My want is to worship you, to serve and obey you, to always put your needs above mine. You are my superior. You are strong, intelligent, sensitive and compassionate. You are Woman and you are beautiful.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

To be or not to be

As I'm no longer in a wife-led marriage, it's difficult for me to blog about the topic any more. I still enjoy reading other blogs on the subject but, due to the failure of my own marriage, I no longer feel qualified to provide an insight or advice on the subject.

Since V and I split up I've had a couple of short-term relationships but they haven't worked out.

There was one Mistress who advertised for a house servant, primarily to clean. I applied for the job and got it. It was good to be able to serve a Mistress again. Unfortunately we weren't compatible.

Since then I've been corresponding online with a professional Domme but, again, it seems we're not compatible as she's only interested in a professional relationship whereas I'm more interested in developing friendship and a personal connection which only a true relationship can provide. Yes, I'll admit it. I want a long-term relationship with someone I can fall in love with, and who loves me. Unfortunately, professional Dommes just don't fit that bill. It's not what she wants, and what she wants doesn't appeal to me.

I still find her very attractive, interesting, intelligent and insightful. In fact, she's everything I'd want in a partner. I think we have a lot in common. In addition, she loves the kink and has a huge range of BDSM interests. Unfortunately for me, she has no interest in a social partner. It's strictly professional.

This leads me to the question of where I go from here. Should I continue to search for a Femdom life partner or is that unrealistic? Should I be satisfied with paying for services rendered? Or should I look for someone outside the scene and abandon my Femdom fantasies?

I've met a couple of nice women on vanilla dating sites. There's one in particular who is interested in me as a person and is receptive to an ongoing relationship. I haven't made that commitment yet, but I enjoy her company and find her attractive. We talk regularly on the phone (at least every 2 days) and meet up for dinner etc. once every couple of weeks. The problem is she lives about 100 kilometers from me so the opportunity to see each other regularly is difficult.

I've mentioned to her that I like strong women. She said it was brave of me to say that, because most men wouldn't make such a comment. But I don't want to blow it by suggesting anything kinky. I don't think Femdom is her natural persuasion.

So what do I do? It's not that easy to find a compatible Domme as most submissives will testify. But I'm lonely and don't enjoy living on my own. I want another partner and it's much easier to find a vanilla partner than a Domme.

And if I do happen to find a vanilla partner, will I be satisfied? I really don't know.

On the one hand, this is my last opportunity to find someone right - to find a strong woman who is happy to explore a Femdom lifestyle. But how to find her? Is it realistic? Where are they all?

To be a sub or not to be, that's the question!

Thursday, July 7, 2011

My Mistress Commands

I'm asking for a favour. My current, beautiful Mistress Eve has set me an assignment.

This is it:

"If you find it personally satisfying to serve, I want you to find a number and variety of resources on service orientated submission and explore them. Pages, lists, groups, pornography, etc. I want you to enjoy that and explore it and report back to me in the following days (take your time, speed is not of the essence) on what you have enjoyed/learned/found/remembered."

Any assistance would be appreciated.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Is that a Light Ahead?

Most of the tenants had been living there for years. They’d become institutionalized.

We received a cooked meal every evening, although “cooked” sometimes meant baked beans on toast. Sometimes we received stew, other times sausages and mash. Once a week we received a roast. A highlight was when the local Church members would arrive on a Sunday and cook a barbecue for us. Sausages, hamburgers, onions, salad, bread and soft drink.

We had a television in the common room, although it was pointless to try and choose a channel. The majority vote was to watch cartoons or soaps.

In the corridors there were abandoned bits of broken furniture and old, stained mattresses. No one seemed to be in charge of rubbish removal and the litter steadily accumulated as the weeks went by.

Once you hit rock bottom, there’s only one way to go. I still had a mind, even if it was fractured. I’d been knocked down. It was now time to get back up. I owed it to my kids, my friends and myself. Unlike the other tenants in this boarding house, I had a choice. I could escape if I put my mind to it.

I finally came to believe there’s a light at the end of this tunnel. My first task was to find one client and therefore an income.

It didn’t take me long before I had a single client who was prepared to pay a reasonable monthly fee.

On the basis of that I rented a comfortable, renovated house close to the city centre and set up my business from there. A home-based business with a staff of one – me.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Rock Bottom

One of the most emotional moments at the psych ward was the first time I saw my kids as they walked down the corridor towards me. The moment I saw them I started crying and couldn’t stop. We all hugged and I just kept on bawling my eyes out. The kids said they’d never seen me cry before. I don’t know why, because I’m a sucker for sad movies. They became regular visitors and got to know many of the other “inmates”.

After about four weeks I was told I could look forward to leaving. Questions arose about where I would live and how I would support myself. Would my wife accept me back? No. Did I have a place to stay? No. Did I have an income? No. Did I have any savings? No.

Finally, it was agreed I should be transferred to a men’s boarding room. Ironically, living in a boarding room had been one of my greatest fears! Now that fear was about to be realized. I’d hit rock bottom.

The boarding house itself was an old converted mansion which was tired and neglected. The large original rooms had been converted into small cells 12 feet by 10 feet. They were dark and gloomy with linoleum floors, a single metal bed, a small wardrobe and a small table with a mini fridge underneath. That was it. The tenants were former homeless men, most with mental issues.

V helped me move in – not a huge task given I only had one suitcase. She was appalled at the conditions but assured me it was only a temporary measure. “I’d be back on my feet in no time.”

V asked if I wanted any personal pieces of furniture from home. Perhaps my antique wall clock or a small chair. No, there was nothing I could add to this room to make it a “home”. Instead, I stuck up a couple of the bad oil paintings I’d painted in the psych ward as part of my rehabilitation. One was of an icecream which I’d titled “I Scream”. One was of an ocean inlet with yachts tied to buoys.

In a way, I find this writing experience cathartic. I’ve never written it down until now.

That’s all for today. I’m exhausted. I’ll talk soon. Thank you for reading my story.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Back (Chapter Two)

The first few days in the psych ward were a haze. I don’t remember much about them, other than the constant screaming and crying which went all through the night from adjoining rooms. It was impossible to sleep through the night, despite the medication.

V came to visit me regularly, bringing me sweets, newspapers, books and cigarettes.

I was scared of the other person sharing my room. He mumbled constantly and never looked me in the eyes. Later I found he had been receiving electro shock treatment on a weekly basis for the past six weeks.

V spoke to the head nurse and asked that I be moved to another room. She was impeccably dressed as usual, and looked a million dollars. This, in turn, worked in my favour.
At first the nurse explained that she couldn’t play favorites and that everyone was equal within the ward. V stood her ground and said that I was a very different person to the other patients: I wasn’t a drug addict. I’d had a successful career. I had a loving family. I was used to the finer things in life and, despite the fact that I’d always had private health insurance, I’d failed to make the payments in the past few months which was why I was in a public ward. Finally, they agreed to place me in a single room, although they stressed that this was highly unconventional. Usually these rooms were reserved for the hard cases who were often strapped to their beds.

I remember the first afternoon I lay on my new bed. I looked at the walls and ceiling and noticed concentrated splatters of blood on both. Later, when I was packing my underwear and socks in a drawer, I noticed a fine white powder which I assumed to be washing detergent. Mindful that I didn’t want my underwear to be covered in powder, I removed the drawer and emptied the substance. I then thought to taste it and I’m pretty sure it was some sort of narcotic – what, I don’t know.

The rooms themselves were very basic. Linoleum floors, an open wardrobe, a metal bed and no hooks to hang anything on. The communal bathroom was disgusting and the showers were cold (there was a problem with the water heater).

In time, over the following weeks, I developed a great affinity with the other patients. I came to think of them as friends and felt a great deal of compassion for the hard lives they had experienced. Their lives were truly tragic.

For the most part, they were hard core drug addicts, bi-polar, psychotic or a mixture of all three.

They began to confide in me and called me “poppa” due to the fact that I was older than most. They told me their stories and it made me cry.

In fact, just recalling it makes me cry now. I’m finding it very hard to write this blog.

There was Beckie, who was 24 and had five children. Her previous defacto had murdered her eldest child. Her latest boyfriend had kidnapped her for a week, strapped her to the bed, and allowed his friends to use her as they wished. After that she lived on the streets as a prostitute before being admitted to the ward due to a drug and psychotic episode.

There was Dianne who was a 66 year old aboriginal grandmother who’d been admitted 27 times for psychotic behavior. Di loved to swear and every second word started with f. She had a wonderful sense of humour but could become extremely violent at any moment. In fact, on one occasion I played a joke on Di which didn’t go particularly well. “In my room,” said Di, “the fire sprinklers are directly above my bed, whereas in all the other rooms, they’re above the door. Why are the sprinklers in my room above my bed?” “Well,” I said “that’s because they’ve inserted a spy camera in your sprinklers so they can look directly down on you when you’re in bed, so be careful when you masturbate.” The trouble was that Di believed me and was quite agitated for some time afterwards. On another occasion I asked her who she thought would win the next political election. “I’m a fucking schizophrenic so I think they’ll both win,” she said.

There was quiet, lovable Edward who wrote poetry and played the guitar and piano. He’d been there for four months on this occasion and five months the year before.

There was Anne Marie who had been on heroin since the age of 10. Her parents introduced her to it and used her as a guinea pig to see if the drug was OK to inject.

There was Netti who, at 21, was a well known classical pianist who had appeared in concert and on television. She lived for most of her life in institutions. She was very quiet and beautiful.

There were many others, but I won’t bore you here. It’s a sad fact that most people don’t understand mental illness. I certainly didn’t until it was forced on me. Yet if we scratch the surface of those people who outwardly show signs of mental illness, whether it be psychosis, bi-polar, depression or whatever, we often find loving and compassionate individuals who desperately seek to be normal and accepted.

Here ends the sermon for the day!

While in the nut house I was concerned about my business and, of course, my staff. V went to my accountant and it was agreed he would wind the business up and try to salvage whatever he could. Employees received redundancy payments and the business was dissolved. I was now broke and had no income.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Back ... Battered, Bruised and Broke But Still Standing

After three years, I’m finally able to confront my demons and resume my blog. I hope you find it of some value.

In late 2006 I embarked on a wife led marriage. At the same time I established this blog. Many people have since followed my trials and tribulations. In a sense, it became a social experiment and, for many followers of this blog, it was a study in sociology of a Femdom marriage, and whether such a married relationship could be “constructed” by a sub.

For those of you who recall my initial blog entries, I was full of hope and determination at the time. I believed V and I could develop a female led marriage which would suit us both.

But, as my latter posts suggests, I was in a bad mental state towards the end of our marriage. As subsequent events would confirm, I was in a state of clinical depression, but without receiving medical treatment.

The Global Financial Crisis was having a major bearing on my business in 2008. Clients were drying up. Cashflow was at an all-time low. I was borrowing money against our house to support the business. Debts were mounting as each week passed. Salaries still had to be paid, office rent and overheads still had to be met. I was loathe to lay anyone off. My employees were like family, and they had their own financial pressures to deal with.

As I recall, the final straw came one day in my car on the way home from work. First, I received a phone call from the taxation department. Any call from the tax department is a stressful experience and, on this occasion, they were demanding immediate payment of company back-taxes or legal action would be initiated.

Two minutes later I received a call from the Child Support Agency which, in this country, is responsible for collecting child support payments from divorced parents. I was three months late with my own payments. When was I going to provide the arrears? My children had all been well cared for and their mother – my first wife - was financially comfortable. For the past 25 years, she had never needed to work and was a stay-at-home mum, living in a fully-paid for five bedroom house in one of the better suburbs of this city.

I don’t really recall all the details of my conversation with the Child Support Agency but I recall them transferring me to another department. Next I was talking to a psychology counselor who reassured me and told me not to worry about anything for now. I realized I must have been acting strangely on the phone. Why else would they transfer me to a psych counselor?

By the time I got home, I was a babbling wreck. All strength and resistance had been drained from my mind and body. In the following weeks I lost all motivation. I won’t go into detail but, basically, I couldn’t sleep. I found it hard to get up in the morning. It was a struggle to go to work.

To top it off, my marriage to V was at breaking point, partly as a result of financial pressures, my mental state and our sexual incompatibility.

The final breakup is painful. Even now. V asked me to move out again. She’d had enough.

I moved in with my mother who I get along with in small doses, but I knew from the outset that living with mum was a big mistake. She constantly criticized V and suggested I wasn’t strong. I should move back home and kick her out. Living with my mother was the worst environment I could be in at the time and did nothing to improve my mental depression.

Two weeks later I had a total breakdown. I was admitted to hospital and the following day I was transferred to the psych ward.

If you’ve never experienced a public psych ward, I can assure you that comparisons with “One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” are not over-stretching things. It appeared to me at the time that this would be one of the last places you would put someone suffering depression! If I wasn’t depressed before, my experiences in the psych ward would certainly make me depressed going forward. I spent the next month in this hell hole.

I’m going to take a break now because I’m finding this harder to write than I thought I would.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Taken for Granted

I haven’t posted for a while because there hasn’t been a lot to say. I guess it’s patently apparent from my recent reflections that openly acknowledged Female Authority is not working in our relationship, so I’ve taken a step back.

V is obviously aware that I still entertain submissive obsessions but chooses to ignore them. And I’ve learnt to restrain from any reference to FLR, as hard as that is to keep in check.

Besides, V is far too busy studying and working to give any thought to my sexual fantasies....or to sex at all for that matter!

So I’ve settled down to my old ways – the days before I tried to initiate a female led marriage. I browse the internet, join chat groups, read other blogs and fantasize about relationships with other women.

If I’m walking the street, I’ll try to spot women I think might be dominant. Can you pick a Domme in the street? I don’t know, but some women certainly display that aura.

On Saturday night we had some friends over for dinner. I did all the preparation, cooking and cleaning up. Without wishing to brag, I was an excellent chef, maƮtre d' and sommelier.

V didn’t lift a finger and it felt good to play the role of the dutiful servant. Throughout the night V treated me as little more than a staff attendant, virtually dismissing me as someone outside the social gathering.

On the whole, V still expects me to provide her with a high level of service. She still expects me to clean the house, make the bed, do the laundry, cook the meals and tidy up afterwards. She still demands a certain obedience.

I guess, in many ways V is indicating that she’s the head of the household, and she is demonstrating her authority over me. She’s comfortable in that role now – far more so than she was before.

The other day she said: ”It’s all well and good you doing what I tell you, but you don’t show enough self-initiative. I shouldn’t have to tell you to do the washing. You should think to do it for yourself.”

So, in some respects our marriage IS evolving into a Femdom relationship. It’s just that there’s no excitement in it, no sexual charge.

God forbid if I say it, but I DON’T FEEL APPRECIATED. Rather, I feel used and abused. Taken for granted. Ironically, there’s an unsettling analogy here with the commonly expressed feelings of those dutiful housewives in the 1950’s and 60’s. Interesting.