I wake up every morning into the reality that I am someone else’s property.
I know that, in some marriages as well in some D/s relationships, the comment “he owns me” or “I belong to her” can be a lovely, romantic notion. For me, despite everything with Amanda, this isn’t that. My sense of being owned property is more serious and weighty and literally, factually true.
Four years ago, I went through a process of declaring I was ready to enter lifestyle D/s slavery. I stood before a group of people, witnesses, and spoke of my submissive nature, how deep and driving it was, and how I felt I needed to be in a slavery arrangement. As part of the process, I was asked if I understood that in becoming a slave I would need to relinquish my rights and literally become property. I said yes and committed myself to that.
“Tangible personal property” is the legal and technical term for my status, which puts me in the same legal category as old books, used baseball gloves, and broken treadmills that sit in the corner of many basements.
That’s not just my status as listed on a piece of paper. Being immersed in slavery changes how you think of yourself. I sometimes liken myself to other possessions, such as Kevin’s truck. I have actually felt jealous of other objects, such as Amanda’s precious antique Queen Anne sofa. And as I belong to someone as a “thing” in their life, I feel the objectification and diminishment of that status — even as it deeply satisfies my submissiveness.
But, yes, I am also human property, I am a woman owned, which means something more than an old baseball glove or a sofa. That is, I have a female body, which apparently is especially desirable in a couple of specific attributes that make me a property people like to play with. My owners can dress or undress, demonstrate, and display me as they wish to themselves and others. This is, at its worst, deeply humiliating. At its best, it is elegant and beautiful, making me feel like property akin to a work of art.
And, of course, I am sexual property. Being owned as one’s slave gives my owner every right to me sexually. Plain and simple, I am used for sex at any time in any way someone else desires. Probably this is the image most have of D/s slavery and of me as a slave. As I am sometimes introduced to other people as a slave, I’m sure they immediately think that I am kept and used as sexual property all the time — that he or she, the owner, can fuck Shae anytime they want. Which is true. I cannot deny the fact of it, but I still have to live with the public understanding of it, and how people perceive me as sexual property.
As property used at the whims of others, I never know what the day ahead holds for me. I may need to stand on the front porch nude in the cold to await Amanda returning from work, or I may be ordered to scrub the kitchen floor naked while someone watches, or I may be required to endure any form of bare-breasted humiliation in public.
So this is what I wake up into every morning.
But the experience of being owned as property is also wonderful at times. Sometimes it’s like being held, like being embraced. Being owned means someone wants to own me. That I have in some sense been sold and bought means someone believes that I have value and so paid something for me.
Such thoughts are affirming. Like a toy in “Toy Story,” I may be a “thing,” but I’m cherished. And in my specific instance, given the one who owns me and who she is to me, I am the luckiest girl in the world. I wake up into that joy.
One of the saving graces in my slave life is that I actually enjoy servitude. I find pleasure in providing what others’ need. I say this not as a pat on my own back, but just to observe that this is natural to me, part of what I am. (I don’t know for sure if this is an aspect of my submissiveness or a separate trait that has become a benefit in my slavery.) In any case, being someone’s service property is something I deeply enjoy.
Another saving grace has been a particular viewpoint of all my Owners, past and present, in my slave journey. Previously under Master Michael and now under Mistress Amanda, I have been infused with an understanding that a true slave is one of the most precious things in the world. I am valuable because a true slave is a rare possession.
I believe that, but still at times I struggle. It’s not easy. To a submissive, things that feel bad can also feel good — and still they feel bad. That is the central irony of the submissive nature. You desire to be treated as property, but still you have to deal with and endure the indignity and humiliation of it.
So I am a woman owned. And every morning I wake up into that truth.