The mystery of desire

When I think about themes or ideas for stories that old theme of 'desire' comes up again and again. In the spiritual world desire is a bit of a dirty word, since the understanding that desire holds us back is considered to be fundamental to a spiritual awakening. Nevertheless, it's there, isn't it; the desire for some sort of intangible feeling of satisfaction, glow; vibrancy.  I don't narrow my thoughts about desire to a sexual experience because desire can be satiated in the head, the heart and the soul as well as in the loins.

To digress for a moment, I've been thinking about poetry lately and how those with a mathematical mind, or a musical mind are probably best suited to writing poetry rather than narratives, long pieces of writing. My mind doesn't work like that, rather soaring over ideas and then needing to write something down to make sense of them; almost to 'catch' them, or better yet, to contain them; put them in some sort of order, sentences. Nevertheless, thinking about poetry my mind played with two words: desire and admire.

I thought about what I desire. What came to mind was closeness, mystery (opposites!), puzzles, the other's focus. I also desire to admire. Whilst on an intellectual level it's obvious that we all fail sometimes and that we all have our failings, it's a downer for me to come up close and personal with them. Falling in love is such a wonderful experience because for those giddy months/years we can put the other on some sort of pedestal and study them with awe, much as we might study the Statue of David endlessly and find it perfect. It's quite a jolt when, on closer inspection, we might come to see a crack. We don't like it, not at all, because now the illusion is shattered and we find ourselves in the company of someone who disappoints. (N.B. I get that ideally a person loves, accepts and embraces a person, warts and all, but I'm dealing right now with what we think deep inside of our minds rather than what is ideal love.)

I wonder if this is why some people hold back from being known; that understanding that we desire to admire. Or, perhaps there is some other reason why some people are happy to be known whilst other people give so little of themselves but expect others to be quite transparent; an imbalance in the relationship.

Here's one of my failings. I much prefer to be handled than to handle. It's an imbalance that my husband considers unfair and unreasonable, which is why I try to push out of my comfort zone. He tries to push me out of my comfort zone too but relents when he sees how truly uncomfortable it is for me. I wish to be taken, to be revealed. I seek to reveal because when I reveal it is such a rare and liberating event. I am private, not privy to revelation (except here in an anonymous sense) and so to reveal is special. I offer it as a gift and hope that the receiver wants to experience what I have to reveal.

I have wondered if it is a dominant thing, or a male thing, or something else altogether as to why some people do not wish to reveal, rather encouraging the other to do that 'work'. Perhaps they enjoy the imbalance; the urging of revelations. Perhaps, through relevation of another person's mind, they have material with which to work; to tittilate, to seduce and to torment...

Back in the day when I was working at a financial institution a full size cardboard cut out was made of one of the Managers. He was smiling and looked personable. The idea was that customers who saw the cardboard full size cut out would get a sense that to ask for a loan from this person would be a pleasant, non-threatening experience.

My boss referred to the cardboard cut out as a "cardboard cut out of a cardboard cut out". What he meant was that behind the facade of the cut out was a person of no real substance. He wasn't hiding anything. There was nothing more to know. It was a naughty thing to say because everyone has a story, but perhaps it is possible that we ask to know more of someone and they refuse not because they are being difficult but because they simply have nothing to say, or they feel they have nothing more to say, or such a conversation bores them. They want to know about you because that interests them, or it is in their interests.

In the interests of doing my bit to save the world from a most unpalatable and even dangerous experience I note that Tony Schwarz who 'co-wrote' 'The Art of the Deal with/for Donald Trump has revealed that Trump was an impossible subject to interview. He offered next to nothing to the process of Schwarz gathering information about him and his business/life via asking him questions. Trump's answers were more or less monosyllabic. It was so useless an exercise that it was agreed that Schwarz would listen in on Trump's phone conversations at a desk just a couple of feet away from Trump and gleam what he could of the man and his deals in that way. Make of this what you will.

Could it be that desire emanates from mystery, the unknown? You tell all to someone and they eventually tire and move on, a phenomena of the current dating scene, I'm told, whereas they tell next to nothing to you. The mystery in which they enshroud themselves provides the hook for you to remain interested; perhaps forever, if you enjoy puzzles enough.

Just another animal

The demands of work can sometimes mean that there is little energy, focus and time for sexual desire and fulfilment. It's just a fact of life. Even then, I take refuge in my thoughts, and hands. A feeling of sexual need will come over me. As soon as I have privacy, I will go somewhere alone with my thoughts and be that entity/girl subject to the whims and control of those in charge of her. I release the sexual tension that had me bound tight. It is always a relief, a break, a pick-me-up, to imagine these scenes in my head where I simply do as told, no questions asked; just do it.

Last night, as my reward for a day spent getting through chores, I read Jack's latest story. I delighted in the young story girl realizing that the thought of doing what the story man said "instantly made some some sort of strange sense to her".  Loved the sentiment. Loved the alliteration. My minutes on Jack's tumblr also made me realize that he's a good friend of  theruleset . It delights me to know this, since I love Jack's stories and I love reading theruleset's words, and the photographs and videos he puts up.

I first came to know of theruleset when I saw a documentary about him. I'm not sure why exactly but I love to know that there are people out there living their lives so freely and abundantly - a cluster of good and intimate friends - but also living their lives intelligently and with due care. If you read his words, you will know what I mean. What he does, he does with careful thought. It reminds me of my old friend, Abel, in the U.K. who was so very kind to me when I visited and invited me to a gathering of his kinky friends, somewhat similar I imagine to Jack's and theruleset's little tribe of kinky mates that hang about Brooklyn.

It occurred to me that it would be quite lovely to have this in my own life in some way; not quite the same, since my husband doesn't want that, but to know at least one other couple who explores their kinky nature and with whom we could have dinner, or a glass of wine perhaps; share thoughts. If the thoughts led to some exploration...maybe the other husband likes to bind, or the other wife likes to be covered in latex like me...it would be exciting to share that desire and knowledge; those experiences. I'm yet to be convinced there are couples like that in my neck of the woods, but who knows!

This morning, there was something about the light, the fresh new Spring day, that had my thoughts turn to the bimbo side of me. I linked onto a site where I could luxuriate in watching women covered head to toe in latex and I could feel myself melt into that mindset. The house would be still for a few minutes more and I lay down very still like a statue and imagined the bliss of that covering; all wrapped up.

Sometimes, I reject the notion of 'use'; the dolly concept where I'm played with according to whim. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love that concept, but sometimes I do think to myself, 'You know what I want today? I want you to make love to me: woo me, entice me, make me feel oh sooooo good, and then fuck me blind until I am screaming my head off in pleasure' That sort of use! In other words, let's be clear about this, sometimes, the sort of use I want leads directly to my pleasure and that's my focus.

And there we have it, a busy woman, running around in circles right now making sure that all those in her life are well attended to, but the kink never dies. Claire Underwood is quite right. In the end, we are animals.

How the dominant works

I took great pleasure last night in watching two 50 year old women have their appearance transformed on the show What Not to Wear. When we met them they were both sad, tired and unkempt. As they were given positive attention and encouragement and shown the sort of clothing that would accentuate their assets they began to open and blossom like beautiful flowers. By the time their hair had been colored and cut in a style that was more contemporary and flattering they couldn't wipe the smiles off their faces.

They had been transformed into happy and fun loving women, brimming over with the sort of confidence that only engenders more and more happiness, for them and all the people in their lives. I can get quite teary over this sort of show, just as I shed tears of joy when a man got down on bended knee and proposed to his girlfriend on the Ellen DeGeneres show recently.

Transforming someone into their higher self is a wonderful experience - watching people come alive - and so it makes sense to me that some dominant personalities love to take a person and alter them. Of course, the possibilities are limitless but it seems to me that accentuating a woman's sexuality is something that dominants particularly love to do.

Some people would say that 'the slut' was always there in the girl and some people would say that she was led to appreciate being 'the slut'. I think both statements are true for many submissive women. Certainly, I've harbored rather slutty thoughts from the youngest age and kept them in the safe port of my mind. Those slutty thoughts, however, have required an environment that feels safe and most importantly, tolerant. More than that, it has required an environment where those thoughts are desired.

I've been open to becoming more slutty. I've enjoyed that. But, my thoughts alone were only ever going to take me so far. I've been influenced and exposed to ideas that were new to me. Initially, I had no intention of going further than seemed completely comfortable. Over time, this thought was turned on its head as my desires grew and grew. My predilections advanced in such a way that I never really knew, and still don't know, if what I desire now is what I always wanted (but, how is this so when my exposure was so limited?) or whether I was led to want what I now consider my deepest, darkest and most fervent desires, that may well have been in my mind in some form all along.

It's a very sophisticated, cerebral sort of dominance that transforms a girl over a period of time that could expand to years and years. Ever patient and vigilant, this type of dominant person takes great pleasure in slowly molding a person to want what they want, in such a way that it is almost impossible to decipher just what went on. All one can really say is that one changed; altered; transformed.

It's been my experience that most profound BDSM experiences can't be explained in words. I do, perhaps foolishly, have a go at doing just that here on the web journal at times, but the truth is that you can't explain to someone what something feels like until he or she experience it for himself or herself. I can't explain in words what it was like to be anally trained and adore that, any more than I can explain how it came to be that I became absolutely desperate to have my first latex hood recently. It's been on my mind for a good two years but it is only in the past two weeks that the passion for the experience overwhelmed me.

In fact, my husband had told me to order one some time ago and I don't know why I didn't do it then, except to say that I so very much wanted to get it right. It was my lack of understanding of exactly what I wanted, I think, that held me back from placing the order. Two days ago I asked my husband to help me measure the circumference of my head. Then, I discussed with him the merits of certain colors. We decided together on black because as he said, I didn't want any light coming in, and although baby pink is a divine thought, it's the block out feeling that I most want. This left the all important decision of deciding the weight of the latex and after some consultation with friends who know more than me in this department I went with the heavier weight.

When I pressed the button confirming the order I could not have been more excited about my purchase. It's thrilling to me to read the notes they send me via email giving me updates, the latest one being that the order is "being processed". I began this web journal in 2009 and if you had told me back then I'd be so absolutely delighted that my head was to be tightly covered in latex, with no eyes and no mouth, I'd have thought you were on something.

Slowly, one careful step at a time, I've been introduced to ideas that arouse me and thrill me to the core. I've come to understand the meaning of very deeply committed and connected couples. Their words didn't allow me to understand what they do exactly. I could see their contentment but I didn't fully understand it. I do now. It's deeply spiritual. It's stunningly beautiful.

The word 'slut' can't begin to describe the magnificence of two people wanting the very same thing; doing to and for one another what allows their souls to collide. Of course, you won't necessarily know what I mean because I can't tell you about something like that or describe something like that. To really understand, it must be lived. Power exchanges are not for the fainthearted, but for those people willing to go the distance, they are relationships that have a very tender quality; that ooze with love. 

Desire

When we desire something a great deal, and then one day that desire is met, what happens? Well, then there is no more desire for a time and we experience feelings of well being, joy and peace. Lack of desire brings us a sense of fulfillment, until the next round of desire takes place and we repeat the process all over again.

With that in mind it occurred to me over the past day or so that if I were to give up my desires, perhaps that would have a positive effect.

The moment I hit on this idea it had a calming effect on me. Rather than pine that my desire could not be fulfilled, I could stop desiring and feel whole. Instead of living my life as if something were missing, I could embrace my life as it is right now.

I think it is a confusing notion in ways - the lack of desire bringing peace - because it is desire that spurs us on. We can't get a degree, or clean a house, or improve a relationship without a desire to do so. People tend to do well in areas that turn them on; in aspects of life in which they desire to do well.

Perhaps desire is not constructive when the desire has too much fire, such that the desire is destructive to achieving the goal. Desires do require patience; nurturing.

Thus, while I continue to desire a relationship with my husband that has a power exchange dynamic that is expressed sexually and with an understanding of spiritual connection via that sexuality and control, right now the right thing appears to be to let go of that desire and just enjoy what we have right now.

Instead of seeing it as 'not enough', as I have been inclined to do, but embracing it for what it is and all its strengths, perhaps the way is cleared for positive progress for later on.

One of the issues for people who have been together for a very long time is that they are so attached to one another that distress in one spouse leads the other to feel estranged. No one likes to feel that they are not making the other happy and that feeling leads to distance.

In my experience there needs to be a softening of the heart towards one another - a move, or even several moves towards one another - that clears the way ahead for much greater intimacy, in whatever form that takes.

There is no denying that intimacy between us that takes a certain shape is incredibly uplifting for me. Once I experience it that way, the desire is removed and that means all that is left is peace. I'm uplifted and very happy. There is no thought that can replace this thought because for me it is a very natural reaction to the sort of intimacy where I feel that I what I desire has been granted.

However, wanting something can be emotionally painful because we can feel that we are being denied. Yet, in essence the thought of 'desire' or 'want' is really just like any other thought - a thought that passes through our minds, that comes and goes.

If we get stuck on that thought - obsess about it - we are causing internal and external distress. We are removing the opportunity to be the awareness of our thoughts; to be aware that we are the blank piece of white paper over which there comes all kinds of writing. Peace can be ours when we return in our minds to that thought - that the peace resides in us.

Some people may say that I am denying what is clear - that I operate best with a submissive stance and with dominance presence. I am certainly not denying that fact.

However, pining for what I don't currently have much of is to relegate what I do have to the slush pool, and it has much more worth than that.

In any case, to remove the need for dominance in my life and the opportunities for peace that dominance brings is to remove the limit of the need.

By removing the limit of the need, by embracing what my life as it currently presents itself is, I'm opening myself up to new expressions of intimacy. I think I'm also opening myself to more expression of the intimacy that I have found so consoling and uplifting in the past.

In order to experience the delights of dominance one must first show comfort and ease  in a submissive role. One needs to put aside desire that makes one edgy and inclined to withdraw. To those with a dominant disposition, even a dominant disposition that is not currently being overtly expressed, anything else is confusing and alienating.

One needs to make one's peace with the circumstances as they have played out. Empathy is required; a commitment to find intimacy in some other way, for now. As my husband likes to say, "You can't fuck a porcupine."

How words arouse

I went to see the psychologist yesterday, the one that I saw a few years ago. I was more open with her. I told her my issues and I told her that I knew myself to be a submissive requiring a loving Dominant. I explained to her that I had expressed my needs and my sorrows at not having my needs met to my husband but that he seemed not to be able to take the message in; as if he hadn't heard or could not process the words, or as if it was outside his power to assist me.

She is always very honest with me and she told me that there was nothing more that she could do for me; that the cognitive therapy had resulted in me being an assertive woman who knew how to take care of myself; how to talk back to my negative thoughts, to express what I needed; to carve out some time in my life for myself. She praised me for nearly having finished the M.A. and she reminded me that I would have that qualification to take with me into the future - for further study or employment. She told me that I looked wonderful; that she loved the longer hair and that I looked well.

She made a recommendation. On the strength of the path opening up for my husband to receive some medical treatment, she asked if he would agree to couple's counseling. I said I thought so. She told me she had the perfect person for this; someone who specialized in sexual issues and with whom I could be entirely open.

"The thing is" she said to me, "that your husband needs to hear the sort of pain you are in. In therapy together he will see it, really for the first time; how vital this is to your happiness."

I'm exploring this path. Yesterday, when I read her site and sent a message I felt full of forward momentum, but this morning my mind is completely scattered. Okay, I've done a run to the station, taken my son to his last exam for the year, welcomed him home and had a chat, done some gardening, sorted the bedroom and the kitchen but I feel so unfocused - pushing myself to move on rather than sit and stare.

I read this story and I was aware of my breathing altering; of something feeding my soul. The simple and direct instructions, his calling her "lass"; the palpabe desire to be taken that emanated through the story. There was nothing else to do. I went to my bedroom and lay face down on the bed, brought my hands down and pleasured myself to the following images in my head -

I live with a man. Who this man is exactly I cannot say. He may be someone to have I have been sent to be taught how to behave or he may be my Owner. It's just one scene. I can't be at all sure. He is sitting in his special chair by the fire. These men in my fantasies so often are sitting in a chair by the fire, reading. I come in, knowing that it is the right time to do so and he tells me to lift my skirt and to sit my bare bottom on the cushion at his heel. It's a meditation sort of cushion and I'm perfectly comfortable for long periods of time, so long as my knees are wide in front of me.

It's the time of the week when I receive my weekly correction. It's not because I've been bad. It's because it is good for me and helps me to know my place. But, he's not ready yet and the correction takes place when it suits him, not me.

I sit there quietly with my eyes closed and I can hear the flames dance in the fireplace and every now and then I hear a page of his book turn. I've learned patience and I'm calm as I prepare my mind to take pain.

Eventually, maybe half an hour later, but I can't be at all sure of the time passed, I hear the book close and I can feel that he has stood.

"Into position lass." (See how my mind works. I loved RG's use of the word "lass". I had to try it out right away and soon realized it aroused me to the core.)

I stand slowly and find my feet. I'm always a little unstable for a few moments from sitting on the meditation cushion in the meditative stance. I make my way to the wooden bench designed for the purpose of correction, raise my skirt and bend over, holding on tight immediately to the bar on the front of the bench, about a foot from the floor.

He canes soundly. It seems to be important to him that I am challenged and I suspect he likes to hear my whimpers and grunts. When he stops, 25 strokes later, I feel relief it is over but radiate in the glow of my backside. There's nothing quite like a stinging bottom to feel completely alive.

He holds my downturned head firmly with his right palm.

"Good lass. Well done."

As much as I would love to have him plunge inside me and put out the fire, I know he won't. Rather, he tells me to prepare for bed and just as I am finished he gestures for me to bend over. He fills my ass with the large plug, binds my wrist with a cord and tucks me into bed.

"Off to sleep. Right now. There's a good lass."

He turns off the light and closes the door, leaving me to wallow in a deep sense of complete care; the luckiest girl in the world.

Now that I have got that out of my system, I have a rough shot at making this a productive day!

The spine of a person

We might live for a hundred years and over a lifetime fill books with our exploits, achievements and adventures, but we can reduce our essence, the 'spine' of us down to a few words. You're not likely to be able to say what the spine of you is immediately but it is worthy of thought. What scratch can't you itch? Who are you at your very core?

I've given the issue much thought, especially over the past few days. It's crucial to a life well lived and critical to story telling. Behind all the actions and behaviors of a character or a person is a strong theme. Your task is to identify it; recognize it, take the wheel and steer it.

At my core I wish to serve a strong male person who recognizes me for who I am - a woman who thrives with sexual and physical use; who wants to please, who finds joy in making another person's life fulfilled. At my core, I'm a fucktoy. There is just no other explanation. I interpret that use as care and consideration of my needs.

I'm not really competitive about my place in the world. In another era I would have thrived under the tight control of a man with little need for finding my own area of expertise in the world. In this era, I achieve what I can, recognizing that I'm not political or commercial really but acknowledging the societal expectation is there that I use my intellect.

In the periods of time when I am used regularly and able to wallow in the fucktoy mindset, I am deeply happy. There is no other way to achieve that kind of peace or sense of happiness for me because in those time periods I feel deeply loved, in tune with my self and full of a sense of peace with my place in the world.

In periods of time when use is scarce, no amount of achievement, socializing or involvement in society can take the place of the fucktoy mindset. I try to find compensations elsewhere but I am wanting; uncertain; there's an itch I can't scratch.

I was once asked as a young woman what would I choose if I could have a high flying career or a family and I didn't hesitate a moment before I answered that I would choose having a family. I wanted that with every core of my being.

To serve; to belong to someone; to love and to be loved - to feel an intense and deep connection with a strong and dominant male; that's my spine. This is the very core of me, what I do, what I think and who I am. This will never, has never and can never change.

A certain state of mind

I've had two glasses of white wine. I've read some things. I've had a conversation or two. It's been an indulgent late afternoon, in the main, and I find myself in a longing state.

I'm thinking of a time and  place where I am given a glass of wine and once the time for conversation has passed, being told to come to him. I am now on my knees in front of him as he continues to sit in his comfortable chair. I'm thinking of  a state where I am co-operative as he touches me gently on the lips with his lips, as he cups my breasts in his big paws, as he lifts my skirts and removes my panties. All the while I am co-operative, moving upon his direction; making it easy for him to achieve his goals.

I imagine him now laying me down on the carpet. I'm in a dreamy state already. Whatever he wants. I look up at him as he peruses me. Whatever you do, I think, for God's sake, manhandle me.

His erect and ready cock springs out from his pants and within seconds is deep inside of me. Lovely, life-giving cock. But, I'm older now; more submissive; more wanting; more demanding, if truth be known. I won't be satisfied until he has filled all my holes; until I feel like a completely used slut.

We began with polite pleasantries but we don't end until I'm nothing more than his whore; an object of desire; a hole that needs filling. That's the way it is these days.

Doll features

The mind of a doll is rather simple. She's an objectified thing and therefore she doesn't think too deeply or too much. The doll's mindset enables her to switch off from everyday concerns, to put the world aside for a period of time and zero in on rather slutty thoughts.

There's no denying that the doll is a slut. What she does and how she does it all relates to allowing her to be that which society would shun. As the doll, she is in a state of constant arousal. Basically, whatever allows her to feel her dolly state is allowed. Whatever doesn't allow her to sink into that space is not.

I hope it doesn't need repeating that the doll doesn't dress in such a way as her appearance would be considered slutty. To the contrary, the doll's mindset cannot be identified by the way she grooms and dresses at all. Her preference is skirts and dresses, of course, but they aren't the kind of garments one associates with a slut.  There are some hints, to be sure, but she's neat, clean, well dressed and groomed on the streets. What happens beneath her skirt is another thing but she raises limited suspicion from passers by as to her status.

The doll is subject to suggestion. She sees things and hear things and her simple, little mind processes them in her own unique way. She sees her acrylic nails all day and every day. Over time, she wonders what it might feel like and look like for them to be really long. Thoughts that were originally out of the question become intoxicating and one day she says to herself, "I want really long nails. I want to put my dolly state on display!"

The thought surprises her as much as it might other people. Where did this idea come from? And, why this day? There are no definite answers to this question, except to say that she has finally succumbed to the idea of very long and oh so slutty nails. This is her idea at her instigation.

She goes down to the salon and asks for a new set of nails. She's cool as a cucumber, steadily breathing, full of excited anticipation, until it is time for the man to bring out the cutters to cut down the extraordinarily new long nails. It's her move.

"Peter, what if they were an inch long?"

He demonstrates zero resistance to the idea.

"You want an inch?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

He cuts them down and to the doll's eyes they look even sluttier than she had expected. Once he has cut them he moves away to do a quick manicure for a little girl who has come in with her mother. This gives the doll time to take out her little ruler and measure them. They are more than an inch. They are even longer than she asked for. The man returns.

"Peter, I don't know. Do you think they are a bit long?"

"You want shorter?"

"A tad."

He cuts the nails to such a miniscule degree the doll can barely see any nail coming off at all. He clearly approves of the length. He clearly understands he is dealing with a doll!

It's time now for the final stage and he asks the doll if she wants clear polish as usual or color?

"Clear, please. Or, should it be color this time (to hide all that slutty white nail)?"

"No. Clear."

(Peter is a man of few words.)

"Okay."

The die is cast. It's clear. It's sluttsville all the way.

It's been a week now since that fateful day. It's impossible for the doll not to notice her claws. It's impossible for the doll to act abruptly, hastily; without showing due care. It's impossible for her to do some tasks herself and the dumdum dolly has to ask for help.

It's impossible for the doll not to be reminded a hundred times a day that's she's a doll; a slutty object ready and available for use.

It's lovely.

Masochistic drive

Last night I had an impulse to go to Fetlife and see what was happening there. I have had an account there for a few years but I very rarely use it. I think it is all part of my introverted nature to feel a bit lost in big situations and I can't seem to navigate my way around Fetlife or chat rooms. I'm definitely more of a one-on-one person and so far it hasn't provided a one-on-one experience for me where I've got to know a particular person well in those scenarios. Maybe I'm doing something wrong but it is probably simply my introverted nature at work. However, I did go to Fetlife for a reason last night. I was feeling very restless and I think I just wanted to be with 'like' souls; someone/anyone who might know what that felt like.

I looked up the various groups and found what I hoped would be the right group - Sadists and Masochists - and then I looked for a thread that might have meaning to me on this particular night. One person had asked what others do when they feel restless for pain. I read those responses which at least gave me a clue as to why I was feeling the way I was feeling. I could not have expressed that I needed pain but that's the thread I read, so I think that says something.

Some of the respondents said that they gave themselves pain. Some of them cut themselves. One person said that he pulled his hair hard to settle himself. Other people said that it was important to go out and do something physical and they had put their energy into running. For many people they used the art of distraction to get over the hump of that feeling of need for pain.

It was easier for the Sadists because they were able to settle themselves sometimes by impacting into a pillow; bringing an implement down hard on a soft object. The sound of the impact and the feeling of the impact in their hand and/or arm gave them some release from that feeling of need to give pain.

I wonder if the strategy that my mentor used with me was about feeding my masochistic need. It wasn't 'sold' to me as a strategy for overcoming my masochistic need since it was more of a 'pleasurable' thing and a 'use' thing. But, perhaps anal plugs actually do overcome, in part, my masochistic needs.

The thing is that until last night when I happened to read that particular thread I would not have said that I had masochistic/pain needs. However, I think I was wrong about that. I think I very much do have a drive for masochism/pain and without that drive for masochism/pain being fed I can become extremely restless. One girl wrote that when the impetus for some pain hit her it felt like she was "climbing the walls" and I related very strongly to that feeling as I read her words. My evening had been exactly like that. I feel better educated. At least now I can put words to that particular feeling of mine.

Fetish

I am at the beginning of research for a story. There are the technical aspects of a girl being dominated by a man that I don't really have at my fingertips. I've got a general idea, of course, of what sort of deeds a man can come up with to make a girl feel helpless but I need very specific details for the story. I have to think about just how he ties her body and to what. As well, I need to understand how his fetishes drive him to want to do all sorts of unusual things to her.

I happened to come across an article (http://english.pravda.ru/society/sex/30-10-2006/85273-fetish-0/) which stated that Johnny Depp had disclosed that he had a thing for angora sweaters and that when he broke up with a girl at an earlier stage in his life he was broken-hearted. However, he really missed her angora sweaters more than he missed the girl.

Might this be the definition of a fetish, then; that you are in love with the object and not so much with the girl wearing the object, even if you are in a relationship with her?

I can understand fetishes, but only to some extent. I don't have any fetishes of my own (that I am aware of) and so I can't entirely get into the mind of a fetishist. I have some idea. I know that one son likes to have his blankie in bed with him at night; that he has always liked to run his hand across silk and I imagine he'll very much enjoy his girl's lingerie when he gets older. And, I have, of course, communicated with a fetishist; a man who loves to see a woman with very long, acrylic fingernails.

I'm aware that some fetishists probably go over the top; needing to do things that are considered gross to most people, but these garden variety fetishes, I see no harm in them at all and I can't understand why fetishists are so alarmed about having these desires. So, you love black shiny boots and like to watch women in black shiny boots with high heels walk by. So what? You aren't committing any crime, are you?

I am having trouble getting into the mindset of a person who worries so much about these things. I read in the article that if you love watching another woman other than your wife or girlfriend in a nurse's uniform more than you love watching your naked wife who won't wear a nurse's uniform for you, that could be a problem. I see that. If you really, really need to be with a woman in a nurse's uniform and that is affecting your marriage, this could be a dilemma. But , maybe it's a problem of the marriage more than the fetish itself. Is it so much to ask that she get into a nurse's uniform every so often for you?

I do get that a fetish could cause big problems if not kept under control. But, to deny the fetishist his object of desire/love can't be healthy. It's a bit like a person with an eating disorder. You don't deny them food. You just teach them how to think about food and how to go about eating daily in a healthy way.  A fetishist does need to be with his object of desire, surely, but with his object of desire in moderation.

I freely admit I just don't understand it. If anyone can illuminate me, that would be fantastic.

Outcomes

In my fantasies I am often the helpless victim of those in charge of me. Sometimes, I am a willing captive. I have agreed to the union, expect to and do comply with the wishes of my husband (or who ever it is that I agreed to obey).

 Often, I am simply in a situation where other people are in charge and in control of me and what they say goes. If I am stupid enough to have issue with this, I only make matters worse on myself.

In real life, it hasn't gone this way at all. In real life I am expected to want whatever befalls me. More than that, I am expected to beg for it. It's all about training the girl to want all the things that a decent and well brought up girl wouldn't think to do or have.

It simply isn't enough to tell a girl that it is time she had a larger anal plug, for example. That is not the outcome desired at all - to have her tolerate; to have her challenged according to his dictates.  She has to be desperate for this new toy.

She has to perhaps mention that it would be very nice to have a new toy. She has to hope that the hint is taken. Of course, a mental note is made of this exchange of thoughts but a girl has to wait. It doesn't do to hurry these things. He has to be certain that she wants the new toy with all her heart.

Time goes by and the doll wonders if she will ever get her toy. She would not dare make this purchase herself. Goodness me, she isn't that dum dum. Eventually, she brings it up again. She really would love a new toy...

He tells the doll that he needs to know why she wants that. He tells her that he needs to know why she is so desperate.

He tells her he isn't sure...

She implores him. She pleads her case. She says the need is urgent. She doesn't know what she will do if she doesn't get that toy soon.

The conversation goes on and on...

Her begging becomes more and  more difficult to comprehend. Words are spilling out on top of the other and now she is completely worked up. It is now or never...

"pretti pretti pleeeeeeeeeeez"

Eventually, against his better judgement, in a moment of weakness and mercy he agrees to her request.

"Beri wel den. Da dum dum dolli mey hab da new pluggi"

"Ohhhhhh, tank u, tank u, tank u"

She wants exactly what he wanted her to have and now there are two happy campers.

Oh joy!

Age

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

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

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

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

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

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

Acceptance

If we know what it is to fall in love - the blood rushing to the head, the pitter pat of our hearts, the endless thinking about someone and wanting of someone, the way the world changes on a dime in terms of light and a sense of beauty that was not previously there - then we have some vague idea of what it is to reveal our innermost desires and thoughts.

I speak of those thoughts that have been our shadow for so many years. Speaking about them, writing about them, experiencing them for real is a heady, light hearted experience not unlike falling in love. You feel extraordinarily lucky. You feel sorry for all the other smucks who don't know what you know. You feel rather full of yourself and feel sometimes that you might burst, holding in this delicious secret that you would like to share with the rest of the world but dare not (hence this web journal).

There were endless opportunities for me to feel superior. How could you all be leading a full life, I would think around a table of friends or people at a dinner or lunch, if you don't know what I know; if you have not experienced what I have experienced? I just felt so extraordinarily lucky to be living finally as I wanted to live, you see.

I have always wanted a very deep connection, to feel a total sex pot; to be done over repeatedly for hours and hours. I wanted to feel a little fear; to not be sure what was going to happen next; to be told what to do, even if I was not at all sure that I wanted to do it. It provided me with the rushes of a lifetime. To have to bite down on the fact that I was being forced (well not literally forced but in my mind, believing there was no alternative) to do something according to the will of another was mind blowingly thrilling - the resistance, the eventual conviction to do it their way, the sense of elation of mission accomplished, the praise...ahhhh, the praise...all more than worth it in the end.My journey into the world of submission was orgasmically, spectacularly thrilling for me and I regret not a single moment of it.

And, then one day, it came to an end. It didn't so much peter out as simply dry up. There were offers to pick up from there but I declined. I seemed to have lost the will. I leaked (tears that just came at inappropriate moments) for too long, was vulnerable for too long and my self-preservation instinct kicked in. I needed to be busy. I needed to find succor in other ways. I needed to look about me with fresh eyes and see what I may have missed while I had been intellectually absent.

I absorbed myself in life in endless ways. I took on new challenges. I faced the fact that I was needed and I dealt with those needs, attended to other people. I determined to focus on calm and a serene peace of mind and as I did so I discovered I had more in reserve - felt better equipped to face and deal with the challenges in front of me.

I could see adjustments in attitude, in resilience and in willingness to try to look at life in new ways in those about me. Either it was an enormous co-incidence or my more serene state of mind was having an effect on others. Again, it was like discovering a whole new way to live. I was not abandoning what had brought me joy before; not at all. But, in its absence I had chosen to love, to forgive, to understand and to accept that I held the keys to change. It was again up to me to find the path forward and in my solitary pursuits such as meditation I had enabled myself to soften more; to be loving in spite of loss I thought might well be inconsolably sad for me. I began to feel the path to the future opening up to me and embracing me as if to say, "You have found your way. Now, it will be all right." There was a divinity about that feeling.

Last night I attended a chamber music dinner which was indeed sublime. Yes, the room was gorgeous: the flowers, the lighting, the table settings, the food and wine. But, it was the music played by boys as young as 14 and as old as 18 that was heavenly. They were passionate, meticulous; united and inspirational. We are talking 'creme de la creme' here; boys who could easily make music their career if they so chose.  It was one 'wow' moment after another and clearly moved, the musical director of the school stood up and said something like, "These boys will never live in the same way again.  Actually playing this music at this level...they will always remember it...hold it in their hearts...and it will effect their lives in a positive way for as long as they live."

This is exactly how I feel about my explorations - those explorations that I have reported in this journal. Even if I never experience again what I have done in the past in quite the same way, that I lived as I wanted to live, experienced what I want to experience, means that I will never live the same way again and will hold those experiences in my heart for as long as I live. I have been truly blessed.

Desire, dolli style

Cindi new wen she wakiz dis mornin dat she in need n she hug her onnir. But, der no tym 4 mor dan huggiz n soon cindi takin her boy 2 skewl. Beri soon afta dat it tym 4 yoga n afta dat a soy flat whyt wif her frendz. N, afta dat, she bi da dindinz at da owtdoor market; flowerz 4 da vase.

Cindi no dat der littil tym b4 she doo at skewl 2 hep wif da big moozik din dnnz on saterday nite. Der only wun howr 2 hessef at best. Cindi nebr did dis ebr b4 but at da market she bi a hooooj coocumbr. She tek da coooocumbr n cubr it wif a condom. She tek off her jim clothz n she bring da coooocumbr up 2 her pussy cunt. Mebbe cindiz iz biggr dan der stumik. Dat coooocubr hooooj n cindi nut abil 2 hab it enter ull da wey up her pussy cunt. It no mattr reeeli coz it doin da job. Cindi beri happi wif da sens8nz.

Cindi lookiz at da clock n beri soon she dooo 2 cum 2 skewl. Cindi no dat it nut pussibil 4 her 2 go 2 skewl alone dis dey. She reeeeli need wun her pluggiz cum long. So, cindi poot da ass pluggi wey up in2 her ass cunt n instanli dat mek her feel better. But, it nut gud nuf. So, cindi tek da vaginal ballz n plays dem up hi in her pussy cunt. Dat beri gud! Now she abil 2 get dressd n go 2 skewl.

Cindi anticip8 dat she onli der 4 an howr or 2 but in fakt she der 4 obr 3 howrz helpin owt wif da plays namz n flowerz n so on. She reeeli njoy her tym der coz pluggi n da ballz mek her feel so fyn n beri cuntaynd n bimbo. Ebn do she hab cumcentr8, undaneef da cumcentr8n she feel happi n bit silli.

Bi da tym cindi cum home gin, she beri relaxd n she lyt da fire n poot on da dinn dinnz, she opin a bottil wine n wach da werld newz. (Dolliz nut nessesserli unnerstan deez tingz on da werld newz but dey liki tri sumtymz 2 follow long.)

Wen onnir cum home, cindi bit unda da wetha n beri beri lusti. Onnir feel her pluggi n poosh n challinj da bimbo n cindi tri 2 get at his cocki. But, onnir tell her dat notti coz da kiddiz nut dat far wey. So, onnir tel cindi dat in da bedroom der a serpryz 4 her. Cindi hab a feelin dat she best tek owt da ballz n dat such a gud ideyn coz onnir poot sumtin in2 her pussi cunt. She soon lern dat it a vibr8n, remote cuntrol ball n it doin da most mazin tingz 2 her. Tween da pluggi n da vibr8n ballz all dat cindi ken sey, “bubba”, “bubba” “buuuuuubbba” obr n obr gin. Tween tymz she suk n suk wey on her thumb.

Onnir yoos cindi n finally he feel it tym 2 tek owt da vibr8n ball but eech tym he tri cindi moan n grone n in da end he ken only stop da vybr8n. It jus ull 2 sensitif n cindi mekin 2 much noyz 2 do eni mor dan dat.So, cindi stil werin da ballz  n da pluggi n she beri hot n botherd. She stil in her bubba babi cindi dolli zone n it feeeelz soooooo gud.

If ebr newun sey it silli dat cindi jus a dolli, u ken tel dem frum cindi dat dey rung. Dum dum dolliz hab sooooo beri much mor fun dan dem gurlz n cindi prowd she a doll.

The Other Side of Agnes

You may wish to read here first.

“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”

“A baguette?”

“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”

“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right.”

“Suppose?”

“You are right.”

“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”

“I love seafood.”

“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”

“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”

“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”

She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.

Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.

“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”

“Is that what I need?”

“Certainly.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do.”

Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.

“Here we are.”

He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.

“To a balanced meal.”

Agnes smiled.

“To a balanced meal.”

She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.

When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.

“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”

“Your father is right.”

“He is?”

“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”

“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”

“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”

“You are playing with me!”

“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”

“Whatever you say, Frederick.”

“Ah, the girl is trainable.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He ignored her question.

“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”

“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”

“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”

“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”

“Oh?”

“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”

“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”

“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”

“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”

“You really think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, that is nice to know.”

The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.

She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.

“Do you live alone, Frederick?”

“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”

“Do you have children?”

“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”

“Do you get lonely living alone?”

“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”

“May I ask what you do?”

“You may. I am a banker.”

“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”

He smiled at her simplistic response.

“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”

“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”

“There is no need, Agnes.”

“Well, father says...”

“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”

Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.

Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.

At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.

“I shall walk you home.”

She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.

He stopped and turned towards her.

“Agnes? Is something wrong?”

“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”

“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”

She remained silent.

“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”

“With you.”

He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Over to the other side

I chose to pursue English Literature when I was at university. The poet that most affected me was Emily Dickinson.

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

There was something so haunting in her words for me; her quiet acceptance of death being another stage in her life, and I returned to this poem, over and over.

There is another lovely poem of hers:


We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—

A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—

And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—

The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—

Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.


She had such a lovely sense of how we adapt - either the darkness alters, or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight. Isn't that just how it is!?

I have groped in the darkness in this journey of mine. I can't say that the darkness altered. I'm not entirely sure that is possible. Rather, I have waited for something in the sight to adjust itself to midnight. That has happened before and it will likely happen again.

But, in the early sunlight of a new day I can't help but be reminded of a favourite, more innocent poem:

What Are Little Boys Made Of?

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
And that are little boys made of.

What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice,
And that are little girls made of.

What are young men made of?
What are young men made of?
Sighs and leers, and crocodile tears,
And that are young men made of.

What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Ribbons and laces, and sweet pretty faces,
And that are young women made of.


And, I ask myself, why do wicked boys want to lure sweet girls over to the dark side where they surely don't want to go...?

Anal training

Dolliz receive lotsa treynin and one of da important aspectz of treynin 4 a dolli: anal treynin. Dolliz go frum yoosin small pluggiz 2 yoosin big pluggiz, eventually. Anal treynin nut jus sumtin dat happenz haphazardli. It sumtin dat part of a dolliz lyf, day by day. It rel8z 2 da stretchiness coz da mor strechi da more dolli.

Wun ting about dolliz dat mebbe nut dat wel understood, dey nut necessarili abel 2 haf da self displin 2 do dis on der own. Sumtimz, dolliz sey 2 demseffz, "Hmmmm, mebbe 2nite cindi tek a break from da pluggi n go sleepiz ull on her own." Or, "Hmmmm, mebbe nut da beri big pluggi 2nite but da medium size pluggi".

Sumtimz, dolliz 4get sumtin beri beri importin n dat da reezun 4 ull da treynin; da point of ull da treynin.

So, cindi esked an important question:

"If given choice, witch pluggi wood da dolli chooz?"

Cindi just a dolli but reederz should nut confooz da dolli wif a total airhead. She no dat sumtin up wif dat question. She on high alert, if reederz ken follow her drift. She sey dat sumtimz she wood liki choose da medium size pluggi as an option.

"N y dat nut an opshin? she asked.

Hmmmmm. Time 4 cindi 2 use eberi last bit of brain power left.

"Wel, cindiz ass cunt in treynn n da mor strechi n da mor offen strechi da mor treynn 4 da asscunt."

Now she asked da question again, "Which pluggi cindi chooz?"

"Wel heer da ting; cindi tinki dat dis moot poynt coz she hab no choys."

Again she asked, "Which pluggi cindi chooz?"

It at dis poynt dat cindi can reeeeeeli feel da reziztenz. Dont maki da mistek of tinkin da dolliz nut feel rezizitenz. Dey beri wel behavd, naturelli, but dey ken still feel da rezizistens 2 cummandz jus liki da non-dolliz, n dat 4 sure. But, cindi no full well der only wun ansser dat get a mark. She no wot she must say:

"She chooz da big pluggi."

"Beri gud cindi. Go pluggi."

Of course, once cindi ull pluggi wif da big pluggi, she beri prowd of hersef n beri happi bout everetin.

Dat da wey it goes wif dolliz.

Frustration

It pleased me to see upon a search of this web journal that I have very rarely mentioned 'frustration'. I mentioned it in the last post and according to the record, back in March 2009 when I wrote a post about 'anxiety'. That's not bad.

For, you see, I do experience considerable frustration. As I wrote to my husband just now,

"It is a very, very hard thing to live through someone else - for their wants and desires and ways of doing things; their priorities and their interests to be the sole arbiter of what happens; to expect a person to have eternal patience and to never express frustration and thus, by inference to never HAVE frustration."

Rightly or wrongly, I have tried my absolute best to be satisfied with living my life according to my husband's version of the world. From time to time, I mention that it will be great when we can do this or that, but apart from that, I really just nod when he tells me something, accept his decisions, patiently wait for him to attend to something (or not), and in a nutshell, just wait.

I've become good at this - at living according to the desires and decisions of another person; at keeping my frustrations well hidden and distracting myself in order not to be upset that the things that I would love to see take place, do not.

I think I could have gone on with this positive spirit almost forever...until that moment two days ago when I did express a very minor amount of frustration and experienced his wrath that I should do so.

I'm not an angel. I'm not a perfect person. I'm just one human being doing her best to be pleasing; patient, considerate, understanding, calm and patient.

I just can't seem to get over it. I am shattered that he can't apologize for upsetting me so.

I have asked him to look inside himself - to try to understand how hard I work to see the world through his eyes and to put aside my own wishes. For me, this was what it was all about - to make for a life of harmony - to find a way to go beyond the everyday.

I can't seem to bounce back up this time.

Man handz

Bimbo had a new pluggi - much bigger dan her other pluggiz. He referred 2 as "da stalyon"; dat how big dis new pluggi of herz.

But, she remyn hessef, dat wot he wan. She bimbo n she wan wot he wan.

He allowed her tym 2 get akwaynted wif her new pluggi n she did get akwaynted. She stroke him n massaj him n he began 2 mould her.

But, by hessef she nut able 2 push him ull da wey in. She needed 2 feel manz hanz.

She close her eyes n she imagine dat - dat da manz hanz haf cuntrol of pluggi n she haf no cuntrol...

She see him look intently at her, wif determin8shun in his eyes. He nut toler8 disobedience or reziztenz. He tell her 2 go n bend over her bench. She ken see dat she haf no choys now. She wan dis badlee n he wan badlee 2. She wood hate 2 disapoynt. Dat nut an opshun 4 her.

She bend ova da bench n she begin 2 breef - in n owt; in n owt. He take da pluggi n he lube it, and her - lotz n lotz n lotz. He ask if she redi 4 da pluggi? She sey, "yes, she redi".

He hold the pluggi at her entrans.

"Wot pluggi telln bimbo?"

"He wan 2 enter bimbo; claim da bimbo."

"Bimbo let him?"

"Ya, she wan him."

"Gud bimbo."

He begin 2 push pluggi in n owt, in n owt and he mould da pluggi 2 mek 4 gud fit. Bimbo did dis b4 hessef n each time she meet a moment when she kenna go on. She kenna get ova da hurdle. She kenna push in2 da payn. Dis happen wif everi new pluggi n she finally succeed, but dis time da hardest, hardest, hardest time of ull.

She need 2 feel da manz handz. She need 4 him 2 tek cuntrol.

She breef. She breef. And, she let go n wait. She just let go.

She feel da man push n pop! Da stalyon insyd her! Happiness n joy n sense of el8shun reign supreme! Bimbo in state of euphoria n beri, beri ternd on. She aktn liki animal; transformd in2 wyld beest. She tekz moment 2 wunder y she waytd dis lung 2 haf such gud tym...

Bimbo luv her dey dreem sooooo much. She imagin da jooobil8shun wen she succeed. She imajn her happiness n his happiness n she tinki, 'dis da best deydreem!; da best!!'

Bimbo unnerstan now. She nut need courage. She jus let pluggi haf his wey. He in cuntrol.

Dat wot she wan, so badleee.

The contents

What does she want?

She wants what he wants her to want. His wants become her wants.

It is not that she didn't have a dirty mind before. Far from it.

But, she didn't know then what she knows now. She might never have known if he had not told her.

She is trapped inside herself now; a plaything.

At his beck and call.

Without choice.

Or, is the doll just responding to the echoes of her own impulses and deep desires?

All she knows for sure is that she just opened that big box, took fright and closed it again.

And yet...

She can't wipe the image of its contents from her mind.

She's caught in his web.

Right where she wants to be.