Showing posts with label Attention. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Attention. Show all posts
September 11, 2013
May 11, 2013
December 7, 2012
Right Here - Flash Fiction Friday
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When I answered the door, I didn't think it would be a problem, I invited him in and said, “Let me go pull on a pair of shorts.”
As I hurried down the hall I heard his footsteps behind me. I started to turn but he grabbed me by the back of the neck, pushing me forward. He said he was going to push me up against a wall and do dirty things to me. I said, “No, don’t!”
He seemed uncertain what to do, but finally made his decision and pushed me face first against the wall. He pressed me hard against the wall, right here. Exactly, right here, my face, see? the oil from my skin, and sweat?
I felt his hand slip down my back, his fingers between my cheeks, and, well, you know how much I love that. All I could say was, “Please. Don’t. Stop.”
This week's Flash Fiction Friday (FFF) challenge phrase (and this is the hard part): Decision. The word limit is 150 or 300 if you do the extra credit of writing both perspectives. (I will have to settle for the Extra Extra credit, but not the Extra).
Reference back to Advizor's blog for the original challenge and other contributions. I hope many of you will one day (next week?) decide to join in the fun, would that be FFFF?
September 24, 2011
Bullies
I am a tall man, maybe what some would call a big man, and through a practiced demeanor, very immune to the likelihood of being bullied by others. However, growing up I was lanky, and awkward, lacking in social skills, even shy and reserved. Because of that I was subject to negative attention from others who found in me an opportunity to exert their power over someone else. I hesitate to call it bullying because I do not want to co-opt the sense of helplessness so many young people must feel when they are singled out by others and treated badly.
Over the past couple years I have followed this issue of bullying in the various media and come to recognize it for what it is. I have my notions about what it’s origins likely are and see that those origins are not an excuse, and are not permission, to treat others badly.
A friend recently posted the following remarks on her Facebook page and I wanted to give her thoughts an additional venue and add my voice to it.
As a dominant man (not that dominance has anything to do with it really), I am ashamed of the way so many people treat others but feel a sense of powerlessness to do anything about it, I really have no solution. I can be an example and I can step in if I witness that kind of behavior and I can speak up when I have the opportunity. I am taking this opportunity.
I suspect I am preaching to the choir here, but perhaps something here will affect someone somewhere and it will have made a difference. I hope so.
Over the past couple years I have followed this issue of bullying in the various media and come to recognize it for what it is. I have my notions about what it’s origins likely are and see that those origins are not an excuse, and are not permission, to treat others badly.
A friend recently posted the following remarks on her Facebook page and I wanted to give her thoughts an additional venue and add my voice to it.
That girl you just called fat? She's overdosing on diet pills.
The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home.
That girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on hoping people will like her.
That man with the ugly scars? He fought for his country.
That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying.
As a dominant man (not that dominance has anything to do with it really), I am ashamed of the way so many people treat others but feel a sense of powerlessness to do anything about it, I really have no solution. I can be an example and I can step in if I witness that kind of behavior and I can speak up when I have the opportunity. I am taking this opportunity.
I suspect I am preaching to the choir here, but perhaps something here will affect someone somewhere and it will have made a difference. I hope so.
September 14, 2011
Blithely Sauntering
The Consensual Stalker
He had known it was her habit to spend Friday mornings on a number of errands, generally wrapping a half days worth of activities into one outing. There was the early morning or noon-time yoga class, or a nice quiet coffee shoppe with excellent java and free wifi, or occasionally, just wandering the streets shopping, mostly for clothing, retail therapy she called it. Today was early yoga, and then coffee and a muffin, and now, she was slowly sauntered down the street, peeking in store windows, almost dreamy looking. She had a bounce to her step, occasionally moving to the beat of the music from her ever-present clip-on iPod Shuffle, he imagined.
She half concentrated on the stores but was periodically preoccupied with her phone, either texting or tweeting, but not talking. At times she’d stop and lean against a store front, rapt attention on the small screen, and suddenly burst out laughing, and then look around, self conscious. She wondered if people were looking at her, hoping they might be, and that they might be wondering what she found so laughable.
The day had started when he followed her from her home, across town, and out to the yoga parlor. After she parked and went inside, he went to the cafe across the street, found a window table and had a light breakfast and coffee. Then he leaned back, listened to his book, and waited. As she left the yoga class, he noticed she had changed into the lovely shape hugging, lightweight pink sheath dress, perfect for pulling off and on while shopping. He hoped so, he was looking forward to the idea of a day of watching her pop in and out of stores, knowing how dearly she loved her shopping excursions. He smiled in anticipation of a joyful day of observation, perhaps some embarrassment, a little humiliation and pleasure, certainly a bit of sexuality and excitement.
He watched her come across the street, walk into the cafe, and order coffee and a giant chocolate muffin. She went and sat at a table in the back seating area, waiting for the server to deliver her heated muffin.
He was positioned where he could see her reflection in the window while he appeared to be looking out onto the street. She pulled out her little laptop computer and busied herself with the Internet. The muffin arrived and she divided her time between eating and something on the computer. She busied herself with typing and he wondered if she was writing another story for her blog, she seemed more engaged than simple email or messaging.
After eating her muffin, and drinking a second cup of coffee, she packed her things, got up and headed out to the parking area beside the yoga parlor and got into her car. He got up, walked out after her, climbing into his large black sedan parked at the curb. He started the engine and waited to follow her when she pulled out. As she pulled out, he made a wide U-turn and settled in behind her, heading back toward the downtown shopping area. She looked in her rear view mirror periodically but of course wouldn’t recognize his car, having only seen it the once before, long ago. And that was only a slight image in her rear view mirror at the building supply store.
He followed her back into the downtown area where she pulled into a parking garage. He drove past the parking structure entrance to the end of the block and made another U-turn. He found a parking space beside the parking garage she had pulled into. He remained in the car as she walked out of the garage and headed toward the boulevard shops. After she passed by he got out of the car, crossed the street and took position in the doorway to an office building. From there he watched her as she slowly sauntered down the street, glancing in store windows. When she was half way down the block he opened his Blackberry and sent a text message, “How are you today? Out shopping?”
She replied, “Yes, just started. Went to yoga, then breakfast. Now I’m shopping, you?”
“Yes, I am out today too, enjoying the scenery.”
Reflexively she looked around but in the dark shadows of the doorway, looking through two panes of storefront glass it was unlikely she’d see him.
He sent back a text, “Enjoy your shopping. Buy yourself something nice. Hugs.”
He received her response, “Thanks. Hugs back.”
She put her phone back into her purse and resumed looking at shop windows. He stepped out of the shadows and walked down the sidewalk to the next corner. He leaned against the light pole and watched her as she went from store to store. From time to time she would do a little shuffle dance step or two, clearly enjoying her music. She had always preferred the little Shuffle in lieu of the MP3 player built into her phone, ‘it is so small and cute and easy, the phone is so bulky.’
He decided to give this some more time. He walked further down the street and went into the fountain shop. He got an iced tea, selecting a seat at one of the small window side tables. Sometimes she would pause and look over all the items on display, at other stores she would just slow slightly and glance at the window as she passed by. However, at every clothing store she would thoroughly examine the windows offerings and usually head inside.
After nearly an hour had passed, he pulled out his Blackberry again and composed a text. “Still out shopping? Did you buy anything interesting?”
“Yes still shopping but haven’t found anything I want yet.”
“What did you decide to wear today?”
“Sweat suit earlier, for yoga. Warmer now, changed to a dress, simple sheath, easy to pull off or up in a dressing room.”
“What else?”
“Simple strap sandals.”
“Yes? What else?”
There was a long pause and then, no response. He smiled to himself, imagining, wondering if she was busy with something and not able to reply immediately, or if, more likely, she was reluctant to respond any further. As he sat there looking at the screen, waiting for a response, his attention was captured by movement across the street. He looked up and saw her coming out of the dress shop, phone in her hand, looking around.
Grinning, he typed again, “What else!”
She stared at the phone, looked left and then right, and then back at the phone, and tapped a reply, “panties”.
Even from a distance across the street he could see that she had not worn a bra, but asked anyway, “Panties and a bra?”
Again, she was reluctant to respond, but eventually said, “no, just panties, no bra.”
“Which panties?”
“The white gauzy boy shorts.”
He felt a tingle in his palms from the tactile memory of those white gauze boy shorts, his fingers flexed involuntarily.
“Mmm, my favorite, very nice.”
Again, she looked around. Clearly it seemed that she sensed from his text messages that he might be around, nearby. He was sure that she would not be able to see him through the tinted window of the fountain. As she stood there looking up and down the street he texted back, “Enjoy your shopping, I am sure you are drawing some very appreciative attention.”
Her curt response came back, “No. I’m not.”
“Well, I need to be on my way. Have a good afternoon sweetheart.”
Again, a short, matter of fact reply, “Okay, good bye. I am nearly done and will be heading home.”
“Bye bye.”
She dropped the phone down into her bag and headed down the street and disappeared into another shop.
He got up, refilled his glass and returned to his seat. It was a bright sunny day with a slight breeze and temperatures probably in the low 80’s, a perfect day to sit with a rich sweet tea and watch the world passing by. There was a lot of activity, a lot of shoppers and window shoppers out this morning. Everyone as dressed for a warm fall day, surely glad that the oppressive heat of summer was passing and autumn was on the way.
He looked at the time and was beginning to wonder if he had lost track of her. Perhaps she had left or moved on while he was refilling his tea, or when he’d gone to the restroom. He was considering sending another text message when suddenly she emerged from the original store with a heavily loaded shopping bag. She was headed back toward the parking garage. It seemed that her shopping adventure had borne fruit and was over. He dropped a tip on the table and stepped out onto the street. He followed her along on a parallel route from the opposite side of the street.
When she turned into the parking garage, he dodged between traffic and ran across the street. He did not want to lose track of her in the dark maze of stairs, parking levels and myriad cars. When he entered the structure she was just turning around the corner of the staircase to the second level. He entered the stairwell and followed.
As he got to the second floor landing he heard her above him opening the door to the third level. He paused a moment and then ran up the final flight of stairs. He twisted the door knob slowly, silently and opened it just slightly but could not see her, or anyone. He stuck his head out through the door and looked to the left, deeper into the structure and saw her walking down the aisle toward a bank of cars on the right side of the drive. He stepped out, crossed the driveway and proceeded along the bank of cars and saw her turn in beside her own. He was about a dozen cars away and needed to catch up before she got in.
From one car away, across a vacant parking stall, he saw that she was fumbling with her hand bag, the shopping bag and her keys unlocking the backseat door. As she put her bags into the back seat and slide the door closed he stepped up behind her.
He took hold of her upper left arm and grabbed the back of her neck, pushing her hard up against the side of the car. Leaning in close he spoke into her ear, “Be still” but she continued to struggle against his grip. Looking closer, he let go her left arm, pressed her against the car with his body and reached up and pulled the ear-bud out if her ear and repeated, “Be still.” She seemed to recognize his voice and calmed down, relaxing the fight-or-flight tension in her arms and legs and torso.
Continuing to hold tightly onto the back of her neck he reached around and pulled the ear-bud from her right ear as well. He ran his free hand along the side of her hip and upper thigh and felt the memory. He moved his hand down further and grabbed the material of the dress and struggled to pull it up.
After he got the hem of her dress up around her waist, he let go the material and moved his hand up to her breast. He cupped his hand up under her left breast and felt her warm softness contrasted by the stiff hardening of her nipple. Rolling it back and forth with his thumb and the side of his finger brought a soft murmur and groan, and even greater stiffness. He pinched down harder and twisted, and felt her body tense, and wilt slightly. He loved the warm feel of her body squirming against his.
He let go her nipple and took hold of her left wrist. He guided her hand down across her front, across her stomach and pushed it inside the elastic of her panties, then deeper down. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Touch.”
He felt her hand moving, “Just touch, no rubbing. Curl your middle finger down and under.”
Still holding her wrist, he felt her fingers move. He deepened his voice even further, “Press with your finger, wiggle slightly, up and down. No friction. A very subtle movement.”
He could feel the tension in her stomach as she worked her finger slowly up and down. She was groaning and shifting and rocking in a thrusting motion.
Deep into her ear he said, “Restrain yourself, slow and easy.”
But she continued working her fingers, pushing her skin back and stroking lightly back and forth. She began spasmed repeatedly, like she was receiving little electrical shocks. Suddenly she was grunting and folding over at the waist, jerking and quivering.
He let go her neck and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his body tightly and they both shook with her spasms. Eventually her breathing slowed and her tension relaxed.
He opened the door and nearly poured her into the drivers seat. She collapsed into the seat and leaned her head back against the head rest, eyes closed, seemingly ready to drop off to sleep.
He rolled the window down and closed the door, then leaned in through the opening. A slight smile spread across her face. He reached in and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, pulled her head forward and gave her a long, deep kiss. Their tongues touched, teased each other and then he withdrew.
He ran his fingers through her hair and whispered, “Have a good afternoon sweet girl,” and turned and walked toward the stairwell.
He had known it was her habit to spend Friday mornings on a number of errands, generally wrapping a half days worth of activities into one outing. There was the early morning or noon-time yoga class, or a nice quiet coffee shoppe with excellent java and free wifi, or occasionally, just wandering the streets shopping, mostly for clothing, retail therapy she called it. Today was early yoga, and then coffee and a muffin, and now, she was slowly sauntered down the street, peeking in store windows, almost dreamy looking. She had a bounce to her step, occasionally moving to the beat of the music from her ever-present clip-on iPod Shuffle, he imagined.
She half concentrated on the stores but was periodically preoccupied with her phone, either texting or tweeting, but not talking. At times she’d stop and lean against a store front, rapt attention on the small screen, and suddenly burst out laughing, and then look around, self conscious. She wondered if people were looking at her, hoping they might be, and that they might be wondering what she found so laughable.
The day had started when he followed her from her home, across town, and out to the yoga parlor. After she parked and went inside, he went to the cafe across the street, found a window table and had a light breakfast and coffee. Then he leaned back, listened to his book, and waited. As she left the yoga class, he noticed she had changed into the lovely shape hugging, lightweight pink sheath dress, perfect for pulling off and on while shopping. He hoped so, he was looking forward to the idea of a day of watching her pop in and out of stores, knowing how dearly she loved her shopping excursions. He smiled in anticipation of a joyful day of observation, perhaps some embarrassment, a little humiliation and pleasure, certainly a bit of sexuality and excitement.
He watched her come across the street, walk into the cafe, and order coffee and a giant chocolate muffin. She went and sat at a table in the back seating area, waiting for the server to deliver her heated muffin.
He was positioned where he could see her reflection in the window while he appeared to be looking out onto the street. She pulled out her little laptop computer and busied herself with the Internet. The muffin arrived and she divided her time between eating and something on the computer. She busied herself with typing and he wondered if she was writing another story for her blog, she seemed more engaged than simple email or messaging.
After eating her muffin, and drinking a second cup of coffee, she packed her things, got up and headed out to the parking area beside the yoga parlor and got into her car. He got up, walked out after her, climbing into his large black sedan parked at the curb. He started the engine and waited to follow her when she pulled out. As she pulled out, he made a wide U-turn and settled in behind her, heading back toward the downtown shopping area. She looked in her rear view mirror periodically but of course wouldn’t recognize his car, having only seen it the once before, long ago. And that was only a slight image in her rear view mirror at the building supply store.
He followed her back into the downtown area where she pulled into a parking garage. He drove past the parking structure entrance to the end of the block and made another U-turn. He found a parking space beside the parking garage she had pulled into. He remained in the car as she walked out of the garage and headed toward the boulevard shops. After she passed by he got out of the car, crossed the street and took position in the doorway to an office building. From there he watched her as she slowly sauntered down the street, glancing in store windows. When she was half way down the block he opened his Blackberry and sent a text message, “How are you today? Out shopping?”
She replied, “Yes, just started. Went to yoga, then breakfast. Now I’m shopping, you?”
“Yes, I am out today too, enjoying the scenery.”
Reflexively she looked around but in the dark shadows of the doorway, looking through two panes of storefront glass it was unlikely she’d see him.
He sent back a text, “Enjoy your shopping. Buy yourself something nice. Hugs.”
He received her response, “Thanks. Hugs back.”
She put her phone back into her purse and resumed looking at shop windows. He stepped out of the shadows and walked down the sidewalk to the next corner. He leaned against the light pole and watched her as she went from store to store. From time to time she would do a little shuffle dance step or two, clearly enjoying her music. She had always preferred the little Shuffle in lieu of the MP3 player built into her phone, ‘it is so small and cute and easy, the phone is so bulky.’
He decided to give this some more time. He walked further down the street and went into the fountain shop. He got an iced tea, selecting a seat at one of the small window side tables. Sometimes she would pause and look over all the items on display, at other stores she would just slow slightly and glance at the window as she passed by. However, at every clothing store she would thoroughly examine the windows offerings and usually head inside.
After nearly an hour had passed, he pulled out his Blackberry again and composed a text. “Still out shopping? Did you buy anything interesting?”
“Yes still shopping but haven’t found anything I want yet.”
“What did you decide to wear today?”
“Sweat suit earlier, for yoga. Warmer now, changed to a dress, simple sheath, easy to pull off or up in a dressing room.”
“What else?”
“Simple strap sandals.”
“Yes? What else?”
There was a long pause and then, no response. He smiled to himself, imagining, wondering if she was busy with something and not able to reply immediately, or if, more likely, she was reluctant to respond any further. As he sat there looking at the screen, waiting for a response, his attention was captured by movement across the street. He looked up and saw her coming out of the dress shop, phone in her hand, looking around.
Grinning, he typed again, “What else!”
She stared at the phone, looked left and then right, and then back at the phone, and tapped a reply, “panties”.
Even from a distance across the street he could see that she had not worn a bra, but asked anyway, “Panties and a bra?”
Again, she was reluctant to respond, but eventually said, “no, just panties, no bra.”
“Which panties?”
“The white gauzy boy shorts.”
He felt a tingle in his palms from the tactile memory of those white gauze boy shorts, his fingers flexed involuntarily.
“Mmm, my favorite, very nice.”
Again, she looked around. Clearly it seemed that she sensed from his text messages that he might be around, nearby. He was sure that she would not be able to see him through the tinted window of the fountain. As she stood there looking up and down the street he texted back, “Enjoy your shopping, I am sure you are drawing some very appreciative attention.”
Her curt response came back, “No. I’m not.”
“Well, I need to be on my way. Have a good afternoon sweetheart.”
Again, a short, matter of fact reply, “Okay, good bye. I am nearly done and will be heading home.”
“Bye bye.”
She dropped the phone down into her bag and headed down the street and disappeared into another shop.
He got up, refilled his glass and returned to his seat. It was a bright sunny day with a slight breeze and temperatures probably in the low 80’s, a perfect day to sit with a rich sweet tea and watch the world passing by. There was a lot of activity, a lot of shoppers and window shoppers out this morning. Everyone as dressed for a warm fall day, surely glad that the oppressive heat of summer was passing and autumn was on the way.
He looked at the time and was beginning to wonder if he had lost track of her. Perhaps she had left or moved on while he was refilling his tea, or when he’d gone to the restroom. He was considering sending another text message when suddenly she emerged from the original store with a heavily loaded shopping bag. She was headed back toward the parking garage. It seemed that her shopping adventure had borne fruit and was over. He dropped a tip on the table and stepped out onto the street. He followed her along on a parallel route from the opposite side of the street.
When she turned into the parking garage, he dodged between traffic and ran across the street. He did not want to lose track of her in the dark maze of stairs, parking levels and myriad cars. When he entered the structure she was just turning around the corner of the staircase to the second level. He entered the stairwell and followed.
As he got to the second floor landing he heard her above him opening the door to the third level. He paused a moment and then ran up the final flight of stairs. He twisted the door knob slowly, silently and opened it just slightly but could not see her, or anyone. He stuck his head out through the door and looked to the left, deeper into the structure and saw her walking down the aisle toward a bank of cars on the right side of the drive. He stepped out, crossed the driveway and proceeded along the bank of cars and saw her turn in beside her own. He was about a dozen cars away and needed to catch up before she got in.
From one car away, across a vacant parking stall, he saw that she was fumbling with her hand bag, the shopping bag and her keys unlocking the backseat door. As she put her bags into the back seat and slide the door closed he stepped up behind her.
He took hold of her upper left arm and grabbed the back of her neck, pushing her hard up against the side of the car. Leaning in close he spoke into her ear, “Be still” but she continued to struggle against his grip. Looking closer, he let go her left arm, pressed her against the car with his body and reached up and pulled the ear-bud out if her ear and repeated, “Be still.” She seemed to recognize his voice and calmed down, relaxing the fight-or-flight tension in her arms and legs and torso.
Continuing to hold tightly onto the back of her neck he reached around and pulled the ear-bud from her right ear as well. He ran his free hand along the side of her hip and upper thigh and felt the memory. He moved his hand down further and grabbed the material of the dress and struggled to pull it up.
After he got the hem of her dress up around her waist, he let go the material and moved his hand up to her breast. He cupped his hand up under her left breast and felt her warm softness contrasted by the stiff hardening of her nipple. Rolling it back and forth with his thumb and the side of his finger brought a soft murmur and groan, and even greater stiffness. He pinched down harder and twisted, and felt her body tense, and wilt slightly. He loved the warm feel of her body squirming against his.
He let go her nipple and took hold of her left wrist. He guided her hand down across her front, across her stomach and pushed it inside the elastic of her panties, then deeper down. He leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “Touch.”
He felt her hand moving, “Just touch, no rubbing. Curl your middle finger down and under.”
Still holding her wrist, he felt her fingers move. He deepened his voice even further, “Press with your finger, wiggle slightly, up and down. No friction. A very subtle movement.”
He could feel the tension in her stomach as she worked her finger slowly up and down. She was groaning and shifting and rocking in a thrusting motion.
Deep into her ear he said, “Restrain yourself, slow and easy.”
But she continued working her fingers, pushing her skin back and stroking lightly back and forth. She began spasmed repeatedly, like she was receiving little electrical shocks. Suddenly she was grunting and folding over at the waist, jerking and quivering.
He let go her neck and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his body tightly and they both shook with her spasms. Eventually her breathing slowed and her tension relaxed.
He opened the door and nearly poured her into the drivers seat. She collapsed into the seat and leaned her head back against the head rest, eyes closed, seemingly ready to drop off to sleep.
He rolled the window down and closed the door, then leaned in through the opening. A slight smile spread across her face. He reached in and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, pulled her head forward and gave her a long, deep kiss. Their tongues touched, teased each other and then he withdrew.
He ran his fingers through her hair and whispered, “Have a good afternoon sweet girl,” and turned and walked toward the stairwell.
December 17, 2010
Frederick - Dinner
Continued from The Other Side of Agnes
"Would you like to join me for dinner?"
"Would you like to join me for dinner?"
She did not respond immediately, but looked at his basket, then at her own, and finally said, “For dinner? Oh, I was planning to have dinner at home...”
“A baguette?” he said.
She told him the baguette was for breakfast and that she had planned to just eat out of the cupboard, a small dinner. He insisted that she needed something much more substantial, and suggested seafood. He immediately had a restaurant in mind, within walking distance. She was enthused, and before she could waver again he took her basket, dumped the contents into his. The cashier ran them through the register and offered to set everything aside for them to collect later.
He beckoned to her to come along, taking hold of her wrist again, noticing how compliant she felt. He nearly had to drag her along to keep pace. He was moving quickly to assure she wouldn't change her mind again. He had been very surprised, shocked actually by her abrupt departure from his apartment last week and wanted to be sure she did not have a chance to change her mind this time. When they stopped for a signal light, he gathered her in more, wrapping her arm around his. "Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“I see.” she said, smiling. He spoke half under his breath, “I doubt you do.”
As they walked down the street, it was clear she was taken off balance by his resolve, and seemed to be weighing things in her mind. They did not speak the rest of the way to the restaurant. “Here we are.”
It was an impressive place he knew and his favorite for this kind of first impression. He had cultivated relationships with the maître de and most of the waiters and they knew he was fond of bringing girls here; the whole ambiance of the place was seductive. It had a formality and richness to it, but was also comforting in an at home sort of way. They were taken to a table and two glasses of red wine arrived before they had settled in their seats. He offered a toast, “To a balanced meal.” She repeated his words, with a hearty smile. He returned her smile. They settled into a relaxed comfort and he could tell she had something to say.
She offered an apology for leaving his apartment last week, citing advice from her father. She clearly had a respect and reverence for the counsel of older men. He had noticed that already in her responses to him, although not always positively. He took advantage of her serious reverence, and teased back and forth with her. Finally, she called the game, “Whatever you say, Frederick.” They'd scored about even he thought, but just barely, and he said mostly to himself, “Ah, the girl is trainable.” She asked him to repeat himself, but he busied himself with the wine list, ignoring her question, capping the final move, for this segment of the game.
After a time, he re-engaged her in a discussion, now exploring her feelings, missing friends and others left behind, and her motives for moving to Paris.
"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.”
When the waiter offered menus, he held up his hand and said, "We will both have the salmon." The waiter turned to Agnes to get her confirmation but Frederick spoke again, "And instead of the potatoes we would have green beans." When the waiter looked back at Agnes again she just smiled and settled back in her chair. As the waiter left Frederick looked over at her, saw the smile and could tell she was performing some sort of assessment. He busied himself with dishing out the salad and the bread, and the general presentation of the food, and left her to her musing. When she asked a question, he would answer it, but did not take any bait, nor was he led into any conversations. He persisted in managing the meal, the waiter, giving the impression that the conversations had ended and it was time to enjoy the meal, no more.
Finally when the meal was nearly over, she spoke up and broke the silence. She was dying to know more about Frederick, who he was, what he did, and most interestingly, what he was, because he was definitely not like any man she had known before and she was captivated; but, she was having great difficulty reading him. When she asked what kind of work he did, he said finance, acquisitions, takeovers, those sorts of things. She said she didn't know much about finance and started to say something about her father's advice. He abruptly interrupted her and said, “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.”
He was surprised but pleased with the look on her face. He had snapped her out of her daddy's little girl patter, and stricken a chord with her. He had been baiting and teasing her all along and was now pretty sure that he had just set the hook. He grinned to himself, sat back and waited for the coffee and crème brûlée. When it arrived, he took his time; commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of the flavors. He could see she was enjoying the dessert but clearly was anxious to be done in this restaurant. Finally the waiter brought the check, which he paid and took her hand, lifted her out of her chair and helped her put on her light sweater.
Once outside, he slowly walked with her back to the supermarket, having placed her hand on his arm again, and adjusted his gait to her natural pace. When they arrived, they collected their parcel and he said, “I shall walk you home.” At that she stopped walking, and because very quiet and seemed distressed.
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, but abruptly turned the corner and headed down a side street. He noticed that she was again animated and was actually humming a little tune under her breath. He smiled to himself and headed around another corner, into a darkish little alley. She slowed her pace slightly, pulled at his arm, and said, "Frederick, where are we going?"
In response, he turned into a doorway, pulled aside a curtain, and said, "I think we need a small after dinner drink. This is a favorite little bar of mine."
They worked their way past the bar and tables, to a small sitting area in the back corner, with low couches and tables. As they moved past people, several of them said hello to Frederick, and nearly all of them took particular notice of Agnes, some with muttered comments, and even a couple of low whistles. She moved even closer to Frederick and clung to his arm, seeking the comfort and protection of closeness. Frederick accepted her discomfort and moved his arm up around her shoulder, pulled her to him, and when they reached the sitting area, ushered her to a seat on one of the couches and took a seat for himself in a chair off to her left, at a 90 degree angle. He noticed her looking at the space on the couch next to herself, clearly surprised and disappointed he had not sat down next to her. He lit the candle on the table, and when the waitress arrived, ordered snifters of B & B. There was soft jazz music playing in the background, and Frederick felt in his element and was pleased that Agnes was slightly off balance. It gave him both an advantage in the conversation, and a dilemma to solve and salve.
He listened to the music, and watched Agnes look around at the interior of the bar; a bohemian hangout. It seemed to be an oddity to her, many things she was not familiar with and as he watched, he saw more of her naivete showing through. Clearly this was not the kind of place she had ever been. As she looked around and he watched her, the waitress arrived with the drinks. As she bent over the low table, the front of her peasant blouse hung low, offering Frederick a clear and full view of her ample breasts. She noticed him noticing and they exchanged smiles of familiarity. She lingered, allowing him more time to appreciate the view. When she stood up to leave, Frederick looked over to see that Agnes had been watching the interaction. Frederick picked up a snifter, handing it to Agnes and lifted his own in a toast. He dismissed her concern with an off handed comment, "Gretchen is an old friend."
Agnes said, "She doesn't look very old." Frederick smiled, and took a sip of his drink, letting her quip pass for the time being.
"How do you like this place?"
"It is interesting, it is not like any place I have ever seen before, but it is comfortable and relaxed."
"I hope you will become accustomed to it. I come here often. It is a wonderful place to unwind from a busy day, and let go of my tension."
Agnes smiled but did not comment.
"So, if you have never been to a place like this before, what kinds of places did you go to, or did you not drink before I tempted you?" he asked with a wry smile.
"On the occasions when we went out it was usually to a bistro, and we drank wine. Places such as this surely exist at home, but young girls do not typically go there."
As they were talking, Agnes noticed that Gretchen returned and placed a silver serving tray on the far corner of the low table. There was an elaborately carved wooden box on the tray and a glass appliance that looked something like a kerosene lamp, but was something she had never seen before. She flashed a quizzical look in Frederick's direction and he answered, "Water pipe, hashish."
"Did you order this Frederick?"
"No, it is something they bring to all the tables back in this sitting area, but it is not to my liking most times. I can have it removed if it bothers you? I am not interesting in having any of it."
She shook her head.
"So, Agnes, you said "we" go to bistros, do you mean your family, or you and your friends? Or, perhaps young men take you to these places?"
"Well, my friends and I mostly, what you might call a girls night out, and on some occasions I would go on a date with boys and we often ended up at one of the bistros."
"You dated a lot, did you?"
"I wouldn't say "a lot" but sometimes on a weekend a boy would ask me out. I was fairly popular, but certainly not a lot."
Frederick continued to ask her questions about her dating habits, the kind of men she would see and what kinds of activities she enjoyed. He got the impression that she mostly went out with boys she knew from school or from the neighborhood, that they were typically her age and athletes, and that most of her dates were dinner, movie, museums, sightseeing, or combinations of these activities. He discerned that she had never really had any serious relationships, not surprising given what she had said about her father keeping a close watch on her in concert with her obvious daddy's girl desire to follow his will. He suspected she was not a virgin, but that she was pretty naive sexually. She exhibited a good bit of embarrassment and discomfort with some of his more personal questions, but she was forthcoming with answers, wanting to please him, no matter the nature of the inquiry. Probably a habitual characteristic of the daddy's good little girl, transferred to this interaction with another older man, a father figure.
After having a second B & B, he could see she was becoming a bit tipsy, a combination of these drinks and the wine with dinner, and the late hour. He took hold of her hand, and said, "Sweetheart, the night is over. It is time to head home."
Agnes was indeed tired but had enjoyed her time in the bar . . .
“A baguette?” he said.
She told him the baguette was for breakfast and that she had planned to just eat out of the cupboard, a small dinner. He insisted that she needed something much more substantial, and suggested seafood. He immediately had a restaurant in mind, within walking distance. She was enthused, and before she could waver again he took her basket, dumped the contents into his. The cashier ran them through the register and offered to set everything aside for them to collect later.
He beckoned to her to come along, taking hold of her wrist again, noticing how compliant she felt. He nearly had to drag her along to keep pace. He was moving quickly to assure she wouldn't change her mind again. He had been very surprised, shocked actually by her abrupt departure from his apartment last week and wanted to be sure she did not have a chance to change her mind this time. When they stopped for a signal light, he gathered her in more, wrapping her arm around his. "Ah, that’s better. You just need some leadership.”
“I see.” she said, smiling. He spoke half under his breath, “I doubt you do.”
As they walked down the street, it was clear she was taken off balance by his resolve, and seemed to be weighing things in her mind. They did not speak the rest of the way to the restaurant. “Here we are.”
It was an impressive place he knew and his favorite for this kind of first impression. He had cultivated relationships with the maître de and most of the waiters and they knew he was fond of bringing girls here; the whole ambiance of the place was seductive. It had a formality and richness to it, but was also comforting in an at home sort of way. They were taken to a table and two glasses of red wine arrived before they had settled in their seats. He offered a toast, “To a balanced meal.” She repeated his words, with a hearty smile. He returned her smile. They settled into a relaxed comfort and he could tell she had something to say.
She offered an apology for leaving his apartment last week, citing advice from her father. She clearly had a respect and reverence for the counsel of older men. He had noticed that already in her responses to him, although not always positively. He took advantage of her serious reverence, and teased back and forth with her. Finally, she called the game, “Whatever you say, Frederick.” They'd scored about even he thought, but just barely, and he said mostly to himself, “Ah, the girl is trainable.” She asked him to repeat himself, but he busied himself with the wine list, ignoring her question, capping the final move, for this segment of the game.
After a time, he re-engaged her in a discussion, now exploring her feelings, missing friends and others left behind, and her motives for moving to Paris.
"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.”
When the waiter offered menus, he held up his hand and said, "We will both have the salmon." The waiter turned to Agnes to get her confirmation but Frederick spoke again, "And instead of the potatoes we would have green beans." When the waiter looked back at Agnes again she just smiled and settled back in her chair. As the waiter left Frederick looked over at her, saw the smile and could tell she was performing some sort of assessment. He busied himself with dishing out the salad and the bread, and the general presentation of the food, and left her to her musing. When she asked a question, he would answer it, but did not take any bait, nor was he led into any conversations. He persisted in managing the meal, the waiter, giving the impression that the conversations had ended and it was time to enjoy the meal, no more.
Finally when the meal was nearly over, she spoke up and broke the silence. She was dying to know more about Frederick, who he was, what he did, and most interestingly, what he was, because he was definitely not like any man she had known before and she was captivated; but, she was having great difficulty reading him. When she asked what kind of work he did, he said finance, acquisitions, takeovers, those sorts of things. She said she didn't know much about finance and started to say something about her father's advice. He abruptly interrupted her and said, “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.”
He was surprised but pleased with the look on her face. He had snapped her out of her daddy's little girl patter, and stricken a chord with her. He had been baiting and teasing her all along and was now pretty sure that he had just set the hook. He grinned to himself, sat back and waited for the coffee and crème brûlée. When it arrived, he took his time; commenting on the smoothness and delicacy of the flavors. He could see she was enjoying the dessert but clearly was anxious to be done in this restaurant. Finally the waiter brought the check, which he paid and took her hand, lifted her out of her chair and helped her put on her light sweater.
Once outside, he slowly walked with her back to the supermarket, having placed her hand on his arm again, and adjusted his gait to her natural pace. When they arrived, they collected their parcel and he said, “I shall walk you home.” At that she stopped walking, and because very quiet and seemed distressed.
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, but abruptly turned the corner and headed down a side street. He noticed that she was again animated and was actually humming a little tune under her breath. He smiled to himself and headed around another corner, into a darkish little alley. She slowed her pace slightly, pulled at his arm, and said, "Frederick, where are we going?"
In response, he turned into a doorway, pulled aside a curtain, and said, "I think we need a small after dinner drink. This is a favorite little bar of mine."
They worked their way past the bar and tables, to a small sitting area in the back corner, with low couches and tables. As they moved past people, several of them said hello to Frederick, and nearly all of them took particular notice of Agnes, some with muttered comments, and even a couple of low whistles. She moved even closer to Frederick and clung to his arm, seeking the comfort and protection of closeness. Frederick accepted her discomfort and moved his arm up around her shoulder, pulled her to him, and when they reached the sitting area, ushered her to a seat on one of the couches and took a seat for himself in a chair off to her left, at a 90 degree angle. He noticed her looking at the space on the couch next to herself, clearly surprised and disappointed he had not sat down next to her. He lit the candle on the table, and when the waitress arrived, ordered snifters of B & B. There was soft jazz music playing in the background, and Frederick felt in his element and was pleased that Agnes was slightly off balance. It gave him both an advantage in the conversation, and a dilemma to solve and salve.
He listened to the music, and watched Agnes look around at the interior of the bar; a bohemian hangout. It seemed to be an oddity to her, many things she was not familiar with and as he watched, he saw more of her naivete showing through. Clearly this was not the kind of place she had ever been. As she looked around and he watched her, the waitress arrived with the drinks. As she bent over the low table, the front of her peasant blouse hung low, offering Frederick a clear and full view of her ample breasts. She noticed him noticing and they exchanged smiles of familiarity. She lingered, allowing him more time to appreciate the view. When she stood up to leave, Frederick looked over to see that Agnes had been watching the interaction. Frederick picked up a snifter, handing it to Agnes and lifted his own in a toast. He dismissed her concern with an off handed comment, "Gretchen is an old friend."
Agnes said, "She doesn't look very old." Frederick smiled, and took a sip of his drink, letting her quip pass for the time being.
"How do you like this place?"
"It is interesting, it is not like any place I have ever seen before, but it is comfortable and relaxed."
"I hope you will become accustomed to it. I come here often. It is a wonderful place to unwind from a busy day, and let go of my tension."
Agnes smiled but did not comment.
"So, if you have never been to a place like this before, what kinds of places did you go to, or did you not drink before I tempted you?" he asked with a wry smile.
"On the occasions when we went out it was usually to a bistro, and we drank wine. Places such as this surely exist at home, but young girls do not typically go there."
As they were talking, Agnes noticed that Gretchen returned and placed a silver serving tray on the far corner of the low table. There was an elaborately carved wooden box on the tray and a glass appliance that looked something like a kerosene lamp, but was something she had never seen before. She flashed a quizzical look in Frederick's direction and he answered, "Water pipe, hashish."
"Did you order this Frederick?"
"No, it is something they bring to all the tables back in this sitting area, but it is not to my liking most times. I can have it removed if it bothers you? I am not interesting in having any of it."
She shook her head.
"So, Agnes, you said "we" go to bistros, do you mean your family, or you and your friends? Or, perhaps young men take you to these places?"
"Well, my friends and I mostly, what you might call a girls night out, and on some occasions I would go on a date with boys and we often ended up at one of the bistros."
"You dated a lot, did you?"
"I wouldn't say "a lot" but sometimes on a weekend a boy would ask me out. I was fairly popular, but certainly not a lot."
Frederick continued to ask her questions about her dating habits, the kind of men she would see and what kinds of activities she enjoyed. He got the impression that she mostly went out with boys she knew from school or from the neighborhood, that they were typically her age and athletes, and that most of her dates were dinner, movie, museums, sightseeing, or combinations of these activities. He discerned that she had never really had any serious relationships, not surprising given what she had said about her father keeping a close watch on her in concert with her obvious daddy's girl desire to follow his will. He suspected she was not a virgin, but that she was pretty naive sexually. She exhibited a good bit of embarrassment and discomfort with some of his more personal questions, but she was forthcoming with answers, wanting to please him, no matter the nature of the inquiry. Probably a habitual characteristic of the daddy's good little girl, transferred to this interaction with another older man, a father figure.
After having a second B & B, he could see she was becoming a bit tipsy, a combination of these drinks and the wine with dinner, and the late hour. He took hold of her hand, and said, "Sweetheart, the night is over. It is time to head home."
Agnes was indeed tired but had enjoyed her time in the bar . . .
November 29, 2010
Frederick
He had been in Paris for two years now and was thoroughly content with his apartment in the Latin District, with it's small businesses, intermixed with apartments upstairs, and so many wonderful little shops on the street level. One shop he particularly favored was a small corner patisserie where he would have his morning coffee and read the papers. It had become his custom for the past few months, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday mornings. He was infatuated with the neighborhood and the wonderful mix of people, of all ages and backgrounds.
He had gotten to know the shopkeeper and the staff quite well, and had become a bit of a fixture, sitting back in the corner by himself each day, quiet, respectful, but also very curious about all of the people who would come and go. He would greet most people with a nod and gesture as they entered, and might exchange a word or two with those who he had become acquainted with, or perhaps strangers, those who caught his fancy. Admittedly the ones who caught his eye tended to be the younger girls, or the women out doing some shopping early in the day.
One Saturday he noticed an attractive young girl who came in, sat down and ordered a coffee and an almond croissant. She sat quietly a distance away, and seemed to be absorbed in herself and watching the traffic out the window. After watching her for a while he returned to his papers and forgot about her, until she got up to leave. He noticed her manner of dress, plain but attractive, perhaps even frugal. He guessed she must be a clerk in one of the shops in the area, or maybe even an au pair or house girl for some local family. He made note of her and watched her walk off down the street, smiling to himself. A very quiet and solitary girl, he liked that, he made a mental note to watch for her again.
Sure enough, on the following Saturday, late morning, there she was again. He sat down his paper, leaned on an elbow and studied her as she went about her coffee and croissant. She had a natural charm about her, delectable, and he was entertained by the pleasure she took in her meal. As she took her last sip of coffee and looked up, he gave her a big smile and said, "It is good?"
"Delicious," she replied, and added, "I only have one of these a week. I don't make a habit of it."
He gave her a slight nod and returned to his coffee. When he looked up again, she was leaving. He watched her leave, smiled to himself, she will be back next Saturday. He did not want to be too obvious and tip his hand so early on into the game.
Sure enough, the following Saturday there she was. As he was just getting settle and ordering his coffee, she walked in. He looked up and caught her eye. "Bonjour," she offered him, with a lovely smile.
"Bonjour mademoiselle," he returned. "Another croissant for you, today?" When she did not answer, he called out 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 followed his lead and sat down.
"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."
He continued to smile at her, nodding in encouragement, saying nothing but spurring her on as she told him about her Parisian discoveries. When the food arrived, he continued to offer reassurance and made sure she had everything she needed. They sat and talked as they drank coffee and ate their croissants. He continued to encourage her to talk about her new life in Paris. As she was finishing her coffee and setting her plate aside, he suddenly stood up and said, "Come with me and I shall show you where I live. It is a lovely view of Paris from the balcony."
She stood up too, but seemed to be struck with indecision. Before she could say yes or no, he stepped around the table, took hold of her wrist and started to guide her out. She picked up her purse and followed him out the door. Just as he had hoped, his swift and decisive movement, and authority, had captured her attention, and she was with him now. He walked up the street, turned into his building, and pausing a moment to be sure she was still with him, ushered her toward the stairway to his apartment. As he followed her up the stairs, he made note of her trim ankles, the shape of her calves, and musculature of the backs of her thighs. When they reached his landing he led her to the balcony outside of his kitchen.
"There it is. The rooftops of Paris." he said, and smiled at her, reengaging with her, standing close, touching his hand to the back of her arm. As she looked out over the rooftops, he stared at her, drinking her in.
"Ohhhhhh, how beautiful. How fortunate you are to wake up to this every morning." She turned and looked at him, then again back out over the view, and then suddenly she was saying, "Thank you, Frederick. But, I must go. I have so many errands to do today."
He looked at her face, turned slightly away from him, and recognized that fear in her. She seemed confused and disturbed. He decided not to hold her there, but showed her down the stairs again and out to the street. He said, "I hope I will see you at the patisserie again soon." They said their goodbyes, and she turned and walked off. He watched her as she went up the street, back the way they had come.
Next weekend he waited for her at the patisserie but she did not come in. He wondered if she had been scared off by his actions. He had been quite abrupt in inviting her to his apartment, perhaps she had feared something about him in that situation. Perhaps he had read her wrong? He wondered, and reviewed his approach in his mind, thinking he might need to adjust his pace with her if there was another opportunity. After a while he returned to his papers and let Agnes drift out of his mind.
Thursday evening he was doing his shopping for dinner in the market when he turned a corner, there was Agnes standing at the cheese cooler. He stepped up behind her, leaned forward to her ear and said, "Are you going to tell me that you only eat Camembert cheese once a week, as well?"
She was startled and pulled away. But then she turned her head, saw who it was and said hello to him. She turned around to face him and smiled. He said, "Hello Agnes, I am very pleased to see you again, I was afraid I had lost you." She looked at him but when she looked into his eyes, she quickly lowered her head, and said, "I am sorry for the way I acted at your apartment, but I was uncomfortable for some reason. I am glad we are meeting again."
He looked into her basket and saw that it contained just a single baguette. He had already selected a nice bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and various produce for a large salad. "Would you like to join me for dinner?"
October 18, 2010
Passive vs. Active Submission
There has been a interesting dialog going on for the past couple months, not a raging torrent but a subtle undercurrent around the matter of passive vs. active submission. Several women have spoken out about their interest and desire to be active in their submission. The classic notion of a submissive is one of passivity, a calm, a measured response, that conforms to some image that includes demure, and slight and slow. Submission that is a restrained response, because the girl is often restrained, and it sets a tone or pattern, and she often feels that is what is expected of her. That she is expected to be quiet and calm and still and respond, and certainly is not expected to initiate.
It is a bit of a dilemma really, because she does what she thinks he wants, and so it seems it might put the onus on the dominant to guide on this. I have looked around and not found much in the way of Dom-speak on this subject. Most of what you see are submissive reactions or their own take on their feelings or behavior. So, just what is the proper amount of energy/enthusiasm to put into active submission? I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.
So, what do we dominants expect? Firstly, in this matter, the dominant can be his own worst enemy. I think the nature of submission is passivity, but I appreciate a girl who leans into her submissiveness and uses it, plays with it and even initiates. By leaning I mean expressing a more active inclination rather than a standing still waiting. Maybe step up the assertiveness 20 or 30% but not too much, not 60 or 70%, (strange to put a number on it) but perhaps it gives a sense. One way to be more active is to be "playful" or to "ask questions", something that gives her an "in" into the situation, perhaps to tease and taunt, play the part of a subtle seductress.
I said that this was a current topic of discussion, but I think my first thoughts in this area stemmed from a posting by meg, of Persephone in Love, well over two years ago, when her former owner suggested to her, "your kissing is too passive."
"Let me show you what it feels like." he brought his lips up to hers and held them almost completely still. She said it felt uncomfortable and disconnecting. He agreed, "that's going to stop. every kiss you give is going to be passionate and active. you're going to pursue the kissing; you're going to use your whole mouth and your tongue." She wrinkled my nose. "but that's not very submissive."
So many submissives think that they should just lay back and willingly let things happen. They do not actively reflect back the love and affection, returning it with all the passion they feel for their owner/master/lover/top. That brief discussion on passivity/passion around a kiss is a perfect example. Give every bit of yourself and throw all of your passion into every act of submission.
And in a recent post by Jz, the Tiger Girl she said:
. . . (it) is facetious and exaggerated - but you really do read a lot of advice out there about service and most of it is couched in terms that strike me as very zen and passive. Admirable, soothing qualities and I do NOT belittle them. But Tiger Girl is all about action! Submission is simply not passive to me. Instead, I see it as an active process, one that I am continually reviewing, redirecting, and refining. So, as you can probably guess, I am constantly being tripped up by the word "service".
I don't disagree with the concept, mind you, but to reconcile the discrepancies within my head, I have to frame it differently. I can't picture myself as the graceful lily, sitting with head bowed, waiting for directions. Rather, I am the tiger, crouching in the veldt, poised to spring into action when needed.
On another blog, BDSM: A Kinster's Guide, she goes so far as to say, she does not want to be submissive, she wants to be conquered:
"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.
To describe me as "submissive" rings false to me because I, while I greatly respect the women who do, do not get my main sense of identity from being dormant or servile. I don't want the identity of a submissive; I want to be with a man who holds the title of Dominant. He can be a dominant, a master, a warrior, a king. I want to get my identity, not from the quality of my actions, but from him. Who is he. That is where I want to derive my identity, and with it all the adjectives I use to describe myself.
Perhaps this goes beyond the active submission I have been talking about, in to something that might even be called aggressive submission.
Finally, another example of something "bordering" on aggressive submission is the writing presented by Kate, of the Games the Shrew plays... (she has recently moved her journals to FetLife.)
She has two documented experiences so far, The Rape Experiment, and Consensual Kidnapping; she is pursuing some very aggressive or assertive examples of submitting, delving deeply into the domain of consensual non-consent. Perhaps you might view them as bottoming rather than submission; however, they are examples of a most willful way of submitting herself to another, and they are very active examples indeed.
These are instances of submissive women seeking an alternative to the old classic D/s style where the submissive passively waits for guidance and direction from her lord and master. Or it maybe a changing of the paradigm of dominance and submission, reevaluating the older style and expectations. I am a bit on the conservative side, and find tradition and decorum very pleasing in many ways, but I find in this matter, I am fully in support of this more active form of submission.
Addendum
In the comments section Vesta said she would write more on this topic and indeed she did, have a look at Active versus Passive Submission A thoughtful perspective from the submissive point-of-view.
And more:
And greengirl said, for me, i think it's all active
And cassie said, Too far gone?
It is a bit of a dilemma really, because she does what she thinks he wants, and so it seems it might put the onus on the dominant to guide on this. I have looked around and not found much in the way of Dom-speak on this subject. Most of what you see are submissive reactions or their own take on their feelings or behavior. So, just what is the proper amount of energy/enthusiasm to put into active submission? I think submissives often feel that they walk that fine line between expressing themselves, and drawing his wrath for being un-submissive and attempting to grab control, and I suspect it tends to make a girl very passive.
So, what do we dominants expect? Firstly, in this matter, the dominant can be his own worst enemy. I think the nature of submission is passivity, but I appreciate a girl who leans into her submissiveness and uses it, plays with it and even initiates. By leaning I mean expressing a more active inclination rather than a standing still waiting. Maybe step up the assertiveness 20 or 30% but not too much, not 60 or 70%, (strange to put a number on it) but perhaps it gives a sense. One way to be more active is to be "playful" or to "ask questions", something that gives her an "in" into the situation, perhaps to tease and taunt, play the part of a subtle seductress.
I said that this was a current topic of discussion, but I think my first thoughts in this area stemmed from a posting by meg, of Persephone in Love, well over two years ago, when her former owner suggested to her, "your kissing is too passive."
"Let me show you what it feels like." he brought his lips up to hers and held them almost completely still. She said it felt uncomfortable and disconnecting. He agreed, "that's going to stop. every kiss you give is going to be passionate and active. you're going to pursue the kissing; you're going to use your whole mouth and your tongue." She wrinkled my nose. "but that's not very submissive."
So many submissives think that they should just lay back and willingly let things happen. They do not actively reflect back the love and affection, returning it with all the passion they feel for their owner/master/lover/top. That brief discussion on passivity/passion around a kiss is a perfect example. Give every bit of yourself and throw all of your passion into every act of submission.
And in a recent post by Jz, the Tiger Girl she said:
. . . (it) is facetious and exaggerated - but you really do read a lot of advice out there about service and most of it is couched in terms that strike me as very zen and passive. Admirable, soothing qualities and I do NOT belittle them. But Tiger Girl is all about action! Submission is simply not passive to me. Instead, I see it as an active process, one that I am continually reviewing, redirecting, and refining. So, as you can probably guess, I am constantly being tripped up by the word "service".
I don't disagree with the concept, mind you, but to reconcile the discrepancies within my head, I have to frame it differently. I can't picture myself as the graceful lily, sitting with head bowed, waiting for directions. Rather, I am the tiger, crouching in the veldt, poised to spring into action when needed.
On another blog, BDSM: A Kinster's Guide, she goes so far as to say, she does not want to be submissive, she wants to be conquered:
"I don't want to be told not to sit on the toilet seat or denied an orgasm. I want to be conquered. I want to be dominated. I want to be subdued.
To describe me as "submissive" rings false to me because I, while I greatly respect the women who do, do not get my main sense of identity from being dormant or servile. I don't want the identity of a submissive; I want to be with a man who holds the title of Dominant. He can be a dominant, a master, a warrior, a king. I want to get my identity, not from the quality of my actions, but from him. Who is he. That is where I want to derive my identity, and with it all the adjectives I use to describe myself.
Perhaps this goes beyond the active submission I have been talking about, in to something that might even be called aggressive submission.
Finally, another example of something "bordering" on aggressive submission is the writing presented by Kate, of the Games the Shrew plays... (she has recently moved her journals to FetLife.)
She has two documented experiences so far, The Rape Experiment, and Consensual Kidnapping; she is pursuing some very aggressive or assertive examples of submitting, delving deeply into the domain of consensual non-consent. Perhaps you might view them as bottoming rather than submission; however, they are examples of a most willful way of submitting herself to another, and they are very active examples indeed.
These are instances of submissive women seeking an alternative to the old classic D/s style where the submissive passively waits for guidance and direction from her lord and master. Or it maybe a changing of the paradigm of dominance and submission, reevaluating the older style and expectations. I am a bit on the conservative side, and find tradition and decorum very pleasing in many ways, but I find in this matter, I am fully in support of this more active form of submission.
Addendum
In the comments section Vesta said she would write more on this topic and indeed she did, have a look at Active versus Passive Submission A thoughtful perspective from the submissive point-of-view.
And more:
And greengirl said, for me, i think it's all active
And cassie said, Too far gone?
And then Pygar said, passive vs active submission
Please, jump in and join the conversation, active? passive? aggressive? what say you?
July 15, 2010
Pinned Down, and positioned
An excerpt . . . from . . . Just Thinking About You, Well, Perhaps not Just . . .
I stepped up to the edge of the bed, watching her ribcage rise and fall, relishing the curves of her body, the shape of her hips, the way her breasts settled down toward the mattress, and the way her hair fell, almost completely obscuring her face. I placed my right knee onto the bed so that my inner thigh was pressed against the middle of her back, my ankle pressed close against the cheeks of her buttocks, spreading them a little bit apart. She stirred just slightly as my weight shifted her gently, back toward my leg and more firmly against my thigh.
To counter balance the weight shift I swung my left leg over and settled it down against her upper stomach, just below her breasts. As I settled into place she stirred even more, turning her head toward me to see what was going on, why she was suddenly "surrounded". As she looked at me I sat back with some of my weight onto her waist, nearly like settling into the saddle astride a horse, the outward curve of her hip acting much like the upward curve of the back of a saddle. She tried to turn toward me, to roll over onto her back, but she was pinned in place by my thighs and my weight sitting on her hip.
Unable to roll off of her side and face me, she attempted to move her arms, to place her left arm around my waist but I put my hand firmly on her bicep and pushed her arms back down into place, pinning them against the firmness of the mattress. She recognized the intent of my gesture and settled back down, back to that comfortable position on her side. As she settled back down, accepting my presence, I bent forward slightly at the waist, leaning my torso along the side of hers and rested my hand on the mattress loosely gripping a tangle of her hair at the back of her head, pinning her head down, and whispered in her ear . . .
I came into the room and found her lying on her right side, napping, with her back close to the edge of her side of the bed; her knees bent and legs curled up slightly, naked. Her arms were prayer positioned in front of her, wrists together, crossed in fact, with her hands tucked up under her cheek slightly. The depth of her sleep was evident from the sound of her breathing, mixed with the slightest little snoring sound; she seemed completely at rest and at ease.
I stepped up to the edge of the bed, watching her ribcage rise and fall, relishing the curves of her body, the shape of her hips, the way her breasts settled down toward the mattress, and the way her hair fell, almost completely obscuring her face. I placed my right knee onto the bed so that my inner thigh was pressed against the middle of her back, my ankle pressed close against the cheeks of her buttocks, spreading them a little bit apart. She stirred just slightly as my weight shifted her gently, back toward my leg and more firmly against my thigh.
To counter balance the weight shift I swung my left leg over and settled it down against her upper stomach, just below her breasts. As I settled into place she stirred even more, turning her head toward me to see what was going on, why she was suddenly "surrounded". As she looked at me I sat back with some of my weight onto her waist, nearly like settling into the saddle astride a horse, the outward curve of her hip acting much like the upward curve of the back of a saddle. She tried to turn toward me, to roll over onto her back, but she was pinned in place by my thighs and my weight sitting on her hip.
Unable to roll off of her side and face me, she attempted to move her arms, to place her left arm around my waist but I put my hand firmly on her bicep and pushed her arms back down into place, pinning them against the firmness of the mattress. She recognized the intent of my gesture and settled back down, back to that comfortable position on her side. As she settled back down, accepting my presence, I bent forward slightly at the waist, leaning my torso along the side of hers and rested my hand on the mattress loosely gripping a tangle of her hair at the back of her head, pinning her head down, and whispered in her ear . . .
July 1, 2010
Thoughts about Rules
The core of her comment, "as for resenting the rules, i have no idea. i've never done this sort of thing before. however, just because the rules are made doesn't mean that they can't be changed! if i were to start feeling resentful of rules, obviously we would sit down and discuss and make changes. i wouldn't resent luke, because this is all a collaborative process... we chose together to have rules because we thought it would be sexy, so if it stops being sexy then there is no reason to continue having rules."
As a dominant I love reactions to rules, admittedly they are not always positive but when they are, it is the icing on the cake of the Dom/sub relationship. How much fun it is to get these kinds of reactions:
- . . . a shower when I get home from work, against my resistance to water and time spent, but following his instructions anyway turning me on . . .
- I enjoyed the reading more and more because I was doing what he had told me to do . . .
- The instruction was simple, and it came with the beginning of a story, to add to my distraction.
- I start thinking about rules. I like rules. What could be a list of rules?
- . . . doing sexual things I don't want to because someone's enjoying making me.
Of course there are going to be serious rules too, made for the welfare or well being of one or the other, or both people. But on balance, make rules that titillate, challenge, arouse, frustrate, tease, entertain, stimulate, and so on.
Again, if you start resenting rules, sit down and change them, don't let that resentment creep into the relationship, and poison the fun. Relationships are supported to be fun, no? Yes!
"If you're not in it for fun, I'm outta here!"
Again, if you start resenting rules, sit down and change them, don't let that resentment creep into the relationship, and poison the fun. Relationships are supported to be fun, no? Yes!
"If you're not in it for fun, I'm outta here!"
April 19, 2010
Moving with Force
Read enough blogs, documenting relationships ranging from the most extreme M/s owners, to the sweetest Daddy/little girl connections, and you begin to see the wide range of methods and techniques used to move things along, particularly the degree of influence imparted by the dominant member of the relationship. This is particularly true of training techniques but in many instances actually apply to the entire conduct of the relationship, influencing the entire interaction. It becomes apparent when something goes wrong, when things are off track and corrective action needs to be taken.
The previous post, force, was an attempt to put the idea out there and clarify my thinking, and engage with a few readers from their reaction to that small offering. It came to me during this process that control = force. I had always thought of force as a S&M practice, and overlooked the subtle but effective use of force in all methods of control. The concept of force runs the gambit of techniques employed: force, enforce, reinforce and reinforcement, each an exertion of the dominants will and dominion, over the behavior of the submissive but with radically varying degrees of application. I think a large degree of that is implied by the kind of connection that is present between the parties involved. It is also clear that some aspects of all four categorizations are likely employed at one time or another in nearly all relationships.
Force:
a powerful effect or influence; to cause to do through pressure or necessity, by physical, moral or intellectual means, coerce.
I think the strictest Master/slave relationship involves the potential for the greater degree of pure force - a powerful effect or influence; where the Master is likely to cause things to be done through pressure or necessity, by physical, moral or intellectual means, by applying coercion.
This may well include the routine application of moving a girl along, literally, physically, by grabbing hands full of her hair or tightly gripping her collar and literally dragging her to where she needs to go. It may likely not involve any degree of intellectual instruction at all, but rather just the absolute application of physical force. Even routinely grabbing her and pulling her along, come this way, follow along, and she will, because she is yours, and trusts you or fears you. So, you could MAKE the sub do something through force.
This might include prolonged restraint, caging, physical restrictions, and whippings and beating, real and earnest applications of force.
Enforce:
ensure observance of rules; compel to behave in a certain way - to keep up, impose or bring into effect something, not necessarily by force.
When you talk about how your girl might feel about being restricted, and she thinks the control might be interesting, "really like the idea of somehow being controlled."
You set rules for her, that provide direction and guidance but at other times she has to walk the path, with you right behind her, offering words of encouragement, or correction or perspective, "if you do this or that, here is what will happen". Or, provide a good environment in which she can do something that one time, and then enforce the repetition of the behavior.
Consider the idea of a control that insists, rather than restricts? So many times, we Doms/Tops implement directives that take away something desired, but what about the idea of requiring something that is not a burning desire? An example might be orgasm control, which is often exercised as orgasm denial or limitation, but can also be a rule that insists on orgasms.
This might occasionally blend in some of the rougher, dragging approach, with an ebb and flow, harsh, aggressive at times, friendly, slow and smooth at other times.
Reinforce:
to strengthen, especially by addition or augmentation; to emphasize or review; to encourage a behavior or idea through repeated stimulus.
There are times when the dominant backs off, giving a certain degree of slack to see how well the lesson has been learned. But he may still be nudging with a slight tap or push for the left or the right, correcting the course, needing to watch, pay attention, but not always intervening, teach her the way for herself, with guidance. This involves observing behavior, and reinforcing the positive actions while criticizing but not necessarily punishing the missteps. Ultimately, submission is what the girl gives, not what the dominant takes.
Reinforcement:
a process in which a behavior is strengthened; increasing the probability that a response will occur by either presenting a contingent positive event or removing a negative event.
Where do you want to go? What do you want to change? How can my guidance, dominance, and reinforcement be applied to your life in such a way that you accomplish your goals, and then set about to do it, with subtle and not so subtle reminders, go do it "now".
Some times you might even let go so fully that she doesn't even feel the control any more, or in fact she feels the absence of the control, the looseness, at odds, at wits end. Once having had the comfort and safety and assurance of guidance and control, what does it feel like to have that taken away, quite nearly the complete opposite of force, the complete removal of influence, other than presence, reinforcement of the feeling and idea of control rather than cranking down the control.
Or it might include setting up ongoing situations where doing that thing brings her peace and contentment and rather than feeling forced, she feels embraced and wants to do it of her own volition and to please. This kind of commitment to purpose is at the heart of submission, it is not compliance by force, but simply reinforcement of her dedication to purpose. It might also include companioning, guiding her along as she deals with an issue. Or, slowly and methodically moving her forward, clearing the path of obstacles, hers and the worlds, like curling?
It is always interesting to read blogs and see what kinds of force are employed, or not to correct misbehavior or a failure to follow rules. It is just as common to read about overly lax responses as it is to read about overly forceful actions.
April 13, 2010
Bedtime Baby
You, sitting at the foot of the bed, knees bent over the edge, legs apart.
Me, standing with my shins against the end of the bed, between your thighs, combing my hands and fingers through your hair, savoring the view of your wonderful body.
You, squeezing your thighs hard against the outside of my legs, holding them, caressing me, rubbing the veined underside, watching it grow and stiffen, licking your lips.
Me, holding your head and tilting it back, straining your neck, kissing your forehead, temples, eyebrows, eyes, left side of your nose, right side, back and forth from one cheek to the other, then fully over your mouth, tender, slow, firm lip kisses.
You, moaning, humming, smiling, leaning your head back, pulling away from my kiss, pulling your head from side to side, sneaking down under my chin to look at the handiwork of your hands. Grasping me, guiding me up to your mouth, teasing between your lips, running your tongue along the underside.
Me, pulling your head closer, moving slowly in and out, rubbing against the insides of your mouth, moving my hands to your jaw, pushing it down to reduce the tightness, opening your mouth more, encouraging you to moisten, lick and coat me with your saliva.
You, looking up into my eyes, looking down over you. Cupping your hands under your breasts, lifting them up, offering them, squeezing them together, wrapping them around me, all wet from your mouth, and so hard.
Me, grasping a nipple in each hand, pulling, twisting, lifting, pinching. Stepping back and kneeling down at the edge of the bed, fronts of my thighs up against the end of the mattress, resting on the surface of the mattress. Wrapping my hands around the small of your back and pulling you forward, moving your bottom forward up the edge of the bed.
You, grasping hold of me and guiding me into you, wet, slick, as you are pulled closer and closer, opening your legs wider to accept my hips more comfortably between your thighs.
Me, taking hold of your wrists and leaning, guiding you back, pushing you to lay down flat on the bed. Pushing your arms down against the mattress and pulling you harder toward me, slipping deeper inside, my upward curve tickling that hot inner spot.
You, rocking back and forth with the pull and push of my hands on your wrists, working your muscles, massaging me inside you, bringing me closer and closer. Sweating, huffing, deep breathing, humming.
Me, releasing your wrists and guiding your hands down in between us, encouraging your fingers to dance and play with your swollen button, pushing them down deeper and deeper. Hands tight on your hips, pulling your closer and closer, shoving deeper and deeper. Legs clenched, solid stiff, releasing into you. collapsing forward down on top of you, kissing your breasts.
You, shaking, stiffening, clenching, hands deep down, hips rising, pushing up, shaping our angles. Fingers buried in my hair, gripping and caressing.
You, squeezing your thighs hard against the outside of my legs, holding them, caressing me, rubbing the veined underside, watching it grow and stiffen, licking your lips.
Me, holding your head and tilting it back, straining your neck, kissing your forehead, temples, eyebrows, eyes, left side of your nose, right side, back and forth from one cheek to the other, then fully over your mouth, tender, slow, firm lip kisses.
You, moaning, humming, smiling, leaning your head back, pulling away from my kiss, pulling your head from side to side, sneaking down under my chin to look at the handiwork of your hands. Grasping me, guiding me up to your mouth, teasing between your lips, running your tongue along the underside.
Me, pulling your head closer, moving slowly in and out, rubbing against the insides of your mouth, moving my hands to your jaw, pushing it down to reduce the tightness, opening your mouth more, encouraging you to moisten, lick and coat me with your saliva.
You, looking up into my eyes, looking down over you. Cupping your hands under your breasts, lifting them up, offering them, squeezing them together, wrapping them around me, all wet from your mouth, and so hard.
Me, grasping a nipple in each hand, pulling, twisting, lifting, pinching. Stepping back and kneeling down at the edge of the bed, fronts of my thighs up against the end of the mattress, resting on the surface of the mattress. Wrapping my hands around the small of your back and pulling you forward, moving your bottom forward up the edge of the bed.
You, grasping hold of me and guiding me into you, wet, slick, as you are pulled closer and closer, opening your legs wider to accept my hips more comfortably between your thighs.
Me, taking hold of your wrists and leaning, guiding you back, pushing you to lay down flat on the bed. Pushing your arms down against the mattress and pulling you harder toward me, slipping deeper inside, my upward curve tickling that hot inner spot.
You, rocking back and forth with the pull and push of my hands on your wrists, working your muscles, massaging me inside you, bringing me closer and closer. Sweating, huffing, deep breathing, humming.
Me, releasing your wrists and guiding your hands down in between us, encouraging your fingers to dance and play with your swollen button, pushing them down deeper and deeper. Hands tight on your hips, pulling your closer and closer, shoving deeper and deeper. Legs clenched, solid stiff, releasing into you. collapsing forward down on top of you, kissing your breasts.
You, shaking, stiffening, clenching, hands deep down, hips rising, pushing up, shaping our angles. Fingers buried in my hair, gripping and caressing.
Us, coming together, right now.
January 2, 2010
There You Are, Curled in a Ball
I have recently read a number of short stories by Monocle, from a collection of 100 erotic stories in an e-book, Nightmares and Visions: 100 Flashes of Dark Erotica. Most of his stories are written from the female perspective, I altered the gender from female to male, receiver to doer. From that recast wording I made the following recording.
Beware, this recording is NSFW and contains direct, harsh language, headphones would be good, close to your ears, as I whisper . . . I hope you enjoy it.
Beware, this recording is NSFW and contains direct, harsh language, headphones would be good, close to your ears, as I whisper . . . I hope you enjoy it.
December 28, 2009
Companioning
A few months ago I was in a discussion with a friend about a troubling situation, mostly acting as a sounding board, and offered some small amount of perspective. As we were saying good-bye, she ended the conversation with, "thank you for companioning me on this little journey" and it struck a chord.
It is often said that D/s (separate from BDSM, if they can be separated), is as much or more mental than physical. When thinking about my friends remark, this mental aspect was once again brought to mind. While I was unfamiliar with the term companioning, I immediately got the contextual sense of it - companion - A person who accompanies or associates with another; a comrade. In other words, someone who goes along with another, yes?
Derived from the practice of grief counseling, this notion of companioning focuses the attention of the counselor away from being the person who fixes something, toward being a comrade who is accompanying someone on a journey. A journey of discovery, finding a way from their current state to a condition or place where they understand, and have some mastery over the circumstances of their lives. It is not about thinking for them, putting your wisdom into their head, so they are smarter. It is guiding them, being a companion on their journey of self discovery, or self recognition.
What does that have to do with dominance and submission? Dominants are supposed to be leaders, providing guidance, show the way, give direction, be in control, active, forceful, managing, employing physical and mental control; all true enough. But also, a dominant can and should be quiet, thoughtful, observant, and reflective; more representative of the dominant as a mentor or guide or leader of another kind, a companion. There are times when each approach can be appropriate.
In discussing the application of companioning, she said:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a therapist must have in a therapeutic relationship in order to help the patient feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the patient is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
Interesting isn't it? lets substitute a few words:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a master-mentor must have in a master-mentor relationship in order to help the submissive feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the submissive is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
I remember a woman wrote about her interactions with a dominant, "I didn't know what to make of his interest. I mistrusted it. No one had ever wanted to know so much about me. But he didn't ask about details that might reveal my identity, not the color of my hair or what I did for work. Instead, he demonstrated a focused interest in precisely defining my feelings. He listened well. He asked clarifying questions - "Did you feel dislike, or discomfort?" He occasionally offered insight, but more often simply encouraged my own answers to emerge. And in every conversation, I found myself discovering more about who I am."
Someone commented, "Quite an experience for you. I fully identified with the experience of being cared for in that way . . . It's that intense interest that is really the key, not the restraints and paddles. He really wants to understand your psychology and make his decisions from that point of view."
pixiepie once said, "Sometimes we just need to be heard… we just need to know that we are valued for our emotions - good and bad…easy and hard…we just need to hear ‘tell me what happened’ or ‘how did that make you feel’ or even just ‘I understand’.
I don’t want or need to hear… ‘what do you need me to do’ or ‘what can I do from here’ or even ‘it will all be brighter in the morning’."
Sometimes what is needed is a comrade, a companion, someone "going into the forest with a lost person and being with them, supporting them, being with them in their fear and confusion, but not showing them the way out, because that is something they have to do for themselves, it is their task of self discovery."
It is very much a ‘guy’ thing to want to fix problems; I know I have heard it so many times: ‘I don’t want solutions, I want you to listen!’ Submissiveness does not need to be fixed, things do not need to be made right.
Quite often what is needed is simply someone who understands, who is willing to come along for the ride, a companion.
It is often said that D/s (separate from BDSM, if they can be separated), is as much or more mental than physical. When thinking about my friends remark, this mental aspect was once again brought to mind. While I was unfamiliar with the term companioning, I immediately got the contextual sense of it - companion - A person who accompanies or associates with another; a comrade. In other words, someone who goes along with another, yes?
Derived from the practice of grief counseling, this notion of companioning focuses the attention of the counselor away from being the person who fixes something, toward being a comrade who is accompanying someone on a journey. A journey of discovery, finding a way from their current state to a condition or place where they understand, and have some mastery over the circumstances of their lives. It is not about thinking for them, putting your wisdom into their head, so they are smarter. It is guiding them, being a companion on their journey of self discovery, or self recognition.
What does that have to do with dominance and submission? Dominants are supposed to be leaders, providing guidance, show the way, give direction, be in control, active, forceful, managing, employing physical and mental control; all true enough. But also, a dominant can and should be quiet, thoughtful, observant, and reflective; more representative of the dominant as a mentor or guide or leader of another kind, a companion. There are times when each approach can be appropriate.
In discussing the application of companioning, she said:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a therapist must have in a therapeutic relationship in order to help the patient feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the patient is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
Interesting isn't it? lets substitute a few words:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a master-mentor must have in a master-mentor relationship in order to help the submissive feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the submissive is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
I remember a woman wrote about her interactions with a dominant, "I didn't know what to make of his interest. I mistrusted it. No one had ever wanted to know so much about me. But he didn't ask about details that might reveal my identity, not the color of my hair or what I did for work. Instead, he demonstrated a focused interest in precisely defining my feelings. He listened well. He asked clarifying questions - "Did you feel dislike, or discomfort?" He occasionally offered insight, but more often simply encouraged my own answers to emerge. And in every conversation, I found myself discovering more about who I am."
Someone commented, "Quite an experience for you. I fully identified with the experience of being cared for in that way . . . It's that intense interest that is really the key, not the restraints and paddles. He really wants to understand your psychology and make his decisions from that point of view."
pixiepie once said, "Sometimes we just need to be heard… we just need to know that we are valued for our emotions - good and bad…easy and hard…we just need to hear ‘tell me what happened’ or ‘how did that make you feel’ or even just ‘I understand’.
I don’t want or need to hear… ‘what do you need me to do’ or ‘what can I do from here’ or even ‘it will all be brighter in the morning’."
Sometimes what is needed is a comrade, a companion, someone "going into the forest with a lost person and being with them, supporting them, being with them in their fear and confusion, but not showing them the way out, because that is something they have to do for themselves, it is their task of self discovery."
It is very much a ‘guy’ thing to want to fix problems; I know I have heard it so many times: ‘I don’t want solutions, I want you to listen!’ Submissiveness does not need to be fixed, things do not need to be made right.
Quite often what is needed is simply someone who understands, who is willing to come along for the ride, a companion.
Tenets of Companioning
Companioning is more about curiosity; it is less about our expertise.
- Those we support are the experts on their experience
- Being too attached to our expertise may estrange us from those we wish to serve
- “Teach me…”
- Earn the right to offer advice, guidance or direction
- Key is to “invite” others to take a step toward what might be important
- No judgment
- No expectation
- No pushing or pulling to some prescribed outcome for the convenience of others
- Finding a place of stillness inside ourselves
- Stillness means heightened awareness, not dormancy
- Holding the moment in anticipation that something important is developing
- Far more important to be in relationship than to make something happen
- Show up without urgency or expectation
- Practice silence in dialogue. Delay your responses on purpose.
- Chatter may disrupt one from formulating important thoughts
- Pay attention and be curious about your own personal discomfort with silence.
- Watch others for signs of wanted response.
- Challenge old definitions of “helping”
- Emotional and spiritual pain must be allowed to flourish before it can subside
- We stop people from grieving at our discomfort level
- Spiritual and emotional pain is a necessary part of healing…albeit, in its most distressing guise
- Is life so orderly?
- Companions can provide a point of grounding for others to tether themselves to
- Know where to turn for help
- Understand that some coping and healing has a chaotic look to it
- Reality check with your support; restore your own energy
- Willingness to walk into regions of mystery with no answers or even clear direction
- Willingness to sift through ashes for meaning while possibly not offering your own opinion
- Willingness to accept whatever state of reconciliation another is able to find with their loss
September 20, 2009
Tactics and Strategy
a poem by Mario Benedetti
Tactica y Estrategia
Mi táctica es mirarte,
aprender como sos
quererte como sos.
Mi táctica es hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible.
Mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos.
Mi táctica es ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón ni abismos.
Mi estrategia es en cambio
más profunda y más simple
Mi estrategia es
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites.
-------------------------
Translation:
Tactics and Strategy
My tactics are to look at you
To learn how you are
To like you how you are.
My tactics are to talk to you
And listen to you
To construct with words
An indestructible bridge.
My tactics are
To stay in your memory
I do not know how
Or with what pretext
But to be left in you.
My tactics are to be frank
And to know that you are frank
And not to sell lies to each other
So that between both of us
There is no curtains or abysses.
My strategy is however
Deeper and simpler
My strategy is
That one day
I do not know how
Or with what pretext
Finally you need me.
-------------------------
Credit to Those we won't forget by Eva Huntress
Tactica y Estrategia
Mi táctica es mirarte,
aprender como sos
quererte como sos.
Mi táctica es hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible.
Mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos.
Mi táctica es ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón ni abismos.
Mi estrategia es en cambio
más profunda y más simple
Mi estrategia es
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin me necesites.
-------------------------
Translation:
Tactics and Strategy
My tactics are to look at you
To learn how you are
To like you how you are.
My tactics are to talk to you
And listen to you
To construct with words
An indestructible bridge.
My tactics are
To stay in your memory
I do not know how
Or with what pretext
But to be left in you.
My tactics are to be frank
And to know that you are frank
And not to sell lies to each other
So that between both of us
There is no curtains or abysses.
My strategy is however
Deeper and simpler
My strategy is
That one day
I do not know how
Or with what pretext
Finally you need me.
-------------------------
Credit to Those we won't forget by Eva Huntress
June 21, 2009
grand Father's Day
It was a Father's Day, 13 or 14 years ago, and most of the family and friends had come by, with a barbecue planned for later in the day. I remember I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, some kind of auto race. Tracy's husband was sitting with me, he was an auto racing fan also. Krista, Tracy's daughter, and her cousin Leslie were running around and playing, like 5 or 6 year old kids would do. Krista was always rambunctious and energetic, often seen as hard to handle, willfulness was a term used often. However, she was always calm and attentive when she would hang out with me, always helpful and cooperative.
On that particular day, from time to time, Tracy would come out of the kitchen and tell Krista, "Be quiet." "Settle down." "Go play in the family room.", and other various attempts at trying to create calm and quiet. Finally, after too long, with little or no result, I called Krista over to me, and said, "Krista, you and Leslie go back and play in the family room unless you want to sit down here and be quiet." Her response was simply, "Okay. Leslie, let's go."
As she was walking out of the room, her mother stopped her and asked, "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you argue, or ignore me, and go right back to doing what you were doing, as if I hadn't even said anything? But when Grandpa asks you to do something, you just go do it?" Krista looked at me, smiled, and then back at her mother, and answered, "Because when poo-paw says it, he means it." Then, she and Leslie took off down the hall toward the family room.
It had nothing to do with punishment or consequences; it was always about intention, and consistency, and purpose. Her connection to me was very different from others in the family.
On that particular day, from time to time, Tracy would come out of the kitchen and tell Krista, "Be quiet." "Settle down." "Go play in the family room.", and other various attempts at trying to create calm and quiet. Finally, after too long, with little or no result, I called Krista over to me, and said, "Krista, you and Leslie go back and play in the family room unless you want to sit down here and be quiet." Her response was simply, "Okay. Leslie, let's go."
As she was walking out of the room, her mother stopped her and asked, "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you argue, or ignore me, and go right back to doing what you were doing, as if I hadn't even said anything? But when Grandpa asks you to do something, you just go do it?" Krista looked at me, smiled, and then back at her mother, and answered, "Because when poo-paw says it, he means it." Then, she and Leslie took off down the hall toward the family room.
It had nothing to do with punishment or consequences; it was always about intention, and consistency, and purpose. Her connection to me was very different from others in the family.
June 11, 2009
W I I F M
What is it about being a dominant that satisfies and fulfills?
That's what's in it for me.
If it was a six word meme, my answers would be; closeness, affection, trust, respect, pride, appreciation
The relationship between a dominant and a submissive is first and foremost, simply, a relationship between two people. It has all of those feelings of affection, friendship, closeness, loving and caring, in both directions, as does any other relationship. Creating a safe space for a submissive girl to be herself, recognizing the depths of a girls feelings, you will likely bring out sadness, fear, embarrassment, humiliation, and shame, all of these feelings that are often hidden away and considered negative, you open up a huge vulnerability. But, when you acknowledge those feelings, make it okay to have those feelings, it is liberating. Creating a safe place to explore how they can fit in her life, to let her know that it really is absolutely OK to be needy and lonely and afraid, and to have the light of that realization and it's comfort shine back on you, how can you not get something out of that?
There is an affection that is returned that can have an overwhelming intensity and depth. I receive a great deal of satisfaction from being able to make a positive contribution in someones life. I relish the respect and appreciation that I am given in return for the guidance, direction and support. Here I am, a man who has recognized a girl's special needs/desires and not only do I not think she is crazy, I nurture and feed those new feelings, making her feel all the more special. This only magnifies her affection and passion for him.
I think it is that connection to the core of submissiveness within her and there is a greater appreciation and affection returned, there is a feeling of power at having unleashed those intense inner feelings within her, recognizing their acceptability, and having that glow directed back onto me. It is overwhelming in intensity at times; breathtaking, awe-inspiring and humbling all at the same time.
Providing the structure and control - routines that address positive changes, and routines that provide reinforcement and connection throughout her day, to know that I am there in her life, in her daily activities and that I am an ongoing influence, available, active, present and caring. An overwhelming gratitude spills back onto me for having unlocked and found, or notice and nurtured, those feelings she has never been allowed to expose and cultivate, and there is a joy to seeing the warm glow in her eyes, to hear it in her words and to feel it in her touch.
I recognize, sometimes just in flashes, the depth and wealth of what I have given to her, and what I get back from it are feelings of thankfulness, of affection, of joy and pleasure, of admiration, of loving and caring, that makes my heart float. Frankly, there are times that the glow back is overwhelming, frightening, and magnificent. Then, I stop and recognize that I have opened up something very special in her. And, I recognize that I am different, that I do evoke an emotional, psychological and even physical response in her that few ever have, and from her feedback, I am pleased, touched, and humbled.
There is an affection that is returned that can have an overwhelming intensity and depth. I receive a great deal of satisfaction from being able to make a positive contribution in someones life. I relish the respect and appreciation that I am given in return for the guidance, direction and support. Here I am, a man who has recognized a girl's special needs/desires and not only do I not think she is crazy, I nurture and feed those new feelings, making her feel all the more special. This only magnifies her affection and passion for him.
I think it is that connection to the core of submissiveness within her and there is a greater appreciation and affection returned, there is a feeling of power at having unleashed those intense inner feelings within her, recognizing their acceptability, and having that glow directed back onto me. It is overwhelming in intensity at times; breathtaking, awe-inspiring and humbling all at the same time.
Providing the structure and control - routines that address positive changes, and routines that provide reinforcement and connection throughout her day, to know that I am there in her life, in her daily activities and that I am an ongoing influence, available, active, present and caring. An overwhelming gratitude spills back onto me for having unlocked and found, or notice and nurtured, those feelings she has never been allowed to expose and cultivate, and there is a joy to seeing the warm glow in her eyes, to hear it in her words and to feel it in her touch.
I recognize, sometimes just in flashes, the depth and wealth of what I have given to her, and what I get back from it are feelings of thankfulness, of affection, of joy and pleasure, of admiration, of loving and caring, that makes my heart float. Frankly, there are times that the glow back is overwhelming, frightening, and magnificent. Then, I stop and recognize that I have opened up something very special in her. And, I recognize that I am different, that I do evoke an emotional, psychological and even physical response in her that few ever have, and from her feedback, I am pleased, touched, and humbled.
That's what's in it for me.
March 22, 2009
One Day Visit - Getting out of Town
Continued from the bar
Having settled the bar tab, he got down off his stool and offered her his hand. She climbed down, stepped into the aisle way and he gestured, indicating the way to the main doors. "Let's go," he said. As she started walking, he dropped in behind her, watching her walk, noticing how the back of her dress flipped up against her bottom with every step. "She is so lovely," he thought to himself, "and mine." He opened the door and guided her back out onto Fremont Street. They stood and waited for the light to change so they could cross over to the next section. While they waiting, he put his arm around her shoulder, then pull it back slightly so his hand was on the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.
As they crossed the street and headed down the lane, he used that grip on her hair to guide her around and through the pedestrians and other obstructions. Then a small vendor stand caught his eye and he guided her in that direction. As they stepped up he saw that it was a street artist drawing the likeness of a pretty young girl, sitting in a chair. He told the artist they would like to be next. She looked very surprised, started to protest, and he put his hand over her mouth, and said, "Shhhhh, it will be something special for you, to remember." Again, he stopped her as she started to protest again. "Stand here and wait, he should be done in a few minutes. I will be right back." While she stood and waited, he drifted over to another vendor stand, and was looking over bracelets, and necklaces and anklets. He made a quick purchase, and returned to find her just sitting down in the artist’s subject chair, as he was clearing his sketch pad to begin.
As she sat there still, he leaned over from behind her and told her to adjust her posture. He whispered into her ear, "Cross your ankles, and tuck your feet back under the chair, to one side." She moved as he instructed. "Cross your wrists, and rest them on your lap." She did as asked, and he could tell by the way she looked back at him and down at her wrists, that she fully expected he was going to bind them. When he did not do so, she let out a sigh that he interpreted as relief, thankful that he would not embarrass her so in public. He stood patiently behind her as the artist went about his work. From time to time, he would whisper things in her ear. "Do you think he knows you are naked under your dress?" "Think about what we are likely to be doing two hours from now." "Smile for him, I want him to capture that slutty look in your eyes." "Think about how wet you are now, do you think he has any idea what you are feeling?" "Do you think he finds you as sexy and appealing as I do?" "I think he wants you."
The artist said he had finished the portrait, and the man went around, looking at the results. She started to get up, but he gestured to her to remain still in her seat while he went and discussed it with the artist. While she remained seated he went and looked at the result. He was very pleased with the beautiful way he had captured the profile of her face, the way her hair fell onto her cheeks and her slightly sardonic grin. He told the artist he was very happy with it, and asked that he roll it up and put it in one of the mailing tube he had stacked under his little work table. The artist asked if she did not want to see it first, and the man said he would show it too her later, that it was intended to be a surprise of sorts, and paid and thanked him. With the tube under his arm, he put his hand out to her and helped her up out of the seat. She kept looking at the tube, but he said, "I will show it to you later; we need to get on with our day for now." He took hold of her wrist and they walked back to the parking garage to get the car.
When they got back to the Fitzgerald's parking garage, the same 20-something valet was there to take their ticket. He could see that the boy was very happy to see her again, and that she seemed embarrassed by the boy’s attention. The man handed the boy the valet ticket and some folded bills, and the boy went off to get the car. While they stood in the crowd, waiting for the car, the man reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a delicate gold chain anklet. He knelt down, rubbed his hand down the calf of her left leg so that she moved it slightly forward, resting her hand on his shoulder, and he fastened the bracelet around her ankle. He continued to hold onto her leg, and admired it. He looked around and was pleased to notice that several other men also appreciated the look of her leg, and perhaps the anklet also.
When the car arrived, the valet got out of the drivers seat, came around and opened the passenger door. He looked at the girl expectantly, extending his hand to help her into the seat. The man took her hand, led her up to the car and guided her into the seat. He placed the drawing tube onto the back seat. He turned, and took hold of the valet’s outstretched hand and shook it, "Thank you, very much." He turn back to the girl, noticed she was reaching for the seat belt, and put out his hand and stopped her. "Just a moment sweetheart", he reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the cotton bikini panties he had stuffed under the seat earlier. "Put these back on." She looked around at the crowd of people standing waiting for their cars and hesitated. "Put them on", he repeated. She sloughed off her shoes, reached down, put her feet through the leg holes and pulled the panties up her legs. "That's it, just lift your bottom up off the seat and pull them all the way up." She did as he instructed, and it left her skirt gathered up around her lap, with some of the panties plainly visible as she sat there. She started to straighten her dress, but he touched her arm to indicate she should just stay still, exactly as she was.
The man got up and turned, to find the valet boy still standing at the door, clearly intent on the show he was seeing. The man thanked him again, and took control of the car door and closed it. Leaving the boy standing there beside the car, he went around and got into the driver's seat, and closed the door. However, instead of starting the car, he reached into his pocket and took out the small satin bag. He opened the bag, took out the little bullet vibrator, plugged in the remote control wire and handed it to the girl. "Put this into your panties, like you did earlier this morning." She took it in her hand but did not move to place it as he instructed. He saw that she was glancing over to her right, and there stood the valet, still looking down into the car. "Don't be bashful now sweetheart. Put the vibrator in place." As she slowly complied, he reached under his seat and retrieved the rope he had tied her ankles with earlier in the day. When she had the vibrator in place he reached over, and wrapped the rope around her legs, just above her knees, and tied a knot to hold her thighs and knees together. He took hold of the remote control and set it in the center console. He leaned over and kissed her, and then looked out the window, and waved good bye to the valet boy, who was still standing beside the car, slack jawed, with a look of bewilderment on his face. He started the car and drove off.
As they turned out of the parking garage and pulled up to the first red light, he turned to the girl and saw an odd look on her face. It seemed a combination of arousal and confusion at the same time. He put his hand up to the side of her head, combed his fingers through her hair, and heard her make a little humming sound, and then a moan of satisfaction. She leaned her head against the palm of his hand as he rubbed her cheek, and he slipped his thumb into her mouth. He felt her tongue slowly swirl around his thumb, and heard her soft moaning sound. He looked up and saw that the light had turned green. He withdrew his hand from her face, put the car in gear, and fingered the remote control switch to Medium. He heard her squeal over the sound of the car’s motor, he smiled, and once again they headed off into the Las Vegas Boulevard tourist traffic.
He traveled south on Las Vegas Boulevard, looking for the road that led out of town, the road that would take them to quiet and solitude. As he blended into traffic he lowered the remote to Low. After a few short blocks he found the turn that headed out toward Red Rock Canyon.
Having settled the bar tab, he got down off his stool and offered her his hand. She climbed down, stepped into the aisle way and he gestured, indicating the way to the main doors. "Let's go," he said. As she started walking, he dropped in behind her, watching her walk, noticing how the back of her dress flipped up against her bottom with every step. "She is so lovely," he thought to himself, "and mine." He opened the door and guided her back out onto Fremont Street. They stood and waited for the light to change so they could cross over to the next section. While they waiting, he put his arm around her shoulder, then pull it back slightly so his hand was on the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.
As they crossed the street and headed down the lane, he used that grip on her hair to guide her around and through the pedestrians and other obstructions. Then a small vendor stand caught his eye and he guided her in that direction. As they stepped up he saw that it was a street artist drawing the likeness of a pretty young girl, sitting in a chair. He told the artist they would like to be next. She looked very surprised, started to protest, and he put his hand over her mouth, and said, "Shhhhh, it will be something special for you, to remember." Again, he stopped her as she started to protest again. "Stand here and wait, he should be done in a few minutes. I will be right back." While she stood and waited, he drifted over to another vendor stand, and was looking over bracelets, and necklaces and anklets. He made a quick purchase, and returned to find her just sitting down in the artist’s subject chair, as he was clearing his sketch pad to begin.
As she sat there still, he leaned over from behind her and told her to adjust her posture. He whispered into her ear, "Cross your ankles, and tuck your feet back under the chair, to one side." She moved as he instructed. "Cross your wrists, and rest them on your lap." She did as asked, and he could tell by the way she looked back at him and down at her wrists, that she fully expected he was going to bind them. When he did not do so, she let out a sigh that he interpreted as relief, thankful that he would not embarrass her so in public. He stood patiently behind her as the artist went about his work. From time to time, he would whisper things in her ear. "Do you think he knows you are naked under your dress?" "Think about what we are likely to be doing two hours from now." "Smile for him, I want him to capture that slutty look in your eyes." "Think about how wet you are now, do you think he has any idea what you are feeling?" "Do you think he finds you as sexy and appealing as I do?" "I think he wants you."
The artist said he had finished the portrait, and the man went around, looking at the results. She started to get up, but he gestured to her to remain still in her seat while he went and discussed it with the artist. While she remained seated he went and looked at the result. He was very pleased with the beautiful way he had captured the profile of her face, the way her hair fell onto her cheeks and her slightly sardonic grin. He told the artist he was very happy with it, and asked that he roll it up and put it in one of the mailing tube he had stacked under his little work table. The artist asked if she did not want to see it first, and the man said he would show it too her later, that it was intended to be a surprise of sorts, and paid and thanked him. With the tube under his arm, he put his hand out to her and helped her up out of the seat. She kept looking at the tube, but he said, "I will show it to you later; we need to get on with our day for now." He took hold of her wrist and they walked back to the parking garage to get the car.
When they got back to the Fitzgerald's parking garage, the same 20-something valet was there to take their ticket. He could see that the boy was very happy to see her again, and that she seemed embarrassed by the boy’s attention. The man handed the boy the valet ticket and some folded bills, and the boy went off to get the car. While they stood in the crowd, waiting for the car, the man reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a delicate gold chain anklet. He knelt down, rubbed his hand down the calf of her left leg so that she moved it slightly forward, resting her hand on his shoulder, and he fastened the bracelet around her ankle. He continued to hold onto her leg, and admired it. He looked around and was pleased to notice that several other men also appreciated the look of her leg, and perhaps the anklet also.
When the car arrived, the valet got out of the drivers seat, came around and opened the passenger door. He looked at the girl expectantly, extending his hand to help her into the seat. The man took her hand, led her up to the car and guided her into the seat. He placed the drawing tube onto the back seat. He turned, and took hold of the valet’s outstretched hand and shook it, "Thank you, very much." He turn back to the girl, noticed she was reaching for the seat belt, and put out his hand and stopped her. "Just a moment sweetheart", he reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the cotton bikini panties he had stuffed under the seat earlier. "Put these back on." She looked around at the crowd of people standing waiting for their cars and hesitated. "Put them on", he repeated. She sloughed off her shoes, reached down, put her feet through the leg holes and pulled the panties up her legs. "That's it, just lift your bottom up off the seat and pull them all the way up." She did as he instructed, and it left her skirt gathered up around her lap, with some of the panties plainly visible as she sat there. She started to straighten her dress, but he touched her arm to indicate she should just stay still, exactly as she was.
The man got up and turned, to find the valet boy still standing at the door, clearly intent on the show he was seeing. The man thanked him again, and took control of the car door and closed it. Leaving the boy standing there beside the car, he went around and got into the driver's seat, and closed the door. However, instead of starting the car, he reached into his pocket and took out the small satin bag. He opened the bag, took out the little bullet vibrator, plugged in the remote control wire and handed it to the girl. "Put this into your panties, like you did earlier this morning." She took it in her hand but did not move to place it as he instructed. He saw that she was glancing over to her right, and there stood the valet, still looking down into the car. "Don't be bashful now sweetheart. Put the vibrator in place." As she slowly complied, he reached under his seat and retrieved the rope he had tied her ankles with earlier in the day. When she had the vibrator in place he reached over, and wrapped the rope around her legs, just above her knees, and tied a knot to hold her thighs and knees together. He took hold of the remote control and set it in the center console. He leaned over and kissed her, and then looked out the window, and waved good bye to the valet boy, who was still standing beside the car, slack jawed, with a look of bewilderment on his face. He started the car and drove off.
As they turned out of the parking garage and pulled up to the first red light, he turned to the girl and saw an odd look on her face. It seemed a combination of arousal and confusion at the same time. He put his hand up to the side of her head, combed his fingers through her hair, and heard her make a little humming sound, and then a moan of satisfaction. She leaned her head against the palm of his hand as he rubbed her cheek, and he slipped his thumb into her mouth. He felt her tongue slowly swirl around his thumb, and heard her soft moaning sound. He looked up and saw that the light had turned green. He withdrew his hand from her face, put the car in gear, and fingered the remote control switch to Medium. He heard her squeal over the sound of the car’s motor, he smiled, and once again they headed off into the Las Vegas Boulevard tourist traffic.
He traveled south on Las Vegas Boulevard, looking for the road that led out of town, the road that would take them to quiet and solitude. As he blended into traffic he lowered the remote to Low. After a few short blocks he found the turn that headed out toward Red Rock Canyon.
March 5, 2009
A New Master
She was beginning to be comfortable with this new man in her life. However, she was still guarded, still fearful of being abandoned, again. Her last master had cared for her, for several years. She had been faithful and true, and loyal, and he had loved her completely; at least she had always felt he had, until that day. Seemingly for no reason, he was gone. He had not said anything, no explanation, no indication that something was wrong, or different, or unusual. Just one day, he was not there anymore, and she was alone.
And then, here she was with this new man, with a new collar and new ways. Unlike her previous master, this man seemed to always say to her, "Good girl." with such pride in his voice. She loved how small, and cared for, and appreciated it made her feel. It gave her a warm glow all over; made her want to do anything, and everything for this man.
But, deep down inside she wondered if he would someday disappear, just as her previous master had. Every time she thought back on that, her heart ached. When he noticed her looking at the door, with that longing in her eyes, he seemed to completely understand. He would run his fingers through her wavy red hair, and tell her, "Everything is going to be fine. It will not happen again, not this time." It was as if he knew how she was feeling, even if she did not, or could not, say so.
This new man was so caring and warm. Sometimes in the night, she would wake up cuddled against him, and she would feel his touch. Often he would simply take her chin in his hand, lift her face up, look into her eyes and tell her what a beautiful girl she was. Then he would put his arm around her, rubbed her back, and they would both drift off, back to sleep.
Each week, each month, as her trust grew, more assured and deeper, she found herself beginning to forget about her previous master, more and more. She did not feel the longings nearly as often, and not for nearly as long when they did come to her. She compared the two men less and less as time went on. She realized she was trying to figure out if this man was going to treat her as the first one had; loving her, wanting her, caring for her, wondering and afraid that suddenly one day it would be over again, just like the last time. She began to see just how vulnerable a girl was to the whims of her owner. But, they were different in many ways; this new owner was much more gregarious. He took her out with him much more often, introduced her to his friends, and they were all so friendly, too. He took great pride in her, enjoyed showing her off in public. They always told her how beautiful she was, and how lucky he was to have such a lovely girl; with such a trim lithe body, and gorgeous red hair, and a charming smile.
Another thing she began to realize was the difference in her training. Her old master had always used punishment to reinforce lessons, to correct bad behavior or missteps when trying to follow directions. This new man would patiently correct her, repeating his instruction, showing her the proper posture or action, explaining very clear what his expectations were. And, when she would respond correctly, there would be that praise, "Good girl". It amazed her how much she loved to hear that, more and more she realized how different masters had different ways, and how much they affected her.
She truly hoped that this new master would be forever.
And then, here she was with this new man, with a new collar and new ways. Unlike her previous master, this man seemed to always say to her, "Good girl." with such pride in his voice. She loved how small, and cared for, and appreciated it made her feel. It gave her a warm glow all over; made her want to do anything, and everything for this man.
But, deep down inside she wondered if he would someday disappear, just as her previous master had. Every time she thought back on that, her heart ached. When he noticed her looking at the door, with that longing in her eyes, he seemed to completely understand. He would run his fingers through her wavy red hair, and tell her, "Everything is going to be fine. It will not happen again, not this time." It was as if he knew how she was feeling, even if she did not, or could not, say so.
This new man was so caring and warm. Sometimes in the night, she would wake up cuddled against him, and she would feel his touch. Often he would simply take her chin in his hand, lift her face up, look into her eyes and tell her what a beautiful girl she was. Then he would put his arm around her, rubbed her back, and they would both drift off, back to sleep.
Each week, each month, as her trust grew, more assured and deeper, she found herself beginning to forget about her previous master, more and more. She did not feel the longings nearly as often, and not for nearly as long when they did come to her. She compared the two men less and less as time went on. She realized she was trying to figure out if this man was going to treat her as the first one had; loving her, wanting her, caring for her, wondering and afraid that suddenly one day it would be over again, just like the last time. She began to see just how vulnerable a girl was to the whims of her owner. But, they were different in many ways; this new owner was much more gregarious. He took her out with him much more often, introduced her to his friends, and they were all so friendly, too. He took great pride in her, enjoyed showing her off in public. They always told her how beautiful she was, and how lucky he was to have such a lovely girl; with such a trim lithe body, and gorgeous red hair, and a charming smile.
Another thing she began to realize was the difference in her training. Her old master had always used punishment to reinforce lessons, to correct bad behavior or missteps when trying to follow directions. This new man would patiently correct her, repeating his instruction, showing her the proper posture or action, explaining very clear what his expectations were. And, when she would respond correctly, there would be that praise, "Good girl". It amazed her how much she loved to hear that, more and more she realized how different masters had different ways, and how much they affected her.
She truly hoped that this new master would be forever.
January 31, 2009
One Day Visit - the Car/the Bar
"The true Man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Continued from Breakfast
Holding her arm, he escorted her out the doors of the Gold Coast to the courtyard, and on toward the parking garage. He shifted his hold from her arm back to her wrist, and he felt her bristle for a moment. He glanced down at her with a questioning look in his eyes. He saw her expression change and she settled into stride as they walked out to the car. He unlocked the passenger door for her, and was thinking about using the ropes to bind her again, but grinned as another idea took over.
He opened her door, but before she could get in, he pulled her back slightly and moved past her. He sat down on the edge of the seat himself, with his legs out of the car, and taking her hands, pulled her close, up between his knees. He put his hands on the outsides of her thighs and moved them up under her dress until he felt her cotton-covered hips. He looked up at her and smiled, and hooked his fingers into the elastic of the leg bands, twisted them in his grip and pulled her panties down over her thighs, past her calves and down to her ankles. Instinctively, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder and lifted first one foot, and then the other - so he could remove them completely. He placed them under the passenger seat, looked out at her and could clearly see her, silhouetted through her dress with the sun back-lighting her.
Taking her hands to balance himself, he rose up out of the seat, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, moved a hand on the back of her head and held her to him. He felt her arms move around his waist and onto the small of his back and they stood in a quiet embrace, while his hands felt the now smooth and unclad contours of her bottom.
After a couple minutes he turned, guided her into the car seat, helped her with the seat belt and closed the door. He went around and got into the car also. He reached over and hooked his hand in the back of her far knee, pulled and twisted her in the seat so her knees were facing him, half up on the cushion, semi-sideways. He pushed his hand well up between her thighs, and she moved her legs to accommodate his presence.
He pulled out of the hotel, crossed over the freeway and drove up the strip slowly, enjoying the scenery. He continued to play with her legs, teasing and tempting her, moving his hand further up between her thighs, particularly when they were stopped at a light and there was a swirl of pedestrians around the car, many of them looking in and staring at the scene within. Several times she urged him to move his hand, but he was intent on tempting the glances of pedestrians at crowded intersections. Several times she shivered and moaned as his rough finger pressed all the way up onto her.
When they finally covered the distance up the strip, crossing over into the old downtown area, nearly an hour had passed. He could see she clearly was feeling the effects of his constant touch, the teasing, and the embarrassment and humiliation of having had so many onlookers glancing in on their seemingly private activities in such a public way. Finally, they pulled into the Fitzgerald's valet parking, and he went around to help her out of the car, to see she had turned in her seat and had her legs half out of the car, her dress still hiked up as he had pushed it, and her knees were an unladylike distance apart. A 20-something valet was standing in front of her gawking. Yes, he thought, she is gorgeous, and sultry looking, and she was being very provocative with the boy. He stood and watched for a minute, then stepped between them, offered her his hand, and lifted her out of the car.
He once again took her by the wrist and they walked through the first casino, out onto, and up the length of Fremont Street, to the Golden Nugget. The entire distance, as had been the case at breakfast, they drew more curious glances from people who noticed how he held her and guided her along, as she seemed to walk a half step behind him, appearing to almost be pulled along.
They walked into the casino, past the barkers and players club hustlers and found their way to the bar, a beautiful old massive, dark wood bar back and marble bar top. He pulled out one of the bar stools for her, gave her a hand up onto the stool and placed his hand on the inside of her thigh. She immediately responded by letting his hand in and she adjusted the hem of her dress up further and further as his hand measured the spot for her, far beyond where she was comfortable, but she complied. He stood beside her until the bartender arrived; he ordered her a gin and tonic, and then asked for directions to the restrooms. "Wait here, very quietly," he said, as he excused himself. He went off in the direction of the mens room, and looking back, he noticed the middle aged man sitting on the other side of her giving her several glances, and he seemed to be looking to start a conversation.
He grinned to himself, imagining her discomfort with the attention from this stranger, and turned and walked away. When he came out he decided to kill a few minutes, looking in at the blackjack tables, but from a position where he can oversee, and the man’s efforts to start a conversation. He could see she glanced around nervously from time to time, but by and large sat still, slowly sipping her drink, seeming to try and ignore the man's attempts to strike up a conversation, clearly uncomfortable with the way he was looking her up and down.
When he returned, he walked up behind her, pushed his hands into her hair at the back of her head, pressing it forward and kissed and nibbled roughly at the back of her neck. She purred her approval and appreciation. He raised his head up, buried his nose in her hair, and moved his hands to her shoulders. She reached over and moved her pocketbook from the stool next to her, where she had placed it to save him a seat, and put it up on the bar. He stood up straight, and walked further down the bar and took a seat. He sat down three stools over, settled in, and looked back at a very confused and frustrated little girl. He turned sideways in his seat, so his legs and body faced her, and she moved in her seat as if to start to get up and come to him. He put his hand up and gestured to her to stay put where she was; he just continued to look her over. He noticed her frustration, but also how exposed she was in her short dress, tucked up even further than comfortable, how his hands had tousled her hair, and the rosy bright pink glow of arousal and embarrassment on her cheeks. He got the attention of the bartender and ordered a drink.
As he sat there, a man came up to the bar and moved to one of the stools between the two of them. He was amused at the potential predicament that would be created when the man sat down at one of the stools, effectively blocking/breaking the connection between the two of them. The man stood there, looking from one side to the other, seeming to notice the connection between them, puzzled by the distance. As it turned out, he was simply asking for change for a phone call and within a couple minutes had moved on, leaving the open space and emptiness between them.
When the man left, he picked up his drink and moved back down to the stool beside her and sat down, and she reached over and hugged him, clearly happy to leave those disconnected moments in the past. He turned toward her, and she turned full toward him, and they sat sideways in their stools, with their knees interlaced with each other. He continued to move his hand idly up and down her thighs as they talked and felt the warm of her legs against his palm. He noticed that his continuous attention and the effects of the alcohol were showing more and more in her eyes, the smile on her face and the tempo of her breathing. It was evident that her arousal was growing. He leaned over to her and asked, "Where would you like to go next?" Her reply was simple and straight forward, "Anywhere, away from all of these people, somewhere we can be alone." He laughed, and called the bartender over to settle the tab. And off they went.
Holding her arm, he escorted her out the doors of the Gold Coast to the courtyard, and on toward the parking garage. He shifted his hold from her arm back to her wrist, and he felt her bristle for a moment. He glanced down at her with a questioning look in his eyes. He saw her expression change and she settled into stride as they walked out to the car. He unlocked the passenger door for her, and was thinking about using the ropes to bind her again, but grinned as another idea took over.
He opened her door, but before she could get in, he pulled her back slightly and moved past her. He sat down on the edge of the seat himself, with his legs out of the car, and taking her hands, pulled her close, up between his knees. He put his hands on the outsides of her thighs and moved them up under her dress until he felt her cotton-covered hips. He looked up at her and smiled, and hooked his fingers into the elastic of the leg bands, twisted them in his grip and pulled her panties down over her thighs, past her calves and down to her ankles. Instinctively, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder and lifted first one foot, and then the other - so he could remove them completely. He placed them under the passenger seat, looked out at her and could clearly see her, silhouetted through her dress with the sun back-lighting her.
Taking her hands to balance himself, he rose up out of the seat, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, moved a hand on the back of her head and held her to him. He felt her arms move around his waist and onto the small of his back and they stood in a quiet embrace, while his hands felt the now smooth and unclad contours of her bottom.
After a couple minutes he turned, guided her into the car seat, helped her with the seat belt and closed the door. He went around and got into the car also. He reached over and hooked his hand in the back of her far knee, pulled and twisted her in the seat so her knees were facing him, half up on the cushion, semi-sideways. He pushed his hand well up between her thighs, and she moved her legs to accommodate his presence.
He pulled out of the hotel, crossed over the freeway and drove up the strip slowly, enjoying the scenery. He continued to play with her legs, teasing and tempting her, moving his hand further up between her thighs, particularly when they were stopped at a light and there was a swirl of pedestrians around the car, many of them looking in and staring at the scene within. Several times she urged him to move his hand, but he was intent on tempting the glances of pedestrians at crowded intersections. Several times she shivered and moaned as his rough finger pressed all the way up onto her.
When they finally covered the distance up the strip, crossing over into the old downtown area, nearly an hour had passed. He could see she clearly was feeling the effects of his constant touch, the teasing, and the embarrassment and humiliation of having had so many onlookers glancing in on their seemingly private activities in such a public way. Finally, they pulled into the Fitzgerald's valet parking, and he went around to help her out of the car, to see she had turned in her seat and had her legs half out of the car, her dress still hiked up as he had pushed it, and her knees were an unladylike distance apart. A 20-something valet was standing in front of her gawking. Yes, he thought, she is gorgeous, and sultry looking, and she was being very provocative with the boy. He stood and watched for a minute, then stepped between them, offered her his hand, and lifted her out of the car.
He once again took her by the wrist and they walked through the first casino, out onto, and up the length of Fremont Street, to the Golden Nugget. The entire distance, as had been the case at breakfast, they drew more curious glances from people who noticed how he held her and guided her along, as she seemed to walk a half step behind him, appearing to almost be pulled along.
They walked into the casino, past the barkers and players club hustlers and found their way to the bar, a beautiful old massive, dark wood bar back and marble bar top. He pulled out one of the bar stools for her, gave her a hand up onto the stool and placed his hand on the inside of her thigh. She immediately responded by letting his hand in and she adjusted the hem of her dress up further and further as his hand measured the spot for her, far beyond where she was comfortable, but she complied. He stood beside her until the bartender arrived; he ordered her a gin and tonic, and then asked for directions to the restrooms. "Wait here, very quietly," he said, as he excused himself. He went off in the direction of the mens room, and looking back, he noticed the middle aged man sitting on the other side of her giving her several glances, and he seemed to be looking to start a conversation.
He grinned to himself, imagining her discomfort with the attention from this stranger, and turned and walked away. When he came out he decided to kill a few minutes, looking in at the blackjack tables, but from a position where he can oversee, and the man’s efforts to start a conversation. He could see she glanced around nervously from time to time, but by and large sat still, slowly sipping her drink, seeming to try and ignore the man's attempts to strike up a conversation, clearly uncomfortable with the way he was looking her up and down.
When he returned, he walked up behind her, pushed his hands into her hair at the back of her head, pressing it forward and kissed and nibbled roughly at the back of her neck. She purred her approval and appreciation. He raised his head up, buried his nose in her hair, and moved his hands to her shoulders. She reached over and moved her pocketbook from the stool next to her, where she had placed it to save him a seat, and put it up on the bar. He stood up straight, and walked further down the bar and took a seat. He sat down three stools over, settled in, and looked back at a very confused and frustrated little girl. He turned sideways in his seat, so his legs and body faced her, and she moved in her seat as if to start to get up and come to him. He put his hand up and gestured to her to stay put where she was; he just continued to look her over. He noticed her frustration, but also how exposed she was in her short dress, tucked up even further than comfortable, how his hands had tousled her hair, and the rosy bright pink glow of arousal and embarrassment on her cheeks. He got the attention of the bartender and ordered a drink.
As he sat there, a man came up to the bar and moved to one of the stools between the two of them. He was amused at the potential predicament that would be created when the man sat down at one of the stools, effectively blocking/breaking the connection between the two of them. The man stood there, looking from one side to the other, seeming to notice the connection between them, puzzled by the distance. As it turned out, he was simply asking for change for a phone call and within a couple minutes had moved on, leaving the open space and emptiness between them.
When the man left, he picked up his drink and moved back down to the stool beside her and sat down, and she reached over and hugged him, clearly happy to leave those disconnected moments in the past. He turned toward her, and she turned full toward him, and they sat sideways in their stools, with their knees interlaced with each other. He continued to move his hand idly up and down her thighs as they talked and felt the warm of her legs against his palm. He noticed that his continuous attention and the effects of the alcohol were showing more and more in her eyes, the smile on her face and the tempo of her breathing. It was evident that her arousal was growing. He leaned over to her and asked, "Where would you like to go next?" Her reply was simple and straight forward, "Anywhere, away from all of these people, somewhere we can be alone." He laughed, and called the bartender over to settle the tab. And off they went.
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