Control

It was wonderful to talk with O (O = owner) on the phone last night and feel the energy in his voice. Those nasty types really have played a very dirty hand but he and others have come out of their shock, of their sense that they are doomed and begun to fight back. I know that I am not meant to have a voice in the business but on this one, I think a lot of my anxiety stemmed from believing so strongly that they should ignore the threats and fight back. They were all throwing away years of very hard work and dedication and I just couldn't see that as being the right response. On the phone last night, I felt able to support his efforts to right the wrong as best he could. It may not be perfect, but it can't be as bad as letting those men walk all over them with their underhand, bully boy tactics!

One of the facts about life that I have found so hard to accept is that we are not all brought up with the same moral code. We don't all know wrong from right. For some people the code is, 'the end justifies the means'. As a submissive, it can be hard to know what the right response is. How lovely it would be to remain in a submissive bubble! But, one does have to be on the alert for people with a different code and that means that submission is something that we can't always live.

It is my nature to be polite to people and to try to get what I need or want from people by being co-operative and considerate and so on. Sometimes, those behaviours are seen as weakness. People with their own interpretation of a 'moral code' can take advantage of what appears to be a 'submissive' type. For this reason, I think it important that a submissive person (a slave or bottom or what have you) continue to sharpen her assertiveness and her ability to demonstrate conviction of her cause. A good Dominant is likely to encourage that, I think, because it is so very difficult to live in this world without those skills. O tends to think of himself as my protector because I can't handle the cruel side of the world and that is partly true but as well, I am a survivor and I do want to succeed rather than fail.

As well, I think feeling that one is capable in the world to stand on one's own two feet and to defend one is part of what makes a strong individual and keeps depression away. Depression is often founded on feeling hopeless and a sense of feeling hopeless comes from feeling that there is nothing one can do to make things better. Being no more than an observer is very stressful to me when I feel that I have something meaningful and worthwhile to contribute.

I have tried not talking to O at all about business matters but whilst I can happily remain in a bubble for so long, reality waits for me. I think we have to keep the communication channels open, for me to remain respectful but able to give my point of view. This has risks and must be delicately handled but if we don't do this, O is at risk of being isolated in his thoughts. I continue to believe that a third party; someone who cares about him and is watching his back, should be able to speak. No one in this world cares about him more than I do. I do not want control but without a voice, I feel nothing but despair when things are going wrong and I feel denied the opportunity to help.

The saying goes that 'two heads are better than one' and in our case, so long as the second head remains respectful and handles matters delicately, I think that is the best policy. It feels incredibly hopeful and very, very right that whilst our roles remain and he will ultimately make the final decisions on our behalf, we live out those roles united as to an approach. I think it is a relief to him to have an open exchange of ideas and that whilst he enjoyed that I was happy in my submissive bubble removed from worry, he may have felt somewhat estranged. The power exchange is right for us but the extreme delineation of roles was very stressful and unsustainable.

When not to submit

When I visited the UK last year with my husband, we bought tickets to see Blenheim Palace. Blenheim Palace is a stunning palace and the gardens are so very beautiful (we walked for hours in the grounds) but most special to me was that it was the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill and in his honour there is a permanent exhibition.

I was able to read the original letters he wrote home to his parents whilst at a horrid boarding school where he was incredibly miserable. There is no mention of his misery; not a single word. Rather, he assures his parents that he is doing his best, trying hard to improve all the time and that he hopes that they are well, comfortable and enjoying life. I felt very touched to think of this little boy’s generosity of spirit.

Of course, we all remember him for his great rallying war speeches, although he was humble about that as well. As far as he was concerned it was the nation that had “the lion heart” whilst he simply had “the luck” to be called upon to give the roar.

Although we are aware of his “black dog” he had a lovely sense of humour, a variety of interests including a great skill for painting and a passionate devotion to his wife, Clementine.

Of all Churchill’s quotes, it is this one that resonates with me:

“One ought never to turn one's back on a threatened danger and try to run away from it. If you do that, you will double the danger. But if you meet it promptly and without flinching, you will reduce the danger by half. Never run away from anything. Never!”

As a woman with a submissive nature, there is an inclination to let life do with me what it will. I sometimes feel that I don’t have the strength to fight the dogged nature of those people who display narcissistic tendencies. Part of the reason that I live fairly quietly is that I feel so surrounded by people who are chasing more and more money, unperturbed by who they destroy to get at the next pot of gold. I question if these people have any understanding of the essence of life or that when they reach the end of their lives they will have learned anything at all.

Having said that, there have been times when I have refused to run away from danger. I’ve stood my ground, faced danger square in the face and refused to surrender to it. When a psychologist told me when my son was three years old that he would never go to a regular school, I vowed to prove him wrong. Not only did he go to a high achieving school and graduate, but he was Captain of one of the sports and is tackling university wonderfully well in the third year of a course highly suited to his interests and talents.

A dear friend said to me just yesterday, “I hate to feel a victim.” I hate to feel a victim too and I have turned disaster into success by meeting danger “promptly and without flinching”. Many, many women would have walked away from situations that I faced, accepted and turned around.

Although I do have a submissive nature I choose not to submit to those who behave dishonourably, wickedly or underhandedly. I have come out of my lovely ‘submissive bubble’, (where, frankly, I would much rather be) to take a hard look at the callous and devious behaviour of some bad men. I am not sure who said, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself” but the phrase was often quoted to me earlier in life and I draw on it now.

There are too many men who put on a white shirt and tie and go to the office to do heinous things; men who believe that their fortunes that they probably got in a variety of dubious ways, allow them to ride rough shod over people merely for sport.

If we are to be proud of our societies, we must challenge this behaviour and call for ethics in business to be revived. A good place to start would be to make the law available to all, instead of the very wealthy. I fear that greed is taking us over. If we don’t fight against greed and underhand tactics, where will it end? For these reasons, I have no choice but to leave my submissive nature at the front door.

A way to love

I love it when authors inject into their writing statements that are presented as fact. It is particularly wonderful when you find yourself agreeing along with the author as you read them, or better yet, realizing just how right they are and wondering why you didn’t think of that first.

I watched this year’s BAFTA awards tonight; at least, the re-run of the ceremony. I enjoy watching how the British do it. There is no razzmatazz but some very lovely moments, such as the director’s tribute to Natalie Portman who gave “her heart and soul” to the project and without requirement, began training for the part a year before they began to shoot it, we were told. That is commitment!

I was truly delighted to see just how well ‘The King’s Speech’ did at the BAFTAs. I heard the director of the movie being interviewed last week on the radio and thought he sounded a delightful man; incredibly hard working. I loved the movie myself having grown up with my grandmother who was fascinated with the Royal Family and of course the movie was done with impeccable taste and restraint.

The last scene of the movie between Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush when they recorded the speech live to be broadcast across the United Kingdom as they prepared for war is not easily forgotten. Rush captured perfectly that Aussie irreverence and I agreed with the Director when he said that an Englishman could not have achieved with the King what this man from the antipodes could, with his constant banter and his refusal to be impressed that his client was the King of England, or just about to be crowned King anyway.

At some point during the BAFTA ceremony they played a pre-recorded interview with Firth about the relationship between the two men and he said, (and I wrote it down word for word), “Like all relationships that are meaningful, it’s not smooth.” It was one of those statements of ‘fact’ that leaves you wishing you had said it yourself.

No meaningful relationship is smooth. No meaningful relationship is meant to be smooth. You have to have the foresight and the faith to believe in a relationship; to get from one good period to the next; to withstand the not good periods and recognize that they will pass; that this too shall pass.

After all that I have written about the power exchange relationship I still don’t feel in the least qualified to make a statement of fact. Sometimes it works abundantly well. Sometimes, it is an abject failure. Sometimes, I think it is quite simply, flawed. I don’t feel that way about love. Love is sometimes turbulent and wild; sometimes elegantly simple and smooth. But, it endures if the will to keep it alive is there; if the faith is strong and the feelings real and deep. It can survive catastrophes and even neglect and betrayal. It forgives. It continues to revive itself and to withstand. It runs deep down in the heart and the soul. Like all relationships that are meaningful, it is not smooth.

I’ve never for a single moment believed that a D/s relationship can have the meaning that I would wish a relationship to have, if there was not some modicum of love involved; of one kind or another. At the very least, love is a feeling of warm personal attachment for another person. The more I think about the model of a power exchange relationship and the more I live it, the more convinced I am that it requires more love and less rigor; more connection of two human souls who embrace one another’s human frailties and less dependence on rules and rituals; more interconnectedness and open communication and less dependence on roles.

The power exchange has huge power and appeal for me as an erotic medium. I am endlessly turned on by living it and learning about it. However, what is truly significant to me is that it is a way to express one’s love for another human being. Without that, I’m afraid it has very little to offer me at all.

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!

Agnes makes lunch

Agnes brought Frederick’s keys up to the lock of his door. She located the apartment key, opened the front door and walked in. Without Frederick with her, everything felt very different to her. She was aware of the silence and she was conscious of the fact that she was alone, surrounded by all his possessions.

She had a task to complete and she was anxious to get on with it but first of all she wanted to take this opportunity to look around, uninhibited; to just let her eyes go where they would without Frederick possibly observing her as she did.

She tried to imagine Frederick within the framework of his life; a single man with a good many interests and no doubt, many friends and past lovers. Had he committed to remaining a bachelor? He seemed very settled in this singular life. Perhaps all he needed was already here, she pondered. He was comfortable. He had his books. He had sufficient technology to keep up with associates and friends. Every last chair or table or painting had been chosen and distributed around the apartment solely for his pleasure and comfort. Everything had a place and there was a place for everything. Perhaps he was a man who would always live this way and there was no place for a woman to live here permanently.

Agnes thought about her family home; all the comings and goings of a busy household. Her mother had a large pot of soup cooking on the stove most days to feed her growing children and the house was invariably in organized chaos. No matter how many times her mother requested that the boys leave their shoes in the mudroom, shoes and sweaters were often strewn about the house, along with homework and books and notes and movies to be returned to the video store. Invariably, somebody would be lounging on the couch reading the newspaper or one of her younger brothers would be absorbed in their Game boy, unaware of the existence of anybody else. She could not remember the last time she was in the house completely alone as she was now alone in Frederick’s apartment.

Agnes pulled herself out of her thoughts and reminded herself that she had a task to complete. She went to the kitchen and familiarized herself with the room, first opening the refrigerator and gathering all the contents she could find to make tasty sandwiches. She found some cooked chicken in a container; that was a good start. In another container was what appeared to be freshly made coleslaw. Then she opened a drawer and found lettuce, bean shoots, celery, cucumber. The smell of the vine ripened tomatoes had hit her nostrils the moment she walked into the kitchen and she took one from the lovely wooden bowl on the granite kitchen bench and a few sprigs of the basil plant next to it.

From the bread container, also on the bench, Agnes cut four slices of bread and carefully she began to cut and prepare the food and then pile it onto the bread. She was beginning to enjoy the task of creating an appetising lunch for them. She took care to find some mustard and to sprinkle some salt and pepper onto the food before she closed the sandwiches with the other slices of bread and cut them diagonally both ways to make eight pretty quarter sandwiches that she could display on the plates when she got down to the courtyard.

Bit by bit, Agnes gathered what they would need; plates, glasses, wrap for the sandwiches, a peach and an apple, a bottle of mineral water and some napkins. She placed all the items in the wicker basket which was exactly where Frederick said it would be. Then, she returned the kitchen to exactly the state in which she had found it. Her inner instinct told her that Frederick would want her to do that and not to leave anything out of place.

Agnes was ready to collect the picnic basket and return to him when she wondered if she might take this chance to look about his apartment just a minute longer. As quietly as a mouse she moved out of the kitchen and towards Frederick’s bedroom, noticing his choice of paintings along the hall as she went – modern and rather angular. She approved of his choices and her photographer’s eye felt that he had a keen eye himself.

She entered the bedroom. She wanted to understand him and to know him in a way that she only could when she saw how he lived and what choices he made. She walked about the room surveying it all at her leisure and at close range. The book on the top of the small pile of books on his bed was a biography of Francois Mitterrand. She read the spines of the other books in the pile and noted that one book was about design, ‘Bringing Tuscany Home’ and another, a novel, ‘Consequences’ by Penelope Lively. She thought she might have seen that one in the book store. He appeared to be an avid and wide reader and she approved of that, books being one of her great joys.

She knew she should not, but she could not resist the temptation and she opened his cupboard doors to reveal his clothes, perfectly aligned and presented. His crisp white shirts were all hung beside one another and next to them were his pants and then his dark suits. There was a pile of sweaters – a light blue one, a navy one and two black. She opened the drawers to discover that he had several pairs of the same socks, some black, some brown and two beige; perhaps a dozen pairs of the same style underpants. His shoes were neatly displayed on the shoe rack.

She was surprised to note that he clearly loved his leather boots; a black pair and a brown pair to the ankle and a high pair too; shiny black to the knee and with laces. She smiled for boots were something that Agnes adored too. She had her eye on a gorgeous black leather pair in a store close to work. She was hoping that there might be a sale soon for the price was the equivalent of two weeks’ wages and she simply could not afford them no matter how in love she had fallen.

He was a most orderly man, she realized, but not extravagant with himself either. Here was what he needed but not at all to excess. Agnes thought about the mess in her wardrobe and realized that before she could ever have him over to her little apartment she would need to sort herself out. He would be appalled to see the state of her wardrobe in its current state. She closed the wardrobe carefully. He would never know she had been snooping.

Agnes’ eye returned to the odd shaped chair and she wondered again about the shape. She was well aware that modern, urban furniture sometimes meant that chairs were unusual shapes but she had never seen anything quite like Frederick’s chair. She had an impulse to sit on the chair but moving towards the side of it that was straight and higher than the other but with a curved finish, she bent over it instead. The palms of her hands found their way onto the seat. Her mind was filled with thoughts as to how Frederick may have used this chair with women; if he was still using this chair with women; how recently he had made love to a woman in this chair.

Agnes thought to look on his desk. Perhaps there were photographs there that would give her some clues. She was right. There were a few group photos; possibly one was a family shot with siblings and their children and the other, perhaps a group of male friends. There were three separate photographs of women. They were all pretty and they all seemed more sophisticated and older than her. It didn’t make her feel any more secure. She picked up a photograph of one woman; blonde with brown eyes and a lovely smile. She was very pretty and soft looking and Agnes was curious as to who she was and what she meant to Frederick; surely she was important if her photograph was so prominently displayed in his every day eyesight.

She moved closer to the desk to be sure to put the photo frame back just as she had found it but she unwittingly brushed against the side of the desk and in so doing disturbed a pile of papers on his desk. They fell to the floor in a jumble. Her heart lurched and she went down on her knees to gather them, trying to figure their original order. She did her best but the facts were she had no idea at all which papers were on the top of the pile and which on the bottom.

She suddenly had an urgent desire to leave the apartment and be on her way. She wanted to rid her mind of these thoughts immediately. She collected the picnic basket and the keys and made her way out of the apartment and back to Frederick, doing her best to expunge the thought that Frederick should ever find out what she had been doing in his apartment all alone.

She needed to settle her mind before she returned to Frederick and so as she moved the foliage aside to make her way down the stairway, she again found herself in the intrepid jungle, this time a foreigner with her medical supplies and equipment in her basket looking for an, as yet, undiscovered specie. When she spied Frederick in the distance, she smiled. Ah, there he was! Her undiscovered specie; a man she very much wanted to explore herself.

Yoozn bimbo

Cindi receefd dis lovely pikki a whyl go az a prezzi n she reeeeli luvd it. Dis pikki pleyd on da bimboz myn. She offin tinkz bowt it. Bimboz beri much dis wey inclynd. Dey alweyz lookn 2 get yoosd in new n wunderfool weyz.

Bimbo nut beri alyv dis week. Da gurl took obr n bimbo hab keep low profyl. Dis med her sad n dis morning onnir wan 2 relax da bimbo n bring her back 2 lyf.

First, bimbo n onnir talkiz beri calmly n kwietli n dis med cindi happi. It a beri gud talkiz. Onnir sey dat it tym 4 bimbo 2 get relaxd. Bimbo sey she nut sur but onnir sey dat the way it goz. He desydnn 4 hissef.

Onnir get some his rope and tie da bimboz hanz up reeeli wel. Der no wey she can moov dem sept to put da palms 2getha reeli. He gif bimbo a nys rub 2 sooth her paw tyd musselz n den he sey dat he wanna yoos da holz.

He poot a pillo unda cindiz tummi 2 rays her bit n he enter her asscunt. Dis feelz jus gr8. But, soon enuf bimbo stert 2 thinki bowtz dis beri speshel pikki n she begin 2 pull up her legs so dat dey unda her, liki da bimbo in the pikki.

“Ohhh, cindi wanna mor cocki,” sey onnir n he wayt 4 cindi 2 get in da sem posishin dis bimbo in da pikki.

Dis new posishin fantastik! The sens8shnz beri powafool n alredi da orgasmic feelinz cumin thik n fast 4 cindi. But, dis new sens8shin doin ebin mor 4 onnir n he beri beri arowzd. He grab bimboz her n hold her tite n he begin 2 bite her – l’il nips on da sholderz.

He nut jus wanna tek bimbo but he wanna gif her da fuckin of her lyf – long n hard n fast – n bimbo screeemn in2 da sheet. She asaloootli on fyr n habin da tym ob her lyf. He tek wun han n rub her pussy cunt wich neerli blowz her myn.

Finalli, afta she tinki she mey xpyr frum plezir, onnir leeef his cum in bimboz ass cunt. She profeshinel bimbo n dis pleez her mor dan she ken sey. She totelli sate8d.

B4 onnir goz 2 tek a showr he sort bimbo owt n put a pillo unda her hed and a blanki ovr her n bi da tym he bak, she fast sleeepiz bi bi. She sleep nudda 3 howrz b4 she waki gin n wen she duz finely waki, she feel beri beri happi n cumpleet n reestord. She hab beri happi dey wif onnir, nut doin ull da much but so beri foolfild.

It beri importin 2 yoos bimboz regirlee. Dis keepz dem happi n invigor8z dem. Bimbo kenna stress dis hili nuf.

Take a load off, Vesta

I am learning so fast right now that my knowledge of myself is growing by the hour. Here’s a revelation for you (and me). I am a perfectionist! The initial tests spell that out without a shadow of a doubt. I didn’t know that yesterday but it is as clear as day today. Apparently, everyone around me has known this all my life, but that’s the way these things go, it seems.

I have super high expectations of myself. I hate to make a mistake. I especially hate to make a mistake that could jeopardize the happiness of my family. Want an example? I beat myself up over the fact that I didn’t put a sports shirt into my son’s sports bag. In my haste, I grabbed two pairs of shorts. “Anyone could have made that mistake, Mum,” he said, even though he’s a perfectionist himself. He made me feel better, but only slightly.

So, let’s take this poor sod of a girl laden down with her perfectionism and put her into a power exchange. What might happen, you ask? Well...she might just get very hard on herself, try her guts out to be pleasing and when she fails the odd test or receives some constructive criticism, beat herself over the head about it. That is what I have been doing. I have been trying to be the perfect submissive; accepting containment willingly, following commands, displaying endless patience and tolerance and believing that I am no longer entitled to express my own point of view or any of my emotions that are less than pleasing, enticing or erotic. Bottom line: I have been trying to be super human.

So, what’s the initial plan to alter that? Well...I have to go back to being relaxed for starters. This anxiety laden state has nothing going for it at all. Give it a wide berth. Breathe deep. Recognize that the situation isn’t nearly so bad as I have been painting it. Exercise: do some yoga and meditation. Have a glass of wine and an early night. And, let’s not forget Mr. Ringo! Something tells me that he can provide the sort of relaxation that should work wonders. And, perhaps it is time for that analysing Vesta to have a rest, too. It’s time for cindi to come out and play. Hooz redi 2 pley wif cindi?? Cum owt, cum owt wereva yooz hydin.