Meaning in fantasy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remorse

If I were to say that my husband is a patient man that would not be completely accurate. At the same time, he knows me well and he has come to know when it is right to cajole me or provide me with some special attention and when it is right to ‘read the riot act’. I think he feels that a bad mood, left uncorrected sometimes leads from bad to worse, and the girl needs saving from herself. I have come to see that he is usually right about this. I’m not afraid to admit that my behaviour is not angelic all of the time.

Sometimes, I’m a bit like the little girl with the little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. I’m usually very good. And, occasionally, I’m horrid. About a year and half ago, there was a particular day when I was horrid. I can’t for the life of me remember what precipitated this nasty turn of events, but I do remember that ultimately my husband was disgusted with me. He told me that he was leaving the house and would be out for the day and not to contact him on his mobile. He didn’t want to talk to such a nasty girl for the rest of the day.

I was shocked. He had just said, in so many words, that he wiped his hands of me and didn’t want to be with me. When he was gone, it very quickly dawned on me that I had pushed him too far. Nobody and I mean nobody hates being in the doghouse more than me. I am very, very quick to apologize in such situations and try to put things straight. It matters not to me who is right or wrong in these situations. I just want harmony restored. I called his mobile number ready to express my sincere apologies.

“Did I not tell you already that I did not want to talk to you for the rest of the day? I do not want to hear from you again. You just think about your behaviour!”

He hung up. It wasn’t just his words that stung me. It was his calm, but angry voice that really threw me into the abyss. My apologies were worthless. He was not interested. I was more than upset. I was lost. I had no idea what to do. I felt abandoned and feeling that way made me want to flee. I had to go. I took my car keys and my handbag, got into my car and began the long drive to our holiday house. Tears were flowing down my cheeks and I was a total wreck.

Somewhere down the highway, I had a desperate desire to make contact with him. I knew not to call him. I couldn’t recall him ever being this angry with me ever before and I dared not call him against his instructions. And yet, I felt that in some way I just had to connect. I wrote a text message and sent it to his phone. I’ve no idea what I wrote but I suspect I said that I was too upset to stay at home and that I was going to the holiday house for the night and was half way there; something like that. Mind you, on some level I knew what I was doing. I was alerting him to the fact that I was out of control and doing a dumb thing. I, sort of, knew that; that I was looking for him to take control.

Sometime thereafter, I turned the car around. Even a nutcase such as I was at that moment, knew that she was being ridiculous. But then, a few miles back to the city, I thought of being at home and so sad, and I turned the car around again, heading out of the city once again. I did that, probably, three times in all. Did I mention I was acting like a nutcase?

Maybe an hour or an hour and a half later, my phone rang and I stopped the car and answered it. I remember at this stage I was on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by huge, swaying trees.

“How dare you take off like that? You know that tomorrow is an important day (Mother’s Day) and it is unforgiveable what you are doing?”

Of course, that isn’t all he said. My husband can give a mighty fine lecture and trust me, they are not short and to the point. At some point, in a flood of tears and feeling completely bereft, I said,

“Well, you don’t love me anymore!”

“Of course I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. But, I loathe your behaviour at the moment.”

The next bit I can quote verbatim. He definitely said these exact words:

“You are just a very, very naughty little girl.”

I was crying my heart out down the phone but it just didn’t seem to deter him one little bit.

“Well...what do you want me to do? Just tell me what you want me to do?”

“Here’s what you are to do! You turn the car around right now and come home. When you get home we will eat the dinner that I am about to prepare. And, after dinner, I am taking you to the bedroom and I am going to give your naughty bottom the caning it deserves. Now, you drive home safely! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“All right. By God, your backside is going to be sore when I get through with you. Now, are you in control of yourself?”

“Yes.”

“All right, where exactly are you?”

I told him, as best I could.

“Then, I’ll expect you at around 7 pm. You drive safely. Bye bye.”

That I was to be corporally punished was not at all alarming to me. He had rescued me from the deep, dark hole. I could see through the fog. I had a plan. I knew what to do. Any strokes of the cane were manageable because I had been told what to do and what I had been told to do was to return to him. I was to be punished but of what significance was punishment really so long as I was not rejected. One punishes a loved girl; one abandons an unloved girl. At least, that is the way it felt to my mind.

I drove home feeling a thousand times better than I had before his call. I had been told to come home and so I now knew that I was heading in the right direction; back to him. I was still in trouble but it was trouble with an end. I’d take my caning and give my apologies and it would be over. I would be forgiven. I almost looked forward to it.

Rejection of a submissive is a powerful tool for the dominant to use. If she is so bad and so unacceptable to the dominant that he chooses not to speak with her, she swims in the murky waters of her own guilt and his disappointment with her. She cannot swim there long before she begins to feel that she is drowning. Her only wish is to find a way to please him; to feel his affection again. It is the most severe of punishments. A caning is child’s play in comparison to that.

It cannot be denied that I learned a lesson that day. I had pushed him too far and to this day, I have yet to do it again and he has yet to find cause to dismiss me from his sight; to reject my call. It was a very hard lesson to learn but learn it well I did.

There is someone else who has reason at the moment to be displeased with my behaviour; to be displeased enough to feel it right that he should be left alone at this time; that we should not talk. Needless to say, I am filled with regret and with guilt. I chose very poorly and I am paying a high price. Yes, I disobeyed. I didn’t do it as I should have. I weakened and the moment I agreed with the person to do it her way and not the way I had been directed, I felt sick. I knew I was doing it wrong. I knew that dumb decision would come back to bite me in the bum. I deserve his displeasure, as awful as that is.

As beautiful as the job is, as wonderful as it looks, I know in my heart that I must do it all over again, and this time, do it right. I know in my heart that it is the only acceptable course of action to take. As I look at them right now, they are devastatingly beautiful. I wonder if he could see them, would he not agree that to break them and re do them is unnecessary. But, it is not the point, is it? A submissive girl who is given a direct command is wrong to offer excuses. Did she obey the specifications given? No. Is that acceptable? No. If only I had chosen to be strong and obey. I sit here chastened, repentant and full of remorse.