Janes Jaunts

OMG ! Its nearly SIX Years

2011-03-10T09:32:00.003Z

I have just been taking another look at my old blogs and I see the last one was posted in 2005. Ouch !

When I said it had been four years since I last wrote here, I had a feeling that was optimistic as I kind of recalled travelling across Australia in 2007, a journey that, thanks to my habit of following my nose into the most remote places, took five months. It also got me monster blisters (walking), sore butt and thighs (riding) and a bush hat that I even wore at night, pulled down over my face to prevent it getting bitten by assorted flying nasties in the Outback.

And why was I making my way across Oz the hard way? My Lord and Master thought I would find it interesting and, as he had to return to Europe for family and business reasons, he cut me loose in Darwin with enough money to keep a Bangkok beggar in rice for 24 hours, telling me to e-mail him when I got to Sydney. The fact that I did make it to Sydney without being killed, raped or beaten up, says more about the hospitality and kindness shown by the people I met on my 5 month trip than it does about my ability to survive in often trying circumstances.

So that's what I was really doing when I had thought I was still blogging here. In fact I see my last posting was done during my brief return from The Island, written when I was in love, blissfully happy but trying to pretend that things were tougher than they really were. It's a strange characteristic of mine that, when things are tough, I pretend they are great and life is fantastic. And, when things are fantastic, I look for little things to complain about, or I categorically refuse to accept how happy I really am.

Am I self-delusional or just a typical woman? I really don't know and, to be frank, I don't really care. I am Jane and thats good enough for me.

Would you believe that within two hours of posting my "I am home" earlier today, I got an e-mail from an old friend who is a lurking blogger. She is a lovely lady; another self-confessed subbie and someone I have felt close to since we met here long ago. Her life has been smoother than mine - she is now married with a two-year old daughter and a husband who does not forget he is The Boss, much to her delight - but I am not sure whether I could have taken the route she has in marrying her Master. (Not that I was ever asked.............. LOL)

However she asked what had happened to my ballet ambitions. So, Jenny and everyone else, they died because of a miriad of reasons, the second biggest being that you need to be incredibly single-minded to be a ballet dancer and be ready to give up all sorts of things that most people think of as normal such as three meals a day, living without pain 24/7, not having to do the same endless repetitions of the same exercises seven days a week. But most problematical for me personally, if I had have tried seriously to go back to dancing it would have meant turning my back on a lifestyle that I was addicted to. And I knew that, if I had restarted my ballet career, the odds were that I would go running back to my Master within weeks, maybe within days. And that, by then, there might be some other girl kneeling at his feet. That prospect terrified me............................

Some people thought me mad, but it was a decision I have never regretted for more than a few seconds at a time. There was certainly no guarantee that I would ever be as good as I was at the age of 17 or 18, and the years that I had missed would have meant that I had metaphorically 'missed the boat' and that I would never get to the top in one of the major companies. Once I had been fiendishly ambitious but, by the time I was physically ready to go back to dancing, the old flames of ambition were just dying embers, so I put aside thought of returning to ballet and accepted that it had all been a wonderful dream.

So, Jenny, there is your answer. It may seem inadequate but there is no need to cry for a lost career - I did that enough after the crash when I thought I was going to lose at least one leg and might not even be able to walk again. Now I can walk, run and dance; yes, I am one lucky bitch !

Hugs
Jane

Me ! Yes, I am back

2011-03-10T08:10:00.003Z

Hi everyone

(IF anyone is still reading my blogs which, given the time I have been silent, seems unlikely!)

After four years on the road, so as to speak, I am back in the UK to set up a base here although my business and my apartment are in Switzerland. Put simply I am older but probably no wiser, a little (very little) more cynical, but still essentially me - the same over-enthusiastic subbie who once long ago wrote about her life in these blogs.

Naturally a lot of things have changed and I have been doing some growing up, although my 'preferences' remain the same and I still haven't really settled down and become a particularly respectable citizen. I never did get back to ballet and, instead, I earn my crust through running a small specialised recruitment business for a handful of clients around Europe. My partner is wheelchair bound so I do the leg work and he sits behind the computer, doing the real work.

For much of my time away, I earned a crust at writing. Mainly magazine articles but I have a 9/10th completed book which has been accepted for publication IF I can ever get round to finishing it.

This really isn't a blog; it's more like a pebble thrown into a pond to see if its ripples are noticed by anyone. It would be lovely to hear from my old friends on Blogger but, checking their pages, many seem to have moved on or are keeping their profiles private. Ah well, tempus fugit.

Anyway I DO hope you are fine and still around and blogging. If you are, do let me know when you have a moment.

For now I'll just send you all BIG hugs

Jane

The Island

2005-12-17T14:39:00.000Z

I’ve been back in London for just over 24 hours now and I am still finding the hustle and bustle just a trifle scary after the peace of the island and the slow pace of life there. But this blog isn’t supposed to be about coming home - instead it should be filling in the yawning gap since my last entry back in June, which I wrote just after I spent a weekend with Alan for the first time. ("Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, Pt 1" covers that episode. Part 2 never got written..........)

So where do I start?

I am no Marcel Proust and I don’t have the skill to do justice to the minutiae of my life, so I’ll just say that, when Alan rang me later that week in June and asked if I was prepared meet his conditions and to go and live with him, I said "Yes!"

My heart was in my mouth when I answered him, but I had spent all the time since returning to Oxford thinking about his offer - well, virtually all the time, as I did snatch some sleep during that interregnum. Not much, but some. However Alan sounded calm and just asked me if I was sure. I answered "Yes" again.

"Alright," he said. "I want you to get a notepad, a reliable pen and to take down a list of things I want you to do. When I say I want you do so something in future, it means you WILL do that thing. That’s understood, I trust."

It was.

He then dictated a long list of things for me to do, ranging from leasing out my part of the house I used to share (he even had the name of an agency who were expecting a call from me and who ultimately did resolve the matter, swiftly and efficiently), to a list of the clothes I could need over the next few months. Possibly the most difficult thing he asked (ordered) me to do was to negotiate an indefinite time away from my studies. Thankfully the long summer break was just about due and I was able to arrange things. Other things were simpler, like the list of stationery he wanted me to buy, and making sure that I had a suitable battery charger for my lap top which would run off a generator (all details supplied.................) and that I also had spare batteries in case one failed. Finally he wanted details of my bank account so he could have funds transferred into it to ensure I could afford to pay for everything on my by now long list.

Only when he had finished dictating the ‘Must Dos’ did he get round to telling me more about why all those things were necessary. Put simply, Alan had a book that he’d been commissioned to write and, if he could get it to his publishers by the end of the year, he’d earn himself a fat bonus and would stand to gain another, even more lucrative, commission for 2006. Knowing that it would be impossible to write the book in that time if he was working, he had arranged to take a sabbatical and was flying out to the Maldives where he could guarantee peace and quiet and the right conditions for writing. (Later it emerged that he had written an earlier book on the island which had become his favourite place for such work.)

So, one week later, I was at London Airport, with just one suitcase, a back pack of stationery and computer peripherals, my lap top, and a feeling of intense excitement that was off-set by my stomach churning with nerves. From London, we flew to Delhi and then down to Colombo. Two hours after landing in Sri Lanka we were on our way to the Maldives and to ‘the aircraft carrier’, the island-airport off Malé, the capital. From there we flew by sea plane to Dhdhdhoo (yes, that is how you spell it) one of the largest (i.e. tiny) islands in the Thiladhunmathi Atoll group, the most northern of the atolls. From the landing stage at Dhdhdhoo, we clambered onto the little motor launch that took us the 30 kms to ‘our’ island.

Next morning I woke up in a palm leaf-roofed hut, the endless blue expanse of the Indian Ocean separated from our basic but comfortable bed by a small veranda and by 20 metres of gleaming white-gold beach. I also woke up to the sound of Alan telling me to get up, as he wanted to show me round our island and make sure I knew my ‘duties’ before he started his first day’s work.

Utterly jet lagged, I stood up and wondered what the hell I was doing in a really minuscule island (210 metres long and 85 wide), virtually alone with a man who I barely knew, stranded thousands of miles from home with a flimsy sarong as protection and a lap-top for a weapon. ‘Castaway’ it may not have been but, in that moment, I could not have felt more alone and utterly vulnerable. I remember breathing in a slow deep lungful of sea air and saying, "Okay, I am ready."

This isn’t the time or place to go into details, so I’ll just say the island was and is owned by a wealthy Italian friend of Alan’s, along with another and larger one just over half a mile away. Sometimes some of the owner’s friends would stay at one of the other huts but, more often than not, we were alone on the island and we spent the last two months without any company, except for the occasional fisherman coming ashore to sell us fish or just to see how we were getting on.

The island comprises of three huts, one kept for storage, and a lean-to sometimes used by visiting fishermen. There is a primitive jetty, the obligatory reef, a temperamental generator, and precisely 17 palm trees (I am on first name terms with each of them), some scrubby bushes, and.............................

Umm, I am sure you don’t want to know about the sewage disposal arrangements or how it takes nearly two hours to hand pump the none too large fresh water tank full when the water wagon (a converted mini-landing craft) arrives. Nor will the joys(?) of cooking with an overgrown camping stove be of much interest to anyone, nor will be the planning of menus when all food and drink, other than speared fish from the reef, comes from the mother island which, itself, never seemed to be exactly awash with fresh food. Nor will be the hours spent trying to get the outboard motor attached to our little boat to start. Nor will the long row to the mother island when the motor stayed silent, sulkily seeping petrol into the sea after I’d cleaned the plug for the 12th time. Nor of being bitten by vicious little bugs when I tried to repair the roof after the first August rains. Nor of my doing the wrong thing at the wrong time and bursting into tears of frustration and misery at my ineptitude.

What will probably be of more interest will be the tales of getting to know, deeply and intimately, the most fascinating man I have ever met. Of sitting at his feet in the moonlight as he explained his philosophy of life. Of swimming and diving with him, returning to the surface for him to tell me the names and natures of the fish we’d been watching. Of waking up in his arms. Of running naked along the beach every morning before the sun got too high, doing three miles before working out and then warming down with a swim in he crystal clear water of the little lagoon. Of trying to anticipate the moods and needs of the man who had come to dominate me and my life. Of realising that I could live happily with my body, scars and all, and of finding myself getting fitter and fitter. Of being in love and crying because I felt so happy and so much at peace.

There’s so much to tell and I have NO idea how I can ever record our months together on the island. I kept a diary, laughingly telling Alan that I’d post it as a delayed blog. But knowing that I never could. It’s too personal, too intense, too raw for anyone but my Lord, my Master, my Man to read.

Before I end this entry (lots more to come about the island and our relationship, I hope) I just wanted to say something. Some of you may have read my blog on Kneeling and Révérence; to those that have it might amuse you to know that I started and ended my days with Him with a révérence and that now doing one seems as easy and natural as a plié...........

Life can’t get much better than that !!

Love and hugs, Jane.

I am BACK !!

2005-12-16T17:11:00.000Z

IF I have any friends left here (and that isn't as stupid a condition as it might seem to be), I have to inform them that I am back...............

Okay, I am not standing centre stage, ready for the traditional shower of bouquets and a standing ovation. Instead I am more humbly standing in the wings, peeking out to see if anyone is still out there.

If there is someone still out there, I have to tell them that I have been in the Maldives for the last six months or so, living a life that has been a cross between paradise and hard labour. Himself has been writing a book while I have been struggling to get completely fit again (hard labour - ask any dancer what it's like to get up to speed again after a really loooong lay-off and, in my case, severe injury), while looking after Him and making sure that he could concentrate on his work (sheer joy!) I did come back to the UK briefly a few weeks ago to have a ver minor operation (out-patients) - just correcting a minor glitch left over from my crash. But it was a lightning visit, even though I had initially planned to stay longer than I did.

Anyway we are now home for Christmas (Thank You all for the e-cards that have already arrived: I will be answering them soon), and for him to see his publisher and me to allow the medics to prod me again. We are probably going back to the island in January but maybe not. It depends on a mass of things. In the meantime I am having to get used to wearing clothes again - I lived in a bikini bottom for most of the time on the island and sometimes not even in that. And I am also trying to come to terms with the weather and with being 'home'.

And, of course, having almost limitless access to the net and my blog and, more importantly, to those of my friends here. Needless to say there is a mass of things I have to do and people to see. But I hope to catch up at least part of the story since my last entry here. I feel I owe that to the patient people who have put up with my absense and have continued writing all the time. You know who you are, and THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart - you are all real pals and I love every one of you.

Got to go as I am being yelled at................. Nicely. LOL

Love and huggies to everyone. Jane

"Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered..........." Part 1

2005-06-20T17:00:00.000Z

First of all, many thanks to all my friends who wished me luck, both here and elsewhere. Secondly, my apologies for not reading your blogs for a couple of days and thirdly.......................... OMG, where do I start?

I'll go back to Saturday afternoon. Alan rang me about four to say that he'd be delayed slightly but NOT to worry - he would pick me up at 5.00 pm. And he did, his car stopping outside my front door exactly on time. He insisted in carrying my suitcase out to the car and in seeing me aboard safely, and off we went, fighting Oxford's , admittedly moderate, weekend rush hour. Alan has an Audi which he drives incisively but without drama, never apparently getting upset or excited, just using it as a well-tuned impliment to get from A to B. On the journey which took about 80 minutes door to door, we talked about all sorts of things, ranging from the crisis in the European Union through to the best way to cook haddock.

I has started off genuinely scared that I was being really foolish in accepting Alan's invitation; after all, all I knew about him came via Mark and also I had no idea what he was expecting of me. In addition it was the hottest weekend of the year and I'd no idea what he was planned for Sunday (or, for that matter, Saturday night) By the time we stopped outside his house in South London, I was really no further on either in knowing my host nor in finding out what he had planned. But I had enjoying talking to him during our trip, and he had made me think as well as making me luahg a good few times.

His house was just off Richmond Common, three bedrooms, one converted into his study, a small garden, and set in a quiet street. By the time we arrived the temperature was still near the 90s and, as very few houses in London have air conditioning, I thought it was going to be pretty hot inside after the cool within the Audi. But, although it had been shut up for a few days (maybe because of it), the interior was delightfully cool. Mark showed me the spare room, with its bed made up, and left me to unpack and freshen up, telling me that he'd be in the living room when I was ready. Five minutes later I walked in there and immediately I sensed a change in the atmosphere. Mark, in his own domain, in total control. He gave me a glass of chilled white wine, sat me down and started talking. And I just listened. And listened.

It's not up to me to tell anyone else in detail what he said. I'll just say that it was primarily about himself, his past, his now long defunct marriage, his friendship with Mark, how Mark asked him to keep an eye on me, and how he had left me to my own devices for some time before contacting me, and the reasons why. He was, as far as I could tell, open about himself and about a long term affair which had ended shortly before Mark and I broke up.

It was strange sitting there, feeling I had walked into a lion's den and finding that the lion possessed enough self-confidence not to jump on me, but instead wanted me to feel near relaxed in his cave, keeping his claws well sheathed. (Okay, bad analogy, but I wasn't thinking too straight then and it was all my befuddled brain could come up with.) So I sat there in this big leather armchair, letting my wine go warm in its glass and remaining silent until, after maybe three-quarters of an hour, he just said.

"That's more than enough about me. Now you have a choice. Either we just go out, have a pleasant supper like old friends, you sleep in the spare room and then, in he morning, I'll drive you back to Oxford, and we'll just stay friends. Or you can make a leap of faith and trust me for the next 36 hours, going along with what I chose to do. All I will guarantee is that I won't rape you, won't force you to do anything you find objectionable, and will return you to normality at 9 am on Monday morning. Let me refill you glass while you decide."

(I don't guarantee those as being his actual words but they are close enough.)

Maybe five minutes later he came back in with a fresh glass of wine, and asked me if I had decided. I nodded.

"You'll stay until Monday?"

All I did was just say, "Yes."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

What happened after that will, in the main, stay between Alan and I. But he will be reading this blog, as he joined Blogger.com on Sunday, after he had read the blogs that I've posted here so far.

You see, it was my turn to talk after I had given him my answer and had agreed to spend the next 36 hours doing what he wanted me to do. Telling him all about myself was the first thing he demanded from me. The rest, as they say, is History.

I came back to Oxford on my own earlier today and I have until Thursday evening to make up my mind whether I want to take our relationship even further, or whether I want to stay out on my own. I know my answer, but He refuses to accept it until I have had plenty of 'thinking time'.

You'll see I have called this blog "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered..........." Part 1. The Part 1 aspect is because there has to be a follow-up blog in which I will try to rationally analyse the weekend and say why I feel my decision will be..................... (whatever) He will read it, just as he will be reading this one. And I am not sure if I find that fact terrifying or a delight.

I wish I could say more but I have been given specific parameters as to what i can and can't say here at this moment. Those may change and, in the meantime, thank you ALL for your support and kindness, and I hope you find Part 2 a more rewarding read than this blog.

Love to you all, jane.

It couldn't happen to me, could it?

2005-06-17T15:40:00.000Z

Last night I went out with a man. Just him and me. We met in the bar of the Randolph, Oxford’s swankiest hotel, strolled a few hundred yards to a pleasant restaurant where we ate and talked, and finished the evening off with a night-cap at the Eagle and Child (more commonly known as The Bird and Baby), the pub where C.S.Lewis and J.J.R.Tolkien used to do their drinking. Finally he got a cab and took me home, seeing me to my front door before disappearing back to the hotel.

And now I find myself sitting here, hoping the phone will ring and that it will be him, calling me to say how much he enjoyed our evening, or maybe to ask me out again sometime.

Alan, my companion last night, knows me through my dear ex-Master. They were at the same college at Cambridge, although Mark was in his last year as an undergraduate when Alan was a freshman: in consequence they only really became friends when they were both teaching at London University. But you could say they have known each other for virtually all of their adult lives. (Just in case someone feels like leafing through the academic register for London University, I should say that ‘Allan’ and ‘Mark’ are both pseudonyms. Incidentally, ‘Jane’ isn’t; that is my name……)

I don’t know if I was shocked or surprised when Alan rang me a week ago and said he was coming up to Oxford on academic business and would I like to have a drink with him and maybe catch a meal if I could spare the time. I accepted, although not without some trepidation as, since parting from Mark, I haven’t been out on a one-to-one date. Instead my social life has revolved around ‘The Girls’ or ‘The Gang’ and, if I am honest, I have to admit that even with them my social life was virtually non-existent. So last night was almost a step in the dark for me; really the first time I’ve been out on a proper date for four and a half years; since the day I first met Mark. So I felt I had to make an effort.

I normally live in jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie if it’s chilly. But, as Mark liked me to ‘dress-up’ when we went out, I actually own a reasonable wardrobe of respectable clothes, a lot of which have rarely been worn since Mark bought them for me. So last night, after making an effort to tidy up my hair (thankfully straight and relatively manageable), I dug out my favourite LBD (for the guys out there; LBD = Little Black Dress: every woman’s stand-by in times of indecision!), dusted down my black pashmina, actually managed to find some black tights and a pair of 2" heeled court shoes, and I was ready to go. Then I got a fit of nerves and spent half an hour convinced that I looked a mess and that I ought to:

1. Call the whole thing off. or
2. Change completely into a new outfit, or
3. Get the first available flight to Terra del Fuego.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the cab I had booked earlier turned up on time and I was forced to clamber into it and tell the driver to take me to the Randolph. As we reached the hotel and I was looking in my little bag for money to pay the driver, I realised that I hadn’t brought any cigarettes with me. Yes, it’s a filthy habit, I know, but I only smoke after sex (no chance there for ages!), or when I am totally stressed-out. Boy, did I need a fag at that moment.

Anyway, I blanked everything out, draped the pashmina tastefully about my shoulders and sashayed into the hotel in my best ballet dancer strut. You know something - I have only the most fleeting memories of that pre-dinner drink with Alan. I just hope I am not suffering from selective amnesia in an effort to blot out some hideous faux pas I committed when he was breaking the ice for me. (I am lousy at starting conversations, even with people I know fairly well; I either clam up and sit there looking like a sulky mute, or else I jabber on non-stop, embarrassing myself and everyone within hearing distance.)

Luckily things improved and I really began to enjoy his company over dinner. Like Mark, he is a highly intelligent, well read, and well informed guy. But what really had me on the edge of my seat, trying not to call him "Sir", was the fact that he, very politely and considerately, ordered for me. It was when I was looking down at a plate of lobster thermidore that it occurred to me that he already knew exactly what I liked in the way of food. Steak Diane, done medium rare, followed and he must have seen my expression as he laughed and said, "I remember what your taste on food was from the occasions I ate with you and Mark."

Umm…………….. I can only recall eating with him twice, and one of those occasions was a formal dinner where there as no choice in the menu.

But, by then I was enjoying myself too much to allow my suspicions to develop. But I was picking up on lots of evidence of ‘dominant behaviour’. The way he ordered for me was just one example; others were the care he took of me, how he just told me that we were going to the Eagle and Child without asking me if I’d like to go there. By ensuring that we had a quiet table in the corner there, and sitting me down so my chair wouldn’t be kicked or jostled by people walking past. And, when HE felt it was time to go, he found a cab and took me home without any of the usual discussion if I wanted to go home. He decided the evening was over, that was that.

When we got to the house that I share with two other girls, he escorted me to the front door, waited for me to open it before he said he had thoroughly enjoyed the evening, after which he just smiled and turned away, walking back to the cab without a backwards glance.

Afterwards, I realised that he had taken charge of our evening together from start to finish. I can’t remember making my mind up about anything; he did it for me, all the way to seeing me indoors at the end of our time together. Yet he was unfailingly polite, relaxed and a delight to be with. But………………….

Of course, I may be seeing giants instead of windmills but I have a hunch I spent last night with a calm, experienced dominant and, I feel sure, a man with enough self-confidence not to rush things. If he is what I think he is, I imagine that any game of cat and mouse will be played at his pace and to his rules. All I can do is to sit here and wonder if he IS the man I have been, almost reluctantly, hoping would appear in my life ever since Mark and I broke up.

You know what I did about an hour ago…………… I went through my cupboard and I sorted out what I think of as my Subbie Clothes. The somewhat prim blouses, longish skirts, demure jackets that Mark bought for me as he preferred me to be ‘discreetly dressed’ in public. I sorted out those things because I thought maybe I should check if any of them needed to go to the dry cleaners or to the laundry. Just in case………..

And now my stomach is in a knot, and I KNOW I am not going to sleep tonight. Last night I did somehow or other. Probably with an idiot grin on my face. But now that I have revisited last night’s events, my mind is whirling and I am starting to feel that oh so familiar tingle at my nerve ends. I feel vaguely nauseous and, at the same time, happy. Welcome back to Subbie-land, Jane !

I just wish that ******ing phone would ring……………

PS.. OMG…………… When I ran thorough this blog with my spell checker, it revealed that I had slipped back into typing each ‘I’ in lower case format. Now that is something I have not done for ages; not since Mark decided that it was an artificial and rather meaningless gesture towards submission. (I disagreed, but by that time I knew better than to argue with him. It would have been too painful to have stated my point after I had been told what he wanted, so I stayed silent and used upper case ‘I’ from then on!)

PPS. He has JUST rung and invited me to London for some of the weekend. He is due to finish his work here by tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll drive up to London after that. Oh hell, now I am TERRIFIED ! LOL

WATCH THIS SPACE !

Jane - Submissive, Masochist? Or What?

2005-06-14T10:51:00.000Z

For me, acting submissively, or being a submissive has never really caused me too much problem. I was brought up (bullied up, maybe) in a household where it was plain from the start that I was right at the bottom of the pecking order and, if I wanted to get through each day with the minimum of grief, my only choice was to be quiet, obedient and above all submissive to the demands of my ‘elders and betters’.

When I escaped from home and went to Ballet School, I learnt that, to be a success there, having talent was not enough - you also needed to be the perfect pupil and that meant listening and obeying, and deferring to anyone that bit older than yourself. Okay, they encouraged originality in work, but only within defined and power-set limits. Later, setting out on a career as a dancer, I had to submit to the slightest whim from directors, repetiteurs, ballet mistresses, etc. Tthen I had my crash and I had to defer to doctors and physiotherapists if I was every going to recover. So, by the time my first big relationship started I was nicely steam-rollered into submissiveness.

But that was okay. I was (and am) comfortable like that, and being submissive is a natural and perfectly acceptable state of affairs for me. Under certain terms and conditions, of course………………… My ‘training’ also toughened me, and made me aware that power can, and often does, corrupt and that not all powerful men make good dominants. Twice I have given myself to men, once when I was 18 and then when I reached the age of 20, after my first dominant had moved on.

To date, I have been incredibly fortunate as both my Masters have been understanding, generous in all ways, empathic, and have been concerned with my needs, almost to the extent of minimising their own. Both I have loved for their honesty and for their strength, for their patience and for the ability not to be fooled by my lies and evasions, and for the fact that both loved me enough to take me in as their Jane. Living with both could often be less than comfortable, but both taught me so much about myself and about the world around me. To be dominated by them, to be their submissive, was a privilege that I can never forget nor start to repay properly.

So I live with my submissiveness, not considering it to be a perversion or a ‘kink’ or to be something to be ashamed of or to hide. If some people don’t know that I am a submissive, it’s because I am sure that they would not want to understand, or just plain wouldn’t listen. Or because I can’t see why I should bother to explain to them about my inner feelings. A straight woman doesn’t explain to her grocer that she is secretly in love with Brad Pitt and masturbates thinking about him. Well, I don’t tell my grocer that I am a submissive, just as I don’t tell a lot of other people.
But, if I am happy and relaxed in the scope of my submissiveness, I have more trouble with another aspect of what makes Jane tick. And that is my masochism.

Okay, please give me a moment while I try to explain what I see as my masochism. At its simplest level, it is the fact that, up to a certain cut-off point, I get a genuine thrill from pain. And the threat of pain can be better than any foreplay known to Man as far as this girl is concerned. Some men find stroking a woman’s breasts to be an almost unbearable turn-on, some women find having their neck’s rubbed to be incredibly sexy. I just happen to find I react to the promise or threat of pain in the same way. But………………… The excitement, the ‘charge’, disappears if I know that my dominant is going to use pain to teach me a well deserved lesson; then all the thrill is replaced by cold, stomach churning dread.

So I have two separate and well defined reaction to pain; one that gives me intense pleasure, the other intense suffering as I am no hero (heroine!), and I am often thin-skinned and incredibly sensitive to pain. Just to confuse matters, the point at which pleasure turns to raw suffering is a movable feast; one day under one set of circumstances a mere spanking might push me right to the edge. Another time and I can take and enjoy a degree of pain that actually used to frighten my first Master. Mark, my second and longer-term Master, was more pragmatic, more inclined to enjoy finding out where my limit lay. But, regardless of that, he was scrupulous in not pushing me over that thin dividing line between pleasure and suffering if he was using my masochism to pleasure me.

Now that I am a ‘Roninne’ (my own silly feminine derivation of the Japanese word. 'Ronin’ - a Masterless samurai), I am genuinely interested in the mechanics and dynamics of my masochism. Masterless, there are times when I find myself wishing for pain, just as at times I bite the pillow and dream of the wonderful sex I have had in the past. But I don’t find myself tempted to inflicting pain on myself - to me it’s a waste of time unless someone I love and submit to inflicts it on me. My crash gave me enough meaningless, undeserved pain to last a lifetime, and I deal with that now by compartmentalising it away from masochistic pain inflicted on me by someone I love. (I have harmed myself just once; but that was long ago when, as an adolescent, I was experimenting with pain and just how much I could take. I learnt NOTHING from the experience!)

But, just when I thought I was beginning to understand my love affair with pain, I read what Danae wrote in one of her always challenging blogs.
http://danaewhispering.blogspot.com/

She wrote:
"I don't feel I am a masochist anymore. I used to be a huge masochist. I used to crave to feel the pain...I wanted to feel the feelings associated with the pain. I wanted to feel it rip through my flesh and open me up (sometimes literally and other times just metaphorically). And well now I don't get those types of cravings. I like pain. I like to do SM play with Master. I enjoy the pain Master gives me, but I just don't crave it. I don't need to feel it rip though my flesh. I like taking the pain for Him. So again I used to crave pain for pains sake, but now it is just not the same. I don't have those deep cravings like I did...I do enjoy taking the pain Master gives me. So not exactly sure what the makes me...I guess it just makes me -- ME!"

Possibly it was when she said, "I used to crave pain for pain’s sake, but now it’s just not the same," that I was forced to do a double-take and ask myself if the same applied to me. Had I, all along, just been enjoying what my Master chose to give to me, rather than, as Danae put it, enjoy the pain for its own sake? Maybe I am not a masochist; maybe I never was. Maybe I am just a submissive who accepts pain as she accepts corner time, wearing clothes selected by my Master, deferring to Him in all things, and……………… accepting pain because He wants me to.

The idea of being whipped or being made to suffer pain in a hundred other ways is still a turn-on, but is that just another pre-masturbatory fantasy? Or is it foreplay for something I am truly hooked on. I don’t know and I don’t think I will know until such time as I find a Master as understanding, ruthless and loving as Mark. Then perhaps we can both find the answer to this riddle.

I just hope and pray that day isn't too far away, as being a Roninne can sure get lonely and frustrating !

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Epilogue.
I have taken the advice to several sweet friends who have told me that I should make my blogs just for me. That’s what I have done in writing this latest one.

However after such a long piece of self-indulgence, I want to tell anyone who managed to stagger this far that I have found a new blog site which really intrigued me. I won’t spoil your pleasure by telling you too much about it, just saying that it’s written by a girl/young woman of my age. I found it utterly fascinating, and I hope you’ll find time to go there too, and enjoy it as much as I did. The blog is called "Patchouli and Diapers" and can be found at
http://chickouli.blogspot.com/
Have fun.

Kneeling and révérence.

2005-06-05T17:31:00.000Z

In the arcane world of classical ballet, when a female dancer takes applause she performs an ornate form of curtsey, called
révérence, as a gesture of thanking the audience for their appreciation. (Male dancers also make révérences although theirs are less ornate but still stylised forms of a bow.)

Also at the end of a 'proper' class, the final exercise that the dancers perform is a révérence. This time it is part of the class's structure, but is also the way that the dancers thank the ballet mistress for taking the class. So, in the many years I trained as a dancer, and during my brief professional career, performing a révérence became as normal a part of my life as doing pliés, and doing them was as natural as breathing.

I was doing a class on Saturday and, as the lady taking it is 'old school', we all finished it by performing a révérence, some hurriedly and carelessly, anxious to get back to 'real' life. But the old pros did theirs with grace and charm, giving up their thanks in a beautiful movement that has been seen on stage for over 200 years. Afterwards, as I picked up my towel, dragged off a sweat-soaked headband, and made my way on aching legs to the showers, I remembered the days
révérence had a very special meaning for me, and when its symbolism went far beyond the confines of ballet.

About four years ago, a few months after I moved in with Mark, we came to the conclusion that, although I was still basket case after my crash, it would be good for me to go along to a ballet class, even if all it meant was me hanging onto the barre for grim death and pretending to flex at the knees in a macabre abbreviation of a plié. I was fresh out of my wheelchair, still using crutches and scheduled for more operations to my legs to have plates removed. So my work in a class was strictly nominal but it enabled me to at least pretend that the crash hadn't totally destroyed me.

Mark used to take me to the studio for my class and one of the girls would run me home afterwards. But one day Mark's timetable allowed him to pick me up and he stood at the back of the studio watching the final moments of the class as I, at the other end of the room, clung onto the barre and watched as well. It was then that he saw all the men and women in the class make révérence at the end of the class. As we were driving home, he asked about it and I told him why we did that movement and when. He was getting me out of the car when he said,

"One day, I'll demand that you do that to me every time we part or when one of us thinks we need to underline your submissive role in our relationship."

From that moment on I had a real aim in my life; a new ambition whose limited scope matched my appalling physical condition. I wanted to make révérence to Mark, correctly, steadily and as perfectly as was possible. I ceased dreaming of performing massive Grands Jetés in Third Arabesque or of demonstrating perfect balances in the Rose Adagio, or stunning an audience with the perfection of my 32 fouettés in Act 3 of Swan Lake. Instead all I wanted to do was a passable
révérence in front of Mark.

I won't say it became an obsession but it was the element in my recovery that really spurred me on. I already felt inadequate because, at that stage, the state of my legs and specially of my right knee prevented me from kneeling to Mark as I so much wanted to do. All I could do was to hunker down in a particularly ugly squatting position that may have brought my head down to his waist level but which made me look like an under-nourished frog about to jump. And I could only stay down there for half a minute before my lgs gave out on me or the pain of the posture became too much. Mark, after a couple of times of seeing me attempting the impossible, in an act of commonsense and kindness, ordered me not to try it again.

My determination to do that simple révérence proved to be a turning point in my recovery. Up to that time I had been scared of hurting myself when doing my rehab exercises - my immediate recovery from the crash had convinced me that I'd suffered enough for one lifetime. But that révérence was different - for those who know anything about ballet, I should explain that the first part(pointe tendu a la seconde and step over) was okay; no problem. But the latter part of the movement - bending both knees, releasing the back foot and lowering the arms to demi-seconde with palms down - became a real battle and, when I curtseyed lower by deepening the plié with the head and back moved slightly forward, I more often than not ended up screaming.

I am not telling this story to show how brave and clever I am - the reverse is true. Instead what it does show is that I was actually channeling a part of my submissive self into doing things that the 'brave and clever' part of me just couldn't cope with. I never would have pushed myself that hard without wanting to please Mark and without my burning desire to show my submission to his dominance by doing that perfect révérence. The physio who was in charge of my rehabilitation was astonished how quickly I started recovering and how I was now prepared to do things in the gym with her that I would have never dared try doing a short time ago in case it hurt too much.

I had given myself a base-line for pain - if I could take that much in trying to perfect a révérence, I could handle equivalent pain during my rehabilitation. Suddenly the fear of doing things that might hurt ceased to worry me to any great degree, and I stopped being a wimp when it came to doing the distressing exercises that were part of my rehabilitation.

One day, when Mark came back at the end of a long day at work, I did a good (maybe not perfect) révérence in front of him. It as one of the greatest days of my life for that smll gesture made me feel that I was HIS subbie. And it was that moment that I recalled with joy and satisfaction when I finished class last Saturday. Nowadays it's something that his absense from my life and Time itself can never take away from me..............

2005-06-02T22:16:00.000Z

Nikki, whose wonderful blog 'A Submissive Journey' re-opened my eyes and mind to many things, put up the following series of questions and invited someone to answer them. Here they are with my honest-as-possible answers............

Have you ever?

Snuck out of the house........ Yes; I was a serial runner-away-from-home as an adolscent.
Gotten lost in your city......... Yes, but I defy anyone to live in London for long without being lost sometime.
Seen a shooting star.......... Yes
Been to any other countries besides Canada.... Yes but never been to Canada!
Had a serious surgery........ Yes. And recovered
Gone out in public in your pajamas....... No, thanks goodness - I never wear them!
Kissed a stranger............ Yes, several times on Millenium night
Hugged a stranger......... Yes, ditto
Been in a fist fight........ No, but I have watched several
Been arrested.......... Yes, three times on eco-political demos.
Laughed and had milk/coke come out of your nose...... Yes, and I hoped I had forgotten that moment.
Pushed all the buttons on an elevator........ Yes
Swore at your parents......... Yes. What teenager hasn't?
Been in love....... Yes, but only twice
Been close to love.........Yes, several times
Been to a casino......... Yes, and lost both times
Been skydiving.......... NO! I'm far too chicken for that
Skinny dipped........... Yes
Skipped school........... No. Rather to my own surprise
Seen a therapist........ Only socially
Done the splits........... Yes
Played spin the bottle........... Yes
Gotten stitches.......... Yes
Drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour.......... No; just water
Bitten someone............ Yes, to my eternal shame!
Been to Niagara Falls........ No
Gotten the chicken pox....... No
Kissed a member of the opposite sex....... Yes
Crashed into a friend's car........ No, thank goodness
Been to Japan......... No
Ridden in a taxi............ Yes
Been dumped........... No, somewhat surprisingly
Shoplifted............ No
Been fired............. Yes, three times, twice from the same job.
Had a crush on someone of the same sex................ Yes
Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back........... Yes
Gone on a blind date............. Yes: twice and both were unmitigated disasters
Lied to a friend............... Yes, sadly
Had a crush on a teacher............ Yes, to which I can only plead my youth at the time !
Celebrated Mardi-Gras in new Orleans...........No
Been to Europe.......... Yes, I live there
Slept with a co-worker............ Yes, if you classify a co-student that way
Been married........... No
Gotten divorced............ No
Had children............. No
Seen someone die............ Yes
Had a close friend die........... Yes
Been to Africa............ Yes
Driven over 400 miles in one day........... Yes
Been to US............ Yes
Been to Mexico.......... No
Been to India............. No
Been on a plane............ Yes and flown them too ! (Okay I am boasting.)
Seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show............. Yes, several times
Thrown up in a bar.......... No and Yes. Not in the bar but in its loo
Purposely set a part of myself on fire............. No
Eaten sushi........... Yes
Been skiing/snowboarding............ Yes, both
Met someone in person from the internet............ No but wished I had
Lost a child............. No
Gone to college/university............ Yes
Graduated college/university............. Yes
Fired a gun................... Yes
Purposely hurt yourself................. Yes
Taken painkillers............... Yes
Been intimate with someone of the same gender............... Yes.

There we are; a bit more about me, but probably posing more questions than it answers. I am not sure I enjoyed answering the questions probably because I am one of those people who can put things away in some mental drawer and leave it shut if its contents get me uptight or bring back bad memories. I don't normally indulge in escapism, just it's that I am selective about what I keep as my 'active' memories.
If all that is confusing, I apologise. Frankly it's confusing for me, as is life generally. After Mark and I broke up, I dug myself a nice little funk-hole and crouched in it, letting life (and a lot more) pass me by. Now, after reading a batch of Blogs that opened up old memories of my life with Mark. I have found myself feeling somehow empty and alone.
Looking at that feeling dispassionately, I am sure it's all brought about by my missing my life with Mark, and (in some ways even more importantly) missing the high and lows of our D/s world. When we parted I thought I'd make a clean break and become a 'normal' person. But I now find that my 'normality' is not the same as it is for 95% of my friends and acquaintances who live happily vanilla lives.
It looks like it's time to come out of the closet, or whatever, and to face up to who I am and what sort of life I feel most comfortable living.
Wow, it's been only four months and now I am having REAL problems just typing the word 'submissive'. Maybe it's time to get up from this desk and to have a long HARD look at myself in the mirror. perhaps then I can start facing up to what I am.
Thanks for putting up with my whining.
Love you all, Jane.

And me with a brain the size of a planet!

2005-06-02T18:04:00.000Z

There are times when I feel that Mother Nature left me singularly ill equipped to deal with the modern world. I have been trying to give myself an avatar (or whatever it's called here) and all I have managed to do is to post a picture of myself as a blog (see below).

And it's not as though it was a flattering, soft-focus, self portrait. Instead it's the result of my playing around with photo manipulation software. Anyway............................

I have spent a bit of time exploring the Wonderful World of Blogs today. Yes, I should have been working, but the sun was shining, the cat purring and there was still half a bottle of drinkable white plonk in the fridge. So I awarded myself a holiday and surfed the net for a while. Before I knew it, the wine had all gone, the cat had disappeared and it was evening. Probably I had read more words and 'met' more people in four hours than in any equivalent period of my whole life. It was truly fascinating. But what shocked me was the way people open up in their blogs. So far I have been shuffling round the edge of who I am - okay, you know my name, sex, age, and where I work. But who I REALLY am remains hidden - in fact I dropped off some comments on one or two blogs I read that were far more personal than the vapid generalities I have posted here so far. Of course, as I appear to be a castaway on my own private Blog Isle which no-one visits, I could metaphorically strip myself naked without shocking anyone except for myself.

Perhaps, one day, I'll do what I saw in someone else's blog - "100 Things About Me That No-one Knows!" For instance, I don't think anyone knows that I intensely loathe kiwi fruit (don't ask me why, cos I don't know), and I always scratch my butt with my left hand. (Again NO idea why)

Well, that's a start; only 98 more to go. Keep watching this space.

I really think that, if no-one ever comes here I really will have post a nude picture of myself - some men have this amazing ability for smelling out females nudes a 100 miles downwind of them. Maybe that will be the honeytrap that gets them here. But maybe not as I like my body and I have no wish to 'share' it with total strangers............

Stay happy.
Love Jane.

2005-06-02T17:52:00.000Z

Me....................

Photos, and other small but horribly important things

2005-05-30T22:14:00.000Z

Well, I am carrying on talking to myself...................... Today I tried to download my first photo here; I rather wanted what would be an avatar elsewhere, but so far no success on that front. But, having downloaded Picasa2 and Hello, I have transferred a random photo to Janes' Jaunts, mainly as an experiment, and to give all you (who?) out there a chance to see what I look like - even if you can't see much of me.

In fact the one here (Chastity 3) is part of a series of self portraits that I took after an discussion with friends about the nature of sexuality and physical attractiveness. Rather to my surprise I found myself arguing that too much flesh can actually be a turn off (whoever designed male genitlia must have had a VERY warped sense of beauty or a fantastic sense of humour..............) As I was virtually shouted down by the male members of our grouop when I put forward my heretical thesis, I decided to experiment. A few days later I took some semi-nude photos of myself (I have yet to discover how puritan the management of this Blog site is, and if it is allowable to publish such things). Later I wrapped myself up as demurely as possible, exposing the minimal amount of flesh, and then got friends to say which they found sexier.

Interestingly two of the guys found me covered up to be more sensual than the far more naked pictures, although the majority of males felt that I lookd better with my tits hung out for all to see. What I did discover was that my girl friends prefer me covered up - maybe they are jealous................. Seriously, I think females use their imaginations more actively than do men in this sort of context.

However I have to admit that the experiment is badly flawed as I made no effort o cover 'the middle ground' which is basically how we probably first see potential lovers/partners/bed mates. A cropped top and mini can be a very effective way of getting uys to take notice of you.................
But I didn't intend to give away trade secrets here. Anyway I'll probably post some more stuff in due course. and make an effort to link up with other users, as it sure feels lonely here at the moment.

Mark? Where are you? I still think about you, but I don't regret our going our separate ways. Be happy, my friend.

Jane.