Fantasy, anticipation, emanation

Whilst I have never before had much interest in Astrology, my dabble into that field lately has shown up such synchronicity that it is now impossible for me to dismiss it.

It is believed, according to the day and time I was born, in a particular location on this planet, that my challenge was destined to be 'fantasy'. To try to put that into my own words and based on what I have read, I have been a seeker of experiences of joy, but perhaps looking in the wrong places. 

I have had experiences, wanted more experiences like those experiences and I have done this because I saw, or shall we say 'felt' a connection between those experiences and the divine. To put that another way, those experiences expressed themselves to me as attaining the nothingness with which we come into the world and the nothingness with which we leave the world.

I completely resonate with this 'truth'. I had an experience early on in my adulthood. The Earth stood still as I orgasmed. The sense of nothingness, of emptiness, of ecstatic joy were all rolled together in my mind. Once I had had that experience, I wanted more.

For some astrological thinkers, this is the 'challenge' of living through fantasy, and most particularly sexual fantasy. For others, it's called 'dissatisfaction'. I am, it is said, chasing joy, interfering with the natural processes by trying to create the thing I think will bring joy.

From my end, I know such experiences have brought me great joy, but I also know that they can't be relied upon, because those attempts don't consider the needs of my surroundings - that being that my husband is far less into those experiences than me and I cannot attain those experiences without him. They come but they come spasmodically. His mind is busy and it's really hard for him to turn it off such as to focus on consistent great sexual experiences that honestly bring us both great joy when they do happen.

In the literature I have read, I don't need to be burdened by the fact that I have been born with this challenge, otherwise known as a feminine core wound. I can find my vitality and power in other ways. I can achieve that sense of emptiness; that void that comes to me when my body sings, in other ways.

Of course, I am willing to explore this. A correspondent on tumblr once told me that sexuality was not my spiritual path but just one path to the Highest Path. That was years and years ago and it seems he was right.

With a rather good understanding now of what that means, of course I am willing to learn the lessons in an even deeper way.

Alas, I am also aware that neither my body nor my mind will willingly sacrifice the 'fantasy' of high sexual charge; of being reduced to nothingness; no-one; nobody. It's been in my wiring for a very long time. 

It is written that the power of Grace will ensure that all my dreams will ultimately come true, but only when I understand what my highest dreams really are.

I understand the words. I know I have seen glimpses of my highest dreams in sexual experiences, and I know there is a higher purpose behind those desires.  I perhaps underestimated the power and value of other forms of the present moment, those experiences I can achieve on my own, where the end returns us back to the start. I have experienced those states too, and very recently so. I will try to put those experiences down soon.

I believe that my 'fantasy' was for my Highest Good - equanimity - but perhaps the vehicle for the ride requires revisiting, given the lack of compatibility with my environment. Perhaps, it is thought, I need to include the Highest good of other people. I admit I have felt this in my bones for some time. When I am not leading a meditation group, I yearn for those opportunities to assist others.

I'm told Venus holds more information for me. Happy to learn. I will return when I know more.

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...)

Lessons of the past year

For many years, forever, there has been a fantasy running through my head; that there would be a man in my life who would instinctively and completely understand my need to fall under his wing in every way.

The roles in this fantasy have always been well defined and in order to hone down into that space the fantasies are often a little cruel, when in fact the role I play for him, and him for me, is anything but that; deeply loving, caring, sharing; adored and adoring. I think when we are young there is a sense of wide open space and infinite possibilities that allow for such a fantasy in a young girl's mind and for decades it refused to die. It not only survives, it thrives, even though I am in my sixties now.

It's no co-incidence that I took special note of the story of Jane Eyre as a child. Loving Mr Rochester and him loving her back was molded into the roles they played for one another. I remember feeling at great peace for Jane in the final scene, and deep peace within myself as she sat on the ground right by him, him on the seat patting her head (at least that is the way I remember the scene). It's romantic love that I attuned to even back then but also the themes of maturity versus youth, femininity versus masculinity, leader versus follower. Which is not to say that Jane didn't have a wisdom or an innate understanding of Mr Rochester that she brought to the table. I've always thought of Jane as instinctively attuned to Mr Rochester; his ways, his needs.

It's very hard to let go of such an enduring fantasy and for many years I tended to have a thought at the back of my mind -  if I can't have it all, then I'll do without. But, that thought broke down many times over as I came to see that I was attempting to annihilate out of my life my innate self. The kinky mind has been with me for longer than most of the people reading this has been alive. It's an enduring, soothing thought. It's an important part of my sexuality. It is my sexuality.

As a Caretaker type, meaning a person who can put others needs ahead of their own needs, self-care was a foreign thought.  I said recently to a small group of people - maybe 12 of us, a very safe small group - that it was only very recently, perhaps  the past twelve months or a little longer, that I have understood what self-love even meant. It's been a huge year of self discovery in that sense.

The most important lesson of the year has been that I can't wait for and shouldn't expect 'Mr Rochester' to save me; to tend to me; to lovingly dominate me. Wonderful when it comes along, but silly to wait; to pine for, to wish, to feel resentment and sorrow when there is that lack in my life.

It's a commitment to giving up the victim role, the persecutor role and the savior role. It's akin to saying 'It is what it is' and 'We are as we are'. It's looking at the situation and seeing if there is a new way to resolve the fact that we are in fact very different people; neither better or worse, good or bad; just people whose attention is drawn towards different areas of life. It's recognizing we are equals, with strengths and weaknesses, and seeing if we can accommodate that individuality within a more fun paradigm that includes both of us being fulfilled.

We are as we are, all of us, and there are measures I can take to soothe myself when his attention is steered in another direction; to feel whole; to connect in with my intrinsic self. It's not ideal; not really at all like the fantasy that has endured my whole life, but nonetheless it feels right to care for myself as best I can; to have no specific expectations. This leaves room, I anticipate, for experiences that will satisfy within certain scenarios.

Gratitude is so important in life and I have so much to be grateful for.  I think as we age we develop some wisdom about that. A new home, a new baby, a new dress are all wonderfully exciting things in life in the moment, but so too is a great cup of coffee, the moment when the rose blooms, a cool evening breeze after a hot day, the touch of lips meeting lips; the wagging tail of a dog. There are sweetnesses in life every day if we are attuned to them.

Someone I have come to know was having lunch with Ram Dass one day (what a fantasy that is!) many years ago when she said to him, 'Well, it looks like I won't be having children'. He more or less waved her off. 'Well, there's always something we want we don't get,' he said.  Or, words like that.

This stunned her a bit. It wasn't a small thing she wasn't getting, after all. And yet, she took the point. It's the human condition to have to suffer the loss, or never to have at all, that which we covet. Ask anyone and there will be something in this life desperately wanted but not got - a loving mother, the respect of a father, the admiration of a child, to be an actress or a painter, to work, to not work, to love, to be loved, to have a mentor, to be in print. We all have our thing.

I recently read a quote of Brene Brown. 'Joy, collected over time, fuels resilience.' Like a habit of mind, when we go in search for joy, we collect it in abundance, and this builds resilience for the disappointments and sorrows in life.

As this year comes to an end I feel proud of lessons learned: a willingness and ability to take care of myself, when and if I must; pockets full of joy; resilience; promise that tomorrow will take care of itself.

A review of 2016 at Christmas

Few people would disagree that it has been a turbulent year. One feels this turbulence in the air and there is little doubt that there's been a lot of anger and upset expressed, as evidenced in the American election process, to name just one oddity this year. I heard one psychologist express the opinion that Trump, an undeniable narcissistic individual, could not have been elected if the nation wasn't so full of people who felt perfectly fine with identifying with those qualities. Food for thought there.

On a personal level, the year has been something of a process for me as well. Ross Rosenberg, a psychologist who specializes in Love Deficit Disorder uses the analogy of a person who is wearing glasses that are foggy. Such a person can only see what he (or she) sees, but once fitted with suitable glasses where he (or she) is able to see quite clearly, the thinking transforms. That's the way I have felt.

When I look back on the last several years of my life I was somewhat blinded to what was going on inside of me. I knew that something felt very uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn't know how to fix that feeling. Part of that was to do with the fact that my husband really did become excessively preoccupied with a range of matters and I missed his attention and affection.

However, by looking too closely at his behaviour and not my own, I was missing a vital clue. Then, I started to examine my behaviour more closely and to listen to his observations without dismissing them as him making excuses for being distant.

I'm a researcher, by instinct and training. The Internet gave me the opportunity to delve into issues, but it took more than the reading itself. It was a giant jigsaw puzzle and I was often short of a piece or two of the puzzle. I'd read Pia Mellody, or Ross Rosenberg, and I'd get it, but only intellectually. By that I mean I couldn't quite understand how it related to me and to my life; what I thought, what I did; how I reacted to circumstances.

I identified, eventually, that I had been neglected in childhood and that was a major move in the right direction. I still don't and never will see it as a wilful act of neglect because it just was not that way. However, it was neglect. I was left to my own devices to bring myself and my younger brother up as best I could. I was often alone. I was forced to revert to a fantasy world. I never came first in anybody's eyes.

Still, I was loved. I could feel the love and that kept me whole. Or, so I thought. I didn't understand until earlier this year that there had been damage caused to me that left me vulnerable and open.

I am someone akin to an 'echoist'. I put others' needs first. I'm the opposite to someone who puts their own needs first.

Okay. So, I identified that about myself. The psychologist several years ago identified that about me too and tried to help me with 'boundaries' and doing something for myself and not feeling bad about all that. I tried hard to get it but that part of me just wasn't ready to understand what she was saying such that I could put it into practice. Oh, I did the Masters and did well, but my self-esteem still needed a great deal of work. I can't blame her, or anyone, for thoughts that I was useless at something for which I got very high grades. That was my issue and something that still needed a great deal of work.

The problem lay in the fact that I was relying on other people for my self-worth; good grades, successful husband and children; being a good bimbo; that sort of thing. I had to learn to esteem myself; to have a sense of inherent worth equal to others. Importantly, I needed to stop feeling 'better than' or less than' other people. I've a great deal of empathy for people so I didn't realize I was doing this until it occurred to me that I had always felt empty outside of relationship. Think carefully about that if this relates.

Next, I had to learn how to set boundaries; to stop just doing what other people wanted me to do and expected me to do. I had to learn to negotiate; to stand up for myself; to express my upset when I was upset and not hold it, eventually becoming over emotional when it seemed that I was being taken for granted. This is a work in progress. It has caused some dissent but on the whole I have received great encouragement. I have experienced some kick-back but most people have accepted that I must finally express and put in place some boundaries for myself. I'm proud of my work here. I can't stop being me, someone who cares, but I can explain what I need and that's apparently exactly what I need to do to develop interdependent skills.

When someone isn't sure who they are, they are susceptible to making up a personal identity and reality out of who they think they should be. I knew I wanted to be a mother and a wife, and I knew I loved to write and read; that I loved children and I trained as a teacher. However, my fantasy life was vivid, real in  a sense, and it became confused with my reality.

I love submission in the bedroom. I love to feel a helpmate. For example, on the whole, in the garden I'm happy for my husband to take the lead and I get to do what he lets me do. I follow his lead, offering suggestions that he takes up, or not. This is the way with us. It has always been this way. But, then I got into other things, honed down into darker fantasies, and it was confusing.

The challenge was to sort out the reality from the fantasy and this took a long time for reasons I'd prefer not to go into. Suffice to say that it is vital that a person sort out their reality from their fantasy in order to have a stable identity and to feel comfortable in their skin. 'Submissive' is difficult terminology because someone can so easily throw at you that you aren't submissive enough, as if that's a flaw. Watch that.

Finally, I had to learn how to identify my needs and my wants. I need intimacy.  Pia Mellody writes that 'children who are neglected and abandoned may grow up with issues of feeling needless/wantless.' I confused the two things, or I used the wants to deal with the lack in my life of my 'needs'. I have learned to go and ask for a hug, or to arrange to spend time together. I am learning how to do this and I am proud of that. This area still needs work.

In her book 'The Intimacy Factor' Pia writes on page 118, 'Without boundaries, there is no relationship. Without relationship there is no intimacy. Without intimacy there is no love, and without love the spiritual path is hidden from us. Boundaries create the experience of truth and respect in which love can grow. We recognize that our inherent worth cannot be taken away from us by the display of our authentic selves...Trauma work aims at identifying the abuse that first made us allergic to ourselves - to our flawed and imperfect humanity.'

All that to say that 2016 has for me been a year of extraordinary growth and vision. I can point to several wonderful successes in the family - my eldest son has become the youngest Director and Junior Partner of his company worldwide, and my youngest son has gained entry into the second year of the highly selective course he has set his sights on for several years, and I am very, very proud and happy for them - but I am also very proud of myself. I had to work extremely hard on myself this year to get the insight and vision into my own failings and the issues that held me back from happiness and peace. I look forward to my future and the future of all people. I do believe the best is yet to come.

May you all have a very happy and blessed Christmas. Please do think about inviting to your Christmas Day someone who may well not have somewhere to go. I have come across a good number of these people lately and it reminds me that 'family' includes anyone who needs a good dose of love and care.

Be well. With love.
xxx

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.

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!

Silence

And, the news is good. My son sent me a text message a few hours ago that he was sitting on a Qantas flight bound for Brisbane.

Yayayayayayayayayayayayay!

It was pretty torrid there, I have to say and as an Internet friend very rightly pointed out, we will have to watch for post-traumatic stress. But, he's a particularly solid and sensible young man and I know he will be all right.

I stayed up late watching Fox News (as you do) listening for any reports that I could find about the conditions over there and by bed time I felt reasonably satisfied that his area was all right. (In fact, they had a great many tornadoes in his area but not huge ones.)

Just before I got into bed he got a text message through to me. "I'm safe. Weather conditions are settling." Just what his mother was waiting to hear. Now, I could sleep!

I sent back one telling him I had booked two seats for Saturday's lunch at his favourite restaurant. I thought it might lift his spirits and he wrote back. "Can't wait."

And so in my family, life goes on. We are one of the lucky ones. I know this and as my brother said when he was so close to the floods earlier in the year, but unaffected, "I feel guilty for surviving."

Life throws up things. My mother has complained her head off lately about the driving of a friend of hers and yesterday was the day they were involved in what could have easily been a fatal accident but was in fact an accident where they walked away unscathed. You just never know, I guess.

Perhaps it was my need to escape for a little from the real world or perhaps a little hormone therapy kicked in. It tends to do that on day 3 to 5 and oh boy, have things changed in that department! For the first time in many months I felt inspired to write a kinky story.

So, here's where readers come in. He has told her that she may not speak for the whole day. Not a word! Absolute silence. Has that ever happened to you? How did it go? And, why did it happen in the first place? I so want to finish this kinky story but I need a plausible reason why he would insist on this and I need a sense of just how challenging this is.

I do have some experience in this but the time frame is much shorter - four hours. I absolutely loved it! It is one of my favourite BDSM experiences and I remember that afterwards I felt beautiful; loved, lovable; totally cared for!

Please share your experiences with me and maybe I can share the story!

Enlightenment

One of the challenges of being a parent is to accept that your children are not little miniatures of yourself; that any child you produce for the world may be very much like you or not like you at all. All my four children are very unique beings, quite different to one another in most ways except to say that they are all good people and all quite soft and caring sort of people.

Their upbringing is very different to mine and of course, the world has moved on since I was growing up and being, say, 23 years old now is rather different to being 23 years old 25 years ago, I think. What people of that age want out of life could well be vastly different than what we wanted back then at that age. Contemporary culture and childhood experiences are going to shape us in ways we don't quite know and the challenge is not to judge and to understand that we all have our separate journeys through life; that no one can really hurry someone along; that maturity and knowledge and wisdom and fulfilment will come when the time is ready. As my boss used to say when I wouldn't heed his advice, "I guess you have to make your own mistakes."

One of the experiences I knew I wanted to have in London was to go to a Church service at Westminster Abbey. I was happy to go alone but my daughter insisted she was happy to come along. Plans with young people change minute by minute I find, and Saturday evening had her having drinks with a man friend whilst Sunday morning found them both hung over. Nevertheless, both of them agreed to come along and so off we went to Westminster Abbey.

I love churches. Something happens to me when I walk into any church, but to walk into Westminster after a period of 30 years since I have last been there was truly profound. It is such a beautiful church and the service this morning which focused on the death of Christ was a very beautiful one with a great deal of divine choral singing. The sound emanating through the Cathedral was so intensely beautiful that I found tears pouring down my face. I was deeply moved to hear such beauty amongst the splendour of the Abbey. It was one of those moments when you feel very close to your maker and when the reason for being here on this earth seems very clear. It was a coming together of the person from my past and the person who I am now - both of those people always in search of beauty, of grace and of deep meaning but in somewhat different ways.

It saddened me then and it saddens me now as I write to recognize that my daughter got so little out of the experience. Yet, I could be wrong about that. Perhaps one day on reflection it will mean a great deal - one day when she is ready to look at life with a bit more contemplative thought. I guess you would be right if you thought that I was missing my husband at that moment. He would have adored the Abbey and the service and completely understood my tears and my sense of being overwhelmed by the spectacular beauty.

Since I was often alone as a child, my world was of my own making and perhaps it is the reason why I have a strong and vivid inner life. My imagination always keeps me company. I read a lot and I have a hunger to see the places I have read about. It is why I find such wonder in being in London. Perhaps, it is why I can enter into the world of cindi with such ease and why I embrace her so completely. I see nothing wrong with, and never have, creating alternate realities. I've read on other peoples' blogs comments about that recently and of course I agree that it is entirely healthy to radiate in the pleasure and relaxation of creating an alternate experience other than just the "real world".

Yet as much as I can relate to creating alternate realities (my eldest son had two imaginary friends that we refer to to this day), I seek much more. Constantly, I await those rare but very precious moments when I may be transported higher; lifted spiritually off the ground and into the space of mind that can only be described as "the divine". I wait and wait for those moments and when they come, I feel a radiance and a sense of being filled with purity that is like no other feeling in the world. Sometimes, every so often, my submissive response takes me to that spiritual lightness of being. I was most certainly there today in the Abbey.

If I could give my daughter, my sons but one gift in life it would be to experience the sense of completeness that I felt today and that I have experienced in moments of submission and love. Whether they will ever know what I know, I cannot say. Perhaps it is not my job to be concerned about this and on their own personal journeys through life they will come to know things that I will never know. Such is life. I continue to hope that they may experience moments of being transported to a higher realm as I am just as I wish it for you; for everyone. My goodness, but it radiates beauty up there!

My image

Although we talk about 'dominants' and 'submissives' in a very general sort of way much of the time, I wonder if we don't have an image in our heads that defines our sense of submission or domination. For me there was one scenario that I carried around in my head from an early age. This scenario goes to the heart of my kink. By the time I had left school it was firmly cemented in my mind, even though I didn't tell anyone about it.

I am not sure when I wrote the first story about submitting to another's will. In the same way that I didn't talk about my fantasies, I didn't tell people about the stories I penned and I certainly didn't show them to anyone. It was a secret just for myself. But, it went like this...

I was a single girl. I was educated. I was capable. I took a job. The details of the job in the fantasy changed from time to time, but usually I worked within the realm of the English department of a university. I was not a senior person but I was responsible to a senior person - the Head of the Faculty.

He was considerably older than me; much more experienced and definitely more learned. He took a shine to me. He recognized that underneath that quiet, controlled and neat exterior lay a girl who was in need of guidance and that if he could guide me, I would be a great aid to him; even a comfort to him.

He decided to put me in charge of special projects and he began by having me research various details for the paper he was writing. I loved that I had a special task and that he had chosen me to help him. I tried very hard to impress him and worked hard on the research.

Sometimes, I let myself down. He was a perfectionist and occasionally I did not go the extra mile to see that all the details were correct. In my youthful thought process I failed to see how he could ever know this.

Inevitably, he would call me into his office to ask a variety of questions and he would point out that some topic needed more work. Had I checked this or that file? Had I read the analysis of this or that poem?

Perhaps once, I fibbed a bit but never again after that. He made it very clear that he didn't care for sloppy work and he had no time for a girl who lied. After that, my approach to the work was incredibly diligent. I just wanted to impress him; to hear that he was pleased. He could be quite harsh; much harsher on me than on any other girl in his faculty and one day I asked him why that was so.

"I don't care about them. I care about you," he said. "I want you to be the best you can be."

Finally, I understood the dynamic between us; what I meant to him and how important he was to me. Our relationship was not at all sexual, at least to this point, but he demanded my best and I gave it to him. I bathed in his praise of me and my work and I occasionally suffered the brunt of his disapproval and vowed to do better.

I revelled in his care and although he never said, I knew that he looked forward to seeing me each day and that I lit up his day, as he did mine. I felt incredibly honoured to be the one he had chosen to work extra hard, to obsess over detail and to make him his tea. I cared about him and for him and he watched over me.

Occasionally, he would invite me for a brandy at the end of the working day, and as we sat side by side in the comfortable chairs where he received visitors, chatting a little and reading the evening's papers, I would consider myself the luckiest girl in the university to be under the tutelage of this sage and sophisticated man who knew so much more of the world than me. There was no place I'd rather be than right here, sitting contained beside him.

This image lives on in my mind and has shaped the woman I have become but as the years go by the image has altered perhaps in line with what now is and is not possible...

I no longer have a strong interest in a career of my own but I continue to want to be a help mate to a strong and successful man. I support him, care for him and assist him in all and any ways I can. I want to be improved - to be the model of perfection in his eyes. However, being proud, self assured and sometimes even bold, I recognize that correction will inevitably come my way. As much as he tries (and he does try hard) , efforts to annihilate that streak of independence in me prove to be difficult. I hold onto that part of me that is just for me.

He recognizes he needs help and a few times a year I am sent away for training. This yields results as my ego chips away to reveal a core desire and need to submit to this man's will and to experience great pleasure and peace. I am coming to understand that 'choice' is not a word appropriate for me but rather that I submit to his demands and commands. I am subjected to various humiliations as part of my training and yet secretly I enjoy them and even revel in them.

I progress. I alter and transform and one day I find that I have let go of that secret place inside of me. I relinquish my ego and give it away in full trust that it is of no further use to me. He leads me where he wants me to go and I do whatever he wants. I experience peace; joy and complete fulfilment.

Perhaps you can see significance in the story and the way that it has altered over time. For me, the notion of being pleasing and wanting to please is central to my state of mind, no matter what my age. So too is the image of a rather strict man in my life with exacting standards and high expectations of me.

At all ages, I have had a notion of love being given to me through discipline. It was never in my mind that love would be given to me by spoiling me or being soft with me or letting me away with things. My best was always demanded as an expression of the love he felt for me and in return I loved him by being disciplined and giving him by best.

Who knows why I conjured this image. I don't really know except to say that I learned ballet from the age of four. My teacher was a very strict Russian man who would scream at us if we made a mistake, yet I never felt put down by him, always trying hard. I doubt I was very good but I never gave up and eventually I think I was quite good. He rewarded me with the occasional prize or piece of praise - for example, a book about the Russian ballet which I coveted for many years. One day, when I was about 14 or 15 he saw me in a department store and beamed. I had grown to be a beautiful girl, he said. It was high praise indeed from a man who had so little praise to give, perfectionist that he was.

I realized at that moment, all those years after I had begun learning from him that he was actually very fond of me and I think that feeling stayed with me - that sense of basking in his glow. Perhaps there is something else locked away in my memory banks to explain it more. I honestly don't know.

All I can really say for sure is that the image in my mind of wanting to please a rather strict man who quietly cares for me is almost as old as me. It never fades. It never goes away. It just alters a little bit and then gets even more intense. It is the essence of who I am and why I write here.

Dream on

Personally, I am not really into porn. In large measure that is because I don't really know where to go to find it and when and if I do, I draw the line at paying for it. In my mind, that could flip me over to the dark side where I might be seen as "aberrant", and we can't have that.

The other major reason I am not into it is that just watching people do things to each other without knowing the story behind those people doesn't do all that much for me. I'm not saying that I haven't watched the little free clips, because I have watched them. But, if there are words attached to the little scene, I am sure to read them because I want to know whatever I can about the set up of the scene.

I have my little tumbler site and I enjoy re blogging a photograph there. But, I might look very quickly through a hundred photographs before I find one that moves me enough to do that. We are all very individual about that but a young, skinny girl waving her tush at the camera doesn’t do much for me. I might feel differently about a man doing such a thing (does anyone know of any sites where men feature in the pikkis? That’s a joke. But, do you?) Generally speaking I like some interaction between the man and the woman and I like it to be stylish. (Okay, so, maybe I like some rather non-stylish things too but let's not get distracted.)

My point is that I see nothing wrong with porn or sexual photographs containing consenting adults. I freely admit that I am in my middle years and I am surrounded by people in their middle years. I see them at school, at the Club where I exercise, in the city, on the train, at lunches and dinners and I don’t feel that any harm would come to them if they added a little porn or smut into their day.

Consider the middle aged accountant in the city who has read the Financial Review on his way to work on the train. He sits at his desk all morning swamped by papers related to his client’s financial taxation returns. He allows his mind to drift for a moment to wonder why the orthodontist wants his right arm to pay for his teenage daughter’s braces and why his wife got so mad just because he forgot to put out the rubbish bins, again. What harm can it do him to check out his tumbler site at lunch time whilst he eats a sandwich and drinks a cup of coffee?

I dream. I dream constantly. Shortly I will take my pups for a long walk around the river and I’ll dream my head off. Later in the day, I’ll head out downtown to do a list of errands and I will wear my day plug as I do. I love the way it makes me feel, the dreamy place I go in my head and I love that it makes me feel contained; cared for and under control. If I can incorporate my inner world into my every day – my inner world into my practical world – that makes me very happy.

A number of my readers are of the academic ilk and I love that they drop by at some point in their day of heavy thinking to spend a few light minutes here. I think everybody deserves some time to dream – to tap into their inner world, their desires; what floats their boat.

In fact, I think the sex writer plays an important role in this life; as important as any other. It is said that we really only need three things to live – air, food and sex. That makes the sex writer pretty important, no?

Please. No need to thank me. I know you care. I really do.

Two men; one woman

For many, many years my fantasy life has been rich with the scenario of two men who deal with me. One man is my man and he is responsible for me. I belong to him. But, the other man is a trusted friend and in that role he assists my man with his role as my 'owner'.

Now, why should it be necessary for there to be two men to supervise me; to discipline me and keep me under control? Well, my owner travels the world quite frequently to deal with his business affairs and his trips can last from only a few days to up to a month.

It was established very early in our relationship that a girl like me could get up to a lot of mischief in that time and thus his most loyal friend, Michael was prevailed upon to assist with issues related to my containment and discipline whilst he was away.

In the photograph, my owner is about to leave for yet another business trip. We are in the office. You can see the monitors that are in the large trading room reflected in the glass. The room we are in normally has sliding doors that are locked but on this particular day, they are open. My owner has set up this room somewhat like a bedroom as he can work crazy hours dealing in millions of dollars on an international level in various time zones, and from to time, he catches a nap in this room. There are, of course, occasions when he has used this room for other purposes. Certainly, I have been used there on a number of occasions.

Soon he will go to the airport but he has called me into the office to relay details of what is to be achieved while he is away, and Michael is there to listen and take notes. Since my owner will be thousands of miles away, it is Michael who will be supervising me and dealing with any failures to comply.

We have attended to the list of chores to be done, and my owner's clearly defined expectations of me. He has reminded me that Michael has his permission to discipline me as he sees fit and that the details of any situations where a correction was necessary will be passed onto him. He has told me how disappointed he would be should that be necessary and I have promised him I will be good.

That said, he also reminds me that Michael will come around to the apartment each Sunday evening he is away to deliver my weekly maintenance spanking. It is clear from past experience that it would be futile to expect a high standard of behaviour without my weekly correction and my owner has advised Michael of what implement to use, how many strokes, positions and the like. You will note that Michael is going over these details that he has written on a piece of paper on his clipboard. He is a fastidious sort of person and this is not a surprise really since my owner would not have faith in any man, nor have as a trusted friend, anyone who was not able to pay close attention to detail.

At his request, I have worn into the office a black dress to just below the knee. The dress is buttoned all the way down and I have accompanied the outfit with red heels to match the red and black buttons accenting the dress. As is my custom when I come to wish him farewell before the drivers whisks him away to the airport, I have worn nothing but the dress and the heels.

There are only moments to spare before he must leave but the sadness reflected in my eyes urges him to leave me with a memory to keep me warm at night.

He has me unbutton the dress "quickly" and he places me on my back. He ravishes me with kisses and soon I am lost in his arms. The slight scent of aftershave on his skin, the feel of his woolen suit on my bare skin, the knowledge that Michael presses against my shoe, leaves me with a desire so strong, it would matter not if the whole trading room personnel were witnesses to this scene.

Soon my beloved owner will be gone. It is Michael who will keep me grounded. The imposition of my owner's will shall remain ever present in that of his trusted friend.

The Strap

A lovely family get together on the weekend in a relaxing, country garden led to some really interesting and, for me, kinky thought-inducing conversations. It was the kinky thought part of the day that I thought you folk might be interested in...

The matriarch of the family, a most beloved woman, and apparently the best granny a child could ever ask for, or so I was told by endless grandchildren, had married a man who it seems was a strict disciplinarian. He had a strap and he was not shy about using it if the children were naughty. The story was told to me by the son but it seems that his three sisters’ bottoms were not spared either, and they were all pretty familiar with that piece of leather routinely used to correct their behaviour.

Sometimes, when Hamish deemed that his son needed correction, his mother would intervene. Now, she didn’t intervene in the usual way that mothers do. She didn’t say, “Oh, Hamish, please don’t belt my darling son. He’s a good boy really and I am sure he meant no harm.” (Or words to that effect). Instead she would say to her husband,

“I’ll handle this, dear.”

She’d take the strap from him and take her son to the study whereupon she would close the door and say,

“Now, when I hit the arm of the couch make sure you yelp loud. Got it?”

And, on would go the charade with this dear woman belting away at her couch whilst her son yelped away on cue, eventually whimpering his way out of the room to have a little mock cry in his room.

It was the story he wanted to tell on her passing, all these years later. His much loved mother had been his protector when he was a boy and continued to love him and all her great big family with exuberant abundance to her dying day.

I was not surprised to hear the story really. She was an amazing woman, the likes of which won’t be seen again, nor the times in which she lived. I relished the opportunity to see the photographs of her life on display and there was one of her sitting with her husband. They looked completely at one, and he not at all the disciplinarian of his son’s story to me. And yet, there was a steely looks in those eyes that I would have missed on first glance.

How clever she was to keep him happy and content! She had him think that she was in accord with his disciplinary views whilst she went about bringing up of the children in her own way. For you see, she was no ‘walk over’. She had most exacting expectations of behaviour of the children and when she gave away money to the grandchildren towards the end of the life, she did it a few years before she died, so that she had some input as to what they did with the money.

“She didn’t exactly give instructions as to what we were to do with the money,” explained one grandchild to me, but she made it clear in her letter to me that I was to think carefully about how I would spend the money.” She said that if I were to buy a house, it should be a house “to raise a happy family” and “a welcoming home.” She wanted the best of the past to remain in their lives and for their lives to be led in a noble and nourishing way. Born nearly a hundred years ago, she was a woman who embraced the youth, absolutely adoring the babies, but holding on with all her might to a more genteel time when manners, etiquette and hospitality were exemplary.

This morning, my mind is filled with those times, of fathers who disciplined with the strap and of daughters who either did as they were told or were corrected for their behaviour. Of course, I know that in reality, it is not like a film of the outback where Sam Neill is playing a part of the strict father and has a manly study in which he takes his daughter for punishment. My mind, however, is a whole other thing and when I think about these sorts of events they are translated to be something very arousing.

---------------------

I’ve been sent home with a note from the school master, you see. He’d been scolding me for not doing all of my homework and had written a letter to my father advising him that his daughter was not attending to her school work sufficiently well. I am told to give the letter to my father that evening and return it to him the next morning before school, signed. In this way, he can be sure that the letter is seen by my father, and of course, he’ll want to know what action my father took.

I feel a sense of dread at having to take the note from him and I consider whether to appeal to the schoolmaster to deal with me himself. Must we tell Father? But, I’ve tried that before. The schoolmaster considers it imperative that fathers be advised of unacceptable behaviour and his suggestion in the past was that he punish me himself but that a letter to Father advising him of this would still need to be delivered. The chances of double punishment were too great to risk.

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

My afternoon is miserable and when I finally tell Mother that I have a note to give to Father from the schoolmaster she simply sighs, and tells me that I should knock on his study door immediately after dinner. Mother is not like Hamish’s mother at all! But, she has the good sense to know that it is better to feed Father a good meal first before notes from schoolmasters are delivered.

I am especially quiet at dinner. My appearance is clean and neat and my manners beyond reproach but I don’t have much of an appetite. Even so, the policy is that all food presented must be eaten and I don’t dare to leave a morsel. In this way, Mother has been kind because she has quietly instructed Molly, the woman employed to help Mother with me and all my siblings, that Margaret should only have a small helping this evening.

When dinner is over and the girls have finished clearing the dining table, Father resides to his study and tonight, Mother asks me to bring Father his pot of tea. I already have the letter in my pocket and I take from her the silver tray. Our eyes do not meet.

I knock on the door, as required. “Enter” says Father. I place the silver tray with the tea service upon the grand oak desk.

“Thank you, my dear.”

“You are most welcome, Father.”

Father has already returned to his writing.

I go and stand in front of him with my hands behind my back, one wrist above the other.

“Excuse me, Father...”

“Yes, Margaret?”

“Mr. Draculas asked me to give you a note.”

I take the note from out of my pocket and hand it to him and return my hands to their submissive place behind my back.

Father sighs. Another naughty child to deal with...

He reads the note and looks up.

“Margaret, I pay very good money for you to have the opportunity to receive a good education. You must give your full attention to your studies. Mr Draculas is perfectly correct. You need a reminder of your place, girl, and of my expectations of you. Fetch me the strap.”

Although I am certain that these words will be spoken the moment Mr Draculas has begun to write the note, my stomach does a double back flip. I am stricken with fear but know that no good will come from dragging my heels or begging for mercy. On the contrary, Father wants to see a contrite girl; a girl that knows that her correction is for her own good and very much deserved.

I walk to the door I have come through and from the hook at the back of the door I gather the strap and pass it over to Father.

“Assume the position, Margaret, over the desk.”

Whilst Father stands up and walks around the desk, I move closer to it and before bending over the desk, reach under my skirt to take down my panties to my knees. I grip the other side of the desk tightly. I already know that if I raise myself up I will only prolong the correction and so I must hold the edge very firmly indeed. It is Father who gathers the skirt up over my back to reveal my bare bottom.

“Count the strokes please, Margaret.”

Without wasting time, Father begins the task of turning my pale bottom first pink, then a light red and then a deep, scarlet red. Throughout the correction, I do my best to call out the numbers with some self control and decorum.

“Four, thank you, Sir.”

“”Niiiiine, thank you, Sir.”

Twwwweeeeelvvvvvvve, thank you, Sir.”

Finally, Father returns the strap to the hook on the back of the door.

“Attend to your clothing, Margaret.”

Father returns to his seat.

“Have you anything to say, Margaret?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for providing me with discipline, Father. My punishment was richly deserved and I shall try much harder to rise to your expectations.”

“Very well, my dear. I am sure you will. You are a good girl when you try your best. Now, I have signed the letter and it must be returned to Mr. Draculas first thing in the morning. Please give him my thanks for bringing the matter to my attention. Now, go and do your homework immediately, please.

“Yes Sir.”

I turn, ready to exit at a fast pace.

“Oh...Margaret...

I turn back.

“Yes, Father?”

“Two hundred lines, please, to be done straight after you have completed all your homework.

‘School girls who do not attend to their tasks shall be corrected with the strap.” Give them to Mr. Draculas, please. We don’t want him thinking I am going soft on you.”

“No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

I return to my room and with a quick rub of my tender bottom, begin my tasks.

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At a certain point of the afternoon yesterday, my husband sidled up to me and whispered, “What are you thinking, cindi? If only they knew!!”

If only, indeed!

Cow slut

She licks her lips. With the tip of her tongue she touches the far right of her top lip and follows the lip with her tongue all the way to the far left. She closes her eyes; tilts her head to the left.

She hears the bells; only the bells: Honey Nectar. It is a chanting sort of sound; a spiritual chant and it takes her deep into her psyche; that place not seen on the surface.

She is wearing clothes yet she can sense her body as well as if she were naked. Her breasts sit up and she is aware of her openings; of her desire to be captured.

She can almost feel his tongue on the side of her neck and the little sting of a bite on her upper back. She can almost feel the warmth of his hand as it glides down her long arm. Her pleasure in being touched as always has her fall further down into herself where she desires to feel much more.

His hand is at the back of her neck and with slight force he guides her forward. She opens her mouth and as she does she registers the familiar scent of his cock at her nostrils and then tastes the warm smoothness in the sides of her mouth. It is a comfort to her.

The girl sits at her desk and imagines. Her eyes are closed. Her hands type freefall. She breathes deeply and lets out a sigh. Her head is lowered. Is he really not there?

She is so still she is almost asleep but suddenly there is a new thought and a new mood. He has moved her; directed her to kneel and now she bends into the chair; naked, vulnerable, expectant; ready, wide awake and alert. Her breathing is shallower now and her eyes wide open. She listens with intensity for a clue.

She senses him close behind her and a moment later she feels the sting of his hand as it makes contact with her naked cheeks. He strikes her over and over again and the sensation prompts her to pout out her pussycunt; to embrace her captivity. Instinctively, she tries to move to the side to escape his warm hand and she feels his left hand on her neck now. She accepts she is in an inescapable position and this thought helps her as she burrows down in her mind. He delivers slap after slap and she sinks further into her wantonness.

She must choose whether to scream or implode. She opens her mouth and then sticks out her tongue, but brings it back in her mouth and sucks on her invisible gag instead, until the grunting takes over. She visualizes the cow mooing at the crest of the hill as the bull has its way.

He removes his clothing with abandon and without hesitation, takes her. With her plug in her ass, his cock sends shudders of intense pleasure inside of her and now she is that cow; lost to her own pleasure and delight. She bellows from deep in the back of her throat.

The music has stopped. The bells have ceased to ring and she opens her eyes; looks up at the page and her mouth forms a wry smile. Cow sluts, mind fucks; sweet day dreams.

She's tied up right now

Sometimes, things turn out just right by serendipity. I have been ogling this picture for several days. Being a particularly flexible person from early childhood, this is the sort of thing I could have done with ease. I am not entirely sure that I could manage it now, but I don't dismiss the thought as out of hand. I think I probably could do it. What a lovely thought.

So, without knowing about this picture at all, or my thoughts about it over the past days, this morning my husband put me on my stomach and bound my hands behind my back such that they were in a very similar position to this picture. I immediately began to float...

I can't for the life of me understand why vanilla people have such objections to being tied up!

Fantasy v. Reality

She stands at his study door. She looks a little nervous.

"Master, may I speak with you a moment?"

He looks up from his lap top at her.

"Of course."

She comes around and stands in front of his desk. She puts her hands behind her back, in the small of her back, one wrist above the other. She seems hesitant.

"What is it, my dear? Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, Master...I have a confession to make. I am sorry to say that I have been very bad."

"Oh dear, dear. That's not good news, is it?"

"No, Master."

"Go ahead, girl, confess."

"Well, Master, do you remember the day, a week ago, when I sent you an email asking for permission to touch myself?"

"Yes, dear, I do. I remember telling you how sorry I was that I was not there to receive it."

"Yes, well....."

Her voice drifts off. She is having trouble mouthing the words that she knows will disappoint him so deeply.

"You told me that evening, as I recall, that the urge passed."

"Yes well, that was a bit of a fib."

"So, you lied to me!"

"Yes, Sir, I did. I feel terrible about it. I have lived with my guilt for a week and I have felt terrible about it for every minute of every day, and I am here to confess and receive my punishment. I am so terribly, terribly sorry."

She looks miserable, as if her little world is crumbling.

"Well, what you have done is very, very bad. You know this, don't you?

"Yes, Master."

"And, you certainly deserve to be punished, soundly."

"Yes, Master, I agree."

She could see he was thinking, thinking very deeply as to how to manage the situation, how best to deal with her, and her errant ways."

"Whilst you are deserving of severe punishment for your breaking of a rule, I am impressed by your honesty, girl. It takes a lot of backbone to come to me, a week later, and confess. You could have got away with it, and yet you chose to come and confess to me. I can see that you are very contrite, and that the guilt has played on your mind, and I am of the mind to...forgive you."

She can hardly believe the words she is hearing. She had expected a sound lashing.

"Oh...oh...thank you, Sir. You are so good to me. I promise I will never let you down again. I will never break the rule again."

"I have every confidence in you, my dear. You are nearly always my good girl, and I know that you will try very hard to always be good. Won't you?"

"Yes, Master. Yes, I will."

"I know you will. I trust you and I believe in you."

"You are such a good master. I am so happy."

"All right, my dear. Run along now and finish your tasks."

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."

She smiles and begins to leave the room.

"My dear..."

She stops and turns around.

"Yes master?"

"You do know, if there should a reoccurence of the breaking of this most important rule, that I would have no choice but to punish you...in a multiplicity of ways. You do understand that?"

She looks pensive, not sure if it was such a good idea to have not received her punishment today, after all.

"Yes, Sir, I do understand that."

"Excellent. It is important that we understand one another."

"Yes Master."

"Very well. Off you go."


"Mum....mum, are you listening to me?"

"Oh...oh...sorry, darling what was that?"

"You seemed to be dreaming..."

"Yes, darling, lost in my thoughts again..."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, it was just a little fantasy..."