When you are bound to a thing — a chair or a bed or a wall, or in my case, a wet bar — you may at some point encounter a strange feeling.
There is, of course, the initial fear-feeling of being restricted — not a fear of Her, but a fear of what if? — some circumstance that brings the cops into the house with you there naked and shackled to the chair.
Later, it will be the feeling of being vulnerable, knowing She now can do anything She wants with you.
And then, after all that, as you are tied to the chair, it will come to you — the strange feeling that you are of the same essence as the chair you are bound to. You are treated in the same way. You and the chair are both things, objects, and you share the experience of being used. You will literally feel coupled to the chair, as in some unholy matrimony, and your shackles will be like wedding rings.
She may then go about her life ignoring the two of you, walking past you, chair and slave, looking not into your eyes, but at the shape of your breasts and how they resemble the round wooden knobs of the chair posts.
This will be the slave space you go into. She will let you out of it, but from then on, you will always look at the chair differently.