Troubled relationships

So, what if you are stuck; stuck in a relationship that you can't seem to leave but that makes you crazy? Have you tried to changed the Other's behavior? How did that go for you?

There is a much more effective way to feel better about the relationship and about yourself because what you do have control over is your own behavior and thoughts. As these shifts take place in you, every element of your life, including the troubled relationship, starts to become smoother. Your sense of self improves. Most importantly, you stop feeling helpless and start feeling strong. The feelings of love remain but now they are based on an acceptance of the way things are; a full and complete acceptance of the person you love. You stop manipulating  the Other to get what you want and come to realize that it is the love that resides in you that you can tap into to heal yourself.

A troubled relationship that means a great deal to you can sap you of your self-confidence. Maybe you try to encourage the Other to act kinder towards you and instead of him or her seeing your distress and moving towards you to comfort you, there is push-back; blame, projection. It's confusing and can lead a person to wonder about their own sanity.  Do you find yourself digging deeper to understand the Other; pushing your own needs and wants further below the surface in order to settle or calm the Other? If so, your self-respect is at risk. You have come to behave like a Caretaker because it seemed the only way to function in a troubled relationship.

Counter-intuitively perhaps, you have to use different strategies to heal yourself and the relationship. Every time you use these strategies your self-respect will grow and you will start to see that things are not hopeless and you are not helpless.

Most importantly, you need to listen to your own feelings. Sit quietly with yourself as often as you can. Often, only a minute or two is enough. Ask yourself, 'How am I traveling?' Identify your feelings. Feel into your physical responses and locate where your feelings lie.

When interactions are hurtful to you, stop them. Don't feel that you need to keep interacting with someone who isn't making sense, or doesn't have control over his or her words and actions. Take a break. Let things simmer down.

If you are dependent on the Other but the Other's behavior isn't reliable it really doesn't make any sense for this person to be the final arbiter over your sense of self; the decider of who you are and the provider of your needs and wants. Your identity is made up primarily in the establishment of what you want, what you are willing to stand up for and the goals you strive for in life.  What you have to do is decide for yourself what action you wish to take. Then, you have to act. With or without him or her in your life, you are determining what will make your life better.

I think the problem can lie in the fact that a submissive sort of person will mention something he or she would like and the Other may sort of put that idea down; perhaps not in a direct way but in an overt sort of reference. It's almost a response to change that they unwittingly see as a threat. Change can be hard for the Other wrapped up in his or her own head. Rather than be put off, your goal can be mentioned in passing, and ultimately a declaration made that as of next week, say, you are going to be volunteering your time at the Soup Kitchen every other Thursday. No arguments. It is just now something that is part of your life.

It is not selfish to think about your own needs and wants as opposed to thinking all the time about the Other's needs and wants. This is what you have to get through your head. It doesn't work to be selfless. It is in fact inevitably soul destroying.

In a troubled relationship, the Other can in fact be very dependent on you. It helps to reflect back to the Other that you have heard and understood their feelings. 'You look upset.' 'I understand that would have been upsetting for you.' This isn't about ignoring the Other's needs but recognizing but they may be submerged in their own feelings and desire to feel better such that they can't attend to you. This is why it is so important in a troubled relationship to learn to use all those caring tendencies to nurture yourself.

When you stop wishing for things to change and start acting on the reality of your life, a sense of new beginnings starts to take hold. This does not have to be the demise of the relationship but rather a new found belief in your own abilities to make the most of your life. You can do it.

Submissive, Codependent or Caretaker?

I must have written a dozen times in the course of having this online journal that you can't change people.

'If I could be more compliant, more agreeable, more understanding,' some people say, 'things will be better then.'

They put the Other first and before you know it they have changed themselves, from a person of independent mind to one who subjugates his or her own self for some peace and harmony in the relationship and home. When chaos is the norm, it can start to appeal normal, such are the adaptions of the mind. Chaos is not normal.

Throw in a family to the mix and you have this selfless sort of person becoming a Caretaker, because, at the end of the day, somebody has to take on that job if one parent is behaving in a random and confusing fashion, right?

I have a strong suspicion that the words 'submissive, 'dominant', 'codependent',  'caretaker' and 'personality disordered' can get all jumbled up.

Consent, perhaps, is the ingredient that can clear up those categories. If you both enjoy your roles, if consent is clear and there has been no harassment to obtain consent, and if the arrangement aids you both in your growth and sense of peace...well then, there is nothing at all to worry about.

If you are still reading and wondering a bit about your true feelings, then maybe the categories above are a little murky for you.

It's impossible to go into too much detail in one blog post, so let's consider one small but vital point about a relationship where there is an unequal distribution of control. Care.

Submissives love to be cared for. I adore it myself. Interaction, attention, being given a challenge, feeling the control...that is all very kinky; a turn on; it's a really funfun game. But, why should I feel that someone needs to take care of me above and beyond that? What should lead me to think that?

Well, there's a certain sense of containment that just feels so delicious. I might see a photograph of a woman contained in some way - this morning it was a photograph of a woman learning to walk in ballet boots - and there is no dismissing the fact that I get a thrill out of that. So, if a man were similarly kinky and committed to that kink such that he innately desired what I desire, that would be a whole lot of healthy fun. What's done for deeper intimacy...how can that be unhealthy?

But, what if the submission is more than that; more than just fun and erotic pleasure? What if the submissive finds herself walking on eggshells, withholding her feelings and thoughts to avoid the dominant's displeasure or emotional outburst, or frosty silence?  What's that...a power exchange for the mutual pleasure of both participants, or something that looks more like a person being the caretaker of a personality disordered person, dependent on that person and awaiting his or her share of a sense of being cared for?

What if caring for someone isn't the desired sort of care - caring for each other with reciprocity - but caring for each other using the 'roles' of 'dominant' and 'submissive' which might actually be more like one person sacrificing their true self for the Other in order to have harmony?

I could speak to any number of behaviors that would identify the difference in these two outcomes but if you find yourself acting quite differently inside the relationship or family to the way you act with friends, associates and co-workers, it's not co-dependence (I once inaccurately labelled myself a Codependent), but it could be that in order to function within your relationship, you have become a Caretaker.

I think the first question for yourself would be - do I somehow feel that my true Self is being compromised in this relationship?

If you are happy, happy, happy in the submissive role, let's hope that it never ends. If you question the behaviors you experience, and your responses, it could very well be something else.

In my opinion the kinky/erotic role of 'submissive' in a sexual capacity is perfectly healthy. No need to deny yourself the pleasures of that. If you put the Other first repeatedly such that you having trouble identifying your own needs and wants; if you identify with some fear, obligation and guilt, then it may be you've unwittingly found your giving soul in dangerous waters.

There's not the time or space here to delve too far into that thought, but to end where I began it's far from easy to change someone else. With proper guidance, it is more than possible to change yourself. You may be submissive but you can swim.

Wanting everything

On  a practical level, it's impossible to separate myself from the woman who is a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, the owner of dogs. It takes a lot of time out of my life to fulfill my responsibilities because it is important to me and to them that I fulfill those responsibilities well. If the people in your life don't matter enough to you to give them a good deal of your time, then it's hard to know what else could matter more. At least, that's the way I see it and the way I live my life. My strong tendency is to sort all that out and when everybody seems relatively comfortable about all that, I can do my own work.

Now that I'm doing a writing course which at times really stretches my knowledge banks, I've had to, at times, explain that I can't do any more at this time; that I really must sit down and absorb myself in my reading and writing. To put it in perspective, for the last year or so I've done 62 weekly assignments without even one week's break. I have been asked to learn something quite new to me and to demonstrate that learning by handing in an assignment complete with references to prove that I have indeed done the reading and absorbed the new material and now have new skills.

I've also completed 5 major assignments all of which have taken considerable research, planning and writing. There really is never a day or even hardly an hour when at the back of my mind is not the thought that, like a good little circus dog I have to jump through a hoop; have to face my demons of feeling inadequate and come up with the goods to impress a Professor yet again.

The current subject is daunting for me, at least, at the moment. Here I am trying to write my very first adaptation, barely knowing what an adaptation is whilst students in my group talk of having "shot" an adaptation last Sunday and knowing this and that producer. I read something like that and think 'Oh. My. God. What am I doing here? What am I trying to prove?'

Yet, I really love learning and I love making myself face my demons. I work with my insecurities, insisting of myself that I put one foot in front of the other and just keep moving forward. Some days are brilliant and I feel 'on fire' with it and some days like now (can you tell?) I am cloaked in dismay of what I don't know and how old I am to be attempting this in the first place. If I walked away (and I don't intend to do that) no-one would be bothered about it particularly. No-one is relying on me to bring home the bacon from this new knowledge and when I enrolled into the course the idea was that I get some intellectual stimulation from it; nothing much more than that really was thought necessary in order to validate the exercise.

There is no necessity that I get Distinctions and High Distinctions, yet I can't stop that being my goal (a goal I have so far achieved). Would a Credit or a Pass be a disaster? Of course not. "Ps get degrees" my oldest's son's closest friend advised me. And, I actually put stock in his counsel. He's a young man who has impressed me with his ability to make every post a winner. My son tells me he is onto his second "project" (I call them his 'transformations') and I knew right then that I was talking to a Dominant in the making (something I had always suspected anyway). We warmed to one another immediately and I immediately recognized his nature. We chat sometimes online and every interaction has been 'spot on'; dripping with dominant qualities and a specific sense of humor. But, I digress.

My husband was playing with me earlier today, as he likes to do on a Sunday morning. I was perfectly compliant and enjoying myself on one level. Yet, I couldn't turn off the chatter in my mind, of all that I had to do; of how I was starting to feel that I was already getting behind in this subject and how the activities all week had kept me distracted from my reading.

My husband came up to me just now and said, "If the children weren't here I would tie you to the desk and you wouldn't be able to move until all your work was done." Yes, that's the sort of thing that I think would work. I'd feel contained at the same time as I got my work done. A command that I do my work is probably what I need right now. (Oh, so you noticed, I'm writing this post instead of doing my reading!!?)

I want very much to incorporate a doll state of  mind into my every day but that competes with the need to do well in this course. My thinking  brain competes with my desire to be a domestic goddess of sorts; for the food to be delicious and the flowers beautifully arranged; for my body to be switched on and my brain hungry for use. Yes. Yes. Yes. I want everything. What's wrong with that!?

50 things about me

Every now and again, one of the authors of a web journal will publish a '100 things about me'. I can't promise you 100 things but let's see if we can get to 50...

1. I am nuts for Chris Botti the trumpet player. I can't get enough of his latest CD.
2. I can become agitated if I feel I have been given too many things even though I love them.
3. I am in constant struggle with my desire for a piece of cake.
4. I really do need eight hours of sleep a day to function well.
5. I feel very guilty if I don't walk the dogs because I know they rely on me.
6. I adore to be in the house alone.
7. I write for my own pleasure and to not be allowed to write would be a harsh punishment.
8. If I care about you, if you touch my heart, I care about you forever.
9. I have collected all the cards my husband and children have written to me over the years.
10. If I can listen to music and cook a meal alone, that sends me into a blissful state.
11. Wearing pants seems wrong.
12. Sometimes, happiness just comes over me like a wave and for no apparent reason.
13. I'm always working towards minimalism in my house.
14. I love going to the movies, especially 'arthouse' movies.
15. I love to giggle. I love to be with funny people.
16. Bathtime is very precious to me. I like to write, think, chill out by the bath while the water draws.
17. I have a large scarf collection. I love collecting beautiful fabrics.
18. Being tied up tight is bliss.
19. I love to drive in the country on my own.
20. My acrylic nails are for life. They are a part of me now.
21. If a friendship fails, and that's very rare, it is hugely upsetting to me.
22. I am trying to teach myself to be a runner.
23. I probably do have a rebellious streak deep down.
24. I try to make everyone happy and settled so that I can do my own thing after that.
25. I love to travel, even if it is just to a different neighbourhood.
26. I'd adore to do up my house and make it beautiful.
27. Italy is my idea of heaven.
28. My Internet friends know me much better than my RL friends
29  If I'm feeling upset, I go iron a few shirts.
30. I do deals with myself. "Agree with him, no matter what he says..."
31  I've always been into pornography/erotica. My husband noticed it very early on.
32. I tend to talk a lot or hardly at all, depending on my fragility or otherwise.
33. I found the erotic zones of my body at about 4 years of age.
34. I bent over and imagined being spanked at about that time too.
35. When given loads of praise, there's nothing I can't attempt or do.
36. I like little adventures, getting away from the ordinary.
37. I have a temper that is rarely seen but can be ignited by a sense of abandonment.
38. Signing up for my writing course is one of the best decisions I ever made.
39. I'm eternally grateful I didn't take advice given to me to terminate my last pregnancy.
40. My children are my greatest achievement.
41. I'm very lucky to have married such a caring and devoted man.
42. I'm a discerning shopper on the lookout for a bargain and something beautiful or special.
43. I love open fires and verandas.
44. I have a Kindle but I still prefer to hold the book.
45. My indulgence is buying flowers every two weeks after my Friday yoga class.
46. I like to read the newspaper in a coffee shop rather than at home.
47. Progress on my house and garden is what turns me on.
48. Writing is a good profession/occupation for me because I tend towards introversion.
49. I love to visit churches and even stay for the service wherever I am.
50. Yoga and meditation have been a great blessing and calmed my emotions right down.

Gosh! How do you get to 100? Maybe one day, I can try writing 51-100.

D/s from both sides now

I now have a great sense of compassion towards the feature writer. Imagine for a moment a person sitting amongst a high pile of notes and material trying to sift them down to the essence of the story, one lead following another until she feels she should not be a writing a 3,000 word article at all but instead, a book. A conversation with one person leads to a conversation with the next person and in the end she feels she is on a long road with no end and no way to turn back.

The conversations and discussions here tell of couples who have chosen a dynamic where the male is the top and the female, the bottom. We've chosen this, worked on this and refined this to make it the best possible outcome for us based on our natures, sexuality, needs and wants.

But, I now understand much better that there are D/s couples out there - many of them - who also want this dynamic but they choose for the female to be the top and the male to be the bottom. The male wants and needs to submit to the woman.

My discussion with someone well in the know assured me that there are a great many men who want to give control to the woman in their life; to still have a womanly woman but for her to wear the pants. Some men literally want this and enjoy their girls wearing the pants whilst others merely want that euphorically speaking. They all want the dynamic; the loss of control.

Like us, this goes to the nature of the two people involved. This can be a difficult process of discovery. This can mean that one partner is caught on the hop trying to understand her husband and his declaration to her. They are the same stories as ours but in reverse and the percentage of the population that want this is higher than I could ever have imagined.

It is also the same story as it pertains to therapy. Just as my therapist was concerned about my "submissive bubble" and chose to show me ways to communicate to assert myself, so many men who see therapists are discouraged from exploring this side of themselves; probably being shown similar communication strategies as I.

So much of this is still under the carpet. So few professionals are willing to openly consider and discuss the notion that a power exchange runs at the heart of many people's wants; natures; life experiences.

If you can offer anything to this discussion. especially in terms of professional advice you have received, please don't hesitate to comment or send me an email. Thank you. 

Feet on the ground

For reasons I can't quite tap into, I haven't had a great desire to talk about our holiday. But, the simple fact is that it was divine - three whole weeks to spend with just my husband: no kids, no responsibilities, no house to keep, no extra curricula activities. We made love over and over and there was  one particularly memorable morning where it seems that my moans and groans that spanned an hour and half were overheard. The Canadian husband shared that information with us over dinner once he realized that it was we who occupied the apartment closest to the pool. Oh well!

Of course, it is not always that easy to put one's feet on the ground - to get on with the business of daily living: school runs and messy kitchens and needing to put everybody else's needs in front of your own. I do understand the process of accepting the mundane again after such a dreamy, ideal time. Having said that, I find myself particularly out of kilter this morning and I don't like that feeling one little bit.

What I do know is that when I feel that way, I need to put my house in order and I mean that quite literally. I need to make it appear orderly and in that way, I feel more in control.  So, I have done that but the restless feeling remains. Right now I should be having a late breakfast, or an espresso and a little bun in Radda, or Castellina in Chianti or in Sienna or Rome... Or, I should be being used, just wallowing in the glory of being used; fucked and fucked and fucked.

I think my body became used to daily use and not just for a few minutes but for hours. I think I became used to a little life with just my husband and me and the strangers we met. I think my taste buds became acquainted with crusty, thick Italian bread and ripe tomatoes and mozzarella cheese and wine. Lots of wine.

We are both feeling the loss; both talking about the next trip; both wondering why we have to work; to think. He's missing his rented Mercedes and zooming around all those corners. He asked for prosciutto when I went to the market yesterday. I'm missing the Tuscan hills; the sounds of guns in the still morning air and I am missing the changing of colour of the trees that must surely be taking place now. In my mind's eye I see the monastery we visited and  already the leaves on the grape vines must surely be witness to reds and oranges. How lovely it would have been to have seen that.

Of course, I am fiddling here while Rome burns. I simply must start that assignment. But, what a bore it is to be so responsible! Exactly how old do you have to be to be reckless and carefree and do as you please?

I know. I know. This feeling will pass. But, when?

Acceptance

If we know what it is to fall in love - the blood rushing to the head, the pitter pat of our hearts, the endless thinking about someone and wanting of someone, the way the world changes on a dime in terms of light and a sense of beauty that was not previously there - then we have some vague idea of what it is to reveal our innermost desires and thoughts.

I speak of those thoughts that have been our shadow for so many years. Speaking about them, writing about them, experiencing them for real is a heady, light hearted experience not unlike falling in love. You feel extraordinarily lucky. You feel sorry for all the other smucks who don't know what you know. You feel rather full of yourself and feel sometimes that you might burst, holding in this delicious secret that you would like to share with the rest of the world but dare not (hence this web journal).

There were endless opportunities for me to feel superior. How could you all be leading a full life, I would think around a table of friends or people at a dinner or lunch, if you don't know what I know; if you have not experienced what I have experienced? I just felt so extraordinarily lucky to be living finally as I wanted to live, you see.

I have always wanted a very deep connection, to feel a total sex pot; to be done over repeatedly for hours and hours. I wanted to feel a little fear; to not be sure what was going to happen next; to be told what to do, even if I was not at all sure that I wanted to do it. It provided me with the rushes of a lifetime. To have to bite down on the fact that I was being forced (well not literally forced but in my mind, believing there was no alternative) to do something according to the will of another was mind blowingly thrilling - the resistance, the eventual conviction to do it their way, the sense of elation of mission accomplished, the praise...ahhhh, the praise...all more than worth it in the end.My journey into the world of submission was orgasmically, spectacularly thrilling for me and I regret not a single moment of it.

And, then one day, it came to an end. It didn't so much peter out as simply dry up. There were offers to pick up from there but I declined. I seemed to have lost the will. I leaked (tears that just came at inappropriate moments) for too long, was vulnerable for too long and my self-preservation instinct kicked in. I needed to be busy. I needed to find succor in other ways. I needed to look about me with fresh eyes and see what I may have missed while I had been intellectually absent.

I absorbed myself in life in endless ways. I took on new challenges. I faced the fact that I was needed and I dealt with those needs, attended to other people. I determined to focus on calm and a serene peace of mind and as I did so I discovered I had more in reserve - felt better equipped to face and deal with the challenges in front of me.

I could see adjustments in attitude, in resilience and in willingness to try to look at life in new ways in those about me. Either it was an enormous co-incidence or my more serene state of mind was having an effect on others. Again, it was like discovering a whole new way to live. I was not abandoning what had brought me joy before; not at all. But, in its absence I had chosen to love, to forgive, to understand and to accept that I held the keys to change. It was again up to me to find the path forward and in my solitary pursuits such as meditation I had enabled myself to soften more; to be loving in spite of loss I thought might well be inconsolably sad for me. I began to feel the path to the future opening up to me and embracing me as if to say, "You have found your way. Now, it will be all right." There was a divinity about that feeling.

Last night I attended a chamber music dinner which was indeed sublime. Yes, the room was gorgeous: the flowers, the lighting, the table settings, the food and wine. But, it was the music played by boys as young as 14 and as old as 18 that was heavenly. They were passionate, meticulous; united and inspirational. We are talking 'creme de la creme' here; boys who could easily make music their career if they so chose.  It was one 'wow' moment after another and clearly moved, the musical director of the school stood up and said something like, "These boys will never live in the same way again.  Actually playing this music at this level...they will always remember it...hold it in their hearts...and it will effect their lives in a positive way for as long as they live."

This is exactly how I feel about my explorations - those explorations that I have reported in this journal. Even if I never experience again what I have done in the past in quite the same way, that I lived as I wanted to live, experienced what I want to experience, means that I will never live the same way again and will hold those experiences in my heart for as long as I live. I have been truly blessed.

Adaptation

For a few reasons, this is a time of transition for me and I have tried hard to take my time and let the dust settle where it may –not forcing any issues or feelings too much but giving myself time to make the necessary adjustments and see what comes. Another word for all of this is ‘adaptation’. I have been adapting to my new circumstances.

In this process, I have been alert to what may not have altered or changed as well. Again, I haven’t had any preconceptions about that; haven’t assumed anything at all but just remained mindful.

I have tried, and I have tried in the past without success as well, to work on the basis that I don’t have certain needs. There is a difference between wanting something and needing something and I have tried to think as a vanilla/non-kinky person would.  Lately, I have worked on the assumption that I have physical wants but that I don’t necessarily need to have those physical sensations in order to live well. 

 I had almost hoped to prove to myself that I no longer have those physical needs. It seemed like not a bad outcome in my mind because if you don’t have physical needs then you are not reliant on others. You don’t have to expect anything of anyone else and you can feel more in charge of your own destiny. This was the thought.

However time and circumstance has demonstrated to me that my physical needs are here to stay and that could well relate to the fact that my mindset or headspace remains that of the doll. Perhaps I have been indoctrinated or brainwashed or perhaps I continue to feel like the doll because this is my true nature. Time and time again I was told that a dolli needed to be used. You know my story. But, how could that really be true? If I didn’t fill the holes, surely I could live perfectly well! It just is not so.

A few nights ago, my husband put my cock gag into my mouth as he played with me. It was late at night and he asked if I would like to sleep with it in. I nodded and he turned out the light. A few minutes later I wondered if I had chosen badly. Seven or eight hours like this was a long time. But, the thought passed and I drifted into sleep.

I woke many times for a split second, much as I do when I am plugged in another hole (yes, I do feel a bit coy today) and in those split seconds I had a consciousness that I was incredibly happy and peaceful and that my mind was a clean slate. I was not worried or concerned about anything at all. To the contrary, I was aroused and content all at the one moment. It was like coming home.

I have had some restless days in the past few weeks when I have not felt right. I have not shared the reason why but my husband was apparently aware of the reason and he said to me over the weekend, “You haven’t been using your pluggiz and you know that is no good for you.” There it was – the cold, hard facts. I desperately needed my plugs; the stretching; the use.

I reinstated the procedure last night and slept like a baby; woke early and decided to walk the dogs before the day got underway. I felt positive and in control of my own destiny; confident and able and I chose to leave the plug in. It felt natural to do so and it continued to feel natural to do so as I walked around the park; waved and smiled to the usual suspects about my neighbourhood up at this time of the morning.

I do best with limits. I feel more when I am less. These are fundamental truths. There is no point in refuting them.

On the flip side of the coin, what I have also established is that I also do best when I am in control of myself to become more: to function at optimal levels. I need to achieve: to ensure that my family have what they need and that I have what I need to lead a full and fulfilling life.

It has taken some time for me to get my ducks in a row. It has taken time for me to work with my therapist to establish that I do indeed have a submissive nature with certain needs but that I also have a need to challenge myself and grow: to ensure that I do not subjugate myself and sacrifice myself to anyone and that I seek progress and growth in my life. I have a need to submit to become less and to challenge myself to become more. I need both those of components in my life to live well and give my best.

And so it is that part of me needs to be contained, to be less, whilst part of me needs to be more. It is with this knowledge that I can say that this day is the first day of the rest of my life and even though outside it is raining cats and dogs and the sky is bleak, inside my head it is perfectly clear and I move on, full steam ahead.

Entrapment

I have always felt a close attachment to males; not just to my husband but to many men in my life: my father, my brother, my ballet master and any one else who would allow me to get close. I have tended to make attachments to men and to get great succor out of knowing their minds. Frankly, I just enjoy their conversation and being around them.

I've tended to worry about this because unlike so many other women I know, I have preferred male to female company. One of the difficulties about marriage for me has been this assumption that underlies my life that I should be forging close relationships with women and not men.

This year, perhaps for the first time in my life really, I have really embraced my time with women. I regularly (weekly) have a coffee with two groups of women, at least, and I find this time incredibly comforting. We tend to laugh a lot. We tend to support one another through whatever the issue of the day happens to be and we are incredibly kind to one another. That is what I love about the time with them. It is not at all demanding and we provide care and approval for one another. As I said to my husband earlier today, they have all had such interesting lives and even though many of them are retired now, (I am the youngest member of my yoga group) they certainly have not retired from life. All their minds are as sharp as a tack and they have embraced me into their little circle as if they have known me all their lives.

This morning, seeing that I was clearly not myself, my husband hugged me and told me that I just need "to relax". I tried to explain to him that men sometimes made it hard for a woman to relax. They expected so much of women. They expected them to take on the worries and needs of men and at the very same moment, relax. I suggested that this was why women found women; perhaps why women entered lesbian relationships late in life sometimes; because they just needed to live life in a more relaxed environment.

I don't think I could be any more clear about the fact that my goal in life is to live it cerebrally and contentedly. I have always aimed to get to a place where the real world mattered much less. I don't mean that I don't care about what happens in the world because I do care very much. I mean that I look for a state of internal peace and a sense of satisfaction with life. I have always believed that we live in our head and that life is what we make of it. We must choose to be happy. We must embrace life and live it well. We only have one life so far as I know.

I believe that men gravitate towards women, towards having one woman to call their own not just because they need a mate to go through life with, but because women instinctively understand this about life. Women hold the keys to a peaceful state and men instinctively get it that to find joy they may need a woman to take them there. Of course, not all women know this and men can be disappointed when they realize this.

There are moments when the going gets too rough around men; the men I choose. They tend to be demanding men; men who ask a lot of women; who worry a bone better than I ever will; men for whom enough will never be enough. They exhaust me; frustrate me; make me question my tenacity and strength. Of course, I cannot live without them. They provide me with what I need in a way that a woman could never do. They call on something within that is intensely feminine and I need that.

My oldest son, who is inclined to write words on cards that bring tears to my eyes repeatedly said this to me on this most recent Mother's Day: "You were always there for me and I will always be there for you."

That is it. Perhaps it is one of my few strengths that I endure; that I go on loving and giving in all circumstances; that I just won't give up; on anyone or anything and certainly not in finding the joy in life. I am emotional. There is just no doubt about that. But, it is seen by only a chosen few - those who read here make up the vast majority. To the rest of the world I am "ethereal".

I have been fortunate to experience true and good friends who seem to innately know how to companion me on my journey. I think they see this gritty side of me: the side that exhibits distress but refuses to give up on a situation and rather than offering me advice, they simply sit beside me (figuratively speaking). I've felt their presence in my life lately even when we have not actually spoken and I have understood when their upset on my behalf has caused their opinions to spill over and be expressed. They know, bless them, that they cannot 'save' me because I respond to my own instincts at the end of the day.

Some one said something to me last night. He said that he knew what he was doing. Such supreme confidence! It impressed me at a moment when I needed to be impressed. And, as I write these words, I feel satisfied to add that I know what I am doing too. My inner compass drives me forward into terrain that is not at all easily navigated.

All I can say for certain is that I both lust for a settled mind at the very same moment that I lust for the company of men who can make that goal so hard to attain. A perfect world would be to live with the company of men and to also have a settled mind. Alas, I am drawn to emotional men; demanding men; wonderful and vibrant men. Poor me. Lucky me.

Mr. Ringo

Sumtymz, cindiz feelinz bowt her pluggiz cumfliktd. Her l8st pluggi, Mr. Ringo, he a beri challengin pluggi 4 her. Ashooli, he a gr8 shape n glydz in2 plays no prublim. Da challenj wif him cumz wuns he in, coz he cuntinoooz 2 challinj ull da tym. Mr. Big, he settlz in n reeelaxz but Mr. Ringo; well, he da sorta pluggi dat jus kenna allow bimbo 2 reeelax. He insist da she pay atttenshn ull da tym.

Cors, it nut da cays dat wun dey owta da bloo, bimbo eskd 2 yoos Mr. Ringo. Da treynnin happin obr a lung periud ob tym n bimbo beri graduilli werkiz up 2 da big pluggiz.

It reeeli nut dat lung afta Mr Ringo arryv dat she poot in Mr. Ringo. She encurijd 2 go slow n tek her tym, n she def tri slow down. But, it has sed, dat bimbo tendz 2 hurri deeez tingz. Wut ken she sey!?

N e wey, she beri proud dat she wer Mr. Ringo n she kenna wayt 2 cum on n tel bowt dis - 2 reseeeeef prays. Dis bimbo happin 2 menshin she a prayz slut? Well, dat so.

Sum tym afta dat, nut dat lung tinki, bimbo tol 2 wer Mr. Ringo ulll nite. Dis a M A J O R challenj 4 her n she sed dis. She sed she nut tinki she ken do. She tol it nut up 2 her. She hab no cuntrol - 2 settil in2 da speriens. Nut 2 esk hessef wen mite finish but 2 unnerstan dat der no wey owt - dat she hab no cunrol. She nut 2 tinki wen she get releeeef, or how lung Mr. Ringo 2 stey, but just 2 akept her predikamin.

Wel, bimbo tryz beri beri hard 2 pay attenshn 2 ull suggestinz n she continoo 2 wer da pluggi ull da nite. Dis challenjn nut jus coz it fiscilli demandn but also coz bimbo wanna feel dat totil cuntrol such dat she do sumtin dat herd 4 her. She mey uncumfertibl but she also wanna test hessef n 2 obey da cummanz she reseeef.

2 tel da troooof, bimbo reeeeeli getz off on dis sorta cuntrol n ebin do she waki lotz n wish dat she cood tek Mr. Ringo owt and she resil wif dat tot obr n obr, she nut tek him owt.

Wen it cum lite n dey tym, she so prowda hessef. She wer Mr Ringo uuuuuuul da nite n assept da cuntrol n dis mek her feel beri prowda hessef n liki she a gud bimbo. Dis a wunnerfl feelin 4 bimbo coz dis sorta cuntrol obr her n da feeelin dat she cuntrolld beri satisfyn 2 her. It y she werki so herd reeeeli, coz she wanna no wut dat liki - 2 hab no cuntrol in deeez weyz. It wut she esked 4, in fakt.

Of cors, a demandin pluggi liki Mr. Ringo hab a beri intens fisicil fekt on bimbo 2 n he tern her on in weyz dat fantastik. If onli da gurlz new!!

Cors, dis week, Mr. Pluggi jus sit on da shef n wayt 4 bimboz currekin obr. It tuf on him n reeeeli he did nuffin rong. It bimbo dat notti. Hopefoooooli, beri soon Mr. Ringo n bimbo ree you nytd n he bak where he beee lung. Dat of cors, if deeez postz septibl.

Headless

Cindi?

Cindi nut heer

Hoo dis?

Der no hoo heer

Wut dis?

it

it heer?

Ya. it nut tinki. it hab no wureez. it nut ebn hab iz; no mof, no fays et ull.

Oh?

Ya. it flowtz jus unda da watr. it myn empty. No totz. it kerfree. Joyfool. Happi. Cuntint.

Dis it got holz?

Def. Tree holz. it plezir objekt. Getz plezir. Givz plezir.

Ya?

Dis objekt hedless. Dis objekt lib8d. Dis objekt wanna pley. Da hoo liki do dat?

Def.

Yay!

Writing to write

Recently, I was offered the thought that I wrote to impress: to impress the reader. The opinion I was given was that I didn't write to write, to express myself, or to figure things out, but rather so that people would say that I was a good writer. It was felt that I was still ego laden.

These words have had an amazing effect on me. Frankly, I am troubled by them every day. I have conjured all sorts of ideas to resolve this: from writing only on my private blog, to opening a new public blog to writing differently here on Vesta.

On top of that, this particular period of time is very difficult for me as I begin to express all of myself verbally; something I am not at all comfortable with or have done before. When I told my doctor that I wanted to see a psychologist and why, I was aware that my voice had changed; that these revelations were in fact, an out of body experience. Somebody else was saying all this; surely it couldn't be contained, happy, in control, can cope with anything Vesta!

In the past few days, my inner turmoil has not just seeped out, but emotions have gushed in much the same way my country experienced an inland tsunami: in an abrupt, wild and threatening manner.

Whilst the waters are receding now and I'm returning to normal too, it occurred to me this morning that perhaps now is a good time to try to write in a way that is more true. This will not impress the reader. This is quite simply the free flowing and open thoughts of a submissive woman run off the rails but desperately trying to find her way back to a lifestyle that means everything to her. This is Vesta as you haven't seen her before.

---------------------------------------

10/02/11

It came up a few weeks ago with M (for Mentor). I said, or rather cindi said, that she didn’t think that containing her emotions was a good idea and he replied that bimbos (non thinking fuck toys like cindi) didn’t need to contain themselves. Rather, they needed to be contained.

I deduced from that comment that it was all right to express my emotions, although I remain unconvinced of this fact. I think that the men I know want what they want and that includes a self contained, self evolved woman (or fucktoy, as the case may be).

O (for owner) is often completely absorbed in his own thoughts and projects, preferring to work into the dead of the night. It would suit him if I were happy, self-contained and able to always bounce back fast when he speaks to me in a way that I perceive as rude and uncaring (but which he forgets about the moment the words have passed his lips).

He wishes me no harm but at the same time is hopeful that I can take care of myself in stretches of time when he wishes to hyperfocus on his projects. That I give the impression that I am coping is what he takes to be true. He’s not inclined to delve further than that and I’m not inclined to express the distress that lays below the surface at those times when it is clear he wishes to be left alone to think or work.

In much the same way, M wants to interact with cindi. In fact, it is the only form of interaction available. Cindi, being a fucktoy doesn’t think and she doesn’t worry. She is playful, joyful; happy and obedient. She is contained and as I see it, her emotions must be contained, too. Hence, she can’t communicate if she is experiencing negative emotions for any reason. She simply doesn’t come on.

All hell broke loose yesterday. The dam burst and my emotions, long contained were released. I said a lot of things. I was very blunt. I need attention regularly, not sporadically. I want more sex. Stuff like that. But, the biggest thing I said was that I had put a lot of work into myself and he had put next to none into himself. It was time to stop referring to my behaviour and to look at his behaviour if we were to get this thing right.

“I want to have fun. I want joy in my life. I don’t want to just cope. I want to live my life. If you can’t do that, tell me now.” I remember saying that. I didn’t exactly mince words.

I had come to the end of my rope and he knew it. I needed him to hear me and I needed things to change. To his great credit, he let me rant and he comforted me the best way you can comfort a woman that has lost the plot.

I have taken and taken and taken until I can’t take any more. I need real change. I need him to look at life in a new way. Somewhere in there I think I said that I wanted to go live alone. The pain of living with a man who couldn’t embrace me for who I am was so burdensome; it seemed an agonizingly slow death. Better to just cut my own throat, was the thinking going on in my head, as best I understand it myself.

Seeing more clearly than I, he said that it was more of him that I was really asking for – not to go away - and that’s right. I need him to sort his affairs, and be prepared to enjoy the rest of his life as I want to enjoy the rest of my life.

Am I anxiety laden? Of course I am. I have been in the pressure cooker for far too long and I am making one huge leap up and out of there.

I want to live with my heart and soul filled with joy and peace and contentment. I want to live according to my nature. I want lots of lovely sex. I want what I want too.

Contain me to your heart’s content. Great! Remind me of my place. Fantastic. I’ll play and play and play. I adore to play. But contain my emotions at your peril for I am an emotional soul. I do experience all the emotions and I need to express them. It can’t always go the top’s way. I serve willingly and enthusiastically but I am a complete human being and I ask for care. Care for me, all of me (even the parts you don't necessarily want or like) and yea shall receive in abundance. That’s a promise.

Wistful

Is it just me, or does this seem like not a bad way to fall asleep to others as well?

The Other Side of Agnes

You may wish to read here first.

“For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”

“A baguette?”

“The baguette is for breakfast in the morning. I had thought to open a can of soup; some bread...a smidgeon of cheese...”

“That is not a satisfactory dinner, girl. You need some protein: some meat or fish.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right.”

“Suppose?”

“You are right.”

“Of course I am right. Do you enjoy seafood, Agnes?”

“I love seafood.”

“Then, it is time I introduced you to the best seafood restaurant in Paris: nearby and their fish is incredibly fresh. The meals are reliably delicious.”

“I’d...I’d love that, Frederick. That sounds wonderful.”

“Then, give me your croissant and I’ll put it with my things. We can pick them up later.”

She watched him as he retrieved the packaged croissant from her basket and put the items through the register. He beckoned to her to come along. Again, he was off at a fast pace. Agnes was really more a stroller than a speedster and she had to concentrate to keep up with him.

Two blocks later when the light turned green for them, he took Agnes’ arm and wrapped it around his arm. This prompted her to walk at the same pace as him.

“Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”

“Is that what I need?”

“Certainly.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do.”

Agnes didn’t know what to make of him. She knew it felt wonderful to be in his company but she was a little unnerved. He gave her the sense that she could at any moment make a mistake, or reveal something that she wished to hide. The uncertainty silenced her and she said nothing for the remainder of the journey which was really only another five minutes.

“Here we are.”

He opened the door for her and she was immediately enchanted with the cafe. There were red and white check tablecloths on the tables and each table had a candle lit in the middle of the table. It had the sort of bohemian flavour that she adored: not stuffy at all but comfortable and enchanting. They knew him here and they were quickly led to a table by the window overlooking the street and all the people walking by. Two glasses of red wine were on the table in a matter of moments and they raised their glasses to Frederick’s words.

“To a balanced meal.”

Agnes smiled.

“To a balanced meal.”

She knew he was joking around with her a little and she enjoyed it; not in the least offended.

When they had taken a sip of the wine a need to explain herself came over Agnes but she stumbled, trying to find the right words.

“I hope that I didn’t offend you...my running off that day you took me to your apartment. My father was very clear with me that I should not trust strange men.”

“Your father is right.”

“He is?”

“Goodness, yes. A lovely girl such as you must be careful with strangers.”

“But, Frederick, you were a stranger to me...”

“Was I? Well, yes I was. Am I still a stranger to you?”

“You are playing with me!”

“Perhaps a little, but I am no threat... just a quiet living Parisian who enjoys the company of lovely young women.”

“Whatever you say, Frederick.”

“Ah, the girl is trainable.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

He ignored her question.

“Are you still in love with Paris, Agnes? Not yearning for a quieter, simpler town life?”

“I miss my family a little sometimes, of course, but I was very ready to move. There was nothing to keep me there eventually.”

“I think you could have found a photographer who would have taken you on. I suspect you have a very good eye.”

“Perhaps, but advancing in my profession was only one reason to move. I had a couple of boyfriends in the past but I always felt a bit...awkward. I...I felt...well, I felt so out of place there.”

“Oh?”

“The boys seemed so immature. I don’t know what it was exactly. It just didn’t work out. They were nice boys but they made me feel that I was doing something wrong. I don’t really know why I am telling you this...I have never said it to another living soul...not even my sister...but coming to Paris was an escape for me.”

“You wanted to get away from someone in particular?”

“No, not really. I wanted to get away from the sense of myself that I was a misfit; that I wanted something unattainable.”

“Agnes, I know we don’t know one another well, but I can assure you that you are not a misfit here.”

“You really think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, that is nice to know.”

The waiter brought the menus but Frederick waved them away and told him that they would both have the salmon, but that instead of the potatoes they would have green beans. Agnes took note but she said nothing. She rather enjoyed him taking charge. It gave her a chance to sink into her favourite persona, that of observer, rather than participator.

She found him very appealing. She liked the way he wore his clothes – his crisp white shirt and his dark blue linen suit – no tie. She was attracted to the fact that all his movements had a self assurance about them, be that buttering bread or gesturing to the waiter when their glasses were empty. She enjoyed watching every move he made. But, he wasn’t giving away much; merely asking her question after question. She felt it only polite to respond to them and it was not until they were half way through their meal that she had a chance to ask him a question.

“Do you live alone, Frederick?”

“Yes, I do now. I was married but it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nicole and I are still the best of friends but we grew apart. We wanted different things.”

“Do you have children?”

“No children. I think that was best under the circumstances.”

“Do you get lonely living alone?”

“Not really. I have a great many friends...people with similar interests to me.”

“May I ask what you do?”

“You may. I am a banker.”

“Oh...so you arrange mortgages...that sort of thing?”

He smiled at her simplistic response.

“Not quite. I am in takeovers and acquisitions.”

“Wow. I am afraid I don’t know too much about finance.”

“There is no need, Agnes.”

“Well, father says...”

“I am sure your father guided you well; that is plain to see by how you have turned out. But, you are a grown girl and you need guidance in the here and now.”

Something in Agnes opened up; some private drawer in her mind that had been jammed shut loosened itself and burst open. She knew this wasn’t what she was meant to do, but she was giving herself to Frederick as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She neither corrected him nor made the slightest pretence towards suggesting that he was taking unwanted liberties. To the contrary, she revelled in the notion that he was taking charge of her; leading her to some dark place that had been inside her since she was a small child.

Agnes desperately wished that he would cancel the coffee and the crème brulee he had ordered for them to share. She was hungry now for something else...she knew not what it was exactly but she sensed that Frederick could offer it to her. She was in a rush now; a rush to sample anything that she had waited all these years to taste. But, Frederick was taking his time; sipping his coffee, commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of flavour of the crème brulee until she feared that she would lose self control.

At last, he had the waiter bring the bill; rejected her offer to pay half and at a maddeningly slow pace, uncharacteristic of him, walked her back to the supermarket to collect their parcel.

“I shall walk you home.”

She felt her heart drop. There must be something wrong with her, after all, she determined. She became silent; withdrawn; lost in her insecure thoughts and sense of frustration.

He stopped and turned towards her.

“Agnes? Is something wrong?”

“Frederick, I don’t really want to go home.”

“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”

She remained silent.

“Where do you want to go, Agnes?”

“With you.”

He said nothing: merely changed direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Unconditional love

I am partial to listening to interviews when there is enough time given to really explore a life and get beyond the surface details. Thus, I found myself quite engrossed in the life of Carrie Fisher as I listened to her being interviewed over the period of an hour. She's a remarkably honest woman and she spoke of her drug taking and her diagnosis of manic depression. (She says she doesn't say 'bi-polar' because it says nothing about the condition whereas 'manic depression' does, not to mention the fact that 'bi polar' sounds like one is describing a gay polar bear.)

I listened carefully to the words she used to describe the condition and I made notes (of course!). She noted that there are two types of bi-polar, 1 and 11, and that one is more difficult to live with than the other. Whichever one is hers,(she wasn't sure) it is the more difficult variety. The least difficult of the two bi-polars is, she said, "more portable". You can take that variety to a party.

In her case she said that she felt that either "the tide is in" or "the tide is out". Either life is "all good" or you are "not insulated" and "everything hurts".

In the manic phase, you "go faster than everyone, even yourself" and "your thoughts get banked up". The two phases definitely did not have equal time, she said, although it was hard to tell since by the time she knew she was in a certain phase, she had probably already been there quite some time. As well, there is a third phase, she said, somewhere in between those two extremes.

Medication and shock treatment (ECT) were marvellous, she explained, but ECT was the best because it did quickly what medication does slowly. She encouraged her interviewer not to think of images like 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' because these days it was a very simple procedure and very much to her benefit.

She acknowledged that it did make her forgetful, mostly about what occurred recently rather than long term memories and she did sometimes find it hard to find the right word. Still, she was more than prepared to accept these side effects to receive the benefits.

When not properly medicated, bi-polar made her feel that she "wanted to give up"; not suicidal because she would never do that to her daughter, she said, but it was an indescribably dark place.

Rehab provided her with the funniest moments of her life. "You find your community." You find the other people who have it and it is a sort of gallows humour, she explained. Certainly, I related to finding "my community"!

I related to Carrie's story in other ways too. I was reminded that my father had shock treatment when I was a very small girl. We didn't talk about it back then but I remember him telling a close friend about it; that he lost some memory but that it was a good thing and helped him, and it would help his friend too.

I remember being that little girl and finding my father in bed one afternoon and asking him if I could help him. "Where's your mother?" he wanted to know. I went and found her for him.

In fact, my father did not have bi-polar or any such condition but had convinced himself that his doctors were lying to him and that he was about to die and this spun him into a depression that the shock therapy lifted. I don't remember him being manic or depressed, but I do remember him being rather obsessive and needing everything to be 'just as he wanted it'.

He checked the lock on the door many times; that sort of thing as well. That is an interesting trait to me because I inherited that need to double check things and I made note when my third child said to me last week that he did the same thing. In many cases, we can't change who we are so being loved unconditionally is vital. Anyways, who of us doesn't have some trait that is rather 'odd'?

I heard a documentary maker talk of Glenn Gould, the famous pianist and Canadian readers particularly would know of him. The documentary maker had unearthed much new material about his life and the interviewer asked if he felt sorry for Gould at all?

He did. He said he was a man who needed to have things done in a particular ways - a perfectionist - and that stopped him having the intimacy with others that he so craved. It didn't seem a good enough explanation, I thought at the time of hearing that, but perhaps it speaks to the huge judgements we make of those in our lives and our inability to embrace them for who they really are. It is a very sad thought to think that a man who gave so much beautiful music to the world was unable to receive the love he so obviously craved.

I think I went through life not entirely sure that I was able to give my father what he wanted in a daughter. I didn't speak the language of cricket or football and he didn't speak my language of books and thoughts and ideas. Horse racing was the hobby we shared and I have fond memories of many afternoons spent at racecourses across this State.

But, I knew that I never could never give him the succor that only my mother could provide, no matter how hard I tried. They were deeply, profoundly connected. When he was dying, my mother, who cared for him day and night was exhausted to the point of collapse and I took a plane back home to give her some respite. I sent her into town to get her hair cut and have a few hours to herself whilst I cared for my father but it became a clock watching afternoon.

"When will your mother be back?" he seemed to ask every five minutes.

I really felt quite redundant.

My father's inexhaustible quench to live kept him going long after the doctors had specified and eventually I needed to return to my young family, back across the sea. I would telephone him, of course, but he was always rather into his own world after that.

One afternoon, with kindergartners about the house, I had an urgent need to talk to him and I rang him at the hospice where he had been for only a couple of days. We talked in the way we did. He was deep in denial and the hospice was a sort of hotel in his mind and he said the service was very good.

At one point I could hear a nurse asking him to end the call for her to do something and he said he had to go. We said our goodbyes but something deep inside me told me that I was unlikely to hear his voice ever again and I held the phone to my ear, waiting for I don't know what. And I heard,

"That was my daughter calling me from America."

They were the last words I ever heard from his lips. On some level, he had known it was me reaching out to him and those final words meant more to me than I could ever say. We didn't say "I love you" but it was there - there in his voice; there in so many moments of our shared lives.

He had loved me unconditionally and I loved him unconditionally too: accepted his idiosyncrasies as he accepted mine.

As we grow older, I like to think that we grow softer: more ready to accept, less willing to judge. We all want the very same thing: to be loved just as we are.

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)

Cindiz deydreem

Dis mornin when cindi wakiz, she ull alown in her bed, n her myn wandered 2 a rather dark scenario. Dis daydreem 'B' rated; dat meen 'bimbo rated' so if nut in2 da thoughtz of a bimbo, best 2 leef now. It beri beri hard 4 cindi 2 write in gurl langwitch wen she in her bimbo head but she tri as best she ken. She beri sorri bout da mistakiz:

Bimbo Daydreem

Once upon a time, der a gurl hoo had a ownir and he feel dat she reeli a bimbo undaneeth her gurl mask. He try 2 haf her taki off dat gurl mask and reeli live but she 2 scared. But, neverdeless, he trayn her 2 sum extent. She began 'anal traynin' wif him and she reeeli quite liki dat but nut wanna admit 2 much.

One day, the onnir sed dat it tym dat she go to 'traynin school 4 bimboz'. She shood nut feel scared or frayd coz da peepel at da treynin school, dey do nottin 2 her dat he nut no bout n aprooov. She shood jus try as hard as possibel n he prowd of her effortz.

He taki her der n introdoos her 2 da men der n he tell her to jus kell dem ull "Sir". Der no need 2 no der nemz.

At da skool der five udder gurlz traynin 4 bimbohood n dey ull beri nys gurlz n nys 2 her 2. Dis maki da gurl feel much betta.

Eberi mornin wun of da men cum rown afta da showerz n pluggi da gurlz 4 da dey n b4 bed tym, dey pluggi dem gin, but dis tym wif bigga pluggi.

Beri soon, ull da bimboz der beri yoosd 2 da pluggiz n trooffooli dey njoy it. Wun dey, da bimbo hoo cum der on her onnirz orderz, letz kell her 'daffy', she complayn bout da pluggi n she had fit at da man. She sey she sik of da pluggi. She in beri bad mood. Da man sey she may nut haf pluggi 4 3 dayz. Oh, how much she miss her pluggi!! She realiz at end of 3 dayz dat she luv her pluggi n njoy da yoos. She mor n mor bimbo eberi dey n she feel sooooo much mor happi; so much mor hersef.

Da traynin of da bimboz go on eberi dey n der lotsa lessunz bout wot bimboz do n feel n dress n akt. All sorta lessuns. But wun dey, at da end of da munth of lessunz daffy haf her initiashun in2 da werld of bimboz wuns n 4 ull.

Oh gosh!! Mebbe dis 2 rood 4 peepel nut unnerstan bout bimboz. Wel, let cindi do dis. She finish der 4 2 dey, coz she so beri shorta tym rite now 2. But, mebbe, wen she cum home gin she finish da stori. If wan, looki 4 'bimbo daydreem, part 2'.

Identity revealed

‘Vesta’ is the gurl who began this blog. At that time she was sometimes happy, sometimes sad and sometimes angry. She was often confoozed. She had an ardent desire to experience her life as a submissive girl but at the same time, she resisted. She never gave up but she knew that something was not rite. She read much material about submission and using her intellect she tried to decipher what was wrong. She read criteria for various categories: ‘bottoms’ who wanted to ‘scene, ‘submissives’ who wanted to be cuntrolled; and ‘slaves’ who believed themselves to be ‘owned’. She read the criteria of these categories, desperately trying to work herself owt. Wot was she? Y was sumthin she wanted so much, so hard? Being an educated girl and a girl who thought things through, she worried about all this and she searched for the answer, endlesslee.

Ultimately, she arrived at the door of an acquaintance and they began to tawk. She danced around him for a time but he knew how to deal wif gurlz like her and be4 she knew it, he had invaded her psyche; her intellect was of no further use to her. He teased out her wantz, her needz and her desirz and he opened doors of her mind that had been closed for 2 long. She instinctively knew that she had reached a place where she could begin to uncover the mysteries of her longings and lust. Still headstrong, she was soon putti in his hands. He had the key to her and she knew it as well as she knew that the sun would set in the evenin. She fed on his werdz; devoured his lessons. Be4 the next session could begin, she was starving agin.

He consistently tested her. She was required to prove herself, time and time again. He believed he was right about her but he had been rong be4, he sed. She needed to assure him. And, so she did. His patience and persistence with her and her diligence and dedication to her lessons paid off. She came to understand and accept herself and the mysteries of her mind were unveiled. Her true identity was revealed. She was willing to be led.

She was not a gurl at all. Vesta, the gurl, was merely an illoozun and it was time to take off the mask. Rather, she had alweyz been a bimbo; alweyz. She was not sumwun but rather sumthin. She existed as a “pretty bimbo doll fucktoy”. She was owned and there for her owner to use as he pleased. She needed yoos and to be trained for yoos in all her holes. She had not one cunt but three. She was hungry, alluring; wanted. She was a cunt slut, an anal slut, a cumslut; a dum dum. She was prowd of all these accomplishments.

The girl transformed. As she spoke the langwitch of an object (‘bimbo speeki’) she took into her heart and soul the lessons she had learned. She had been captured much as a bird is caught and placed in a cage. She was imprisoned but in her captivation she experienced liberashun. The gurl was not gone; not lost. But, she was cuntaynd. The doll understands her place; her role; her purpose. She is blissfully happy; eager for more. The doll was given a name. Her name is Cindi.

The Offer

Erika stood on the corner of Central and 10th Street in her new black jacket with all fastenings closed. It was light on her body and together with a blackberry coloured cashmere v-necked sweater, black leather gloves, grey woollen scarf, and her long black shiny boots under a longish A line black woollen skirt, she was warm and comfortable, in spite of the frigid conditions. She had dressed with care and in a way that she anticipated would please her luncheon companion.

Erica was a little early for David. He had told her to be waiting for him at 1.00 but it was only 12.55. She did not want to keep him waiting. She knew that he was meticulous about time and claimed that he was never late for appointments. She did not see him approach her moments later. She felt a hand on her arm first and when she saw that it was him, she gave him a warm smile. She anticipated a kiss and an embrace but instead he kissed her on the side of her neck, and merely said, “Let’s go.”.

She walked beside him and as she did she was aware of a slight nervousness. It made no sense. She had been sleeping with him for months and willingly accepted his directions to do things she had no idea about before she had met him. She had been a willing participant in her own depraved demise, time and time again, and yet walking along this crowded street beside him fully clothed, she felt that she could not get enough air. She wanted to take off her scarf but was worried that it would look strange on such a cold day. She kept her mouth open a little trying to inhale some extra oxygen; trying to take charge of her irregular breathing. She felt a passion for him that was overtaking her.

He took her hand in his. They walked in silence, though he turned and glanced at her a few times, studying her. When they reached ‘Bistro Thierry’ he stopped, so abruptly that she had already taken a step beyond him and needed to backtrack. He held the door open for her and had her walk ahead of him until they reached the waiter a few steps into the restaurant who enquired if they were here for lunch. She undid her jacket and he took off his coat. The waiter hung them on hooks to the side.

He escorted them to a table beside other patrons but David said that he preferred a table on the other side of the room. The area was not occupied at all. The waiter demurred to his preference, a little peeved, and it was David who held her chair for her as she sat down. He asked for a menu right away and asked the waiter to wait for their order. He glanced at it quickly and told him that they would both have the minestrone soup and a glass of pinot noir. That was all.

With the food ordering out of the way, he turned to her and looked at her closely.

“You look beautiful. The colour of your sweater looks wonderful against your pale skin.”

“Thank you, David.”

He complimented her openly when he approved of her choices and she knew from experience that if he had not liked it, no compliment would have been forthcoming.

She sometimes found it hard to look into his watery blue eyes and she looked at him for a moment when he said those words but then looked away as soon as she responded. She was suddenly shy, as if she hardly knew him at all. He continued to look at her and after a few seconds she looked back at him, into his searching eyes.

“What you want and need, darling, it goes beyond my bedroom now. Your needs have filtered through to all your waking hours. I am aware of this. I have brought you here today to make you an offer. But I must warn you that it is not negotiable. My terms are my terms and you must listen carefully.”

“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“Now...”

“Yes,” she repeated again, slightly louder this time.

“But...”

“It doesn’t matter what your terms are. I accept.”

His expression was one of incredulity. Had he known before he had even sat down that she was the girl for him for the rest of his days? Had she simply just confirmed what he had already known?

The waiter arrived with the wine and he gestured to her to raise her glass. They toasted the agreement, sight unseen. There was nothing that she wouldn’t do for him. There was nothing that he would not do to protect her.

© Vesta
January, 2010