Ms. Bronte and her power

In Year 9 at school my English teacher was an intimidating, learned, snobbish English woman with grey hair tied up in a French roll. She wore her black flowing academic cape at all times and, being tall and lean, she looked down on us with what appeared to me to be considerable disdain.

The first thing she asked us to do at the beginning of that year with her was to write down the books that we had been reading in the past few months.

'The titles will tell me something important about each of you.'

I understood what she meant. She was sorting us into categories - those worthy of her great intellect and those destined to disinterest her; those who would go on to study English Literature and those who would not.


I wondered what she would make of me. I had been reading Jane Eyre, yet again, Wuthering Heights, of course, and short stories from Reader's Digest, mostly romance stories, as I recall. It was so obvious from my list that I was a hopeless romantic, deeply entrenched in reading stories of gripping intensity about love.

I was a sucker for Mr Rochester. His aloofness and apparent disinterest in the orphan Jane Eyre didn't put me off a bit. I somehow understood at the cellular level that he loved her, although his words made it difficult to really know that on an intellectual level. Indeed, the love for her had to be felt. I could watch the closing scene of the film endless times, the discreet way that these feelings were portrayed by each other for one another. There's not a doubt that the story affected the rest of my life and that in some way I looked to create for myself this sort of scenario which I saw as a very deep and desirable love to have and to receive.

Sometimes, I return to novels such as Portrait of a Lady, an old favourite. I'm particularly partial to Chekhov's short story Lady with the Dog. I'll happily read more current novels where love is a focus, Burial Rites, The Marriage Plot, The Interestings. Michael Faudet's collect of poetry Dirty Pretty Things is tantalising.

One of my earliest 'power exchange' type fantasies (although I had no idea of the concept in a formal sense) was that I worked as an assistant to a English Department Professor. He would ask me to do research for his papers and lectures. He was fond of me, impressed with me, secretly wondered how he would do without me, but he expressed none of these thoughts openly. It was up to me to know of his feelings towards me without any words being said.

'Good work', was the best I could expect, and a sharp reprimand for work not fully fleshed out was inevitable if I didn't turn over every stone on his behalf.

I revelled in this fantasy for years and years, just so comfortable in being the helpmate to a sophisticated, educated, able, older man.

From where might I have got such an idea...?

Such is the power of the remarkably well told story. Ah, Ms Charlotte Bronte, if you only knew what power you have held over me!

Dominating another woman: Jean's challenge

When I wake in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep I find I have to break the impasse, so I get up, have a little tub of lactose-free vanilla yoghurt and sit down and write myself a smutty tale. After that, I wander back to bed, encase myself in my husband's body and sleep a wonderfully deep sleep. Highly recommended for all perverted insomniacs out there. And, don't worry about the quality of your tale. Really, anything very smutty will do the trick!

 Jean bathed herself and applied her make-up carefully; put on the long looped silver ear-rings and the solid silver necklace around her neck. She applied a little perfume to the back of each ear and a slight spray to one wrist. As Jean rubbed her wrists together she allowed herself a fleeting moment of apprehension about the requirements of the day. It was not her way to move too far ahead in her mind. It was her way of controlling nerves that could too easily run a muck. Instead, she checked the time and noted that she was running according to schedule.

Jean picked up the printed out email again and checked the dress instructions one last time. She put on black panties, the black suspender belt and attached sheer black stockings to the loops; slipped her feet into the black suede, high heels pumps. Jean reached for the quarter-cut bra now and put the item around her breasts. She checked her reflection in the mirror and took in the fact that she was scantily and titillatingly dressed. Not permitted a dress, she put her coat over her undergarments, checked that her hair was in order, collected her keys, printed email and handbag, and went down to her car. 

It was a half hour drive to her destination, she had predicted. On this day, in a house she did not know, Jon would be waiting. If she were off to meet him alone her only real concern would be that she may become lost; that her car should break down and someone would learn of her state of dress below the coat. Jon wasn't always tender with her, thankfully, but he was a known quantity. She trusted him.

Today, Jon had told her in the email, would be a new experience. Today, another girl had been invited to play with them and Jean understood that she would be challenged. She would need to quash her jealousy, perhaps. To see Jon's hands on another woman would not be easy. Under his careful direction and choreography, Jean was confident that she could abide by his desires of her; allow this other woman to test and tease her; to touch her in a way that no woman had ever touched her before. 

Jean's mind had played with the thought since the email arrived in her in box three days ago and she was opening herself to the thought that she might enjoy it; might melt into the touch of womanly hands; womanly lips; soft, gentle embraces. She hadn't quite managed to embrace the thought that the woman may not be tender at all; that she may be in the company of a bitch. Jean decided to expunge the thought before it took hold of her nerves because the thought truly terrified her.

 

Breathing deeply and calm again, Jean's mind roamed over past conversations with Jon and for reasons she did not know it rested on a particular conversation at the Supper Club a few weeks ago. He had asked a question softly, almost absentmindedly; as if it were of no importance at all; a passing fancy. 'Do you ever imagine controlling a woman; providing her with pain?' he asked. Jean had shaken her head immediately. No, she had never thought about that, could never do that, she told him. He changed the subject and the matter was closed.

Driving along the coastal highway, with the vision of the ocean soothing and settling her mind, the potential implications of the casual statement suddenly settled in Jean's brain and her mouth registered a silent 'Oooooo'. Anything, but that.  Jean couldn't do that. No sooner had the silent sound reverberated in her mind when another thought took over. Jon was not someone to be denied. Ever. She'd tried that before, a long time ago now and never would again. Whatever her resistance at this moment, it needed to be overcome.

As the car made its way down the Peninsula Jean allowed images of dominating another woman to enter her consciousness. In an effort to spur herself on she imagined that the woman had whipped her and gained pleasure from the experience. She'd laughed while Jean cried. No man had ever done that to her. She was right to be suspicious of women after all.

As she lay across a bench breathing heavily, tears rolling down her face and trying to recover her composure, she imagined Jon's whisper in her ear. "Now, it's your turn, darlin'. Show that tart what you think of her." Something in Jean stirred at the thought. She imagined the woman's prone buttocks at her mercy now and she imagined the feel of the whip in her hands.

The trip had been faster than she expected and without incident. His instructions had been straightforward and easy to follow. Jean turned off the ignition, locked the car and walked tall to the front door of the white wooden house. She was ready to be good, or bad; to do whatever she was told, as always. 

(to be continued, maybe)

 

Stories

Christopher Koch remarked in an interview that there was a natural order to things that meant that the number three was important: beginning, middle and end; childhood, middle age and old age. When writing a novel, it was important, he felt, to keep that thought firmly in mind to enable the reader to feel connected with the rhythm of life; the natural order of life. He didn't use those words exactly but loving being in nature as he did, I think he'd be all right with them.

My first thought was about the age thing. If I am middle aged, at what point am I classified as 'old'?  Then, I thought about how his comment related to the craft of writing. I thought about my own 'story' as told on this blog and I realized that I had been in the middle of something. Lately, I've felt that I've moved out of the middle stage and have moved onto resolution and conclusion; conceivably 'the end'.

Well then, what was the 'climax' of the story? At what point did we leave the 'old world' forever, making room for the new one to form? If the 'crisis' was that I was losing my sense of belief in an ongoing 'forever type' union was there a 'climax' of some sort? (Well, actually, yes there was but I won't be writing about that here. Let's just say that was a deeply revelatory moment brought on by a piece of literature that prompted a union with my 'best self'. And, just to make it more complicated, what if the climax was that he had a revelatory moment of his own unbeknownst to me where he elected to be his 'best self'??)

How does the new world look, feel and function differently to the way it did before? And, how exactly did I move from the middle, through the crisis (you can't go back, under or around a crisis; you can only go through it) towards 'the end'/denouement of the story? It's a little hard to say and that is why novelists take 'life' and massage it, much like a plasterer works with putty to make some form and shape.

For many, many months there I felt that I was going through something very profound; something challenging and potentially crippling; that I was stuck in some sort of holding pattern much like a captive is held hostage and awaits the next move, never at all sure if there will be a next move. Much like anyone who faces a crisis, whether it be an external or internal crisis (or both), there is an immense sense of struggle, confusion, angst and dismay, to the point where there are moments when it feels that something has to 'give'; something has to change; someone has to change. Whatever. It can't stay this way for too much longer. That's the thought one has. You see characters reach this point in movies all the time until...something gives.

I watched The Upside of Anger last night and looked forward to my favorite moment. Costner, until now angelically patient with the woman who he has befriended (at the point where her husband has gone missing, presumably with his Swedish secretary), kicks down the bathroom door and tells her that he is sick of being her "bitch". It's a great moment. It's the moment when things change. He leaves and he refuses to take her calls. The boot is suddenly on the other foot and she's the one making the advances. She's the one making the calls to him; calls that he refuses to take. When he returns finally it is on his terms; a new sense of respect for his place in her life has evolved. It's enabled her to soften a little. She's still angry and sad at this point of the movie, but she's learning to take control of her emotions, step by step - a step critical to her progress.

In the process of coming to terms with my husband's illness the first instinct was simply to survive. I needed to find a way to stay as whole as I could whilst he was absent from me; absent in the sense that it was clear that I needed to take care of my self. As I learned to do this, I was angry sometimes for sure. Except towards the beginning when I was so confused I had to emote several times, the anger was silent. I didn't talk to him about it, since it was clear he wasn't in a position to hear my pain.

So, I talked a little with others and ultimately I talked to myself - in the shower, on paper, in diaries; here. I did what I knew to do to aid myself, not in the least sure how long I might need to do that, but knowing that I could do only what I could do. I put one foot in front of the other and trusted in the great unknown that there would one day come a 'peace'. In what form that 'peace' would come, I did not know for sure.

The honest truth is that I considered a path alone, if need be. My pain was immense and the thought of remaining in this 'middle' troubled me a great deal. I doubted my fortitude to remain in the middle endlessly. Many 'characters' do you may notice, because the alternative to some sort of 'change' or resolution is to continue to climb to higher and higher levels of crisis management, and no-one can sustain that sort of activity forever.

I read, and then I read some more. I figured by immersing myself in ideas of philosophy and psychology, and by reading novels, some 'truth' would help me. It seemed a better idea than giving up. Somewhere in there, things started to shift. My husband began to come closer to me. I started to become closer to him. We had wonderful conversations; conversations that opened us up to one another and left the vulnerability exposed, in a good way. As silly as it sounds, we 'found' one another; noticed that we were still, in fact, 'there'.

I read in the past few days that in some grief/crises type processes, the behavior of someone can almost insist that others remove themselves. It's not a choice thing on the part of a person but rather a reaction to the other. This happened. Who moved back to the other first? It's almost impossible to say at this juncture. I can't necessarily see it that clearly. I think I learned how to be empathic to him and he began to understand/'see' that I needed him in a particular way. We learned to dance smoothly again and to accept one another for the people that we are. Perhaps, he healed, too. Perhaps he learned to look at life in a new way and to choose life. Perhaps the rest from the rigors of his life invigorated him and he simply did what he needed to do for himself before he could go about healing me. Perhaps, in the interim, I learned skills that enabled me to work on my own for a time. It's all entirely plausible.

 Now, are we still 'in the middle'? I don't believe that we are. 'The end' relates, I suppose, to the end of the novel or the movie, or the story or the end of a life. So, in real life we're not at the end. Yet, we have moved from the middle of the crisis, for sure. For there to be an end to a story, either there is a reversal or a recognition; that is, either there is a new status quo or somebody learns something. In real life, we're sweet together again; accommodating, kind and loving. Not all the time, mind you, thank goodness. He's begun to be quite the top again now and I just love it. It suits me dandy to give up control; to do as told. It arouses him to throw me about the bed, to mitigate my senses; to roar in my ear. It's a life force for me.

How, indeed, do you tell the story when the story has not reached its end? If I were writing the script I could write up scenes of my life, of this 'crisis', and there would be a suitable, satisfying and sustaining conclusion. The changes in the status quo would be subtle for sure, but the changes in the characters would be more profound. You don't go through the eye of the storm and not learn important lessons. Stories demand this sort of reversal and/or recognition. In real life, of course, the story continues, which is why this web journal goes on and on and on...

The perfect little angel and the wolf

In my writing I'm currently creating a couple of characters. She's a submissive type although she doesn't really quite understand that yet. I pretty much know this character (!) so I don't have much work to do on her.

She's met a man who's actually a really nice guy. He's sweet; romantic; caring; kind. Initially, she was incensed and aroused by this man all at the one moment. He displayed a truck-load of arrogance towards her initially and it made her angry (and hot!). Oh God, but I don't have to explain that to readers in this forum, do I?

However, as she'll come to understand he's also other things as well and only time will tell if he's the man for her.

Now, I've taken a look at a few online quizzes to try to think through my thoughts about this male character and it turns out that he is rather high on the scale of narcissism. That's a bit of a dilemma for me as the writer because first and foremost he's really a very good and well meaning man. I hold onto that central fact as I write and I definitely don't want to let it go.  I'm working on the basis that you can be a good man with a tendency to narcissism at one and the same time. Put it this way. He's a good guy with flaws and he's trying to overcome some of those flaws whilst seeing others of them as strengths which he doesn't intend to do anything about.

Are you still with me?

Right. So, let's look at his traits. He has a strong sense of entitlement. As an example, he might say to himself, "I insist upon getting the respect that is due to me." He would not say, "I usually get the respect that I deserve". Do you see the difference here?

He is exploitative. This is a given. My god, did he exploit her when they met! Whoa! He really deserved a smack across the mouth but you see, she didn't do that. She was up for the game. That's how he knew she was for him. He'd respond to the question, "I find it easy to manipulate people" and not "I don't like it when I find myself manipulating people." So, definitely exploitative.

He's superior. He would say, "I think I am a special person" and not "I am no better or worse than most people."

He's self-sufficient.  He will answer, "I can live my life any way I want" and not "People can't always live their lives in terms of what they want."

He's authoritative. He will answer, "People always seems to recognize my authority" and not "Being an authority figure doesn't mean that much to me."

So, what do you think? Can you be high on the scale of narcissism and still likable; lovable; right for this sweet girl??

What's that? You don't think she is a perfect little angel either????

Well, we'll  just have to wait and see about that. I am, after all, the one writing this story!

Spanking stories

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Frederick takes Agnes shopping

The following is Agnes' point of view of when Frederick took her shopping and follows on from here:

Agnes enjoyed walking the streets of Paris with Frederick but she had to remind herself that she was not able to act autonomously any more. Captivated by the beauty she spied in the store windows she would have lingered longer at various locations if on her own and sometimes she would wander off to look at something, unaware that Frederick was not sure where she had gone. She was still inclined to think of herself as a sole entity. She sometimes had in her mind where she thought they were going and would proceed in that direction only to discover that Frederick was steering her the opposite way.

On this occasion, she was turning the corner to go left only to feel Frederick grab her elbow and turn her to the right to cross the street. It was an unusual sensation being grabbed by the elbow; much more controlling, she felt, than if he had simply put his hand in hers. She felt like a little girl being supervised by an adult when he did that and slightly embarrassed she looked back over her shoulder to see if anyone had been watching.

A few doors down the street Frederick turned into the entrance of a particular store and finding the window display instantly appealing she remarked on how lovely she found the dresses. She was pleased that Frederick suggested they go in and look more closely.

Once inside the store, Agnes found herself once again confronted by a situation where Frederick seemed to be well known and welcomed by other women. Although it had seemed to her serendipitous that Frederick and she had agreed to enter this particular store, it was now obvious that he was a regular customer here and a well known and popular customer at that. She suddenly felt a wave of insecurity and it was that sense of insecurity or even jealousy that had her tug on his arm.

Frederick, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element chatting with the sales women and graciously introduced Agnes to them and asked for their help in selecting a special dress. Before she knew what was happening they too had taken her by the elbows and whisked her away to show her racks of clothes. She looked back at Frederick for some guidance as to whether it was all right and he gestured to her to follow them along.

This was a brand new experience for Agnes and not wanting him to think that she was in any way pre-empting the situation or having any expectations of him, she returned to him with a few dresses and asked which he liked. But, he assured her that as pieces of cloth, the dresses mattered little to him. He wanted to see how Agnes brought them to life before he could make any decision. He wanted her to try them all on.

 It seemed so decadent to her. Agnes had to save carefully to be able to afford new pieces of clothing. She loved to look at beautiful things but her need for frugality meant that she was rarely tempted to try anything on in such an expensive store. Also, being the centre of attention was not comfortable for her. The whole situation had a surreal quality about it for her. 

Seeing that she was hesitant Frederick gestured to her to “go go go go” and on the strength of his determination, she tried to relax into her predicament. She even managed to giggle along with the girls as they prepared her to model the garments for Fredrick.

Agnes came out to where Frederick was sitting on a leather wing-backed chair. She was wearing a floral-patterned summer dress. She stood in front of him but she seemed self-conscious, her hands in front of her. “Stand on the balls of your feet. Turn around and show off the dress.” As Agnes turned and twirled about she began to take on the presence of a little girl. His direction and presence was giving her some confidence and he had her put the dress aside as a possibility. This routine was repeated for the next dress Agnes modelled. Frederick rejected that one and Agnes headed back to the dressing room to try on the next outfit.

This time, Agnes appeared in a blazer and skirt with no shirt underneath. She was more comfortable with showing herself off now and her comfort in the outfit was apparent. Agnes tended towards appreciating  classic clothing and this was an outfit she might have gravitated to herself if on her own. Frederick nodded his approval and off she went to the changing room, smiling broadly. This really was a lovely, indulgent experience with Frederick there, she had decided. She was thoroughly enjoying herself now, fully immersed in a sense of feeling pretty and feminine.

Agnes modelled several other outfits with her last one being a little black dress with a well defined waist and slightly flared at the hips. It was a very feminine dress and Agnes felt wonderful in it. She felt sophisticated and older than her age and she liked that feeling. She could see from Frederick’s expression that he liked the black dress very much as well, which pleased her. However, Agnes had already taken note of the price tag and although it was a dream dress, she definitely could not afford it and put it out of her mind.

Once Agnes told Fredrick that she had tried on everything she had picked out, he had her go change back into her own dress and asked Darlene, one of the assistants to put all the outfits Agnes had modelled on a rack. He wanted to know which one Agnes would choose. She pointed to a summer dress that she thought she would be able to wear often and which was a reasonable price. It was a sensible and affordable choice for her.

Frederick wanted to know if she liked the skirt and blazer and she said she said, but she preferred the dress. He also questioned her about the black dress. She was becoming concerned because she had already decided on the dress using her own criteria.

“I’m not trying to change your mind or make you pick something you don’t want,” he assured her and she relaxed again. He pulled Agnes closer to him and with his hand on the back of her neck he told the two girls that they were taking the two dresses and the blazer outfit.

This panicked Agnes and her response was immediate. “I can’t afford these dresses.” Frederick tried to calm her by telling her that it was his treat and that she could consider it an early birthday present. But, still Agnes was unconvinced. He told her that they were expensive and that she couldn’t let him do this.

Now, Frederick was more assertive with her. “It is not a matter of you letting me do this or not. It is what I am doing.”

It was these words that made Agnes realize that this situation was quite outside of her control. She was in no place to tell Frederick what he could do. She stopped such talk immediately and feeling a surge of warmth towards him she hugged him tightly. “You are so good to me,” she whispered into his ear.

She felt wonderfully indulged. It had never occurred to her that a man would be so generous to her and of course, the thought that he wanted her to have these outfits and that she would wear them when out with him, her heart was glowing with pride.

When Frederick instructed her to go with Darlene to gather some lingerie to go with the outfits she had the thought that this must be what it feels like to be a princess and be able to purchase whatever her heart desired. The experience was like a fairy tale to her. At that moment she thought herself the luckiest girl in the world.

Silence

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

Yayayayayayayayayayayayay!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frederick and Agnes: The nightcap

Agnes followed where Frederick led her. She felt a little as if she were being led in a dance. Thinking of the dance and the music playing in her head, she began to hum. It was something she did instinctively and even without consciousness. Suddenly, he turned a corner into a darkish alley and she pulled on his arm and enquired where he was taking her. When he informed her that they were to have an after dinner drink, she was secretly delighted. It seemed such a grown up thing to do.

Frederick took Agnes by the wrist and they made their way through the bar, closely passing by people sitting at tables and on couches. She made note of the fact that several people spoke to Frederick and that once they had greeted him, their eyes went to her. She always felt self conscious when she was watched and particularly this evening. Agnes tried not to make contact with their eyes directly but it was clear that a few of the men were taking her in from head to foot. It reminded her of being at the zoo and being watched by a tiger. If Frederick were not there, she would be their prey. She drew closer to him for comfort and protection. She tried to ignore the potent smell of cigarette smoke in the air.

Frederick had her sit at a rather worn, red velvet couch but to her surprise and a little disappointment he sat down on a black leather chair at a 90 degree angle to her. It would have been so lovely to have him right by her side and be able to whisper comments about the patrons into his ear. Frederick ordered them both sifters of B & B. She had never had this before but was perfectly prepared to drink it, regardless of the taste. She would never think of letting on at her ignorance of such things. She wanted to appear as sophisticated as she could, especially here in this bar and in the presence of women whose style of dress seemed so chic in comparison to her simple clothing.

As Agnes looked around the bar, she took in so many things new to her. Whilst she was aware of her own innocence in such a bar, she was also revelling in the new experience and grateful for the opportunity. This was the sort of experience that she had hoped to have in Paris. Agnes observed the waitress come towards them again with their drinks and as well, she noticed Frederick watch the waitress’s breasts as she bent down to put the drinks on the low table.

It was not lost on her that Frederick was most likely one of those men her father had warned her about – one of the “lascivious men” he had said would take advantage of her. Frederick turned towards her at that instant and caught her watching him.

“Gretchen is an old friend.”

Agnes was momentarily wounded that Frederick must have had many women in his life. It was a pang of jealousy combined with a sense of insecurity that made her retort,

“She doesn’t look very old.”

Frederick ignored her comment and asked if she liked the bar. This gave her an opportunity to recover from her strange feeling and she responded that whilst she hadn’t been anywhere quite like this before, she liked it and was enjoying the music. He wanted to know where she went with her friends when she went out and she replied they met at local bistros and there they drank the local wine. She considered that even to her ears her response was one of a naive and sheltered girl.

Agnes watched as Gretchen returned and placed an elaborately carved wooden box on the tray and a glass appliance that looked something like a kerosene lamp. She had never seen this before but she immediately felt insecure about it. She turned to Frederick in the hope he would give her some sort of explanation and he answered, "Water pipe, hashish”. She asked him if he ordered it and seemed relieved when he said he had not and that he would have it removed.

By now, Agnes had taken several sips of her drink and having drunk the wine with her meal she was a beginning to feel slightly light headed and a bit sleepy. When Frederick began to ask her several questions about her dating habits, she answered them compliantly but she chose her words carefully. There were matters she did not wish to share with him. Her weekend dating habits were innocent enough in the main when she would join friends for a meal or a movie. She had nothing to hide on that account and she was happy to tell him about this.

If Frederick was at all like her father or her uncles, he would anticipate that Agnes was an innocent young woman who had yet to fully understand the appetites of men. He would never guess, and would be bothered, she suspected, if he knew that she had once had an encounter with a teacher at her school. She had a crush on Mr. Jacques, the drama teacher that had led to her going for a drive with him after school. In the woods just out of town he had kissed her, had her take his penis in her mouth and used his tongue to stimulate her pussy. He had not tried to fuck her.

This first sexual encounter with the handsome Mr. Jacques was a memory she held dear. She was disappointed when Mr. Jacques told her next day that they could not meet privately again. The images remained vividly in her mind. It was her secret and not for Frederick’s consumption; at least not yet. Although unworldly, she prided herself on being sensible and astute.

When Frederick said it was time to head for home, she was happy he had said so. She remained very quiet and followed along without comment.

Intuition

The vast majority of the readers of this web journal reside in the United States and Europe and hence I doubt many of you know of the death of Ruth Park a few weeks ago. Ruth is the author of 'The Harp in the South', well known to many Australians who read that book in their final year at school. She was a prolific writer and perhaps some readers are familiar with 'The Muddleheaded Wombat' series heard on ABC Radio. My husband certainly remembers listening to them.

In the late 1990s my mother sent over to the United States Ruth Park's two autobiographical books. I loved reading them then and on hearing of her death I had a desire to revisit them. One of the first things I did when I reached the holiday house was to cast an eye along the bookshelf and there I found them, to my delight.

I am currently immersed in her second book which largely takes up her adult years - those years after she marries the enigmatic D'Arcy Niland. I hope you will excuse me if I return to this autobiography many times over the next few weeks, picking up on a thread of thought here and there. Ruth's words has my mind aglow with ideas - ideas about writing and ideas about living - and I know I will feel a desire to share some of those ideas with you. You see, she captures that time of Australian life which is entirely enthralling to me. It is an era long gone but through her words, I am reliving it and somehow reaching into a part of myself which I thought had also gone, but I now realize is alive and well.

Ruth was not inclined to philosophize about life; at least not until she realized later in her life that she had to find her way out of "the pit" after D'Arcy died long before his time . She is a storyteller at heart and 'Fishing in the Styx' (part 2 of the biography) is busy telling the tale of her life. But, in spite of this she does, at moments, reveal the workings of her mind. She remembers well looking back on how she felt at certain key moments of the tale. She writes:

"After so many years of hard running, I acknowledged I did not get from my life much that was satisfying....This disquietening and deeply melancholy feeling may have been what is today termed burn-out, when the validity of what one is doing is in question...On the other hand, it could denote entrapment of my mind in the vast religious and ethical error of construction - that all life is nothing more or less than a storyline - a linear plot moving onwards, onwards, towards The End, which will prove either satisfactory or otherwise. Satisfactory, if they want it to sell. This variety of time-travelling is not programmed by culture into all races, but it is a part of our own, thereby robbing us of awareness of the moment."

Ruth lived most of her life at an extremely fast pace. Often poverty stricken, she and D'Arcy lived according to dead lines for stories and series and articles that procured enough money to feed, house and clothe themselves and their growing family. She really had no choice but to keep moving forward and in any case, I think it was her predisposition to do so.

Nevertheless, I feel sure that the above words were said with sincerity and the writer in me also feels that it is hard to move away from the notion that a person's life is a story. We can't really see the story line until much later and so the story unfolds rather unwittingly, almost as if we had no say over the story.

But, here's the thing. I think we do have a say over the story of our lives. I think we make choices all the time that dictate in large measure how the story will go. What interests me particularly about what she said in that paragraph is that in order to make the best choices, we must be aware of 'the moment'. We must take the time to really listen to what is in our hearts and minds and follow that intuition inside ourselves; the conscience too that speaks to us and guides us in our decisions.

On a personal level, I always put my husband and children first. That is what my intuition and my conscience told me to do. But, the time in my life is now here when I have some time, energy and courage to let the characters and events of my life out of my head and put them onto paper. This is a chapter in my life that I can look forward to immensely. It was Ruth who made me see that I can do that. What does your intuition tell you to do?

Reeling in Agnes

For some weeks now, the idea of expressing ideas in the form of an essay or post or article has not held much appeal, whilst the idea of expressing ideas through stories has held plenty of appeal. In a scene or a story there is so much to be said about how I feel about how a submissive girl responds to the energy a dominant man brings to her. I know that I should explore characters who don't respond the way I might respond but I feel that this is the way it is for so many of us. The girl goes about her life and something about the way she acts, or moves, or looks or observes the world gives a dominant man some sort of inkling that she is the kind of girl that he is looking for/appreciates.

I'm not altogether sure that a girl with a submissive nature is out on the prowl in quite the same way that the man keeps his antenna up. She's more inclined to go about her business, I think, and if something comes across her path that interests her, she notices and enjoys. It is a rare day in her life when she actually makes a move. At least, that's what I think. I'm not at all the sort of girl to make a move but I'm mature enough these days to not be shy about noticing men about me; to enjoy watching them in action.

Australian men of a certain age can be extraordinarily handsome. I was in the supermarket choosing vegetables in the past few days when a man of mid 30s perhaps, came in my direction. They tend not to be able to shop without making a call. "Honey, did you want the flat leafed parsley or the regular?" And so, he was on the phone when I spied him. A dishy, wide eyed, clean skinned, well built hunk of a guy in a lovely striped suit. In my younger days, I might have ensured he didn't catch me checking him out, but I felt not a tinge of embarrassment when we caught eyes and it was evident I was enjoying the scenery. It was something about the way he walked in as if he owned the environment about him; as if the store were there for his private convenience.

My oldest son is just like that. There really is not an environment which he doesn't own for the time that he is there. Whether it be a small town in Mexico or a golf course in Dubbo, whilst he is there, he dominates the space; enjoys it, makes use of it and leaves his presence felt. He oozes a sense of self and a special quality that life is for living. He takes those in his company along for the ride and whilst they are with him, they feel a certain kind of pleasure that he has graced them with his company. I don't say this because he is my son. I have nothing to do with it at all. He was born this way.

I feel sure that I married the man I did because I responded to his energy for life. He had no sense of fear. He didn't know where he was going but he knew that he was on his way. Thirty years later, he remains enthusiastic about so much. Everything is achievable and solvable and setbacks are merely that. "Leave it to beaver," he says, and I do.

My females characters are especially vulnerable to men who wish to "feed" on submissive girls like them because they are so easily infected by their assertiveness, their charisma and their ability to engineer a situation. A man taking the initiative is exactly what turns submissive girls on and so you might buy them a cup of coffee and suddenly whisk them off to show them your etchings before they can stop themselves to say "no". They are intoxicated by a show of force, or at least an assumption that they will follow along. Something in the pit of their stomach says, "I can't pass this up. This is just too delicious. This is just way too much fun..."

The girl in the upcoming scene, Agnes, is in a terribly vulnerable position. Frederick is much more mature, worldly and sophisticated. He is older; more than capable of getting what he wants and she truly does want to explore what he is offering. But, is she just another feather in his cap; another notch on his belt? Is he merely hungry and looking for a meal to nourish himself before he moves on again or is he genuinely interested in her as an individual?

I certainly don't think that submissive girls walk about looking for "the one" necessarily, but no girl wants to feel that she is being 'used' in the sense of 'used up'. She doesn't want to feel like a dill when a few dates, weeks or months later, he says, "it's not you, it's me/you're too good for me", and so she tempers her own appetite for dishy, dominant men with a sense to hold back: look and see.

And so for Agnes it is one step forward and two steps back as Frederick tries to overcome her 'thinking' brain and appeal to the hidden desires below the surface. He seems to have played his cards just right - given her enough time to digest the pros and cons - to have her eating out of his hands.

I am delighted to say that you not only have Agnes' version of events now but those of Frederick. Frankly, sometimes I am just appalled at how manipulative dominant men can be!

A story for Thanksgiving

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

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

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

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

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FANTASY No. 2

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

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

“No Sir.”

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

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

“Well, girl?”

“Oh! Sorry, sir. Yes Sir.”

“Pay attention, girl!”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, where was I?”

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

“Quite right!”

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes Sir.”

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

“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”

“Then, let’s begin.”

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

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

“One Sir. Thank you Sir.”

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

“Two Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Three Sir, thank you, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes Sir.”

“Brace yourself girl. It will be memorable!”

“Yes Sir.”

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

Mr. Cromwell put the cane on his desk.

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

Put away

It is the long weekend here and my husband is currently away. It seemed an ideal time to free myself of my need to experience control and I have wallowed in freedom - gone to bed when I wished, dressed when I wished, ate when I chose and just focused on me (and my boys).

It was interesting then, to wake this morning and discover that I had an urgent desire to write about something - anything - that would give me at least the illusion of being controlled. I felt absolutely exasperated that I was on my own with nothing but a pluggi to ground me to a sense of control!

The story was written in a little over an hour. It is the machinations of a kinky, submissive girl and perhaps only pleasurable to me. But, I put it here and if it should bring you pleasure too, then be my guest and have a read:

PUT AWAY

“Come and sit by me.”

She stood in front of him and with her eyes solicited further information.

“On the floor by my heel. Raise your skirt and part your cheeks; sit cross legged on the floor; palms down.”

She turned away from him and spread her cheeks so that he had a perfect view of her ass cunt, as she knew he wanted. She sat as instructed with her ass cheeks directly on the carpet. She felt pressure on the top of her head as he brought it forward so that all she could view were her own breasts. She heard him pick up the newspaper that he had put down on the table beside him when she had entered the room and then there was silence again.

She had no idea of how much time passed. There was no clock in her vision even if she dared sneak a peek but he was an avid reader and she never anticipated that this would be a short affair. Within several minutes she was aware of some discomfort as her legs became used to the position and as usual she found she had strong unrequited desires to move her hands to scratch an itch or adjust her hair. She spoke internally to herself regularly as a reminder to do only what he had told her. She wanted him to be pleased but on a practical level, she did not want to experience his displeasure.

At last, he put down the paper and his hands found her pert breasts. Her nipples were standing up for him since the room was a little cool for one so exposed. He tugged at the small rings in her nipples and the sensations went straight to her pussy cunt. There was nothing as predictable as her state after he had her wait for an hour or more; so close to him but untouched.

“Prepare for bed, darling.”

She raised herself off the floor and left the room. She took her shower and scrubbed herself clean; brushed her teeth. She applied her night time facial cream, rubbed a body moisturizer into her arms and legs and feet. He had yet to arrive. She sat on her wooden chair beside the bed and read on in her current novel, hoping that he would arrive soon. She longed to get under the covers.When she heard his feet on the floorboards in the hall outside she closed her book and put it down on her bedside table.

“Let’s inspect you.”

She immediately bent across the high bed. He had designed the bed himself and had it custom made so that she could be bent across it at the height of her hip. He spread her cheeks open and stretched her ass cunt as much as he could. He held it open like that for his own pleasure more than her embarrassment. This routine was common and she was used to it. He took a wet wipe from its packet and ensured that her ass cunt was scrupulously clean. Then, he opened her pussy cunt lips and breathed in her scent. He brought his hand to her pussy cunt and felt the slick surface; teased her bud with his tip of his thumb.

He had her stand and she raised her arms as soon as he indicated that she should do so; opened her mouth cunt when he touched her lips and stood still while he checked with a tissue that she had dried her ears.

“All scrubbed clean. That’s a good girl. Now, over the bed again.”

She tipped herself over the bed.

“Which hole would you prefer to be used?”

“The ass cunt, please.”

“Such a polite girl! If you wish.”

She was aware of him placing the rubber over his cock, a little lube on her ass cunt and he glided almost effortlessly into her. She let out a long sigh. She revelled in the luxury of having him inside her and feeling the fullness; no longer empty. But, he was hungry tonight and within moments he began to thrust, hard and fast. She grunted as his cock fucked her and with no restraints to hold her or a mouth gag to bite, she had no choice but to suck on the skin of the fleshy part of her arm near to her shoulder for some relief from his persistent grinding.

Without a word but with moans of pleasure he spurted wads of cum into her ass cunt until he was totally spent and lay down on her back. She was aware of his sweat and was grateful when he raised himself again and brought a tissue to wipe some of the cum away. He left her then and went to the bathroom and showered.

When he returned to her she first felt his hand lube her ass cunt and then she felt her night plug being placed into her. It was his way to fuck her with it – in and out, in and out – until with one deep push he inserted it into place. He had her stand and she moved to assist him as he put the chastity belt on her and locked her in.

“Time to be put away.”

He pulled the covers back. He watched her get into bed and settle herself on her side and place her palms together under her right facial cheek, as she was inclined to do. She may just have been fucked like a slut but now she was more like a little girl.

He bent over her, brought the covers up high and tucked her in; smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.

“Good girl. Straight off to dreamland.”

He turned off the light and closed the door. He would work in his study now for at least an hour. Her pussy cunt throbbed but of course, touching herself had been rendered impossible. She squeezed as hard as she could but without his countdown, her orgasm eluded her and she gave up and drifted into sleep. What she dreamed is anybody’s guess.

About 'The Training School'

Readers may remember that I went to a Writers' Festival not so long ago and there I heard Bryce Courtenay speak. Rather than talk too much about what he wrote or even how he wrote, he used the time to talk about himself, which is actually the most interesting topic of all.

Bryce is an extraordinary story teller and although the talk went over the hour, I remember what he said almost word for word. He was asked about his childhood and he spent the early years of his life in an orphanage in South Africa; a dark and sinister orphanage where he was beaten almost daily.

He doesn't know how he came by the name he has but it is an English name and surrounded by Boers, who hated the English for what they did to them in the War (burning their homes and farms), they hated him too. It was almost comical when someone from the audience asked him if he had any scars from those times that he has carried into his adulthood. He rather sheepishly said that he had, alas, a thing about obese women because the Matron was obese and she beat him regularly.

One day in the orphanage, some awful man who came to beat him up every day (he's seven, mind you!) approached him as he regularly did and Bryce instinctively said,

"Please, please, please Mister, don't beat me. If you don't beat me, I'll...I'll tell you a story."

"What kind of story?" the man wanted to know. "It had better be a good story or I'll pummel you..."

"It's a very good story, " he assured the brute and he proceeded to tell him a story.

He got to a certain point in the story and said something like,

"I can tell you more of the story tomorrow."

Bryce said that it was very important that he keep hold of the story and have more for tomorrow because he wasn't saving himself here from one beating but all the beatings to come.

Every day, the man arrived and Bryce had more of the story to tell him, and in this way he saved his hide.

Many years later, he was listening to the radio and on came what they called a serial...maybe 'Blue Hills'. I remember my father had three radio serials that he listened to every morning while he did his book work, so I knew what Bryce was talking about.

"The bastards," he apparently said, "they stole my idea."

He believes that the serial was his invention, all those years ago!

'The Training School' is something of a serial. I only had the vaguest ideas of where the story was going when I began it and when I publish a chapter it is hot off the page. I definitely will have to adjust things. What you are reading is nothing more than a first draft.

So far, the story is pretty tame. The general idea is that there is a girl, Lucille who recognizes her submissive nature, has married a dominant man but remains hidden inside her shell. She has secrets that she keeps even from herself. The role of Nicholas and the others at the Training School is to get her to a point where she embraces her whole self, even her most deviant thoughts and desires. This is important not only in order that she understand more about her role and status in the relationship but also that she embrace her deepest, darkest needs and desires and thereby come to peace with them and her 'inner slut'.

It is rather interesting listening to feedback through the back channels. The views do vary a lot but I certainly do listen to each one of them. Please feel free to offer your thoughts. All constructive criticism is appreciated.

Meanwhile, it is time to take things up a notch or so, so buckle in for the ride, and close your eyes if you are squeamish.

My image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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