Quiet and Silence


There is a big difference in quiet and silence. It’s true that by definition, both involve a lack of sound or noise. Some would say silence is golden and still others say in a very firm tone of voice, “Be QUIET!”

I’ve always enjoyed being quiet and being in quiet surroundings. Maybe all along I’ve had a tendency for migraine, and so preferred soft sounds and silence to loud harsh noises. Some of my favorite places to be are hiking alone or with my loved ones in nature, with nobody else around, either along the shore where ocean waves are gently lapping, or in the mountains where it is still and silent, aside from birds calling. I’ve never been a particularly talkative sort either. Even when I’m home alone I rarely listen to music. I treasure having the still quiet house to myself and enjoying my home, my things, and possibly having the pleasure and freedom to write.

Yet sometimes, Sir has the need to tell me to keep quiet and SOMETIMES out the ball gag must come. Thankfully, those times are rare.



Last East Texas Spring


Spring arrived exceedingly early this year, and it is my last one here in east Texas. When we moved here nearly exactly 19 years ago it was on our daughter’s first birthday. I didn’t want to move here. I didn’t want to move 1500 miles away from my mother and father, my two brothers, my sister-in-law and niece, and all my friends. I knew I would be miserable, and for the most part, I have been very unhappy. Texas is many things, but it is not California where I had lived since the third grade, it is not a liberal place, and it is very very hot and humid. It also doesn’t have an ocean breeze. I’ve been very blessed in that every place I’ve lived of memory: Hawaii, Virginia and California (although I was born in Washington D.C. and also briefly lived in Alabama) I’ve lived not too far from the ocean.

When we moved here Sir assured me we would be here for 5-10 years. (We moved for His career.) It will be 19+ years we’ve been here when we move in mid-June. I have made friends, done extensive volunteering in this community, and found the nicest, friendliest little congregation you could ever hope to be part of. I’ve also lost my dear dad and been through major spinal surgery and breast cancer treatment. Sir and I faced a major turning point in our relationship, lived apart for a few months, and through counseling and analysis, and renewing ourselves as a dedicated D/s couple, have emerged better and stronger than we were before.


The pretty plant above is my mother’s Forsythia tree in her back yard. She moved here to be with us after my father passed and I was going through my cancer treatments. Whenever I see these lovely yellow flowers which are one of the harbingers of spring, I think of my beautiful, strong mother who at 91 is also moving back home to California in two weeks. Springtime is one of the things I truly will miss about Texas because you don’t have the change of seasons in southern California. Here I know when I see the Tulip trees, then the daffodils, then the Redbud trees, followed by the Forsythia and Dogwoods, that spring has sprung. Here in east Texas our little town is known far and wide for azaleas. They are blooming now, and we have a three-week festival, when people come from all over to drive around the city to see the gorgeous display of flowers. It has been so unseasonably warm, they bloomed very early and the tourists shall miss the peak. Not only that, we had freakish rain storms which destroyed some of the early blooms, followed by dry winds which then knocked the early blossoms off! So much for my last spring in this town!


How do you serve?


A blogging friend wrote today about the roles in her household, and the ways in which she serves her Sir. She is very much dominant in the outside world, and submissive at home.  I can relate to many aspects of her life, as I once worked outside the home and had a demanding job which I enjoyed. Often the job required me to put in many hours of overtime to insure the work was done on time, and many times I was only comfortable doing the work myself because I knew (or felt) that I did it better than my coworkers. I always enjoyed working by myself rather than with others, and worked faster and better alone. One of my former supervisors once approached me and complimented me on my work, noting that she thought I was very much like her in that I worked well and better by myself. She had been observing me to do my evaluation. I never forgot what she said because it rang so true.

My friend wrote because of her health issues her Sir takes care of many household chores and duties. She noted what a lovely dominant act this was, and I agree. I can’t help but think how this would never happen in my own home. Not that I am wanting it to! I happen to thrive on acts of service, and I am a homebody. My Master has always been a very hard worker outside the home and when He walks through the door, I would not want Him to have to think of anything except that His home is a refuge for Him from the stresses of the outside workaday world . I want to have a clean organized home waiting for Him as long as I am able – with dinner (usually) waiting and the bed made and things neatened up. I like doing His laundry, ironing His shirts, even taking out our trash and doing all the little things to keep our little nest clean and running smoothly.

That’s not to say Sir does not pitch in. He offers to do the trash and recycling and loves walking the dogs with me and any gardening chores. He’s very much a nature boy. But way back in the early months of our marriage, before D/s was even a twinkle in my eyes, we discussed who was to be responsible for what. I agreed that the house was my responsibility. You see, even way back then, over 20 years ago, I knew, craved, and wanted to be submissive to my husband. I need these simple tasks – and others as well –  to keep me on track.

Memories of my Father


For many years I have resisted writing about this. In case you don’t know what this photo is of, it’s an antique barber strop. A strop was, or is used to sharpen a straight razor used to shave men’s beards. It used to be made of leather, with a canvas or thick leather cover or side used to polish, wipe,  or buff the razor after sharpening.

My grandfather was a barber. He came to America from Russia and opened a barber shop in downtown Los Angeles in the 1920’s. His two sons, my father and my uncle followed in his footsteps, both going to cosmetology school. My uncle owned a women’s hair salon in Santa Monica for over 40 years. My dad had a bad back, and although he enjoyed it, chose the military instead as his career.

My father came from a broken home. This was back in the day (the 1920’s) when divorce was truly unheard of and considered a scandal. My grandfather was a womanizer, a gambler, and liked to drink. My grandmother left him, taking my uncle with her. That meant that my dad, who was a little boy, stayed with my grandfather and slept on a cot in the back of the barber shop. I don’t know what he ate or who cooked. When my grandfather brought his women in, what happened to my dad? He had a scar on his arm and one on his face which happened when he was a boy and I believe his father was responsible for them. My grandmother wasn’t a good mother – she shouldn’t have split up her sons like that. It permanently damaged my father.

He kept a razor strop like the one in the photo – it may even have been his father’s – always hanging on a hook on the back of his bathroom door for as long as I knew him. He didn’t use it for razors. When my oldest brother was born, the doctors knew he wasn’t normal. They told my parents to put him in an institution. (This was 1948.) My mother refused. She took him home and showered him with love and attention, and my brother always went to regular school, struggling along with her help. He eventually graduated and learned to drive, attended junior college, has held many jobs, knows how to use computers, has his own condo, loves to read, and is very intelligent, more than many people I know. But my father being a military man could never accept that his son wasn’t perfect. He resented the attention my mother gave to him. I remember the horrible names my dad called my brother; the fights; when my father would drink it got very bad. I was so little but I remember my father chasing my brother around our house with the razor strop and beating him. I recall him screaming at him to get out of the house. I could not have been more than 5 or 6 years old.

There is so much more to say about this. Perhaps (I have often felt) some of this explains my desire for submission. Many times, my mother tells me, she thought about leaving, but times were so different then. As my father aged, he mellowed somewhat. And of course eventually my brother was able to move out on his own, which helped matters. I will never forget the day when my father called my brother and me into the living room where he was watching TV by himself and said, with tears in his eyes, “I want you to know that I always loved you.”

My brother still can’t forgive him. It was too little, too late. I understand. I do forgive my dad, though. I understand him. He was damaged. He actually was a very emotionally weak man. Still, I love him and miss him. But there are things I am, and always will be haunted by. You can’t change your past, but you can try to understand it and become a better person by not repeating the same mistakes your parents made.

Rafting the Martha Brae


Last week, my beloved Master and I took a one-week cruise of the western Caribbean. My favorite part was our day in Jamaica, where we docked at Montego Bay and booked with a private tour guide to show us his beautiful island country. It was a glorious sunny day and Chris, our guide, was friendly and drove us all around, explaining the various sites and places we stopped. Mid-morning we went rafting on the Martha Brae river, a highlight of the trip.

It was here where we met Sam, the man you see in the photo. Sam was our raft captain, who poled us down the river. He has been doing just that for 34 years. You, like me, may find that astounding, that anyone has the strength and fortitude to push and pull rafts along a 20 mile river for such a long time. While we waited to board the raft, I noticed that few of the raft captains talked with the customers. I hoped we would get a friendly one! As luck would have it, Sam was a talker. He wanted to know about us and he told us about himself. He also sang as we floated downriver. He had a lovely soft voice and repeatedly sang a hymn about going to heaven. I told him he had a nice voice, and then he said he was preparing to perform with his daughter at church last Saturday; they had been practicing for weeks.

It was beautiful and very peaceful to sit and listen to Sam talk about how he never used to be a faithful person. How he never went to church at all – did not believe in it. But as time passed, he became less stubborn. He realized God is with us always, everywhere, in everything we do. He realized he wanted to go with his wife to church and know God.


I reflected on my life as we continued down the Martha Brae; about how ridiculously complicated we allow our lives to become, worrying about the latest styles and food crazes and wanting a new cell phone, shoes, handbag, etc. We are consumed by consumerism. We have all become haters because we only believe our view or vision is the correct one. We are on the brink of societal collapse because we simply can’t be calm, agree with our fellow man, love one another, and move on in life. We have lost the innate knowledge of kindness which small children instinctively have. There’s a global need for more, faster, better, now. What happened to simpler, less, slower?

Meeting Sam – spending time with him on his raft, learning about him and his life, was one of the greatest privileges I’ve had in my life. Sam is blessed. He doesn’t need a new car, expensive rich meal, fancy clothing, or even a vacation to have happiness in life. He found peace, love, and happiness in his own simple life. He told us. May you find yours!


Heads or Tails


Recently Master presented me with this absolutely beautiful long tail which attaches to a new butt plug. (Master loves all things anal…)

The tail is real fox and is sumptuously thick and feels amazing when I walk, brushing against the back of my legs. Master made me wear it as I cleaned house yesterday, and was quite pleased (and aroused.)

“It’s all about control, baby…”

Sinful Sunday

Four Years is a Long Time

So, the depressing reality is beginning to set in for me as well as millions of Americans. We  (well not me personally because I didn’t vote for him, but the collective “we”) have elected a monster. I haven’t slept well in weeks. I find myself unable to listen to or watch the news. Each new day brings more mandates and laws the monster is either enacting, repealing, or changing to his liking. Soon we will have a new Supreme Court Justice who will help change the course of the way many major laws are enacted for many years, possibly for a generation. My husband (a physician) is worried we may not be able to get medical insurance if the Affordable Care Act is repealed.

Many of the positive things President Obama struggled to do over the past eight years are already in the process of being undone or changed – for the worse. Our new President based his campaign on lies, and still insists millions of illegal votes prevented him from winning the popular vote. Uh… who cares?  He insists more people attended his inauguration than any other (clearly a lie) and also there were millions more there than at the Women’s March the following day, even though photographs show this is not true. He says the media is distorting the truth. He wants us to listen to him, and him alone, and to only trust his word. Sounds rather like a dictator to me! I applaud CNN, who said they would not attend the press conferences at the White House as long as Sean Spicer, the WH Press Secretary continues to lie.

Now tell me, how many more days until the campaigning begins to elect a new President in 2020?