Containment

 Please do forgive me if you are tired of hearing about Om. He is just so impressive and it's not just me. I send my husband episodes of his podcast that stand out to me, and he agrees, he has an important message to offer.

So, Om, as you might have already read here, speaks a lot about containment. He was asked in interview what that word means to him. I can't remember all his words, but the gist of the thing is that men and women have certain expectations of each other that is the same no matter in which era we live. Women want to be able to be supported by a man; to have a man settle them. It's up to the man, Om says, for his women to be contained by his masculine energy.

I would like to offer an example from my little orbit. My third child is quiet most of the time, until he decides to talk, in which case he has a lot to offer on a particular subject. Girls have been an important component in his life but it's this recent one, the one to whom he is engaged that has made for a very happy relationship.

He hasn't changed all that much over time, but the other girls were definitely codependent on him. He was, and this is his mother talking, far too good to them. The one before this one was a nice girl but she didn't have respect for him. His grandmother acutely observed the situation and assessed that "she has to go". Their whining and demands definitely got him down, and without space for himself, he took to becoming quite animated and excruciatingly frustrated. Her OCD was a factor here. I gently encouraged him of the view that he didn't owe her anything. He had to think of his own happiness.

This led to S, a charming, respectful and tender girl. At first, she seemed to have no issues, totally put together, until she started to reveal some of her childhood upbringing when it became clear that the anxiety we were seeing now that we had got to know her and love her was coming from those difficult situations.

This is where the containment comes in. She is a worrier. The boss at work is totally into himself. What if they can't find a house? What about her brother? She shares these worries with my son, and he has a way of containing the worry. 'Don't worry about the boss. When you are ready, there are plenty of jobs.' 'We will sort out your brother's situation together.' Or, he'll just be silly and make her giggle. He brings light to her dark and she greatly appreciates being offered the range of possibilities.

Sometimes, I have gone to my husband looking for containment, but he, being a bigger worrier than me, hasn't been able to contain me with his masculine energy. I think he is learning through these podcasts how important this skill is. I remember distinctly certain times when he was able to contain me; reassure me, and this means the world to me. 

This occurred quite recently when he assured me that the financial situation could be sorted; that we would work on it together. There's room to grow in the sensory realm. Words are good, strong hugs are equally important.

I'm not suggesting this is always easy for a man who may desire to dissolve into being contained by their woman. It's what their mothers did for them and no doubt it felt good. A woman is capable of this, for a time, of course. No-one is at their best all of their time.

As Om says, there is a place for that, but pretty much forget eros at those times.

Of course, when we endeavor to contain a situation, it doesn't necessarily work out and there are family folklore stories around this. We burst a tire one summer, on the way to the ferry that would take us to Block Island. Those tickets are bought months in advance, so the situation wasn't good. My husband said at one point, 'We aren't going to make it.' The children in the back no doubt were watching their holiday evaporate and I got a tap on the shoulder and a whisper in my ear, 

'Mum, are we going to make it?'

'Sure. We'll make it', I whispered back.

Well, we arrived, they called us onto the ferry, we drove on, they pulled up the barrier and we sailed off. We made it, by about five seconds.

A man (in this scenario, yes, it's a man) can't know what is to come, but most men will do anything and everything to make it right, safe, for their women and children. 

I think this is what a woman wants to tap into, time and time again. In spite of all her talents, ability to look after herself and so on, this is what she craves. I, like Om, tend to think this is hard wired.

Containment

It's happened a few times recently. I can be going along very nicely, content, when I am thrown off course. When I recover, it's hard to remember or to explain the unsettled state, or to answer why it might have happened a couple of times in recent months. Of course, I do have some ideas; a lack of opportunity for self expression springs to mind.

I think of it as a containment issue. For decades I've been fundamentally serene in my presentation and then there's a 'blow out'. No one knows when to expect it, certainly not me. It's as if pressure has built up in the valve and the pressure must be released. It can no longer be contained.

Two thoughts about that. Scrolling through my tumblr feed I came across some words of wisdom about my husband's star sign. The advice was spot on: to be gentle and listen; to provide empathy and understanding. Never to try to change, or to think that you could control because that was never going to happen. I think the 'blow outs' relate to that; the sheer frustration of that. And then, I realize the situation and return to my bubble; my state and place of acceptance.

Second point: that there has been a permanent change in my state of mind over the past several years and nothing feels better or more natural to me than containment. It's something I organize and maintain myself, in ways, and thus there's a requirement on me to be consistent and committed. In other words what really matters in my life is that in spite of the support that may, or may not, be available to me, its my acceptance of what works for me that is at the heart of the containment and serenity.

Blow outs hit me like a tsunami and are just as torrid and destructive, from an emotional point of view. They toss me about like a bit of board and then leave me flattened and broken on the ground. It's a destructive energy force that must work it's way through me before it blows out.

Maybe a lion in a cage might feel like this sometimes; growling at the edges of the cage; never completely used to the enclosure. That's not quite right because 95% of the time I love that enclosure and wouldn't replace it for a boundless grassy meadow on any account. But, then there's the 5% of the time when my sensibilities can be rocked by the slightest word out of place. I guess that 5% of the time is building up over time, but it doesn't feel that way at all. Rather, it feels like an instant discombobulation that hits out of nowhere and dies down in an equally random way when the energy supply has run out.

Of course, in the thick of it, I've no idea that it will end at all. I don't know that it is not permanent; that it is a freak storm with an end. A freak storm or a frustration fit? These incidents have this in common for sure: a feeling of frustration that I've no ability to effect change; that I'm caught; that I am who I am and need what I need; that I am forever uniquely me; not an easy thing to reconcile.

I think, over years and years, others get to see that this will happen from time to time and that the kindest thing to do is to provide the wall on which I may bash my head until it hurts enough for me to realize that it is in fact a brick wall. There is next to no chance of brick walls tumbling down or changing their form. There's no negotiation with a brick wall. There's no civil conversation to be had with a brick wall.

And so, spent, I sit. I sit very quietly and realize that freedom, that girlhood, isn't what I wanted after all. It doesn't suit me. I don't wear it well. Rather, it wears me and that's not a good look.

The moment I accept that containment is my lot there's a little smile that forms in the corners of my mouth. Thank the Lord for brick walls, I think; for the resolve of the brick wall; the strength and non-negotiability of a brick wall.

It's a love/hate thing. I can feel that I have the nouse, the creativity, the vision to enlarge my world and the world generally. The ego is intact. Yet, the forces of my world, from every visible corner don't see it that way. It's not for me, they say. It's not my fate; not the way I was designed. A tiger is a tiger. A bird is a bird. It's not right to pretend that I'm something I'm not, I'm told.

I shine. I shine in my own way. I'm happy, in my own way. This is the way it is. This is the way it was ordained from the outset. It is what it is.

Excess

I have had very little interest in wondering about other planets and what life might be like on them, until I began reading my first sci-fi novel, 'The Book of Fabulous New Things' by Michael Faber. It's not strictly sci-fi in that Faber has mixed genres and what the book seems to be offering (I am at the half-way mark) is not so much an alternative world as an effort to have the reader think about life on this planet Earth, about devotion and duty to another person, and about the endurance of love. That's my sense of it so far.

Although I can't say I am particularly enjoying the read so far, it's got so much potential to have a searing effect on the reader in the long run that I am reading on into the very long novel with confidence that it won't be a waste of my time. Already, I find myself questioning the way things are done here; how much we assume is okay, when maybe it isn't all that okay after all.

Wintertime, I've worn a pair of boots a number of times. I'm not sure why it was yesterday, as I was walking along in a park, that it suddenly dawned on me that my old tried and true black boots with a medium heel suddenly didn't look right to my eye. I came home and scanned my boots and shoes and noticed that some toes were round and some toes had a short square toe, like the ones I was wearing. I sorta knew that on some level in that I gave away a very obviously square toed ankle book at the beginning of winter. But, that all the boots on women in the streets were round toed was something that had escaped my attention.

I have no difficulty in parting with clothing and footwear that has been well worn, but this turn in what was 'in fashion' threw me because it meant that a few pairs of footwear were suddenly unwearable, when they had plenty of life left in them. I expressed my annoyance to those who would listen, my sons. My eldest son assured me that square toed footwear was not to be worn, whilst my youngest son assured me that the fashion police didn't actually exist.

'But, they do, they do!' I replied.

These sudden changes in fashion styles are nothing new, of course; simply an old but brilliant ploy to get us to ditch perfectly good items in order to buy new ones. Whilst this has always been the case, I've more or less absolved myself from the game by maintaining a classic dress style. A classic black skirt is a classic black skirt and whilst my 20 year old black woolen jacket is currently having its shoulder span taken in, even the dressmaker who happily tells me to ditch things and buy a replacement agreed that the jacket was too good to throw away. Yes, she would remodel it. Oh joy!

I am realistic enough to accept that we can't change the culture too much, or too fast, or maybe not at all. Although, some people do simply ignore culture. I've a lovely girlfriend who gives the entire thing a miss; no makeup, long straight hair and jeans. Her idea of getting gad up is to change into a pair of black slacks. I think she's great. But, it's the sort of bravery that most of us are not up to; certainly not me.

Back in the day when plans were being put in place to contain me; something that thrilled me, I agreed to cull my wardrobe. The idea is/was that now that there was much less in the wardrobe, anything bought required that something be thrown away. It didn't entirely work for me. I'd see something gorgeous and impulsively get it, particularly if it was on sale. I worked on the basis of one in/one out, mostly, but there was something missing in the equation, a sort of ambivalence about the philosophy behind it. I hadn't quite taken it into my soul.

I think it goes like this, that I am surrounded every day by people with shopping bags in their arms, people who almost live to shop; daily emails telling me about sales; SALE notices in the largest letters screaming at me from store windows. It is almost our religion here on Earth: shop til you drop. And thus, from time to time the rule is broken. Sorta: if they can do it, why can't I?

I am, in fact, the opposite of a bower bird. I detest clutter. I can't function with stuff around me and this sense of wanting to live with space around me, space to breathe, just gets more and more intense. As I say to my husband, everything should be in its place and if there isn't a place for it, maybe we don't need to own it. He finds me excessively concerned about this matter which makes my relationship with my first born all the more important because he thinks I'm not minimalist enough.

I read a statement lately that suggested that we not talk to  the exterior - people, dressed and preened - but that we talk to their souls. It's an extraordinary thought, I think; that there might be another planet, another way to live, where there were no stores; no attempts to convince others, and yourself, that you're more special than another person because you have a fancy car and/or house, a Facebook account that highlights your overseas trips, or the latest Prada bag.

I love beautiful things and I love to look good, so I'd miss the opportunity to own some lovely things to wear, but excess is, well, it's excessive. Imagine if our philosophy here on Earth was 'Buy what you need.' Imagine if the culture looked down on those with excess. It's kinda happening right now; a moral concern with foodies obsessed with the latest fad when millions of people in the world are starving.

As one individual in a large world I feel that the only control I have is over myself; to monitor what I own and do with those items I no longer need; to use the food that I buy and not allow it to go to waste; to be a better role model for the children on these matters than I have been in the past; to recognize that we in some way are feeding the insecurities of our souls and hearts by over buying and obsessively wanting more.

I think this is where the awareness notion comes into play. If we are asking ourselves why we want the new dress or the expensive restaurant meal, we are at least taking the time to explore our reasons for the desire. With winter in full swing I'm aware of my sweet tooth demanding my attention and that's when I have to use self discipline to deny myself that which I don't need. Thank goodness for Jazz apples.

There is something about my submissive mind that likes to be contained and that feels out of sorts when there is too much allowed. I know deep down that happiness doesn't come to me via possessions but rather a sense of connection to those I love. This is what makes the power exchange dynamic special for me; containment and connection; happiness.

This moment

Something happened back at the beginning of February. I knew within two seconds that circumstances had changed forever, but the brain often needs time to process and accept. I knew immediately, but I wasn't ready to confront the fact, to face it, or to do anything about it until now.

I limped along, sometimes pretending that it wasn't true, playing along really. I guess we were both playing along; either that or it was all planned out on his part. I'll never know. We'd say 'hello' and sometimes just that until enough silence had passed that one of us said 'bye'. Sometimes we'd ask how the other was and the other would say 'very good', which was a lie, of course, but we played this charade several times over anyway.

On occasion, we pretended to be somewhat casual, chatty 'friends'. For a few days we talked about a novel, a bizarre thing for us to do really because the conversation didn't go very far at all, even though it is his favourite novel of all time. Neither of us could get into it. There was always that huge elephant in the digital room taking up so much darn space.

On another occasion he spoke a little of his day and his worries, but again, it wasn't our thing to do that. He'd always been plain talking about the fact that I surely didn't want to know about his boring work day and he didn't want to know about mine either.

I'm not sure if, after knowing my mind intimately for six years or so, he would be able to tell you the names of all my children or even the details of any one particular day of mine in those six years, a single detail of a necklace I wore or the colour of any particular dress. We didn't talk like that. He didn't show any interest in any of that or encourage me to ask those sort of questions of him. He wouldn't have answered them if I did. That's a fact, because I did, for some time, make an effort to know him as an all encompassing human being but he wanted no part of it.

 I heard an author say recently that he is always looking for the moment when things change for a character. Having brought the character to life, he still can't know when it is going to happen, so he has to be vigilant about detecting it when it comes along. Meg Wolitzer, author of 'The Interestings' doesn't see it quite that way. In fact, she doesn't leave it to the reader to interpret when things change for an important character. She tells the reader. It's New Year's Eve in New York City and Ash's brother has been arrested for the rape of Cathy, a member of their friendship group. They are back in Ash's room after the police refused to allow them to see Goodman. Even though she is late teens Ash's room is full of stuffed animals from her childhood.

'He's not technically even an animal at all,' Ethan said. 'But go lie down with all of them and get some sleep. I'll take care of you.' The words were said lightly but with feeling; he was signing on, this was the moment it happened, and Jules saw it but didn't know it.'

Of course, the moment of revelation, alteration or transformation doesn't just 'happen' out of the blue every time. Sometimes, it is just that time has to play out or someone has to be ready to make the next all important move. I want to skip over that move. I'll just say that when it came it was a 'STOP' light. It was impossible to ignore it, to go around it or under it. I had to confront it. I had to say to the elephant that the room was too bloody crowded and why was he here in the first place?

I waited a couple of hours. When I'm agitated I'm deeply agitated and I needed to calm down. But, nor did I want to wait until my brain started to come up with excuses as to why I shouldn't act, why I should ignore such a great, big sign. So, after a few hours I constructed a 'goodbye' letter which simply had two sentiments, two main paragraphs. First, I noted that I had realized that things had changed. Secondly, I expressed my sincere thanks for all he had done for me; for an extra special relationship. I sent him my love, because I do care for him. Why else would I allow someone to boss me and alter me and punish me? Anyone else I would have told to get dog-knotted years ago.

Of course, he didn't want that to be the final segment of the story at all. He wanted what he wanted and he said so in our final chat. If my root chakra is blocked and doesn't get enough nurturing from the soil nor adequate sun to allow it to grow healthily, then his has grown robustly like an out-of-control vine, bless him. He wanted satiation, he said, and although he was in fact, at that moment, no longer my mentor, and that was already made clear a few sentences earlier, he was happy to boss me.

Dominant men believe that they know best. They become God-like beings who see clearly what a woman must do. I understand this. I understand the sentiment and I understand that the sentiment comes from the heart. If only the blasted woman would listen and obey the instruction she'd be so much happier, they think. It's a noble thought, a generous thought and possibly even accurate. But, who is to say what is 'accurate'? Who is to say what is best, really?

Here's the thing about me. I've been a bit of a coward about life. I've not truly believed in my own talents. My flaws and weaknesses, I have embraced, but I have never really believed in myself. At the age of 58 it is time that I did. It is time that I planted my two feet firmly on this Earth and said 'I am grounded, stable and standing on my own two feet'. Even more than that, 'I stand for my values, my truth and justice.' I may have been a sheep, contained in a pen, and, honestly, that worked for me, but to be corralled down the narrow wooden walkway to a destiny devised by someone else when I remain completely confused about which is the right path for me, is something that I cannot do. I cannot do what I cannot do. No. matter. what.

Nor am I going to go quietly into that good night. I don't deny that I still 'leak'; that I can be fine one minute and find that tears have escaped down my cheeks the next, but I will make my final years happy, productive and loving. I'll have adventures, do things I have never done before. I will be more than all right. I will thrive. I promise.

Here's another thing. Who I am today is made up of my experiences, none more important than the mentoring that took place over those six years. I remain aroused by SM activities and thoughts. I shall continue to be aroused by them every day into the future as well, because that's the erotic side of my brain that I can't switch off. It's a lifetime battery.

Two days ago my husband blew up at me. It had nothing to do with me really but was merely a moment of frustration with someone else. But, it upsets me and I sent him an email later in the day asking him to please try not to do that, that it leaves me upset all day. He wrote back and said he was very sorry and when he returned home it was with a beautiful bunch of  Asian lilies. I cried on his shoulder. It had been such an emotional few days.

He worked that evening well into the morning and feeling rather shattered by all that had gone down I wondered what I could possibly do to aid myself to sleep. For the first time in my adult life I remembered Teddy, my youngest son's bear that now sits on my bedroom chair. I gathered Teddy and fell asleep clutching him. I hadn't meant for my husband to see it, forgot it was there, and later he said to me, 'I see you had Teddy in bed last night.' 'Yes,' I said softly, because I was embarrassed and because I didn't want to explain all my distress.

This morning my husband had to leave the house early but he took me in his arms whilst still in bed and he said to me, 'I am sorry I have been a bad Owner.' I didn't say anything. I just hugged him back.

There's no poignant, clever thing to say about the future. I can only speak of this moment, right now, and right now, I'm standing on my own two feet, hopeful; always hopeful.

Fantasy and life

My husband and I were exchanging thoughts recently about fantasies and I made the comment that sometimes fantasies were merely fantasies. I didn't necessarily want for all my fantasies to become my reality. He disagreed. He felt that sexual fantasies were dormant desires. We didn't say much more than this, but I have been quietly thinking about the conversation ever since.

My fantasies have a theme about them. I don't fantasize about a renovated house, a trip around the world, or a romantic dinner,  but I routinely fantasize about finding myself in very strict, tightly controlled situations. I'm either at some sort of institution where I've been sent, not so much to procure an education and have a career, but rather to understand my place as an owned (but precious) possession, or, under the control of an extremely strict man who has the support of a housekeeper whose main task it is to supervise me when he is busy. Let's deal with the institution today. There are many rules at this institution but they all boil down to one rule in essence: that I obey.

There is absolutely no leniency at this institution and what I find interesting (and just realized this very moment) is that there is a dress code. Like the other girls sent there I wear the same style dress every day, one that accentuates the figure and provides ready access, but certainly fashion trends are not part of our lives here and we don't spend any time at all in wondering how to dress.

We are kept in a state of arousal. Anal plugs are a part of most of the day and all of the night and when we shower, or go to bed, or eat...all of this is pre-ordained and set in stone, except in highly exceptional situations. Owner tags are pierced through our nipples and pussy lips early on and a chastity belt is ordered for each one of us as an important part of our limited wardrobe. We are never to touch ourselves without permission, we are told. Rather, what we must appreciate is that we are there to adapt to the headspace that our satisfaction is immaterial and quite secondary to the pleasure of our Owners. This is the purpose of the chastity belts, for us to understand and accept our containment and purpose.

Corporal discipline is an integral part of our experience there - punishment for the slightest misbehaviour and routine maintenance paddlings and whippings. The whistle of the wind as the cane bears down on bare bottoms is a regular sound to our ears as we pass the master's study on our way to another part of the large house, discreetly tucked away behind high brick walls and surrounded by a lush garden. We fear the Master's cane without a shadow of a doubt and do all we can to avoid it, but meetings with it are so inevitable that we go close to making our peace with it. Pain is our lot.

If I am looking to arouse myself, not necessarily even orgasm, but simply 'edge' or let time stand still for ten minutes, I go to these particular thoughts. They centre me, relax me and, of course, arouse me. But, it's a big stretch to say that I would like to have them acted out. It's the harshest of institutions where my every move is observed and determined. I have no privacy there at all. Even showers are nearly always taken as a group in a bathroom with mutiple shower heads and the Mistress remains to observe this, inspecting us for cleanliness when we step out of the shower, inserting our anal plugs that we will wear throughout the night. Naked we will kneel by our beds to say our prayers and the Master will come to hear these prayers where we offer our good wishes to our authority figures at the school and thank God that they will guide us well. I can't begin to imagine such a situation in real life, the relentless discipline and rule following.

Maybe, the fantasy is simply the extreme scenario of a real life situation where I am indeed subject to some rules determined by an authority figure; where there is no breaking of rules without punishment, and where my joy and happiness comes through an understanding of my place; a place which is secure, a life which is relatively simple - challenging in ways but deeply spiritual and restful to the mind.

Truthfully, I still think of an intense orgasm as the happiest of experiences, the experience that feels to me very close to Godliness; the experience that lifts my spirits like nothing else can. But, my experiences have been such that I have been more willing to entertain the notion that this isn't my right at all, but rather a treat that I am given on rare occasions at the behest of an Owner; the owner of my body and my spirit. Truthfully, it's a huge surprise to me that I could think this thought at all, but if fantasies are a guide, there is no doubting the fact that I get off on the thought of containment in all its manifestations.

Garnering more control

A few nights ago there was some lovemaking and afterwards I just could not contain my frustration. I wasn't rude but I was fairly blunt; that without feeling his control life didn't have the same positive element for me.

At first, he was a bit upset by my comments but we agreed to sleep on it and in the morning, in his arms, I explained my point of view in more detail. It's the first talk I can remember having where we were really entirely honest and open with each other, or at least the best talk. If there was one thing I said that really resonated for him it was this:

'We were both born equal. We are both well educated. When we are dealing with the outside world, we're equals. But, my nature isn't your nature. I want to be controlled. That's what makes me happy and what feels right. Think of it as a role. That's my erotic role. You want to control. You know you do. You want to influence politics, the government, business - really everybody you come across in your world to some degree. That's the way your desire for control of your world is expressed. But, you aren't eroticizing your need for control. You aren't controlling me in the ways I'd like and need, that I crave.'

I could see him really listening to that.

'I get that', he said, 'but you can try to invoke the 'get out of jail card with me' when you're due for some discipline. If you want to feel control you have to stop doing that.'

'Agreed,' I said. 'I hand over control to you. What you say, goes.'

Seconds later, I found myself in a wonderfully vulnerable situation, totally immersed in a scene where I was at his mercy, treated like a fucktoy. It's too special to post the details but it ended with him scrubbing me in the shower, not at all gently, and me adoring every heavenly moment of it. Off we went to a birthday lunch at a winery and he said I looked beautiful, that I glowed. I do look different when I'm erotically dominated. I just do.

It's up to me now to seek to maintain that momentum, to let go and just follow, in every way. Interestingly, I have been aware of his changing moods since then. It was obvious he was deeply aroused and happy to be controlling me and to hear and see my response to the control, but his need to control his world will remain. It's a big part of who he is and how he lives his life and it's important that I find a way to continue to be a part of his world and to feel some control from him without disrupting him. The control of me needs to sit comfortably amongst his desire to control his entire landscape.

Of course, this is what the mentoring has been about, particularly of more recent times. If I disobey or choose to make a mistake I've forgotten my place. My place is to follow along. My place is to be controlled. My place is to be enticing, slutti; ready for use. My place is to follow the rules established for my own good.

This is an all encompassing role. It's not just about sex. My husband, for example, bought me a box of Haigh's chocolate truffles but told me that I must gain his permission before I eat one. They sit unopened on the shelf.

'Are there any truffles left?' he asked several nights ago.

This is where we were at. He'd give a directive but if I disobeyed there would not really be a consequence. This doesn't work for me. It defeats the sense of control. I really do need to know that what he says, he means.

It's hard, he has said, to be 'Johnny on the spot'. He means, he has to live with me and within a family environment and exercising the amount of control I am asking for has seemed too hard under the circumstances. But, circumstances from now on are allowing for time alone and that's a big part of what has been the missing ingredient.

If I can't eat a chocolate without permission, then I can't eat a chocolate without permission, and if cake is banned, well, cake is banned. I was the one who asked for help losing weight after all. Anyway, I'd rather experience control than eat cake or chocolate. Put that way, the decision is easy.

Change

Having finished a piece of work just now, I gave myself permission to wander over to tumblr and there I read this:

"As soon as you recognize your true nature as the unchanging Awareness and confirm your position as That itself, the unchanging One, it won’t matter anymore what the psychological, personal mind is saying.
Its play and presence will become distant, like looking at the moon in full daylight. You won’t be listening to it for very long, I tell you.
It will gradually lose its influence and appeal and fall away."

It was completely relevant to the work I had been doing this morning, writing about the process of keeping a journal and how one might write about trauma in a way that doesn't frighten the reader, by use of metaphor. I noted that when I write in a journal - this one or others that I keep for other purposes - I'm aware of writing as myself but also as if I am a reader. I write things down and then I engage with what has been written in a curious way.

I haven't always known what to do with my emotions, with events and happenings, or with challenging relationships. I think, looking back, that related to a sense of powerlessness. Somehow, perhaps by writing in the various journals, or possibly in the containment that I've experienced in the past several years, or the meditative practices, or all of these things, I've learned to be my own witness; to see my self as being the Awareness rather than the myriad of emotional states in which I became fully immersed, whether it felt traumatic or joyful. I established with certainty for myself that emotional states come and go, are never constant and that they are all part of life.

I noticed yesterday that I was starting to feel swamped in the mundane, for example. Since my son is doing his final year of school, often a tedious affair, my job is to keep his spirits up, to encourage him to keep moving forward and from to time, I have the task of getting him to get on with his work. He doesn't like that but he does appreciate, after the fact, that I am prepared to talk the talk about English essays. All in all, the whole year has me working very hard on a multitude of projects, without the opportunity to get away, and from time to time I can feel sorry for myself. Another couple of loads of washing, only the 20,000th of my motherhood; another meal to cook; only the 49,000th of my motherhood.

Of course, the antedote to this is to recognize that it is not forever. It ends in November, only a few months away now. After that, no more school aged children! Or, since I have just read a most profound piece of writing from a woman who lost her baby to cot death, a piece of writing that takes us into the heart of the grief, I can rationalize that I haven't a thing to complain about. And, I don't!

This is the thing. I'm aware of the emotional states now. I'm aware of why they happen, I'm aware I'm in a particular emotional state (not necessarily ready to get out, however), and I'm aware that the state will end. That's the key thing - to be aware that it will end, because people who are going through traumatic times need to know this, that it will end and it will get better.

I used to think that it was impossible to get inside someone's traumatic mind. This theory was debunked for me when I read this piece of writing, as yet unpublished. This is the power of metaphor, I am finding. You need reference points - 'how dare the phone ring', or the sense of being a ghost on a ghost train, or the reaction to wind, or the desire to hear your little boy's voice. One wonders, how did she make it through that? But, she did, she did make it through.

Many years ago I went through a situation that was deeply stressful and hurtful to me. My mother, being on the other side of the world sent me a cutting of the poem, 'Footprints in the Sand'. You'll find it here: http://www.marypages.com/footprints.htm. For countless years I kept it on my desk, under my blotter, and it gave me a great deal of comfort; that sometimes we wonder if there is anyone who cares but, in fact, in retrospect, we realize that someone was actually carrying us through the ordeal the whole time.

Sometimes, that person is oneself. We're aware of our ordeal and we keep a watchful eye on ourselves. We endure and we, ultimately, thrive. In the same way during meditation I often have one thumb grasp the other because it is a small, discreet reminder to myself that I am my own best friend. I'm keeping a watchful, attentive and loving eye on myself.

Perhaps, it can be chalked up to 'maturity' - that sense of peace I feel right now. That too will change. All things change, all the time. I'm okay with that.

Discipline

I think I have wanted a power exchange relationship my whole adult life. I'm excited by the oddest things - some sort of statement that something is not my decision, a commitment that something is done as told; an 'in your face' declaration that a task is given for "discipline" and to enforce control.

I accept such statements in a two-forked way. First, there is the intellectual sense where the words are challenging to me. Somewhere in the mix, that response is there within my mind. What usurps my responding to that feeling with some sort of expressed rebellion is the fact that these sort of arrogant statements of fact really turn me on. I get off on arrogance. I get off on the reminder that it is my role to do someone else's bidding; that my role is to please and satisfy.

When confronted with a task, day by day, day after day, 99 times out of 100 I do it uncomplainingly because I know I must 'face the music'. If I don't face the music and do it, then ultimately I face the music in another way, because there is no defense for non compliance. Do it. Don't do it. The music must be faced either way. I'm "evaluated". Could there be a more challenging (arousing?) declaration than that?

Still, the intellectual side of my brain, or some might say the willful side of my brain, insists every now and then on trying it on; complaining. I imagine this is to be expected. I imagine it to be not at all difficult as to how to respond. Only one person can be in control.

It's a test of the dominant's will and strength of resolve, but not one that I plan. I don't look for trouble, but trouble sometimes looks for me. My intellectual brain sometimes interferes with my pleasure.

Discipline prevails, as it should. For reasons I may never fully understand the disciplined life works for me supremely well.

Merry (kinky) Christmas

The shopping was done, the Christmas Eve dinner cooked and eaten when I decided to have a sneak peak at my emails before finalizing the wrapping of presents this evening. Lo and behold, what did I find but an email from my friend Abel Jenkins alerting to me the fact that I had won an award! I could not have been more surprised, nor more honored to read Abel's very generous and glowing remarks. Thank you, most sincerely, my friend. My writing here is very much a labor of love and I am thrilled you are enjoying it.

I know it is traditional at this time to wish readers a very Merry Christmas and I do, of course, hope that your day is filled with love and happiness. However, I can't resist also taking this opportunity to share how very possible it is to include kinkiness into a very busy festive season.

It has been a very hectic period of time for me. Like so many mothers, the bulk of the responsibility for a happy Christmas for family members falls on my shoulders and there does come a moment when Christmas can seem more work than joy. It's not that I don't enjoy Christmas, it's that mothers do eventually tire.

I had no more than a few minutes chat with a close friend this morning before I needed to head out to the nail salon for the first appointment of their busy day. A girl can go without much rest during stressful periods of time, but a girl can't go without her fortnightly trip to the nail salon. Let me assure of this.

My friend knows that I need to express my kinky side very regularly or else I tend to run down, so I shared with him, knowing that he would understand, that as I awoke I had some lovely contained thoughts to start my day - nothing severe, but contained in my thoughts was I, nonetheless.

"Relish in it," he replied, an acknowledgement from him, yet again, that the whole idea was to enjoy the expression of my true self.

This exchange isn't a one-way street by any means and I also wanted to remind him to relax and enjoy his kinky thoughts, a few moments of interlude in his busy work day. What would he like for Christmas, I asked. Hmmm, he wasn't sure.

"A dolly for the day? Someone to tend to his every need?" I suggested.

Oh yes, he thought that would be yummy. I could almost hear him already making plans.

I explained that I was off to the nail salon and he voiced his expectation that I would go plugged. The thought had occurred to me, actually. I know what soothes me and aids me in busy periods when I don't have much time to myself. However, I wasn't sure that I wanted to challenge myself too far. I voiced (typed) that sentiment and then he voiced (typed) his.

Of course, he was quite right. I need to be challenged. Challenge enables me to be my true, kinky self - to be aware of that side of me no matter what else I am doing. Challenges contains my submissive nature in a way that elevates my spirit and puts a smile on my face in the toughest Christmas shopping predicament.

To the world at large it looked like I was reveling in preparing for Christmas; peaceful and serene. To those here, there is more to the story, as you would know. Expressing my submissive side, even in this private way, enables me to revel in nearly all experiences. If I were wearing a sign it might say this.

"My name is Vesta and I am a woman with a submissive nature. To express my nature makes me blissfully happy. Right now, even though you can't see,  I'm being contained and challenged. I love every minute of it."

Have a very happy Christmas. Do be nice, but don't forget to be naughty.

Re-emergence

My husband went to see a doctor to whom he had been referred, a sort of "wellness" expert and he had a lot to say, apparently, about the brain being the "engine of the body" and how when we have worries, we need to empty the brain. We can do this is various ways, he said. It pays to have at least two people with whom to unload and it pays to journal. He wants people to write it all down and then, probably throw it away. In other words, a lot of garbled emotions are bound to come out, not suitable for the consumption of others and so, write it and then chuck it.

I haven't thought about my writing in this way. I have used the air waves to try to modulate what comes out of my mind via my fingers; to use the fact that others will read it to try to be clear headed and to try to not allow my emotions to get away with me.

Interestingly, lately I haven't felt that I can share my thoughts in quite the same way as I have done in the past. It's been a very tough year for me at home. My husband has been very unwell, but I see that, for the meantime at least, he's really much better. The emotional pain was better left alone; better that I handle it in my very personal way, which is fundamentally, to retreat into myself and to find my strength to live my life as best I could in the new way that presented itself to me. Without an "owner" at hand, I've just done the best I could on my own.

My husband has, quite suddenly, sprung to life. He wants to re-engage and he said to me this morning that I seem a bit removed. I don't mean for that to be the case. I guess it is my mind trying to process the new situation.

I enjoy being controlled. I've missed the dynamic between us a great deal.It's been harder than I dare put into words to not have that in my life and I had to retreat to a place in my mind where it was less painful for me; to live out my life nearly all this year as if our love was platonic. I understand that this isn't necessarily representative of the reality as it might be seen by him. He was ill and probably didn't see it as I saw it. But, for me it was a petit mal. I was in some sort of grief state and words spilled out onto the Internet, I decided, were not going to help.

If he is ready to re-connect with me in this way, obviously, I'm more than delighted. I tend to take a while to come right out of the burrow in trying times; never quite sure when the danger has passed. If it has passed, and he tells me this morning in clear language that it has passed, then I'm grateful and ready for the doll to come back down off the shelf and lose herself in the pleasure and joy of feeling all that lovely control. That has always been where I am happiest and most authentically myself.

Back to the dungeon

I'm back in the dungeon down in Tasmania and having a lovely time. It's cold here but I love much about the season of winter and as I sit here on the couch in our living room with the morning sun streaming through the window, I am completely serene.

My husband is asleep. We'd turned on the heat overnight but it turned out to be too toasty for us and dehydration had him up several times in the middle of the night. So, I've had a cup of black coffee and a piece of our sourdough break stick with a little real butter and homemade raspberry jam. We bought it at one of the best bakeries I've ever been to, just down the road.

One of the best things about this apartment is the location. A stone's throw from us is this sensational bakery, a little old-fashioned milk bar for (overpriced) supplies, a fantastic Italian restaurant (where we ate last night) and the Salamanca Market, where we will go on Saturday morning. It's a wonderfully quaint area, an absolute throw-back in time and I just adore it here. In my old age, I think I'll move here and spend the summers in the cooler environment. At least, that's a little dream I have.

One of the lovely things about practicing 'awareness' is that if you slow down enough to enjoy the moments of your life, little moments really do have great significance. I was blissfully aware of the raspberry jam waking up my taste buds, of the pleasure of the morning sun streaming through the window, of the rejuvenating quality of the coffee, and the delightful silence as I sit here noticing my acrylic nails tapping away at the keys.  The slower pace suits me very, very well and there's nothing more I want at this very moment.

I love the fact that I have with me just a few changes of clothes. I love my little wardrobe and how everything I have brought has a purpose. I've brought the gorgeous cashmere black wrap that my husband bought me in Tuscany last year and I have the lovely fine wool cardigan he bought me a few days ago for our anniversary (We had a blast choosing some winter clothing for one another the day before we left for Tasmania and we've bought those items with us). I love living this small, contained (yet refined) little life. I love my little dungeon so much!

Yesterday, we had a nap after we'd settled in and after that, he played with me. One of the big disadvantages of not playing with a girl regularly (especially a girl like me who can feel her oats if she's not reminded of her place for a time) is that she gets out of practice. He was spanking away when I said,

"I'm not really into pain any more..."

"I don't care what you want. You need the pain."

And, he proceeded on. Until this point, I hadn't experienced the turn-on effect. If he'd listened to me and stopped, it would have been an unpleasant outcome. I'd have been miserable. But, the fact that he insisted he do as he chose...that was the turn-on. Now, I didn't tell him that. But, they're the facts. I feel a great deal more comfortable in my life when I know my place; when he asserts himself.

Dinner last night was delicious; Veal Pizzaiola and a bottle of 48 degrees South Pinot Noir, 2008. When we were sharing a piece of cheesecake (I got two bites!) the waitress asked us what we planned to do tomorrow and I told her we were going to MONA. She told me that David Walsh (the philanthropist who set up MONA as his own private art gallery for the public) often comes into the restaurant; that he's a famous gambler; autistic with a strong bent for numbers. Many of his exhibitions are confronting and thought-provoking and I'm looking forward to it immensely.

Anyways, I'm being good; being kept in my place and life is sweet.

The Patriarchal voice

The patriarchal voice is the voice that refers to the rules and philosophy of the patriarchal system. To keep it simple, when speaking of the patriarchal system we might otherwise say, 'It's a man's world'.

I think you can argue that part of this philosophy handed down from generation to generation is that femininity is inferior to masculinity. Sometimes, women decide to mimic men's behavior because they determine that to live in a man's world, they have to play by the rules and femininity won't get them where they want to go. Thus, they put restrictions on the feminine.

The patriarchal system is not just inclined to see femininity as inferior. It is as damaging to men as it is to women because under the patriarchal system, men must play by the rules as well. It is difficult for men to express their vulnerability and their emotions because it has been thought that's not expressing strength or leadership; those skills strongly supported by the patriarchal system.

This patriarchal voice is contained within us. We take those messages in from society and we carry them within us. This voice speaks to us and effects our decision making and our behavior, often in subliminal ways. I don't profess to understand the dynamic of this voice as it effects all decision making we do but I was struck by some statements in my friend's notes on this subject.

She writes that when the patriarchal voice is suppressed or disowned it continues to live on in our lives in a dis-empowering way. This energy can come to us from a person outside of ourselves who carries that patriarchal energy and may treat us badly. A boss or a partner may use that energy and the result could be judgmental statements, an authoritarian stance, a lack of feeling or respect for others or an inflexible point or view. Both men and women may have a patriarchal voice. Women can make harsh judgments about other women just as easily as a man can make a judgment of a woman. (think: witches of Salem, perhaps)

The inner patriarch is used to leading and directing and thus, my friend concludes, if we were to give away that energy to someone else, we lose ourselves. She gives the example of a client who was a people pleaser  to the point where she lost her 'self". Her patriarchal voice had been disowned and thus manifested itself in two men - her husband and her business partner - who belittled her, negated her actions and devalued what she brought to their lives.

You might start to get the feeling that I am struggling to put these thoughts together and come up with something that makes sense to me. I think what my new friend is getting at is that her patriarchal voice silenced her and allowed her husband and even her children to make decisions on her behalf that led to a great deal of pain. She became a victim to that patriarchal voice. Other people ruled her with a iron fist and she allowed that to happen.

My friend had a patriarchal voice within her that constantly reminded her of her inadequacies as a mother, a wife, a daughter. To become successful in the world she took on patriarchal energy but she lost her femininity. Eventually, she realized she could be feminine and still powerful. She discovered she could use her femininity powerfully.

I'm still cogitating about this but I can say with certainty that my goal is to use my femininity powerfully. My husband sometimes refer to a scale of femininity and I happen to be on the furthest end. I have been a victim to a voice within my head that feels it best to put other people's needs ahead of my own, often needlessly. I'm about to jump in the car to go to a screen writing lecture that I want to go to even though it is over the dinner hour - a big move in my life!

So, I've sometimes allowed myself to be the victim of a patriarchal kind of thinking in the sense that I have felt it my responsibility to ensure everyone's comfort and satisfaction ahead of my own, as if my needs were unimportant in comparison to theirs. I'm not sure if this is patriarchal thinking that I gathered from society at large or just that it seemed easier and better to put my needs secondary to others and thereby ensure the smooth running of life. I'm not entirely sure why I took that to extremes. It just seemed to work that way.

Embracing my femininity in the form of allowing my sexuality to be front and centre in my life is certainly empowering for me and to that end I have been brave. We live and learn.   As I read more of what my friend has written my thoughts may change. One thing I can say with certainty is that she is happy and at peace now finally and her thinking about this inner voice appears worthy of more exploration.

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.

Bondage

Obviously and irrefutably, I enjoy the thought and the reality of all sorts of bondage and containment. But, one can take this another step. Imagine for a moment that I did not enjoy these thoughts so much, or to just consider one type of bondage imagine that I did not like the idea of wearing a chastity belt. It is not outside the realms of reality that the idea of wearing the belt is much more wonderful than the reality of wearing it. I doubt this, but it is possible.

So let's say for argument's sake that I don't like being put in a chastity belt, or let's say that I am ambivalent (does the word ambivalent really belong in the same sentence as the word 'chastity belt'?) So, let's say that I am not really getting a kick out of the restraint. I, personally, would rather that I were not in the belt.

Okay. So, is that it? It's a flop because I am not enjoying it. Or, is there something more to gain than my enjoyment?

I'm being objectified, actually. I'm being put in my place. The main purpose of the exercise is, perhaps, that I am being reminded that I'm really no different to a chair. I serve a purpose. The chair is for sitting on. I am meant for his physical pleasure. I belong to him. He owns me and what's more he can do what he wants with me. If he wants to bound me up and keep me that way until it pleases him to go get that key and release me, that's what he will do.

Here's the thing. It's not about me and what brings me pleasure. It is all about him. If I get pleasure from the containment, that's secondary; superfluous information; unintentional; irrelevant.

Except...that sort of thought plays on a woman's mind; follows her wherever she may go; has her lips upturned into a smile in situations that really don't call for such a sense of joy and pleasure. The thought of being an object, a sexual object at the behest of the man overtakes her and leaves her plans for the day in a crumpled mess on the floor. Her mind is mush. Strategic thinking is now impossible as naughty thoughts overtake her mind.

She is not meant to be enjoying herself. Except, she is.

Intent

It is all about if I can feel his intent; his own desire to want to insist that I do what he says to do. Lost in a dreamy world of sleep much needed, I feel him awaken me with a desire to play. Even though for me it could go either way – I could easily go on enjoying the deep, heavy slumber – I know that I have no choice and the fact that I have no choice appeals and stirs me.

He tells me he wants to spank me but that first he wants to feel my mouthcunt around his cock. I oblige. He asks me to ask for my spanking and I do so. He grants my request. He enjoys hearing my whimpers, I think; tells me that I am sorely out of practice. I like it when my breathing becomes laboured; when I am challenged. There is something deeply soothing about the discomfort and the ultimate pain.

For a man who has not made it routine to do this lately, he seems quite enamoured with the process. Even though he has filled my mouthcunt with a plastic cock gag, he tells me how much he enjoys the sounds I emit; my attempts to ride out the sensations by biting on the plastic cock, something I would never consider doing to his cock. He tells me every now and then what courage it takes for a man to give his cock to his girl’s mouthcunt. Just like a mother would not allow harm to come to her baby, a woman knows not to harm the man’s cock. He has nothing to fear.

I can see nothing. My eyes are covered by a chord tied tight. He tells me he wants me to go to the corner, something he hasn’t asked for a very long time. It’s not easy for me to accept this childlike endeavour. I’ve grown unaccustomed and ill-prepared for such a game. Today, I only want to please; to do whatever he says to do. But, I have no bearings. I mumble that I can’t see. He will direct me he tells me and I get down from the bed and on my hands and knees. “A little to the right,” he informs me and later, “Now, put out your hand and rise up.” I love the sensation of being directed and I fold my hands behind me as he says to do; put my nose to the cold wall, as he says to do. I wonder what objection I had to this play in my mind. It is arousing me so today.

Before long he tells me to return to the bed; tells me that seeing me there in the corner with my red ass on display is making him hungry. When I make my way back up to the bed it is to make my way over a high stack of pillows. As yet, I have no idea if this is now about his pleasure or mine; whether his intention is for this to be long or short.

I am soon enlightened. His appetite has taken over and he wants only to plunder me and ride me and cum. I feel his mind release and allow his body to do what comes naturally; to ride wild and free and to take what is his; what belongs to him. I wallow in the process; thrilled that he has put himself first; that his thoughts are not about me. If it happened every time I would feel underprivileged. That he is such an attentive lover allows me to revel in his lustful abandon now.

We are told that it is the bottom’s task to ask for what she needs and I know I have to do this. We’ve talked about this. We continue to talk about the fact that I must advise him when my needs are overwhelming my state of mind. Most likely, such a talk enabled and led to this play. But my mind demands that it is the top who makes the ultimate decisions; that my role is to experience and make way for what the top wants; not what I want.

Of course, I want it too.  I know this. He wants it because I want it. I asked for it. But, if he didn’t enjoy reducing me, I would not reduce. I need to feel that desire to see me captured and caught. Only then can I feel removed from the real world; subsumed in a place where I feel completely safe and serene.

These experiences settle me; contain me; make me feel enriched and uplifted. Without them, I am only a shadow of myself.

Chastity belts

Alone now with her thoughts, unable to express them as she once could, she found herself becoming more introspective. The thoughts remained. The thoughts did not go away. On the contrary, they haunted her now. She wanted more, much more than she had ever wanted before. Her thoughts went to much darker places and the desire for restraint and containment grew with the days.

Her dreams and fantasies spoke to a desire for even tighter control.

The man saw the need and he responded. From now on he told her, she would wear a chastity belt day and night and her holes would be stuffed and stretched so that she was nearly always in use.

The key to the padlocks would be worn on a leather thread around his neck and she would need to come to him and plead her case if she should need to make use of the key, which must be returned to him immediately thereafter, with gratitude.

The news of this intense containment did not alarm. It merely stirred  her.

At last; contained and under his tight control.

"Thank you, " she whispered.

The Effects of Spanking

Not all submissives enjoy being spanked I realize, but a great many of them do. Well, perhaps they don't enjoy it at the time on all levels or any levels, but the spanking does satisfy them later, at least in some way. They may enjoy the memory. Perhaps they are proud that they endured it. Perhaps they are proud they were pleasing to the Top/Dominant. Perhaps they just feel better after a spanking. If the spanking was given to punish and then forgive obviously it leads to a cleansing sort of state and that is a highly desired outcome.

I think many submissives enjoy wearing marks and I think many submissives enjoy that feeling when they sit down that it hurts a bit. For a great many submissives, a spanking is sexually arousing and a sexually aroused person is usually a happy person. I don't think that it is possible (is it?) to be sexually aroused and unhappy (at least not completely) so if sexual arousal is the outcome of a spanking then it certainly can't be all bad.

I've been thinking about the situation where a girl may be more than spanked by her Top/Dominant; where the word "spanking" really is not the right word. Some girls are whipped, beaten, caned, thrashed and paddled far beyond what I, or dare I say even most girls could tolerate. Sometimes, this does not occur because the Top/Dominant is cruel or vicious or over the top or because the submissive enjoys that level of pain but because it is thought to be therapeutic for the girl. She seems more settled after this 'treatment'.

I have long been fascinated by this sort of situation. About three years ago I read of a news report from Russia where psychologists asked for volunteers suffering depression who would be caned regularly to see if this had any effect on their depressive states. Believe it or not they got their volunteers and whilst some of them made complaints about the pain of the canings themselves and the psychologists had to talk them into returning for future sessions, it was apparent that the canings had a profound effect on their mental state.

I never forgot that news report and I have wondered about it ever since. I read in the past week a psychology blog wherein the reasons for cutting (self harm) was explored and I left a comment asking if she had anything to offer re using whippings in replacement of cutting. She could offer me no specific data except to say that it appeared that the mental state had altered the pain for pleasure and that this appeared to have a physiological effect which led to reduced anxiety (in the same way that cutting may temporarily reduce anxiety).

I used to read a blog written by a Chinese/American slave and she talked of the fact that her man instigated daily swats. At times, she endured long and hard disciplinary sessions so at first she wondered what effect 5 or 6 firm swats to her bottom could produce. Each morning before she was ready to leave the apartment she was to come to him and bare her bottom so that he could swat it with his hand firmly. She soon came to realize, she said, that these swats were extremely affirming of their relationship and that she appreciated them very much. The consistency of this approach kept her happy and contained.

From personal experience I can say that both strategies; an occasional sound caning/paddling and a daily swatting  has had a positive effect on me. I don't run around asking for a sound caning or paddling and I get into position reluctantly when  they come up, but on some level I definitely enjoy them whilst they are in progress and afterwards I hold onto them as a very positive memory. I feel quite buoyant after them.

Such treatment is arousing to me for sure but more than that, I like very much that I was dominated in this way. I like that I had no control. I like that very much. I also like the way my bottom feels afterwards; the way it feels to sit down and I like the way my mind works after a darn sound hiding. I think with  great clarity. I feel happy and very nicely put in my place. I feel elevated and content.

Now, I am not going to lie about some residual effects. My husband says that there is a 48 hour danger period after such a session and there is always the risk that I will attempt to wrestle back control with words. This is a totally sub-conscious thing but he assures me it does happen and unfortunately this has made him reluctant at times to risk this happening. He will bypass it altogether he says if he feels he has to endure this wrestling of control because that is a pain in the ass for him.  I regret this behaviour and try hard to monitor myself.

I have also found marvellous results from a daily spanking. We've tried this in two ways. We had a longish period of time where I came to him each evening when I was ready for bed and got about 6 swats with his hand or a piece of wood he happened to have in his study which produced a lovely thud. I found this very centering.

The other way we have done this is to get 4 or so stripes with the cane on waking or very soon thereafter. Whilst I was able to come to him mostly to get my evening swats, I found that I was not mentioning when he forgot to bring out the cane in the morning and this died a natural death, which is unfortunate because they really did do me a tonne of good. In the past few days he has been back to the morning caning but our boys are with us in a smallish holiday house and unfortunately after a long break I'm a little too vocal right now to proceed.

I'm of the opinion that consistency is very important. A few years ago I was able to be spanked or caned much harder and longer than I am now and that is because they were given consistently. Nowadays, sometimes with long gaps between sessions I feel like a total newbie. And, I don't like that feeling at all. I want to be at least vaguely brave and I want to experience all those 'feel good' hormones or whatever they are that flood my brain. Whether that is physiological or something else, I want that feeling back!

I happen to think that the spanking revs up my body which kick starts my brain. The spanking reminds me of my status and of the fact that I am under some one's control. That reminder together with the physical evidence and after effect of the spanking keeps me feeling contained and in the submissive state, which is a natural state for me, consistent with my nature. Since there is an aspect to my personality that is very independent and in conflict with my nature the spankings keep me grounded. To use vernacular that cindi would understand, the spankings stop 'the girl' from keeping cindi locked away. This is a good thing.

(P.S. I have been advised by email that there is a compatability issue with some browsers and blogspot making it impossible to comment. For over a month I have been unable to post on blogspot with an Internet Explorer browser and find that the only reliable browser for blogging is Firefox. The cynic in me wonders if this is a google/microsoft war, but who knows!)

The Simple Life

There is not just me - there is another person inside of me, always competing for space.Take right now as an example: I've agreed to meet a group of women in the city for what is likely to be a fun night out. I'm all dressed up and ready to go to the train shortly and I know that accepting the invitation was not only the right thing to do but an event I wanted to attend. And yet, the other side of my personality is berating me for accepting an invitation so soon after arriving home, amassed in work at home and groggy with jet lag. The other side of my personality wants to have a bath, put on her nightie, tuck down on the couch with a blanket and watch the royal wedding.

I often feel that the goal is simplicity - a state of mind that is restful; not at all restless; patient and understanding; compliant and able to accept. But, that is not all of me. Inside, I'm irked my shoddy behaviour, low standards; incompetence; neglect. I've been known to talk to myself in the shower which I think of as synonymous with a man who must punch a hanging ball. I need to expunge my inner thoughts and frustrations which are not the least suited to a woman attempting to be as close as she can to a perfect doll.

I know what I should be, how I should think and act but my independent streak; the woman who simply wants what she wants in the moment (her own way)sometimes shouts me down.

And yet, when I come up against a dominant force, regularly and decisively, the other side goes away. Little miss independence and little miss judgemental and little miss 'you can't tell me what to do!' can't begin to compete with the lure of pleasure and joy that I feel when immersed in the game; when I feel contained and restrained; when I bunker down into my submissive space. When the dominant force is abundant and strong, there are no competing interests. I'm aware of the ownership; of the limits; the containment and I send the other personality packing; wondering what I ever saw in her; that girl who has so much to say; to think; to fuss about.

When the dominant force is absent I am more complex. TruIy, I yearn for the simple life: contained, restrained, limited; joyously boxed into the tightest space. A dominant force is my life force; a simple state of mind; a simpler me.

Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pleasure bound

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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