Disciplinary thoughts

Some people in the know feel that kinks can be best understood by examining the day dreams one has when in the midst of private arousal. Of course, my day dreams relate to a very clear dynamic where I don't have much control at all. In fact, in the day dreams any sort of negotiation isn't available, whereas in real life, I aim to negotiate when things aren't how I'd like them to be. That's the big difference between my fantasy and my reality. If I was told to have my nails cut in a stiletto style, I'd do just about anything to get out of that, but in the fantasy, well, it would just happen; be supervised. Boom! I'd have what I think of as evil claws. In my fantasy I might even like them, though I am doubtful of that.

That said, I do enjoy situations in real life where it's like my fantasies. As one would expect, I don't necessarily like everything that happens in those situations and yet it unfailingly arouses me at the same time. That's the push/pull that gets submissives hooked, I think. Maybe it's fun to have to do something you don't want to do, but not always. What it is is satisfying to know that the Other is serious about getting his way, at least for this experience and for other experiences in the future. There's a sense of comfort in that sort of mental bondage that is as snuggly as being under a woolen blanket in from of an open fire on a dark and freezing winter night.

In the fantasies, discipline is a major part of the scenario, because, well, because that gets me off. Obviously, I am going to conjure the situation that does it for me. In real life, I'm less interested in being disciplined, except to say that when that has happened I am even more horny than I am in my private fantasy. I hate it and yet I love it, which is quite a dilemma, not just for me but for many submissive types, I would imagine.

To give an example, in the fantasies it is often the case that I am sent by someone who is my superior to someone who is even more superior to him or her. There's a waiting time. It might be a minute or two or it might be an  hour or more. This time is a time of reflection and self recrimination. 'If only' time, I call it. If only I had held my tongue. If only I had done it the way I was supposed to do it.

Also, it's a time for those above me to really drive the message home with plenty of humiliation, making me feel like a naughty child. So, I'm often sent to a wall with my nose pushed into it. I'm often told to raise my dress to keep ever present in my mind the attention my ass is almost certainly going to receive. They like, I feel sure, for me to fuss about what instrument will be used and for how long I'll be beaten. I oblige.

There's no 'it hurts me more than it hurts you' speech when I am finally called in. It's about the necessity of the exercise to impress on my mind that what I did I must never do again. It's all about that, with lots of emphasis on statements such as 'a girl must do as she is told'.

In real life, this sort of scene would be terribly taxing. Imagine holding one's nose to the wall for an hour imagining what comes next. And, imagine the speech and then the sentence, and settling oneself into position for a beating that absolutely will impress on the mind that a girl should never get herself into such a situation again.

And, yet, a mind blowingly orgasmic experience too! I think what I like about it best is that it would be a most rare scene. But, it happened once, and hence it could happen again. One takes that thought and makes jam out of it for months and months. It's an incredibly delicious thought that reminds one there is a power exchange in play, which for certain people is as good as it gets.

I'm not even sure I should write about what really goes on in this mind of mine because it is intense, deep, ongoing and all pervasive. One only has to say certain things in a certain way, make certain moves, be committed to taking control, and my mind is right there, so much that I feel a need to hide to what extent it is really going on under my skin and between my legs. It's something one feels obliged to keep under wraps out of fear; fearful of getting what one wants.

I don't know. I've held this side of me in for so long, it has oozed out of its own accord. This girl is on fire. (I think I stole that line from  a song...)

Duration

A power exchange dynamic is best explained in my life as the full expression of my entity. It wasn't anybody else's idea, but rather the instinctive and natural side of my nature needing to be expressed. The element of me that sought to be challenged and stretched, to be connected to someone who sought to challenge and stretch, sat there, just slightly under my skin.

I knew this at the same time as I lacked awareness. I felt the stirrings of desire when watching moments in a movie or reading certain scenes in a book. I felt more alive when not treated so much as a woman whom one treated with respect, but rather when I was tested to tap into some inner strength to step up. Respect is a required element of any valuable transaction, of course, but I innately understood that when I was asked to mine down to my personal power, I somehow rose up and became my best self.

Words struggle to express the ineffable; the reason why I keep on writing on here, doggedly trying to achieve the impossible. When I am spanked and taken right up to and beyond my pain limits, it helps me to rise up to be my best self. Comfort is not my enemy but at the same time it is hard to imagine always being comfortable. I find a certain comfort in struggle; a reminder that I am alive and that blood flows through these veins; that my lifeforce is still very much with me.

For the past few weeks there has been a more physical life within the marriage. He's wanted to spank me and test me and those challenges take me down to a very minimal space where the responses are quite out of my control. I'm a puppet with strings; strings that need to be pulled. This, I love.

In the midst of a discussion with some women lately we got onto the topic of the 'Outlander' series.  I couldn't resist speaking of the spanking scene. Claire had disobeyed Jamie and not stayed where he told her to stay. Her actions put not only Jamie but all his men at risk. If it had only been him that had been put at risk, her 'sorry' would have been enough, he told her, but it was important that the men knew that she was punished, and thus she'd need to be spanked. He removed the leather belt that held up his sporan and after much chasing, did the deed. I was laughing away as I told the story, as were some of the women, but one woman looked horrified.

'And, you continued to watch?'

She was absolutely aghast.

'Well, yes.' (I wanted to say, 'I was transfixed'.)

Then, she turned on me.

'Oh, so you like a bit of the rough stuff, do you?'

For a moment, our eyes met, and I considered for a split second answering her by telling her the truth. However, I chose to do what I nearly always do when met with rudeness, I just remained silent. The group quickly moved on, as if it hadn't happened.

It has to be said, I'm not fond of being punished, but, yes, it has happened, in various ways. Whilst I am not fond of it, in fact deplore it, I do recognize it as part of the dynamic. It's tricky. The moment one feels unfairly treated (as did Claire) the heckles go up, but at the same time it's hard to feel bedded down in the dynamic without clarification of expectations.

There are a variety of factors that make for a situation where the natural flow of energy between two people is less at certain times. For one thing, we can't always operate at top gear. We would be sapped of energy, the energy that comes from within us and that is our engine; distracted from other important elements of our lives.

Yet, in a union where there is a natural dominant personality and a natural submissive personality, and where one needs the other in order to have an exchange or flow of energy, it never dies out completely. There is always an ember that can ignite. This knowledge is very important to me. It is what keeps me feeling safe and wrapped in affection; youthful and able to live a passionate life. It is what reminds me that I'm in this power exchange relationship for the long haul.

Getting our groove back

If you make it through your child rearing years still liking and loving your spouse, there is an opportunity to create something new from the union. With more time to be alone, whether in the house or outside of it, conversations ensue that hopefully enable you to see over the horizon where intimacy and mutual understanding is at the forefront.

With two opportunities to be alone for the entire weekend in the past month we've played, but more importantly, we've talked about what we want going forward and what that might look like. He was very honest and I appreciated his honesty. He has, after all, been observing me for the past 40 year so when he shares his observations, I listen.

He said that I did best when we had a mutually agreed disciplinary relationship in place. He said that I would be nervous as the week came to a close, which he liked, and that the corporal discipline did me good; made me happy, light and youthful. He said that I would often try to provide reasons why the reckoning couldn't happen now but that it was never a good idea to listen to me; that things were best when I just let go and did as I was told. He said that we'd been together forever and that if I didn't trust him now, I never would. He'd never do anything to intentionally hurt me. Sure, the spanking would hurt but any temporary pain was for my own good, and that was all there was to that.

He said that it had never been the case that I didn't get wet over submitting to his will, and he'd never not got aroused by giving me a spanking. He said that I was wired in this particular way and that was all there was to that. He said that it hadn't always been something he wanted but that I created this 'perversion' in him and he liked that he had been taken to the dark side; was no longer bothered by it.

On both weekends he didn't give me a choice about the disciplinary side of things, nor, now that I think about it, did he offer a reason for the spanking, except to say that I needed it. He likes to insist that I stay in position even when not tied down. He tries to talk me through it, basically by using a deep voice and words that make it clear that things won't get any easier by coming up. Inevitably, however, he resorts to very contained roping where any resistance is simply against the ropes.

I do love the time he puts into securing the ropes, even whilst aware of what will happen next. When the implement comes down on my ass I attempt to refrain from yelling and screaming but more often than not he'll ask if I want something for my mouth and I, gratefully, say, 'yes, please'. It's a relief to be able to bite down on something.

With the ball gag secured yesterday, it was nice to know that I'd make less noise. There is a row of trees between the neighbours and us but something about the positioning of the house on a little hill makes for incredible echoes. I do worry I can be heard all over town! It was something of a disappointment to realize, therefore, that when the edge of a tawse catches your pussy that your scream, even with a big red ball in your mouth, will sound quite blood curdling. Fortunately, it didn't deter him from presenting his challenges.

It was nice to know that he had enjoyed his time swinging. Lost in bimbo non-thought I suddenly found myself having the ball gag removed so that it could be replaced with a hard, demanding cock that wanted to fill the hole instead.

On the way home in the car I asked him, 'Do you want to go back to keeping a black book then?' I thought he'd jump at this. I'd asked specifically; committed. But, I think he had his own ideas, already formulated.

'Maybe one day you'll find that this process has already begun.'

My husband couldn't be more aware of the fact that I like surprises; predicaments. I am hopeless as the one in control and I very much prefer to be led in nearly any situation.

I was delighted when, last Friday, we shopped together, a rare experience for us. The girl had me trying on a garment which she thought fitted well, but when my husband saw me he immediately said it wasn't right and had her bring another style, which was much more flattering. Later, I thanked him for the garment and especially for getting involved in the selection. I revealed to him that the purchases I make myself really don't do much for me. I want to feel the power exchange in so many facets of my life. This, instinctively, is what makes me happy and content. This is what feels authentic.

Enduring kinky thoughts

I took a survey for Galen Fous which asked questions about my kinks and fantasies; when they started and what they looked like. This prompted me to think about the sort of archetypes, thoughts and images I might have been inspired by in early childhood, for my fantasies began at a very age. I had kinky thoughts as early as four or five years old. I masturbated to them most days.

That period of my life is now over 50 years ago so it’s hard to remember much detail, but I distinctly remember bath time. As my bath was running I would often bend over. To anyone who might walk in it seemed I liked to touch my toes, but what I was doing was imagining being told to bend over for a spanking. I also remember touching myself to orgasm as a very young child. When I went to bed and the lights were turned off, this seemed the ideal ‘cover’ for my fantasy life where I could masturbate to certain images and experience the pleasure of the arousal and the climax of my body. Falling to sleep was then certain and I’m sure that I sometimes fell asleep during the process. It was my relaxation time; my time to think my own nasty thoughts.

I can distinctly remember a day in primary school (elementary school) when it occurred to me that if it was possible to read minds, I was in big trouble. Could I be letting off signals of the thoughts going through my mind? I determined that day to be vigilant about ensuring that I kept my dirty secret safely guarded.

I recall becoming aroused when there would be some sort of discipline in a story. It could be in a school setting or in a home setting. I’d know on what page it had occurred in a novel and I’d return to that page over and over. If it happened in a movie or in a show I was watching I’d hold my breath as if struck dumb by a kink filled meteor. I’d take those images to bed with me that night, and all the nights after that to re-enact.

I never made myself the perpetrator of the action, but rather the person who needed to be disciplined. I’d struggle sometimes, as I do now, to come up with a real offence, since I made it my business as a young child to stay out of trouble and not to bother anybody too much. Yet, I was immediately and profoundly aroused when in my fantasies I was lectured, sent to the Master’s office,  placed in a corner to think about my behaviour, made to write lines, put over someone’s knee and spanked.

I needed to find in my mind suitable people who would naturally behave sternly and firmly. I needed to find people quite different to my parents who would not have dreamed of behaving this way. I needed to locate for these guilty pleasures images of people who were particular; particular about rules and keeping a girl in her place. I suspect I came up with the sort of people I saw in movies, men who wore suits and looked formal and strict; men who saw it as their business to keep young girls in check, for their own good. Sloppy attire, eating sweets behind closed doors, being late to class or smudging the ink were all behaviours that could be stamped out with a good, hard bare bottom spanking, and they didn’t hesitate to make these behaviour adjustments.

I didn’t confine my disciplinarians just to males. I had a soft spot in my kinky mind for the nasty House Mistress of a boarding school who would call girls into her study after school for such behaviours as not making the bed well enough, for not passing room inspection or for bringing mud into the boarding house, having not wiped their shoes at the door. Later, she was the one who gave enemas, and who delighted in informing of a whipping that would take place on Saturday morning. She’s the sort of woman who took private delight in a girl festering and squirming for a few days just thinking about what was to come; when the girl would get her ‘just desserts’.

I also explored the situation of being in a friend’s home and her father being a stern disciplinarian. Of course, to keep the matter sorted my parents would have told her parents to treat me as if I was their own child and this led to both my friend and I being spanked whenever it was deemed a necessary correction.

Later, naturally enough, I added all sorts of concepts and scenarios to my fantasies. There would be stern lovers and husbands; there would be trips to institutions where a girl was transformed into the ideal wife. I left the more innocent world of spanking to a world where roles were far less well defined. One minute a ‘Master’ would be thrashing me and the next he’d have me over a table and feast on my holes. Hold on! Aren’t I at a school where they can’t do that? Apparently, they could do anything they wanted with me. I let my fantasy take me where it wanted to go and that often led to bondage, to anal play, to use by multiple men; to being pierced and wearing heavy rings; to more whipping than I think I could possibly ever manage in real life. I was an ‘owned girl’ and the only rule now was to obey and accept.

Today, if I need a quick fantasy, or even if I don’t and one just fleets across my mind, it is of me waiting; waiting to be disciplined; shamed, lectured, beaten and/or used. If the fantasy is particularly fleeting, there might simply be a leather strap or a cane hurtling through the air on the way to a waiting bare backside. If you’d been watching me you might see me look slightly startled as I brace myself for the awaiting pain, and pleasure in the thought.

I am today not terribly different to that little girl who grew into a big girl at secondary school and a woman at University and later in the work place and home. I try not to bother anyone and to get along under my own steam. I do my work. I am responsible, reasonably quiet living; take great joy in many small things; sometimes struggle to overcome obsessive thoughts and worries; to keep my world in some sort of order.

Getting back to the survey, I don’t think I was overly burdened with archetypes of femininity or how a girl should behave (more on that next time) except to say that I was probably a good child in an effort to not be disciplined or lectured; to not be any trouble to anyone. My parents worked very hard and were largely unavailable to me so it made sense to get on with things on my own and not to cause them trouble. Also, I didn't want to be in trouble. It wasn't at all comfortable for me to be corrected.

It’s interesting that my fantasies were and are about scenarios that I try to avoid. If I do something naughty, even now, I’m not looking to get caught and be dealt with. Guilt might mean I must confess and that will probably lead to consequences. The consequences may well lead to sexual arousal somewhere down the track but I hate consequences. I hate trouble and I especially loathe getting into trouble. I am fearful waiting to hear my fate and I’m mad as hell when it is meted out.

I absolutely love attention. Since a dominant must pay attention – to the bad as well as the good – then those consequences are part of the deal that I accept. He might be meting out disciple, but if he’s doing that then he’s paying attention, which after all is, even when being undertaken by the meanest of Masters responsible for my fantasy education (of even the most debauched kind) a form of affection and care.

Did the lights just go on? I was a lonely child, responsible for myself from a very early age. There was virtually no discipline, no rules, because there didn’t need to be. As a young child I created my own rules; to do my work, to not to be a burden to anyone. So, what could be more sensible than create scenarios in my mind where I lived in an entirely different world where there were rules; where people did pay attention to me; and where thus I was subject to discipline? And, over time, why not add in sexual components; more lovely, passionate, pleasurable attention!

I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that I have fantasies every day of my life. Nor am I exaggerating when I say that my hunger for expression of my sexuality is with me as a constant companion. I can taper it down at the edges with absorption into tasks, busyness, reading, writing, cooking, walking, talking and living life. But, my dears, it never ever goes away. Without a doubt I’m your classic perverted attention sponge.

Erotic images

I imagine that, like me, most people masturbate to images that please them and arouse them. I'll note here my most recent images, those of this morning; images that brought me to climax at my own hand.

I have an Owner. This becomes very apparent because when I knock on his study door on my return home he reminds me that I have failed to complete a task.

It is true. The task has slipped my mind. I apologize and say that I will tend to it immediately. He replies that before this takes place, a written task, he needs to "correct me" to impress upon me the most important rule of all; the rule from which all other rules originate.

'What is your most important rule, girl?'

'To do as told.'

'To do as told. The correction will help to impress this upon you.'

He produces a tawse. He has me take off my panties and bend over his desk. He has me count each stroke and to thank him for each stoke; strokes that help me to learn my lesson.

I have yet to climax. I need to feel the connection with my sadist Owner more intensely.

He lectures me a little; not sternly, just more talk about training me to respond to his every whim instantly; the desire to please him as being my first and uppermost thought.

Then, he says that he wants to keep my attention right now on my warm ass. Thus, I am to stand close to the open fire with my bottom presented to the fire, to maintain the heat; to remind me of the work of the tawse.

He assists me into position, bends me over and spreads my cheeks. He wants, he says, for every last inch of my backside to feel the glow of the embers.  Noting my anal plug is in place (God forbid I'd broken that rule!) he tells me that today it will remain in place for longer than usual; that I am not to remove it until I am granted permission.

Buzz words do it for me - 'permission' is an instant turn on for me. I am much wetter now; way more aroused now.

Of course, I struggle. The flames are making it incredibly difficult to remain in place and yet, having disappointed once already today, I know that I must endure. He might as well say, 'suffer for me', because that is what he wants me to do, and that is what I know I must do, for his sake and for mine.

The whimpers become more intense, more desperate. He comes to me finally and allows the back of my skirt to fall down over my very red ass. He tells me to rise. He holds me close. 'Good girl'.

'Do you wish to serve your Owner?'

I am desperate to do so. I nod. He leads me further away from the open fire and silently commands me to my knees. My mouth opens at the sight of his cock and without further invitation I take it into my mouth as one might put one's lips to the Holy Grail; with reverence and awe. Immediately, I feel at peace.

He speaks to me at times - that it is my place to serve him; that it is his pleasure that matters the most, and all through these words, I hear them merely as distant music in the background. My head is empty of thought. My mind is absorbed in a sense of grateful fulfilment and abandon.

Unexpectedly, he holds my head tight in his hands, the signal that he will dictate the pace from now on. He thrusts his cock deep in my mouth at rapid speed. Meanwhile, I am lost in sensations of being used, of being of use; of having an Owner; of being at one with him and of being at one with myself.

 He comes hard, grunting, spurting hot cum into my mouth. I have my own version of an orgasm;  it is a massive relief to the soul to be treated in this way.

 In real life, I'd reached my own climax, but even so it's hard to let the images go. They provide me with intense relief from a fundamentally vanilla marriage. I am the kinky one around these parts. So, I added one last little detail to the scene. The task was a written one. In his study is a school desk - wooden with a wooden chair  to match. He has me complete the overdue written task sitting at that desk, with my corrected bottom directly on the seat.

Of all the events that afternoon I find this one the most humiliating. I can't get lost in sexuality. It is all about 'place'; humiliation; enforcing my role as his charge and his role as my authority figure. It just thrills me to the core, that image.  

Fantasy Dominant

I wondered recently what it might be like for a dominant to meet me as I am right now and for the first time, (assuming of course that I'm available and single, which I am not). I wondered what it is that they might like to do to me; that is, how they might like to alter me; what their plan might look like.

If they were to meet me for the first time now, as I am today, they'd find a woman comfortable in the bedroom. They wouldn't need to introduce me to gags, toys, or anal plugs, or even a full covered (other than nostril holes for breathing) latex hood, should that be their inclination, because I've experienced all of that and embraced it.

I'm extremely content with being the submissive in the bedroom, to be taken by surprise and to be dominated in any number of ways. I would happily consider such new Dominant my Owner and that my body belongs to him. I'd happily think of myself as an object for his pleasure because that is the way I've been trained and I take no issue with the training. It's part and parcel of my arousal and mode of thought. The more objectified I am, the stronger and deeper the experience for me.

If the Dominant liked to make considerable marks and bruises in a play session, they'd need to work on that with me, because although I enjoy being challenged with various implements (not necessarily physically but certainly emotionally) I am not accustomed to intense whipping or beating. If that's what they wanted, there'd be considerable work to do in that domain. They'd need to be committed to their goal and they'd probably need to ignore my childlike pleas for mercy as they pushed out my limits. I feel sure there is only so far I would want or could go and a fantasy Dominant would need to accept that. Pushing out my limits regarding pain is a frightening thought for me and an arousing one, in equal measure.

This leads me to say that it is quite possible that a Dominant that met me today may well have to deal with the fact that my history has meant that I have had to learn many strategies for my own self improvement. I am well aware that a D/s relationship could aid me in my path to a better me, but the man in question would not be dealing with a young, easy to mould filly, but rather more of a mare who has developed her own habits, some of them not particularly good or productive.

I'm aware that I have some habits that bother the people with whom I live. In the scheme of things I like to think that they are incidental and that we all have our quirks, but that said, I expect that this fantasy Dominant would want to eradicate them to the extent that is possible. Apparently, not drying off one's back isn't a good thing and nor does my husband enjoy me leaving the bathroom mat before my body is dry. He refers to me as a 'duck' that makes 'puddles' but he's inclinced to exaggeration, of course. It's also not a good thing, it seems, to leave the washing up water in the kitchen sink for any time after the dishes have been done. My eldest son refers to it as a 'chick' thing. Yeah. We know someone's bound to come along any moment now with dishes from another part of the house!

In terms of productivity, I could do with more routine in my life and that's something that I am working towards on my own. I'm prone to procrastination, I know that, especially as it pertains to making phone calls. I'm a little 'phone phobic' and tend to store them up sometimes until it feels more comfortable to make them all in one go. I'm not quite sure how you work with someone with phone phobia but probably getting me to the point of making them right away is the key to the problem because once I've made them I feel so much relief.

There are a number of issues that He could assist me with on a day to day level. My intentions are good about getting to bed well before midnight but often don't come off and I'd certainly like to commit more to a sustained exercise programme and a writing time everyday. On that score I could do with help, although I know that it is nobodies responsibility but mine to sort it.

Over the past years I've gained so much from meditation that if this fantasy Dominant were to insist that I go to my meditation cushion for an hour a day I know he'd turn around my life. Nearly everyone who learns meditative practice can't seem to commit to daily practice but the benefits would be so huge that the thought of someone ensuring I do so is a huge turn on for me, an act of love if ever there was one. I include this in many fantasies and it's not at all uncommon in those fantasies to be sent there with a really sore bottom either, which is a particularly enticing fantasy for me.

I think said fantasy Dominant would put some further work into respect. Whilst I acknowledge his rights over me I do have my own opinions and when silenced on them can find myself becoming somewhat feisty. I am not at all sure that holding in thoughts for long periods is wise for me and fantasy Dom would probably do best to encourage me to air them but in the most respectful and tactful of manners, accepting that his word is final. I am well aware that frustration can lead me to blurt and I've not met a dominant yet who enjoys my blurting, oddly enough. (Added note: I did a Crystal Bowls Playing Meditation last night with emphasis on opening up the heart chakra and experienced great insight last night, which I'll explain at a later time.)

Someone firm, someone who laid down expectations and demanded that they be followed, allowing for some natural reticence on my part to always be told what to do (it's a hard balancing act, I know...) would work best. I am smiling at the memory of my husband saying to me recently after we had had words, 'You'd have steamrollered a weak man within the week'. Okay, that's probably true.

This whole piece of writing was prompted by a little video I saw this week. It wasn't easy to gauge for sure if this was a husband/wife scenario or not but for my purposes I made it so. She was bent over the edge of the bed bottom bared, her knees resting on a wooden bench at the end of the bed. He took off his belt saying something to her that I did not quite get but after about four whacks with it, and whilst she whimpered, he said, 'It makes my point quite clearly, I think.' 'Yes, Sir,' she said. He began to whip her again and as he did, she reached a point where her elbows came off the bed and she raised up a little.

'Keep your elbows on the bed. Don't make me have to start over again,' he said. It wasn't what he said that impressed me but that his tone of voice didn't change. He continued to talk to her in a conversational way, as if they were talking about what to do with their Saturday afternoon over a sandwich at the kitchen table. But, she knew he was a man of his word. She did, later in the video take her elbows off the bed, but just for a fraction of a second and quite instinctively, returning them immediately to their rightful position.

When her punishment was over, he returned the belt between the keepers of his trousers, and had her 'take a seat' on the wooden bench. She's a model, I know, paid to do this, but it seemed pretty obvious to me that she was holding her bottom slightly off the seat by putting some pressure into her hands. It really did hurt. He proceeded to talk to her conversationally in a low tone.

'What will happen if you don't do as told?'
'I'll be spanked, Sir'
'Spanked often and soundly', he remarked, perfectly calmly.
'Yes, Sir'
'I'm expecting 90% or higher on your next assignment. I won't tolerate low grades. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'Any lower than that and there will be a much harder spanking next week.'
'Yes, Sir'

When he left the room she lay down on the bed and it then became clear what a very sound spanking she'd taken. Something told me that if this were real life she'd study her little pants off that week to avoid another trip over the edge of the bed.

My head tells me that it is each adults personal  responsibility to motivate themselves towards self directed behaviour. We are all capable, with adequate will and intent to change anything about our behaviour that isn't working well. But, it remains an exciting thought for me that a Dominant would assist in this way.

The Dominant in the video didn't rant and scream, didn't do anything but quietly and assuredly reminded her that he was there to administer the motivation she required any time that it was needed. He didn't hug or administer 'after care' either. He had assumed the role of her Disciplinarian for the moment and he wasn't shirking at his task. Whilst there was no evidence of love per se, he would be the same man (and I'm assuming this because I want to assume it) that would make tender love to her that night in the same bed as was her 'whipping post' earlier in the day.

My fantasy Dominant would pretty quickly work out that would work for me too, when there would  become a settled period where I achieved my goals. That's the theory, anyway.

Meaning in fantasy

I think of a fantasy as a private screening of a short movie. We sit as a sole audience member and the story unfolds. It was after a fantasy this week that I found myself wondering why it would be that a fantasy devised just for me would include something in the story line that I don't want.

The man to whom I had been betrothed, on the understanding that he was my leader and rule maker, had taken me for the first time to his bedroom. It was a lovely room with a big bed, but after he showed me the bedroom he led me to an alcove, a separate little spot where there was a low bed up against a wall and some restraints attached to the wall. This was where I would often sleep, he told me.

He said no more than that and as the person under his charge, and new to the household, I accepted this news with surprise but not alarm. I'd been educated in the ways of dominant men at the Institution where I had voluntarily enrolled to find a suitable husband. It was this man who had chosen me after numerous visits to the Institution where he watched me closely, especially as I reacted to him. If this was the way he wanted it to be, then so be it.

Later, dressed and out in the world, my mind returned to this fantasy and I found myself wondering why I would allow into my fantasy (if that is in fact what one does - allow?) something that I find most unappealing. I adore to sleep snuggled up to my husband, half on his chest. I sleep best this way, deeper, more relaxed and peaceful, so why would my mind imagine a scenario where I slept on my own, even restrained to the wall, as being pleasing?

Later still, a memory popped into my head which helped me understand what was going on here. My first boyfriend came into my life when I was 18 years old. His older brother was a friend of a friend and we became very close. We weren't ever intimate but he'd take great comfort from my body, sometimes driving me (way too fast) far into the country and then wrapping himself around me for comfort. His home life was complicated and he was looking for feminine solace from me, not sex. Over time, his younger brother, my age, made his moves and our relationship developed into a sexual one. I lost my viriginity to him on a boat.

He'd take me home to his father's house, or his mother's house, since they were in the process of separating. His mother had moved away to the sea, to the holiday house which was in fact her own house,  and his father remained in the family home with the children. It was a fantasy house for me, everything I could ever want. It was old, rambling and, for me, magical. It had a huge veranda, big windows that looked onto an overgrown expansive garden with plenty of fruit trees.

His father was always very welcoming and I revelled in the conversations over dinner there. He was a medical specialist, a little odd for sure, but in the best way as far as I was concerned. It amazed me how he would sit down by the fire with a bunch of eighteen year old misfit lads and give them his time and wisdom in a way that didn't seem at all preachy or fatherly. I'd never experienced anything quite like the atmosphere of that house and I loved it.

Stan had a girlfriend, a beautiful Italian girl and she would sometimes be at the house. We all embraced her as his love, but of course it wasn't a particularly straightforward situation for any of us. The mother, a beautiful, elegant and refined English woman who had grown up in India, had been passed over, let's face it, and the boys were torn in their loyalties. Still, to see the two of them together, often just sitting side by side nursing a drink and talking softly to one another somehow assured us that this love affair was meant to be and I genuinely was fond of them both.

Sometimes, Lucy would go home at night quite late. I distinctly remember Stan relating the story of kissing her good night and putting her in her little car only to be sitting on the veranda that late summer night and hearing the sound of the car crash in the distance and just knowing that it was her. Of course, he went immediately to her and took her to hospital where he personally put her back together again.

Sometimes, she would sleep over. It was a really big house and there was just no way she wanted to walk into the marital bedroom. So, Stan set himself up in a sitting room with a bedroom that was set off from that sitting room. It had a double bed in there, but there was also a small single bed, a cot really, in the sitting room, in a far corner of the sitting room and often Lucy slept there. I know for a fact it was a passionately physical relationship but there were evenings when her mind could not handle that she was sleeping with a married man with his teenagers in other parts of the house and she would choose to sleep in the little single bed.

There is something about this, I am sure now, that my brain processed as 'erotic'. He was so deeply in love with her, her boss in more ways than one, and yet it was agreed that sometimes she would sleep alone in a little single bed in an area adjacent to his bed. All my kinky mind needed to do was add a few restraints whereby she waited for him to release her in the morning as it suited him, and my fantasy was complete.

If we could burrow deep into the subconscious mind I'm sure this sort of material is available to us. I don't think we make the whole enchilada up ourselves but rather some experiences are simply 'processed' as being erotic, desired; beautiful.

In more recent times I've processed, it would seem, some very unpleasant situations as part and parcel of a loving/caring kinky relationship.

Yet, when I think about the content of my fantasies, never in any of my fantasies has rejection of more than an hour or so at best played a part. I can't  translate rejection into something that is arousing. I'm punished plenty in my fantasies but I'm never rejected. The punishments are always part of the love and devotion that he feels for me as he steers me towards a deeper, more connected life together. I accept the discipline as part of my love for him secure in the knowledge that he adores me.  Anything and everything that happens in my many fantasies relate to coming closer together in some way.

 Any sense of being intentionally emotionally absent by an Owner is entirely absent from my fantasy life with particularly harsh treatment left to be dished out by those who have no emotional attachment to me whatsoever. To my mind, rejection and love/affection are quite alien and cannot be aligned.

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.

Bimbo vacation

Rules are rules and cindi broke a rule. Or, to be more exact she did something as if she was entitled. This isn't tolerated. It's sloppy, muddle-headed thinking and it needs to be corrected. Or, to put it another way, cindi needs to be punished. Isn't that the really authentic way of putting it? Why wrap it up in pretty paper and call it a 'correction' when it is severe discipline designed to transform the bimbo's state of mind? No props for a considerable length of time. No opportunity for her mood to be elevated in ways with which she is so familiar. No limits. No rules. Reign the hutzpah in.

She was sitting there yesterday feeling sad sack miserable, as she was meant to do, when she realized that she still had her paws. Those bimbo paws could still be manicured, even on 'vacation'. Bimbo did indeed have a way of picking herself up off the floor. This thought energized her immediately.

At the new salon, where she has only been a few times, the man took her paws in his hands and in the best English he could muster he told her her paws were beautiful. 'Beautiful nails', he said. He pointed to the woman at the far end of the room, as if to ask if she did them. 'Yes, they were a new set two weeks ago. She did a great job.' 'No cut, right?' he said and cindi immediately agreed that she didn't want them cut. Even his filing was very light, she noticed.

The woman came to watch for a time. 'Beautiful nails,' she said to the bimbo. 'You very careful. Beautiful'. She beckoned cindi to change chairs where she applied the polish and once she had put on the top layer she produced a card and put it in cindi's bag. 'You come every two weeks and I keep nails beautiful. Gel refill normally $30 but for you, $25.'

cindi did understand that she wasn't the only doll in town to be given such a card, yet she also realized that in the eyes of this couple, she had passed the test. She had earned her long nails because she had shown she could look after them and 'be careful' as she had been told when they had finally agreed to give cindi a new, longer set on the previous visit. Praise. cindi needed that.

She had earned the praise, just as she had earned the vacation. It all comes down to behaviour and choices, cindi realized. cindi simply needs to choose carefully.

Correction

I can't help but notice that the recent post entitled Being Corrected has been read by a considerably larger number of people than usually read my posts. My little journal is for a select audience on the whole. At first, I thought it related to the fact that people might be curious as to what I was writing about these days, but each day the tally for that particular post climbs higher and I am forced to conclude that the issue of being corrected in a power exchange is of particular interest to people. So let's explore that some more.

For me, there's a fun side to correction and a very serious side at the same time. It was during the process of wanting to understand more about the process of correction and aftercare of a scene, or a longer experience, that I came across this piece of excellent writing about after care. It was fascinating to read about the situation where a woman might orgasm during rape and that this does not represent consent in any way. Clarisse Thorn and links to other women writers on the subject from her blog can give much more insight to this issue than I can, so I won't say any more about that, except to say that the body can definitely defy the brain. We can be turned on by issues that upset us or challenge us or even issues or experiences that we hate.

I've written recently about serious struggle in terms of being corrected and I don't think being corrected is ever going to be a 'piece of cake' for me. (pun intended, because is a banned substance) It doesn't strike me as being an easy thing to have someone insist that the way you've done things in the past won't be how you'll be doing them from now on. If you take food as an example, it's no small thing to train someone (be they dietitian, personal trainer, doctor or dominant) to stop eating sugar, or to eat it very rarely and only in small quantities. It isn't easy being told that you can either have a slice of cake on your birthday or something you've been wanting for quite some time. There's a choice, but there are still very strict limits imposed. Basically, at the end of the day, you can't have any cake on your birthday, is the way that game plays out.

Such situations and corrections that relate to daily regimin and rules can be challenging and even quite anger inducing. As I know dominance it's all about getting compliance which is another way of saying that it's all about achieving goals. One way or the other, goals will be achieved. It's not something that I choose to write about in detail in the journal but nasty deeds were done and clever tricks were devised to ensure my compliance on this matter (seriously limited sugar intake) and that resulted in a week where I experienced a gamut of emotions from arousal to extreme anger. Not only was I experiencing distress such that old habits were being dumped (and I choose that word with intention) but it was clear that this was arousing to both parties. I was mystified at my reaction, deep arousal at the same time as I was furious, but there it was and it could not be denied.

I think some of us can handle our kink with scenes and go about our lives until the next scene, and some of us want something more consistent than that. I've found that I enjoy and appreciate a more consistent sort of control exerted over me and this can be achieved in several ways; in some ways, the more the better.

I've been negotiating with my husband a stronger, tighter relationship. We've nearly at the end of one stage of our lives and onto another where we have more flexibility and freedom to pursue our own relationship. I have not enjoyed his absence in my personal life. It has been close to unbearable and I have expressed my needs.

It was interesting and hopeful for me to realize in our discussion that he is not entirely short of ideas at all. Something came up about my wardrobe. I think he may have said, 'Do I interfere with your purchases?' and I said, 'Well, I'd like you to be more involved, actually. I'd like you to notice things. I like it when you give me your input or choose something yourself.' And, he said, without drawing breath, 'Well, if that's what you want, you can call me and ask permission before you make a purchase. How do you like that?' It stopped me in my tracks. Did I want that? 'Or,' I responded, 'I could keep the ticket on things and I could show you a purchase and if you didn't like it, I could take it back.' There it was again, that sense of 'I like this/I don't like this'. I adore to be controlled but my instincts tell me to hold onto a bit of control too.

We have this situation, my Internet teacher and I, where, from time to time, it comes up in conversation as to whether he's too strict. If I am a bit 'sixs and sevens' he might ask if he is too strict, and I finally got up the nerve recently to type back that yes, sometimes he was. That's the part of me that wants to hold onto some control because in fact, he's not too strict at all. He's firm, yes. But, where the f**k would we be if he wasn't? If I could guarantee that I know what is good for me all the time, then he's too strict, but alas, I can't guarantee it at all.

As previously noted, after this  week long, dramatic, exhausting 'correction' I found myself exploring aftercare. Shouldn't I be getting something more than a pat on the head? Hour by hour I came to see that I was simply trying to control the 'after the correction' experience too. I had completed the correction, got some praise for it and now it was over. Oh. So, that's the way corrections go. No. Big. Deal. Part of the deal.

Let's be clear here. I long for a sense of containment and connection. Nothing brings more joy and bliss into my life than to feel the sort of emotional response where I feel love and respect for someone such that my whole body and soul resonates with the thrill of being alive and living this life. In order to achieve it I need to 'let go' and just let the control wash over me - my mind, my body, my whole life. Correction is part of the deal. It's arousing, it's confronting. It's an essential part of what I want.

Compliance: the desired outcome

Although my husband is the boss of me (I'm smiling thinking of kids saying to someone that tells them what to do, "you're not the best of me!!") he and I, like so many married couples, don't partake in any sort of highly structured disciplinary relationship. We've been there, and it was incredibly hot and sexy, but I think he decided that for people living their entire adult lives together we could only take it so far. He's long held the view that there is an independent streak within me and he doesn't want to mess with it.

I think as well that a formal disciplinary aspect to the relationship goes against the natural flow of 'us' and what he feels comfortable doing and desires doing. He is fully engaged with his business life. I think for him it sounds like more work. I'm not exactly sure. I only know that whilst he enjoys his status on the top of the pile, isn't shy about letting me know when he's not happy with what I do or say, and does occasionally enjoy 'correcting' me with an implement in a semi-serious way, he's not into discipline with me, if that makes sense.

As long as there is no skin off his nose, and as long as he feels he is getting the attention, love and devotion that he deserves he's not against me engaging in a friendship conducted safely and respectfully, in a non-threatening way, where it is understood that I'm the 'student' and the other person is the 'teacher', with all the sense of authority that the word 'teacher' entails. Teachers, do sometimes, alas, find themselves in a situation where they must punish.

A few years ago a few extra kilos crept on my body in a menopausal way, out of the blue. I didn't care for it and kidded myself that I was doing something about it. I lost a few kilos and settled into a groove where the last four kilos to lose would eventually make their way off my body, somehow. I'd invariably start the day talking to myself, 'This weight has to come off!' only to find myself doing the same bad things, grabbing a piece of chocolate with my tea at night or a cookie with my coffee when I visited the Market, that sort of thing that isn't all that bad but that really doesn't allow for weight loss.

About a month ago now, I mentioned to my 'teacher' that today I was starting a new regimen of eating because I wanted to lose weight. He asked how much I wanted to lose and I said '4 kilos' which is about 10 pounds. I truly didn't expect him to bite at this. He never has before in any real way and I was surprised when he said that he could help me with this. It was a lovely favour I thought and I was pleased, very pleased; grateful.

We began the business of me sending a daily food journal and he made corrections, all sensible and necessary. I needed to include some protein with my meals, so, for example, I could have some almonds with my oatmeal in the morning. He banned cake more or less for good. Well, he said 'a month' but do I think that next month I can have cake? No. This has worked wonderfully well. I absolutely never look at, drool over or consider eating cake now. It's banned. My submissive mind gets that word.

He made other sensible suggestions - I don't eat the yolk of eggs at the moment and I do drink considerably more water, try to incorporate more fruit, vegetables and beans into my diet.

At first I was going about my usual habits, having a treat after dinner. Of course, that's not going to work when you need to limit calories and I was told rather quickly that I could have 2 sweet things a week. This was my 'sweets allowance'. More corrections were made - the size of a 'sweet' established as being minuscule in comparison to what I thought of as a reasonable portion. One punishment was meted out and I imagine he hoped that that would be the end of the matter and I'd fall into line.

However, as much as I knew the rules I was also dealing with a sugar withdrawal. I still, on some days, yearned for a lolly (piece of candy) or a piece of dark chocolate. One week I gobbled up my two sweets in less than a minute and that's not good. I was honest about this and he called it 'brave'. I had another week to go before I could eat something sugary, he reminded me.

However, one day I was at the supermarket and impulsively, like a naughty little schoolgirl, I snatched a bag of hard lollies from the shelf and chucked them into my shopping basket. Back home, they whispered to me, 'Just one. One can't hurt' and I had one and that led to two. When I was a school girl my mother sometimes would have waiting for me after school a fresh batch of cupcakes newly iced and I'd have one and then another. 'I'll stop at four, I'd say in my weakest moments. Definitely no more than four!' This is what happened to me with that evil bag of lollies. I ate four.

As I was writing up my food journal I was aware of last week's consequence; not that it was all that terrible but I had very recently been in trouble and didn't want to be in trouble again. If I said 'two', and as I understood the rules then, that would be 1 sweet treat. I already had used up the other one, the week was still ahead of me with no more treats, but I wouldn't be in trouble. If I wrote that I had eaten 4, I knew I'd be in lots of trouble. I wrote that I had eaten 2 of the blasted things, still acting like that schoolgirl who avoids being trouble at all costs.

No sooner had I sent off the email than I got an 'oh deeeeer' email back, which sounds tame but isn't in reality. Apparently, 1 hard piece of candy (it's less than an inch long and half an inch in diameter wrapped in its own little package) equalled one treat. Hence, I'd gone over my sweet rations again. It would be dealt with 'later' he said.

With time to think about this the guilt set in and the next time we chatted I fessed up. I honestly think (well, I know) that I expected to be let away with this. I was being coy, cute. Didn't you let sweet coy, cute little girls away with things? It was a few lollies, no big deal.

I was very, very mistaken. Not only had I gone over the limit two weeks in a row but I'd lied to him about it. I started to get that sick feeling in my stomach when I have to wait to read what he thinks about it all  and I tried to defend and explain myself.

'Keep digging...' came his reply. I suddenly remembered what my husband had told me. 'When you are in a hole, stop digging', but it was much too late.

He didn't yell or scream. Well, you can't actually yell or scream in chat but you can metaphorically and he didn't do that. It was more along the lines of a teacher being very, very disappointed in you. Then, he issued the punishment.

In some ways people don't change or not without a lot of effort, and I hadn't changed in my feelings about being truly punished. I hate to do the wrong thing really and I hate punishment for that reason. I had brought this on myself, had nobody to blame but myself, had given him no choice, but it still felt vile.

For several days I was on my own. I had to make my own choices. There wasn't a minute of that time that I didn't feel punished, sometimes assuring myself that I had earned it and had to suck it up, sometimes feeling hardly done by. It was hard on me, as it was meant to be. There were a few other complicating factors going on over that period of time that pushed me around too, but let's keep this simple.

When we talked again I was tentative. Perhaps it is not unlike a person within a power exchange who gets a good hiding as a punishment and the time period after that is awkward as one repairs one's dignity, as one truly takes in that one person is the authority figure and one person has the right to, and will if necessary, discipline the other.

'Did I enjoy my time away from him?' he wanted to know. This was like a red rag to a bull, I thought. Part of me wanted to laugh but the other part that was taking myself seriously wasn't ready to take it lightly. There was a comment about my being on 'pins and needles' and whilst it was absolutely true, I didn't want to admit that the punishment had got under my skin.

There was a discussion about him being 'sooooo strict' and then that followed with a back and forth as to whether he was 'tooo strict'. I refused to answer, unlike me. I know better. He insisted I did, I continued to play for time, until I'd got his back up. 'Time's up' he typed and left. Now I was really mad! I sent an email which pretty clearly showed that I had unresolved issues.

The next day we chatted. He asked me a question and then immediately typed 'Don't answer that' and then 'Here's the situation'. He typed out that I had disoebyed the rules, lied, made serious errors of judgment and that I got punished for it. What possible issue could I have? I offered that he had made fun of me. 'Mountain meet mole hill' he typed, and he was right. Whilst he had the good grace not to say it, I was having a problem taking my well deserved punishment. I simply wasn't used to being told that I couldn't do something and having disobeyed and lied, punished. I see this all very clearly now. I had to take that final step of accepting that I wasn't in control, that rules had been laid down and that failure to follow them and fibbing about any said lack of failure would incur swift retribution.

I haven't touched a lolly since. It seems sensible for me to treat them the same way I do cake. Instead, twice a week, at say, three day intervals, I'll allow myself one block of 70+ dark chocolate as a treat. That's it. He's quite right. Nothing was going to happen weight loss wise until I rid myself of that sweet tooth and listened to him. The end justifies the means. The only desired outcome: compliance. I respect that. I am learning.

Being corrected

After all this time, I still can't quite believe that I'm the sort of person that needs a boss. The evidence is indisputable, the behaviours so instinctual, and yet, it sometimes feels unbelievable to me, like a dream, like I'm talking about somebody else.

I read just before a quote on tumblr: 'The grip may be loose, but it is there, and it is a constant.' It's a very nice sentiment but it doesn't serve me that well. I once believed that it is entirely enough, maybe even too much, but it's not, for me. I do best with rules, even if I'm not always sure that I like the rules.

The truth is that I am indeed the sort of person that does well, and struggles, with tighter control than that. Erotically, psychologically, tight control is enticing. Egoistically, this same tight control that seems to be a very good fit, confounds me, because I am not, and never was, especially comfortable with the notion of correction. Oh sure, correction can be arousing but it is also deeply challenging. There's that distinct part of my brain that wants to say, 'Just who do you think you are?!'

For several days I've asked myself 'Why?' Why is it that I am so profoundly challenged by being corrected, really brought to task for something? I can only answer that I don't like making mistakes. I don't like being called on my mistakes. My sense of self demands that I do things well, but flaws, human flaws that we all have, weaknesses and limitations, prevent me from always achieving my best. This seems reasonable to me but quite unreasonable, of course, to a boss. He wants more.

Sometimes, I simply don't do my best. Sometimes, I wing it. Sometimes, I grab that little treat, even if I am not entitled to it. Or, I dilly dally. Or, I don't give a task the importance it (or someone else thinks it) deserves. To put it simply, I please myself, which is not conducive to having a boss.

I wrestle with this. I know I want a boss, but a boss corrects, which means I have to 'pull my head out of my ass' long enought to recognize that what I do, or don't do, is the problem. If I want a boss, and  I do, I have to conform, do things his way, and not my own.

This is all commonsense, BDSM 101. Still, it's fun to plant bombs under his chair, in my mind. I'm not the only one doing that, right?

Fantasy versus reality

I'm sent emails on topics related to kinky literature newly published and to be honest I am rarely interested in it. It's a very rare day when I find a story exactly to my tastes. However, the blurb about this book suggested it had promise, being incredibly dark and dire. I linked over to Amazon and read the free preview first chapter. Oh yes, it was entirely to my tastes -  18 year old girls sent off to an 'institution' to be reformed in their behavior and prepared for a suitable marriage to a very strict man.

I didn't have much time to read it. Initially I was skimming the material. However, I  found myself tracking back over some paragraphs because I'd become engaged in the story almost immediately. In the end, I slowed down and thrilled to read of Masters and Mistresses so strict from the outset that there was absolutely no doubt in the girls' minds that it was best to obey all instructions instantly. For example, it took no more than one hard, sometimes two, hard beatings with a wooden paddle for them to learn to respond to a Master at all times by addressing him as "Sir". That paddle, with the word 'OBEDIENCE' painted onto it, had reformed their mindset in no more than two minutes.

Now, in real life, I'd be devastated: devastated for them and devastated for myself, should I ever find myself in that dastardly, despairing situation. There was no way out for these girls. They were going to be going through real ordeals; a nightmare. Affection or care, let alone love, didn't seem remotely possible there. However, in storyland it 'wetted' my appetites. I've been lost ever since in that story, in my mind, and when I need a little pick-me-up for a few seconds here or there, going about my day, I think about it.

Well, more than that, I masturbated to similar images this morning, noticing that the literature had had its effects on my body's arousal, but I added on. In my mind's images, the girls' training had progressed that they knew that when told to get on their knees and the Master approached them they instantly opened their mouths wide; instantly knew their purpose was to provide that opening for his pleasure.

Like any woman, I have my sensibilities and limits. I deplore rudeness. That's why, fundamentally, the scene is a fantasy for me, because in real life, my expectations are that I will be respected. That's not to say that I wouldn't be prepared to enact that scene myself but rather that as I go about my day and my life there is an expectation that my feelings will be taken into account; that any conversations I have will have a give and take aspect to them and that a man won't leave the conversation without a proper end to it. In other words, I expect, like all women should expect, that I'll be treated well.

Yes, we women who thrive in disciplinary settings/arrangements like to leave all the niceties of modern life behind. There are not too many please and thank yous in these disciplinary scenes and conversations and nor is the girls' feelings necessarily taken into account. The man is going to take liberties and she's going to feel vulnerable; put out; angry. I get all that. But it has to be counterpointed with a different kind of dynamic and interaction at other times. That's my point. Maybe I do get off by being barked at; told to do;  disciplined and punished. What's the point of denying it? I just do.

Yet, without some tenderness, some smiles, some laughs, and a little romance, where would a girl be? I'll tell you where she'd be. She'd be at that horrible reform school 24 hours a day and there's no girl in the whole wide world that would want that.

Regimen

I began life with one obsession/kink and over time I added on several other kinks. I was about eight, I'd say, when I first imagined being disciplined as my bath would draw. It was easy to hide this situation from any adults because I'd simply bend over and touch my toes. Being flexible and having started ballet at the age of four, this would not have seemed at all unusual to anyone, as far as I know. I'd be imagining being in trouble and in order to discipline me I'd be told to bend over and take a spanking. I still do the same thing today; bend over as my bath is drawing and imagine that I have been told to do this in order to be spanked. Some things don't change.

It's clear to any reader who has been around these parts for a time that my thinking brain does not always approve of my kinks and I do find myself occasionally catching the kink and speaking back to it.

"I don't want that. Why would I want that?"

This is true, in a sense, because I don't necessarily want to be disciplined. I crave to be disciplined.

Since discipline did, in fact, become a part of my reality, there have been times, for various reasons, when it hasn't been a part of my life. Sometimes, I feel the crushing blow instantly and know immediately what I have lost and how lost I will be without it. Other times, I celebrate for a full 48 hours, thrilled that I am finally done with the craving, only to discover that it is not so easy, and I'll take any consequence if I can just have the discipline back in my life. It's pervasive. It's permanent, in terms of desire, and there is nothing I can do about that.

I like to imagine what the discipline would look like, if I were to be at the beginning of a relationship with a man (of no discernible features or identity); a man who sees me as his to do as he wants; a man who suits himself. By imagining in this way, I can go to scenarios where I allow my thoughts to run free; to test myself.

There is absolutely no doubt that when I came to see him, or he came to see me, he'd have told me what he wanted. My hair and make up, the clothing I wore, my jewellery and my mode of presentation of my body would all be dictated by him. Without a doubt, he'd ensure that I had complied in all ways.

This is a man who looks to transform me in virtually all ways that suit him, so he'd be gradually but assuredly making changes to my body and my mind that pleased him. It's likely therefore that he'd ask me to wear an anal plug, a particular plug of his choosing, one that stretched me, literally and figuratively, challenged me and reduced me to a toy. He'd therefore want to make inspection of that area of my body particularly. He'd like me to feel vulnerable, that I do things at his behest and that I comply, without exception. Finding me just as he demanded would please him greatly and he'd tell me that he was pleased. I'm a 'praise slut' and he'd know that, since a "good girl" had gone a very long way right from the start.

In fact, there'd be no reason to punish me at all, but that does not mean that he'd not discipline me in a corporal way. He'd know from our discussions that it was a kink of mine, and in any case, he'd love to see me squirm and wiggle under his hand; to hear me grunt and groan as he brought the whip down on my backside. Nothing would please him more as he watched my rump change colors and I don't even need to say that lust would eventually overtake him and that he'd find me a wet mess, praying to God that he'd plunder me at the earliest opportunity.

It's incredibly difficult for me to imagine that this scenario, or various interpretations of it, could ever grow old. These images are with me every day of my life. There's not the slightest chance, as far as I can see, that they are going anywhere.

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.

Paddles

My husband very sweetly suggested this Saturday morning that we do something fun together today. We weighed up the options and decided to head for a country town where I know there are lots of good restaurants and fun galleries to wander through.

I love these little sojourns where we can be on our own. Over lunch the conversation got around to kinky sorts of subjects. I had just received a parcel with an object called The Ass Master and we chatted about the possibilities of that amongst other naughty topics. There was lots of giggling on my part and lots of insinuations on his part as to what could be my fate.

From there, we visited a lovely, rather chic gift and home store. I spotted two lovely living chairs that I'd love but my husband wasn't interested in paying the exorbitant price on the tags. Fair enough. Wandering further around the store I saw a pair of butter paddles. The thick set of wooden paddles were in immaculate order and call me nuts but I pointed them out to him, not the other way around.

"Look at these paddles. Aren't they interesting!"

"They were used to make butter balls."

"Oh, I made butter balls for my Gran when I was just a little girl."

I wait for the penny to drop...

"But, you know, cindi, they could have another purpose."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, I think we'll get these."

So, mission accomplished, my husband took them to the counter to pay for them. In attendance were two women, slightly older than us, full of chat and as it turns out, innuendo.

"Ah, so you've chosen the butter paddles. That's interesting you want those. You know we have people coming into the store telling us horrendous stories about these butter paddles from their childhood."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, it seems they hurt like hell. You know, we sell a lot of wooden spoons..."

"Do you?"

My husband felt it best to distract them with talk of corsets, another of the objects they sold and how he used to lace up his grandmother as a young boy."

"Oh yes. I think the women back then made the young children do that, in a perverted way."

It was getting weird. No matter what we did the conversation returned to them calling us for who (what) we were. I bowed out, choosing to wander around the store and pretend I was unaware of their game.

So, all paid, one of the women passed the bag to my husband.

"Well, it's off to the dairy with you and enjoy your instrument of discipline."

 Cheeky.

Spanked for procrastination

The day started out well. The youngest lad walked off to school happily and I made for the gym and had a good workout. I didn't stop for tea because the plan was to go straight home to read my lecture and do my work. All good, so far.

I got home and made my owner and myself a poached egg on toast; had a little chat about various points of interest and then sat down to do my work. Simple. On track.

This is the danger moment. Perhaps if I were just to check the gmail...Ah yes, a comment. Best reply to that; it's only polite.

Then, perhaps just a quick look at a pikki or two....Oh, that one's nice...and I could post it for all those deviants who come to my blog to look for smut. No harm in sharing...

So, I've done that now and it really is time that I went about my work, or something like what happened to this girl might happen to me. Wouldn't it be fun if Masters still spanked girls who procrastinate like in the good ole days...

Okay. Okay. I'm going to do my work.

Nearly spanked with a hairbrush

Last night, I had a dream about getting a spanking. This is a very rare event. Unlike Abel who has regular dreams about giving spankings, I don't, alas, dream about getting a spanking except on very rare nights.

I was living with another family. There was a dream before that dream where I was with a boy, a disabled boy who I think belonged to this family. I was very close to him and putting two and two together, somehow or other I was a part of their family. Maybe, they'd adopted me or maybe I was an exchange student. I really don't know.

Anyways, clearly I'd done something naughty and the father was not at all happy with me. I seemed to know that I was going to get a spanking. I was waiting in the living room area of their house and I felt a sense of expectation about it. Maybe, I should have had a sense of foreboding about it but I don't recall that; just a knowledge that at any time he could call me for my punishment. I was completely accepting although I had no idea what a spanking would be like. I am clear on that. I felt curious as much as I felt worried. I was fairly certain it was going to hurt quite a bit. I figured that if someone was going to punish you by putting you over their knee, they were going to make sure it was memorable and motivated a person to never do that thing again. But, I didn't know for sure.

He came into the room and he said to me, "Let's get this over with. Into my study."

I got up immediately and walked into the study. I was ready to do exactly as told but at that moment he remembered that he'd left the hair brush in another part of the house. I was disappointed that we couldn't get on with the discipline. I had this sense that punishment was a good thing because once I got what I deserved I'd be able to be forgiven and to move on with a clean slate. I distinctly remember wanting that spanking so that I could be punished and be done with the sense that I was "in trouble" and in the bad books.  There would be no pleading for leniency from me. I wanted that hiding.

And, then...the dream ended. I never did get my spanking. I never did get a chance for the father to tell me that I had been forgiven and that he expected me from now on to obey his rules and that he felt sure that I was a good girl who simply needed to be reminded that it was my place to do as I was told.

I am still awfully disappointed about it. I can't understand at all why my subconscious would derail me in this way and not allow me the correction I so sorely needed. And, it's not the first time I've been taken up to the moment of a good thrashing in my dreams only to be let off the hook by waking up. It's absolutely not fair!

Naughty Samantha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jen?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I was bad."

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

"Jen?"

"Yes, Samantha?"

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

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

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

"Well, that's a first."

"I love you Jen."

"I love you too, Sam."

"I'll be good from now on."

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

"Jen, can I spoon in?"

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

"Oh, I am completely sure."

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

"Night night, Jen."

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