Saying 'I love you'

In my emails this morning was a brief email from a correspondent of mine who simply wrote that it seemed like I was fading away. That message made me think. Yes, I have been quiet; reflective; contemplative. I have felt stymied as well. I have felt that any further writing here is like feeding a shark; a thief; a man who is waiting for me to put up another post to give him more material for his novel. It just feels...wrong; invasive; 'word/idea rape'.

Yet, I'm still the same person living out my life in much the same way; still very absorbed in the same thoughts; hopes; dreams. I went over to my email that is attached to my Tumblr account and there was a new follower. I noted that he was a man and that his Tumblr blog was filled with what you might expect of a virile man with a strong sexual drive; lots and lots of reblogged photos of very sexy looking naked women with big breasts and big bottoms. I scrolled through a few pages and that was pretty much it. I make no judgement. It's his account; his daydream time; his lust and desire that he chooses to document for his enjoyment and so long as he's hurting no one, that's all fine.

The little experience did, however, remind me once again that my foray into the land of power exchange, BDSM and Tumblr is different. I don't shy away from the fact that at times I have put up very graphic photos of people having sex. I've even reblogged photographs of people having sex whilst other men stood by waiting for their turn of the 'fucktoy' because I certainly have those thoughts in my mind. In a fucktoy state of mind I'm capable of having the dirtiest thoughts that match the mind of a virile man. However, for me there is so much more to my explorations than just sex or the mind of the fucktoy who rejects so little of the male state of mind.

In returning to the dashboard of my Tumblr account I came across various writings. I follow several people who offer spiritual and inspirational thoughts regularly. I reblogged a list of very big questions because in taking the time to think about an answer a great deal can be learned about your own mind. If you're interested in seeing the whole list click onto the 'Complete Cindi' link.

The question numbered 16 captured my attention particularly:

Excluding romantic love, when was the last time you told someone you loved them. Who were they to you?

Regular readers will know that I have a friend who I refer to as a 'mentor' because I have no better word to describe our relationship. We've been friends for a good many years now and although he comes and goes in my life in rather rapid fashion these days, we've ridden through the good and the bad times together. We've remained friends in that sort of 'undying friends' way that you have with one or two people in your life.

My friend is a very dominant minded sort of man who likes to have control and to be in control whilst I am a very submissive minded sort of woman who likes to give up control and to get to a state where I feel I have no control. Our exchanges have been along this line as he's provided training and opportunity for me to experience this sort of exchange. It's only words. The Pacific Ocean is between us, however it's been very valuable and earnest. We take it very seriously.

We've become so intuitive within these exchanges that I feel sure that we both know when something is up. We can feel some sort of issue with one another and in our own way we attempt to deal with our upset feelings. Of course, our arrangement isn't perfect because of the dynamic we have agreed to and there are misunderstandings; little hurts and grievances along the way. Every now and then we come out of the dynamic for a very short time to air those grievances or to talk about an issue in our 'real' lives that may make it difficult or impossible for us to continue talking for the time being.  It's very rare but occasionally that happens.

My dear friend was explaining to me within the dynamic we share that things were not good for him at this time and I should not expect him to log on for a time. Of course, I wanted to understand why this was so because for the past month I had my worries about him which I had been unable to share and I didn't want him to walk away without some discussion about this.

I deemed it better that we come out of the dynamic and I asked permission to do so. As I said earlier, we take our agreement very, very seriously and he's the leader of our exchange. Very. much. so. He gave me permission and we discussed more openly what had led to this outcome. In a very grown up way, I thought, (and I hope he would agree) we reached mutual agreement that a 'time out' was best; that we remained "absent friends" and that when the time was right we would resume contact.

To explain my mindset I can only say that some friendships and associations are for life. I feel this very strongly. He has made mistakes with me and I have made mistakes with him but we have forgiven one another those mistakes. We recognize in one another a sense of goodness and we have a deep sense of trust and acceptance of one another. We are both good people.We both mean well. Neither one of us wants to say goodbye and so we never do (and mean it). We have made up a few times now and just moved on.

Anyway, we were winding up this final conversation for an indefinite period of time. I knew there were only seconds left and I had the strongest, strongest desire to type I love you. Hopefully, no reader would misinterpret this statement. We've never had a romantic notion towards one another and our exchanges don't bear that sentiment at all. Our exchanges are in fact quite formal in tone as pertains to our dynamic. I had the desire to type those words because I wanted him to know that I cared deeply; that I wished him well; that I accepted him for who he was regardless of actions that might have caused me hurt. Through it all, I loved him as a human being and as my friend.

I didn't type those words. Our dynamic has a number of rules and one of the rules is that we do not say such things to one another. The trust, the care, the acceptance and the endearment should already be known and felt.

Yet, in the weeks since then I have regretted that I held back. Why must it be that I can't express a sentiment that goes to the heart of our friendship? And, so I say it now, as one friend to another. I love you. Through good times and bad, you're my friend. Be well.

My journal

I'm so close to the end of the academic year that I can taste it. For the first time in nearly a year and a half I will have some spare time.What to do, what to do...

Well, first I'll play, for sure; do all the things that I have put on hold, meet up with friends, go Christmas shopping, start organizing a holiday for next year; boost up the exercise; see a play, read a book. There are limitless opportunities.

Then, with the long, hot summer ahead of me I imagine I might sit down to pursue a writing venture of my own. I've just read an article about a woman who was imprisoned for several years and whilst in prison she wrote 800,000 words in her journal. That journal became the source material for a one hour play about her journey. I've been quite fascinated at the process and  the collaboration with many others to term it into an art form.

Whilst finishing off a piece of work this afternoon I was reminded that I also have a journal of many hundreds of thousands of words that could also form the basis of a narrative. We all do, actually, my fellow bloggers and I.

One of my readers got in contact with me recently and told me that this web journal is forming the basis of the protagonist for his novel. Of course, this is the price we pay for having an online journal. The material is out there in the world for anyone to use as they wish. There really is no protection against this. He'd actually like me to fill in the dots because as he pointed out, I often spoke in mirrors, not quite spelling out what was real and what was fantasy, or what happened when and why. That, of course, was entirely intentional and my authorial prerogative.

I admit that the knowledge that this situation has eventuated leads me to reveal even less than I have done in the past. As I've said a thousand times before I'm a very private person and I'm not at all sure I want my thoughts interpreted. I am pretty darn sure that I want to be the person to play around with this material and mold it into a story. I've sat here this afternoon seriously wondering if it was time to pull the plug. Of course anything I've written is out there for good, but should I go on adding to this journal publicly? I am not sure.

I think that part of me is troubled by the fact that this material can be spun in so many directions; that what brought me much pleasure and happiness can be interpreted to be seen as anything but wise or meaningful; that there was and is a better way. Maybe so. I don't know all the angles of a power exchange. Perhaps there is a better dominant and a better way.

But, know this. I know what I feel. My instincts are very acute. I had the very best time. I learned things in the writing of this journal that gave me the thrills of a lifetime. There were moments, minutes, hours, days and weeks that filled me with enormous joy and satisfaction. I never imagined that I could be so happy; so filled with joie de vivre and excitement at a new way to live.

Every day of my life I am aroused by the erotic thoughts that play out in my head. My libido is high and my mind is on fire with the possibilities that will always be alive to me so long as I hold onto the doll inside me; that sweet l'il thing that lives to be fucked royally; to make others happy; to follow commands and to wallow in her own appetite; to always, always be hungry for the next meal.

To my husband I am 'cindi' and every time he uses that name I am reminded of the reality of my doll. She's very real to me; she's an aspect of my personality that sits just under the surface; always waiting and always ready to come out and play; to thrive in the presence of a dominant force that commands and demands that she rise up and revel in her own demise.

Nothing and no-one will ever convince me that it wasn't a good thing. Only I can make that judgement. Trust me. It has been the ride of my life.

Leadership skills

I have been thinking about 'dominance' and in fact, it is just another word for 'leadership'. I've been reading about leadership and it is broken down to five key components.

- self management
- leading others
- task management
- innovation
- social responsibility.

There is far too much material within those five categories to deal with all categories so I want to focus on self-management.  Within self-management, there are issues of self control, stress tolerance, personal resiliency, work life balance and adaptability.

Leaders need to have knowledge of human behavior, to be comfortable interacting and working with others, to seek out ways to assist people in their duties and they must be able to nurture relationships, building positive and co-operative working relationships with others and maintaining relationships over time.

I have never thought of myself as a leader mainly because I am not motivated to want to be a leader.  I don't have a strong desire to lead others but if I were placed in that situation I think I could do it, with proper training. I'd like to attend one of those 'leadership conferences' and get all the material I'd need to lead well, and then I'd simply apply it. I would not be entirely comfortable. The mere thought of having to reprimand someone makes me feel very uncomfortable but if I had to acquire these skills I think I could.

In terms of self-management, well that's what I have been learning and focusing on since the day I began this web journal. I've been working on self control and stress tolerance and personal resiliency as well as adaptability, and I've continued to try to get the work life balance correct in my life. Without blowing my own trumpet too loudly I'd say I'd made pretty huge gains on that front, and how interesting it is that both a leader and a subordinate (submissive) require those skills in spades.

There are issues associated with acquiring those skills, however. I have learned not to argue back, not to cause any rumpus, and to absorb upset. I have developed my own ways of settling myself and dealing with any distress. I'm so good at this that someone who is leading me may get entirely the wrong impression - that I am satisfied and settled within myself.

This reverts back to the fact that it is vital in a power exchange for there to be free-flowing communication back and forth. A submissive or subordinate needs to feel free to respectfully explain an issue. When the leader makes an error or fails to exhibit self-control I see it as important that this is acknowledged. It encourages a good rapport between the two of them and makes the subordinate feel respected and safe under that leadership. No-one is comfortable under tyranny and those leaders who don't acknowledge their errors and who don't invite rational, free-flowing discussion using modulated voices are at risk of closing subordinates (submissives) down. That's not a good thing for anyone because without the support of subordinates, the leadership is in peril.

Leadership takes a lot of work and amongst all the skills that need to be learned and attended to over time, none is more important I think than having self-awareness and self-insight. If your emotions are often out of your control, then you need to go back to basics and develop self-control skills. I am here to tell you that it can be done with hard work. There is just no way that you can expect self control of your subordinate or submissive if you can't demonstrate to him or her that you have worked on these skills yourself.

Mrs. Robinson

Writing about my inner most secrets here is completely comfortable for me. I have been doing it for years now, after all. I would surely have given up a long time ago if I felt squeamish at all.

Talking about such matters face to face is an entirely different matter. Sure, I discussed issues face to face recently with men I had made friends with on the Internet, but I knew they were like minded souls who had no issues at all with any matter I had raised here. It was not difficult. On the contrary, it was a pleasure.

I don't bring up matters of my sexuality with other people - people who I assume are of the vanilla persuasion. When someone else does - "Would you like a spanking?" one friend asked his wife when she was cheeky one time when we visited them. "Ohhh, yes please," she responded enthusiastically - I try to pretend I haven't the slightest idea what they are talking about. I can suddenly get terribly shy as if, were I to acknowledge their repartee, I am making a complete confession.

Now that I am doing a writing course I find myself unwilling to hide completely. I have spilled a few more beans as each week has gone by. We were discussing "Theory" this past week and what that might mean to a writer when I realized that my style of writing lends to the theories of psychoanalysis, which was entirely suitable to discuss. This felt very liberating; allowing my inner self to seep out into the real world.

We are required to partner up with another student for the purposes of critical evaluation. Perusing the list of participants it was not lost on me that in my group there was a sole male student who just happened to be currently living in China. Bart (we shall call him) was my man! If anyone was going to accept my kinky nature it was Bart: bright, 30, adventurous, an intrepid traveller with an astounding imagination; much more imaginative than me and writing in the sc-fi genre.

We were meant to team up in week 5 but I laid out my case early. Why didn't we team up, I suggested. I was interested in peace and calm and he was interested in chaos and confusion. We would be good for one another: get ourselves out of our comfort zones. Bart took to the notion immediately and I laugh every time he sends me an email. Here I am thinking that I am telling him something that will shock and he returns a salvo back far more shocking than I could ever be. He has turned out to be wonderful value.

Perhaps, he is simply smarter than me for he managed to make me comfortable enough that I have just sent him one of my naughty stories to critique. There is an f-word but absolutely no c-words in the story so I didn't throw it all at him at once but even so I get the feeling that he sitting there in China right now saying, "Ohhhh myyyy Godddddd" as he is reading it, wondering how he will ever be able to critique it. Of course it goes both ways. It won't be exactly cheesecake to critique his sci-fi first draft of chapter 1 either, but nothing is for free, right?!

I think I sensed the free will and open mind in Bart from the get go and I have chosen well, I think, but even so, I do feel a bit naughty; a bit "Mrs Robinson" like. He is after all nearly half my age and here I am introducing him to the thoughts of a woman who wants to have all sorts of naughty things done to her. Will he think the thoughts mine, will he think I have an over active imagination, or will he think that this story girl is simply a product of a writer's mind? I really would rather not know the answer to that question, but the problem with the young sometimes is that rather than let such a question sit out there unanswered he is likely to engage, and with gusto. It is his style to have strong opinions and colourful language.

I've often wondered about Mrs. Robinson; the pleasure she took in educating Dustin Hoffman; his wide eyed wonder at it all. But something tells me that Bart won't be wide-eyed at all. He'll respond as if he knew the inner thoughts of a kinky woman all along and then it will be he that will try to teach me a thing or two. Typical.

Relaxing wth strict thoughts

My fantasy life is almost as old as me. Even whilst I was working it 24/7 so that I didn't get into any trouble at home or at school, in my mind the Masters and Mistresses were very strict and quite sadistic and I took the brunt of their committed minds to exact obedience from me, as well as all the other girls.

There are parts of 'Jane Eyre' at the beginning that I would happily fast forward. It is painful (not in a good way) to watch the way they treat her friend and her ultimate death from their lack of care. But, I don't feel the same way about their behaviour when it comes to placing Jane on the stool in the middle of an empty room for most of the day. Yes, I felt sorry for her, of course, but it enacted something in me and I still recall that scene in my fantasies more often than I should probably admit.

My fantasy life is for the purposes of complete relaxation and fulfiment. My thoughts go (just did a few minutes ago actually)  to scenarios that are very cruel in some people's eyes and incredibly politically incorrect. In my dreams 'feminism' is an unknown word or concept and girls are for use; for service. Education is about training them for the life they were born to lead and most importantly, they need to understand and come to terms with the fact that their bodies are for the pleasure of men.

In my educational establishment it is not uncommon for girls to be lectured on the purpose of their bodies; on the purpose for each part of their body. Girls' buttocks, they are told, are round and soft  because they were made for the purposes of correction. A girl could be stroked or paddled and within a few days her buttocks were good as new, back to alabaster white; a new and clean canvass on which to paint again.

A girl, we are told, should receive regular corporal discipline, not just for the purposes of punishment wherein they attend the Master's study for a plentiful dose of the cane, but for the purposes of reminding her that she is designed to serve. A weekly correction on a Sunday evening, immediately after Chapel is the perfect way for a girl to begin the school week; the perfect reminder that it is her duty to carefully listen to all instructions, to speak only when spoken to or when permission is granted and to do her best in all her studies and exams at all times.

It is no mere co-incidence that after we are all soundly strapped each Sunday evening we are sent to sit our bare and very red bottoms on cold, hard seats to write lines. What better way to keep the sting of the strap present in our minds as we write 200 times,

"Young ladies must be obedient, honest and respectful at all times."

The educational establishment of my fantasies is designed to produce young women best suited to become the wives of old-fashioned and up standing men who keep a woman in her place; at their heel and ever ready to serve him in any way they should desire.

It is not an easy training. I would be kidding you if I said that. However, perhaps it will please you to know that the young woman...well, most of the them... come to appreciate their training. It has been said that the students of the boarding house dormitories are never more settled and content than on a Sunday evening tucked into their beds.

Far from finding the school a wretched place they pray one day to leave, they come to have a fondness for and an acceptance of their life there. Diligence is richly rewarded and the young women look forward immensely to the small doses of praise they are given. This is not an everyday event. It is important not to let praise go to a girl's head. But, if their Masters and Mistresses are pleased, this is pleasure enjoy for them. It is a small life, but a richly rewarding one. One by one, this lesson is imparted.

The never-ending fantasy

All things being equal, you'd think that a girl would get tired of a particular fantasy. Don't you think? But, I never, never do.

We've got a little break in the proceedings of life here: winter term break. There is more of an opportunity to sleep in a little; get a little more sleep and on waking, let the mind wander and settle where it will.

And, where does the girl's mind go? Well, would you care to follow me?

I am at the estate of a man He is a very nice man: handsome, well spoken, learned and well respected within his industry. His home is comfortable but not at all ostentatious. It is an 'old money' sort of home where the rugs are a little worn but they are so precious, they look best that way.

I am not sure exactly why this particular man was chosen for me but my father has informed me that this is a good marriage, that my husband is a good and suitable man and that I should listen carefully to what he says and obey him. He assures me that even though he may ask me to do things that are unusual or even uncomfortable, that it is for the best. I should trust his judgement in choosing this man for me, no matter what happens. It is all for a reason, he says.

Certainly, the courtship was a desirable thing. He is a most courteous man and extremely considerate. The wedding is quite beautiful and day by day, I find myself more and more attached to the man. Our relationship is quite formal in tone but he is most certainly attentive and kind to me.

For a time, he allows me to settle into his routines. He enjoys the rituals and routines of a day and it is not at all difficult to follow that lead: to rise at a certain time, to eat at a certain time and to go to bed at a certain time.

He is not one to raise his voice but he does make it clear when something I do is not to his tastes or requirements. Day by day, he begins to guide me as to how to behave in his company.

A few weeks after we have returned from the honeymoon (time spent lazing in and touring Tuscany) he introduces me to a woman who he has employed to be his housekeeper and who will assist me with my "role".In fact, we already have a weekly cleaner and a part time cook, but this woman will oversee matters, he says. I wonder to myself if this is really necessary and what I might do with my time but I say nothing. He is not a man a young girl would consider questioning so early in the marriage.

One day, he calls the woman into our bedroom and has her take measurements of my body and a week later he brings home from a business trip in the city what he explains to me is a corset. It will bring my waist in four inches, he informs me and give me more of an hour glass figure. As well, he explains, it will "contain" me; remind me of my "place" and "purpose".

He watches as the woman, whom I am to simply call "Madame" pulls the corset tighter and tighter until I feel very constricted. "That will be fine for now," he says to her. "Give her time to get used to the constriction before you make it any tighter. There is  no hurry."

I wonder how it could possibly be the case that the garment could be tied any tighter than it is already but I say nothing, quite intimidated by the pair to dare to complain. I look in the mirror and am surprised to feel a sense of pride at my appearance especially when I hear the words,

"She is beautiful, Sir. She has great potential."

"Indeed. I chose carefully before I  selected my bride."

Edwin then turns to me and with his hands around my tiny waist, and his lips close to my ear, "My darling, you make me very proud. I will guide you and protect you and in my care you will open and blossom like a flower. All you need do is what you are told. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir, I understand."

"That's my girl."

(to be continued, perhaps...)

Trust

I have a tendency to be having such a lovely time in my life sometimes, loving the whole process of becoming submissive, sexy and pliable; happy, confident and sure of myself that I can forget why the dominant person is making all this happen in the first place.

In a nutshell, he likes the control and I like (and really need) to be controlled. We don't have the same rights because that is what I said I wanted; not just verbally one day on the spur of the moment but in a carefully written document that explained what I wanted to achieve; then, and now.

But, the dominant men in my life are not ogres. They can be witty and good fun and light and sometimes...well...I can forget that if you cross them, they can get really mad. And, I can forget that when I am corrected for taking back some control, I can be petulant about that before I get the point.

When in London, I ran about trying on corsets and visiting latex shops where I tried on hoods. I was having my first face to face meeting with kinky people. I was on my own. I was just having a blast!

As I relayed my experiences over the google chat with great excitement and pride of my corset purchase, it (stupidly) did not even occur to me that it was going to be too much of a problem that the one thing I had not done, was the one and only thing I had been told to do.

Silence speaks louder than words at times and so it did: sent to Coventry - again.

Did I rail against my correction? You bet I did. I was furious about it. I thought it deeply unjust. I believe I used the word cruel to describe the consequences. (Harsh is another word I may have considered and strict sadist may have been another thought I had. I considered tough love but it didn't quite have the sense I wanted to convey of my righteous indignation!)

But, the penny has finally dropped. I had been, and, oh dear, this is not easy: I had been disobedient. I had ignored the control and now I was being controlled in a way that I would find very unpleasant. It has been a devil of a week as I go through this process of correction. The girl returned in all her glory.

But here's the thing: that's no good for me any more. I want and need the containment because that's how I function best. That is when I am most happy and when the people in my life are most happy, too.

It can't be easy to train a woman like me. I didn't come down in the last shower and I have an air of confidence about me now to the point where you might say that I have come into my own. I feel a surge of confidence and self assurance that has a power about it. When I wear my corset heaven knows I may bowl someone over with my sense of power!

I think I just forgot what it is all about. I think I was having such a good time that a little act of disobedience didn't seem all that big of a thing. But, it was to him, you see, because I had forgotten who was the one in control and it was not meant to be me.

I've had my little rebellion. Mentally, I've placed a bomb under his chair! But, I get it now. I did a bad, bad thing and this correction of mine, uncomfortable and unsettling as it is, is designed such that I think more than twice before ever disobeying an instruction again.

I do want to say that this particular form of correction - ignoring - does not come without its difficulties. You can't see what is happening to the girl and the dom/top truly has no idea if the correction is working as it should or not.

I have chosen to trust that this is occuring because it is considered 'for my own good'. I have chosen to believe in him and his ways. He has never let me down before. I truly believe that this form of correction (which has gone on for a lengthy period of time) can only be applied when there is a strong connection and a deep level of trust.

In my case, I'm welcome to grow. It's fine if I even feel a sense of power. But, ignoring the dominant's orders is just not on.

Pain and punishment

I am actually working flat chat right now with no time to spare, but a couple of migraine headaches in the past week has forced me to slow down and thus I found myself having a read of new blog posts on my blog roll this evening for a bit of light entertainment. I happened to notice Pygar’s ‘pain and punishment’ and had a good ole read there. Why is that topic so endlessly fascinating to me, I’d like to know?! I left Pygar a comment – thoughts on the top of my head and the tip of my tongue - and then I thought it might be fun to elaborate on them a bit here.

A good many submissives have an innate understanding, perhaps learned through experience that the Dominant is often not just playing around. He really does want the submissive to learn to do things his way and if she doesn’t do things his way, she may well find herself being corrected in a way that will be memorable and unpleasant. Even in the most relaxed of situations, and I think of my husband and I as fairly relaxed about D/s in the sense that there are very few ‘rules’ per se, he expects that I will behave in a way that accepts that we have a certain dynamic and when push comes to shove, he’s the boss.

This dynamic is always there but I think there is just something or other in the makeup of the submissive mind that feels obliged to test out the Dominant from time to time. For example, my husband had been away for 5 weeks when he arrived home last Friday night and proceeded to have his way with me. It is what I wanted. Desperately. And yet, there came a moment when I said, “I’m not sure that this is appropriate. Shouldn’t we just cuddle a while?”

If he’d ‘wimped out’ on me I would have been a mess but true to form he upped the tempo and therein he assured me that he was the boss and that I had better just toe the line; fast! Perfect. That is just how I needed it to go. I wasn’t manipulating him. I didn’t plan it to be that way but my mind simply had to know if he was still up to the task of being the guy I needed. In this way, I think women sometimes misbehave because they need to see the outcome of the misbehaviour and if that is pain and punishment, so be it.

However one plays out ‘pain and punishment’ it seems to come down to issues of the dynamic between the two people. I made the comment on Pygar’s page that I dance with the Dom according to well learned steps. Once that dynamic is well in place, there seems less and less need to try to alter those steps. One can perhaps move in different ways but if it is a tango, it is a tango and if it is a waltz, it’s a waltz. One can move around the dance floor as the mood takes one, but one still has to use the appropriate steps.

My dynamic with my mentor, as an example, is clear. There is a degree of respect inbuilt into the dynamic and we never deviate from that. Well, I did once, unwittingly. It was one of those moments in life when one of my buttons had been pressed and I reacted fast and furious. My reply dripped with sarcasm but I was too busy being incensed to even take that in. I soon learned that sarcasm was completely and utterly unacceptable to him.

Did I learn because I was corrected or because he was so very clearly upset with me? Well, I’d say it was both. Bottom line, I recognized that my behaviour should never, ever be repeated and I have not had the slightest desire to ever put that to the test. It was a step I was unsure about. We stopped. He intervened, taught me the step in slow motion such that I would always have that step down and we moved on. I must say that I approve of this method. I like learning how to dance well. It is comforting and reassuring to walk out on that dance floor and have the confidence to dance well.

Over time, my husband and I have done all sorts of things; a few daily swats, a weekly correction, punishment for misbehaviour and fairly long bouts where our dynamic has no punishment or real pain at all. They have all had their place in our lives as we evolve. But I think most of all, I want to be thought of as “good”; as knowing what he wants and fitting snugly into my place underneath his wing. I just want to be loved; turned on; aroused, pleasing.

Sometimes, that means there is pain and sometimes that even means there is some form of punishment; or both. But, at the end of the day it is about getting that feeling of ownership that reminds me that I am one of the lucky ones: owned; cherished; much loved.

A fork in the road

I opened this web journal to readers on March 9, 2009. I had written a couple of posts for Deity's web journal earlier than that, but March 9 is when I began writing here. And, I see that it is just slightly over two years since that day. Reading back there this morning, I feel rather pleased that my voice was loud and clear and that in fundamental ways, I have not changed.

I mentioned in the post that I was inclined to analyze and two years of writing here is testament to that! Oh boy! I mentioned that submission was a big part of my life and that is certainly still true today. I mentioned that I was "complicated" and that is now official. And, I mentioned that submission makes me happy and that what makes me happy makes for a happy husband and children. It is still pertinent and true. I am a fortunate woman to be able to say that I am much loved.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge in the past two years and I am delighted and grateful to also be able to say that I have learned much about submission and myself. It hasn't been a particularly easy period of my life but it has been rich in growth and I have had some truly extraordinary experiences and moments.

I'd be lying if I said that arousal was not a huge plus of the past two years. A few years prior to opening this web journal I came out as a spanko. The arousal began on that very first day and so I cannot attribute the writing here or the experiences of the past two years to turning on the arousal response. What I can say is that I learned to be aroused in very new and exciting ways over the past two years. Some of the most thrilling sexual experiences of my life took (and take) place in a state of complete surrender. Those states satiate my deepest longings; renew and enrich me in ways I had not thought imaginable.

I will always be grateful for the training I received that enabled me to reach those highs (or lows, depending on which way you look at). It has kept me young, playful and abundantly happy with life. It is my delicious, dirty secret and I consider myself very lucky. My husband (and remember he is pure Aussie and speaks from the heart and the gut at the one moment) has always maintained that you can tell when a woman has been well fucked. Many is the time when he tells me I "glow" and certainly in the hours after I have been "used" and even objectified, I feel an electric charge and a lightness of being that must surely be a good thing.

A lot of the work of the past two years has gone into my mindset. Given my husband's personality and mine, I have needed to come to terms with the fact that he's the boss not just in the bedroom but he's the boss of the family and of me, in all areas really. I needed to learn all sorts of things about that. I needed to learn to ask for what I need. I needed to learn to accept him for exactly who he is and not try to change him. I needed to learn to talk to him in a way where he listened and took in what I wanted to say.

I needed to learn to accept that when he decided to do things in his own way, I could be at peace with that and have faith that things would work out satisfactorily in the end. I belong to him and he belongs to me. We play different roles and have different responsibilities but we are two parts of a whole and a very intact, deeply loving and caring whole at that. I feel very at peace with all this now. I feel that our future is bright and I know we go forward in good order, completely united and have much to look forward to.

I've accepted myself as the introverted soul that I am. Enjoying the company of many different kinds of people, afterwards I look to go home and seek out my own company; to charge my batteries and reflect; always reflecting. I have learned that I must find ways to switch off my brain from the thoughts that so often race there and I now have a regular routine of walking with the dogs; yoga; pilates and being very still; a sort of meditation, though I have so much yet to learn about that. I seek a balance with the world and within myself that can only be mine when I embrace a still mind.

Objectification was an enormous part of stilling my mind and completely successful. I don't expect anyone to understand that any more than I expect anyone to fully understand anything that they have not experienced. I was only 'It' a handful of times but this was an 'out of body' experience for me and one I would not have missed for the world. I am eternally grateful to have had those opportunities.

I've loved embracing my 'dolli' state. I love dressing up and always have and the idea that I pay attention to my dress, my makeup, my nails and so on was like giving me a piece of New York cheesecake; scrumptious. Talking sweetly, minding my manners, choosing words very carefully and even removing words from my vocabulary were amazing experiences for me and I have relished them. The need to return to that cindi state often overwhelms me; what a happy little camper she is - so wanting to please, to obey and to sink down into that wanton and submissive space of hers. I love her to death!

Yet, I feel a change in the wind and possibly a new direction. Nothing about me and my submissive nature has changed at all but there is an understanding that there is nothing more to challenge. I am who I am. I function best in a particular way and my husband functions best in a particular way. We get this. We accept this. We want this. It is not that there is not more to learn and experience, because I have no doubts that there is.

Rather, I must now work on the other part of me that also lied dormant for many years. It is indisputable that I was born to be a wife and a mother. I adore my family with a very deep passion and when the time comes that I am a grandmother I will welcome those babies into my arms and my life with abundant warmth in my heart. My husband relishes the thought, always saddened that our children needed to grow up at all. How much he loved to cuddle them!

The part of me that is just me - the girl who came into the world alone - must now find the courage and the will to find her voice and to express herself - not as a wife or a mother or a submissive woman but the woman that must stand on her own two feet and do something just for herself, of which her family will be proud. It is time now for this girl to recognize herself as an autonomous person - a person in her own right who must make her mark on the world and leave behind a little piece of herself.

Of course one goal does not negate the other, nor would that be acceptable or achievable. It is not in my nature to take on something that would interfere with the fine balance of the rest of my life. But, it is quite clear that I need to try to achieve something in my own right now and my husband wants that very much as well. I need to find the confidence in myself and in my own abilities to take risks and to branch out further into life. I have taken little baby steps along that path and I know it makes me feel good to find that part of me again.

What I am trying to say is that I don't know how much reason there will be any more to write on these pages about my life. It isn't that I have gone away or that my interest has gone away but rather that I need to find new interests and ways of expressing myself that won't be relevant here. I am old enough to know that you must never say 'never' and so these pages will stay open and from time to time, no doubt there will be something to express and share. And, David and I enjoy writing about Frederick and Angus and you'll continue to find those chapters here.

This little web journal of mine is very dear to me and in my own way, I am proud of it - of peeling the onion one layer at a time until I found that which was true to me and right for me. Right now, it feels that I have reached a place and that there is nothing more to share in this semi-public space.I have been wrong before and I could be wrong again. So let's just say, that I will see you somewhere down the track.

The whole entity

In my last post I expressed some frustration that my true nature is kept under the radar. I don't necessarily look like a person with kinky thoughts running through her mind night and day is meant to look. Certainly most people don't respond to me in any particular way that relates to my submissive nature. Only the rarest of people have caught on to what lies below the surface and have sought to interact in person with the whole entity that is me.

Last Saturday, my husband and I enjoyed one of our most kinky of days all morning and again in the late afternoon. There was just enough time for me to get ready for a dinner party with a group of friends and whilst 'cindi' was present all night on the inside (my husband said I was "aglow"), on the outside all that was visible to the untrained eye (I suppose) was "the girl".

I admit it bothered me and it particularly bothered me that when the word "spanking" was used by one of the men, I became particularly silent. I feel fear (and elation) when the word is used in such a vanilla setting because I worry that I am one step away from exposure.

But honestly, exposure from what? Exposure from the fact that I am happier now and more content than any other time in my life? Exposure from the fact that I enjoy living and loving in a certain kind of way? Exposure from the fact that I have special friends that have enriched my life and made me feel complete?

On one level, it's not that I fear exposure at all but rather that I covet that which is so very special to me. I don't want a bunch of people making lurid, smutty comments about me or those special to me when they don't really understand me, what makes me tick or the lifestyle of my choice. The exposure I worry about is an exposure than would alter something truly wonderful and transformational into something cheap and lurid. I covet my privacy in this space by way of a different name(s) because I fear that to not do so would let the sunshine in and void the magic of the experience for me and others.

I want to be very clear about one thing. The entity of Vesta/cindi allows for the whole personality and spirit of me. If I am kind, obedient and truthful, if I am honourable, if I am loyal and honest and reliable; if I can keep a secret and take it to my deathbed - and I am all those things and can do all those things, then those qualities are all part of the whole me (wife, mother, citizen, daughter, submissive woman who seeks containment, to name but a few of the roles in my life). The open expression of Vesta and cindi enable me to express all that is me.

And, who is me? I'm a girl who took a chance and reached out to her husband first and foremost and then to a few significant others about thoughts that had run through her head all her life. With the help of one or two special people, I'm a girl who opened her mind on these pages (and others) to allow other people in to read and explore her mind and heart and soul.

I'm a girl with the greatest of respect for other people who have also pursued the expression of themselves (semi) publicly in whatever form that takes. We all here reach out for interaction with like minded souls, for self expression and to live our lives as honestly as we can under the restraints of a community who may choose to judge/mock rather than seek to understand/accept how we choose to lives our own individual lives.

Would I prefer to look like a kinky person? Would it enrich the experience for me? Not really. I choose the clothes and appearance that are right for me, much as we all do. It is enough for me that only very special people know me for all that I am. I never needed a crowd, never needed to be the centre of attention and never wanted to be the life of the party. It is enough for me to live exactly as I do because it is part of me to be a very private person with very special people in my life.

I am a trusting but careful person. I choose who I trust and do that carefully. In the same way I can be trusted by them. A secret is only a secret when you tell someone and the secrets of others will never see the light of day on these pages or any other pages. It is said that if you have a handful of friends in your life - true friends - you are doing well. I believe that.

There have been times on this journal when I have wondered if I have anything more to say; anything more to offer the reader. The thought I return to is that this is my chance to be brave and to do something bold and good and true. This is what keeps me coming back to these pages.

A story for Thanksgiving

Each year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a bit wistful for our life back in the United States. We lived in a country town where all the children went to the same town schools, parents met at the edge of the soccer or lacrosse field on Saturday mornings and life was dictated according to the seasons. My children got off the school bus, threw their bags through the kitchen door and went off into the woods to play with the other neighbourhood kids for hours; whatever the weather. The house was small but very cosy and we loved our lives there.

We especially loved Thanksgiving. There were no presents to worry about and it was all about being together and a fantastic meal, the dessert often shared with American friends, or even the whole meal with our friends from down under who lived in the next town.

I wondered this morning whether I had anything at all to contribute to the festivity of this time for kinky American readers when I suddenly recalled that I had once written a story wherein I had made mention of a turkey. It is an odd story if you don't know the background, so let me fill you in so that you don't think I am a complete deviant (not that you would, of course!).

The character of Mr. Owens in the story is a dear, dear Internet friend from the UK who has chosen to be absent from my life this year for reasons I don't know. But, if you happen to be reading Mr Owens, I still think very fondly of you and wish you would write to me. He has the most deliciously devilish mind and is the inspiration for this character and his special piece of equipment. My other special Internet friend, Rich, dared me one day to find a pair of rubber gloves "erotic", and this was my offering to him. Hence, the rather unusual ending to the story, the goal of which was to make him laugh (which he did, I am told). The story has had less than a handful of readers so I take pleasure in dusting it off for you here. I wish you a most festive and happy Thanksgiving Day.

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FANTASY No. 2

Lucinda stood in front of the Master’s desk as he read the note she had been told to give to him by Mr. Manifold. Upon reading the note he looked back up at her, disgusted.

“So this is the second time you have come to your mathematics class without your text book this week?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Have you any plausible explanation for this irresponsible behaviour, girl?”

“No Sir.”

“No, indeed! Well, in my experience Miss Belland, girls who cannot remember matters such as bringing their text books to class, need assistance with remembering important matters.”

Lucinda was silent. She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, girl?”

“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”

“Pay attention, girl!”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, where was I?”

“You were saying, Sir, that sometimes girls need help to remember things.”

“Quite right!”

“Experience has taught me Miss Belland, that the cane applied to a girl’s bottom can improve her memory significantly. After I have given girls a jolly good caning in the past they have remembered things they were continually forgetting. I believe that the memory of my cane has a lasting impression on a girl and frees her mind to make room for organizing her life. Perhaps after I have caned you, soundly, you will find yourself saying, ‘Now, do I have all my equipment for my class?’ Anyway, we shall see.”

“Yes Sir.”

“I would like you to take off your skirt and panties please. You can put them over there, by the chair at the door. You won’t need them for quite a while.”

“Yes Sir.”

Lucinda did exactly as she was told. She was not a new girl at this school. She dared not disobey.

“Now girl, come and take your place at this whipping bench. It was delivered earlier this morning and you will be the first girl to behold it. Is it not a fine piece of craftsmanship?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Mr. Owen put a great deal of time and care into making it for me. See here how the slats for the girl’s tummy are bowed, thus raising the rump. A beautiful job! And Mr. Owen has used the finest leather straps for securing you in place. I am particularly pleased with the holes he has made on the base of the bench for your feet. I’m sure you will appreciate Miss Belland, having your feet firmly planted in them, so that escape is unthinkable.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Well this is a test run, so to speak. Mr. Owen has asked for feedback, and he will make any necessary adjustments, of course. It is my duty to see that every girl has the most professional and memorable experience possible. A caning, at its best, is a highly educational experience!”

“Yes Sir.”

“Very well, Miss Belland, move along! Bend over the bench.”

Gingerly, Lucinda moved the two necessary steps forward and put each foot in the holes of the platform of the floor attached to the bench. It was easy enough to place her feet in the holes but it would take some effort to get them out. She bent over the bench. She could feel the wooden slats under her tummy. She sank into the bench, and without even trying her bottom was raised, proffered for the master’s attention. Now the Master secured the two leather straps across her back and stretched them tight. She was as well secured as a turkey tied at the legs at Thanksgiving, ready to be put into the oven.

Lucinda’s heart was leaping about in her breast. She’d been caned before now, to be sure, but Mr. Cromwell had a look of glee in his eye that had her frantic. He seemed completely smitten with his new piece of furniture. Mr. Cromwell surveyed Miss Belland’s buttocks. There could be no doubt to the observer that he was looking forward to this.

“Do you think twelve hard strokes will be enough Miss Belland, for you to always remember your books and equipment?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Yes, I think so too. Twelve it will be then. But I don’t want to drag this out on you, girl. There will be no need for you to ask for the next stroke. Simply count the stroke and thank me for it. Anything else would be impolite.”

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“Then, let’s begin.”

Mr. Cromwell went to his supply of canes in his rack behind his desk and selected the thin bamboo cane sent to him from the far reaches of northern Queensland. He was partial to the canes from that country. They didn’t look harsh canes and he was surprised initially to hear girls raise their voices in song when he lashed them down on their buttocks. Experience had taught him that a thin, whippy cane had the most lasting effect on a girl’s behaviour and from that day he had a standing order from a supplier for canes from the tropics.

Mr. Cromwell walked towards Lucinda and placed the cane across the middle of her buttocks, and then a little lower, a little higher. She knew what he was doing. She knew he was an orderly sort of man and she knew that he liked to create a series of horizontal stripes. He was measuring; checking to see just where he would lay all twelve strokes. He was not only a master of education, but indeed, a master of the cane. Without further ado, Mr. Cromwell brought the cane up to shoulder height and slashed it down on Lucinda’s buttocks. It was too soon to howl. She had to control her panic. She sucked in gulps of air instead, swallowed hard and said,

“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“You are welcome, my dear. It is my duty to teach you your lessons. That is what I am here for.”

“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”

And so the stokes bore down on Lucinda one after the other, perhaps only six or seven seconds apart. By the sixth stroke she was in absolute agony, and panting hard. At this juncture, Mr. Cromwell decided to take a break. He took a second or two to admire his handiwork thus far. Miss Belland had a delicious round bottom and striped it looked good enough to eat.

“Let’s remind ourselves Miss Belland, as to why you are here having your bottom whipped. Put it in your own words, girl.”

Lucinda took a moment to take one long breath to steady herself.

“I am having my bottom whipped, Sir, because I forgot to bring my mathematics book to class twice this week. You are teaching me, Sir, how to remember things.”

“Well said, girl! Another six and I think I may have got my message across. Let us continue.”

Lucinda braced herself for the final six strokes. There would be no extras today she could be sure. Secured to this blasted new whipping bench (if she ever met Mr. Owen she’d be sure to make it her life’s mission to pay him back for his sadist pleasures in the woodshed) she couldn’t move an inch out of position if she had wanted to.

Mr. Cromwell continued to bring the cane down savagely. It bit into Lucinda’s bottom time and time again, creating long vivid welts. She tried hard to remember that with each cane stroke it was one less, but then again, she had the final stroke to receive yet – and Mr. Cromwell had never deviated from the rule: the last cane stroke must be the hardest.

“Now for the final stroke, Lucinda, and you know that this must be the hardest. It is a tradition of the school.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”

“Yes Sir.”

Lucinda heard the cane arc up through the air and she registered the sound as it made its way down and across her buttocks. For several seconds, she didn’t feel much at all. About five seconds later, an excruciating pain was felt across her buttocks, as if someone had taken a red hot poker to her. From deep inside of her she could feel the words of hatred welling up. She wanted to tell this man what a rotten, horrible, old bastard that he was. But she stopped herself in time. Should she utter even a syllable of one of those words, she would be caned all over again, and it wasn’t worth that.
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“Twelve Sir. Thank you Sir.”

Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.

“You are most welcome, Miss Belland. Just stay there for the moment please, while I write up the official record, and then we’ll talk some more. A caning is always a good start. But for a girl to have a lesson firmly imprinted on her mind, we need to go a little further. I will be right back. I just need to get a new pair of rubber gloves."

Camilla's journey to Ithaca

Camilla lay in his arms on the bed. It never failed to amaze her how such an old man could make love so well; so much better than the college boys she knew. She had asked him what was that special thing he did with her clit to make her cum so hard, but he had refused to tell her, saying that she would only reveal it to other boys and not return to him. She scoffed at the idea but he was firm and remained tight lipped.

They chatted about all sorts of topics. When she said that she was tired of her studies and wanted to get on with her life, he listened quietly, and then said,

“Darling, you are on your journey to Ithaca. No need to rush.”

“Ithaca? What do you mean?”

He looked shocked; even annoyed.

“Don’t tell me you have been educated at one of London’s finest schools and it’s most esteemed university not to know the poem ‘Ithaca’? You have never read ‘The Odyssey?”

She had sat up now and out of his arms. His words stung her. He’d done this once before; implied that she was some sort of imbecile because she didn’t know something he thought she ought to know. She felt completely out of his league; a fraud for even being in his company. She looked away from him so that he could not see the tears welling in her eyes.

“What on earth are they teaching the young people these days? It’s a crime not to know these very basic things!”

She didn’t speak. She was much too upset to speak.

“Camilla, I’ve hurt your feelings...”

“No, not at all. I’m fine.”

“Look at me, darling.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Come now; show the old man your pretty face.”

She turned back towards him and it was evident from the shattered expression in her eyes that he had cut her to the quick. He held her gently in his arms and rocked her a little from side to side and the gentleness of the movement encouraged the tears to spill onto her cheeks. When she had recovered she pulled back from him a little so that he could watch her as she talked.

“You’re right, Daniel. I am ignorant.”

“You’re no such thing. It is not my place to make you feel that way at all and I was wrong to do so. You are a bright girl who learns fast. I’m a thousand years old, darling. We old guys can be full of ourselves.”

“No, really, Daniel, I want to know the things that you know. I am fascinated really at all the things you know and I so wish you would teach me. I love it when you suddenly break out with the lines of a poem or a play. You have so much knowledge. I want to know your mind.”

“Oh sweetheart, you are such a dear, dear girl. Of course I will teach you anything you want to know.”

“Well, what about this journey to Ithaca? Why did you mention that just now?”

“You said that you were impatient to get on with your life and the poem talks of this – of the need not to be impatient on life’s journey. Would you like to read it, darling?”

“Yes, I very much would. May I?”

“Of course, you may. Come with me.”

He took her by the hand and both naked they walked along the hall way and into his library; a room with floor to ceiling bookcases. She watched amazed as within those hundreds and hundreds of books he laid his hands on the book he wanted almost immediately. He opened the book to the desired page and handed it to her.

“Read it, Camilla. Slowly. Carefully. Enjoy it. I shall make us a pot of tea and when I return we shall talk about the poem.”

She watched him leave and wondered what it was he saw in her; a lowly young girl with so much to learn about life while he was esteemed and beloved by the whole university; an icon and a truly gifted man.

She turned her attention to the poem on the page and focussed hard on the beautiful words. More than anything in life she wanted to impress him; for him to be proud and pleased.

Words

My husband was having a telephone conversation with his sister this morning. It wasn't about me but about something I needed to do and he was trying to protect me. I heard him say, "Look, she is as soft as butter and I'm not going to have her go through this again..."

My sister-in-law, who can be as kind as she can be cruel was having none of it and her sensibilities were offended, as they so often are, until she said something so awful and so vicious, I'm sure we will forgive, but we'll be unlikely to forget. Although she considers herself a 'Christian' it does nothing to assuage her sense of righteousness and indignation if people have a different view to hers. Her sense of self means that she must lash out when feeling at all anxious and it takes quite a bit of sensitivity on the other person's part to want to hang around and accept the assault.

What she in fact did was say the most hurtful and confronting thing she could to her brother - the statement that would offend him the most; the statement that would rile him and challenge his ability to stay calm with her. And, when she said that, she knew full well what the result of saying it would be.

My husband has a dominant character. When he makes a call he means to be heard - not necessarily to get his way but for there to be resolution of a situation. He is more than willing to negotiate and sort things out. His sister, knowing full well that he can be forceful and direct when not happy about something tends, nearly always, to go on the attack. This has them at loggerheads and most particularly when she turned viciously against their sister and he had to mediate on her behalf. His sense of how to treat a family member would not allow the behaviour to stand.

One the great outcomes of my mentoring - a mentoring that involves words and words alone - is that I have had excellent practice in paying attention to my words. Like my sister-in-law, I have been guilty of allowing my emotions to run and take me over. I have felt anger and instead of slowing down and working through that fact (oh yeah, there's that false ego controlling me again) I've let the words fly on email. It isn't nice and it isn't good. In fact, it was very wrong.

The truth is that things done in anger are invariably done badly and often with false 'facts'. It is no co-incidence I think that when I act in anger, minutes, hours or days later, I am apologizing. What does that tell you? The last time it happened, I was called on it. It caused a breach between us and we both suffered for that. We've made a wonderful team and my false ego put a blot on that.

I do feel that I have grown a great deal as a person over the past year in many ways and it is what makes me continue to challenge myself in this space. We all use words like 'trust' and 'communication' and recognize the importance of these words, but it is perhaps not until there is a breach of trust or communication that we fully understand the huge significance of those words in a power exchange. Communication is vital and trust is paramount. I failed on both counts.

I've talked privately, and somewhat publicly here, I think, that I do well about 98% of the time, and isn't that good enough?! But, it is not and I know that now. We need to put thought into our words; not just bleed onto the page. We need to consider what impact those words will have on the person receiving those words. It has been a salutary lesson.

I've taken a few days here in my everyday life to slow myself right down - to really absorb the importance of words in communication and most especially in terms of the power exchange. And, I rather doubt I'll make this mistake again. It was a lack of faith that implied a desire to control. And, that is what perturbed him the most - my persistence at seizing control at the very same time as I strive to relinquish it.

My words about ego (the last post) are pertinent here and I feel more self-assured to carry on with my goals. The extraordinary thing is that, I believe, the more self assured and self realized one is - the more one can snuff off that false ego and just connect with the self -the more one can relinquish the desire for control.

My goal has always been to seek the divine - that sense of complete peace and harmony in life - and I feel closer to it with each step. This is what it is about for me.

Analyzing the analysis

I used to talk about analysing the analysis, right back at the inception of this blog. So, I don't imagine there is any surprise here when I say that one of the few television shows that I enjoy at this time is In Treatment. I'm quite addicted to it actually. When one episode finishes, the announcer will sometimes say, 'Don't get off the couch. Your session with the doctor isn't over yet'. Oh, goody! Another show to come and I stay right where I am.

I haven't spoken to other fans of the show but I just bet many would agree that even better than his sessions with patients are his sessions with his own psychotherapist, Gina (played by Dianne Wiest). She is the model of consistency with him and last night I got the feeling that he left his session with her almost healed. Yes, his father had not behaved well towards him but his father had loved him and Paul did love him, too. It seemed to quell the angry little boy inside him, at least for now. It thrilled me to see a preview of the next session when Gina finally blows her top at him, "You know Paul, you can really be an asshole!" Oh wow! I'm going to enjoy that episode.

I've been skeptical about analysis because I saw a family member in therapy for years and she never changed one bit. They seemed to talk a lot about her childhood in those sessions and hardly at all about the modes of behaviour that were causing her so much damage now. It all seemed such a waste of time if she was not going to learn to make better choices for herself.

But, in essence I've been in self therapy here for over a year now so I have some proof that it has value to put oneself on the couch, so long as the requisite changes in mindset are made to make for a better life for oneself and those others in our lives.

Paul really was in a great deal of pain about his father. He wanted his time and attention, seeing him as a very interesting person and he remained angry with his father, even after his death that he did not give him this time. When he settles down later in the session with Gina he looks at her and asks, "Did you have the kind of father you needed?" First, she nods tentatively, and then she shakes her head. "No, I didn't. I am a therapist, Paul!!"

It was a lovely soft touch alluding to the fact that it is those who have things to work out that are interested in psychology, and judging by the people I see choosing psychology courses, I really think that does bear out. And so, we are flawed in this analysis, therapist and patient, just as all people are flawed. Yet, one leads the other; one gives the other the security of being lead and of having that safety net.

I have heard dominant men say that they enjoy the process of providing that security, leadership and control for a submissive and I don't doubt that for a second. But, Paul is often beside himself about his patients, about the limits of his control over their lives beyond the therapy session; of his doubts that he is of any real use to them at all. It is a burden to him in some ways because although he desperately wishes to help them, he hurts too. He needs love, affection and tenderness as do we all and he also needs to throw the odd hissy fit himself; to act like a petulant little boy rather than the statesman that he is capable of being.

In the case of a power exchange relationship even those of us who long to be daddy's little girl; to cede control and curl up on the couch in his lap recognize that no man is perfect, even though there may be moments when we forget to take off the rose coloured glasses and believe it is so. But, I think at the end of the day that is what is really lovely about a power exchange.

Somewhere, some man wrote that each submissive he had been with had changed him in some way. This is the reality. We are who we are and we crave that which completes us: the dominant wants a submissive and the submissive a dominant. But, no person is perfect and nor should they be expected to be perfect.

It is not about perfection but rather the pursuit of perfection. I think perhaps this is what analysis is all about, why I gravitate towards it and why I enjoy the show.

In so many ways I have been taught to let go of analysis; to let go completely and let the dominant catch me. I adore this more than I could ever say. But, in the dustiest corner of my mind is always a faint reminder of what lies behind one of the most wonderful experiences of my life: people who truly do recognize that neither is perfect but that both strive to be the very best that they can be.

Corrective procedures explained

Her father was a man of strong will and conviction and he had made up his mind that his only daughter would not be spoiled. He was convinced that whilst she should always be cared for very well, as he had always done, she was not to turn out like so many other girls from wealthy families; spoiled, precocious, demanding and with expectations that they should achieve nothing in their lives except how to use a credit card.

To this end, Clive Jameson decided to enrol his daughter in a small and specialized private school in the countryside where special care was taken that a girl achieved her absolute best, but that she also remain free from the influences of nasty and undisciplined brats as he has observed at her previous school.

Margaret did her best to try to persuade her father to allow her to stay at her school in the city but it was the temper tantrum she threw when he said 'no' to her that convinced him that this step was essential.

"Margaret, the matter is closed and I forbid you to bring it up with me again. At Ridgewood Academy you will receive excellent tutelage in your lessons and as well, you will receive discipline that will make you strong. I am doing this for your own good and one day you will thank me. Now, go to your room."

Margaret cried herself to sleep as loudly as she could so as to make her father feel sorry for what he had done but it had no effect at all. The next day they left for her new school. Her uniform would be provided by the school she was told so she had very little packed in her suitcase save for Monty her bear, and she prayed that he would not be taken from her. Though in her late teens, she was still young at heart.

The Headmaster greeted them in his office a few hours later and although he appeared stern he was not without warmth. He assured Margaret that although discipline at the school was strict, it was fair and equitable and that at his school she would be encouraged to impose self-discipline upon herself and to achieve at the highest standards. It was evident from her reports and tests, he said, that she was a most capable girl who could do better, and he intended to oversee that happy outcome himself.

Later, when her father had bid her goodbye and asked her to write regularly, she was taken upstairs to the Matron of the boarding house and it was through talking with her that she began to learn the ways of her new school. Poor behaviour, should that occur, was punishable in various ways but at Ridgewood Academy a different approach was taken than simply to punish bad behaviour after the fact.

Rather than punish a girl for poor behaviour, or achieving an inappropriate grade or for disrespectful conduct towards a Master or Mistress, it had been determined that all girls would receive a "correction" on a weekly basis. This correction would, in most cases, ensure that a girl understood that it was very much in her interests to avoid any further dealings with the Headmaster regarding inappropriate behaviour.

On Sunday evenings, immediately after the Chaplain's sermon girls should meet in the assembly hall (the room with no chairs) where they should stand up straight in lines with their hands clasped behind their backs. One by one, their names would be called and when Margaret's name was called she should immediately move forward to the front of the room and stand in front of the oak table.

When given the command she should take down her panties (regulation black) and bend across the desk, whereupon the Headmaster would raise her skirt to reveal her bare buttocks to the whole school. She should remain totally still (unless, of course, she wished strokes repeated) and receive 12 hard strokes of the cane. These strokes would be administered in a manner whereby it was hoped that marks would remain all week. This, it was deemed, would enable all girls to sit on a well marked and bruised backside for the duration of the week thereby ensuring that a girl was continually reminded of the expectations of Ridgewood - high academic achievement, superb manners and total obedience.

Naturally, Matron explained, there was the odd exception to the rule and from time to time, a girl did act inappropriately at some stage during the week, in spite of the stripes offered to her each Sunday evening. In this case, a note was made in her file and she was offered an extra six sound stripes to her buttocks and thighs on the following Sunday evening. Without exception, these extra stripes had convinced all girls, so far, of the best road for her to take.

"Do you have any questions, Margaret? Is there anything you would like to say?" asked Matron.

"No, Ma'am."

"You would not like to express your thanks for your acceptance at Ridgewood Academy and the opportunity to excel?"

"Ohhhh, yes, I would, Ma'am. Thank you for having me here Ma'am. I am very grateful for the opportunity afforded me to learn my lessons."

"That's the way, Margaret. Be sure to give your thanks to Headmaster on Sunday evening, after your first caning - always very sound. Headmaster is a most committed man and puts a lot of effort into his work."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good girl. Run along now."

Without realizing it, as Margaret opened the door with one hand she was rubbing her bottom with the other.

And, well she might!

Did I put those restraints away?

As I ate my lunch today I clicked onto the link to 'Remittance Girl' found under my links in 'my blog list' and read her story posted there entitled 'Real Women'. I've been following RG for some time and must say, she just keeps getting better at creating such authentic characters and such hot scenes.

I really don't want to spoil the surprise. Just do yourself a favour and read this story. To the submissives I say, don't try this at home. To the dominants I say, beware! And the moral of the story is twofold: keep your promises to your women and learn how to ask for what you want effectively. Which moral applies to you is for you to decide! Ha! Ha!

Happy reading!