the swish of a teatime dress

She had dressed me proper, by which I mean “retro fifties,” a belted shirt-dress with tiny flowers printed upon a mint background. She kept me fully clothed this time, no mounds of glory showing, and I served tea and finger sandwiches in tall heels.

Mistress has been more “costume-y” with me this time back. For laundry day, she put me in a white-aproned A-line dress, slightly reminiscent of a maid’s outfit, and for one wine-soaked happy hour Wednesday she dressed me in a pink bustier-dress, strapless and sleeveless, a fashion lacking only Playboy-bunny ears. Neither of these were outré uniforms, per se, not the stereotypical costumes, yet suggestive of such and vaguely objectifying. People seeing me in such outfits look twice, distantly sensing the visual references. She’s good at this.

Truth is, I’ve missed her actively dressing me each day, and these are bondages of style that I savor. Even when they’re pink or mint.

The tea was a sort of a neighborhood welcome home for me, which was lovely, though I don’t like being the center of attention. More men are coming now, and it was a full table of neighbors, minus just a few. They expressed genuine concerns about my mother, and asked questions about Lucille and the house in PA. In between tea pouring and replenishing trays of hors d’oeuvres, I stood table side, and said some things about my last few weeks out east.

I found that the shirt dress, with its billowy underskirt, fluffed out my hips, making me feel awkward placing my hands at my sides, as they feel too far extended. Instead I held my hands in front, my fingers interlaced, a look that probably seems too quaintly prim for a woman who is sometimes displayed spread-eagle naked in the bay window on hot summer nights.

The neighborhood I left a year ago was curious about me as an oddity. Back then, I was a guilty pleasure, and they partook of my slavery visually, like people rubbernecking a highway accident while driving by. Riveted but reserved about me, they were, I suspect, filled with judgments and doubts even as the nodded with smiles.

The neighborhood that I have come back to seems now to accept me in my various modalities — girl-next-door, writer, MILF, slave, sex object, tea server in a Donna-Reed dress. During my absence, it’s as if they had some community meeting in which they voted and collectively agreed to move forward on “agenda item #4, slave shae.” Not really but sort of feels like that. I feel less judged and more, well, adopted.

So as I filled them in on things in PA, moving among them serving mini-scones, my dress swishing, I felt a new vibe from them, that I am not only seen and gawked at in my slaveness, but now also known by them in my deeper submissive crevices. In this, they accept me, not as a kind of prurient tolerance as before, but now as their own guilty possession. I may still seem weird to them, but I am their weird, their group secret shared, their community foster child.

This is a brave new world for me, in which my life and lifestyle are crowd-sourced, rendered into a poly pudding.

I’m honestly not sure how I feel about this.

“Mistress” and “Amanda,” both and one, are the best that’s ever happened to me. There is love and respect mutually between her and me, forged in the intimate privacy of our remarkable relationship. What we share together alone, is a mosaic of many different shapes and shards. I cherish that and don’t want to lose that to the public neighborhood. There is something to be said for privacy.

At the same time, I have always known Amanda’s grand utopia is the public experience of dominating me, sharing my humiliations visually and sexually in open spaces, geographically and socially. This was her dream in the beginning, back when she bought me: Her time sharing me with Kevin, I see now, was always intended to be temporary. Her scouting for a house in the Denver area was about finding a secluded foothill where she could woo a manageable handful of neighbors into participating in the execution of my slavery. Her sharing me now with others is simply another stage in her realization of a public and poly form of D/s.

She has gotten to this moment finally. And I want to make this happen, for her sake. I know it represents an escalation of her dominant need. She knows she can privately command me to do the most humiliating things and I will satisfy her wish, obey her order, and descend into profound shame.

What she wants now is to do this in shared intimacy with a crowd.

I will submit myself to this.

However, she knows this isn’t just my dread-and-noble sacrifice to fulfill her dominant need. It’s also my submissive need, my next level perhaps, a deeper immersion in my development as a woman and as a true slave.

Amanda, again, knows I need this before I know I need it myself.

As always, she’s a step ahead.

I made one last pot of tea and served teacups around, my dress swishing against chairs and my breasts straining the buttons of my bodice as I leaned over each time to pour.

When done, I sat in the chair in the corner, my hands folded primly in my lap. I did not have a seat at the table, even though in a way I was the centerpiece. I am slave and server, set aside until further notice, for a future time when I will become the community concubine.

Amanda, seated at the head of the table, leaned back as the neighbors talked and jabbered. Her eyes caught mine, and she smiled. I smiled back. It is a moment, a private moment.

It may just be that in this strange experience of the “poly public” something that deepens our private, personal love.

Mr. Diaz and Ms. Knox

On Sunday, Mistress Amanda scheduled a visit with one of the neighbor couples she will be sharing me with — Robert Diaz and Stacy Knox.

It felt a bit strange.

Mr. Diaz and Ms. Knox are unmarried partners living together, both in their forties, I would guess. He has just changed jobs, and I’m unclear what his new position is, but I think he’s in financial management. She is an executive in a tech company and carries a bearing of authority. The two of them haven’t usually been able to attend our afternoon teas because of their work schedules, but they have been at one or another of our backyard parties and have watched me in a few of my bay window showings.

This afternoon visit was for the purpose of the two of them talking with Amanda about their upcoming time with me and how they wish to enjoy me.

Mistress had instructed me ahead of time to speak only when spoken to, and I believe she had also coached them beforehand on how to conduct the conversation with me present — mostly a matter of cordially ignoring me and engaging with Amanda instead. This is the third-person treatment I am rather used to, but is notable here in that Amanda is teaching our vanilla neighbors in the art of marginalizing a submissive, namely me.

They greeted me warmly when they came in (I addressed them formally — “Mr.” and “Ms.”) but as we all sat down in the living room, they turned to Amanda, who became their focus for the next hour.

I am more than copacetic sitting silently in docile submissiveness, and so none of that was the strange part.

There were pleasantries, of course, and updates on their recent vacation in Hawaii. I became aware that Amanda had, in my months away, befriended them at a deeper level than I myself knew them. And to me they were even more unknown than some of our other neighbors, due to their busy work schedules.

Stacy soon said, “So, we’re looking forward to our date with Shae.” The conversation shifted to that.

I might insert here that I find people attractive based less on physical looks than on a kind of dominant bearing. Even a person with the most ordinary physique makes me flushed and wet when they have a flogger in hand and clearly intend to tame me with it. While it remains to be seen how these neighbor-sharings will work within me, the idea is that the submissive situation of being gifted to neighbors will endow them with some “dominant right” and therefore render them dominantly attractive to me. For me beauty is in the eye of being beholden to another.

Ms. Knox is tall, blonde, sinewy, and quite naturally attractive, and Mr. Diaz is well-toned with a workout profile. With or without a dominant vibe, these are attractive people at face value and not unappealing to imagine spending a night with. These are superficial things, for sure, but they matter at a certain level when talking about desire.

Additionally, Ms. Knox. slender as she is, has an angular face and a sharp cut to her hair, a look of trendy mod, a touch of severity even, which I imagine she cultivates for work. Mr. Diaz sports a tightly trimmed goatee, which somehow makes him feel more authoritative to me. Again, these are trivial to mention in the context of everything but still are subtle suggestions of dominant appearance prompting my submissive responses to a couple that soon will be milking pleasure from me.

They and Amanda settled in to talk about their intended night with me in their bed. I was struck by how frank they were with Amanda about themselves sexually. It was as if they had done this before, which I’m pretty sure they haven’t, not this this, but perhaps they are otherwise more adventurous and open than I had assumed.

Previously, while I was in PA, they had mentioned to Amanda they were thinking they’d make this a girl-girl encounter between Stacy and me — while Robert watched. In the visit Sunday, they restated that same wish. “I am bisexually inclined,” Stacy said, “and Robert has a corresponding interest.”

Robert added, “I have an interest in watching Stacy with another woman. We thought, before we enjoyed Shae in other ways on future occasions, this would be a good place to start.”

“Of course,” Amanda replied, with a smile.

I noted they spoke in terms of “interests” not “fantasies,” and I imagined they are the kind of power couple who doesn’t just nurture dreams but makes them happen. I also noted that they and Amanda are talking about having me in some kind of ongoing sexual future. This will be just the beginning.

Amanda went on to reiterate some stipulations she had apparently discussed with them before, about certain limits and a prohibition on use of whips and floggers and such. “Over time,” she said to them, “if you have interest in those things, we can talk about that.” (I sensed she was repeating these restrictions in their presence for my sake.) “But you can slap her lightly, if you wish, only open-handed, and one of her secrets is she loves to be spanked.” (So much for it being a secret. Besides, “loves” is not the right word, as Amanda well knows: to me, being spanked is shaming and horrible and extraordinary and orgasmic at the same time.) Amanda loves talking with people about me at an intimate level, here in the same terms as if she were lending them her car and sharing secrets of its operation.

I am aware that some of this was staged for me. The three of them had discussed these same things before. Mr. Diaz and Ms. Knox did not need ahead of time to commit to how they will have me night of April 14, nor tell Amanda, nor say it in front of me. But they offered this anyway, prompted by Amanda, so they all could see my submissive blush and squirm as they made me the object of their sexuality.

That was the part that felt strange. Not saying it was off-putting or problematic to me, but it was, well, different. You see, this was a business meeting — for the purpose of explaining how these two neighbors will fuck me.

Sometimes in this life you find yourself in a circumstance that you cannot imagine happening to anyone anywhere.

Perhaps it fits the style of the Mr. and Ms., perhaps it fits their natural panache of corporate authority. In this, they did feel dominating to me, and maybe that was the point — to establish their dominance and my submission going into the experience we will have together.

If so, I have to say, it kind of worked.


I arrive in Denver, take the shuttle train to baggage claim, and Amanda is waiting for me. Last I saw her was December, so it’s been several months, but this feels like a lot longer.

This is different now. She kisses me among the crowds, her minty lips linger upon mine, and she savors me as a kind of love-making and slave-making, both.

As we wait for my luggage, Amanda pulls from her bag a shiny new metal collar with an O-ring in front. She takes off my fashion choker and puts — well, given the width and weight of the new metal collar, the word is installs — it around my neck. She retrieves a Yale lock from her bag, coming behind me, lifting my hair, and making a show of locking my collar in back.

This is for presentation, partly. People watch, though with furtive glances of those witnessing a private forbidden intimacy. I blush. I’ve grown unused to public displays of my submissive affliction. What embarrasses me is not the collar — people in airports wear all kinds of strange things — but the act itself: my docile acceptance of her possession of me. It tells the world I am submissive, a word they don’t understand but imagine they do.

I manage to say, “Making the airport your neighborhood too?” It’s a touch sarcastic, but comes out like a purr.

A ritual re-collaring, public as only Amanda has nerves of dominant steel to do, is symbolic, I know, of my return to submissive life under Amanda. Despite my flush, it makes me incredibly happy. At peace. All the hectic whirlwind of my final days in PA has come to this moment of settling back into Mistress-Amanda-time.

I grow into a personal quiet, enjoying the music of Amanda’s voice as she talks about her week and about my week to come. Schedules and such. She has plans for my life, and for the moment it feels amazing that I don’t have to plan my mother’s life and Lucille’s life, much less my own.

Luggage arrives, and we head to the garage for the car. In the elevator bay, Amanda pauses, reaching again into her bag of tricks, and pulls out a red ballgag. She fits it around the back of my head, under my hair, ensconcing it firmly into my mouth.

I note that Amanda does not ballgag me in the busy thoroughfare of baggage claim, but in the more vacant shelter of the elevator bay. Amanda wants my humiliation to be before a few not a multitude. At least this time.

But there are more than a few. People assemble at the elevator doors — a group of persons behind another group, and a third group to the side. People glance at me sideways, my ballgag strange and curious and scarlet-letter red.

The elevator arrives, doors open, and people stream out, only to do double-takes upon seeing me gagged and collared.

Amanda calmly takes my hand, and leads me into the elevator, along with a half dozen others. More looks, glances. Judgments that I cannot argue with. I am obvious.

We make our way down to the garage and walk to the car, passing more people on their way into the airport. One couple is talking, then stops mid-sentence upon seeing me with the red rubber ball strapped into my mouth. As we walk past them, their voices start up again, one muttering, “You see everything nowadays…”

We get to the car and Amanda removes my ballgag.

“Did you enjoy that?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“Very much so,” she says with a sigh. These months have been a deprivation for her as well as me. She needs her dominance, of me, not just anyone, which is a lovely thing. Amanda pushes me against the side of her car, pressing into me, flattening my clothed breasts with her own, kisses me again. My nipples reach for hers.

She dips into her bag of magic once more, pulling out a long dog leash, attaching it to my collar.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Pennsylvania anymore.


One of the many new experiences in my return home will be Maria’s new role under Master McKenna.

This has been a slowly unfolding development, though in retrospect seemingly inevitable. I have written about her periodically, but I don’t recall that I’ve recently updated you on the arrangement Master McKenna has actually forged with her, somewhat coinciding with my return home.

He has agreed to have Maria for a trial period as his submissive-in-training alongside me. He sees this as an internship, with Maria mostly observing. The trial period is set to last two months — April and May.

Maria has been in frequent email contact with me since I saw her in December, asking a lot of questions about the submissive life and about my slavery under Master McKenna. Master M has also been in contact with me about his plan for her. But for all that, the two of them have had discussions that I have not been privy to, and most of this internship idea has progressed without me.

One thing I do know is that Master McKenna has done proper diligence in the legal details of this. He has “un-employed” Maria from her maid services at the mansion, having her use her two weeks of earned vacation before returning to him as his “intern submissive” (which will be during the week he has me again, the first week of April). There are also some financial provisions, which are not my place to know.

If Maria cottons to the submissive life under him, he will create a further arrangement for her, keeping her as his live-in submissive. If not, he will reinstate her employment as his mansion maid.

Maria is cutely shy but boldly eager. I like her a lot, in many ways. I find her attractive and interesting, and I see some of me in her.

At the same time, this will be new and different for me, and while I am positively drawn to Maria personally, this fills me with slightly mixed feelings about the situation.

The irony of a D/s relationship is that despite the submissive possession you are, you develop a sense of your dominant being yours. A dominant exposes your deepest, most private person and sexuality, and as you experience humiliation at his hand it’s impossible not to become attached to him.

Being literally leashed to him is not just a BDSM accoutrement, but an emotional reality. At first, while you like the submissive feeling of the physical leash, you wrestle with the emotional feeling of being a woman owned. Eventually, though, you accept that as your condition, and you settle into your submissive place. And over time, you tend to emotionally convert your lowliness as a slave into a kind of “specialness” in his world — he’s chosen you to leash you to himself. (Of course, the fine print in “being special” in this way is that no one else will submit to the degradation of the life he demands from you.)

It’s not that you believe he loves you as a romantic other. But you do come to believe you are The Only One for him, trained and shaped to uniquely fit him as his special slave girl. This is a natural development in the D/s dynamic, and in its way, lovely.

So, yes, over time this has developed between me and Master McKenna. And now, he is taking a second slave girl to serve him.

I am no longer The Only One.

I suppose the other mixed feeling I have in this is that Maria will be with him all the time, whereas I serve another domme and can be with him only part of the time. I know better than to think she is “taking my place,” but in a way she is. Which is no fault of hers.

I am blessed with two dominants of different styles, and it’s not that I want to leave Amanda and be with Master M full time. Of course not. But Maria will be with him at times I am not, and I just have this feeling that he is mine.

I don’t think this is anything Master M is doing to put me in my place, to test me, to shape me. He is well aware he is taking charge of another woman’s life, and Master McKenna is never frivolous with people. He wouldn’t lead her on and use her to discipline me.

I don’t wonder about his motivations. I think he sees in her an opportunity that he’s never had with me. I came to him with experience in the life, already well-rounded (so to speak). I was already trained, and while he re-trained me to his specific preferences, as all doms do, I was already “prepared.” In Maria, I’m sure he sees a submissive who is green and raw, more innocent, and he relishes the opportunity of shaping her “from scratch.” He is the dom-teacher, after all. He loves teaching and training, and I’m sure that;s what he sees in her.

I’ll get over it. I think I can honestly say I’m happy for him and for her as well, both. I just don’t quite know what to do with these twinges of another feeling. I’m not used to jealousy.

The positive thing is that I’ll have a sister slave to be with.

One of the under-reported aspects of the D/s life is that it tends toward a certain kind of loneliness. I have written about seeking social outlets for myself, an outside group or organization or church I can join to give me people contact and a greater possibility of making friends in the midst of a somewhat isolated, lonely lifestyle.

Much to be said for that, but there’s a unique loneliness in the D/s life that social groups don’t really assuage: no one else really knows what it feels like to be submissive and submissively dominated. You have no one to talk to who is like you in this. You can’t attend a book reading club and properly share what your week has been like.

In some respects, this is what my blog does for me.

And, perhaps, so will a sister slave.

As an aside: I had been wondering how it is that one of Master McKenna’s mansion employees “happens” to be deeply submissive and working for a publicly-professed dominant. It seems to me that the percentage of people in the general population who have a submissive sexuality to this degree is rather low — one percent? What are the chances that submissive Maria wound up by circumstance working for Master M?

I am aware that dominants attract us submissives in ways we are hardly aware of. Friend and blogger Helen and I have talked about “D/s radar,” how we can feel the dominance of strangers “across a crowded room,” so to speak. So maybe there’s something in that. Maria perhaps sought him out?

Recently in our email exchanges, Maria settled this minor mystery. Yes, she had heard rumors of McKenna’s lifestyle before taking the job. But she had applied for several positions in various homes in that area (all high-end mansion jobs that paid well). While she was curious about McKenna’s lifestyle, it wasn’t a primary driver for her. She actually took another offer first, but after a week, that didn’t work out (for reasons not connected with her). She then re-applied to McKenna, and he hired her.

So, I don’t believe she “targeted” him, so to speak, for this result.

During our correspondence these months, Maria has made me aware of her long history of submissive feelings and attractions. I am reassured that this with Master M is not an impulsive decision on her part, prompted by some infatuation with him. I believe this is something she has well considered. As a trial period and internship, it’s a relatively comfortable introduction into the life.

She has already seen glimpses of Master’s handling of me, so she’s not entering into this too naively. But the demands of the life may challenge her. Living it 24/7 is always difficult at first.

It will be interesting how Maria engages with it.

school for submissives: redux

Was wowed by the incredible comments on my last post — such great ideas to add to my thinking! (I welcome others…) Do read through those comments and my replies for context, but a few additions and clarifications here…

My discussions (re the school) have been with both Mistress Amanda and Master McKenna. And they are talking about it in terms of including both women and men submissives. (I didn’t make that clear.) Neither of them have a specific interest in a male submissive, but both know dommes who are very interested in males. Amanda knows of a trans woman who is submissive and might be a candidate…

In that kind of mixed group, there are some gender dynamics to consider — like how men and women submissives in the same room would interact and be open enough to participate. We’d have to work that through…

One thing I should emphasize: this school is not for the development of submissives for Master McKenna’s use himself. He sees it as having a more altruistic purpose of helping submissives find themselves. If he has a personal interest, it’s in the educational aspect, the mentoring, which he loves and is so good at. But he’s not doing this to cultivate slaves for himself.

Mostly, he is aware of the difficulty for doms to find submissives, and he’s trying to do something about it. This may feed into his dom retreat plans, matching his dom-training doms to actual submissives, though he has doubts that will work so easily. More to be figured out there…

It remains to be seen whom we reach out to for this introductory session. The available connections we have are through Mistress Amanda’s and Master McKenna’s lifestyle circles and business acquaintances (and their circles of circles). It would be word-of-mouth — a “had you heard of the event at McKenna’s?” sort of thing.

While those people would likely have some awareness of the lifestyle, they still are not in it, so we think, though possibly intrigued. Thus my thinking that this needs to have an “easy entry” with little resistance, a draw of some kind that’s interesting, entertaining, and not too threatening. (And, BTW, my idea of a high tea may be too lah-dee-dah, and not quite right. It’s just something I know.)

What I was talking about in my post is just an introductory presentation.

From that introduction, I’d hope folks would sign up for a series of sessions, again a sequence of general instruction offering little resistance to entry. This could be a weekend retreat.

And from that retreat, perhaps the next step is the fuller, deeper, course/school that would lead submissives into hand’s-on experiences and perhaps into the lifestyle itself, should they so wish. This would be the “bootcamp” that Dave mentioned in his comment, the actual “school.” So, it’s a progression of steps that leads into the school itself. So I imagine it now.

Obviously, much to be worked out. But I appreciate the input and welcome anything more…

school for submissives

There are a few threads of things I wish to write out before I go home. This may not be of interest to everyone, but it may come up later when I’m serving Master McKenna again.

Some time ago, he charged me with the task of developing a curriculum for his wished-for “school for submissives.” In the background of everything out here in PA, I’ve been working on that.

I am somewhat dubious of the school idea in the first place, at least in the formal sense that Master M envisions. He thinks of it as an academy with women signing up to learn the arts and sciences of the slave life. I just don’t believe there are (a) many women who are (or know they are) deeply submissive and (b) know what true submissiveness is and (c) want to enroll in school for it.

I do believe that quite a few women are curious about the BDSM lifestyle, evidenced by the popularity of Fifty Shades. And I believe many people’s lives would be enhanced by exploring their inner submissiveness.

My approach would be to create an upscale social event, perhaps a high tea, with the theme “An Afternoon with a ‘Fifty Shades’ Lifestyle Submissive,” featuring a “talk” by yours truly. Master M’s mansion would provide the perfectly elegant setting, the Great Room an impressive venue for such an event. I can imagine vanilla-life women who are lifestyle-curious finding such an event to be a attractive, intriguingly kinky, thing to do.

My thought is to use this social event/lecture to introduce the possibility of something more — a short-course series of sessions in D/s practices. That would be Master M’s “academy.”

We’d do several of the social teas, each one yielding, perhaps, a few women who wish to go on to do further sessions.

Maybe it’s from my immersion in vanilla life this past year, but I just don’t think most people see the world in dom/sub terms as we do. Most don’t see submissiveness as a “thing.” The draw needs to be something entertaining, something that offers the promise of enhancing current relationships in partnerships and marriages, sort of “how to bring D/s kink into the bedroom.” In the process, some women might discover a deeper submissiveness in themselves and seek more, a fuller experience in the lifestyle. Perhaps a high tea social would work.

I’ve broached some of this to Master McKenna, and we will be talking about this at length when I’m out there with him.

So far, I just have notes and loose outlines for the curriculum sessions. I won’t bore you with much of it, but perhaps a few points — these from the intro session — would be of interest to you…

I might start with the idea — my belief anyway — that submissiveness and dominance are traits we all have. But we have them to varying degrees. I am extremely submissive, but most people are more mildly inclined, if at all. However, I myself did not know how fully submissive I was until I was nearly thirty. There were signs and experiences of this all my life (I would mention some of these), but I lived without knowing my true submissive nature for such a long time. In the session, I might offer this: “You may be only slightly submissive (or dominant). Anything more than mild curiosity may not be for you. But it’s also possible you may be more substantially submissive and not really know it. Maybe that’s why you’re here — to explore something deep within you…”

I would also talk about the things that dissuade us from consideration of our inner submissive. I would push back on the idea of this being a male-female hierarchy. “There are men who are submissives too. My own dominant is a woman named Amanda.” This has nothing to do with any gender superiority of men over women. It’s not a position against feminism. Some persons are dominant; some persons are submissive… So it would go…

It would be necessary to get into what D/s really is and is not. I would probably address the Fifty Shades phenomenon and mention how whips and collars and ball gags are attractively kinky to us. But we shouldn’t become fixated on the accoutrements. The real experience and meaning of dominance and submission lie in the dynamic of not having control of oneself and the deep desire to become abandoned into another person’s absolute power. “This is the more relational dimension of BDSM, what we call D/s…”

Finally, I would say something aspirational — drawn, perhaps, from my own testimony — how coming to an understanding of my submissiveness has transformed my life, made me into a more authentic person, enriched my life sexually. “Exploring your submissiveness is a way of coming to an honest acceptance of yourself…”

Again, these are just sketchy ideas. But they might be my approach to the introductory session.

I have wondered at times if Master McKenna really intends to create a school for submissives. I could imagine he has concocted this simply as an interesting exercise for his slave girl. The whole thing may go away.

And yet, the idea is so him: I have often referred to his teacherly personality — he is the CEO-professor. He has that educator vibe. It fits the dominant he is.

Some of this preparation will be good for me in tutoring Maria. I am thinking of her as an imagined pupil, sort of, as I put some of this in words. (Which reminds me, note to self, I have to bring everyone up to speed on what’s happening with Maria.)

In any case, I’m working on this curriculum, such as it is, such as it may be or not ever see the light of day.

packing stuff

I was packing some boxes yesterday, and it struck me that this is what I’m doing in my blog-writing these days — putting away (finishing up) the stuff of my Pennsylvania life and sending ahead the stuff that I am anticipating in my upcoming Colorado life.

I’ve been writing so much these days because I’m finding closure of the boxes of my life past and anticipating the Pandora’s boxes of my life future.

There’s also a process of sorting. We have three people’s possessions in this house — Mother’s, mine, and now Lucille’s.

Sadly, much of mother’s stuff is unremembered by her now, although needs to be accessible when she does remember something and wants to see it. A lot of my time these recent weeks has been going through decades of her accumulations and sorting them into boxes for storage in the basement. It’s a lot — testimony to the abundance of her life in a certain way. We are not the sum of our accumulations, but it’s evidence that we have lived a lot of experiences, big and small.

This has been sad for me, going through these memories she no longer has. I think my midnight writings have been a needed distraction, a way for me to think forward, to anticipate my future and not dwell on Mother’s past.

One day last week, Lucille took Mother out for something at church. Alone in the house packing stuff, I dared to put myself into what Amanda, were she here, would dress me in: a short denim skirt, metal collar, ankle-strap heels, and nothing on top.

For several hours in the middle of the day, I sorted and boxed past memories while adorned in the costume of my future slave life.

We have a garage not attached to the house, set back in the yard. While topless, I carried boxes between the house and garage, the front garage-door wide open, within sight of neighboring houses. This too was an intentional wish-fulfillment of obeying how Amanda would have me outdoors, publicly. I wanted that submissive feeling, and didn’t want to throw on a T-shirt every trip out. I think I figured, at this point, who cares what the neighbors think?

Cardboard boxes, it seems, have their rough edges. By the end of my several hours of work, my breasts were scraped into lines of red stripes. I imagined that Master McKenna had whipped my tits in the Great Room.

It’s ridiculous how much I submissively long for the slave life again.

Anyway, somehow in the process of my wish-fulfillment, my stuff has now been packed up and sent to the garage.

a BDSM club memory

As I wrote my last post, I was reminded of a visual experience I had at that BDSM club. For all the shade I throw at the club thing, this indelibly stuck in my memory and may have been a little nudge in my later lifestyle choice to enter D/s.

I’m sure I’ve nurtured the memory over time, enhanced it in my repeated mental viewings. Yet, I was still a vanilla girl at the time, just beginning to know my own submissiveness and exploring the lifestyle by curiously tip-toeing into its world. The visual I saw was shocking to me and searingly vivid.

I saw a woman strapped to a cross.

She seemed to be about thirty, had short blonde hair, and was nude. She had a striking body with broad hips, a narrow waist, and, notably, full breasts the size of cantaloupes.

It was what I now know as a St. Andrews Cross. Her arms and legs were bound to the inverted V’s of the frame, forming an X. As I recall, though it may be a doctored memory over time, the X was more square than vertical, meaning her limbs were more extended. More to the point, her legs were stretched unusually wide open.

I don’t know if I was simply attracted to her physically, responding to her from my nascent bisexuality, or if my interest was more submissive, identifying with her in the bondage. Perhaps both. Our body types were similar, the difference being her short blonde hair versus my long red hair, yet we were close in age and height and shape. I, in those brief snapshot moments, could see myself perched in her strappy heels, bound to my own cross.

Each of her breasts were cinched at the base by rubber rings. These gaskets caused her tits to swell big and made them a shade of lavender. I remember specifically imagining my own breasts so bound, the specific feeling of which I had yet to experience, which I would later know to be pressure not pain.

Her nipples, too, were tumescent and extended, displaying what seemed to be her natural arousal, betraying the secret, forbidden pleasure she harbored. Or perhaps back then I was assuming such and imprinting myself, my own yet-private secret, upon her. I don’t remember if my own nipples were swelling in that moment — in those days, I was still firmly encased in a bra and other forms of structured repression.

Below, she bore a narrow stripe of pubic hair, almost as an arrow pointing down to her pussy, which was otherwise clean-shaven. Her thighs being stretched so wide caused her labia lips to flay open and hang down, engorged, slick with her wet.

She was ball-gagged with a white rubber ball. It served as contrast to her bright red lipsticked lips, which stretched almost freakishly around the orb, making her mouth into a plump, garish sex organ.

All of her flesh glistened in the neon lights. She had been oiled — shined and polished like a porcelain figurine of a slick pig, served on a platter with an apple stuffed in her mouth.

The woman could not move, could not speak, could not say no. But her eyes spoke volumes — sometimes glazed from her own pleasure-shame, other times closed as she fell back into her private submissive space.

I remember feeling that all the parts of her — squeezed breasts, screaming nipples, plump labia, and hyper-extended lips — were ready to explode.

I watched her for a couple of minutes, as I recall. A man was there, standing to the side, but nothing happened. Perhaps later she was whipped or fucked or both, I don’t know.

People on a cross tend to take on our own reality. Or portend the reality we are about to live. Her bound, immobilized body in that particular moment is seared into my memory. And in my desire.

In that moment, I wanted to be her.

evolving: 2

What I’m talking about in these two parts are ways in which I have grown and evolved over time in the slave life. The post that prompted this had to do with Amanda and corporal discipline, the possibility that she has changed in her feelings about the “violence” of hitting and whipping.

I focused on her in that post, but here I will say a little more about myself in that regard: I have evolved over time toward a greater desire for the corporal humiliations of being whipped and flogged and spanked.

In the last couple of years of my vanilla life, I was taken to to a BDSM club. I could make a joke about what kind of guy takes a girl on a date to the RACK Room, but in fact I requested it — I was by then exploring my own submissiveness and curious about the “BDSM thing.”

There, the spectacle of people using whips on other people sort of confounded me. It wasn’t my aversion to the violence of it, but my sense of the emptiness of it — that is, it seemed to me to be a “what” without a “why.” One applied a whip to another lightly, in a restrained way, which seemed artificial to me, like it was a pretended whipping. I could understand if a whipping was applied as punishment (for sin), but what I witnessed didn’t seem to be about that. While the one with the whip was dominant, it seemed the submissive receiving was actually commanding the scene. It all seemed faux and sham, like a really bad stage show.

That was my journey into a BDSM club — your mileage may vary. I realize it’s a small sample, and I should not judge an entire subculture by that one experience. In fact, my attitudes toward BDSM have moderated over time. My point here, though, is that my feelings about whips and floggers and such were shaped by that early experience. It’s all lacked a “why.”

Until more recently. This has been my evolution.

I think my first real taste of the “why of the whip” was with Kevin. His claiming of me wasn’t the first time I’d been whipped or flogged, but it was the most memorable. Besides the remarkable skill he demonstrated in welting me with his first name initial, “K,” I felt his dominance in a unique sense: his use of the flogger and whip on me was a kind of art form, his flogger warming my flesh to be able to endure a harsher stroke from his whip. He needed only one heavy, forceful whip of my ass to make his more restrained strokes on my breasts seem harder. He played my anticipation of the worst to intensify everything else he did to me. With his implements of flesh destruction, he played me with his song. With Kevin, I started to see the why of corporal was “just because he could” as a dominant, and “because he was ridiculously good at it” as a kind of musician, master of a corporal music.

Master McKenna also is fond of whips and things, coining the term I now use — “corporal humiliation.” For him, the “why” of it is not in the infliction of pain but of shame. I once wrote about this with him specifically: “But there’s the deeper shame in my allowing him to hit me. The cables holding up my wrists are not restraints, actually. They are simply to pull my hands out of the way. I am not ‘in capture.’ Any onlooker could figure out that I am able to stretch the cables together so to undo my wrist cuffs. I could get away. I could walk out of the house. But I don’t. I stay. I submit. I give my body to the ignominy of being flogged by a man — which becomes my humiliation.” The full report of that particular experience with him is here.

I think my further evolution toward the corporal disciplines is also a change in my experience of the pain of it. I have never considered myself a masochist, although I suppose one could argue that all submissives are masochists in terms of psychological pain. But I’ve never thought of myself as enjoying physical pain, never had a desire to self-inflict. However, in recent years under Kevin and Master McKenna, my physical pain from being flogged and whipped at their hand has perhaps blended with the psychological humiliation of such treatments, and has become, somehow, a desire in me. I still would never beg someone to hit me — it’s not like that — but I confess I get submissively excited now when I see Master McKenna with a whip in his hand.

One more way in which I’ve evolved has been in how I’ve gradually been made into a sex slave. I wrote about this a while ago, and won’t repeat all that here.

But part of that evolution has been a realization that I am a far more sexual woman than I ever imagined myself to be. Or allowed myself to be.

I think some of this is vanilla-cultural: men are commonly accepted as being sexually driven, while woman have traditionally been valued because they are not. More so in the sex-averse culture of my religious upbringing: as a girl I was taught that a good woman was certainly not sexually oriented.

Obviously, when I entered D/s, I opened myself to a more sexual life, but still I’ve been more inclined to accept myself as submissively driven than sexually driven. I have been slow to accept the greater depths of my sexual desires. Even in a sexual lifestyle, part of me strives to be that proverbial “good” woman. Culture does that to you.

There’s much about this change in me that falls into the “I’m-the-last-one-to-know” category. Men I serve tell me they can feel my eager desire when I take their cocks into my mouth. Master McKenna mentions how I sometimes orgasm right away when he enters my vagina, my sexual anticipation being so substantial. Amanda teases me about how I am always wet, my sexual desire seemingly ever-present. I cannot, do not, deny the truth of these things, yet I have been slow to admit them to myself.

Then one day you wake up realizing you’re a D/s sex slave. Amanda says, “It’s not like you went into this kicking and screaming.” True, I’ve wanted it, but somehow I’ve been the last to know.

The evolution toward accepting my more wanton sexuality is part of the conversation regarding this next phase of my life in being shared with others. I sometimes represent my impending sharings as this is what Amanda wants to do with me, and I am simply obeying.

True, but the other part is that I want it too, quite a lot. I thrill in the experience of being gifted sexually to others and in the submissive experience of being used for their pleasure. But what I don’t often admit is that I just really crave the sex.

I guess I’m admitting it here. And that too is part of my evolution.

evolving: 1

I’ve had a brief comment exchange with sister-sub and blogger Helen about how submissives evolve. She and I agree that we submissives do indeed change through our time under a dominant’s rule.

It made me think of some ways I have evolved since I entered the slave life some seven years ago. BTW, this feels like a two-part post…

I’ve become more docile during my years in slavery, more absorbing and acquiescent. This is not about taming down my personality (more on that in a moment). It is about my internal urgencies about how dominance should happen to me.

When I first entered the slave life under Master Michael, I was full of ideas about how my slavery would/should be. I was an eager beaver, having recently discovered my latent and profoundly deep submissiveness and wanting to explore it in every possible way. What this led to was my topping from the bottom, although Master Michael didn’t tolerate that from me overtly. But during his uses of me, I internally, mentally, psychologically, covertly yearned for his dominance to happen in ways I desired. It was like he had me on a leash but I was racing forward, pulling like an energetic bitch, my leading him from within my own bondage. He sensed it, and this discombobulated our vibe together, undermined his authority, and nearly ruined everything. Thankfully, Master Michael was patient with me, and gradually shaped me into a less obsessive submission to him.

It’s been a continuing change for me, something I’ve evolved into more and more. It’s about standing before a dominant without imposing my own need upon him, being willing to absorb whatever he wishes to do with me. It’s acquiescing to the fact that my dominant doesn’t want to work my personal schematic for his conquest of me. It’s an emptying of my own desires in deference to his.

That said, my becoming more docile and absorbent is not the same as taming my authentic personality. It is not about filing down my unique curves into a smooth lump of bland. My dominants enjoy my attitude and wit. In a way, those sharp edges in me make their conquest all the more enjoyable and satisfying for them.

I remember a time when Master McKenna had me strung up and partly naked in the Great Room, as he is fond of having me. He was in a serious mood. He asked me some question, forgetting I was ballgagged. I chose to speak anyway, or tried to, garbling my words behind the gag. He harrumphed, and unclasped the gag. I said dryly, “You might just use Google Translate. They have a language selection under ‘Ballgag.’” He shook his head at me, grinned, then proceeded to execute my submissive degradation. I have to think my little witty joke reminded him that, while docile, I was a woman with an willful edge, yet ceding her body and being to him. I like to think that gave him more satisfaction in his dominance of me.

This sounds like a contradiction — be docile and show attitude? It’s not. My earlier point about becoming more docile was about letting go of my own inner urges to take charge in my own submissive life, not about taming my interesting curves.

There is in this also a distinction of timing. There are times when it’s good to express your true self, flash your Irish at him, use your words — and times when it’s not so good, when you need to stand there before him quietly in docile acquiescence. You always need to read the room.

I have evolved into this more and more. My dominants see it in me and have remarked about it.

And, I think as I return from my exile into active slavery again, I’ll be all the more inclined to “stand before him” in acquiescence, more deeply ready to absorb my dominant’s wishes.

I’ve also had to evolve in cultivating my life within my slavery. At the beginning, I expected all of my slave life would be scheduled for me. Let me explain it this way:

The 24/7, live-in D/s slavery is unique even in D/s arrangements. Many practice D/s episodically, times “on” and “off,” which is often necessary given people’s circumstances. But living in slavery around the clock, as I do, is a different reality, especially in terms of the management of time. That is, the idea of living in 24/7 slavery in a routine of never-ending “doing” — constant sessions of D/s action — is simply not possible. There’s a lot of down time, so to speak. Ninety percent of a slavery is “not doing,” which begs the question, what then?

This is obvious, yet it really wasn’t to me starting out. At the beginning, I expected Master Michael to do more with me — more sessions, more events, more experiences. My life would be planned and scheduled by him, for him. I’m afraid I was a bit like the child in a babysitter story — making my dominant do things with me for my own submissive need. I didn’t know what to do with myself when he wasn’t, so to speak, doing me.

I have an indelible image — I think it comes from the French erotica classic, The Story of O — of the woman O kept chained to a slate slab in a dungeon. I don’t know why but I have always found that erotic and appealing. I suppose in my early months I had an idea of that — such that I would be used by Master and then kept somewhere until he used me again. Not that I thought that literally nor that I would really like that, and of course there’s no way one could survive that way. But it reflected my view that my slave life with Master Michael would be always active, that in my every moment, I would be used and perpetually bound in some metaphorical slave way to his life. (You have to understand back then I was a hopelessly romantic-erotic literati.)

Of course, he had a job. He had friends. In short, he had a life. This meant he was not always around to do me. Meanwhile, I had left my life behind, letting go of my real estate career (which I was more than ready to do) and starting my new lifestyle in slavery. I had a slavery but not a life.

To be fair to myself, this is, I think, sometimes a common dissonance in the slave-dom dynamic: a dom maintains a life on the outside while the slave’s life is expected to revolve around him. Even so, I made the mistake of making my dominant my only source of life. I found I didn’t know who I was during the other ninety percent of “not doing” in my slave life.

My evolution in this originally came out of my realizing, and eventually practicing, a slavery of “being.”

Readers of my early blog posts know that back then I wrote a lot about the distinction between being and doing, what I am versus what I do. Those posts were a part of this evolution. I gradually came to know that I was still in a state of submission to him even in the ninety percent of time he was not using me. I did not need to be actively bound to a slate slab in a dungeon to experience my slavery.

Master Michael helped me in this, giving me a few chores he wanted done in very precise ways, keeping me in partial undress when he wasn’t present, and prohibiting me from certain things until he granted permission. While these were “doing” things, sort of, they were also passive things I obediently performed without him. They were not so much about doing my slavery as being in slavery.

It was a mindset of “being.” My 24/7 slavery was not an on-off switch. I was always in submission to him even when he wasn’t around. My slavery is what I am and not just what I do. This is what I wrote about in my earliest posts.

(As an honorable mention, I have to acknowledge someone else. Back then, a relationship formed with another submissive, Lily. We lived not far from each other, and we, let’s just say, grew very close. Lily was a “lifestyle relationship” for me, and besides giving me someone to hang out with during some of my days, she and I could share everything about our submissive lives with each other. She was new to the life, while I had been in it for more than a year. One of my earliest WordPress posts was sort of an “advice letter” to her. I laugh at myself for thinking I could give advice to anyone back then. She helped me through this adjustment from vanilla life into slave life… Lily and I still keep in touch, but our circumstances led us apart, unfortunately. Another story to tell sometime…)

My recent year “in exile” here in PA has been a test of this. I have been for vast stretches of time not actively used as anyone’s slave. Yet, I am still owned and enslaved by Mistress Amanda and Master McKenna. It’s been difficult, depending much on my mindset of what I am and not just what I do.

(More to come…)