groceries

She and I went grocery shopping the other day.

Last year during COVID when everyone in the state was locked down, Amanda obsessed about protecting us from the virus, cocooning the two of us with the fierce intensity of a mother hen.

One outcome was that we, like many people, ordered our groceries to be delivered. Delivery offered Amanda a brief opportunity in executing my slavery — a dominant pleasure in deciding how I’d be dressed or not as I received the groceries from the delivery man on the front porch.

For some reason she never rendered me bare-breasted for these deliveries, just braless, as I always am, and collared and high-heeled. I suppose it didn’t make sense to hide my face behind a mask while exposing my boobs to the contamination of the pandemic. Mind you, this was a time when we were washing our groceries, when it was thought that the surface of a bottle of Heinz ketchup could be hosting a swarm of COVID critters. I suppose they could just as easily transfer themselves and latch onto my tits. (I wouldn’t have minded if Mistress would suds me up and wash me down along with the other melons we ordered. But that never happened.)

It was the same deliveryman most times, a kid young enough to be my son, and by his second delivery, he was wanting to engage me in conversation — though I’m pretty sure not for his keen interest in my intellectual attributes.

That was then. Now we are opened up again —at least for a while — and we are going to the grocery store. And it seems our local Safeway is now a brand new playground for Mistress A.

Amanda of late has bought me several very short skater skirts, as well as a few sheer tops with various degrees of transparency. This is the “McKenna” look for me, which Amanda has taken a cue from. The advantage of this “fashion trend” is that she can show a lot of my girl-flesh without getting me arrested.

And as such, I went grocery shopping with her the other day.

The new wrinkle is that she attached small clips to my labia, bearing thin jewelry chains hanging down, joined onto a small metal ball. Where she gets this stuff, I don’t know.

When she attached them to my pussy lips, they pinched, but then didn’t hurt so much as their presence spread into a numbness, like a local anesthetic. This is what every woman wants — her sex being numbed beyond feeling.

Yet I could feel the weight of the ball dangling down, its tug and sway as I pushed the grocery cart.

The chains and ball hung down to just within an inch of my skater skirt hem. Mistress says next time she’ll lengthen the chains so that the ball hangs below the hem and is visible to others.

So, apparently, this is the new thing.

more musings

Lunch break on a work day…

Amanda has me working for her again, after “firing” me from her business a few months ago. At the time, she had less need for me and wanted, for tax reasons, to clear me off her books. We agreed I could spend more time writing. Which I have.

But just shortly after taking me off payroll, her company was offered a substantial opportunity, and Amanda has been working day and night in prep for that.

She has needed me again and has pulled me back in for a few days of work here and there. I enjoy it…


She has me in a business outfit today — a cream linen skirt-suit without a blouse. I’m topless under the blazer, its center button straining to stay shut.

Which is her point — elegant and scandalous.

I think she fantasies about me like this in an office downtown. With clients walking in and out. She would love that…


At about eleven this morning she called me in to ask me to run a different spreadsheet model for the company under certain conditions. She gave me a handful of variables that have to be run on other spreadsheets to produce the inputs for the new model.

“It’ll take time,” she said.

“I don’t mind. Do you want me to run them through the 2021 forecast or the first quarter numbers?”

“Forecast.”

I’m glad I know how to do this, that I have become well-versed in Amanda’s company and its analysis. I don’t often feel useless in my life, even given my slavery, as I deem the lifestyle pleasure I provide to dominants and the sexual pleasure I provide to trash men somehow to contribute to society. But it’s nice once in a while to be able to produce a numbers report that has a different kind of value.

Not bad for a strumpet…


Also, it’s strangely satisfying to have a serious business conversation with Amanda while my boobs are loose and free. It’s as if this is how I’m supposed to be, even in this temporary day in vanilla life. Like there is not, at least for me, a separation between my life as a slave, my submission and sex, and this other life, of business and respectable work.


Here in the home office, I sit on the back side of her desk computer as she holds Zoom meetings with clients. She has me take my blazer off, so she can see me in full breastfulness while she is going through spreadsheet details in conference.

To them on the other side, they hear my voice from behind the screen, and I am part of the meeting, but they have no idea…

It is Amanda’s pleasure and our secret.

quiet days

These have been a relatively quiet days, Amanda keeping me in my place, all collared and improper in some whimsical way, yet being casual with me, often conversational and girlfriend-y, as if she really likes me.

For all the various relational “modes” we have, she seems to have perfected this one, which combines several of my roles into one — “girlfriend-slave-lover.” She woos this into a new reality, as if making one’s best friend forever into a slave-whore is the most natural thing in the world.

Of course I, being the deep submissive I am, luxuriate in it all.

I call her “Mistress” more often now, the result of her recent conversion to “McKenna rules,” a reclaiming of some of the formality of my slavery to her. But I say “Mistress” in various tones for different contexts, like it’s in one of those languages in which a single word can mean twenty things, depending on the note and sound and inflection.

Lately she’s taken to calling me her “strumpet,” which I’ve embraced because it sounds Victorian and somehow musical. But I looked it up — it means “prostitute.” So much for the romance, although she sometimes says “strumpet” in the most endearing way.

To that point, we continue to have conversations about whether I am naturally promiscuous, which she is sure of, or if she has made me promiscuous, which I am damn sure of and tell her emphatically with a wink and a smile.

This is the sound and rhythm of us.

During the sonata of these quiet days, the strumpet gives her mistress a suds bath in the vintage tub, sponging her flesh-curves like buoys afloat on the surface and finding secret places at greater depths.

notes to a younger me 18: the one you want

Early in my first slavery, I was taken to a lifestyle party by my owner, Master Michael.

It was, as I recall, a patio party in the summer and relatively tame — that is, submissives were in collars and sometimes on leashes, but we weren’t in leather and the party wasn’t BDSM-forward. And, people kept their clothes on.

At the time I was in my first months of slavery to Master Michael, and at this event, I basically followed him around, talking with people when spoken to, being rather overwhelmed, and doing what I do best, being submissive.

People chattered about their D/s lives and practices — bondage and discipline, trends and practices in the lifestyle, who was with who, and so on.

A man engaged us in conversation. It seemed he and Master were friends of some sort, though I didn’t get the impression they were close. And when I say he engaged “us” in conversation, I mean he talked with Master about dom things in front of me, the third party — a common practice among doms here. I remained silent as I was supposed to.

Eventually this man got to talking about a particular practice he was interested in. What this was isn’t important and isn’t the point of what happened, as you’ll see. But I’ll tell you that he was fascinated by the practice of branding — applying a hot-iron brand to a slave’s flesh, just as is done with cattle.

In fact, this wasn’t offensive to me per se, although it was unsettling to think about. It was something Master and I had never discussed.

The man did not currently own a submissive, but he said he would like to do this sometime “when he got one.” And he went on, a bit too forwardly, to include me, saying to my master, “I wonder how your slave here would submit to that.”

It was a baiting comment. Some doms might step into their ego and pride and say something about how their slave was fully trained and completely submissive and could handle that.

But I’ll never forget what Master Michael said. He looked at the man, pausing a moment, and finally saying, “I would never do that to my slave Shae.”


Again, the point here is not the specific practice of branding. It could have been something else more benign, even something I wished might be done to me. What mattered was what Master Michael said.

Master told someone else he had a self-imposed limit in his dominance of me. He “would not go there,” because “he wouldn’t do that to his slave Shae.”

I had already committed my life in slavery to Master Michael, but in that moment I cast another vote for him to be my owner.


If you, dear one, ever find a dominant who says, “I would never do that to her,” immediately hand him your leash.

He’s the one you want.

new phase, redux

This is probably something I shall post in my “Notes to a Younger Me” series, as it’s worth mentioning in the context of subs and slaves in early D/s relationships.


When I write about this “new phase” of my slavery, it is not to suggest Mistress has crossed any boundary or limit with me, or plans to take me where I cannot go.

I don’t remember any time in my slavery to her when I gave her a list of my limits and boundaries. And while we’ve had many casual conversations when she has asked me “how do you feel about…” this or that, or “what if…” something were to happen, we have never had formal negotiations about things.

Instead, in living together as mistress and slave we have intuitively come to know what each of us needs, wants, and can’t do. She knows I have a strong reaction to being abandoned. That isn’t a negotiated restriction on her, but she is aware and is careful about that in certain things with me. I know Mistress Amanda has an aversion to physical discipline of me. I would like more of that, actually, but it’s not in her repertoire. That’s OK. These and many others are things we know and observe but have never formally negotiated.

(Please hear me — I am not suggesting that negotiations and lists of limits are wrong. I often advocate for them. They just haven’t been our way of doing slavery.)

This “new phase” of life under Mistress A is an intersection of our intuitive knowledge about each other. She knows that my being sexually presented in public is something I shy away from. She also knows it thrills and fulfills me submissively when she requires it of me. And I know this is the aspect of dominance that is her longing and fulfillment as a dominant. I’ve always known it was going here. And that’s always been okay.

This was never a boundary here for me. There’s no “limits list” where any of this appears. The map of my slavery to her is big and sprawling. This “new phase” is our exploration of a new part of the map.

Just as she was the one to move us across the state into this house, she is moving us into a new D/s territory.

I will follow her there. Probably on a leash.

new phase

I know I’m in a new phase of life with Mistress Amanda.

I’ve written often about her goals and eventual strategies for me, quite recently in fact, so what is happening is not brand new or unexpected. But after a long cocooning, just me and Mistress, she now can put into action what she’s wanted to all along — the socialization of my slavery.

I am realizing I have to come to terms with this more than I have.

Being made half naked at the trash pit Wednesday was a touch of the kind of thing she wishes to do — and often. We will have the neighborhood barbecue in August, which will present me in my slavery to a greater degree, all yet TBD. There was Master McKenna’s retreat, with apparently more of that to come. I am shared with Kevin, and while he’s someone I have known before, it still has the feeling of a “public sharing.” And more of all of this kind of social exposure-experience is coming…

This is her pleasure, the further realization of her dominant need.

It is not that these experiences are abhorrent to me or traumatic. A deep part of me thrills in them. I am buzzy afterward. But on the face of it, I somewhat resist being publicly exposed and socially enslaved, and I find it a mental challenge to enter into it. Even now, after nearly six years of lifestyle slavery, I wrestle with what people will think of me.

Yet, deeper down, I want it too. And very much, actually. Amanda knows this, and she forges ahead, sort of bypassing my top-level hesitations, and going to that deeper level straightway. She just plans these things and orders me to do them. And I obey, despite my reservations. Later, sitting in a puddle of submissive fulfillment, I’m glad she made me do it.

Again, I’ve understood all of this before — that is, I’ve known this is who Amanda is and what she desires. Nothing here is a surprise.

But I think my acceptance of it so far has been a mental understanding and not so much yet a physical and emotional embrace.

odds and ends

We had another teatime this afternoon (Thursday), our last of the neighbor introductions and meet-ups.

This was with Robert Diaz and his live-in girlfriend Stacy Knox. He’s in his forties, and she’s around my age. They are professionals in small businesses downtown — Robert as an exec with a shipping company and Stacy as a VP of a startup tech company. Amanda has a lot in common with them on the business side of things.

Of course the point of all this had been to gauge people’s openness, or lack thereof, to our lifestyle. Robert and Stacy seem open-minded, although we didn’t get from them a lot of curiosity. Still, they appear to support us in our lifestyle and are not the type to be offended by our public play.


Mistress Amanda intends to continue teatimes in the fall, perhaps monthly, inviting all the neighbors to attend as they are able.

Meanwhile, there is enough “buy-in” by our neighbors to us and our lifestyle for Amanda to schedule a barbecue gettogether late August. She’s working on that.

That will be my next significant public event.


I am still buzzy from my exposure Wednesday to the trash men. Mistress tells me to call them “maintenance men,” as that’s what they prefer to be called. So I will, although “maintenance men” suggests double-entendres.

The experience, to be clear, was not traumatic for me. But it was eventful, intense, deeply submissive, and carried a certain kind of objectification and humiliation.

So it’s not accurate for me to say I’m “getting over it,” as that suggests a psychological ordeal, which it wasn’t. But my body is still remembering it. Meaning that I still am processing the feelings of my experience in it. Feelings both of humiliation and arousal.


The dining room is now completely empty, even of furniture. The bay window is actually quite grand, looking out over the back expanse of yard, with a view up to the ridge.

Amanda had me wash down the dining room, walls, floor, and corners. This time I offered no protest, and simply did the work. I learned my lesson. Until next time, at least.


Master McKenna stopped by briefly this week. It was not for me, but to discuss schedules with Mistress Amanda. Still, I was all formal and properly postured for him.

They have agreed that late in August, he will have me for two full days, overnight. It will be a bit of a test for how it will work for him and her.


Which brings up the subject of my schedule, specifically my calendar.

Amanda keeps my schedule on computer, and I’d mentioned once before that she had started printing it out and hanging it in the kitchen. She has admitted she got the idea from my recent story “The Game.”

So my life is hung by a magnet to the fridge.

trash day

Our driveway is some several hundred yards long, sloping in an arc to the front road. The “trash pit,” as we call it, is set on a hard-clay space in from the road, bearing an enclosure that houses our trash cans. The pickup is Wednesday mornings.

Mistress Amanda had ordered me to be topless as I greeted the trash men when they arrived today.

This was a consequence of my hissy-fit last Saturday, which I reported here. As full of spit and shit as I was then, I somehow kept from mounting a full-scale Les Miz, and so Mistress Amanda did not prescribe a “punishment” but opted instead for this, which she calls a “consequence.”

I have the feeling she may have done this to me anyway, without my transgression, but I played into her hand with my little uprising.

Normally the trash guys come just after eight o’clock, and they’re usually punctual — our house is early in their rounds for the day. To be clear, we’ve never met them — from the house we just hear the big trash truck rumbling along the road and screeching when it stops at our trash pick-up.

I had coffee on a tray for Mistress as always right at 7:15. She took her first sips at 7:30.

She had me wearing a white skater skirt, which was short (mid-thigh), and not much else. She put me in white canvas shoes, not heels for some reason, and I wore one of my heavy metal collars around my neck. From my O-ring hung the now-common half-leash. Its heavy chain-link slipped through my cleavage and dangled to my waist.

Amanda said something about my nipples being “especially perky this morning,” and referred to the morning’s event as my “date with a trash man.” I said nothing, absorbing her verbal teasing.

Since Saturday, I’ve been docile and acquiescent with her, more relationally submissive than usual. This isn’t some strategy on my part, but my auto-response to being handled by her Saturday, as I was readily put in my place by her dominance. I had risen up but was conquered, and in the aftermath I have felt especially subservient, as if I am a spoil of war.

At 7:45 this morning after coffee, she leashed me, attached to my half-chain a pink(!) dog-tether, and she walked me down the driveway, my breasts bared to the breeze.

Now, as you all know, being partially undressed in the front driveway is not a new experience for me. And indeed, Amanda has sometimes walked me topless along the front road. But that has been rare and has been in a “zone” of the neighbors’ homes who know us, the few who have seen me before in some form of undress. So being seen bare-breasted outside, while still a “thing” for me to experience and its own version of low-key humiliation, would not be so much of a big event as it once was.

However, this was different: I would be looked at by strangers stopping at the end of our drive, workers on the job staring at my tits, and men riding away making comments about me to each other. This felt like a major humiliation in the making.

A big event, perhaps, though likely to be short-lived: the trash men do their pickups in just sixty seconds or less. Last night, we’d put out in the trash pit a half-dozen boxes of refuse from the dining room cleaning, so that was extra work and would take them an additional thirty seconds. So I figured. Yes, I wwas counting seconds. I guess I was hoping it would be over quickly.

Sometimes the anticipation is as much the feeling as the actual event. This felt like that to me. We stood there waiting, with me on the leash and my nipples perky for my “date” with the trash men. Amanda chattered about work and meetings, and I stood silent, docile, aware that I was a half-naked female slave standing in a trash pit. Sometimes life is just absurd.

Amanda said, “I imagine they’ve seen a lot of things along their route. But probably not anything like yours.” Yours, of course, meaning my boobs, an intentionally objectifying comment.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” I said. “I’m already humiliated just by the thought of it.”

“I’m not trying hard,” she said.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Slave girl, you have no idea.”

We heard the growl of the truck at the other end of mountain. It stopped first at the Millers around the corner. It soon enough revved up again from there, and pulled into view.

Amanda walked to the other side of me, my leash in hand, so the truck driver could see me clearly as he drove to us.

Slowing down in his approach, the driver saw me and honked the horn twice,. I was already red-faced and my chest splotchy with shame.

The truck pulled past us, positioning to align the back of the truck with our trash pit. Two men jumped off from their perches at the back of the truck, stopping just as suddenly as they landed, now with wide-open eyes, taking me in.

Amanda, queen of woo, started talking, asking about whether the extra boxes would be taken, as she “hadn’t had time to call the office to request this as an extra service.”

One, a husky Latino man, answered in a thick accent, “We’ll take them.” As he spoke, his co-worker, a lanky teenager, stared at me with a big smile.

“You’re very kind, thank you,” Amanda replied.

By now the driver, who normally stays in the cab, had gotten out to “help.”

Amanda had every intention of prolonging the conversation, but the driver helped her effort by asking, “What’s the problem?” The Latino man explained to him about the boxes, and the driver nodded and repeated what the Latino man had said earlier — “we’ll take them this time,” he said. “But in the future you should call it in.”

Of course, I recognized all of this as blowing smoke and making pointless conversation to prolong their presence.

My instinct, of course, was to cover up, arms folding in front of my breasts, but Amanda would never put up with that, and my topless state was so obvious anyway as to make that superfluous. I left my arms to my sides.

Amanda spoke about “all the house cleaning we’re doing” (which was news to me): “…room by room. So we’ll have more to put out through the summer,” she said. “We moved in the end of 2019, then COVID hit…”

I half expected her to go into our whole life history. She could have — the men seemed perfectly willing to listen for a long time. Their eyes flitted from her to me, and back to her, though each time lingering on me longer.

In these moments, I become hyper-aware of everything. I stood partly in the sun. It happened to angle in such a way that one of my breasts was in sunlight and the other in shadow. I remember one of my breasts feeling warm and the other feeling cool. And I felt each man’s eyes on me, almost physically flicking my flesh, like butterflies fluttering my nipples.

“We just quarantined for so long,” Amanda was going on, “and for whatever reason didn’t do our spring cleaning as usual. So we are now finally getting this done.…”

The driver replied to her, “We’re seeing a lot of this now. People putting out more of their shit…”

This was just nothing talk, obviously, but I stood obediently, determined to endure my humiliation. Of course my obedience itself was part of my shame. They could see I wasn’t resisting. What woman would allow herself to be exposed like that in front of strangers? Though I was exhibited to these men, I was clearly not an exhibitionist. I was bare-breasted for their lust-hunger because I could do no other. I was obeying in my nakedness. I didn’t know how they put that together in their minds — if they saw me as the beta girl in a lesbian couple or if they knew enough to peg me as a submissive helplessly owned and humiliated. Either way, they kept staring, and I kept feeling excited and debased, knowing they were enjoying my arousal and my shame.

There was a brief silence, and then Amanda said to me, “Shae, we need to get out of their way,” leading me on my leash to the other side of the trash enclosure. As she moved me, I realized this had the visual effect of making my breasts move — sway and ripple. Which was her intent, obviously.

The men took the boxes.

The teenager was laughing.

Now Amanda moved me again, to the opposite side so they could get at our normal trash from the enclosure.

They rolled the trash cans out as they continued grabbing looks and leers. I felt their testosterone, their muscled manhood. I felt my own vulnerability, not as a fear of them, but in my own accessibility, my short skirt and underneath my bare pussy. I was glad they didn’t know about that.

When they were done, the driver came up to Amanda again, stealing glances at me. Again he went through the process so officiously: “Yeah, just call in the weekend before. Let us know what you’re putting out here.”

The two other men then came up beside the driver.

“You’ll bill us for the extra,” Amanda asked.

“Yes,” he said, “but we won’t bill you for these this time.”

“Thank you.”

The conversation seemed to roll round back to the start each time.

“It doesn’t have to be exact, you know, what you report against what’s out here. Just close enough. If there’s something extra, we’ll just take it.”

“Well, that’s good of you.”

“Our pleasure,” he said with a smile, looking once again at me.

The driver started up to the cab, and the two workers headed to the back of the truck.

“Oh!” Amanda said, “one more question.”

Oh. My. God.

“What if we have a piece of furniture?” Amanda asked. “An old easy chair. Or a small table.”

“Yes, we’ll take it,” the driver said again. “Call it in. Now, you have to get it down to the road here. But we’ll take it.”

“Good to know.”

They drove off, finally, the teenager and Hispanic man laughing from their back-of-truck perches, making hand signals to each other.

In total, Amanda managed to make their normal stop of sixty seconds into a stay of six or seven minutes.

We were still in the trash pit, and Amanda came behind me, wrapped her arms around and played with my breasts. She cupped them first, then squeezed them in little pulses.

“You did good,” she said into my ear.

I sighed. I had apologized to her before, but I did so again. “I’m sorry about Saturday.”

“Well, we’re done with that now.” Mistress extended my leash and started walking me back up to the house.

“The young guy,” I said, “wanted to fuck me. I could feel it.”

“Oh, slave girl,” Amanda said with a chuckle. “Don’t you know? All of them wanted to fuck you.”


All of that before 8:30 this morning.

subspaces

Lately, I’ve been aware that I have different kinds of subspace — it seems to have a different qualities at different times.

Another way to say it is that, for me, there isn’t just one subspace but multiple subspaces.

For those outside the lifestyle, I’ll try to define “subspace,” although it differs from person to person. In general it’s a mental orientation, an altered state, an out-of-body experience. It’s sometimes considered “a natural high.” I experience it as something like a daydream. I have read that there is physical science around this — chemicals and endorphins releasing, causing the mind to respond by going into a different experience of the reality.

If this sounds scary or other-worldly, it isn’t. Nor is it dangerous. It’s natural, much of what our minds do in dreaming at night.


For me, one flavor of subspace seems to happen in a situation of an overload of pleasures, either submissive or sexual (or both). In my D/s life, my submissiveness is just as intense a feeling as my sexual experience. When both happen at once, it almost always is more than I can naturally consume. And it opens up for me a subspace.

An example of this is when I’m with Kevin in the bondage room. He has me tied to the bondage horse, putting me in an extreme domination, thus tapping into my submissiveness. Eventually, Kevin mounts the bondage table and pushes his cock into me, which combines my intense submissive pleasure with intense sexual pleasure. It’s overwhelming, and a subspace opens up for me.

This subspace is where I “go” to be able to absorb what I’m in and what is being done to me. At least that’s how I understand it.


A second kind of subspace is less orgasmic but intense in a different way. It happens when I am made to be deeply submissive in a certain social situation. It is not physical or sexual, simply submissive. In such a case, I find myself distanced from much of what is going on around me, but focused on that one thing that prompts me, or controls me, submissively.

One example of this was Saturday morning, in the aftermath of my mini-rebellion. I had risen up oh so indignant, and Amanda had handled me, putting down my little insurrection, conquering me. I stood then for a while at the bay window deep in my submission. In this case, my subspace room was muffling the sounds of everything around me, letting through only Amanda’s voice.

I became deep focused on her and nothing else. In fact, several times Patricia said something to me and I didn’t hear her even though I was just a few feet away. Amanda had to repeat Patricia’s query to me — then I heard it.


Yet a third subspace for me is when I’m in the reality of intense objectification — being viewed, ogled, by strangers as a sexual object. For some reason, I experience this subspace as a sort of “floating,” like I am drifting in the air above, able to be seen but separate from it.

A good example of this was at the retreat when I was made topless in front of the five dominants. Eventually this became my usual display to them over the second and third days, and I became more capable of it. But the very first times, it put me in a kind of floaty subspace.

My problem here was that I still had to pay keen attention to what Master McKenna was saying. I managed, but in the moment it was not really about my nakedness or about my subspace but about staying coherent enough to respond when spoken to.


More about that last point: subspace often renders me speechless and incoherent. It seems to separate me from being able to form words. Imagine a scenario in which Amanda is fingering me to orgasm and in the midst of it tells me to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I would not be able to do it. Likewise in some of my subspaces, I become sub-verbal.

Of course, this is exactly where my domme and dom would like me to be a lot of the time — so submissive in body and sex that I literally cannot speak. Well, to be fair, they both like my wit and words, so they want the coherent Shae sometimes. They like the experience of me as an intelligent adult woman whom they can with their dominance reduce to incoherent babbling.

Ultimately, I think they prefer Shae in her subspace, illiterate in her submissive responses.


There is a fourth kind of subspace, I think.

I said before that subspace is natural and not dangerous, but this one is. It’s a space of complete dissociation. Psychology defines dissociation as a complete separation from reality, often leading to identity disorders and fugue states. Counselors guard against this, and my therapist Jillian checks in with me about this all the time.

I am no expert, so take my thoughts here with grains of salt.

But I think that most subspaces are not dissociations but ways in which the submissive mind filters and focuses reality. My mind is not saying “I don’t want to be here so I’ll create my own completely different reality” (dissociation). My mind is saying, “My submissive being wants to be here but needs to filter out that which is peripheral in order to more deeply experience my submission” (healthy subspace).

Subspace is not a break from reality, but a deeper presence within it.

Or so I think.

Agree or disagree… I welcome the comments of others with such experiences, as well as of those who have a greater knowledge of this than I have.

anatomy of a rebellion

Saturday morning

I am grumpy this morning because I don’t want to spend the day doing the designated project — cleaning out the dining room.

I stand outside the kitchen at 7:15 with the coffee tray in my hands, our morning ritual, waiting for Amanda to come out of her bedroom. She sleeps in till 7:45, eventually emerging and taking coffee from my tray at around 8:00. This doesn’t normally bother me — it is her absolute right and it is my proper place.

But this morning it annoys to no end that she is late getting up and that I am standing with a tray of coffee for her, but she isn’t showing up, and oh yes, because I’m already roiling inside about having to do a crappy home project for the next eight hours and now we’re getting started on that even later.

She pours coffee into her mug, looks at me, and senses I’m not in a happy place.

“And how are you this morning?” she asks, somewhat warily.

“I’m fine.” My response is flat and cool.

Amanda drips some milk from the creamer into her coffee.

I ask her if she enjoyed sleeping in, but my words carry an edge, a faint echo of accusation. She hears my tone, ignores me, goes into the kitchen to fetch herself a yogurt, and returns to stand before me.

“Do you have a problem with my sleeping in?”

“It’s fine,” I say.

She hates this passive-aggressive shit, and I think I am rarely guilty of it, but I am certainly full of it this morning.

Amanda looks at me through squinted eyes. “Stand here with the tray for another fifteen minutes, get yourself right, and when you’re ready to talk to me proper, find me on the patio.”

Well, I stand there for another fifteen minutes, though it isn’t really a worthy obedience. I am stewing, imagining a scenario in which I stand there all day as some sort of protest, my own silent temper tantrum. That’ll teach her.

I soon realize that Amanda would just let me do it, let me stand there all day and she’d never say a word and I’d wind up just marginalizing myself and enduring self-imposed agonies.

I pour myself coffee and go out to the patio.

“I don’t want to clean the dining room,” I announce.

“Clearly,” Amanda replies, “but what was all that in there?”

I don’t answer.

“You know, slave girl,” she says, “you’re right at the edge.”

“Amanda, you will look at every piece of paper and make sure it’s filed somewhere. It’ll take forever.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Take everything in the room and put it out front for the trash. Would take forty-five minutes.”

She looks at me sternly: “Shae, you better turn this around right now. I’m close to making you do a week as a service slave…”


So this is her recent find, a new thing. She has always been reluctant to punish me physically, loathe ever to hit me, although she has at times, and she’s occasionally used a flogger on me and a whip, but rarely, and not in punishment but play. Amanda doesn’t like violence, which is a lovely virtue, but it leaves her without a physical means for my discipline.

She has tried a psychological approach — removing her focus and presence for me — which is in fact very effective, but it still to her mind lacks a physical component.

Recently she stumbled into this idea of “sentencing” me to service slavery. She talked with me about it several times as a new idea, an interesting wrinkle for my slavery, but she has never invoked it.

As I’ve written before, there are some chores I enjoy doing — namely, laundry and scrubbing the kitchen floor. But my affinity for chores stops there, and Amanda knows it. The idea of spending my life as a maid is a little taste of hell.

She evolved this punishment of making me a service slave for a period of time — day, week, month. As she would apply it to me, being a service slave would be a whole week of home projects, this loathed dining room makeover times seven. Also it would forbid me sex of any kind or any sexual pleasure. She would likewise remove herself from me emotionally and relationally. (Which she can be very good at.)

I am rarely rebellious or bratty, so there hasn’t been need for her to think about enforcing service slavery.

Until Saturday morning.


So she mentions this service-slave punishment and continues, her voice rising into a hiss and a yell: “I have my reasons for going through the boxes in the dining room. I don’t have to justify that to you… Again — and this is your last chance — take a moment, get your head right, and come back to me begging for mercy!”

She is piss-angry, and it pauses my brat-rebellion. I take it in, nod, walk away.


I honestly don’t know what got into me. I think sometimes you have a desire to push back on something — which is natural, as you don’t necessarily love everything you’re made to do — and you resist it, a little at first. But soon it’s no longer about the “something” — cleaning the dining room — but about the resisting, taking a stand for the “cause.” In time, you become defiant for reasons you’ve totally lost track of.

In truth, the threat of a week of service slavery is the deterrent for me. I am still filled with righteous indignation when I make my way back to her. But I am now resolved that nothing matters as much as avoiding a stint in service slavery.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Amanda. “I was wrong.”

She sits in silence with her coffee, waiting for me to say more.

“I don’t know why I got like this. I just got it into my head that I didn’t want to do this today. I know it’s not my choice. You control that, and I submit to you.”

“Anything more?”

“I apologize for my attitude, words, rebellion. And I beg for your mercy, asking you, Mistress, to waive any punishment. I’ll be better today. I promise.”


She recognizes, rightly, that I am a bit perfunctory in my apology, that it’s more by-the-book than heart-felt. She finally accepts it, but not without a few consequences.

For the day, she’d had me dressed in a tee-top, denim skirt, and flat canvas shoes — an outfit for a day’s work.

Now she tells me to take my top off. “I’ll have you bare-titted today.” And she has me put on heels instead of the flats. “Each time you take a box down to the basement,” she says, “you’ll take off your heels and put on your flats. When you come back up, you’ll switch again. I want you standing in heels all day. I don’t want you breaking an ankle. I do want your ankles to ache by the end of the day..”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I called Patricia, and she’s coming over around ten. She says John might join us for a few minutes when he gets back from his golf.”

I nod and thank her.

“Now get me more coffee. When I have my second cup,” she says, “ we’ll get started on this.”


I am put on the task of the bay window. It’s a substantial size, and boxes stack high on two sides, with files in a number of piles everywhere else. I sigh, resigning myself to the idea that today will be a slice of my life I will never get back.

Amanda works on the files and papers on the table against the wall. Much of what’s in the room are her own work files from back when we moved.

Patricia comes by at around eleven, nodding with a smile when she sees me topless. Amanda explains that I was a bad girl this morning, but “narrowly we averted disaster.”

It sometimes hard in the aftermath of sin and reprimand not to fall into a child’s space — acting like a little girl to one’s parent. I fight this, as it feels swirly to me, and I know Amanda doesn’t like it either. But it’s hard not to go there. I start in on the work silently, with Patricia and Amanda talking in the background. In short time, I come out of my mental space and ask Amanda an adult question about how she is organizing her papers and if she wants me to blend my work into her system. We talk a while about this, and it’s a mature conversation. I manage to retain my adulthood, albeit in the shadow of everything earlier that morning.

John Miller comes over at half past noon with sandwiches and drinks. He nods, grins at my bare breasts, and says, “Sometime, Shae, I should take you golfing with me. My buddies would like you.”

Amanda chuckles, looks up at him, and starts to say something. I know she is thinking that Mr. Miller’s jokey comment might actually be an opportunity for her to do something with me. My eyes meet hers, and I tilt my head, my expression one of hope she won’t go there. She smiles at me, bites her tongue, and says nothing more.

I mouth the words, “Thank you.”


We finish in five hours not eight. Patricia Miller helps us speed up the process considerably.

Mr. Miller has to leave to meet a friend, but returns later, ostensibly to help carry boxes to the basement, but no doubt hoping I’m still bare-breasted while clearing the bay window. I was. He and Patricia sometimes see me in various states of undress, and each time I am self-conscious about it, though I get used to it with them. Theirs are friendly lusts.

I have gotten back into sync with Amanda, averting a week of service slavery. She is going easy on me, my reprimand in the simple form of being made topless and put in high-heels while standing all day.

However, there is one more thing.

“You wanted,” Amanda says, “to cart the whole dining room to the trash pickup. Well, we have a few boxes of trash, as it turns out. I want you to carry those boxes down to the road for the pickup Wednesday. I’ll have you standing there when the trashmen come by. I’m considering what I’ll have you wear — or not wear — for your little date with them.”

So there will be that.