Under my wing

I've had several positions of employment in my life that cover various industries and vocations (i've been fired from a handful of those, all for the same reason - an inability to take orders from my supervisor). The jobs that i struggled in the most were those that had no social component to it, and instead left me isolated on my own either operating some tool or machine while performing some mundane, repetitive task. I require interaction. I thrive off the energy that occurs when you dance with someone conversationally. I need to be able to toss in a self-deprecating remark or be a complete smart ass while tackling a project, or i feel cold and inactive. I do best in a situation where i can serve as a mentor, a counselor and an expert of some kind.

I received my yearly appraisal for my performance at my job the other day. As i was sitting in my boss's office, listening to him laud my contributions and my dependability to always overachieve (his words exactly), i thought over the parade of stints i have undertaken. I've mostly enjoyed my periods of employment, some more than others, but one position stood out to me as the finest job i've ever held.

I put myself through college via a creatively assembled cocktail of student loans and work-study assignments. While my fellow students were busy pickling their livers with the trust funds dear ole Dad set up for them, i was shelving books, cleaning headphones and cataloguing rare copies of hand-written Sibelius compositions. I longed for a more fulfilling and fitting way for me to matriculate through my higher education. When i first learned of the position of Resident Advisor (or R.A. as it is commonly known in the States), it seemed like a glorified camp counselor which didn't at all ring any bells in me. But once i read past the job description and came upon the compensation details (free room and board), i was sold.

I was convinced that i needed to become an R.A. I finetuned every electrical impulse in my body to affectively adjust their frequency so that i would acquire a position as an R.A. Despite it being the job most competed for on campus, i was able to secure a role at the University's oldest and most prestigious dormitory. However, i learned that there was some flub in my paperwork, which delayed my hiring and in turn affected my floor assignment. Apparently, the least desired floor was the very bottom, also known as "The Pit", and since i was Johnny-come-lately, this was the one i got bumped to.

Me being me, i accepted my commission without question, but was intent on changing the historic image of the cellar dwellers. Before i even took residence, i instituted an immediate revocation of any nominal reference to "The Pit", and instead insisted people refer to the lowest floor as the "Garden Level". To my surprise, on the first day i moved my belongings into my spacious apartment, i discovered the single aspect about my duty that would dominate all else. Because of the potentially dicey security matter of the rooms being on the lowest floor, the administrators saw fit to make it exclusively male (this despite the fact that the rest of the residence hall was explictly co-ed) with the thought that no pervert would break through a window that had two guys nestled behind it. To provide the R.A. assigned to this detail with a well-rounded experience, the administrators jerry-rigged a portion of the building just above the 'garden level' (ten dorm rooms in all), making it the only female-only wing in the entire University housing system.

Now, i won't make false assertions that my time as an R.A. wasn't rift with diverse experiences that made the job completely fulfilling and worth it, because that would be false and misleading. However, having my own, secluded floor of young, freshmen girls where i could act as den leader, grand vizier and overall father figure is precisely the reason i held that post for two and a half years. I confess that every social program i designed, every media campaign i instituted, and every outreach i established was targeted at those ten girl-only dorm rooms, and only then did it sadly filter down to the 24 rooms below. Each of my girls received their own unique nicknames (I have a thing for giving people nicknames - the name you were given somehow isn't enough), whereas the same gesture was not extended to my Garden Level inhabitants. In fact, in two and a half years, i had well over 60 male residents, but i can't remember a single name of any of them. However, i can easily recall each and every nickname ever lent out to my female residents.

I won't say that hanky panky didn't occur between me and any of my girls (perhaps, unethically, far too much took place) but that's not what made that experience such a sweet spot in my library of experiences. I adored the young, uncertain, in need of trust, young lady who would knock on my always unlocked door to come chat with me about this homework assignment or that dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. What made this experience worthwhile wasn't that i screwed as many young women as conceivably possible, but that i was able to get closer - if just a few inches, and a over just a few minutes - to a bundle of feminine energy. Easily, my very favorite energy of all.

BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO WHIP ME?

Hello readers. I’m Vesta and I’m filling in for Deity while he is on holiday. Rest assured that he will be back with you very soon.

Whilst I truly do love all of Deity’s posts, one of my personal favourite topics is the Friday night disciplinary session with his girl. There is something so erotic about reading of somebody else’s punishment, don’t you think? I know that sounds a little mean, but let’s face it, it’s true.

Yet, it occurs to me that one’s reaction to these posts might depend on which end of the stick one is on. Let me give you an example. I like to write erotic stories and so does a cyberspace dominant friend of mine from England. I will send him a story, and he’ll come back with a comment like, “Yes, it’s good, but can you go into some more detail about what her bottom looked like with the marks?” After reading one of his stories I have been known to say something like, “Loved it! But, to be honest, I don’t really need to know that his balls are enlarging and so on.” This inclines me to think that men and women want different things out of erotic writing. We all want to know what happened and how the poor wretch was disciplined, but maybe women want to know a bit more about how she felt about it all, and why that nasty man who is thrashing her backside felt the need to do so.

Deity tends to relate what happened in vivid detail. That’s good. It certainly works for me. He tells us about how he positioned her, and tied her, and what implements he used. He tends to take us into his mind and detail the planning and the pleasure of the exercise, from his perspective, of course. It is better than cheesecake to read and I love every yummy detail, but almost every time, I find myself asking the same question. “But, what did she do wrong?”

Now, we all know that she didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. Quite possibly, Deity came home and advised that although she had been a perfect angel the entire week, the punishment session was going ahead because it would do her good, or he didn’t want to neglect her, or it would settle her for the weekend, or he’d been looking forward to it all week, or any such excuse as that.

But, on the other hand, it is also more than possible that his girl was indeed, quite naughty. So, what did she do? Precisely why is she about to be striped like a tiger for at least part of the coming weekend? I asked Deity this question once. He graciously informed me that she was, getting up later than she should in the mornings. Oh! I don’t know about you, but the setting of my alarm clock became a particularly poignant moment for me the evening I read that!

But, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I don’t take the matter of ‘punishment’ seriously. In fact, I take it very seriously. I have a mentor. We have not met, and we live in different countries, but he and I correspond regularly, and he also emails my husband once a week with a ‘report’. Let’s call him Janus, since that is the God for Doorways and New Beginnings. I think he’ll approve of that. Janus believes very strongly in the teaching of ‘lessons’. Even thousands of miles away, he has a way of teaching a girl a lesson. He can rely on my husband to mete out any flagellation required, of course, but this is only one part of the punishment session. First, says Janus, the dominant talks to the sub about what she has done wrong. She needs to acknowledge all her transgressions (somehow any naughtiness of mine tends to have a good four subsets to it). She needs to apologize for her naughtiness and she needs to ask to be punished. By the time a girl gets through the speech, the acknowledgement, the apology and the request for punishment, a girl feels pretty naughty and in need of punishment, let me assure you. And, after the punishment, naturally, the girl thanks him for punishing her. Oh yes, indeed!

Not long ago, it was a very busy time for us both and Janus put a limit on the number of emails that I could write, as well as a word limit for each email. I didn’t consider this a problem until I hit a day when I found myself in a chatty mood and I blithered on, without a care in the world. Of course, Janus tends to have a tighter grip on the rules than me sometimes and it didn’t pass him by that this was a wordy email.

“I’m sorry, but this is too long. It's over the 1000 word limit by about 213 words. To make sure you're clear on this, you will need to write some lines for me. You will use your best penmanship and you will show the lines to Jove when you are finished. You will ask if he approves, and you will need to get his approval that you've done a good job or you'll need to do them again. For this, I want you to write me 213 times the line:

"I shall be concise in expressing my thoughts."

I'm sorry that you've taken on this new and boring writing assignment, but let's be very clear that the rules are not to be broken."

Damn! But, what could I say? It was my mistake. And, I had already learnt the lesson about arguing the point. I did the lines. The next day, I let Janus know that the lines had been written. He wrote back,

"I'm glad you did your lines. Hope it taught you a lesson."

There have been countless lessons. The first lesson is still the most memorable and in some ways the hardest: ‘The dom is always right.’ That took some learning, since I have spent quite a number of years considering that I am right about many, many things. You can imagine!

Another memorable lesson was, to submit. It sounds simple enough. However, what I needed to learn was that a girl should not do what she thinks will please her Dom. Rather, she should simply “obey”. Janus will say, “Vesta, just do as you are told!” It is infuriating, but arousing at the same time. Submissive readers know what I mean.

Now, isn’t it going to be interesting to see if Deity starts telling us why he does what he does on a Friday evening, and all the paraphernalia leading to the main event! I can just hear him now. “What was I thinking to give that Vesta a voice on my blog?!”

My best wishes to you for a very happy holiday season. May you find joy in the company of those you love.