Enduring kinky thoughts

I took a survey for Galen Fous which asked questions about my kinks and fantasies; when they started and what they looked like. This prompted me to think about the sort of archetypes, thoughts and images I might have been inspired by in early childhood, for my fantasies began at a very age. I had kinky thoughts as early as four or five years old. I masturbated to them most days.

That period of my life is now over 50 years ago so it’s hard to remember much detail, but I distinctly remember bath time. As my bath was running I would often bend over. To anyone who might walk in it seemed I liked to touch my toes, but what I was doing was imagining being told to bend over for a spanking. I also remember touching myself to orgasm as a very young child. When I went to bed and the lights were turned off, this seemed the ideal ‘cover’ for my fantasy life where I could masturbate to certain images and experience the pleasure of the arousal and the climax of my body. Falling to sleep was then certain and I’m sure that I sometimes fell asleep during the process. It was my relaxation time; my time to think my own nasty thoughts.

I can distinctly remember a day in primary school (elementary school) when it occurred to me that if it was possible to read minds, I was in big trouble. Could I be letting off signals of the thoughts going through my mind? I determined that day to be vigilant about ensuring that I kept my dirty secret safely guarded.

I recall becoming aroused when there would be some sort of discipline in a story. It could be in a school setting or in a home setting. I’d know on what page it had occurred in a novel and I’d return to that page over and over. If it happened in a movie or in a show I was watching I’d hold my breath as if struck dumb by a kink filled meteor. I’d take those images to bed with me that night, and all the nights after that to re-enact.

I never made myself the perpetrator of the action, but rather the person who needed to be disciplined. I’d struggle sometimes, as I do now, to come up with a real offence, since I made it my business as a young child to stay out of trouble and not to bother anybody too much. Yet, I was immediately and profoundly aroused when in my fantasies I was lectured, sent to the Master’s office,  placed in a corner to think about my behaviour, made to write lines, put over someone’s knee and spanked.

I needed to find in my mind suitable people who would naturally behave sternly and firmly. I needed to find people quite different to my parents who would not have dreamed of behaving this way. I needed to locate for these guilty pleasures images of people who were particular; particular about rules and keeping a girl in her place. I suspect I came up with the sort of people I saw in movies, men who wore suits and looked formal and strict; men who saw it as their business to keep young girls in check, for their own good. Sloppy attire, eating sweets behind closed doors, being late to class or smudging the ink were all behaviours that could be stamped out with a good, hard bare bottom spanking, and they didn’t hesitate to make these behaviour adjustments.

I didn’t confine my disciplinarians just to males. I had a soft spot in my kinky mind for the nasty House Mistress of a boarding school who would call girls into her study after school for such behaviours as not making the bed well enough, for not passing room inspection or for bringing mud into the boarding house, having not wiped their shoes at the door. Later, she was the one who gave enemas, and who delighted in informing of a whipping that would take place on Saturday morning. She’s the sort of woman who took private delight in a girl festering and squirming for a few days just thinking about what was to come; when the girl would get her ‘just desserts’.

I also explored the situation of being in a friend’s home and her father being a stern disciplinarian. Of course, to keep the matter sorted my parents would have told her parents to treat me as if I was their own child and this led to both my friend and I being spanked whenever it was deemed a necessary correction.

Later, naturally enough, I added all sorts of concepts and scenarios to my fantasies. There would be stern lovers and husbands; there would be trips to institutions where a girl was transformed into the ideal wife. I left the more innocent world of spanking to a world where roles were far less well defined. One minute a ‘Master’ would be thrashing me and the next he’d have me over a table and feast on my holes. Hold on! Aren’t I at a school where they can’t do that? Apparently, they could do anything they wanted with me. I let my fantasy take me where it wanted to go and that often led to bondage, to anal play, to use by multiple men; to being pierced and wearing heavy rings; to more whipping than I think I could possibly ever manage in real life. I was an ‘owned girl’ and the only rule now was to obey and accept.

Today, if I need a quick fantasy, or even if I don’t and one just fleets across my mind, it is of me waiting; waiting to be disciplined; shamed, lectured, beaten and/or used. If the fantasy is particularly fleeting, there might simply be a leather strap or a cane hurtling through the air on the way to a waiting bare backside. If you’d been watching me you might see me look slightly startled as I brace myself for the awaiting pain, and pleasure in the thought.

I am today not terribly different to that little girl who grew into a big girl at secondary school and a woman at University and later in the work place and home. I try not to bother anyone and to get along under my own steam. I do my work. I am responsible, reasonably quiet living; take great joy in many small things; sometimes struggle to overcome obsessive thoughts and worries; to keep my world in some sort of order.

Getting back to the survey, I don’t think I was overly burdened with archetypes of femininity or how a girl should behave (more on that next time) except to say that I was probably a good child in an effort to not be disciplined or lectured; to not be any trouble to anyone. My parents worked very hard and were largely unavailable to me so it made sense to get on with things on my own and not to cause them trouble. Also, I didn't want to be in trouble. It wasn't at all comfortable for me to be corrected.

It’s interesting that my fantasies were and are about scenarios that I try to avoid. If I do something naughty, even now, I’m not looking to get caught and be dealt with. Guilt might mean I must confess and that will probably lead to consequences. The consequences may well lead to sexual arousal somewhere down the track but I hate consequences. I hate trouble and I especially loathe getting into trouble. I am fearful waiting to hear my fate and I’m mad as hell when it is meted out.

I absolutely love attention. Since a dominant must pay attention – to the bad as well as the good – then those consequences are part of the deal that I accept. He might be meting out disciple, but if he’s doing that then he’s paying attention, which after all is, even when being undertaken by the meanest of Masters responsible for my fantasy education (of even the most debauched kind) a form of affection and care.

Did the lights just go on? I was a lonely child, responsible for myself from a very early age. There was virtually no discipline, no rules, because there didn’t need to be. As a young child I created my own rules; to do my work, to not to be a burden to anyone. So, what could be more sensible than create scenarios in my mind where I lived in an entirely different world where there were rules; where people did pay attention to me; and where thus I was subject to discipline? And, over time, why not add in sexual components; more lovely, passionate, pleasurable attention!

I am not exaggerating in the least when I say that I have fantasies every day of my life. Nor am I exaggerating when I say that my hunger for expression of my sexuality is with me as a constant companion. I can taper it down at the edges with absorption into tasks, busyness, reading, writing, cooking, walking, talking and living life. But, my dears, it never ever goes away. Without a doubt I’m your classic perverted attention sponge.

The Bends: Going down, coming up too fast

The best way I know how to explain my state of mind is that when a certain amount of time goes by of dealing with day to day life, the ups and the downs, I can sense within myself the need for something intense; something 'connecting'; enabling; settling; pacifying.

Only migraine sufferers would understand this, but the white light so prevalent this Spring can make  my days most challenging. I want to keep going and to achieve; to be helpful, cheerful, bright. However, all the positivism in the world does not stop my head from feeling foggy and dim.

If at all possible I take to my bed and let sleep take me over, but the weariness is still there when I wake. The yawning begins as if, like Rip Van Winkle, no amount of slumber is ever quite enough. It bores and bothers me. The weather of this city and its effect on me makes me wonder if there isn't some other place to live, where the sky has made up its mind and wouldn't dream of producing a thick layer of dirty cotton wool to hang over my head.

You might garner that I'm not myself and need some cheering, but perhaps not really understand nor appreciate the reasons why this would be so. You might think that a visit to a wonderful exhibition at the City's Gallery would pick me up, and you'd be right. The opportunity to feast on beauty does wonders for the spirits, but home again, and there it is again; that miserable murky white/grey crud called 'cloud' which makes my head spin to the point of feeling unbalanced and unsettled all over again.

There is nothing else to do but take such a girl to her bedroom, undress her and put her miserable head into a tight, black latex covering. Relief is to be found in the abyss; the dark nothingness below the surface of the rubber; the slow breathing of the Objekt; the mindset that she is just a thing, a toy with which to play.

Objects, chairs for example, don't complain, and nor do slutti fucktoyz. You can spank their pussies really rather hard and they will barely register the ruckus. The pinching of the nipples that a girl might have something to say about is purely play to a fucktoy, an enticement.

When such a fucktoy puts her hands to the top of her smooth, shiny, rubberhead, she wonders, 'but where did the fucktoy's head go?' for the brains have been banished. It's part of the great 'nothingness' now; peace.Yet, sensations surprise the toy. If she could speak she'd say the only 'thought' on her mind.

'Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo. Fuck the bimbo.'

It would be tempting to 'take' the bimbo, wallow in the Objekt; thrust away, cum. But, an opportunity would be missed to blend with the bimbo; watch the Objekt transform. Think of Dana becoming Zuull in The Ghost Busters and you are right on the money. Why not interact with the entity? Why miss the show?

As luck would have it, it was at this moment of the proceedings when there was a knock on the bedroom door. Deep in the Objekt head, all tied up, plundered, news came of the catastrophic event, a friend's death. The girl was needed immediately.

I can confirm in a very real way that it takes time to come back to reality; to resume one's footing in a vast, forever moving and random world; it takes time and space.

BDSM and a peaceful mind

Spiritual leaders will tell you that 'more' is our challenge. If we are poor, we want more. If we are rich, we want more. We work towards something, achieve it, feel a sense of pride that very soon flickers out. Shouldn't we be moving onto something else, we ask?

I am profoundly guilty of this state of mind. My mind is such that is always in search for the next thing to do, or achieve. I can feel the restlessness, the confused mind; the trying to put things in their rightful place. Don't I have an appointment card at the bottom of a handbag? Now, which handbag was that? Maybe, I have double booked myself. How can I know when I haven't written all the dates in my diary, I ask myself, berating myself as I go. I don't really need anyone else to come down hard on me, since I do an excellent job of flogging myself. If only I was perfect. If only I was more motivated, more organised, more...

Sometimes, I ask, 'What have you actually achieved today? Anything??' That's delusional thinking of course since I can't sit still much at all, nor really ever feel satisfied with my output. I'm usually confident that, if more efficient, I could have achieved so much more.

There is no question, from anybodies perspective, that I could, indeed, achieve more. Time is spent on tumblr. Time is spent reading articles on Buddhism, or talking to friends, or trying to  settle my mind as to what on earth it is that I really should be doing before the day comes to an end. I am a disorganized, organized sort of person. I get there in the end, but I have to push myself to get there. Seriously, quite honestly, I'd rather not think, and that's nothing new. I have been aware of this fact always. I'm dreamy. It is what it is.

Doing my writing course worked from the point of view that there were outside forces insisting that I do my work. Of course, nobody insists that you get Distinctions and High Distinctions. This is self enforced and comes from egoic thought, but there it is. If I was putting my name to it, it had be of high quality.

In the process of assisting my son make a film I chatted with a wonderful psychologist who, whilst waiting for the lighting to be 'perfect' (Oh gosh yes, I passed on these genes...) told me many stories about past patients (all anonymous, of course). He told me he had one woman submit a paper for her post graduate degree that barely passed with a push. Under no circumstances was she to submit a paper that earned more than a P. She had got it into her head, he explained, that she was a failure in  spite of all that she had achieved. She was a failure if she didn't get a HD, and if her baby cried in the night, well, more evidence that she was a failure at parenthood too. So, he nipped it in the bud by taking her as close to failure as he dared and showing her that she would survive the 'ordeal'.

The story was terribly, painfully close to home, although I never let on. Of course. But, it did occur to me that if I were ever to put my trust in psychology again (highly unlikely), this was my man. It helped that he had a brilliant sense of humor and that the irony was that he was as uptight about his own son's VCE year (final year of school) as any of his clients. He said to me that "we have so much to do over the holidays", and then we shared a knowing look. Yep. He was a perfectionist, anal retentive too. Over-achievers are painstakingly boring and predictable, and there are so many of them around! (It takes one to know one.)


I've mentioned before that I meditate in a group, though Tuesday was my first group meditation in two months, far too long between cushion time for me. My meditation leader is a fabulous woman who has become a good friend. I'm suffering jealousy right now because she is in New Zealand at a retreat that I dearly wish I was at, but I chose Japan with my husband instead, and that was the right decision. Still. It's hard right now. I wish I was there.

Anyway, as spiritually evolved as she is, she gets tense. She worries. So, I asked her what to do in those situations. What does she do in those situations?

'You must go to your cushion,' she says. 'It is the best place for you. The feelings will pass. Clarity will come once you sit and let go.'

I have had many fleeting thoughts, not always 'caught', about BDSM,  about dominance, being similar to a spiritual life. The Top, as I have experienced it, insists, absolutely insists on control, and with that categorical control, provides the sort of space where thoughts can be let go. Whether that it is through pain, or pleasure, or some of both, he empties the head of obsessive thoughts and worries and provides a space where the submissive can surrender to life; find the true essence of oneself, free of concerns about what to achieve in the material world.

Eckhart Tolle, whom I recommend to you as an easily understood spiritual leader, said in a short UTube clip that "every moment offers you the choice between conditioned reactions or conscious Presence". The goal is to bring some space into the stream of thought, and that is what happens when beaten, when bound, when contained, when reduced.

Once, in the very early days of my investigations into domination I read of a man who had a big chair in the corner of a room and when his girl was fraught, over anxious or overwhelmed, he told her to sit there and not to dare to move unless he gave her permission. She would sit there, angry, smoke rising through her nostrils and up into the air, but as time went by the negative energy began to dissipate and she began to think clearly. Then, they could talk it through, calmly and with clarity.

I've had better meditations than last Tuesday but none more still and pain free. I sit with my knees folded under me and, maybe it was all the walking we did in Japan, but it was perfectly comfortable to do this for the entire hour. My meditation leader once said to us that sometimes it pays to go to the pain, not hide from it. She counsels people with cancer and it is a strategy they use, not to fear the pain but to consciously experience it and come to the resolution that it is a do-able pain. I did this and discovered that I was more or less pain-free. I maintained my focus in my body very well indeed, stayed with my breath, returned to my body when thoughts came; refused to give in to the thinking mind; banished it. It takes practice. The words 'coming home to the body' resonate with me now.

This is part of the whole understanding that in meditation we 'come home to the body'. Focus is put on the breath, or perhaps the feet. Focus is taken away from the thoughts, or at least we acknowledge the awareness that thought has happened, again, and now we return to the body, to the open spaced Consciousness where we just exist; that space between thoughts. One way to achieve this is to focus on the process of breathing, not to engage in it but to watch it. The body will inhale when it is ready; will exhale when it is ready. And, in between the inhalation and the exhalation there is a space. It's thrillingly quiet and calm in that space.

In some ways, the smarter you are, the more challenging life can be. Why sit in the car and chill when you could put on a CD and learn another language? Don't think for half an hour? Are you mad? Some super brainy surgeons feel this way. But, I need to submit for more reasons than one. I need a strong dominant because I need to feel that authority to achieve what I can't achieve on my own. If you read some of the forums on Fetlife about 'Mental BDSM' you'll see that I am not at all alone. Streams of people want very much to engage in non-thought activities because instinctively they know that this is what is good for them; that endless worry and thought isn't getting them where they want to go in life; in their lives inside their heads where we all reside.

Of course, in the 'Real' material world we all engage in activities and pursuits. We all have a purpose of some kind. At the same time, Tolle reminds us that as well as this we share a life purpose - to find that which is our essence, that which has no form. Nothing really is more important than that, especially given that there is really only one Consciousness of which we are all a part. The more people at peace, the better, for our material world is a mirror image of what our inside world looks like. It is much too noisy. I think we can agree on that.

Mindfucking as Art

I might read something, something on a site such as Fetlife.

Something about a guy mindfucking a girl; something about a guy getting so far inside a girl's head with words that her body orgasms without him ever touching her body, save a finger running an invisible line from her breast to her throat; a tweak of a nipple.

I might read of her reaction, a deep breath exhaled. His words, 'That's right. Let go. You belong to me now.'

I don't know how long I have been reading. I have heard no sounds specifically, nor registered any other thoughts. Not only am I 'in the moment' but I am deep inside that place where my most latent inclinations fester and churn. Nothing but those deep desires that dwell in that silent chamber matter.

The author of that mindfucking scene knows women like me well. You don't need to touch us to turn us on. You just have to dig deep into that part of the brain that longs to be seduced and toyed with; to be completely owned.

You just need to act like you're God and we're a disciple, because, right now, you, in fact, are our God and we subscribe to your religion. You have the power to make the world stop. You have the power to initiate mindblowing responses with a few syllables, with silence, with patience, with surprise.

Mindfuck a girl and she's putty in your hands. It's up to you to scuplt something of everlasting beauty.

Whatever you want

It's been different since we went on vacation. My husband referred to it this morning as a 'circuit breaker'. He's been more demanding, which I love, and in turn I feel more myself, calm and at peace.

He says that I am happiest, and most fun to live with when I am reduced to the smallest possible entity; that the satisfaction that comes from that for me is life enriching; puts a huge smile on my face and allows me to glow with a sense of inner happiness.

It's true. I love to feel my place; to be a help-mate and to float along under the radar; with some responsibilities, naturally, but not making any big decisions. That's not my role.

There are rules and expectations. It must be this way. Truthfully, the dog and I have a slightly troubled relationship because we are so alike. We thrive when we receive plenty of attention, but when we know the pecking order too. We aim to look cute so that we receive love in spades and we are never happiest than when in close touch with the Owner. It's our nature to be so, and that's all there is to that, hence, as much as I love her, we are competitors. That's the truth.

Right now, I adore my life. I adore the feelings of togetherness, of solidarity to the one cause, and of feeling so comfortable in my skin. Surrendering seems so easy at times like this. Whatever you want. It really is so trouble at all.

An anti-BDSM story?

There was such a build up to going on vacation - the plans, things to be sorted, the finishing up of my M.A. - but now that we have returned and things have been put away, there's a pleasant freedom to my days that I have not known before. Hayfever symptoms have sometimes forced me to nap during the day, and I've kept to a schedule, of course - meal making, daily exercise, and so on - but I have been able, over the last week or so, to have some latitude in my day which is very pleasant indeed.

Being early for an appointment with a new nail salon in the city, I ventured into an 'All books $10' store and bought three books, one of which was Nicki Gemmell's I Take You. I began to read the story even whilst waiting for my train. I wondered why I felt no erotic pleasure in the scene where Connie, the heroine, is 'padlocked' in front of a group of strangers when it soon became clear that Gemmell wanted this reaction from her readers; had engineered this reaction.

The story is set up that she and her invalid husband conspire to a M/s situation where she has sex with other men, as it takes Connie's husband's fancy, but I was never convinced of the desire in this arrangement on her part. Sure, it was better than nothing, a life of abstinence, but Connie was never attracted to Cliff, not really. It was all a trade off for an insanely decadent lifestyle with a man who had no real idea of happiness in its pure form. Rather than be turned on by the 'erotic' offering, I was quite turned off. (I was aroused on another level. My body was aroused as it turns out, but my mind was not, making it all the more confusing to me that I can be physically aroused when emotionally I am not aroused at all. Masochistically, perhaps?)

Connie doesn't need any more 'Type A' banker types in her life and those familiar with Lady Chatterley's Lover would predict that Connie is deeply attracted to the gardener who recognizes instantly what she needs; a real, honest-to-goodness earthy, hairy man.

They make love in the garden. They dance about naked amongst the trees and celebrate all that makes us who we are: the fluids, the holes, the sweat, the pubic hair. Anything mildly associated with BDSM is shun from the scene (although on second thought, anal sex is very much a part of their love making and I do recall some slaps on the ass. This guy is no wallflower...). Mel makes Connie promise she will never allow a man to do these things to her again, to scar her labia with piercings, and they both revel in her natural state when her pubic hair grows back. He loves to cover her with dirt.

Much is made of the weather. England suggests to the reader a place where a natural response is stifled, but Australia, a possible destination for Mel and Connie, suggests openness and of course, a fresh start. It's a place, for the writer and her characters, to feel unrepressed; where they won't be judged, "where nature presses close" and where she sleeps soundly, "for her man strong beside her is like a cool trickle of water upon her soul".

Connie has decreed that she won't let a man dictate her life again, at the same time as she understands that her happiness emanates from the fact that she now lives with a man who wants her just as she is, a free spirit; earthy; sexual; no longer judged in an Australia that embraces all people and gives everyone 'a fair go' (well, that's not exactly correct but nearly everyone lives harmoniously in our multicultural society).

I'm a little confused about the message of the book. Is it really an anti BDSM book, or is it a book that notes how hollow a partnership can be with a person who is rude, callous, introspective, and wanting to control merely for his own jubes? Is it a cautionary tale for any woman, perhaps, who sells her soul for an easy lifestyle loaded with money but short on love and tenderness?

For me, it was one more reminder that what we do we must do honestly; that there is no connection at all unless love is truly felt and shared. Perhaps Connie couldn't experience Mel until she experienced life with Cliff. Maybe, that was part of her journey to find out what truly mattered to her. At least, I choose not to think about it as one more anti-BDSM book, much like 50 Shades of Grey in that sense. There will always be people who hurt and make use of other people. Without love, no relationship has much substance. I think that is all that is going on here.

Following along

Holidaying in a foreign country gave my husband and I the opportunity to immerse ourselves in a bubble of bliss. We very quickly and painlessly established a comfortable dynamic whereby he instigated a plan and I followed along with that plan.

The decision to go to Japan was a joint decision. I asked if he might like an adventure, to explore Japan, and he quickly indicated he would like that. We discussed parts of Japan we'd like to get to know better and then I made the arrangements. Once there, he did the reading about that locale and determined where we would go and what we would do. This enabled me to have the experience of being led through the day and I thrived on this arrangement.

There were three small experiences where this arrangement was put to the test and the rules laid down emphatically. In the first experience we were at a Buddhist garden just outside the Bamboo Forest of Kyoto when I lost track of my husband. He was there one minute and gone the next. In a 'bimbo' mindset practically all the time on this holiday - a huge blast for me - I got it into my head that he had popped into the toilet that was close by, so I did too, only to find on emerging that he still wasn't visible. I moved on in an effort to catch up, which, of course, was the mistake. In fact, the garden was bigger than I anticipated and instead of making my way back to the Entry gate where I thought he'd go, I found myself at the Exit gate. I then decided to make my way around the garden again until I reached the point where we had started but time was going by and anxiety was building.

I spotted him by the big pond eventually, exactly where I had lost sight of him, and seeing that he was mad with me, made the next mistake of trying to explain what I was trying to achieve, instead of expressing my apology for the whole episode. I was meant to stay close, and if lost, to stay still. Very simple.

I did express my regret, of course, but not fast enough or with adequate expression of a sense of sorrow at the disruption to the day. A 'telling off' ensued. After several minutes where he chose to walk faster than me, me tagging along at a suitable distance, I asked if I could hold his hand.

'Not yet,' he said.

More expressions of regret were made on my part. We reached another place he had planned to visit. The Japanese lady came and got us when we began to embark on a tour of the garden without having our tea first (rules are rules in the Japanese mindset), and it was over tea that the ice was broken such that when I pointed out a beautiful book of the garden, he bought it for me.

The experience of losing sight of him, and his upset about it all, had me keeping extra close to him from there on. I stuck like glue to him in fact until at least a week later when I lost sight of him at 'The Great Buddha' in Nara. There was a relatively light crowd when we arrived and we were hanging out at the entrance, entranced at the scale of the statue. I walked three steps towards an example of the gold etching on the statue, when a mob of people on various tours arrived together. My husband walked straight past me without realizing it and for a good ten minutes I stood at that spot awaiting his return.

I wasn't concerned about being in trouble. I was just concerned full stop. My commonsense told me that we'd meet up in just a minute or two, but I could feel my body's response at the anxiety of being separated and all I wanted was his presence. When he returned to me, he was only mildly cross, but  somehow over the course of the holiday I'd become deeply attached to him and didn't like at all that something could have happened to him.

In the third experience, we had just exited a subway car in downtown Tokyo when he said to me, 'I had to turn around to make sure you had followed me off the train'. I replied, 'I'm watching you and you're watching me'.  It prompted him to say, 'If that had happened and you were still on the train, I'd make my way back to the hotel and wait for you.' I nodded, but something about my response registered a query in his mind.

'You've got money, right?'
'Not a note. Not a coin,' I replied.
'You mean, you haven't ever had money on the trip?'
'Nope'
'But, why didn't you ask for money?'
'Because I didn't want money. I've loved not having money.'

He looked at me, as if the reality of his wife's mindset had quite suddenly fully registered in his brain.

'You really do want an Owner, don't you? You really want me to make the decisions.'
'I do.'

He wanted to know if I had touched a note at all.

'Do you remember when I asked if I may have the notebook at the monk's stall in Koyasan, and if he could write the message of the Healing Buddha in it? The note book was 1400 yen and the message 400 yen, and you handed me a 2000 yen note to buy it? Well, that was the one time I handled a note and I remember the feeling in my hand, this note of currency, this real world, big girl note. But, as I handed it over and told the monk what I wanted, I felt very small indeed, more like a very little girl. He put in my hand a 200 yen coin as my change, and I handed it back to you. Do you remember?'

'I do remember. I remember thinking it an odd thing to do. I remember wondering why you didn't put the coin in your purse.'

'Because I didn't want one single coin in my purse. I wanted to stay in my bubble of bliss, completely reliant on you.'

The next day we visited Roppongi Hills, nowadays an upmarket part of Tokyo where the smart set hang out and purchase exquisite goods.

'Is there something that cindi would like? (He always called me 'cindi' on this holiday and I so appreciated that.) cindi should point it out to Owner if she sees something...perhaps a cocktail ring, or something else?'

But, honestly, I had what I wanted. The opportunity to melt into this dynamic with him was all I wanted, save for a few inexpensive souvenirs of these wonderful three weeks together; a little bowl or plate here and there was more than enough for cindi.

Often, he'd consult me on a purchase, but my response was nearly always the same, 'It is up to you.' One time he said to me, 'You can have  input. If you don't tell me what you are thinking, then you have to accept my decision.' I took the point, but the overarching point was that 'bimbo' was more than happy to accept his decisions. This is when bimbo is the most present and the most content, being her (it) self.

We're home now. We talked about keeping the happiness going, but he quite rightly pointed out that reality was likely to pull us back into the real world of business and endeavor at times. Perhaps, I suggested, we could go together to see a film on 'cheap ass Tuesdays', to keep the pleasure of life flowing. He agreed, we could.

I find myself asking what procedure could be put into place whereby this sense of being led might continue in my life. I can honestly say I get little pleasure in a purchase made unilaterally for myself. Should I, perhaps, engage him in conversation about a possible purchase, or show him the purchase with the tags attached, to ensure he likes what I have bought myself?

I'm incredibly happy and content and I just hope it can last. My true nature has been able to be expressed for a goodly amount of time and the last thing I want is to lose the wonderful gains we have achieved on a holiday I will never forget.