To sister subs Jen and estra and ash, and to Jason, good guardian, and other followers and watchers ghost and manherd and callie and others — grace and peace, and thanks… Appreciation to all for your expressed concerns and admonitions. Truly I am OK. And very contrite.

I am actually feeling better after the confrontation with Master Michael. The announcement of my punishment was a relief of sorts, even as it is tossing my life around like a house in a tornado. But then too I had a good night’s sleep, which is finally, after days of tears, a respite. So the whirlwind has settled. I have landed in a different slavery, for now, which is hard, yes, but now I know, sort of, where I am.

More details have been told me: I am being placed with a couple. Male and female, both dominant. I will meet them Saturday. I don’t know if that’s when they will physically take me. Maybe. The couple lives in the state, but not near the Springs. They are part of the Community, but new to our particular Circle, so I haven’t seen or met them before. It’s sort of like a blind date, but with a collar and cuffs. (Trying to be lighthearted…)

Apparently Michael had some advocacy for me in communications with them, for I am told I will be allowed to continue my blog writing. I don’t know how much time each day I will be allowed to devote to this. I’m well aware I’ve been spoiled by hours upon hours of writing time provided under Master. And I don’t know if I will be allowed to write about my daily life with them. Names and confidentiality and so on…

I haven’t been told exactly how long they will have me, although I have reason to believe it will be at least a month. I deduce certain things by the moving plans — they are moving about a third of my full wardrobe, not all, but more than a suitcase. And not my summer wardrobe.

I’ve been told by Master there was a transaction, in keeping with the practices of the Community Circle. So this couple paid for me, but I don’t know — and don’t need to know — how much. I am property, I accept that. But sometimes the bottom line details are, well, more than I want to know.

But maybe the most important thing to say is that Master Michael has started talking to me again. It is back to normal speech, though not playful as was the case, but at least, well, yes, normal. Why does that make my heart leap? It’s not much, but better than the frosty silence of before. even just that much charges something in me, sparking the hope that I will be back. With him.

Grace, mercy and peace be upon us all…



I apologize for not posting for the past few days, They’ve been a hell.

Master finally spoke to me Monday night. Yelling at times, he released his anger — not physically, which he would never do, but the verbal wrath felt physical to me. It was agonizing for me to hear. I was sobbing at times. I had expected it. And I deserved it. I was so utterly wrong in what I did.

The outcome is not good, but at least now I know.

He said my meeting the man in the bar and misconducting myself as I did was unconscionable. “You made yourself a slut,” he said. “You made yourself a cheap cunt. You made me not want you anymore.”

That was the hardest thing to hear.

He said my value as a slave is precisely that I am a woman of substance and elegance and intelligence, yet because I am submissive, I obey orders to do things I wouldn’t do in normal life. My value as a slave is being elegant yet doing such things I am made to do.

“Here you cheapened yourself,” he said, “made yourself a slut. You just destroyed what made you special. You gave away your elegance.”

Also, he said my whole pattern of behavior for several days was disgusting to him. I became needy and demanding. My begging was done in a way that was manipulating and unsubmissive. He said I was “utterly disappointing to him.” That this was a total meltdown of my slavery,

Master asked me if I had anything to say, any defense of myself. I was in tears. I said no.

“I totally fucked up,” I said.

“Yes you did,” he said. And then he pronounced my punishment.

My punishment is that he will give me to someone else.

I do not yet know who or when or for how long. It will not be permanent, so I hold on to that as faint hope. He will take me back in some way, at some time. I don’t know when this starts. I will be informed of more details tomorrow, I am told.

I am a mess, have been for two days now. I will be OK, and thank you to those who’ve been concerned. But this is really bad, really hard.

He has ordered me to post this. He will inform his circles of friends and colleagues. People in our community. He believes I should be shamed publicly by this.


I continue to await what he decides about my punishment. Master has been involved in a work project, and hasn’t had time to attend to my situation. I think also he is intentionally making me wait. And he is barely talking to me.

I have agonized over the possibilities for a number of nights now.

I think people know by now that we’re in a particular community of D/s people who share a common vision for real D/s and real slavery. It is a tight circle of circles that advocate safety as well as extreme, actual slavery. There are rules and customs that are followed. And procedures for punishment. But it’s a community that is right for me. It’s the only world I can imagine living in.

What I fear the most is that Master could out and out release me, which would mean I would not only be divorced from my slavery to him, but also banished from this community of people.

He could also sell me to another within the community. I would get some sort of red mark, demerit, attached to my record, which would become a caution to a new owner, diminish my value, but it would keep me in the community. I would need to learn a new master and a whoe new life.

Or he could keep me, somehow. But he would have to punish me, and the problem is that I cannot imagine what he would punish me with. He already owns me. I enjoy humiliation. He already can have me in any way he wants. He can make me do anything already. How can he punish me? Keep me from writing, perhaps. But he has always encouraged that.

My mind at night keeps churning those outcomes and others, some worse. I am agonizing. I know I deserve whatever comes.

I wait longer.

summer (fiction)

The following is one scene from a novella I’m writing. It’s a rough draft still, and there’s much to be done on it, but I thought I’d post it anyway. Some of this is autobiographical, but the characters, other than myself, are fictional.  (Will post this also in my fiction section.)

I meet Summer in the Sheraton parking lot on Wednesday afternoon.

I am eager —OK, I am helplessly eager for her — so I arrive at 1:00, and I take time in the car to retouch my makeup and re-fix my hair. I tell myself to calm down, that it’s not my wedding for fucking sake, but I nonetheless am acting like it is, and I can’t help myself. I’ve been waiting for a week. I am a mess, but I’d like to be a mess with good hair.

Summer pulls up at 1:25, parks next to me. She gets out, walks to where I am standing, pushes me hard against my car and leans into me. I feel her breasts push against mine, and I sigh as she places her lips on mine. We kiss, and I think it must be a couple minutes later before we pull apart.

“I brought you something,” Summer says. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a leather collar, studded, in a dark red, Merlot, perhaps. I see it and it’s like electricity sparks through my body. “Oh, my god,” I say, and Summer knows the mere sight of it has me creaming.

She wraps it around my neck, buckling it in back, then steps back to look at me. “I’ve wondered all along what was missing. You were made for this.”

“I know,” I reply. “Thank you.”

“Your skirt is perfect, by the way,” she says. “Your top is delicious. And I love your hair. Gorgeous. You’re frickin’ beautiful.”

I’m about to cry.

“So, now,” Summer says, “ I’m going to humiliate you.”

She reaches into her handbag again and pulls out a long leash. She attaches it to my collar.

She knows how it makes me feel — kept like a precious pet, contained, controlled — how that is her love for me. She knows what this is, what I am.

“I’m in love with you,” I blurt out.

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “Now follow me.”

She leads me by leash into the Sheraton. She walks me to the front desk and a gawking man in a suit. “I have a reservation. Summer Jackson.”

The desk clerk looks it up in the system and fumbles around for a plastic key card. “One or two keys,” he asks.

“One,” she says. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He nods because he doesn’t know what else to say. He has Summer run her credit card, and it takes a long moment to go through, during which he musters his resolve to look at me in the — boobs — and get his eyeful, then go through his perfunctory speech about the free breakfast in the morning, then with some extra seconds, looking to my eyes in a way that conveys a smirk, some judgment or pity, and some superiority. All at the same time.

I blush.

Summer senses it all and says to him roughly, “Are we done here?”

He collects himself and says, “Yes, of course, Ms. Malone. Here are your keys. I hope you have a nice stay,”

She collects her credit card and the plastic key card, and leads me away by leash. “They can lust over you all they want, but they don’t get to judge you.”

And somehow I am the proudest girl in the hotel.

She leads me by leash into the hotel bar and our friend Michael. There is another man at the bar itself, but no one at any of the tables. She seats us at one end of the bar.

“She’ll have a pinot noir,” she tells Michael. “I want a bourbon, neat.”

“Good to see you two again,” he says.

“Likewise,” she says. “It’ll be a Wednesday thing here, unless it gets too hot for us. Then we’ll need to relocate.”

“I can keep the temperature down,” Michael says.

“Appreciated. Who’s the dude at the end?”

“Businessman. He comes every other week for a couple of days. He flies in mornings.

Juices up here in the afternoons, then, I suppose, has business dinners somewhere.”

“Good,” she says.

Michael goes to prep the drinks. Summer looks over at me, tells me to straddle the bar seat. I obey.

I am aware that my sheer blouse, for Summer’s visual pleasure, has become Michael’s visual pleasure as well. My blouse’s pale sheer green is lost in a landscape of my full breasts, pink areolae, and erect nipples — all drawing greater attention. My eyes are seeking Summer’s but I can see the businessman’s gaze from the opposite end.

Summer asks me if I’m OK.

I nod yes. I am more than OK. I am in swoonland, kept, loved, and dominated. I am well aware that I am being displayed and used and humiliated. It is not without shame. I am embarrassed like this, and feel every ounce of my exposure. It is also, however, experienced with desire and love and utter submission.

Michael sets our drinks before us.

“What’s new?” he asks.

“Same old, same old,” Summer says. “Just trying to find some excitement in middle earth.”

“I get ya,” he replies. “I remember your name. Summer, I think.”

“That’s right.”

“I forget hers.”

“Her name is a bit under discussion. Not sure what to call her. Maura is her given name.”

“Doesn’t seem quite right, does it.”

“No. What would you name her?”

“Not sure. Let me think about it.”

“Drink your wine,” she orders me.

I take my glass and sip the pinot noir.

Summer reaches over to my lap and slips my skirt higher up my thighs, revealing the lace tops of my taupe stockings.

“Very nice,” Michael says.

“I think she has pretty thighs,” Summer says, “and the lace tops show them off nicely. Problem is, she’s so covered up most of the time. She needs to be seen.”


I am flushed as the two talk about me. I am embarrassed to be exposed, thrilled to have Summer say my thighs are beautiful, and thrumming in my state of being collared and leashed.

“May I have another sip?” I ask Summer. I am playing into the scene she is creating.

She smiles at me, and I warm. “How do you address me?” she demands.

We haven’t talked about this. I have called her “my goddess” on occasion, but that’s for play and it’s meant in love. In front of others here, it would sound taunting and fake, I think. I settle on something else.

“Ma’am, may I have another sip?”

“You may.”

As I reach for my wine, Summer hands my leash to Michael. “Don’t let her get away,” she says casually. She walks down to the other end of the bar and talks with the lone businessman sitting there. After a couple minutes, I realize she’s inviting him to sit with us. My body flushes.

He takes his drink and walks toward us. He’s got light hair and a square jaw. He’s trim and attractive, sporting a good fit in his Perry Ellis suit.

“This is Mr. Jay Donovan,” she says, introducing him. Summer has him sit next to me on the right and she takes the seat on my left. “So,” she continues, “we are trying to come up with a name for my slave girl here. Jay, her given name is Maura, but we all agree that isn’t so good. So what else might we call her?”

“Pretty thing,” he says, immediately playing along, trying to get into the flow of the scene.

He might not mean “Pretty Thing” as a candidate for my name, just as a description, as he scans my breasts veiled through my top and drinks in the sight of my bared thighs sheathed in lace.

But Summer takes it as a suggestion. “I like that,” she says. “’Pretty thing.’” She rummages through her handbag and pulls out paper and pen. She’s really doing this.

“’Toy,’” Michael says. Both men are getting into Summer’s improvisation. “Or ‘Plaything.’”

“Both good,” Summer says, adding them to her list. “Let’s try that one.”

She turns to me and says, “Plaything, hold out your wrists.”

I obey, stretching my arms in front of me.

Summer reaches into her bag and pulls out a pair of leather wrist shackles, wine red, just like my collar. She attaches one to my left wrist, then reaches over and puts on the right one. “Plaything,” she says, “does that hurt?”

“No,” I reply.

Summer looks up to the men, watching intently. “I like that name ‘Plaything’,” she says.

“She seems to respond well to it,” Jay observes.

I realize I’m being addressed in the third person, the inanimate object on a bar stool.

“Plaything,” Summer says, “put your hands behind you.”

I obey, and Summer aligns my wrists in back, hooking them together with a spring clamp.

“I like that name,” Summer says, “but let’s keep being creative. Plaything is my slave, she obeys me in everything, and I own her. Gentlemen, what else shall we call her?”

“Fuck toy” says Jay.

“Might be too much wishful thinking on your part, Jay,” Summer says, “but we’ll put it on the list.”

I sit, my legs straddling the bar stool, my skirt hiked up above my thighs, and my arms shackled behind my back, as I listen to these men and the love of my life consider humiliating names for me. I am blushing, ashamed, incredibly turned on, and then ashamed all the more that I am so aroused.

“Maybe we should see a little more of her, gentlemen.” Summer says. She takes the hem of my hiked up skirt and pulls it up around my waist, revealing my bare pussy.

I breathe in sharply and look down away. I cannot bear to see the men staring at me.

“Plaything,” Summer says sternly, “look up at these fine men. Look at how they see you. Or else I’ll let you become a fuck thing. Right here, right now.”

I slowly lift my head and stare ahead.

“I suppose we could call her ‘Pussy’,” Michael says.

“That’s the name of the Bond girl,” Edward quips.

“That’s Pussy Galore. We could call this one just Pussy.”

“I’ll write that down,” Summer says.

“She has nice lips,” Michael observes.

“Kind of full and puffy,” Edward adds.

“Puffy Lips might be a name,” Michael says.

Summer writes it down. She places her pen and notebook on the bar. She walks behind me, standing behind my right shoulder, and leans over, kissing me on my cheek. “So,” she says, “let’s see.”

She reaches between my legs and her fingers stretch along my naked labia.

I flinch and start to close my legs. Summer raises her hand and brings it down hard against my inner thighs in a loud, sharp slap.

I screech and jump. Summer holds me in place, then whispers in my ear: “You want me to own you, so let me do this to you.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

She starts again on my pussy. I am wet, have been wet, and now am even more wet.

“She’s sloppy,” Jay says. “There you go: Sloppy Jo is another name.”

Michael has gone to the doors to the bar, closing them.

Summer massages my labia lips and I start to moan. Her other arm comes around and her hand cups my breast, squeezing it. I sigh loudly. Summer’s finger dips between my labia where my juice has pooled, and she scoops a thick dollop on her pinky.

Michael has returned behind the bar and he groans, “Oh my God,” as he sees Summer lift her pinky to my mouth, feeding it to me. I lick her finger clean tasting my own desire, sweet and tangy.

My vulva has become engorged from her fondling, my labia have swollen and gotten red. My vagina has opened more, now gaping, starting to spasm.

Summer now strengthens her fondling, stroking my cunt harder, her finger grazing my skin between the bottom of my pussy and my anus. She pushes harder against my pussy lips, then a finger pushes hard between them, inside my vagina, fully penetrating me.
I gasp loudly. “Ohhh, Gawd!” I say, bucking once, my bottom coming off the bar stool. “Ohhh. Yes!”

Whether it’s a week of desire and deprivation, my extraordinary lust for Summer, or the intense experience of being watched by two male strangers, I am flowing quickly into an orgasm.

My head falls back, and my breathing is coming faster. Loudly too, as I am wheezing for air with each quick breath.

Summer is pumping her finger in and out of me as I build to climax. Michael is leaning over the bar and has his head pushed down a mere foot from my pulsing cunt. Jay is kneeling now to my right, also peering close at the sight of my developing sex.

Summer’s finger is now making sucking sounds as it drives into me then pulls out. My vagina is contracting each time, trying to hold on to what is impaling it.

“Oh. My. God!” I yell again. I am loud and shameless and have nothing left for restraint or propriety. I want Summer, her fingers and fondling hands and sweet lips, and I start to beg her for it. For all of it. “Please,” I say, my voice suddenly weak and plaintive.

“You want it now?”

“Yes, please, ma’am. Please.”

“Thank these fine men for their help in naming you.” Her finger continues to fuck me.

“Thank you, sirs — “

“Individually, by name,” Summer interrupts.

“Thank you, Mr. Jay,” I start to say, my desperate gasps stopping me, momentarily, “for naming me.”

“Welcome,” he replies.

My hands are rocking behind me and my body is starting to shake. “Thank you, Mr. Michael, for your help in naming me.” My last words trail off into a whisper.

“You are welcome,” he says.

“Are you ready?” Summer asks me.

“Yes, ma’am, I am ready. Please. Yes.”

“You know,” Summer says slowly, “I think you ought to ask each of these fine men for permission to come.”

“Oh, no,” I say to her. “Pleeease!”

“Did you say no to me?!” Summer says. She spanks my inner thigh, and I yelp and jump.

“No. I mean, yes,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Summer’s finger is back inside me, and I am stinging from her spank and throbbing at my core, and now oozing profusely.

“So?” Summer prompts.

My breathing almost keeps me from speaking. “Sir. Mr. Michael, Sir, may I please have your permission to come? Please?”

“I kind of don’t want this to end,” he says.

“Please, I beg you.”

“I suppose,” he relents. “Yes.”

I moan loudly and throw my head back again. “Mr. Jay, Sir?” I gulp for air. I moan, as Summer’s finger drives a bit deeper. “May I come, Sir?”

He deliberately waits to answer.

“Please. I am begging you…”

“OK,” he says, laughing at me. “Yes.”

“Are you ready?” Summer asks again.

“God yes.” It comes out as a breathless yelp.

Her hand starts to slide back and forth over my pussy very fast, as she inserts her middle finger into my vagina every few seconds. In a hot moment she moves her hand farther up, and her hand flicks start to graze my clitoris.

“Ah!” I exclaim, “oh god.”

She continues and I am shaking hard now.

“Please don’t stop,” I beg her.

And… she stops. Completely.

“Ohhh,” I cry.

“Gentlemen,” Summer says, “I want you to look closely.”

“I believe I have been,” Jay jokes.

“Look at this,” she says. Her fingers splay me open wider and pull up on my labia, stretching my hood, and revealing my clitoris. “Look at that, gentlemen.”

“That’s really large, swollen.” Michael says.

“A lot of pleasure in that bulging pebble,” Summer says.

I feel like I’m going to cry. “Please,” I beg again, but my voice is wispy and dying.

“Another name,” Jay says. “Pleasure pebble. Or sex pebble.”

Summer starts her hand on me again, right where she left off. She brings me to the brink again, my breathing fast and quick, my body shaking, my nipples hard and achingly pointed through my sheer blouse. Her hand brushes my clit over and over, and my eyes close, and I drift away into another space.

My body stops bucking and bouncing and instead it starts to shudder in place, coming in rolling spasms.

Summer’s finger enters me one last time, then as she pulls it out, she slides it directly against my clit, like a sword pulled out of a scabbard, sparking as it slides against it.

I am gone. I yell. I scream. I swear. I stop breathing momentarily as my consciousness and body soar and leave and then return to earth, back to reality, spread-eagled on a bar stool in a hotel and sitting soaked in my own cum juices in front of two gentleman strangers and the love of my life, Summer.

“Welcome back,” she says. She kisses me.

Summer leaves my side and goes to sit on the bar stool to my left. She picks up her wine glass and sips it.

The men continue to watch me, my naked vagina still contracting in spasms, my head turned to the side in deep pleasure and deeper shame.

“Anything else exciting going on, guys?” Summer asks.

this terrible week

I have gone through a truly awful period of time, my fault, my sin, my violation. Master has had me put all this online, part of exposing my trangressions, and I’m sorry that you’ve had to endure my posts this week. I await punishment, and I will report whatever that is. Meanwhile Master wants me to move on, in terms of my online writings. I will try to do so…



I have always known that you, my Master, have every right to use me in any way at any time. I forgot, or somehow never learned, that you also have every right not to use me, for as long as you decide not to use me. That too is part of my slavery. I confess my sin.

I have always known that you, Master, want to keep me in a condition of sexual want and need. It keeps my body wet and ready for you and others when you decide to have me. But in this case my sexual desire took over and took precedence over my submission to you. I don’t know how that happened, or why I was blind to it. You saw it a mile away. I confess my sin.

You have always allowed me, Master, extremely generous rights to a social life. I went to Phantom Canyon for happy hour, had a drink, which was within my limits from you. I sat with a stranger, a man. Even that would be acceptable, per your rules: but I didn’t tell him that I was owned by you, describe to him that I was your sex slave, which is what you require. I wanted him to take me and fuck me. That was my great transgression. No, I didn’t go with him, but wanted to. I compelled him to ask me to his hotel room across the street, which was terribly wrong. Even though I said no, I am, in my mental choice, as you said, a slut. I confess my sin.

Also, my begging of you went beyond the bounds of the casual, cute begging you find properly helpless, and instead became only about my self-interest, thus manipulative, and thus completely inappropriate. At the end I disgusted you. I confess my sin.

I somehow developed expectations that in my slavery I will be attended to and serviced. I know better than that, yet somehow got into that frame of mind. No, I am a slave to you. It is for me to service you and others you would have me service. I have no right to expect it being done to me. I confess my sin.

While I never transgressed the boundary to self-touching, I assumed that I should have such a right. That was wrong of me. You, not I, have those rights to my body and flesh. I was wrong to adopt this attitude. I confess my sin.

These are mys sins. I am posting them publicly. Sorry is not adequate. I am embarrassed, disgusted with myself, and humiliated by my own violation of my slavery to you.

your slave, shae


In what I wrote last night I humiliated myself. I was in a bad place and I shouldn’t have been writing. I knew it while I was writing, yet kept writing anyway, and then in my weakest moment, pushed the button to post it.

Today I have wanted to take it down, but Master has insisted I leave it up as a example to everyone of what I can be like. That it embarrasses me is reason, in his mind, for it to remain.

So it will stay.

Master lectured me late last night — really tore into me, actually — rightly so. He scolded me for my bitchy attitude, my self-interest, my inappropriate expectations, unsubmissive actions, and then one a particular egregious violation. I need to say this: my writings online don’t convey the full picture of my sins. There is something else. This is serious.

He will punish me. That is to come. I am denied sex for some time, but that is nothing compared to what might be. There will be much, much more. He implied some things, I don’t know exactly, but there may be separation from him. I will not be able to bear that.

Meanwhile, my apologies to all who had to read my inappropriate ramblings.