Pleasure in the pain

It's the middle of final year exams here right now and there's plenty of serious study going on and also some light relief; a sort of pain/pleasure mix. We've an interesting and bizarre system here where a cohort's score can raise your score up or bring it down. This is not well understood by most students who hold onto material themselves, loathe to share their good ideas.

My son knows better. His score was reduced for a final year creative subject he took last year because his cohort didn't do well in the exam, so this year he determined that the Drama class understood this and he initiated Skype chats where they shared answers and ideas. This is great because it would be too sad for this exceptionally talented team of performers to be let down in their scores by an average examination experience. I could hear conversations taking place in his bedroom all afternoon and night as they co-operatively worked together. They've planned lunch out afterwards and I'd like to think that in some capacity they will always be friends.

With all this in place I took my son over to school just now and we hugged in our ritualistic way and I said, as I always do, 'May the force be with you'. This is my 'good luck' message to all my children when they have some mountain to climb. However, on returning home I realized he had left his water bottle, another ritual of his, to fill up his clear water bottle just before he heads off for an examination. I checked the time and decided that if I ran fast I could make it to him before they were called in.

Past the eucalytus trees I ran, the freshly mowed oval where he had played countless soccer games, the bicylce stands, the Science building, the swimming pool and around to the gymnasium where I saw boys standing around chatting. Yes! There was some chance I had made it in time. Suddenly, I saw my son's head bob up from where he had been sitting on the grass and it was clear he was confused to see me. I held up the water bottle. 'Ah, you came all the way back! Thank you'. 'Good luck,' I said to him and those gathered, and as I was running away I heard someone say, 'Your mum is awesome' and then my son said, 'She makes me a hot breakfast every morning.' Ya see! They do care about these things.

As he was eating said breakfast this morning, he turned to me and said, 'Mum, you'll like this' and he played me an audio he had saved on his phone; a conversation between two boys that had taken place in their respective homes yesterday. It was two of his mates in conversation about Maths Methods. Clearly, one was better at the subject than the other and rather than two mates in conversation, one was performing the role of teacher and one was the student, in the sense that he understood his inferior capabilities in this subject.

'So, the answer is 9y.'
'Oh, f*ck me. How could it be 9y?'
'Because x has to be a less than y if you are derivating the number.' (I'm making this up a bit. It was gobbledy gook to me, actually)
'No, that can't be. Isn't y equal to 6?'
'No. x must be less.'
'What a mother f**ker of a subject this is! I'm burning my books the minute the examination is over. I am going to take great delight in burning all this crap.'
(Snickers heard)
'I don't understand how you can burn all your work.'
'Oh, you are going to burn your books too. Don't tell me you're too good to burn your books. This subject has caused me so much pain. This shit is going to burn in hell.'
(lots more snickers)
'Moving onto question 9f...'

This is life. There is always someone better at something than us, somebody who will teach us something we don't know; somebody who has to take the lead; somebody who has to get the ball rolling.

I adore the fact that these boys pool their resources and push everybody up with them, but the fact remains that only one boy will dux the grade. It's about PBs really and having some fun in amongst all the angst.

Last weekend I sat next to a girl who I knew well at school. I haven't seen her for nearly 40 years and it was fun to catch up on her life (Well, career really. It was all about her career.)I always knew she was smarter than me and she went on to become an academic, and I think she makes a difference to the world too, in her own way. She was well above me in terms of results, but I was smart enough to go to the same university as her and in the first year of university I'd try to get her to help me with my Linguistics, which was sometimes gobbledygook to me. My brain processes creative aspects of life better than it does mathematics or linguistics, as I found it. But, she had no real interest in helping me, I soon discovered, and I find myself hoping that these days she is more generous towards her PhD students. Let's hope she was able to make that change.

We are who we are, need what we need, want what we want. We can strive to be anything our hearts can dream but there are limits to this. We can only play with the cards we are dealt; be who we are; find our own way to shine. Peace comes when we can find the generosity within ourselves to share ourselves and when we can understand and accept ourselves; know our place in this big, wide world, because we all have a place.

Everyday life

There's so much to love about Elizabeth's Strout's The Burgess Boys. At the heart of the novel is Jim, Bob and Susan Burgess from Maine, all grown up now, either divorced or with a troubled marriage, but still living under the cloud of their father's accidental death when they were very young. Bob did it, by mistake - let the hand brake go, enabling the car they were all in to roll down the hill and run over their father. Or, at least, that is what he thinks. The truth is something they may never know. They were all so young.

I was struck by a simple line in the novel that explains that Bob is 51, tall, and a likeable person. However, he didn't know that. Bob was much more inclined to believe of himself what others told him. Jim, the older brother, had never stopped being the big brother, sarcastic and putting him down. Susan, his twin, disliked him so much that when he comes to help her son she can't even be hospitable. She offers, begrudgingly, to warm up some frozen pizza. (This bowled me over.)

As readers, we come to know the real Bob - a man who has a great deal of generosity of spirit. All their lives they had thought of Jim, the star attorney living in New York City, as the sibling to look up to. But, Strout reminds us in this novel that perception can be an illusion. It's Bob who steps up, once he begins to move out of the shadow of guilt that has plagued him all his life.

I've always been interested in the effects of birth order in families. Most first born children feel some burden of responsibility and those born later can experience the freedom of having another child take on that responsibility, so that they can do something more creative. Or, younger children can feel that they don't measure up to the first born child. We bought a second hand car from a man whilst living in Connecticut and I remember him telling me that his sister had never forgiven him for being born. It can go so many ways. Yet, the facts remain that it's those first relationships in life that stay with us; give us succor at the same time as they manipulate us to thinking about ourselves and our siblings in particular ways.

I do wonder if a very difficult childhood shared with siblings creates some bond that really must be explored at some stage later, in order to make sense of who we are now. Poverty, the loss of a parent, a sibling who has run wild or who was born with a special need can induce feelings that almost can't be expressed, until we are ready, often decades later in life to explore those memories and put them in their proper light.

So much is said in a family without specific words ever being spoken. Parents, can, for example, constantly remark how hard one child works, never mind that the other siblings have been striving with their own goals silently for years. What's the message here? Is there something about the approval of one child's goals over another? Or, one child can be the carer of the parent whilst the other jettisons off to live his own life, rarely seen. And yet, it is the child that stays away that is so often spoken of, or revered. What's the parent really saying? Some things are too hard to say. Some things are said carelessly. But, every word leaves it mark. Of this we can be sure.

In large measure, The Burgess Boys is about every day life. Some things do happen, but in many ways it is about how one moment leads to the next and the next and then something stagnates or changes, the situation transforms into something else. Every moment of life actually has a variety of options. We can choose to be kind or cold. We can choose to talk or to stay silent. We can choose to help or hinder; to be positive or negative. All of these choices tend to be affected by what others say and do as well. So, it's a melting pot really and what happens next is anybody's guess. It can look 'everyday' but the choices are infinite.

I think the really outstanding aspect of the novel is that I began the novel not finding any of the characters all that interesting and likeable and I ended the book grateful that some issues in their lives had been resolved and that all was, fundamentally, well for them. I closed the book after reading the last page pleased for them, happy that they were growing into themselves. I wished them well.

This morning, I heard Strout in an interview and she said that the characters had "gone" for her now but that she believed that they lived on in the readers' world, giving to them what they needed. She said she wrote with that voice in mind; that the characters and scenarios she created were for those readers who needed them at that time in their lives. I believe, and have always believed, that when we are ready for things, truths, they come to us. We make sense of the material. For many people, life has no purpose, but when there is so much to learn, as there is, life always has purpose.

Thoughts on the word 'constancy'

Another 'daily writing task' wherein I attempt to allow the words to flow through me - whatever comes (that is, no changes or corrections; my 'stream of writing' consciousness typed.):

'Life is a bit like being a forest. When one is in the forest it is hard to see any sort of shape or pattern; a beginning or an end. Things happen,things change. We don't necessarily know why that is so or when things will change again. It is only when we get to walk out of the forest - to take time to pause and think - that we begin to see what it was all about. There was a flow to events; change happened to us as naturally as the river bends and twists as it goes along. Life rarely runs in a straight line. There is little constancy.

Yet, in an uncertain and dynamic landscape such as encountered on Earth we can crave constancy. We want a continuity and commitment to love. We strive to feel safe; loved. We seek devotion; commitment;  a constancy of purpose in both ourselves and those around us.

For those people who are passionate about achieving their goals, no matter how difficult they may be, there is a certain level of constancy required. It's truly a fine line between being obsessively compulsively driven (disordered?) and being passionately driven to achieving a goal. How does a person get their movie made, become a top tennis player, write and publish a novel, build a house, transform a life, transform someone else's life without some constancy of purpose; without being driven to succeed?

I think you may have to dream it first. I think you have conjure up what you want and in doing so those positive mental images will aid you to make something happen. Somehow, we have to have the drive and courage to take it out of the realm of daydream and turn it into reality.

Life wasn't meant to be easy. So said Malcolm Fraser, a statement for which he is still famous. Life needs to be balanced of course but there must be purpose. We have to prove ourselves to ourselves. There must be challenge and there must be constancy of purpose. Life doesn't stay the same but some things must.'

Resting place

Every now and again, i have a look at the statistics for this blog and it never ceases to surprise me that several hundred people make their way here each week. i'm not sure how they get here but more and more it relates to Google search words, i think; random events.

it occurred to me to put up an update here - not reigniting the web journal at all, just randomly visiting myself. Whether i ever visit again is something i can't say. It's not at all an easing back into 'girl' mode, into the intellectual space of inquiring mind or teasing through my thoughts to make sense of my thoughts. i've done more than enough of that. i really do know my mind very well now. No, this is simply a statement about me; time with myself after considerable private writing and much reading.

What prompted this little moment of sharing here? Well, lately i've been one of The Book Depository's very good clients and in my parcel yesterday was The Diary of a Submissive by Sophie Morgan. The world just isn't at all fair because it is so much more arousing than Fifty of Shades of Grey; so much more revealing of why we do what we do; or perhaps i should say, how i think as i think.

James, the boyfriend, is all i could ever want. Testing, teasing, disciplining, exacting, kind, loving, sadistic, concerned about his sadism... He's the full package and provides the sort of full time dynamic i can only wish for in my dreams. He's unpredictable and he conditions her to his own specifications - to take his words very seriously, to do as he says, exactly as he says. When he pulls away, she is terribly sad. He's worried that as his feelings for her deepen into love he can't dominate her and she is worried that as her feelings deepen into love he won't dominate her. So much guilt. So much worry. So much angst.

In fact 'Sophie', a bright journalist, learns very fast what she wants. Well, i did, too. i learned decades ago that I am turned on by certain words, certain thoughts, certain images and feeling a particular way. I crave to be dominated every day of my life. My intellectual 'girl' brain seems to operate all right if you look at my scores and comments from tutors and professors, but it is getting harder for me to remain in that mindset.  It's exhausting, really.

i adore to feel completely dolli; bimbo, fucktoy, it, a dirti hol. I answer to all these words. I can go down the rabbit hole with no more than a few words of introduction. It's an enormous relief to feel completely under someone's control - to be even a little frightened. More than that. I luxuriate in a state of fear. Totally trusting is the bimbo. That's very well established. So, pushing me, jarring me, confusing my brain with disparate thoughts that remind me of how deeply i can be contained; how trapped i am in the dominant's control is interpreted as a feeding of my soul; intensifies the lust, throws me against the wall and insists that i support my own demise, ever further down; ever more bound to my own lustful longings.

i go about my life. Of course i do. My creative inspiration is flowing fast at the same time as English words aren't particularly easy for me. It's hard, if you haven't seen it before, to imagine how dumdum the bimbo truly is. bimbocindi is an airhead; completely dependent on someone special to take care of her; to ensure she cum to no harm. Bimbos can't take care of themselves. Of this, i am sure, although the training of the dumdum mind edges towards it; to the bimbo demonstrating  self care regardless of the circumstances of it's life. It's not in the least ideal but anything less is self harm; irresponsible.

My submissive nature and my very natural desire to have a dominant in my life, to love me and take care of me and to dominate me, as part of that love and care, comes from deep within me. Alweyz bimbo. Alweyz. My sexuality is part of my spirituality and i'm never more happy than in those moments when i may let the bmbmo looose 2 shine, 2 revel in her own demise.

Along the way, i've learned to meditate, to quieten the mind, to find the peace within myself. i had a brief exchange with Lazi Yogi recently on tumblr which was almost an out of body experience: The peace is within you. i took that message deep inside me as if it were a direct communication from God. i no longer have to wearily search; to trek any further in this journey. i could be my own best friend. i could, in times of angst, in intense frustration of not being controlled, find my own peace within myself. The peace is within me. Alweyz bimbo. Bimbo plezir ting.

Was i meant to be with a loving dominant; someone who could take care of my needs? Of course. Life didn't work out exactly like that. My husband is willing, in his own way, to provide me sustenance for my soul. One day it might be more. When his head is not filled with the complicated and intense nuances of business, i am quietly optimistic it will be more. Truly,  i can't write here now because 'the girl' barely exists. She comes and sits and does her academic work - forces herself to her higher order thinking and then grateful it is over for the day returns to bimboland, to a place of comfort and a place that works for it; to a place where it can feel whole (hol!) and at peace.

i'm not entirely sure why God planned it this way, to challenge me in this way; to come to know what i am, and what I need in this way but for the complete package to be denied me. But, i believe there was and is a reason and that through this emotional torment that i have endured, one day the reason and the benefits will be explained. One day i will understand; completely accept.

Meanwhile, i'm eternally grateful for what i have and have been given. The opportunity to know myself and to revel in power exchange experiences is one of the greatest gifts of my life.

May you find your own peace.

Reezinz 2 pluggi

Pluggi-n nut jus bizi werk; nut jus sumtin 2 do so dat cuntrolld. It nut werki dat wey 4 bimboz et ull reeeli. Bimboz gibn tesks 2 do dat 4 der own gud n 4 da gud da onnirz 2. In udder werdz, der a reeezin 2 pluggi regooorli. Wel, der sebril reeezinz 2 pluggi regooorli.

But, da most importin reeezin ob ull, dat dis meeenz dat da bimboz bodi redi 4 yoos. In gurl langwich, der onli wun cunt. But, in da land ob bimboz. der three cunts - da pussy cunt, da ass cunt and da mof cunt. Deez musta vayibil at eni tym dat pleeeezz da onnir. Ull da cuntz musta kept cleen n redi 4 yoos.

So, da pluggiz mek dis pussibil. Wen a bimbo pluggiz regooorli, she def vayibil et eni tym 4 da onnir. She feelz no insecoooriti bowt yoos in da ass cunt coz she noz dat it nut hert, dat she ken do ezili n ebin more dan dat, dat it hili pleziribil. She nut worri bowt yoos in dat hol. On da cuntrari, she looki 4werd 2 it, no-n dat it highli pleziribl n xitin 4 her az wel as da onnir.

Heerz a sekrit:wen pluggi regoorli n yoos biggr n biggr pluggiz, da orgazims in da asscunt fantastik!!

In a beri importin wey, da pluggiz garantee dat der lotsa plezir 4 bimboz n lotsa plezir 4 onnirs 2. It wut dey kell a win:win situ8n. cindi herd Vesta sey dat wuns n it reson8d 4 cindi.

It prolli kerd 2 doz reedin deez werdz dat deez posts nut reeeli bimboz ideuh. Ya, nut her ideuh et ull ashooooli. Sins she nut do as told wif her pluggiz whyl she trabelin, dis l'il assersyz 2 get her bak on trak n tinkin bowt doz pluggiz n ull bowt dem in her lyf. "Eni totz dat l'il bimbo hab bowt pluggiz," he sed.

Az da deyz go bi, cindi mor n mor wer dat she nut hab permissin 2 yoos da pluggiz. 2 poot in udder werdz, she 4biddn 2 yoos da pluggiz. Vesta wuns spland dis 2 cindi az 'revers sykologi". Dat 2 sey, wen nut alowd sumtin, peepil ken wanna dat mor n mor.

Wel, it nut kwite da sem 4 bimboz. cindi yoosd her pluggiz lots b4 she talkiz n discubr she nut lowd dem 4 a week. She liki 2 yoos dem n she yoooosd dem lots in da deyz b4 dis ultim8im. Hunnistli, she nut spektn 2 loooz her pluggiz, coz she figooor she alredi suffishinli punishd...

But, dat nut 4 bimbo 2 deeeesyd, rite?! Rite.

Tanki gudness, dis assersyz now obr da haf wey poynt. Dis da forth posts n der 7 rekwyrd b4 da desishin ken med bowt if dey satisfaktori 2 hab pluggiz retirnd.

Nut sur y, sins bimbo reeeeli a wel behayvd bimbo almost ull da tym but da displinn beri strikt! Bimbo hab roooolz n eni disbeedens...eni disbeeedins et ull...tekn beri seriusli. Bimboz spektd wel behayd ULL DA TYM!

4tooniitli, if bimbo sept her displin she 4gibbn n da bed behayvor 4givn n she ken dryv on.

But, lettuce nut 4get, dis displin desynd dat bimbo tinki twys, thrys n 4 tymz obr b4she eber ebin cumsiderz disbeyn gin. So much eeezeeeer n mor kerin 2, 2 jus follo da instrukinz gibn. Dat da tek hom messij.

The Training School - chapter 5

Nicholas closed the door and rearranged the chairs so that he was sitting directly opposite Lucille. He crossed one leg over the other and made himself comfortable. When he was settled, he stared at her for what seemed to her like minutes. If he was trying to make her feel unsettled he was doing very well. She called on her ability to appear cool and unflustered on the outside, even though she was a jumble of nerves inside.

“Lucille, tell me, what word do you use to describe your vagina?”

“What word?”

“Yes.”

“Well...I say “vagina” if I am at the doctor.”

“And if you are not at the doctor...?”

“Then, I say ‘pussy’.”

Lucille did everything she could to hide the fact from him that she was rattled. She purposely kept her body still, consciously trying to project an image to him that this was not at all difficult for her. The last thing she wished to do was to have him know of how uncomfortable he was making her and how much she longed to walk out that door and away from his disturbing questions.

“And, what word do you use to describe your anus?”

“Gosh! Well, I think I use that word.”

“What word?”

“Anus”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Well, I might say ‘ass’.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm”

Nicholas got up and walked over to a set of filing cabinets. Lucille was agitated now beyond the point where she could fully control it. She felt an internal upset that presented as a deep desire to express her distaste for him and his questions. Yet, she maintained an awareness that she didn’t want him to win by reacting in an out of control way. She felt like a fast cooker at risk of losing its lid.

He seemed in no hurry and his sudden distractibility only heightened her annoyance with him. In spite of her best efforts, she moved about in the seat and crossed her arms over her body until she was holding her shoulders. Finally, he found whatever it was he was looking for and he glanced through a file and then put it on his desk. He returned to his seat and crossed his long legs again.

“How many cunts do you have?”

“How many cunts?”

“Yes.”

“One.”

“Is that so?”

“Isn’t it so?”

“How many holes do you have?”

“Holes?”


"Mmmm-hmmmm”

“Counting my ears?”

“Answer the question.”

“Three”

“Name them.”

“Pussy, mouth and ass.”

“What is the true purpose of these three holes?”

“Well, if you mean what other purpose do they have other than the obvious they can be used for fucking me.”

“They are your three cunts.”

She could barely believe him; his audacity, the smug way he had of making such a statement and not blinking an eye.

“Are they?”

There was a hint of attitude in the response. She didn’t even try to hide it.

“Certainly.”

“Name these three holes again.”

Lucille simply couldn’t respond. This was ridiculous.

He waited.

“Nicholas...Sir...honestly, what do you want me to say?”

“Again Lucille, my command is perfectly straightforward. I will not repeat it.”

The hairs on Lucille’s arms were standing up in response to her upset.

“Pussy cunt.”

“Go on.”

“Mouth cunt.

“Good”

“ Ass cunt.”

“Repeat that. Name your three cunts.”

“Pussy cunt. Mouth cunt. Ass cunt.”

Repeat . Keep saying them until I tell you to stop.”

“Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.
Pussy cunt, mouth cunt, ass cunt.”

She looked at him suggestively, seeking some confirmation that she could stop.

“Keep going, Lucille. Don’t stop.”

She must have said that line twenty times before he told her that she could stop.

“Good girl. Now, why should these holes be referred to as ‘cunts’?”

“Well...I can be entered in any of those places, I guess...”

“What is your status, Lucille?”

“My status?”

“Mmmm-hmmmm”

“I am submissive. Is that what you mean?”

“What status are you in the relationship? Top or bottom?”

“Ohhhhhhh, the bottom, of course.”

“Mmmmm-hmmmm”

“And, what is your role in the relationship?”

“My role is to obey.”

“and to be used.”

“Used?”

“Certainly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that your role is to be available for your owner’s use in whichever cunt he wishes to use.”

She willed herself not to respond to this talk in an uncontrolled way. He was pushing at her and she wanted to close down to protect herself.

“From now on, you will use only these words to describe these holes. Now, what word would you use to describe William?”

“He is my husband.”

“Anything else?”

“My dominant.”

“He is your owner.”

“My owner?”

“Of course.”

“You own dogs and cats, Sir, not women.”

“There is nothing at all different between the relationships of a dog to its owner and yours to William, Lucille. You are an owned girl and you have an owner that you must obey.”

She was holding herself in as best she could but she had an urgent desire to tell him what she thought of his “tutorial”.

“Ohhhhh, do I? Comparing a grown woman with a dog, Nicholas is just not on. You really have a nerve! Just who do you think you are?”

She was up on her feet now and ready to walk out that door.

“Sit down immediately or I will tether you.”

“So, now you are going to tether me like a dog, are you? Just because I won’t take this bullshit?”

“Now, now. Surely William has a cage or a pole for tethering you when you display this temper...”

“A cage???”

“Certainly”

“Nooooo, as a matter of fact, he doesn’t have a cage at all.”

“Then, we shall have to correct that anomaly.”

“Nicholas...”

“Excuse me?”

“Sir, if you speak to me like that, naturally I am going to get angry.”

“Naturally?”

“Yes, naturally. Surely it is reasonable for a girl to be angry when she is provoked. It isn’t healthy for her not to express herself.”

“She is welcome to express herself so long as she is safely secured. I do not allow my dogs to run about the farm when they are worked up and barking. They are secured. This makes them feels safe and they are free to bark at their will. You too are free to express yourself, Lucille...to have your little tantrum...in the safety of a cage, if you wish.”

Lucille was breathing hard now. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d get up right now and punch him. She took a long, deep breath and tried to settle herself down.

“Sir, I am not having a tantrum.”

“What would you call it?”

“I am simply disagreeing with you.”

“Lucille, the sooner you understand that you are your husband’s property and that he may do with you as he pleases the better. For now I will do with you as I wish.”

Nicholas got up and gathered an exercise book and a pen and ordered Lucille to come to a single, school style desk and chair that was to the side of his desk.

“Sit down, Lucille.”

She sat.

“This is your discipline book and you will use it to write your lessons down. You will sit here and write down in this book 300 times,

‘This girl is the property of her owner.’

“Make sure it is in your best hand-writing, girl. I expect you to take pride in your work here. You have just enough time to get the work done before it is time for you to prepare for the evening.”

Lucille picked up the pen and wrote the line down. She tried to calculate how many lines there were to a page and how long this was going to take her. It was a tedious and boring task and yet she could feel bubbles of excitement emanating from somewhere in her throat. She had never written lines in her life, not even as a school girl and this had a sense of novelty and arousal about it. Even when her hand began to hurt, she carried on writing the lines in a dreamy sort of state, as if some deep longing was being satiated. She remained incensed at his words but it did not prevent her from feeling a level of enjoyment in the task.

Meanwhile Nicholas sat at his desk; worked on the computer, paid bills and made calls. All the while he kept a close eye on Lucille. If she slowed at the task or looked up he was right on it and chided her to get on with it. It made no sense to her but she felt a sense of care as she sat there under his tutelage and it comforted her.

It

Have you any idea how much It tinglz?
Can you understand how much It stirs to receive a cummand?
Will you ever know how It revels in the tango danced?
How It delightz in the feast of frivoliti and fun?

To be known only as It , all of It;
more than It could ever have asked 4.

True Purpose

At some point a submissive will be challenged - challenged to do the thing that she finds very hard. She may have agreed. She may view a successful outcome of the challenge as a personal goal for herself, but nonetheless she is challenged. The challenge may be physical or emotional or both, since a negative message in her mind will make the challenge physically difficult, if not impossible, in any case.

A shrewd dominant gives a submissive time and space to jog along at her own pace, even longer than she may wish. Being in one's comfort zone is, well, comfortable, but inevitably it is human to wish to feel challenged and to wish to seek the next level of accomplishment, no matter what the subject matter - submission, artistic skill, or seniority at work. I don't mean that everyone wishes to be challenged. I know some people would prefer to be comfortable forever, but those that read here can, I believe, appreciate a submissive's desire to want to grow in her submission.

I am such a submissive. Being comfortable is very pleasant but I didn't come this far to sit around and simply ponder my accomplishments this far and casually wonder what else there might be out there to experience. I want to feel and learn and achieve much, much more. Hence, when a challenge is thrown out to me, I seize it and grasp it as tightly as if it were my own. In fact, it really is my own challenge. I'm in a consultative process from the point of view that enough questions are asked of me to make it crystal clear what I want. I do indeed wish to be challenged.

Of course, wishing to be challenged and being challenged are sometimes two different things. It is a bit like day dreaming a whipping and experiencing a whipping. You can't really compare the two and when the gauntlet is thrown down, it is quite possible that the submissive can suddenly remember what she has forgotten to do. Suddenly, ironing a dozen shirts can seem much more attractive than accomplishing that challenging task he has set.

Of course, the seasoned, skilled and competent dominant is ready for this sort of thing. 'Resistance' wasn't discovered yesterday and he is ready for the 'fear' factor or her discovery that she feels she cannot do the task, or does not find the task appealing, now that she is up so close. I know this since I have a string of excuses at my disposal, most of which are entirely sincere. I can honestly feel that a task is outside of my abilities; that I am unable to overcome my fear. I am definitely not a masochist and therefore have a fair number of mental hurdles to jump at times.

The very worst thing that could happen to me is that I am let off the task. I know this. I know it in my heart and I know it in my gut. And, it seems that others know this too since at no point was it ever offered to me that I could "let it go".

I was, however, offered time, patience, understanding and support. Nothing worked and there was a good deal of frustration on both ends. I was beginning to feel like a complete failure and started to obsess. The more I worried, the worse things got. I didn't want to make contact and lodge my failure and I didn't want to not make contact in the hope that my miserable mood might be lifted. It was a catch 22.

Ultimately, he got mad. I didn't process that eventuality as a conscious thought, but I am not dumb, and I had to know it was only a matter of time, on some level. As I see it, or experienced it, I felt his disgust. I felt a breaking of our connection. Whether my sense of his 'disgust' was real or a tactic was insignificant in my mind (and I'll never know, in any case).

It stirred me in ways I imagine he anticipated. I found my resolve. In my mind now there was nothing in the task, nothing at all, so difficult that it was worth a disconnection. Ours is a very special friendship made up of mutual admiration and respect. Tasks are formulated in a consultative way and this aberrant behaviour of mine was causing damage. I gritted my teeth. I consciously committed to the task. I assured myself that it would be done within the hour.

Submissives out there may recall words here and there spoken by the dominant that have great meaning for them. Some words of his shine out to me like beacons in a storm and I use them to find my way to safety and calm. I thought about the fact that I had said to him a day or so before, without forethought, that I could not find the courage. In just a few words he set me straight. I didn't need to find courage, he said. I just needed to "take".

Of course! This is what it was all about for me and we both knew that. I wanted to experience life as a submissive girl - one that doesn't think or worry unncessarily but releases herself to her dominant. It is the dominant whom I wish to decide what is right for me. It is he who I put my faith in to do whatever he wants. It is a deep connection between two adult people - as deep a connection as there may be, I believe, and I wanted that. I wanted the dominant to "take" and I wanted to "give".

As I lay down to complete what I could not achieve before, my head was in entirely the right mindset. There really was no chance that I would fail because this time I did not want to fail him, or myself. It took no more than two minutes from the outset to complete the task satisfactorily and once completed, I wondered why I had made such a fuss. It was not that hard. In fact, it was very good.

But, it was always about more than just the task itself - important though it was in and of itself. I am never set busy work. All tasks have significance.

In completing the task, I discovered something about myself. I take enormous succor in growing as a submissive girl - aware of my own needs and revelling in my ever growing sense of understanding that to cede control is to be more and more content; happy and fulfilled in my life.

Florida Dom said to me in a comment recently that he thought I was most happy when I submit. Truer words were never spoken.

Eroticizing submission

It has been pointed out to me by a dear friend with my best interests at heart, that I tend to "eroticize" my submission. I can't disagree with that. I do find the act of submission incredibly erotic on so many levels that my mind is (eventually) able to eroticize just about anything related to domination and submission; at least, as it has been presented to me thus far. Now, if someone were just straight out horrible or abusive or inattentive that would not be erotic but even being told off or dismissed, which in the moment is not remotely pleasant to me, is ultimately erotic to me. It is just the way my mind processes it all and what keeps me humming along. I get a great deal of enjoyment out of it all, so long as the connection remain strong.

I find this photograph incredibly erotic: a total turn on, and stunningly beautiful. I imagine it is a dominant man's great joy to have his submissive dressed in such a way. She is available to him at a moment's notice; whenever he pleases. He can stroke her, or feel her or spank her, according to his whim, or if she should provoke him in some way: perhaps by merely existing! There are no panties to soak up her juices or to distract her from the fact that she is all woman or her true purpose. And, she revels in the knowledge that she may be found enticing by him; his play thing. She may go about her duties suitably attired but ready for him: at his beck and call.

We can see that she has already been spanked quite soundly and been told to kneel to remind her of her place. Perhaps he did it himself, or perhaps he called for his stocky Scottish house maid to attend to the task before he spoke with her himself. Some may say that she is now suitably chastened and repentant. Perhaps, she is hopeful he will dismiss her soon to go about completing her duties. Surely the Master of the house will have mercy on her and send her on her way.

Oh no! Not at all! Her mind is awash with pleasure, her juices (and her creative juices) are flowing and she sits in silent waiting, forever hopeful that he will be unable to hold himself back from touching her, caressing her, feeling her and fucking her.

Lucky l'il thin!

Her Purpose

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She wasn’t quite like the other girls that she knew. Her needs and desires were a bit different. The girl was married to a man who was very busy. He had been working on a project for many months now, night and day. He worked through their holiday, on weekends, and sometimes, all through the night.

The girl didn’t want to bother the man. She understood that the projects were important to him and to her and their family, and she did her best to do all the other work in their lives and to keep herself occupied and entertained without bothering him. She did, however, get rather lonely without the attention of the man, since she had a strong need for his attentions, in various ways. As well, she tended to react badly to lots of anxiety in her life. The deals that the man put together created lots of anxiety since they were very complex. This made it rather hard on the girl at times but fortunately she was a cheery sort of girl and she looked on the bright side of life, most of the time.

The man had been working non-stop for weeks on his deal. One day, he came home late in the evening full of information about what had happened that day; the unco-operative and difficult people and all his troubles. The girl began to listen to the man as usual, but as she listened she found that her head was throbbing, her back ached and she was deep in the throes of a panic attack. She was simply unable to listen to the man any more at that time. She told the man that she was sorry but that she needed to be alone for a while. The man went to his study to do more work. He was upset; full of worries and upset about his girl, too.

That same evening, the girl briefly chatted with her mentor on the Internet. She told him that tonight was not a good night to chat as she had a bad headache and she was going to bed. He was sorry about that and he asked the girl why she thought she had a bad headache. She told her mentor about her anxiety and how she was not able to cope.

Her mentor told her that there was a solution to the problem. It was really very easy to solve. The girl was very curious now and she asked him to explain about the solution to her problem that was so easy. The mentor told her that it was her job to distract her man and provide him with some relief from the stress. She should get underneath her owner’s desk and sit quietly and offer her mouth cunt to be used. She explained that her man was very busy. He might now want her to do that. The mentor assured her that he would not reject her. She smiled, and agreed to try.

The girl quietly opened the door of her owner’s study and said that she was sorry for not listening to her owner’s worries. She was a bit overloaded with all the details of the project and all the potential scenarios. The man assured her that he was doing his best and that he had a good plan. He could not guarantee anything but he was close to resolution and would the girl please be patient with him.

She came in front of the man sitting at his desk and bent over and they hugged very tight. She told him what her mentor had suggested she do and she asked if he would like to use her in that way or any other way he chose. The man laughed. The girl smiled. And, the man thanked the girl for such a lovely offer but that right now he had a lot of work to do and calls to make. However, he was very grateful to her for being such a good, submissive girl (in fact, he used her other name; the name of the bimbo that she truly was) and that when he came to bed a bit later he would make very good use of her.

The man and the girl were very happy again. The girl understood that it was her role to ease the pressure of the man. Miraculously, when she did that, the pressure she felt was released, too. The girl only wanted to feel a strong connection to the man and once the reconnection had taken place, she felt a whole girl again. She did not want control. She was not capable of control. She wanted to feel his control.

She was a girl with a strong and loyal owner. Once she felt like the owned girl that she was, she felt healed. Her bad head ache began to disappear. She felt lucky, too, to have such a wise and able mentor to help her in her hour of need. He was helping her to understand that she was an owned girl and how an owned girl behaves. He was helping her to understand her purpose. She was “a pretti, slutti, preshus bimbo dollie”. She understood. He was exactly right.

© Vesta
October2009

More or less

The notion of a dress code has been quite irresistible to me for a long time. This is in line with my strong desire to live my entire life with more order and less clutter. I'm a girl who enjoys putting out the rubbish. Yes, it's that bad. I like to bring things in my life down to the simplest level. I think you can credit having multiple children for that, in part. I've lived with multiple balls, cricket bats, lacrosse sticks, and musical instruments; toys by the zillion and countless wrappers stuck in the couch for countless years. But, truth be told, I remember even as a very young child, wanting order and a clean environment. It is just my very strong preference.

It was no issue to me when I went to work for a man who wanted not only order in his life, but to be surrounded only by beautiful things. I enjoyed creating and maintaining that environment and learning from him. Suddenly, I was noticing the beauty of the order in the John Brack's painting in his office that he so admired, or of the Christmas lillies that I bought every Monday morning and placed into his handsome glass vase, to sit in front of the mirror and brighten the day of both of us. I became aware of the importance of high quality writing paper, or of having one good pen with which to write. He never wanted much of anything but what he wanted had to be first rate. The philosophy suited me well.

Of course, children aren't like that, and whilst you can do your best to instil those thoughts in them, children have their own ideas. Even if I had managed to convince them all that quality should be more important than quantity, with lots of children, the number of items expands before your very eyes. The last year has been about sorting those items and giving them away to the right people. My youngest son, who almost believes that every object has feelings, has accepted that the time has come to do this, so long as he can be sure that all the toys and so on are going to the right homes.

Although it has taken far too long, I now have a dress code. I've given away a lot of clothes and the Red Cross is happy about that. I am happy, too. I look at my wardrobe these days and feel wonderful. I know where things are, what goes with what and I don't feel bad that I don't have more choice at all. I like the fact that what is left are items of clothing that I like, that work on my body, and that help me to feel feminine. No, not all the pants have gone but there aren't too many of them left, either.

One of the little details left to be sorted out is what happens when I would like to make a clothing purchase. I'm not sure but I suspect that something may have to go before something else comes in. I've already noticed that when I look in a store, or a magazine, I do so with purpose. I have in my mind only what I might need to fill a gap in my wardrobe. I only consider what would make me feel more feminine. I think very carefully if I want it so badly that I am prepared to give something else up in my wardrobe. Rather than feeling limited about that, I find it very liberating.

Reacting this way to the new limits on my life, to my dress code, I read the following statement by a psychologist I respect with interest:

"Mine may be the last generation (she's about my age) to be raised with the notion that frugality is a virtue. Like most of my contemporaries, I have taken to conspicuous consumption..."

She also writes, "There are few(er) convincing reasons why I still have tiny clothes from my skinny, young-woman years in London. Or so many clothes that are newish but startlingly similar. How many pairs of plain black trousers...does any woman need?"

How many indeed?

I admit I am feeling (sickeningly?) virtuous at the moment. I am loving the new me; that girl who wouldn't dream of buying a new pair of sandals for summer, for example, before she agreed to off load a current pair she owns. I am finding pleasure in embracing the notion of acting with purpose, with intention in my actions. As my limits and boundaries narrow and my containment increases, I feel that I am responding well. I feel safer, stronger; more stable and secure.

The saucemeister suggested to me that there is an "inherent frugality in D/s relationships, an economy of many things;... more things are intentional, purposeful..." And, I think that is right. A D/s relationship can be a very noble thing. Mentoring a submissively minded girl can be a very noble thing. Acting with purpose; restricting one's consumption, being sure of one's intention are noble pursuits.

As I become less, I become more.

Care, part 2, take 2

Why can’t I stay out of trouble? I don’t look for trouble. It just seems to come knocking at my door!

You see, yesterday I sent a copy of my last post, ‘Care, Part 2’, to two dominant friends to ask their opinions. Did it make sense? Did it read all right? One friend responded a few minutes later. He said to publish it right away. No problem. Now, it was at that moment, when I had some slight concern. I hadn’t heard from the other dominant friend, and here I was, about to publish. I had asked for his opinion, and was publishing without receiving his opinion. And, yet, I wanted to publish...

I threw caution to the wind. I published the post, and received a few positive comments. That was nice, but most importantly, it allayed my concerns about not waiting for feedback from my ‘friend.’

Last evening, my ‘friend’ and I had a lovely, illuminating internet chat, just before bed, and I was feeling warm. We were discussing other matters and I had entirely forgotten about the ‘feedback’ issue. And, then, just as I was switching off the lap top, I noticed an incoming email, and I quickly looked to see who it was from. I was confused for a moment, couldn’t quite grasp what it was about, until I remembered. It was the feedback on the post I had asked for about 12 hours earlier.

“I feel this is too jumbled. I get lost in it, not sure of what the ultimate point is you're trying to make. And if this is something you are saying that is a struggle of yours, that struggle is not perfectly illustrated. Declined, as is.”

Oh, yes, folks. That is what he does to me. He either writes ‘Declined’ or ‘Approved’. Did I mention that he was a very dominant man...a sadist? I felt a little nauseous. Let me be clear. My ‘friend’ knows how to deal with a girl who is not behaving well. You remember the ‘bad girl list’, right? The last thing he had said to me in the chat we had last night was, to “be a good girl”, and this was not good.

My husband had just got into bed. I cuddled into him, looking for a bit of protection of sorts, made overtures, but he was intent on sleeping:

“Would you stop that, girl!”

This morning, I woke up, and the first thought on my mind was my transgression. What to do? Well, maybe if I went and revisited the post, and tried to make the points more clear for you, readers. Maybe, that would appease him. We’ll see.

First of all, I do, of course, see his point. He is always right, by the way. I want to make that clear. (looks out behind hands...) It was jumbled. It isn’t even clear to me this morning, although it seemed crystal clear yesterday. Did it, in fact, make any sense to you? Well, let’s make the points more direct, then:

The struggle: As I see it, doms do not want, and probably should not, make life too easy for the submissive woman. If life gets too easy, then she is unlikely to be satisfied. She enjoys the struggle. But, on the other hand, if she struggles too much, then her life is full of anxiety, frustration and a negative sensation, and there is not too much positive about that, as I see it. So, what I was trying to say was that the dominant should be careful to monitor the girl to ensure that the struggle remains a reasonably comfortable struggle. If she looks tense, mad, sad, or withdrawn a lot of the time, she is struggling too much. If she looks bright, cheerful, energised most of the time, then the struggle is just right. Think about Goldilocks here. She didn’t want papa bear’s bowl of porridge, because it was too big, and she didn’t want baby bear’s bowl of porridge because it was too small. She wanted the bowl of porridge that was just right for her. So too, the submissive woman needs the right amount of struggle for her. This should be monitored and adjusted as necessary.

The other point I was trying to make was that the submissive may not be able to tell you herself about her struggle. She knows that she is meant to tell you things, to be open. But, it is not quite as easy as the articles make it sound. She may be trying her heart out, you see, to struggle for you, even beyond her capacity. Be aware of that danger.

Care: The struggle led onto a discussion about care. Here, I was making the point that a girl is likely to struggle considerably and without too much distress, so long as she feels that she is being cared for. She has to really feel this, or have evidence of this.

I was being oblique here, because I didn’t really want to go too close to the ‘j’ word: jealousy. You see, I think there is nothing at all wrong with jealousy. I think it is normal. And, I think that wanting to protect your girl is normal, too. Be her ‘Knight in Shining Armour’, and she will struggle for you all you want. A girl loves chivalry, and to be cocooned in your love. Don’t be afraid, no matter what women tell you out there. Go ahead and be jealous, be her prince, care for her, and what happens to her, and she’ll do just about anything for you in return.

It is almost impossible to speak any other way but in generalizations. I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who wants a severe degradation experience, just as I can’t speak to the mind of a girl who would deplore being spanked. We all have our own individual views on such matters.

I am simply talking about something universal...that is important to us all. We need to feel the connection with the other person and as I see it, we show that we are connected with another person when we show that we care about them. Many (most? all?) women want to be cared for, in their heart of hearts. They want a man to run to their defence if another man should look to hurt them. They expect that. They instinctively know that a man is supposed to do that. And, if you men don’t do that, they will judge you accordingly.

Only time will tell, if this got me out of trouble, or deeper in mud. Let us keep our fingers crossed. You don’t want to have to read a list of 26-50 bad things I’ve done lately. Do you?

Care, part 2

It is raining out there, so I thought I’d check in with you here.

There has been quite a lot of conversation going on this week, in my house, and on my computer screen, about the ‘struggle’ of the submissive woman. How necessary is it to struggle? How much is enough? When is it too much?

There appears to be consensus between dominant men that the girl should struggle. One lovely man I correspond with, who is so wise and wonderful, I think he should be bottled, replied to me,
“Of course a girl must struggle, and then succeed, and relish in the growth, and then struggle some more, and succeed, but it is a cyclical thing, and there cannot always be struggle.” Very nicely put, as always!

A dominant-submissive relationship, as it has been explained to me, has checks and balances. One such ‘check’ built into the relationship is that the girl should be ‘open’ with her master. She should give him feedback as to how she is feeling. In this way, he can adjust his demands accordingly. I see a potential problem with this, because the submissive woman is, after all, submissive. She knows that part of the deal is that she should struggle. So, at what point does she admit to her master, that the struggle does not feel at all right; that she is not coping? Is that not a sign of failure in her; that she cannot cope? Will she be fast to admit such a thing? I have known my husband all my adult life. No two people could be more close, and I can reveal to you that I waited too long to admit to him that I was not coping with certain matters. It is a real risk.

Regular feedback with a master is critical, including a preparedness to acknowledge that one is struggling to the point of despair, if that should happen. A submissive woman must learn to monitor herself. Is she confused or angry? Does she notice that her breathing is laboured, that her head aches or her shoulders are tight? Has she become ‘sensitive’ whereby she may react inappropriately to a comment? Perhaps her struggle has become toxic; unhealthy for her, at this point of time. Perhaps she is overwhelmed. Perhaps it is time to consider that a little holiday is more appropriate than pushing herself where her mind will not allow her to go.

I took a long time to accept and to express my submissive nature, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that a man who cared for me deeply and to whom I gave my trust, warned me never to tell another man about my true self.

“There are men out there who will take advantage of you, Vesta. If they know, you are in danger. You must promise me you will not tell them.”

It took me many years to summon up the courage to break my promise to him, and some days, I can still hear his voice in my ear:

“You must never tell them...”

I have the great joy of being married to a man that understands me, loves me and cares for me. I have talked about care before and I rate it very highly. If you want to whip a girl, be 150% sure to get the message across to her, that you are whipping her because you care about her. For, if she has the vaguest notion, and I mean the slightest instinct that you are doing it, simply because you can, simply because it brings you pleasure, she may run for cover. Maybe she won’t run today, but she may one day. Care is so critical to my thinking in the submissive space. I cannot give my submission, at any level, if I am unsure about how much the dominant man cares. It is the other half of the submissive experience. On one side is the woman prepared to give her all; on the other, a dominant man, to protect her with all his strength.

My husband is stern with me sometimes, punishing with me sometimes and unrelenting with me sometimes; but always because he knows that it is the treatment I crave. He suggested to me just now that maybe I am one of those submissives that ‘top from the bottom’. And, maybe I am. I don’t want too much struggle. I don’t want to walk around with my chest full of anger. I want to walk around with my chest full of bubbles; energising bubbles that fill my heart with happiness and song, allowing me to give back to all that cross my path a sense of positive energy and peace. For me, there is a big difference.

I discussed this point with my lovely dominant correspondent, too, and with his permission I share his wisdom with you:

“The whole notion of topping from the bottom is a prickly pear, isn't it? It is a notion that can be used to keep a girl down, to minimize her objections, her perspective, her desires and opinions. If she is a "good slave" she will always do as instructed, never question; never appear to "top from the bottom" because she will offer absolute and total compliance. But, if the idea is to nurture and improve and develop her, then what is the point of exerting total control over her? Is the master so omnipotent that he knows absolutely everything that there is to know about her, for her, and on his own, can decide and develop her path? Every girl is different, and one size does not fit all. Yes?”

Oh yes, indeed, my friend. I agree. And, how true it is that one size does not fit all.

This girl will happily crawl across the floor, with a collar around her neck. I’ll sit on the floor by his feet, and do his bidding. And, it is all one big f**king turn on! But, for me, an essential component of the turn on is that he cares for me with all his heart. A submissive woman has to feel the care; to believe that the dominant man is working for her good; that he will leap to her defence if another might hurt her. If she feels, for one second, that she is on her own, then he has lost her. For, a submissive woman such as Vesta, who gives so very much of herself to another, who is prepared to struggle not just for herself, but for others, a sense of care is an essential ingredient for the struggle to have purpose.