Even when her hand began to hurt, she carried on writing the lines in a dreamy sort of state, as if some deep longing was being satiated. She remained incensed at his words but it did not prevent her from feeling a level of enjoyment in the task.

Meanwhile Nicholas sat at his desk; worked on the computer, paid bills and made calls. All the while he kept a close eye on Lucille. If she slowed at the task or looked up he was right on it and chided her to get on with it. It made no sense to her but she felt a sense of care as she sat there under his tutelage and it comforted her.

The Training School - chapter 4

On the way out to the garden, the girls went by a wall to wall bookcase and Lucille stopped to look.

“We are allowed to borrow the books,” Pammi told her. “as long as we return them to their same position. Nicholas has them all in a special order.”

An avid reader, Lucille was grateful to have something to divert her mind and she selected two books and took them out to the garden. The other girls seemed more interested in the magazines they had brought down with them from the bedroom. Lucille quickly became absorbed in re-reading ‘Anna Karenina’, one of her favourite books at university.

In the middle of the afternoon, completely absorbed in the story, she was oblivious when Nicholas stood at the double door leading out the garden quietly observing them. He coughed to announce his presence and she immediately looked up.

He should have been pleased with what he saw. In front of his eyes were three quiet girls, sitting as they had been instructed, with their bare bottoms directly on the garden seats. He came towards them and instinctively all three girls straightened themselves up as if to project the best image of themselves for him that they could. There was something about Nicholas that people responded to; not just the girls that were sent to him but all the people who entered his orbit. His high standards were projected in everything he said and did. People tended to react to this by behaving in a way that was pleasing to him.

“Girls, Susan has arrived. Please follow me to the study now.”

When the three girls entered the study their first sight was of a rather tall, lean girl, with long, wavy, red hair cascading down her back. She was standing in the corner closest to Nicholas’ desk with her face to the wall and her hands on the back of her head. The hem of her skirt had been hitched up into the waist band of her skirt and her round, bare bottom showed signs of having recently been soundly smacked.

“Sit,” he said to the three of them, and they sat down on the upholstered seats as they knew to do, all looking sorry for the girl who could not see them. It amazed Lucille how in a matter of hours, this new and incredibly humiliating way of sitting down was already beginning to feel almost natural to her. It was strangely stirring to her, though she would deny it of course if quizzed about it.

When they were all settled, Nicholas said to the girl in the corner, “Susan, are you ready to behave?”

There was no answer but Lucille knew she was very angry. She could clearly here her laboured breathing and the air she snorted through her nostrils, not to mention the fact that her shoulders and neck moved up and down in concert with her breathing.

The three girls watched as Nicholas walked to an umbrella stand by his desk and took from it a black riding crop. He lifted it into the air and brought it down on the chair closest to Susan, as if the chair’s seat were a substitute for her bottom. If she had any sense at all, Lucille thought, the girl would start co-operating around about now.

“Susan, are you ready to behave?” he asked her again as calmly as he had the first time.

“Yes, Sir.”

She sounded completely contrite; a different person.

“Turn around.”

Susan turned around, her hands still on her head. It was a deeply embarrassing moment for her, of course and Lucille tried not to look at her so as not to make it any more difficult.

“Have you anything to say, Susan?”

“I am sorry I was rude, Sir.”

She was a feisty one. Lucille could clearly see that. But, all girls were the same really. Their self-preservation skills kicked in when confronted with a nasty black riding crop in the hand of a man with resolve.

“Very well. You may take you hands down from your head and come and meet the other girls.”

Susan came towards them, her skirt still hitched into her waist band.

“Susan, I would like you to meet Lucille, Sherri and Pammi.

The girls said hello to Susan and she said hello back.

“Sit down, Susan, as you know to do.”

It seemed that Susan was well aware of what Nicholas wanted and she performed the move well. Perhaps they had already gone over this when alone and this was what the trouble had been about. Lucille could only hazard a guess.

“Very well,” Nicholas began. “Listen carefully, girls. I will only say this once. Whilst you are here at my school you are to follow my instructions. Listen carefully for commands and respond immediately.”

He paused, allowing them to drink in his words.

“You must always be honest with me. I will listen to what you have to say, so long as you say it politely. I have no interest in disagreeable girls and your best manners are always expected. Is that understood?”

Nicholas looked at each of them individually and one by one they said, “Yes, Sir.”

“Your owners have provided me with a list of goals for you and whilst there are daily routines that you will all do together, I will often be working with one girl separately. At those times, the rest of you will have chores to do and tasks to perform. You may ask questions so long as you do so politely. Now, are there any questions?”

Lucille had a burning desire to understand what on earth she was doing here. It had all been so sudden and it still felt surreal to her; that at any moment she would wake up and discover the day had simply been a figment of her imagination. She needed something very tangible to hold onto; something that would make sense to her.

“Sir, may I ask...could you please tell me...why are we here? What is the purpose of our time here?”

“Training, Lucille. You are here to be trained. That is what your owner wants – for you to be well trained before you return to him.”

She wanted to say, “but, trained how and for what purpose?” but she was worried this might come out as sounding impolite and so she simply said, “I see.”

“Any other questions?”

The girls shook their heads quietly.

“Very well. Now, Lucille, you will stay here with me for a tutorial. Sherri, Pammi and Susan, the three of you are to report to Mrs. MacNeice in the kitchen. You will be assisting her with food preparation and any other chores she has for you. Off you go and make yourselves useful. ”

The three girls left the room silently whilst Lucille watched them go, Susan's bare spanked bottom being the last sight she had of them. In one sense, the thought of preparing dinner never seemed quite as appealing as it did right at that moment and yet she was incredibly curious as to what this man could teach her.

Finally trained

Reederz may rememba dat cindi hab two puppies n dat dey beri notti sumtymz. Last week, dat da pitz! Cindi poot dem owtsyd da door in da cuntree, n dey run wey wen she ternd her bak. Da hol famili spent two howrz lookin 4 dem n dey pleyin der hartz owt at a bildin site wif nudder puppi.

Cindiz onnir sed dat dey hab lern der lessin n dey hab stey in der bed 4 an howr n nut cum owt. Dey new full wel dey in big trubbel 4 runnin wey n dey do az dey told 4 wuns.

Yesserdey, cindi took dem 2 da park bak in da citi n she talki wif onnirs of udder dogz n puppiz n dey tel cindi 2 tek da chans wif dem in da park. It time, dey sed.

2dey, cindi desyd 2 tek da chans. She took da puppeez bak 2 da park n tek off der leeds.

N gess wat?

Da puppeez sooooo wel behavd! Dey stey pretti close 2 cindi, beri socibil wif udder puppeez n cindi n da puppeez hab reeeeli gr8 time. She walk dem 2 da coffee shop n gif dem doggi tweets whyl she drink her coffeee, n dey beri kwiet. It beri, beri lubeli.

N, dis made cindi tinki...

Mebbe, dis how onnirz feel wen da dolliz beri well traynd. Der no nonsens. Dey polyt n agreeibl n no der plays n da onnirz fynd dem beri gud cumpini. N everbodi hab a swel tym.

Yayayay!

The Training School - chapter 3

In spite of the issue at the commencement of lunch, Lucille enjoyed her meal. Nicholas was correct in saying that Mrs MacNeice provided great food. The roast lamb was the best she had ever tasted. There were no potatoes, but there was any other vegetable she could have wanted and plenty of string beans. No dessert was offered but there was a bowl of fresh fruit which was sent around the table after the main course dishes were taken away. Nicholas encouraged them to indulge in the fruits of the season – apricots, nectarines and peaches, fresh from the trees in the garden.

Nicholas was an excellent conversationalist once he got going on topics that interested him, she discovered and she found herself absorbed in his stories about country life and farming in particular. Nicholas, it turned out was the owner of a large holding of land on which there were hundreds of sheep. He had a Manager to run the day to day running of the farm whilst he oversaw the overall operations of it, along with other investments. It was easy to forget momentarily the reason why she was here. Under other circumstances, she would have admired him as a caring and engaging host. She had to keep reminding herself of his other side lest words fly out of her mouth before she had considered them carefully, which she had a tendency to do.

Pammi and Sherri both seemed very sweet girls if not a little lacking in confidence, she thought. They were particularly careful to be courteous, she noted, and twice Nicholas praised them on their manners. She took that to mean that there had been improvement over the week. Certainly, Nicholas’ attention to detail was punctilious and he observed them all closely. Sherri, a girl who was really a little too thin, Lucille thought, picked at her food until Nicholas said,

“Sherri, I want your food all eaten up. You won’t leave the table until your plate is clean.”

She ate with more relish after that. All in all, it reminded Lucille of the times she had been with her father to horse racing meetings and they had gone for afternoon tea in the members’ dining room. Everybody was careful to attend to the needs of everybody else at the table and there was a lovely congenial atmosphere, much as she imagined it was in the generation before her when life was more genteel and civil.

Over a cup of tea at the end of the meal, Nicholas asked Lucille how she felt about horses and she told him about the horse racing meetings which had been on her mind only minutes ago. She said it was unfortunate that she had not learned how to ride herself but she feared horses up close.

“We have six horses on this property that we use, mostly for rounding up the sheep and checking the boundaries. Most of them are gentle. I’d like to get you riding while you are here. There is no need to be afraid of them once you know how to handle them. I believe you could do that.”

“Oh no, I couldn...”

“Excuse me?”

In mid sentence, Lucille remembered what Nicholas had said – that if he said she could do something, she could do it. And, it stopped her cold. She didn’t want a lecture again and in some way, his insistence that she could do things that she had never done before was appealing to her. She could not imagine how he could make possible something she had never been able to do before, yet his blind faith in her to accomplish new skills gave her a shot of confidence that perhaps she could.

“Nothing, Sir. I will try, Sir.”

“That’s the way, girl."

Then, Nicholas referred his comments to all the girls.

“Now, our last girl, her name is Susan, will be arriving shortly. Sherri, Pammi, take Lucille up to the bedroom and show her where she will sleep. Then please show her the garden. I shall call for you later this afternoon when we will go over the rules and protocols all together. Dismissed.”

Lucille watched the other two girls for clues as to what she should do and followed their lead. In fact, both of the other girls were a few years younger than Lucille but they had a whole five days of knowledge here over her and that, for now, gave them seniority. In fact, they did nothing special but simply left the room quietly and orderly whilst Nicholas poured himself another cup of tea.

Once outside of the dining room, Sherri put her finger to her mouth to gesture not to talk and so Lucille, who was burning with desire to fire questions at the girls, simply followed them as they made their way upstairs.

Pammi opened the door to a large and really beautiful room, the walls a soft blue and the trim, shiny white. Lucille loved the architecture of these old farm houses with their big rooms, high ceilings and large windows and she noticed these features first. Then, her eyes went to the four single beds, two on one side of the room and two on the other. All four beds were exactly the same. The frame was of wrought iron with vertical bars leading to a horizontal bar at the top of the frame, ending at the height of Lucille’s waist. She had no idea why but the little beds spoke to her and she was lost for words.

The girls showed her where everything was and as Nicholas had said, the contents of her suitcase had been unpacked and put away. Everything in the room was exceptionally neat and ordered and the bathroom had obviously been remodelled in recent times with the long vanity unit having four sinks, one for each girl, two toilets and two showers. Four pure white fluffy towels hung on four individual towel racks.

As orderly as the space was, it was not without its creature comforts. There was a stylish glass vase filled with white roses at a round table at one end of the room, closest to the window, and next to the vase were some recent magazines: Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Madison. The drapes were beautiful; blue and white cotton in a small floral design which matched the colour of the walls perfectly. Lucille was impressed.

Now that she was alone with the girls she was anxious for them to tell her everything they knew and she began to ask them questions: what had happened and what should she know? Pammi, it seemed, had chosen to make herself their spokesperson.


“Lucille, we cannot talk about it. Nicholas told us both that we are not to talk amongst ourselves about what happens here and especially what happens in private, when we are alone with him or ...other people. He says that we will be punished if we do.”

“But, no one is here with us. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, for heaven sakes.”

“I am sorry. I can’t talk about it. But, I will give you some advice. Just obey. Things will go much better for you if you do. Don’t try to buck the system and don’t think that arguing will get you anywhere. Just be polite and obedient.”


Lucille had trouble processing Pammi’s statement. She anticipated that she could win the girls over and that together they could manoeuvre things to their satisfaction. She looked over at Sherri who was nodding her head in agreement.

“Are you two...frightened of something?”

In silence, Sherri walked to the round table and beckoned Lucille to follow her. She opened the drawer of the table to reveal three wooden backed hairbrushes of various shapes and sizes.

Sherri looked at Lucille and Lucille looked back at Sherry. The way their eyes met said it all.

“Ohhhhh.”

“More like ‘ouch’.”

“Let’s go out to the garden,” suggested Pammi, who seemed to want to put an end to this turn of events. “It’s a very pretty garden and we can take some reading out there and wait to be called.”

Together, the three girls left the room and made their way down the stairs again and out to the garden in silence. They were all lost in their individual thoughts.

Vive la revolution!

Patrice had been well contained for as long as she could remember - however long that was, she could not say.

Earlier in the week, she had been bedeviled by an uneasy feeling. Quite abruptly, she felt underprivileged; that what she had was not enough.

As well contained submissive girls do, she tried to quash her rebellious thoughts and settle down to the business of doing what she had been told to do - to obey, to comply; to be pleasing.

On the outside, she seemed settled enough. There was nothing in her appearance or manner to suggest the revolution that was going on in her mind.

Every nerve ending of her body and every impulse and instinct was screaming out to her that she wanted more and she wanted more now.

She closed her eyes in an effort to settle herself. Surely this feeling must go soon, before she cause damage or do something she would surely regret. She tried to breathe deeply and relax into her thoughts...

She had dressed beautifully for the dinner with him and the restaurant was perfect in every way. She ate sparingly although the food was sumptuous. She drank more than enough wine. He too wore a devilishly handsome suit and seemed to enjoy the raconteur with her as they exchanged witty comments and he issued her vague threats. If the truth be known she was a little bit frightened of what he might wish to do to her after dinner but she never let on, merely giggling at the provocative things he said. Such bluff!

It was her usual custom to drink one glass of wine or champagne; perhaps two. The mistake she made was to drink two glasses of the shiraz as well as the martini cocktail. That put her in a place where she could not hold back the words that came from her lips.

"Oh right!" she blurted out. What a great idea that is. That will do my career a lot of good to take that dumb advice!!"

And, then she had the audacity to giggle again, as if it was merely a tad cheeky to respond to him in that way.

But, she had pressed the wrong button and he wasn't impressed or titillated; merely very angry that she could be so offensive about a suggestion he had made in good faith.

Tipsy she was, but not enough to not register his displeasure.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. It is just that..."

He was out of his chair and had paid for the bill before she had a chance to determine her next best move.

He returned to her and taking her hand, assisted her out of the chair from which she did not wish to come.

"I'm sorry," she repeated as he whisked her through the restaurant and into the parked car.

He opened his front door and gave her a little push through the door. She felt a trickle of fear at the back of her throat.

"Repeat what you said," he demanded.

"No."

Her refusal earned her a good, hard swat to her satin covered backside.

"Repeat what you said."

She repeated the rude comment as best she could remember it and was met with silence; with nothing but his all consuming blue eyes beating into her heart and her conscience.

"Is that what you are? A rude girl? Is that what I have trained you to be?"

"I was very rude. I am sorry."

"And what are you willing to do to repay me?"

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Whatever you wish. Whatever will reconnect us."

"Strip," he ordered.

She didn't want this. She knew she needed this. In a few short minutes the revolution would be complete.

Thank God.