Thoughts on insecurity

As per usual, I am immersed in doing something that I have never done before and learning material that is quite new to me. My head is filled with the business of making movies and plays and the essential elements of a successful and compelling story. I am in the process of considering character arcs in a story and the essential components of a heroine. It's all exciting and extraordinarily interesting but also profoundly challenging because I committed myself at the instigation of this writing course not to go down the path of academic mumbo-jumbo but to always find inspiration from real life; from my life. And, they like that. They like the way I apply it to my life and what I know from having walked this earth for 5 decades plus.

One of the essential components of a heroine is that she learns something which is why I had to think long and hard about my heroine in my adaptation. She seems so much at the end as she was at the beginning that we have to really analyze where she came from and how far she got; what she has learned about herself or anything else.

This evaluation led me to thinking about me and my blog and the "journey" I have been on. What have I learned? I am not looking to claim the title of 'heroine'. Rather, one thing often leads to another in my mind.

When I began the blog I had little control over my thought processes and emotions. I reacted. These days, I still react to external forces but I analyze those reactions. I ask myself why I reacted as I did and I force myself to be honest with myself. Inevitably this sort of discussion with myself leads to some thoughts about my insecurities. We all have them. If you are currently saying to yourself that you don't have any insecurities then you are lying to yourself because we really do all have insecurities of one nature or another.

It may (or may not) surprise you that what I do in this power exchange space that I have etched into my life can uplift me, exceeding all my expectations, and on some not so good (but happily rare) days, it can leave me confused. One of the delights of the blog for me is that I can check back and read what I wrote in heady moments and say, "Ahhhhh yes, that's right. I revel in this, don't I?! You are just having an insecure moment. Hang tight and it will pass." It always does. I am still here because I love what I do and I love what it has brought to my inner world, to my peace of mind and to my marriage.

Yet, I do have insecure days on all levels. I woke this morning completely insecure for no particularly good reason. For some reason today was the day when I was aware of my age; aware that I am no spring chicken any more; infertile, my youth has gone. Now, I don't have that feeling very often. I am graced with good health and an imagination and state of mind that keeps me young. However, when I woke this morning it was like a revelation: you are getting on, my psyche said to itself.

Moments like this, as transitory as they are, lead me to wonder why anyone would bother with me. It's a bit like walking down the street and the young men don't notice you, only your daughter. It was a revelatory moment like that; an unimpressive, unlikeable feeling of being sorry for oneself.

I was at the Market this morning and as I walked along the vendors I thought, 'But, where has the time gone? How can it be that my baby is about to turn 28? Aren't I only about 28?' For I often think that; that I am still young when the reality is something quite different.

Of course, the feeling goes. I remind myself that I have had a blessed life in many ways and that we all must age. We all must grow; learn; experience vulnerability; experience the fear of abandonment; grow old.

"Do you still love me?" I ask my husband, as I have asked him so often before. I don't know I am about to say it. It just slips out. These days he refuses to answer. The answer is so...obvious. Actions speak louder than words. Love is a doing word; a verb. I am loved. I know that. I really do. This insecurity too shall pass.

Sensibilities

I've read all sorts of posts and information about limits (I actually refer to 'sensibilities') over the years but somehow I never thought it applied to me. I'd never been put into a situation where I needed to think about it too much.

I have now finished reading 50 Shades of Grey and there are many scenes devoted to Ana and Grey discussing a contract - what she was prepared to do and what she wasn't prepared to do. I suppose that must happen but in my experience I find that being open to new experiences works best. I often experience some internal resistance (not necessarily expressed) at some new idea but over the next seconds, minutes, hours or days the thought plays on my mind and I find myself wanting that new experience. Obviously, I have no way of knowing if this is a typical submissive response but it is certainly mine. Introduce me to it, let it simmer away in my mind, suggest it again, and by then I'm pretty receptive.

I do feel that if someone is giving you something precious - their time, their energy, their expertise, their affection, love and so on - that you want to give them back something precious. On a non-BDSM level, last year my husband was wonderful in allowing me time in little Italian towns where we did what I love to do - to soak up the atmosphere and wander the little lanes and take our time.

So, when we got to Rome I understood that I needed to give back. I spent six hours looking at ruins and then immediately thereafter two hours in the Colosseum. This was his day, to spend as he wished. Yet, I have to admit, I, eventually, had pushed myself too far. When he didn't want to stop off at a Church for a service on the walk home (I was desperate for a quiet space and time) I lost the plot and said something sarcastic and in typical form he got mad at me for doing so.

I had simply pushed myself too far. In all his pleasure of being in Rome he had refused to take in that the day had been grueling for me. He was having too much fun to notice that and I was spending too much time being stoic to think of another plan. In fact, we've now agreed that next overseas holiday I might go to a yoga class or a church service while he visits an ancient site on occasion. We've agreed to accommodate one another's needs.

My submissive tendencies, my desire to please, to follow and to accommodate have always been with me and I find it painful not to please. In other words, it's hard to say "no". However, I do know internally when I am being pushed too far because I get a physiological response that tells me that there is trouble brewing. The sensations are so strong that it is very hard to ignore them and if I want to give in to the other person and give them what they want, I have to walk over, stomp down, all those signals that are telling me that it will end badly.

Of course, I am human and certainly not always right and so I must make account for that truth. Maybe, the other person is right and I just need to let go and try. Maybe it will be all right if I can just let go of the fear and the worry I feel that I can't do this or that. I know that at times my husband has wanted to do something intense and I've gone with the flow only to discover that my need to talk first was just too demanding and I've had to say, "I can't do this right now. Right now, I need to talk to you." Guys talk together, about women needing to talk, and as frustrating as it must be at times, he knows and the guys he talks to know that when a woman says this, it's best not to fight it. Let them verbalize; allay their fears and they are good to go.

A woman with strong submissive tendencies who has great respect for her Dominant won't find it at all easy to express the fact that she has doubts about what he wants her to achieve and saying "no" hurts her. She never wants to say "no". I loathe it. Yet, I think it is vital that she express her insecurities and not try to just be brave. If she goes ahead, against all the signals of her mind and body telling her that she is in peril, or that no good will come of this, I think she will weaken the relationship. The hurt she holds onto inside herself will result in damage.

I am open to the fact that this may be simply a stumbling stock and that the Dominant may wish to pursue his goals for her. Resistance can, of course, be overcome. However, for it to be successful, I think all the cards have to be on the table as to the potential pitfalls. And, when the situation becomes difficult and the submissive has great difficulty he must be there for her - to assure her he's happy that she tried at least, that he isn't upset, that all is still well. This is vitally important because when a woman is asked to walk where she never thought she ever would or could, the Dominant must hold her hand tight and be prepared for tears because the outcome is far from certain.

My feeling is that the relationship between Top and submissive is a deeply personal one. Some friendships are deeply personal. The closeness that two people can develop is quite extraordinary. It can be profoundly special; each one unique and to be treasured. When one experiences this sort of closeness on this Earth it must be nurtured and protected. It must be acknowledged for what it is: a rare gift. For such people we go the extra mile. It's all about give and take; about wanting to please and nurturing the other. Anything is possible.

Approval

It is a great pleasure to be writing the story about Lucille and her experiences at The Training School. There is not much that I enjoy in life more than sitting at the keyboard immersing myself in the lives of characters I have invented. With your indulgence, I am anticipating the story will evolve over a considerable amount of time.

As I write and think about where I want the story to go; what I want to achieve for Lucille and how Nicholas and his employees might achieve that for her, many issues arise for me. In the past day or two I have reflected on the issue of ‘approval’ for we girls, born with a submissive nature.

As a quiet, reflective sort of young girl, I think I could have done with a lot more attention from my father, or an uncle or a grandfather. I remember that I was very sensitive. I didn’t let anyone know about that sensitivity that I can recall, but I took criticism very much to heart and I savoured a compliment.

I remember my mother telling me about a comment made by my Grade 3 teacher. My report was straight As but she said that I was unlikely to achieve that level going forward. I remember being terribly confused. If she had doubts about me, then I presumed that I should have doubts about myself. It kept me working hard, through school and through university and into the next qualification. I had that monkey on my back and I was trying to prove, I think, that her doubts were wrong.

I met a woman a few years ago who went to the same school as my daughter attended and we spoke of the past Headmistress. Apparently, on a particular school day she said to my acquaintance that she would struggle to achieve her goals. She just would not get the marks she needed. The woman told me that this put a fire under her and she committed her working life to proving to the Headmistress that she was wrong about her. She is now a leading pathologist in this large city and when a surgeon needs an urgent and top notch analysis of tissue, he/she has her on call. We girls can be dogged.

A member of my parents’ staff taught me to ride a bike and I remember being very scared, but with his encouragement, his assuring me that I could do it, I did master that bike. And, it felt great! It was a very similar story a few decades later when I learned to ski. I must surely have told that story on the journal. I would never have achieved if not for the one on one, bursting with enthusiasm but rather strict ski instructor who refused to allow me to fail. I think of both men very fondly and it provides me with much evidence that I respond to attention and to a rather stern approach. If he tells me that I can do it, then I can. Lucille is rather like that. She could hide in her shell her whole life if people let her, or, with attention she can shine bright.

Attention, however, is a bit of two edged sword. Attention is a most wondrous thing. It can make you feel that you are walking on air. And as you receive attention, the sort of attention that you have craved your whole life, you find yourself wanting to please. His approval of you basks you in bright, golden light and it is an aphrodisiac; intoxicating and addictive.

But, he does not always approve of you. Sometimes, you are told off, castigated and reprimanded and as incredibly arousing as that can be (this is a very kinky mind talking), it can also be very hurtful. It is a very sad place to be, that doghouse, and I think many submissive girls will climb mountains to be returned to the dominant’s good graces. It can give a girl that push she needs to get on with it and get through her barriers. Or, it can make her retreat – into herself and potentially, away from him.

If she decides to go, it is not because she wishes that. To the contrary, she would adore staying right where she is. But, her sense of self and her sense of identity have been threatened in some way and to protect herself, she feels safest far away.


I have been thinking about this decision; a decision I too have made in the past – to walk away rather than to bear the pain of the disapproval and I offer the reader this thought. A submissive girl puts herself on the line. She offers herself up to the dominant like a tasty and nutritious meal. He can chew on her and savour her and devour her. He can pretty much do whatever he wants with her, to a point.

She will, I believe, do virtually anything he asks of her so long as she feels that he is committed to her. Not necessarily married to her or ‘til death us do part’ committed to her. It may not be a lifelong association, it may not be permanent and it may not be a primary relationship. But, whatever the association, she needs to feel that even when he is disappointed, angry, mad, disapproving or punishing, she is still 'not bad'. Even when he disapproves, he still feels some tenderness towards her. Even when she fails temporarily, she is still fundamentally worth his time and his attention and he remains fond.

When I think back to Michael, who taught me to ride my bike, to the American man who taught me to ski, they transmitted to me a sense that they believed in me. And, I received that message subliminally and that gave me the strength I needed. I felt a sort of fondness. I felt a sort of care. And, that was all I needed to achieve my goals; the goal that they had in fact set for me.

There is no getting around it or over it or under it. A girl has to go through it. She has to find the strength within herself to try – to put herself out there and fly high. And, there is no doubting that men in her life play a very special role. Girls will take the lecture or the disapproval and bounce back up, so long as they feel that they, the very soul and core of them are accepted; never rejected. They need to feel some warmth.

It is an incredibly vulnerable state to be; to recognize the need for approval in oneself. It is not at all an easy place to be and the best advice I can offer the dominant is to dwell on that thought and really consider it. If she struggles, is she perhaps struggling with these feelings that are so very uncomfortable for her? In the hands of the right man armed with knowledge of what makes the submissive woman’s mind tick, there is nothing a submissive woman cannot do.

The Training School - chapter 2

Nicholas opened the door to the study. He left her suitcase outside the door. There were some lovely landscapes on the walls, a large oak desk and some comfortable upholstered chairs. Although there was complete order in what she saw Lucille’s first impression was one of comfort and old wealth. The carpet may have been showing signs of age, yet it looked perfectly at home in this room.

“Please have a seat,” Nicholas offered as he gestured towards a small group of chairs. Two chairs were upholstered in a crème linen and two in an olive green leather, positioned around a coffee table at one end of the room; the opposite end of the room to his desk with two straight back chairs in front of it.

Lucille sat down in one of the leather covered chairs.

“May I offer you a drink? We will be having lunch shortly but perhaps a mineral water?”

He went to the phone on his desk, an old fashioned one where you picked up the receiver and pressed a button on the phone and he asked someone on the other end for two mineral waters to be brought to the study.

Although he hadn’t waited for her response, she thought it best to act as if he had.

“Thank you...Nicholas. I’m sorry. William has only referred to you by your first name.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“Well, I call William, William, unless of course the situation calls for some more formality, when I may call him Sir, if that feels right.”

Nicholas considered that and silence hung between them for a few seconds.

“You mean, when you are being corrected?”

The use of the word gave Lucille a little buzz. She was a little embarrassed and surprised at his directness. She smiled, although she didn’t mean to.

“Yes. Then.”

Lucille watched Nicholas closely and she enjoyed watching him as his mind seemed to be turning things over; considering what Lucille said. Although a good ten years older than her, he still had a youthful air about him; a full head of thick brown hair, watery blue/green eyes that seemed to watch her like a hawk and a lean but well muscled physique. She thought him ruggedly handsome.

Yet, Lucille suspected that underneath that old world charm of his was a determination to have his way at any cost. It was something about the sense of order here and the way he carried himself. Although he was dressed casually, as if he had been doing physical work earlier, he looked very clean and put together. There was an aura of restraint and control that left Lucille feeling that she best not tangle with him, or be frivolous. When he spoke again it startled her. She had been lost in her thoughts.

“There are three other girls here at this time, beside you. One girl will be arriving shortly but two other girls have been here for almost a week now. They call me ‘Sir’ at all times.”

“I see. Should I address you in that way too...at all times?”

“Yes, that is how you should address me.”

“Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“For now, I shall call you Lucille but that will alter at the appropriate time.”

She did not understand but she nodded as if she did.

The door opened and a refined looking country woman brought in a tray on which was two glasses of mineral water and ice. Nicholas introduced her as “Mrs McNeice, the wonderful woman who provides us with such very fine food”. She cheerily offered a glass to Lucille and then to Nicholas and left the room.

Lucile was pleased to have something in her hands, something to do with her hands. She could feel him watching her, every move she made. She became aware of her nervousness when she brought the glass to her lips and it felt heavy to her and she almost feared that she would spill some. Then, Nicholas asked if she had any questions.

“Well, yes, I do. I have so many questions. I mean, this was all so sudden and I am not entirely sure why I am here or even what to expect.”

“Don’t worry yourself. It will all become evident in good time. It is of no real value for us to talk too much in detail right now. It is best that you experience change rather than talk about it.”

Lucille remained unenlightened. Perhaps a direct question this time...

“Will I meet the other girls soon?”

“Oh yes. Two of them will be at lunch. The other girl, Susan, will arrive this afternoon. I like to have four girls here at a time. I don’t like larger groups than that. Four girls is a good number. They are all in a relatively similar place to you. They are all submissives but with a great deal to learn.”

Lucille took this to mean that she had a great deal to learn. She thought this rather unfair of him since she felt she already knew a lot, but she stayed quiet about it.

“You will all sleep in the same room. We have various daily protocols and it suits the staff and me to manage all girls in the one place. There is a large bathroom off the bed room and I think you will find the bed comfortable.”

Daily protocols? What on earth did that mean? She dared not ask him for fear of his answer – no doubt another statement that would mean nothing to her. She made an effort to lighten the mood as she might with strangers at a party and as well, to provide him with the required sense of formality that he had said he wanted. She giggled a little, somewhat nervously.

“Well, Sir, I doubt I have all that much to wear. William packed for me and heaven knows what he has put in the suitcase, but he did mention that there was a ...dress code here. Are you able to give me some details about that?”

“Oh. He didn’t tell you. Certainly. Our girls here are given suitable clothing to wear. I like all my girls to wear the same sort of thing and the sort of dress that is appropriate for their status and the tasks at hand and the lessons they need to learn. We are aware of your measurements and the size you wear and your clothing has been prepared.

Since the summer is well and truly here now you will mostly wear a cotton dress of dark colour which takes notes of your shape but allows for easy access to you. These dresses will be found hanging in the cupboard next to your bed. There are some activities and tasks that require other clothing be worn. You will find what you need in the dresser and cupboard by your bed. I’m sure William has packed you some brassieres but he will not have packed you any panties. They are not suitable here and he was asked to leave them at home.”

Lucille hoped that her surprise was not registered on her face. Was this really happening to her? Easy access to her? This had to be a dream. She folded one hand in the other and discreetly pinched her skin on one wrist hard. It hurt. No, this was not a dream. Her mind tried to recall exactly what he had said about panties. Although William would sometimes tell her not to wear panties, for the day at home or when they went out to a dinner, she usually did wear them and the thought of not wearing a pair at all whilst she was here was a deeply challenging thought. She wanted to reply to this, to tell him that she would not do that but she fought with her inner turmoil, wrestled it down and simply said, “I see.”

“Girls sleep naked but I like to give girls a reward when they do good work and a pretty negligee is one such reward you may earn. You are welcome to wear a little jewellery of your own choice at most times so long as it is discreet and of good taste. No watches. I asked William to pack some suitable shoes and sandals, all with a heel... and some runners, too. Yes, you will need those. The contents of your suitcase will be unpacked in your area of the bedroom whilst we lunch.”

It was at that moment that Lucille heard the chiming of a gong and Nicholas advised her that this meant that luncheon was served. He stood up and invited her to do so too. He led her towards the dining room, a lovely room with high ceilings and a picture window that looked out to a charming garden with roses and lots of well established camellias. The table was set for four people today but could accommodate eight people easily. When they arrived two girls were already standing behind their chairs, the chairs closest to the window.

“Lucille, allow me to introduce Pammi and Sherri. Pammi, Sherri, this is our new girl, Lucille.”

“Hello,” Lucille said, smiling, hoping to make a good first impression. "I am pleased to meet you.”

They smiled back at her and greeted her. They seemed happy enough.

“Girls, show Lucille how to sit down properly please. Lucille come around here and observe them carefully.”

In unison, Pammi and Sherri (what odd names, she thought) lifted the skirts of their dresses at the back, all the way to their waists to reveal bare bottoms. Using both their hands they parted their cheeks and they then sat down very purposefully and elegantly. Their move was so discreet and done with such assurance that Lucille wondered if her eyes had deceived her. Dear God. They surely did not expect...?

“Now go to that chair, Lucille.”

In shock, she moved to the chair he had indicated.

“Are you wearing panties?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Take them off and give them to me.”

“Here? Now?”

She was getting cross.

“Take them off”.

They were all watching her. She slid her hands up to the waist of her panties and pulled them down. She handed them to Nicholas in a tight ball and he put them in the pocket of his jacket.

“Now, sit down just as the girls did.”

“But...I can’t. I just can’t do that,” she said, totally panicked.

“First lesson, Lucille. Never tell me you can’t do something. If I say that you can do it, then you can do it.”

“But, it is so embarrassing. I...I can’t.”

She put her hands over her face. This was too awful. How could William do this to her!

Nicholas seemed unmoved. His voice was implacable. He offered her no reprieve.

“Lucille, look at me.”

She took her hands away from her face and looked directly at him. She knew to do that much.

“There is nothing the slightest bit difficult about what you have been asked to do. Simply follow the directive you have been given. Raise your skirt.”

She kept looking at him but she remained frozen.

His voice rose. “Do it!”

There was no way out. She raised her skirt as the other girls had.

“Now, simply place your hands on your lower buttocks and part your cheeks and sit down.”

She wanted to die. She closed her eyes and did as instructed, but it was rather clumsily executed and her facial cheeks were now bright red.

“Good girl. We shall teach you how to do this discreetly. It is an art form and you must not worry about it. It was a good first effort. Now let’s enjoy our lunch.”

Her suspicions about him were right. It was clear to her now that Nicholas was a man who would brook no disobedience from her. His charm and manners belied his true nature. She now saw him as the disciplinarian that he clearly was. It was an affront to her sensibilities and yet she could not deny that her stomach was swirling in extraordinary ways. She was very wet and more aroused than she had known it was possible to be.

Stripping Agnes

It had been Agnes' desire to move to Paris since she had been a teenager. She had been saving up for two years now in order that she would have enough money to rent an apartment and good fortune finally shone on her. Her application for a job as an assistant to a photographer in the Latin District had been successful and she had found an affordable, though tiny apartment only a few blocks away from the photographic studio.

Agnes enjoyed her new Parisian life. Her employer was good to her and went to great effort to train her in every technique. She flourished in the opportunity to be creative and she loved her new home in the midst of the beautiful city. Yet, if Agnes were truly honest with herself, she would admit that she was lonely. Her family and life long friends were all back in Toulouse and she had yet to meet anyone that she could consider a friend.

In her quest for company and a way to occupy her time on the weekends, Agnes ventured out mid Saturday mornings for coffee at her local patisserie, where she would treat herself to her weekly almond croissant. She was conscious of her figure but this was her one indulgence for the week and she savoured it.

Agnes was not really a sophisticate and the clothes she wore were pretty and youthful: a dark red elasticized at the waist twirly skirt and a very pretty white cotton shirt with heeled espadrilles on her feet. Her hair was long and dark and her skin light and soft, and sitting there at the round table she looked much more delectable than the croissant she was devouring.

Agnes did not realize that she was being watched until she took her last sip of coffee and looked up into the eyes of a man who was studying her every move. She felt immediately embarrassed to have been caught in the lustful enjoyment of her naughty treat and she blushed.

"It is good?" he enquired.

"Delicious," she responded. And, for some reason, she felt compelled to add, "I only have one of these a week. I don't make a habit of it."

He merely smiled and returned to his coffee; black.

She would have liked it if she could think of a reason to stay there, but he offered her no more in the way of conversation and she reluctantly left the patisserie. He seemed not to notice her departure, engrossed in his newspaper.

The following Saturday Agnes returned to her patisserie and could see the moment she entered that the same man was already there, ordering his coffee.

"Bonjour," she offered him, with a lovely smile.

"Bonjour mademoiselle," he returned. "Another croissant for you, today?"

This made her feel vulnerable in some way; that he was aware of her weakness and yet knew nothing else about her. She was weighing up what to say, perhaps to forgo the croissant and say that she was not hungry when she heard him say to the shopkeeper,

"Two almond croissants, please; one black coffee and one coffee with milk."

He paid for the food and ushered her towards a little table by the window. She had no desire to reject his offer and did as she was bid, sitting where he told her to sit.

"What is your name?"

"Agnes."

"I am Frederick. And, you live in the neighbourhood?"

"Yes. But, I'm new to Paris. I love it here. The city is so exciting. There is so much to see and do."

She was talking rapidly, unsure of herself with this man, and yet instinctively having a feeling that she wanted to know him, if he would let her. He said next to nothing whilst she blurted out a whole speech about the wonders of the Luxembourg Gardens and all the dogs that visited there.

He allowed her to blither on, listening attentively but passively. When their order arrived, he was attentive, enquiring if she needed sugar, if she was enjoying the croissant, if she wanted anything else. She wished he would talk about himself but it seemed not to be his way and she wondered if she bored him. Just as she began to thank him for the food and his company he stood up, and thus she did too.

"Come with me and I shall show you where I live. It is a lovely view of Paris from the balcony."

She had never before been in such a compromising situation with a sophisticated man and there was a part of her that said that this was not wise. But, there was also a part of her that so very much wanted to go with Frederick and it was this part of her that won out. She picked up her purse and followed him out the door.

He was taller than her with long legs and it was difficult for her to keep up. She felt that she was almost running but he seemed not to notice. He barely paid her any attention until they had walked the five flights of stairs of his apartment building and the internal flight of stairs that led to the balcony outside of his kitchen.

"There it is. The rooftops of Paris."

And, then he smiled at her.

"Ohhhhhh, how beautiful. How fortunate you are to wake up to this every morning."

When she turned back towards him, after trying to soak in the view and commit it to her memory banks, he was looking at her in a way that she could not read. She reflexively shivered, as if he had undressed her; undressed her soul and reached into the darkest recesses of her mind.

"Thank you, Frederick. But, I must go. I have so many errands to do today."

Any excuse to get away! She was rattled, suddenly uncomfortable and unable to meet his gaze. He made no effort to keep her there with small talk or anything else but merely escorted her down all the stairs again and said that perhaps they might meet again in the patisserie one day. They said their goodbyes and she was gone.

On the following Saturday morning, she forced herself to stay away from the patisserie and planned instead a day at Museum of the Revolution in order to occupy herself. There was no doubting that she was attracted to Frederick but his very presence had stirred feelings in her that confused her and disturbed her and she wondered if it was best not to speak with him again.
The following week, she was in her local supermarket buying a baguette and some of the special Camembert that she adored when she suddenly heard his voice in her ear.

"Are you going to tell me that you only eat Camembert cheese once a week, as well?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Just hearing his voice sent tingles down her spine and this time she knew she would not have the will to walk away.



(to be continued)

Training: beyond 101

It's no secret that I am receiving training as a 'doll'; a plaything; an entity not interested in thoughts beyond pleasure and pleasing; playful; arousing; without ego.

I've taken to the ideas I've been introduced to via that training rather well. Naturally, I've found some resistance to some of the notions. At first, they seemed ridiculous in the extreme. But, as I've lived with them and grown with them, I've come to see the enormous value of them in my life, both within the marriage and as well, my inner life. I don't advocate those notions for anyone else necessarily but the simple truth is that they work for me very, very nicely.

I've never spoken to anyone else who has had a similar sort of training and I've no idea where I fit in the scale of those girls trained to think as I now do. But, it has occurred to me that one reason the ideas work for me is that I see life through a fairly straightforward lens. Possibly, I have just enough ego (not too much and not too little) to have an alter ego; to recognize where harmony may lie and to be unafraid to venture there, finally. I'm really just thinking out loud right now; wrapping my head around new thoughts. It could be that as a capable girl lacking in self-confidence on various levels, I found my confidence in that alter ego. There is food for thought in that idea.

Whilst I have never met girls who have trained as I have, I know one or two via the Internet and reading there it seems clear (to me) that we have something in common. We all live with very arrogant men. I definitely want to explore that thought more, too.

And, most importantly, I want to explore more why it is that I still find myself wanting to run away from situations, initially at least, that make me feel vulnerable, exposed and in competition with other girls. Is this vulnerability and lack of confidence of my own skills and appeal the reason why I can speak so openly and candidly with my men friends, but feel afraid to share all of myself with women?

Just when I thought I was doing marvellously well, shedding layers of the onion almost effortlessly, I come across a skin that I am guarding with my life. I can actually feel the anxiety inside myself as I try so hard to open myself to new experiences that frighten me for fear of what they might reveal from inside of my head.

I have found, and continue to find this exploration rewarding and revealing and rich. It intrigues me and unsettles me to realize that I may have only just begun to scratch at the surface at what is possible and what my deeply hidden thoughts may reveal. The unknown has me unsettled and tingling with electricity at the same moment.

First Love

I don’t remember how I met him but he became a very good friend. Long black hair, beard, moustache, thin as a bean pole: my Matt. He would pick me up in one of the family’s cars without notice: day or night. And, he’d drive and drive. And, finally he’d stop and tell me what was on his mind.

He took me to places I would not have gone without him: down back lanes and up old staircases to restaurants where they picked up the money and put down the cards when the door opened. Red or white? Steak or fish? There was no need for menus there.

He’d drive me to the beach and make me tackle the big waves. He gave me the pleasure of introducing me to his amazingly intriguing mother and his mad as a hatter father and his girlfriend. My wonderful Matt and his wonderfully offbeat family!

One day I called to see him at the big, rambling house and only his little brother was home, then seventeen. He warmly welcomed me inside. We were in his room listening to music when a girl arrived but he did not invite her in. Rather, she was back on her bicycle immediately after a few words from him in the garden.

“Where did she go?” I asked.

“Oh, she was my girlfriend,” he said, but I just broke up with her.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Because, you are my girlfriend now,” he said.

You know me well enough by now. That was enough to win me over. And, Mike was my friend; not my lover. I had not had a lover.

We had a wonderful summer together; up in that loft in his mother’s house by the sea; lots of playing around the edges. Band on the Run: I can't listen to songs from that album without memories coming back of that summer: delicious meals, wonderful company, beautiful beach; spectacular sunsets; unbeatable memories.

I went onto university; he to his second try for Medical School as per his Father’s wishes.

Easter. He came to collect me from my little college room and the four of us, my first love and I, his wonderfully kinky Dad and the beautiful Luciana took off to travel on a lovely boat down the Hawkesbury River.

“Vesta?” he called from below one starry night.

“Yes? What do you want?” I called from on deck.

“He wants you ,” his Father told me gently.

And, on that boat with the stars overhead I lost my virginity to the boy with the curly hair and the crooked smile.

One day, he came to my home to tell me that he was moving on; time to explore pastures further afield. Of course, I cried and my Father assured me there was no need.

“Plenty of fish in the sea, darling.”

He was with his girl the next year when he saw me at University, but I was not yet mature enough to let bygones be bygones and I didn’t want to talk. But, at the last moment, with everyone moved away, he came up to me and hugged me tight; whispered in my ear,

“You’re still the best girl I have ever known.”

I watched him walk away, never to see him again.

Over the years, I’ve thought I’ve seen that mop of hair several times, but it was not him. I hope he is happy. He deserves to be happy. Darling boy; first love; tender; sweet.

I would not have missed it for the world.

Emotions

I am not an especially constant person. Reading the blogs of other submissive women, that makes me not especially unique, but perhaps more inclined to inconstancy than most. On the whole, I gravitate to optimism and the sunny side of the street because I have found no value in being morose or negative. I can go for considerable time with it appearing on the outside that all is entirely well with me. Ask my friends or the gals down at the club and they would say that I am always happy.

My family know differently. I really do appreciate a great deal having things my way. (You are smiling, right?!) I deplore walking into the kitchen first thing on a weekend morning and listening to Homer Simpson blither on. I detest his voice and I am only content within myself when whoever has turned the darned television on, turns it off.

I can take an awful lot of bossing. I'll alter the way I have stacked the cups in the dishwasher and not say a word about it. I'll adjust the way I have tied the boat to the pier to satisfy my husband's desire for perfection without a whimper. I'll listen to the lecture one more time about not drying myself on the bathmat and leaving water on the floor without a solitary complaint. My settled and calm nature allows me to go on in this way for weeks or months at a time. Until, I crack it.

Yes folks, every now and again, I lose my temper. Whilst this is not unknown to the family it is always a shock. They have received very little, if any, notice as to the storm brewing and when the storm breaks over them it is a complete mystery to them. My husband, being true to his nature tries to bring a halt to the storm immediately. Just what is this ruckus all about??

However, those slow to anger are not necessarily those fastest to settle down, either. This situation can find me needing to walk and that's what I did last night. Completely unaware, it seems, that he was pushing me too far with his comments, I got out of the car (we'd gone to town for supplies) and started walking. Of course, he tried to settle me but it was much too soon for that and in the end he asked did I want a lift back home or did I want to walk? I wanted to walk.

Now, I was all steamed up; no doubt about it, but at the same time, I could see the funny side of this. It was rather dark. I was in the country and technically I should have been frightened. But, I was not at all frightened. I considered what I might do if someone approached me. And, then I thought, well who the hell would dare approach me right now? I must be giving off so many angry signals. Who would have the tenacity to confront me right now? And, it did make me smile; the thought of me being able to send them scrambling with just my negative emotions. Of course, once I had spent some energy walking, I was able to see clearly and that it was a storm in a teacup, and the night was ended happily. I apologized first. This is mandatory. And, then he said he was sorry, too.

My point is this: women do get angry; emotional, steamed up; crazy! I do anyway. And, what does my husband do when it is actually me who loses her temper? He becomes very calm, quiet, controlled, sensible, conciliatory; while I act like a goose who just lost its head.

And, who feels vulnerable in those moments? I do. It is one of his dirty deeds and clever tricks to agitate me to breaking point and then when I break, look like butter would not melt in his mouth.

We've done this before. We'll do it again. My eldest son who witnessed one of these events a month or so ago, came to me and hugged me and said, "It's because you love one another so much. People who love one another do crazy shit. That's why I am not in a relationship right now. I needed a break."

Of course, I laughed. He was so right. Neither my husband nor I is perfect, but we remain in love; loving, intensely involved in one another's lives; forever joined; passionate, about one another and about life.

You might have noticed that I tend to give the appearance that he is the passionate, emotional one. Well... maybe, I have my days, too!

Precious Vesta

I was having a brief conversation with a friend today when I said something of which he clearly didn’t approve. Instantaneously, he replied, “You are precious, Vesta.” (Well, he used my real name, but you get the idea, no doubt.) I immediately took offense. I’m over it now (almost!) but it set me back, I must say.

It also moved me forward. I sort of, took it in first. I considered it the greatest of disparagements and I was absolutely speechless (or fingerless in this case). I walked out into the garden. It is a day direct from Heaven today and I allowed the mild sun to warm me and the breeze to blow through my hair and onto my tear stained face.

You see, I know he didn’t mean that I was ‘of great worth’. What he meant was that I was showing precious little backbone; ‘excessively delicate’ as the dictionary says. That is what he meant.

And, be damned, he was right! I had got upset about something which is minor in the scheme of things. The sun still shines, the world still spins, my family are all healthy and I am loved. My issue was nothing at all in comparison to the difficulties of so many others. It was upsetting and destabilising, yes, but hardly insurmountable. I have climbed much bigger mountains that this and found rainbows on the other side of the rock, so what was all this fuss about?

Perhaps, I had fallen into the trap of thinking of myself as a submissive woman; needy and well...precious. Well, to hell with that! So, I took myself off for a shower, put on a going out shirt and shirt, did my hair and makeup and I’m ready to stand up like a big girl and be counted; not down for the count at all.I am strong; I am invincible!! Well, with a little help from my “onnir” that is. I never said and never will say that I’m perfect.

So, my friend, I’ve taken your comment on board. I was cross at first, yes. But, know this: it was what got me back on track, too!

Seasons

I am a product of a conservative (if not eccentric) background. My mother married young to a man she fell in love with whilst still in her teens. He had considered himself a life time bachelor until he met her but ultimately he agreed that if she felt the same way about him when she turned 20, he would marry her. Their wedding took place a week after that date and they remained blissfully happy and deeply in love until his death. Her devotion at nursing him until his dying day was inspirational. No one could have done what she did unless they have in their hearts a huge capacity for love.

For his part, he led her, guided her and loved her every day of her adult life. That is not to say that she was not capable because she was more than capable. She had people skills in abundance and the capacity for hard work. Together, they managed successful businesses, but he was always the boss. If the word went out that he was on his way onto the floor, we all knew what to do: act busy. He abhorred laziness.

Conservative as they were in many ways, my parents were not thrilled with my choice of a husband. This is not news to my husband and to his credit, he was always, and still is, gracious and welcoming to my family. I suppose they figured that I was still too young to know my mind and the fact that he was immediately taking me to the other side of the world didn’t aid matters.

Although my mother quite naturally accepted my father as the boss, she has a wilful, independent streak and she knew how to work my father. She saw my husband as too demanding, too much wanting his own way; altogether too opinionated and anal-retentive. If I complained that I couldn’t get him to make a decision about this or that; say painting a room, she would encourage me to just organize it myself. Patience is not her strongest suit.

In fact, she continued to make private retorts and complaints to me, away from my husband’s ears for many years and I was torn. I have never fought with my mother because I know that cross words from me would hurt her profoundly but I also knew that her lack of respect for him as my husband, even if only expressed when with me alone, was destructive to my state of mind and all our relationships.

This rather difficult circumstance continued on through the years until a few years ago when I talked to my husband about creating a more formal ‘power exchange’ relationship. With a better understanding of what I wanted and how to achieve it, I now felt more empowered to deal with her complaints.

I didn’t argue with her but what she experienced was that I was now standing up for him with a new verve. She was not against him now unless she chose to be against me, too. She wasn’t going to do that. She loves me with a passion and if I was happy, she was happy.

This was a revelation to me. Immediately, our relationships improved on every level. She no longer so much saw a man who was inclined to want his own way but rather a man who would protect his wife and children through all and any eventuality. Her daughter oozed happiness and contentment and that being the case, what was there to say?

I am inclined to think that being confronted lately by criticism of becoming the ‘doll’, and taking that criticism hard, relates to my choice all those years ago to fore go a career for myself; to give of myself to others so intensely. My mother had difficulty at the time understanding my choice of a large family. She has said to me endless times that I could have been anything. I could have had a good career. I have given too much of myself to my family.

At a school reunion a year or so ago, my old school friends echoed her sentiments but in a more sympathetic way. As one of the high achievers, they had anticipated I would go on to a career in education or writing (perhaps journalism). It was a shock to learn that once the children were born, I had devoted myself largely to the family.

The reality is that I could never have split myself into two in this way. With the strongest desire to care for them, I needed to do that as well as I could without distraction or endless frustration. My husband understood that and enabled it, just as he enabled this blog, a mentor, moving into the power exchange relationship that I requested. He is, in fact, the right man for me and bringing up a large family together was the right decision for us.

Of course, I understand my mother’s concerns. I have strongly encouraged my daughter to reach her potential with her god-given talents and I wish her every success in her chosen profession. I urge her to consider using her talents for a lifetime. But, I also urge her to keep her eye out for a man she can love and respect, and who will love and respect her, too. I know the sort of man she wants. I’ve paid close attention to her comments over the years and she has a fervent need to be cherished; to love with intensity.

It is only now, later in my life that the opportunity exists for me to explore my own needs in any focused way. 'Balance' need not necessarily mean that we spread our time equally between career and family/spouse at all times in our lives. Rather, for some of us, to everything there is a season. My earlier adult life was given to my family and perhaps now is the beginning of a time in my life when my own more intense personal needs and interests might find flight.

For me, that does not mean that my husband gets the flick and I go off to ‘find myself’ on my own. Rather, that means that I might now have the chance to wallow in my husband’s attention, companionship and love.

We must all choose our path in life and I chose mine with open eyes. Alas, the messages that surrounded me (and still surround me at times) that I was choosing poorly derailed me from accepting my true nature in total. But, that is over now. I’m back on track and there is nothing left to stand in my way.

Pushing her edges

"Are you cursing me, little one? Be a good girl for me!"

It is the dominant man's job to push at the edges; to get the girl to do what she has some difficulty in doing. She's been used to dressing in a certain way and it is time to shake things up a bit. He wants her to think about her body in a different way. Not so much her body naked, accessible and available for use; rather, her body put into an outfit that makes her feel vulnerable; different.

She's a slut and she knows it. She loves being a slut and there aren't too many edges to push as far as that is concerned. But, he has a notion to dress her a bit like a slut and this challenges her more than she could have known. She wants so much to be a good girl and yet he has burrowed deep into every chink in her armour. So used to making the most of her assets, she is being asked to embrace the parts of her body that she does not appreciate at all. She is being asked not only to see herself in a different light but to think about herself in a different light, too. A writer needs, does she not, to put herself into the mindset of a girl other than herself?

Who is this little girl? She has created a persona for herself, as all girls do. She has dressed carefully to hide what she does not like about her body. She has chosen clothing that she enjoys wearing and that shows her in the best light. Her clothes say about her those parts of her personality she wishes people to see; no more.

Now, he asks her to peel away the top layers of her carefully honed persona and expose every last vulnerability. As if she were an actress in a movie playing a stranger, he asks her to dress unlike herself. He asks her to dress in a way where she cannot be herself. He asks her to reveal what she usually hides; her inner thoughts.

She begs him to reconsider. He won't relent. Why all the fuss? Is her body not exposed at the beach? The dress would allow her more protection than a swimming suit?

It's not the point and she knows that he knows that it is not the point. The dress he asks her to wear may have more material than a bathing suit but a bathing suit doesn't make her feel like this.

She wants to please. She wants to accept the challenge and defeat her insecurities. Yet, she can't do it. She returns the dress to the rack and leaves the store. She cannot bring herself to buy the silly dress. She curses his tactics, and smiles to herself at the same time. Of all the things to be looking for!

She wishes she were making the purchase for her daughter. Alas, he wishes to challenge her.

She has an idea and sends him photographs of stylish dresses; longer dresses. Does he not think they are lovely? Does he not think she would be able to feel a slut beneath such a sophisticated dress?

It is a last ditch effort.

He's a nice man. Surely, a nice man would see things her way.

Nice try!

Comfortable in her own skin

A dominant friend recently read a scene I had written and kindly offered some feedback. The scene is in the couple's bedroom and she is naked and in a compromising position, shall we say. In that feedback, he reminded me that girls are insecure about their bodies. There is usually something that they want to hide from their dominant. I have been pondering this. What does my character want to hide from her dominant? What doesn't she like about her own body and what does he plan, if anything, to do about that?

Needless to say, the next question was, what don't I like about my body? What do I hide from my dominant? Well, my dominant knows full well that I would have adored to have longer legs. A couple of extra inches would have been lovely. As well, like most women, he knows that if I put on a little weight around my stomach, I'm not going to like the effect, and I'm going to do what I can to hide that fact from him, and the rest of the world.

I think the problems start at school, really. Perhaps there are lots of skinny girls in the class, and the less skinny girls start to notice the differences between them and the others. Maybe, a girl makes a careless remark. Maybe, she even makes a cruel remark. The die is cast.

My daughter has a gorgeous bottom, but when she was growing up she thought of it as horrible. I would tell her that boys would love her bottom, that her bottom looked wonderful in jeans and so forth; that she was lucky to have such a sexy bottom. It was not much use. I was her mother, she said, and naturally, I would say that. Her brother felt like tormenting her one day and told her that her bottom was "giggly". You can imagine how she responded to that comment! Fortunately, her boyfriend tells her how much he loves her bottom. She still asks, when we are out shopping, if the outfit she is trying on makes her bottom look fat, but I am happy to report that she has a good relationship with her body now. She is very pretty and she knows it. Does she try to hide anything from her boyfriend? I really don't know.

Before my husband and I decided to make our marriage one of a power exchange, I certainly did feel insecure about my body. My body was younger and thinner than it is now, but still I worried terribly if I put on a pound. Even when very thin, I was self-conscious at times. Certainly, if he wanted to part my cheeks, or have me totally exposed, kneeling on the bed with my ass in the air, I would be hesitant about that. There was nothing about me to dislike, and yet there I was, acting unlikable.

When we turned things around; when I finally gathered the gumption to finally ask for what I wanted, everything changed completely; almost in a day. I have the shape of a woman these days, rather than the very thin girl I was right after my first child. Yet, I have never felt so comfortable in my own skin. Don't get me wrong. The couple of extra kilos I have put on have to go, but even so, I don't hide anything from my dominant. He can do what he wants with me. He can put me in any position he chooses. There is nothing left for me to hide. I have exposed myself as I am; a slut, a sexual being, a girl who wants to be used and enjoyed.

A few weeks back now, my husband had bought some new rope. It turned out to be a very long piece and he tied me up, a bit the way Popeye used to tie up Olive Oil. It took him some time to do it and by the time he was finished, and I had been left to mature, I was deep in my own space. He took some photographs and the proof of my contentment is there in those photographs. I looked sublimely content. To my eye, I'm not sure that I looked beautiful. But, to my husband's eye, I looked ravishing. He adores those photographs and has mentioned them several times. "If only your readers could see those photos. They would understand what you are trying to say," he said to me. "In their dreams," I replied.

My point is this. A power exchange is gold. Few girls in the whole world think of themselves as without flaw. It is perhaps only her dominant who can convince her that she is truly beautiful; that he wants to explore every inch of her body; wants to behold every part of her. He wants her to be happy in her own skin. I ask you, does it get any better than that?