mash from the past

I had an unusual experience earlier last week, and it brought me to reflect on my college years.

I haven’t shared much about my earlier life here. I don’t think most people are interested in those details, my history, and it doesn’t relate directly to my submissive life now.

I’ll try not to bore you, but bear with me for a few paragraphs, and then I’ll get on with it….

Back in college, I had two circles of friends I hung out with. One was what I called the “theater posse.” I was only peripherally involved in theater, but I made friends with some of the acting majors, and they included me in their group. They were fun and creative, but by my junior year this group had moved along or away, and was no longer a part of my life.

The other circle was my English lit cohort. It was common, though not required, at the beginning of one’s sophomore year, to declare a major with a particular focus. I declared English lit as my major, and writing as my focus. it happened that six other students declared the same lit/writing focus, leading us along a similar course path over the next three years.

Not all cohorts of this kind actually get along that well, but we did and ours became a social group as much as a study group. It’s been a long time, but those times with Marta, Scott, Shaniqua (whom we called “Neek”), Jeremy, and Darius were important to me. I was still a conservative church girl finding herself in a big secular university in Pennsylvania. They all were supportive friends who respected me.

Sadly I have lost touch with them. Even at the end of our senior year, we had started to disperse. Marta and Darius graduated early. Scott had a family crisis and couldn’t finish his final semester. After graduation, most of them went to New York or Boston or Philadelphia to pursue careers. Of course, my journey brought me to Colorado. Circumstances intervene and we find ourselves in different lives.

Monday this past week I received an email.

It said, “I found you! Discovered your blog. This is Jeremy.”

My first thought was how wonderful it was to get reconnected to Jeremy all these years later.

My second thought was, oh crap, he’s been reading my blog. And in fact he had been reading a number of my posts going back months. In his email he was asking questions about the D/s life and how and why I got into it.

Those of us who write online about being submissive and being dominated do so because in some way we want to be known. We want to share ourselves and our experience of the submissive life. Yet our lives of submission are still secret from some or many, usually because there are people we know who would not likely understand, for whom the knowledge just would cloud our relationship with them.

I write personal and intimate things with some expectation they will be read. Of course. I cannot be so shocked, really, when I know Jeremy has read about my sex life. I wrote it and posted it, and somehow I wanted others to read it.

But mostly I expect to be read by those in D/s life themselves, perhaps by people in D/s communities. I am always aware that others outside the lifestyle read my posts because they’re curious. And I accept that new acquaintances in my life come to read my blog. Usually these people who read about my submissive, intimate life are those who already know me in some way as the submissive woman I am. This is what I am to them, and I’m OK with that. What they read about me is how they know me.

This letter from Jeremy was a mash-up of my past into my present. That’s what’s jolting. I just never thought about people from my past finding me here. Naive of me, I suppose. I just never much thought about it.

But people from my past never knew me as I am now. This is quite surprising to them, I’m sure. And maybe shocking or pitiable. I don’t know.

I have been asking myself if this is an actual Problem. Maybe not. But it makes me feel exposed. Like one of my frequent fiction themes of being undressed and sexed and the lights coming on to reveal that I’m on a stage and an audience is watching. (I seem to write about that often, so maybe I should like this.)

Anyway, there’s no conclusion here. I don’t know. I’m still swirling in the feelings of this.

Well, I emailed him back, trying to be a Composed Adult Woman owning her life of submission. Though there isn’t much one can say casually and concisely about how one English Lit girl became a sex slave.

I guess circumstances intervene and we find ourselves in different lives.

Jeremy, welcome to my blog.


This morning Amanda walked me on a leash. This was the second time I’ve been leashed along the front road, and this time it was much farther — actually the full circle around, and then back.

Amanda kept me clothed. She was testing the leash-walk in front of neighbors who might have been watching.

Amanda has now had “successful” conversations with four of the five neighbors, mostly achieving her goal of wooing the territory.

With them, she has been careful not to refer to me as her slave, and she has decided against trying to broach the idea of my nudity in public. That, she thinks, will come later. For now, she focuses on our lifestyle and the simple idea of walking me on a leash around the development.

No one has objected to this, though one resident, a single woman, doesn’t really understand our lifestyle; she just said, “Do whatever you want. I won’t care.” But most of the neighbors have been open. The elderly couple at the south end gave a warm reception to Amanda. The man said, “We could use some entertainment around here.”

One home at the north end may be a problem, but doesn’t seem to be used right now.

Being walked on a leash is always something that affects me. Even as often as I am put on a leash, it is never something that feels ordinary to me.

Even in the privacy of our house or out in the back forty or up on the ridge, just Amanda and me, being on a leash puts me into a submissive quiet. It’s not a bad feeling — indeed it fulfills me submissively — but it’s sobering within, reminding me that I am a property owned.

Proper leash-walking is about being a shadow to your mistress, staying close, slightly to the side and stride behind. You are tethered to another. Indeed in training, it is done without a physical leash — I shadow her, imagining I am leashed. It makes me even more aware of how I am tied to her and how that is a metaphor for not having my own life but being a shadow to hers.

Today, she walked me in public, now having gained some permission, and interest, of our neighbors. She walked me around completely, then back again, giving people two chances to see me this way. And she made a point of stopping within view to adjust my collar or to point out some phantom thing in the woods across the way — giving anyone ample chance to see Amanda with her possession in tow.

Being walked in the possible sight of curious others peering from windows is another kind of experience. I feel exposed even though dressed. I can’t help but wonder what others are thinking, and I assume pity or judgment or lust. It’s hard for me to accept that passively, and it makes me want Amanda to march me up to someone’s door and give me a chance to explain, to tell them what this is about within me and with her.

Indeed this is what Amanda eventually intends, her vision of the friendly stroll through the neighborhood, visiting and chatting with friends in front yards, with me on a leash and dressed or undressed in some revealing way. In that Amandian utopia, I will be given a chance to explain what I am.

The problem is, as always, we can’t ever really explain submissiveness, much as we always keep trying.

a hard work week

I have been unusually tired these nights, unable in the evenings to muster the energy to write after long days of work with Amanda. She has employed me during a very busy time for her company, small businesses now opening up again and our clients having to deal with re-hirings and salary compensations.

She has worked me ten hours a day. Last evening, she came to me, wrapped her arms around my waist, looked me in the eye, and apologized for the long hours, thanking me for my tireless efforts.

In the submissive life, you don’t ever get to say “I didn’t sign up for this” because actually you did. You have an insatiable need to be dominated, and you get used and sexualized and debased in ways you might not have ever imagined yet somehow agreed to.

But Amanda is well aware that she is working me hard in tasks that are tedious and data-driven, thankless and mind-numbing work for anyone. Except normal “anyones” are paid. Of course, I don’t need money, and Amanda the goddess domme supplies everything I need and then some. But, again, she knows I didn’t exactly sign up for this.

She has tried, bless her, to sexualize me during my work days, as if to give my time in spreadsheets some submissive sizzle — the idea being that exciting my submissive spirit in some way will make creating a data range in Excel more interesting. Nice try.

One idea she had was to put me in a spreader bar. Not a long one across my shoulders, but a narrow one attached to my wrists in front. It allowed me still to type, though tediously. She thought maybe it would be a challenge, and I’d find a way to type faster despite the spreader bar handicap. Maybe in Word, but in Excel it was torture.

After two hours, I walked into Amanda’s office and said apologetically that I’d gotten ten minutes of work done in two hours. I must have looked really forlorn, for she felt sorry for what she’d done to me, and immediately unlocked me from the spreader bar.

Otherwise it’s been having me wear button-down tops, except unbuttoned in front, the panels hanging open and my breasts pushing out in the middle. Which I think has been, again, her way of leashing to my submissive soul in the midst of hard desk work, giving me the experience of being objectified and sexualized even in a mental world of rows and columns.

But I also think she just likes looking at me, seeing my body. And I like that. A lot.

Anyway… if there’s a report of some kind here, it is to say I have some writing to do, finishing my account of what happened the day with Blake, and writing my other assignment from Amanda, and then another few things rolling around in my head….

Blake 1

I know it’s been a whole week since, and I apologize for not writing this sooner. Sometimes you need to process experiences and feelings before you report on them.

So it happened last Sunday.

Blake came at about ten for the work at hand — to do some interior house repairs, install eye bolts, work on the area of the wet bar, and finish the lower bolts for the entryway wall.

Before he started, Amanda had me serve him coffee. At this point I was dressed in a denim skirt and loose top. We sat at the breakfast table, talking about life in quarantine through recent weeks. He talked about his work drying up for a while. He’s busy now, he said, but he’d been sitting around for too long, putting on weight. I wouldn’t have noticed — he’s tall and wiry.

Blake mentioned a client of his, someone Amanda knows in the D/s lifestyle, who has him building a bondage room. Amanda asked about that, and they talked for a while about some of the design features he was putting in.

Amanda said that she was never given to a separate room for such things, though Kevin had had a bondage room. Then she went on to tell Blake who Kevin was and how I am sent to him every month for a time. Amanda said, “I don’t think of going to a specific room when I play with her. I want the possibilities for restraining her to be everywhere, all over the house, for others to see.“

I sat, saying nothing. I had pretty immediately gone into my sub space, content to let them talk about me. I knew that Amanda referring to me in the third person was intentional on her part. And Blake was addressing her not me, respecting my slave status to her. Though he was never, all day, impolite to me.

Eventually we walked around the house discussing the work to be done. Well, they discussed — I followed behind them silently. Amanda had another new idea, which I hadn’t heard before, and will write about later.

Blake had a small notebook and made sketches and measured things and wrote notes as we went around. He said he had figured out another way of finishing the entryway wall, less invasive, which came as good news to Amanda. So, he said, he could complete that today after all.

After the walk-around, Amanda had us back at the breakfast table again, though we stayed standing. She had me pour us fresh mugs of coffee. Blake was talking about the easy chair, that it would be simple. The legs were a walnut, he said, which was unusual, but good. He could drill in hooks that would show.

Amanda said to Blake that before he got started, she “wanted to be clear about something.”

She spoke about making me available to stand in place for measuring and positioning. “Blake,” she said, “I told you I was going to have her undressed for this. I know that’s not necessary for the work, but I just want her that way.” But, Amanda said, she didn’t want this to offend him. “If it will bother you, Blake, we won’t do it.”

As I recalled this later, I was reminded of a certain quality Blake seems to have. He is twenty-five, think, though he looks a bit younger. Yet he has a presence of someone older, a certain confidence with people. And he answered her with just that kind of mature response: “Amanda,” he said, “it would be my pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Excellent,” Amanda said. She told him I would be in the same room with him, but would stay out of his way. “Slave girl is good at talking only when spoken to.” Blake didn’t have to make conversation.

They went on to talk about what height heels I should wear for positioning along the entryway wall and the wet bar. Six-inch heels versus, say, flats, would change my ankle height. Would that make a difference to the position of the eye bolts? I hardly ever wear flats in such situations. They decided four-inch heels would be a median height that would suffice for all heel heights.

Then Amanda told me to go to the bedroom, undress, and put on the cream pumps with the ankle straps. Finally, I was to put on my linen robe and then come back out.

It has become clear to me that Amanda intended this time with Blake as strategic to my submissive development. When she first mentioned this some time ago, I thought it was just her bit of tease to have with me, to play with me, in front of someone. No, I realized now, this had a purpose She wanted me to be seen and lusted for by a man, a practical stranger, and for me to stand in that lust for a number of hours.

This was to be a first test, one that will lead to other things — my being nude and led down the street, or visiting neighbors, or being walked in parks and along mountain trails and up on the ridge in back. It will be how Amanda presents me at parties and how she entertains certain guests here at the house. It is my further, deeper sexualization and training, and she intends this to be my way of life.

A short while later, I emerged in my little robe and Jeffrey Campbell heels with the ankle strap. They were in the entryway, the front door wide open. The side table had been moved over, and the sconces and candles were taken down, leaving the iron fixtures for my bondage.

Amanda was talking when I walked in, but she stopped and told me to take off my robe.

I obeyed, untying the sash in front, letting the linen robe open in front, then pulling it back from my shoulders, and off. I gathered it and laid it on the chair.

Blake was standing maybe six feet away, close to the door. At his feet was a toolbox. Amanda picked up the conversation again. I stood naked, not knowing what to do with my hands. They talked about the work, I forget what, but it turned into a longer conversation.

Amanda stood slightly behind me. I suspected she wanted to make sure that, as he conversed with her, he would have a long visual drink of my body.

Which he did. As Blake talked, he was looking at my breasts.

I was self-conscious, of course, my upper chest growing little splotches of red, as it does, and my ring-pierced nipples growing into thicker nubs. I remember not knowing myself where to look, where my eyes should go, so I turned my head to Amanda when she was talking, then off to the side and down, and occasionally at Blake directly, catching his eyes sometimes. When I did, he did not look away. He was a confident guy, that’s for sure. I was the one to look away.

They continued to talk, and I slipped further into sub-space. You can feel someone looking at you, and I felt his eyes like fingers over my breasts. And then, soon enough, I could feel his view go lower, between my legs, finding my bare slit, shaven, bald, and smooth.

I have been nude in front of people before, of course, but not so often completely nude like this, nor with someone still so much a stranger as was Blake, nor in my slave state so obviously, nor in this sort of proximity, six feet away, from a carpenter and his tools.

it was an intimacy all of its own, being “had” by someone I didn’t choose. Not to say it was painfully uncomfortable for me, no, it wasn’t, as there was something about him that was strong but not threatening, yet I felt self-conscious and was well aware of his gaze.

I imagined what he might be thinking. I was the slave girl in the room, submissive to her and by her proxy, also to him. I was ten years older, MILFish, perhaps he thought — I don’t know how men think of that. But I imagined that perhaps he was enjoying seeing an “older” woman so submissive and obedient as to humiliate myself naked before him, a younger man.

Amanda realized then I needed to be wearing my collar and would need wrist and ankle cuffs. She told me to go fetch them all, and to change out of the pumps with the ankle strap and wear my red ones. Also to put on matching red lipstick.

I did so, realizing that Amanda was showing me off. She probably all along intended for me to walk out and then back in, for Blake to see my breasts sway and ripple as I walked out and then back in while wearing high heels. As the day progressed, Amanda had me change my appearance multiple times.

Soon I was back, freshly heeled and lipsticked in ruby red, holding cuffs and collar. Amanda put my collar on me from behind. Likewise, my wrist cuffs, then ankle cuffs.

And then she attached me to the entryway wall.

Amanda had me stand with my feet a few inches apart, but this was the part of using me for “positioning” that was actual and necessary. Blake knelt to the floor, inches from my bare pussy. Amanda, had me try numerous stances — from my feet together, to inches apart, to wider and wider. At the widest stance, my pussy lips were parted, open.

Amanda thankfully said, “In high heels, slave girl can’t sustain that wide a set. I don’t like it anyway.” So we tried other stance-widths all over again — my adjusting my feet against the baseboard, and the two of them looking at me quizzically, as if centering a picture frame.

Amanda reiterated that she wanted my ankle straps latched tight to the wall. Not with lengths of chain. So the “home” position of my legs and feet mattered specifically and were the basis for Blake’s exact measurement.

Amanda finally settled on a position with my feet about a foot apart. “I think that’s right,” she said.

Blake, crouching at my feet, wrapped his hand around my right ankle, slowly pushing it back flush to the wall.

It was the first he had actually touched me. He has big hands.

He marked the wall with a flat pencil.

More to come…

q and a: sex slave

You are/are called a sex slave. What does that mean in your daily life?

I am called a sex slave, and I also am a sex slave. I have come to accept that.

It means I am seen and viewed and treated as a sexual object a lot of the time. I have come to understand this as being three things: sexualization, sexual play, and acts of sex.

Sexualization refers to what is done to me to make me aware of my sexual purpose. It is, quite literally, about making me into a sex object. It may be how I am addressed, what I am called, words used abut me when I am spoken to. It is also how I am dressed (or not dressed) on a daily basis. As everyone knows, I am not permitted to wear a bra or panties, and this is creates a constant self-awareness that I am different, and that I am available sexually. Also, I may be sexualized int he way I am made to sit or stand or walk.

Sexual play is about how others touch me intimately. It isn’t sex itself, but it is about being handled or fondled by others because I am a sex object and sex slave. If my mistress makes me available to them, they may play with me as pleasures them.

Sex is maybe the ultimate experience in being a sex slave. My primary purpose is to provide myself for sex with Amanda. But she may be starting to share me with others, and in our arrangement and definition of things, sex with others, as she chooses, will be part of my slavery.

Does slavery make you more sexual?

Yes. Sexualization and sex play make for a kind of constant foreplay. Even just physically, I am aroused a lot of the time. I think there’s a sweet spot for sexual activity in which one’s libido and sexual drive are heightened.

In my pre-slavery life, I think I was more sexual than I allowed myself to be. But now in slavery, the frequency of sexual things has certainly made me “more sexual” more/most of the time.

Do you ever get tired of being treated as a sex slave, sex object?

Yes. Sometimes. I think at some points there is too much at once, and I just get mentally tired. Like I say, there is a sweet spot of frequency and stimulation and arousal. Too much — or too little — dampens my sexual capacity.

I think an important part of this is how I am treated in other ways. If I didn’t have other things that gave me significance and value, I would likely resist my sexualization each and every day. But I am valued for other things, other interests — my abilities in the workplace with Amanda, my writing, my interests in books and the arts. And so I never ever feel that being a sex object is my only value, even if others reduce me to sexual use and pleasure.

Did slavery make you bisexual?

Interesting question. No, but I think that in vanilla life we don’t always give ourselves to the fullest range of sexuality that we actually have by nature. Slavery does open you up, so to speak, to other experiences that you might never have permitted yourself to sample.

For me, I know now I have always been bisexual, but my conservative, religious upbringing made that part of me forbidden to acknowledge or express. That repression persisted through my adult life until close to the time I was in D/s and considering a submissive life 24/7.

So, my slavery, yes, has allowed me to open myself to lesbian experiences, and as a result I have discovered a broader ranger of my sexual self in my bisexuality.

Of course, Amanda makes it easy to go there.

Did your need to overcome repression lead you into into D/s slavery?

The answer is no. If anyone really knew how fucking submissive I am, there would be no question in anyone’s mind that this is the life I have to live.

I think our sexuality is a lot of things, not just one. This includes orientation but also submissiveness and dominance as well as a rich fantasy life and an array of desires.

For me, my eventual decision to overcome my repression became an open door for both my bisexuality as well as my deep submissive nature.

Do you have advice for a submissive women entering the D/s lifestyle for the first time?

I have written and said this before, but will say so again and again — because this is dear to my heart, the fulfillment and safety and well-being of other submissive women like me.

Make your obedience in sexual slavery intentional and meaningful by giving your absolute best to it.

That seems hard to do. You are sexualized in terms that are not your choice and required to submit to sex in various ways others want to have you.

But it’s important not only to submit yourself but to devote yourself to what is being done to you. When you are made to wear a revealing dress, wear it well and proudly. When you are called a certain name, receive it intentionally. When you are made to give a man a blow job, make love to his cock like he’s your knight in shining armor. When you are taken by a mistress into her bed, give yourself to her with passion and pleasure.

I am writing about sexual slavery specifically, but this applies to other forms of D/s submission and submissions that are not sexual at all.

Submission isn’t passive. It’s not about silently absorbing what is done to you. That will, in fact destroy you. Submission is, yes, about being the sex slave you are, but also about giving yourself to it actively.

Submission is about living this slave life richly and meaningfully and intentionally.

eye-bolt boy

Amanda told me she has arranged for our handyman guy to come to the house this weekend to install eye bolts, like, everywhere.

He had started working again after a shelter-in-place time off, and Amanda got us penciled in on his calendar for July, but he had a cancellation this weekend, oh joy, so here we go.

Amanda has been ultra-cautious through the pandemic lock down, bless her, but it’s pretty near been the end of her, social butterfly that she is, and she is so, so, so ready to be done with this. Which means me too, of course, us opening up and her opening me up — and you can take that to mean whatever you wish, because whatever you’re thinking is probably going to happen. She is dying to expose me to some public someone.

So, regarding eye-bolt boy… I don’t know if I’m more apprehensive of the “modeling” she has threatened to have me do when he is mounting these (and mounting may be an unfortunate choice of words here), or of the time after he leaves when Amanda will re-test all the eye bolts, attach them to my wrist and ankle cuffs, see how effective they are at restraining me, and marry me to the house like a naked housewife.

I’m not sure if he’ll be here Saturday or Sunday. I’ve thought about suddenly getting sick that day, but she doesn’t put up with that crap.

slave types

The subject of “slave types” came up in conversation the other night.

So… I have been fascinated to read about “kept women” in history — the courtesans in France and cortigiane in Italy and oiran in Japan. These were women maintained by people of wealth and royalty, used in households and royal courts and top social circles for a variety of purposes. The words cortigiane and courtesan derive from the word “court” — essentially “women of the court.”

A kept woman in these cultures usually specialized in a particular type of servitude. She might be an entertainer or actor or musician or artist. She might be kept as a teacher. She might be used as a maid or servant in a rich family’s estate.

Cortigiane and courtesans, as well as the Japanese oiran, were not slaves per se, but they were kept and bound by social expectations. They were subject to the wealthy patrons who financially supported them, else they could not enjoy the upper-crust elegance and status of that social life. The alternative was to become street prostitutes. So it was a sort of social bondage.

There was also another type of service — the “pleasure” cortigiane — the woman kept primarily for sexual play and use.

Yet many of the other “types” of kept women were also used sexually. Being a courtesan was understood to require being available to wealthy patrons of the social circle for sexual enjoyment. The men and women of high society accepted this as standard practice. Sexual liaisons with courtesans and cortigiane were common. In fact kings, whose legacy depended on bearing a child heir and whose wives were sometimes unable to conceive, would use a courtesan for sex — and childbearing.

History lesson over… but it leads me to think about modern D/s slavery and the idea of slave types.

The other comparable is Gorean myth and tradition, which is keen on differentiating slave women by an extensive system of slave purposes. (A disclaimer — I am no expert on Gorean literature, and some reading this will no doubt know much more than I do. What I say here is from my surface reading about it. I welcome other input on this…)

As I understand it, in Gorean tradition some slaves are identified by their work or service: for example, there are “field” slaves and “house” slaves. Some types are very specific: “kettle” slaves are women who work in kitchens; “fetch-and-carry” slaves are those who bring food and water to other laboring slaves.

There are “professional” slaves and “personal serving” slaves, perhaps suggesting a type of slave who in a modern context would be a personal assistant or aide to a master.

One slave type of interest to me is the “state” slave, sometimes also known as a “public” slave. This slave is actually owned by a city, kept as collective slave publicly. Apparently it takes a village…

Of course, there are sex slaves, called “pleasure” slaves or “passion” slaves. Pleasure slaves are trained as adults in the sexual arts. Passion slaves are bred from birth to serve in the arts of sexual pleasure.

And, as I understand it, most all slaves in Gorean traditions may be used sexually. It’s just that pleasure and passion slaves are trained in it and are devoted to that exclusively.

One thing of interest to me in all these traditions is the social openness and public acceptance of kept women in the midst of public life. Courtesans and cortigiane were embedded in the social order. Kept women carried these types and statuses openly, whether in pride or shame, maybe often both.

Today, in modern D/s slavery, perhaps slave types aren’t strictly observed. Maybe it’s a kind of joke: The prospective slave asks, “What type of slave will my master want me to be?” The answer is “Yes.” In D/s slavery, we become whatever type our master/mistress wants at any particular time.

But it’s interesting to think about slave types in this alternative life we live.

The clearest two slave types today, it seems to me, are “service slaves” and “sex slaves.” I know there are many D/s relationships in which sex is not a part, and the slave is used for chores and services. I am considered a sex slave, and although my slave life entails doing certain tasks — services, chores — on some basis, that’s not my primary identity.

I am intrigued by the Gorean “professional” slave type, and indeed there were highly educated courtesans who practiced law and medicine. I think sometimes my assistance to Amanda in her work and business might be considered that kind of professional slave type.

One other type in some of these traditions is the “display” slave, a woman kept for the purpose of looking beautiful and/or looking sensual. These woman would often not be a sex slave per se — not primarily used for sex — just kept around for the appearance of pulchritude.

Much as I advocate for D/s and alternative relationships, I am rather glad we don’t live of those cultures today. Kept women in those traditions didn’t have much of a choice. Today, I may be someone’s sex slave, but it’s because I have chosen the life and find it meaningful and fulfilling.

But it’s interesting to me to think about the types. In a way it’s a variation of the love languages.

What is your slave language, or type?

dream (repost)

I posted this dream-fantasy-fiction piece some time ago. It expresses some of the feelings I just wrote about in “two fantasies.”

I had a dream the other night. Later I would realize this was a blended narrative of a fiction story I wrote a while back and a real place I remember from about three years ago. And probably part of a fantasy I harbor deep within.

Amanda has brought me to a bar that sits on a hill outside of town. It’s an old dive of a place, with a wooden veranda on two sides and outside walls of chipped red paint and neon Corona signs.

She looks amazing in tight jeans and a smart white embroidered shirt. As in many dreams, sometimes the emotions are stronger than the visual memories, and in this, I feel so proud to be hers. (Clearly in the dream I have a keen sense of her ownership of me.)

Meanwhile, she has dressed me in a very short antique pink skirt with fringe tassels and a white lace bell-sleeve top. (I don’t remember the act of her dressing me in the dream, but I recall feeling that I have been dressed by her.) I remember being very “filly.”

So Amanda takes me, the frilly, girly one, by the hand and leads me inside. The bar is dark and dusty with rays of sun piercing through windows. We sit at a table in the middle, not at the bar.

It’s not crowded. There are men at the bar in twos and threes, maybe seven or eight. There’s man and woman at a table in the corner. The bartender pours beers and sets them on a tray. A waitress picks up the tray and serves it to the couple in the corner.

The waitress stops by our table and asks what we want. “Sam Adams for me,” Amanda says. “She’ll have water.”

Here, my memory of my dream falls apart. I can’t remember specifics for what happens next. We drink and there’s some conversation I don’t remember. There’s a small dance floor area next to a small music stage, but there’s no band, just music playing over the sound system. For a while we’re outside again, and there’s some vague business that happens in the sun on the bar’s veranda, but I don’t know what it is.

Then the dream becomes clearer, and we’re back inside. Amanda pulls me onto the dance floor, and we dance to the music. Later, we sit down again, but she holds my hand, obvious like, for people to see. I have an awareness that some of the men at the bar are turning to watch us. Or maybe they did when we were dancing.

Amanda leans toward me and kisses me, long and slow. I know she is doing this for show. (This is, in real life, very Amanda — fearless in public).

Amanda then goes to the ladies room.

She returns, and it’s like she’s a different person. She looks the same, but as she sits down, she orders me to stand. Then she pulls me down across her lap, without explanation. I’m just obeying.

Once I’m stretched across her lap, she pulls my skirt up from behind and reveals my bare ass cheeks.

The she starts spanking me hard.

I am in shock, and at first I can’t say anything. Then the force of her spanks compels me to scream. She pauses and spreads my thighs apart. Then she resumes her spanking of me.

I am crying, more from the sudden rift between me and Amanda which I do not understand, than from the sting of her spanks, though they are hard and painful.

I am aware that the some of the people in the bar and standing, watching, and coming in for closer looks.

She stops. Tells me to stand. I do, and she pulls the fringe hem of my skirt up and tucks it into the waist of my skirt, which pulls it above most of my ass and my pussy.

I stand before strangers revealed, tears running down my cheeks.

She tells me to sit, but I cannot, as my ass is beet red and stinging,. So I continue to stand with the bar full of people watching my humiliation.

This is one of those dreams where you wake up trembling, in a sweat, and carry for a while its emotions into waking life. I want to make it perfectly clear Amanda did not actually do this. It was a dream. I don’t know what it means. Or if it means anything.