The object state

Ruth sat in the front passenger seat and felt the sun warming her face on this autumn morning. Her eyes gradually became more heavy and at some point she began to drift off into slumber. As her mind began to let go of the effort to remain fully awake she squeezed on the anal plug she was wearing and as she did images floated before her closed eyes; images she had not called up but had made an entrance into her mind without invitation.

She felt the long, thick cock enter her pussy cunt and as it did she let out a soft groan, overcome with the pleasure and surprise of the thrust. Her mind fell much like an elevator that jerks in deceleration. Instinctively, she opened her mouth to form a hole for any other cock that was also in need of the use of her body. To those people in cars passing by, thankfully, this was a woman whose mouth opens when she falls asleep; nothing more.

Very quickly, Ruth had transformed into her object state. She was there for their use and she knew it; wanted it; thrived on the thought. No matter how hard she tried with the force of her will, of which she felt she had an abundant store, to not think about such scenarios, this thought repeated in Ruth's mind many times a day. As surprised as she was to experience this so haphazardly, on the way to an event, the scenario itself was well known to her.

Whether she had been trained to believe in her object state or whether it was there all along she knew not. All she could really say for sure was that she had no idea how to make it go away, and that she didn't want to. Ruth had only been fucked in her mind's eye but she enjoyed it nonetheless, as always; took great pleasure in the meanderings of her mind, as usual.

Regimen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My love affair

This is an exercise I have begun - a daily writing exercise wherein I don't try to be clever or profound, just allow the words to come through me - whatever comes, comes. This is what came today. It interested me to read it over because I do often feel that my writing life is a illicit love affair - that I steal whatever time I can to be by myself with the page. They are supportive, for sure, but not entirely comfortable with this continuous caller. So, I take my chances where I can and try not to have them offended by the blank page that I find so intoxicating. I love them all, but the blank page calls and I am off dancing again.


'The world as I see it is lives in my fingertips. No matter how close I feel to people around me, how interested I am in what is going on about me, I need to experience the world through my fingertips. The thoughts, feelings and impressions that resonate through my mind and body need to find expression by being transplanted onto a page.

I have a special relationship with the blank page. It craves to be filled just as I crave to be emptied and freed from those thoughts. Those thoughts and impressions need a home, away from me; separate to me.

It is too crowded, my head. If the thoughts aren’t transferred to the page they rummage about in my brain, never quite taking any particular shape. The page gives them some shape, not necessarily a final destination, but the page is a holding place until my brain reads the words and determines what to do with them – eliminate them, ignore them, transform them; tease and manipulate them until they form an acceptable shape; until some patterns emerge.

I remain unconvinced that this relationship I have with the page is understood. There is a certain jealousy felt; a sense of competition raids the air; a need to disrupt and influence the meeting as if it were the enemy. The very notion that the page matters most must be dispelled and only evidence such as me not spending quiet, uninterrupted time with the page is good enough.

I comply. I endeavor to stay away from the page and to be able to live this way – in the moment, surrounded by other people’s words. For a time it is enough, until the page demands my attention; insists that it be filled with my thoughts and words.

The page was my first intense, love affair. It will also be my last. However, only I can know this fact. We meet in the dark, in the early morning, in stolen moments during the day. I’m his muse and he’s my dominant. I do as he says. I am at his beck and call. I do his bidding. Honestly, I simply can’t stay away. I’m besotted. Hooked.'

Submissive tendencies

I've a friend who reminds me from time to time of the very simple truth that a D/s relationship is what you do with the relationship you've got. Since the power exchange relationship is often intense, demanding and challenging it is entirely possible to forget that it must meet the criteria of any well functioning and worthwhile relationship between two (or more) people. There must be at least some modicum of good will and intent; care, fondness at the least; mutual understanding.

It can be difficult to know what a healthy and high functioning relationship looks like if you haven't had one. Even if one is blessed with a well functioning family it's a fifty:fifty thing as to whether a person enters a relationship that brings them succor. One goes along, trying to make it work as best one can until someone looking on might say, "Look, honestly, you deserve better. You don't need to put yourself through this." It is really important to have someone in your life who can point these things out to you. Yes, we all need to learn for ourselves, but reality checks are really, really important.

To give an example, this gal I know was with a boy for a few years. From the outset, he was a bit of a neanderthal: sitting on the couch watching sports games while she did her best to look interested. She'd dress up for him hoping for a compliment but he didn't seem to notice how gorgeous she was and bit by bit her spirits eroded.

"What are you doing with this guy," I'd say. "How long is it going to take you to get over him? Can't you see he is not worth your time?"

In the end, there was nothing to do but encourage her to take a geographical break; to take a long overseas holiday, which she did.

She'd only got as far as a party on a Greek Island when  a man told her how beautiful she was, and she reported back to me that she loved how he was making the decisions about what they'd do tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. She'd found her groove.

Later, she met a boy who was enraptured with her; he said she was the most beautiful girl he'd even seen and he, apparently, very quickly made the decision to make her his. A quick comparison told her that what she had back at home was of little value in comparison with what she now had. He loved being with her, wanted her to be happy and could envisage a future together.

If you read even a little about obsession you'll realize that the state of obsession is focusing on something that you don't have. By the very act of obsessing you convince yourself that the person means more than he or she does. By obsessing, you put more into the situation than is there. You focus your energies on the obsession and before you know it, the object of your obsession has taken over most of your head space. The trick, therefore, is to go out and meet new people; to stay busy; to see things for what they are.

Facebook and the like aren't making things easy for people to get over obsessive love. It's all too easy to see what the other is doing when the thing they should be doing is putting a line in the sand; moving on; putting the other out of mind.

On the other hand, I'm not sure that over-reacting is good, either. My daughter's girlfriend went through the cyber stalking phase checking out her ex-boyfriend's moves and words, only to have a one night stand with a man and to feel pretty shitty about that the next day.

Real emotion, whether it be love or affection, has all the hall marks of wanting the other to be happy. Compliments come easily when they are due; shared smiles and laughter come easily and often as well. There's a certain intimacy because the other has been taken into their world. If you're perpetually kept at a distance, confused and off balance, if the other wants to hold all the cards, refusing to reveal himself or herself, that's not a relationship. It may be a D/s sort of game, but it's not a relationship.

There is a tremendous tendency for the person with a submissive nature to feel that they are meant to endure; to accept any and all treatment. But, that's not a real relationship. That's called something else entirely. There's no strong foundation there at all if that's the case and submissive or not, we need to register that we are worth more and deserve more than that.

Crossroads

I am just going to write the thoughts as they come...

I was having a shower last night when a thought demanded my attention...maybe I should close the Vesta blog...go and close it right this instant. The thought was strong and as I let it wash over me, I realized that the thought was about the sense I had been having that "Vesta" or "cindi" or a combination of both those entities was making it difficult for me to move on. I had been at this writing course for a couple of months now and still all the thoughts and all the ideas led back to sex and kinky sex at that. If I closed the blog and shut off that avenue to express all that, maybe my mind could free itself to think about other things to write.

I willed myself to go to sleep but by 5 am I was awake again and the thought returned. But, how would I do that? Leave the blog there but take away my reading list (thus making it more difficult for me to read other blogs)? What of my friends? If I close the blog do I cut myself off from the email address(es) from where I communicate with them? Do I give a select few my real life address instead? I just didn't have all the answers - wasn't sure what to do about the details - worried that I would pine without this outlet...so many details to consider. What of my tumblr account? I love my tumblr account (which was a gift to me) and the opportunity to record a photograph that turns me on. But, how do I keep that account open if the rest is closed?

In some curious way, it feels that my sexuality has taken over my life. I am not at all sure you are meant to feel this way in your mid 50s. Aren't you meant to move onto other concerns and interests by now? Aren't you meant to write about social issues and the world at large and all the thoughts that go through regular (non-kinky) peoples' heads?

Rather than settle down, my sexuality is stronger than ever. My fantasies are rich and detailed and full of containment and power over me...all sorts of restraint and and taking control of me. My body responds to those thoughts; continually and repeatedly looks for touch and use; hungers for it.

I correspond with a girl not unlike me and I just read her latest entry. It is so apparent why we were hooked up with each other (put in contact, I mean). We are so alike; fixated really on sex and control. I've lived a quieter life than she has but our minds relate to one another in a way few other minds do.

Yes, I go about my life and I achieve and function. But, this has been an obsession for sure and maybe the outlet of this blog is merely feeding that obsession. Maybe if I stopped writing here I could simply focus on my writing assignments and start a little novel and just be like a regular 50+ year old woman.

This year has been so full - of travel, of change, of loss and of love. I am blessed as a woman and a human being; incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by love and family; thrilled to have learned what I have and to have the opportunity to learn to write well via this course. It is a stroke of luck to have Bart who was a bit surprised but not shocked by the short story of lust and control that I sent him - who was willing to see it as a first draft with potential just as I saw the potential in the first draft he sent me.

But, it can't continue like this, can it? Such characters are so vastly in the minority. I am so vastly in the minority. I think my thoughts and my characters and my plots have to deal more with the other 99.9% of people in the world.

I have long held the view that these wants and needs of mine (and presumably yours) live in many more people than are willing to admit to them. But, even Bart called it "racy" and Lord knows what the faculty people will think of it.

Part of me says the solution lies in letting the short story format go...in creating stories about lust and desire and  love and conflict and struggle that evolve over many more thousands of words; that that might provide the opportunity to show how these things come to pass; what makes us tick in a more convincing and acceptable way.

If I close the blog, will my thoughts move on to other subjects or will I simply frustrate myself losing the opportunity to say here what is more likely to receive a sympathetic audience?

I feel that I have reached some sort of crossroad in my life and development and I honestly don't know which path to take. Has anyone any thoughts? Thank you.

Devotion

I received your call and knowing how much it meant to you I retrieved your precious gloves and travelled to you.

You were indistinguishable, one of hundreds of young men in camouflage. I understood that if you could have come to me you would.

I hung about for a while; tried to look unobtrusive; as if I had a good reason for being there but as a mother, I knew I stuck out as the one object that did not belong.

I returned to the car and sat and thought through my options. Every one of them returned to the fact that you relied on me; that I was obligated to solve this; to get to you.

I began to see boys older than you make their way to the waiting buses and so I moved closer to them in the vain hope that one of them might be you.

Closer to the oval again where you most likely were, I made my way up to the top of the crescent and then slightly down it.

All the boys were on their feet and lined up now and I felt my chances slipping away. Yet, I stood there with the faintest of hopes that somehow you were watching me and that something would give.

The oval felt very still to me. I wondered if this was the sort of hush that occurs before battle. The thought fleeted through my mind when I caught hold of a move in the ranks. I suddenly saw you, tall and thin as a beanpole, as handsome as all get out and as quiet as a mouse, make your way towards me. I, in turn made my way towards you.

“I can’t thank you enough,” you said.

“That’s all right.”

I desperately wanted to hug you but I knew the rules. No displays of love in school uniform and especially not in cadet gear.

“Have a good time,” I offered.

As I moved away you reached out to me and caught me with your impossibly long fingers, kissed me on the cheek and wrapped your arms around me.

“God, but I love you so much,” I said.

“I love you too, Mum. Thank you.  See you soon.”

 You walked your way and I walked mine.

They were just a set of gloves but so much more than a set of gloves.

Sizzle, sizzle

I think I am really testing David's patience lately as he waits for me to write the latest scene from Agnes' point of view. Being the 'good guy' that he is, he knows that I have to get certain things out of my system first. Sometimes, life creeps up on you and reveals things to you and you have no alternative but to stop and just absorb it for a while. Yet today, I feel so floaty and happy and able and content that I just have to write here how very happy I feel!

In the last post, Oatmeal Girl made the following comment: "Need, obsession, inspiration, service... we seem to be on opposite sides of the seesaw, but without both of us it will not move and we will not reach the heights." It didn't pass Shape Shifter by either that this was a particularly poignant statement.

Need, obsession, inspiration and service are words that all have great meaning and impact in my life. My needs are just that; not wants alone but very much needs. I certainly obsess. You don't write more than 450 posts about all this and not have an obsession.

I am fortunate to receive abundant inspiration and may I humbly suggest, that I would not receive that inspiration if I did not myself inspire.

And, I serve. I do indeed serve, with good grace and dignity and pleasure.

Today is one of those days that I can tick off as a thrilling success! Just this once you don't really need the details, do you? Let's just say, I'm sizzling like only good dolls do! Can we leave it at that? And now, I can do some writing.

In love with leather

Upon reading Deity’s evocative post about his girl’s newly acquired ballet boots, I was prompted to consider what any item of leather might mean to me. I thought hard but nothing immediately came to mind. I love a number of leather items I own but I would not call any of them "obsessions". I happen to have a few obsessions but they are not made of leather. That is a topic for another day. Then, I thought about two men whom I know well and what an item of leather had meant to them. And, that made me smile with three rather poignant and most pleasurable memories.

First, I have a story about my husband. The two of us were having a dirty weekend in New York City. We were having a most enjoyable stroll down Madison Avenue when my husband saw a lovely men’s shoe store and he gestured that he wanted to enter. It was one of those stores where you enter if they allow you to enter. You know what I mean. So, in we went and my husband spotted a pair of ankle boots. They were beautiful soft leather and a really decadent, sexy pair of boots, I must say. He tried them on and was clearly in love. He simply could not hide that fact. I knew. The salesman knew. The price was ridiculously high and it never entered my head that my husband would actually buy them. He is a generous man but very rarely chooses to spend money on himself unless necessary. You could see him thinking but he wasn’t saying much. He took a look at the price again.

“Is this your best price?” he asked the smooth Italian salesman.

“I could ask for more, Sir, if you prefer...”

We both laughed. It was such a silly question but he can’t help himself.

There was silence for what seemed the longest time. Then the salesman said, in his honey smooth Italian accent,

“Oh come on! You know you want them...”

I was laughing wildly now. He had my husband’s number and that was all there was to that!

“Okay. I’ll take them.”

He has absolutely adored those boots and still enjoys wearing them to this day.

The second story is about the man for whom I worked. One year he brought back from Italy a beautiful soft leather briefcase. He really loved it, and it sat on the chair in the corner of the office right beside his big, leather embossed wooden desk. I can’t tell you how often he looked over at the briefcase, how often he smelled it to take in its aroma, and how pleased he was to pick it up again one more time when he went off to a meeting.

One day, a good friend and a board member made note that he seemed to be really enjoying his new briefcase. My boss replied rapturously,

“I could marry it!”

We all fell about laughing because it was the truth!

And, one more story because you are such good listeners...

One year, I was given a voucher to Bloomingdales department store. There was a sale going on too and I acquired a lovely, very soft brown leather jacket for a very good price. I bought it home and showed it to my husband who adored it the moment he saw it.

“Take everything off and put on the jacket,” he said.

I did that and down on the bed I went. He thoroughly enjoyed making love. But, was he making love to me or the jacket?

I am still not quite sure!