with Amanda in Morgan’s Woods

On each of Amanda’s visits now, she has taken me into Morgan’s Woods, my frequent escape into subspace.

On her first excursion there, I gave her a tour. She learned some of the landscape herself, traipsing with me through the thick forest, across the glade with its grassy patch, and down to creekside. I know she was verifying the safety of the place for times when she is not there, when I am hiking alone in my reckless abandon. She has come to some peace about it, I think, the massive expanse and density of the forest giving her some confidence it’s truly remote, unlikely to beckon the proverbial Mr. Morgan or any of his imagined henchmen. Amanda’s one concern was my car not being shielded enough from the dirt road, and she helped me find another sheltered pull-off, deeper in the forest.

This is another time: Amanda and I go to Morgan’s Woods for the afternoon. We park in the new spot and walk further into the forest until we get to the open space, the grassy glade.

There, Amanda tells me to take off my clothes.


I obey without hesitation or even a whiff of sass. I’m in a space now where I’m putty in her hands, more so than ever before. My snark and sass have always been playful, but now I want her dominance so much that I offer not a sound, dissolving like fairy dust into obedience.

I pull off my tee and step out of my denim skirt. As always, I’m au naturel underneath. I am now naked in the trees but for the wedge sandals on my feet.

Amanda pulls a leash out of her big canvas bag, attaching it to the O-ring of my collar, which she swivels to the back. We will hike and I will be in front like a bitch tethered.

The forest is dense in patches, and she directs me away from the paths I have already well-worn toward the darker thickets of forest bed. The underbrush, with its twiggy fronds, cracks against my bare skin like a gauntlet of men slapping me with tawses. Weedy tendrils grab at my bare thighs. And my breasts, the first part of me to arrive anywhere, push through the thin reaches of saplings, scraped by the rough bark of young oaks.

This is what she wants: to march me through thicket and thin, to mark me with the barbed branches of nature. She wants me to bleed a little, to feel again.


We come to a space in the forest where the sun breaks through. Amanda tells me to stand against a tree. I obey, and she looks at me there, my skin randomly striped and colored like a Jackson Pollack painting, my breasts welted and reddened. She comes to me and touches my wounds, massaging my skin. She cups one of my breasts, squeezes softly, pushing my flesh up to spill over the top of her palm. She walks off, reaches down, and snaps off a plant, testing its fuzzy, rough stalk across her wrist. She returns to me, now sliding the stalk along my inner thighs, soon drawing it through the crack of my tender pussy.


Amanda has me turn around, facing into the tree. She pulls out of her big bag a pair of cuffs which she puts on each of my wrists, wrapping my arms around the tree trunk and squashing my breasts into the bark. Another strap around my waist tightens my hips against the trunk, pulling me into it such that my legs are forced to each side of the base of the tree and my thighs are spread to straddle it. It’s all tight and close — even my pussy lips are kissing a ridge of bark.

Amanda wanders away, knowing how abandonment, even feigned, triggers my submissive heart. I am left naked, tied to a tree. I lose time.


She returns.

She says nothing. Nor do I. Without sounds, we partner in our communion. It is like we are making a ritual of something. Something we must do.

She steps close and with the open palm of her hand, spanks me on my ass cheeks. Then again, and again, and again. I breathe hard in gasps and can’t help but moan from the stings of my spanking, but otherwise I take it in submitted silence.

Amanda walks off again.

Again in some time frame I cannot measure, she returns. I cannot see her but soon know that she has collected various stems and stalks and thin branches, which she now slaps across my bottom like a cat-o-nines. She whips me there and also lower, across my back thighs until they start to burn.


And now Amanda’s hands touch me again, this time softly. She caresses my cheeks. Her hand reaches down between my legs and she touches my pussy from behind. I breathe in sharply.

I am wet, her abuse of me a kind of foreplay. With a finger, she takes a dollop of my ooze and paints my labia as if it is lip gloss.

I lean my head back, the only part of me that can move, and look to the sky. I feel her finger enter me, sliding in. I sigh. I close my eyes. I sigh again.

It feels like a different dimension of time, but upon reflection I guess it isn’t long before she brings me to the edge and then over. I gasp in repeated short breaths, my body trembles. I hear Amanda, having done her work, stepping back, observing her slave girl — me so needy and hopeless, now shuddering in full orgasm as I am wed to a tree.


My legs are wobbly, but we manage retrace our steps in silence. When we get to the glade, I ask if I might forego putting my clothes on again. I don’t know why.

With a faint smile, she nods.

We make our way back to the car. I climb in, my naked body scraped and striped — and satisfied to be bearing red badges of submissive courage.

Amanda drives.

I curl up in the passenger seat, lean over, and rest my head on Amanda’s lap.


Our whole time was virtually silent, mostly without words. It was something that one cannot explain to others, the “why” escaping reason. It was just something between us, something that just had to happen, something we just had to do.

Sometimes people do things together that are beyond meaning.

Diner

Amanda, on one of her visits, accompanied me to the diner to meet Jeremy.

As if that was not already fraught with anxiety, Jeremy brought his girlfriend, Phoebe, herself curious about me after all these diner times with her boyfriend. Further, Amanda showcased me in one of my heavy metal collars and half-leash, and a short floral shirt dress and heels. The others came in jeans and tees, so I was set apart. If not already patently obvious, I was the submissive one of the foursome in the corner booth.

Introductions were made all around, and I was soon relieved that Amanda and Jeremy seemed to hit it off. Phoebe, by the way, is lovely and surprising, which I’ll say more about in a later blog.

The conversation wandered into the D/s life Amanda and I have. Much of it was pitched as “getting Phoebe up to speed,” although she was already aware — turns out she has been reading my blog. (Gulp.) So there was lifestyle talk, and I did a lot of blushing.

It’s been a while since I’ve been immersed in any public presentation of my sub-slavery. My diner conversations with Jeremy have previously explored my life and sexuality, but always we have been peers in our discussions. Here I was the object. Amanda and Jeremy interacted a lot, and Phoebe asked questions — much of it about me. I stayed silent much of the time.

Though it was a mild humiliation, it was familiar and welcome, landing me in a delicious subspace I haven’t experienced in some time. This was Amanda’s intention for me that afternoon, a gift.

After the diner, Amanda wanted some more time with Jeremy, and Phoebe and I decided to go shopping. Much more to say about all this, which I will likely share more in dribs and drabs in coming blogs.

coming out… again

I’ve had some interesting conversations with Lucille about my submissiveness and lifestyle.

I’ll soon stop explaining who she is, but one more time: Lucille is a church friend of my mother’s who has volunteered to help me with my mom’s care. She is in her fifties, a widow, her husband passing about two years ago. Lucille has a background in nursing, and while she hasn’t been in medical work for some time, her know-how is a real benefit for us.

A while ago I came out to Lucille about my bisexuality and wrote about it in “out… and about Lucille”. She handled that well, without judgment.

At that time, I didn’t go further in speaking to Lucille about my submissive lifestyle. But in anticipation of Amanda’s visits, I decided I’d better inform Lucille about my sub life, if simply to warn her what would be coming.

That was mid-May.

Again Lucille responded to my coming-out part two, with acceptance, though perhaps without full comprehension. It was one of those situations where I was relieved the recipient was copacetic with my revelation, yet I was disappointed it didn’t prompt more curiosity and wow.

I got from Lucille a kind of “that’s nice,” which I didn’t know how to interpret.


It’s my theory that people from my former church sub-culture, conservative evangelical, find it harder to tolerate the “bisexual” concept than the “submissive” concept, which is much less of a theological hurdle. I’ve written on this before: Alternative sexual orientations are deemed to be contrary to God’s design, specifically condemned in the Bible. But the sub-culture teaches that marriage is hierarchical, literally requiring a wife to submit (the Bible’s actual language) to her husband. Submission (of a sort) is already an accepted notion.

Lucille has a sister who is gay, and that’s helped her accept me in my bisexuality. And likely she took my confession of submissiveness in stride because she imagined my relationship with Amanda to be like a marriage, my submission to her to be of a biblical kind. (Which is a little hilarious.)

So I think this is why Lucille, at first blush, didn’t react much to my second coming out.

Of course, I didn’t exactly share with her that my submissive life was in fact a form of slavery, nor that I have been trained explicitly to be a sex slave.


That was mid-May.

Meanwhile, Amanda has now visited twice. Lucille has been witness to the heavier collars coming out, to Amanda putting a leash on me and walking me about like a pet, and to occasions of my forced toplessness.

And now it seems Lucille is filled with more curiosity and wow, asking me more questions.


Lucille may look a little frumpy and backwoods, but she’s a smart woman, sharpened perhaps by her earlier years in the medical profession. Her questions were sensitively framed.

She posed the usual “origin” questions: Is this something that developed in you or do you think it’s just how you are? (the nature-nurture question). How did you first discover you are this way? Why do you think you are like this? I answered her much as I’ve answered these questions in my blog over the years.

One question, more slanted, was “How do you know this is something you were born to be rather than something you just want to do out of your own current desires?” This is actually a cloaked form of the evangelical “sin question” (tipped off by the use of the word “desires”).

I told her that it seems unlikely any normal person would choose a life of being dominated unless she was made, born, to need such a life. There are times,” I said, “when I don’t want to be submissive, but I need to be, for reasons of what’s inside me.”

Lucille countered, “That’s what a lot of addicts say about drugs or alcohol.” She didn’t mean it accusingly, and it was a fair point.

I responded: “It’s also what people say about positive things in life, how they gravitate toward certain interests or skills, say, like an artist and painting or a musician and his music. They will say they were born to do this, that they need it, it’s their life-blood. I could say the same about writing, Lucille. I, likewise, believe I was born to write. I sometimes get tired of the work of writing, sometimes the “want” isn’t there one day or for a week or so, but still, I need it and always come back to it. I don’t consider that addiction, but a human need.”

“That makes sense,” she admitted, adding, “I also think sometimes we go to things in life for reasons we don’t understand. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

I was curious about what in her life prompted that thought, but I didn’t ask.


There have been several conversations with her about my submissive lifestyle. More to share — perhaps fodder for future blogs.

immersion

If this season of circumstance has proven anything, it’s my need for total immersion in a submissive life.

As I’ve said before, this is not about a need for sex, although Amanda told me when she was here she thought that if she gave me to someone sexually, I would explode. “I’m willing to risk it,” I replied, “try me.” But even then my desire was less for the sex and more for the domination — the experience of Amanda ordering me to service someone else, a stranger. She never did, although when we were out and about, she would point out people as prospective users of me, imagining out loud how they would have me.

We are struggling with the remote D/s stuff (more later). It’s fine, but it’s also event-driven, becoming disconnected points in my life in which I am obedient to something she prescribes. It’s not a life of submissiveness, but moments of such. I obey a remote assignment from Mistress A and it’s delicious for a fleeting second, then it’s gone. It’s like going into an ice cream shoppe, asking for a tiny sampler-spoon of blueberry cheesecake, then walking out without anything more.

In my former life, I’d be coated in buckets of submissive ice cream — on occasion, literally.

There’s also Amanda herself, and oh, I miss her. She said that when she was here she could feel me melting into her. Of course, I miss our flesh pressed together, but here again, it’s not the sex, but her eyes meeting mine, possessing me, and swallowing me into her immersive dominance.

I told her, “I just want to go home with you and get fucked by the neighborhood… I’m ready now.” I say that, but even then the point of my desire is the submission, not the sex. And not just moments of submission, but being owned and commanded and used all the time — being seen as a woman of constant obedience, a woman who does this because she is this way — a woman in a submissive life of total immersion.

Waking up each morning collared and enslaved now seems such a glorious thing. And so distant.

Update

It’s been a long, long while, I know.

Thanks to all who have reached out to me with concerns and good wishes. I assure everyone that nothing serious has befallen me personally, and I am surviving, sort of, my current circumstances.

My mother’s condition continues to decline and, though it’s gradual, it’s a two-step between a glimmer of hope and the dark of the inevitable.

When I last posted, there was a plan by which our friend and caretaker, Lucille, would sit in for me for a week or so while I traveled back to Colorado. I even imagined this might be possible for a full month — and on some repeated basis. That was my hope.

The complication has been Mom’s need for me to be around. Her condition has become such that she sometimes experiences hallucinations, and it is somehow my presence that brings her back.

The consequence is that Lucille can spell me for afternoons a couple times a week. But I need to be close enough to home in case Mom has a bad patch. I cannot travel back to Colorado. This is my new normal.


Physically I’m fine. Emotionally I’m not. I’m in a depression of some kind, not deep or dangerous, but a low-level malaise. I’m on Zoom with my therapist Jillian every week for the time being. Friend and helper, Lucille, has been good for me to talk with. Amanda is on the phone with me every day.

I chose to step away from blogging for a while. I may start again, I don’t know. My blog became a reminder of the submissive life I no longer have, and it pains me I have nothing of the submissive life to post about. I continue to write fiction and may post some of that.


Amanda has visited now twice, commuting back and forth. To be with her again has been wonderful, but I’m sad when she leaves, and my feelings are complicated in the meantime — the poignancy of what I’m missing, the longing for a life I once had.

She has tried to develop some remote domination of me, based, in fact, on ideas some of you generated. If I start to blog again, I will write about this at greater length, but these activities haven’t worked so well for us.

One bright spot was a connection between Amanda and me with Jeremy and his girlfriend, Phoebe, at the diner. I continue to spend time in Morgan’s Woods, which is some sort of spiritually erotic meditation for me. Amanda will be back again in another week. All these are little blessings.


The truth is, I wouldn’t trade these days with Mom for anything. The truth is, I would give anything to be back in the submissive slavery I so desperately want and need.

nurture, nature, and how I got this way

Sunday night, Mother and I sat outside on the porch with bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream. It became a reliving of a memory that led me through a maze of thoughts on psychology, submission, and dairy products.


It’s a question posed to me sometimes: about the psychology of submission and dominance, specifically how much of it might be derived from one’s relationship to parents. Jeremy asked me this, but others have too, so I won’t put this in the form of Jeremy’s conversation with me.

The presumption is that an adult submissive like me might be submissive due to a childhood of pleasing a difficult or distant parent. Likewise, it’s suggested an adult dominant might be dominant because an upbringing of chaos compelled a child toward order and control.

It’s a tricky question for me because I don’t really agree with those explanations, yet I do believe in the basic ideas of psychology, which is based largely on childhood cause and adult effect.

Yes, we are creatures of our nurture to some degree, no question. As adults, we are inclined to some things because of childhood associations. Being back in my childhood world is replete with personal examples.

This is where dairy comes in.

I remember when I was in grade school my parents taking me to an ice cream parlor called “The Barn.” We went nearly every Sunday night after church, and I always got their mint chocolate chip ice cream. To this day, that’s my favorite flavor, and I always buy it, often saying, “It’s good, but not as good as The Barn.”

It’s obvious that I am, as an adult, reaching for the mint chocolate chip at the grocery because of my memory association with it as a child. That’s a basic tenet of psychology, common knowledge. I agree that my childhood nurture influences much of what I do today.

Another example: I have written often about how in my slave life I am required to scrub the kitchen floor, and also how, quite incidental to the degradation that often accompanies it, I quite enjoy the floor-scrubbing itself. I know this is a feeling that derives from when as a child my mother asked me to scrub the floor for her because she had problems with her knees. If I did a good job (which I always did), she’d treat me to, well, mint chocolate chip ice cream. That pleasant association persists in me today and attests to the frequent association between adult propensities and childhood nurture experiences.

(In an ironic twist, in this current time here with Mother, I have twice now scrubbed the kitchen floor, not because it needed it nor for any ice cream but to relive the recent memories of my slavery in which I would be sexualized and objectified and watched with sexual pleasure.)


Another example illustrates the point I’m getting to.

As a child, I was also a maker of stories. First in my head, then in play with friends (in which I was always the damsel in distress, often tied to trees, waiting to be rescued), and later in grade school as a writer of these same stories, putting them down on paper.

That I am a writer today, even as I am writing this now, is perhaps a result of my childhood penchant for telling stories — again reinforcing the nurture side of things.

Yes, but then there’s the further question of where my attraction to writing came from in the first place. How was it that at a very early age, as I started to form simple sentences, I became so inclined? My parents always told their friends that I was “such the teller of stories.” Neither of my parents had that in them; nothing in their rearing of me suggests I was a child bard out of some coping reaction to my mom or dad.

I was a writer then, and am a writer now, because that was in me. It was the way I was made. It was nature.


I think of my submissiveness this same way.

Certainly, there are things in my childhood you might point to that suggest nurture-experiences of being controlled or submitting to authority. I haven’t written much about my father (I will someday), who was stern and authoritarian, and I’m sure analysts of me could make a lot of that. I have written about the church culture I grew up in (what I’m back in now), its emphasis on hierarchy and the submission of women — and you could point to that as rendering (nurturing) me to be submissive then and now.

But those experiences don’t really align. If anything, I should be rebelling against that in adulthood, eschewing anything that aims to subjugate me and make me submissive. Somehow, I have left those experiences behind, yet found my true submissiveness, that which I think I was born with. I believe I am an adult submissive despite my upbringing, not because of it.

This goes to my belief that my adult submissiveness is actually a kind of sexual orientation. That’s another conversation, and one I’ve written about before.

My point is that I am a writer today because I was born with a brain that was adept at ideas and stories (and likewise not adept at putting things together — mechanics).

And I am a submissive today because I was born to be this way, oriented from birth to live a submissive life.


There is truth in both nurture and nature, of course — each well illustrated in my life by a dairy product.

Nurture makes me long for a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream on the porch on a Sunday night.

Nature makes me long for Amanda, as an act of her dominance, to smear mint chocolate chip ice cream over my naked body and watch me drip.

submissive-in-waiting

Last night on the phone, Amanda called me her “submissive-in-waiting.”

I like the association with “lady-in-waiting,” which historically could refer to my favorite identity — courtesan. It’s also an appropriate nod to Amanda’s implicit royalty, as she is ever and always the queen of me.

She continues to remind me that I have not been gone that long, but it feels like an eternity. Here with Mother, much has happened regarding her hospitalization and ongoing condition, medical decisions and paperwork, and constant engagement with Mother’s people. But back home, the worlds of McKenna and Amanda have not changed much, it seems. They both have day jobs they’ve worked as usual without me around. Nothing has really happened, nothing is different, and it’s all there as I left it.

That’s comforting in some way. I think it’s why I long to be caged — it’s about a place, a space, where I am contained and where I belong. And so, for this submissive-in-waiting, the Great Room and the Wet Bar await unchanged, ready to hold me and defile me once again.

Master McKenna call

He calls me occasionally. At first it was every week but has been less frequent of late. He called Wednesday.

“I’m thinking you’ve replaced me by now,” I say.

“Not yet but taking applications. I’ve put the job request through HR.”

“Ha, ha. Glad to know I mean so much to you.”

“For some reason,” he says drolly, “my HR people balked at one of my job requirements. I listed ‘big tits.’ They said it wasn’t PC. Go figure.”

Nice…” I reply.

He asks if I’m having any “adventures” out here. I sigh and tell him that absolutely nothing is going on. “I’ve taken to walking half naked in the woods,” I say. “It’s come to that.”

He likes hearing my submissive desperation. And I like being desperate in his presence. In normal times, me there with him, it would lead to something.

He asks about Mother. He has been genuinely concerned, and I sense it’s not just for my sake, but an empathy for her. He is not far from her age. I update him, and I tell him the latest thinking about Lucille providing live-in service, although I imagine he’s already heard that from Amanda.

“I think I will at least be back for a short time in June,” I say. “Just ten days or so… Maybe, I’m just thinking, maybe you might take me, even if not our regular schedule, just a few days?”

“Amanda will have plans for you.”

“I know. She wants to mate me with the whole neighborhood. But if I could convince her… You know, it could be a great opportunity for you.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?” I hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m at a point where I would do anything for you.”

“You already do.”

“OK… I know. That’s the problem of my being your slave. I have nothing to bargain with.”

“Besides,” he adds, “it sounds like if I took you, it would be more for your need than for my pleasure.”

“I kinda thought they were the same… But you’re going to make me beg for this, aren’t you.”

“I am.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“It’ll have to be a creative, utterly humiliating beg.”

“I was afraid of that.”

I ask him about his work. He talks business for a while, and how it’s been a season of travel for him. I wonder how he has gotten all the reports done. He says he’s farmed it out to one of his offices, but it’s a pain in the ass for him. “They get things wrong,” he says.

“I do too sometimes,” I say. “But you have me naked while I do them, so you don’t notice so much.”

He laughs.

“So, I think you should get me a cage,” I say impulsively. “A big vertical cage to put me in.” I go on to say that Amanda won’t get me one. “It’s all I can think about these days.”

“Maybe in the garden outside the wall of windows in the Great Room,” he says.

“Oh, Jeffress would have a field day with that.” (Jeffress is the landscaping guy at the mansion.)

“It would make a lovely bird cage. For a big bird.”

“See, now, you’re making fun,” I say. “I’m serious. No one takes me seriously on this. I’m telling you I am meant to be kept in a cage. It’s something you should want too.”

“Seems you have a lot to beg for.”

I sigh. “Like I say, working on that, sir.”

Being in conversation with him, this kind of repartee, heats my longing to serve him, to submit to his dominance. Out here, I have never been able to turn off my submissive desire, but it certainly has been running in idle. Every conversation with Master M revs it up once again.

He says he has another meeting in a few minutes. I thank him for the call and for bearing with my sassy demeanor, although I know he likes it.

“Oh, yes,” he adds, “before I go, there’s something else. About Maria. I’ll put it this way: If I actually did post a vacancy for your position, she might like to apply. I’m guessing.”

Maria is Master McKenna’s housemaid. “I’ve wondered about her,” I say. “She’s asked me a lot of questions. A little too curious for it not to be… something.”

“Well, one, she misses you. She’s asked about you a dozen times. Two, she’s afraid of me, but has mustered courage to ask me about what I do… with you.”

“Maria is afraid of you because of what you do to girls like me.”

Master M laughs. “Probably… She’s naturally timid, but I think some of that is a natural submissiveness…”

“I sense that too. Which may be why she’s curious.”

“So, I’ve been noodling on something,” he says. “It would be for when you’re back. Like for a longer chunk of time.”

“Whenever that is.”

“It’ll happen. With great respect for your mother’s situation, you’ll find a solution, and you’ll make it back… You need this too much.”

I sigh. “You have no idea.”

“So, this might be complicated. If Maria is open to it, I wonder if you might tutor her. In the art of submission.”

This is new. I take a moment to absorb it. “What’s your end goal?” I ask, using his vocabulary.

“Big picture: a training program. If I am making the D/s retreats with dominant trainees a regular thing, it makes sense to me that I’d have a submissive training academy as well. Maybe they get paired. But that’s getting ahead of things. For now, I am just putting two pieces together, you and Maria. If she’s interested in learning.”

He’s talking about me in a way as if I’ve never left, including me in his Next Big Thing, and it warms my heart that I continue to partner with him in my own slavery.

“Would you be her dominant?” I ask.

“That’s the complicated part. I employ her, technically through one of my businesses. That poses legal problems. But I think there’s a way around that eventually.” He goes on to suggest that at first I approach Maria casually about her own submissive orientation. “See if something’s there.” Then he says maybe it could progress to my teaching her the basics about the submissive life. “I’ll provide you time for that,” he says. “After a while you’ll tell her that you’ll approach me about allowing her to observe you when you’re with me.” And he says that in time he could work it out, if she wishes, to submit to him. “It could be a modest D/s with her, simple and relatively mild. Whatever she wishes to try.”

Like a top exec, he’s worked it all out. While he seems genuinely interested in helping Maria find her own submissive self — it’s consistent with the Master Teacher he is — I also sense he has a desire for another submissive, to have two of us. That would be interesting. Much for me to chew on.

“Sounds like a workable plan,” I finally say. “Yes, of course. I will gladly do that.”

“Good… And, by the way, when you come out here for the ten days… work it out with Amanda. Yes, of course, I will have you.”

“In so many ways…” I sigh.

“Exactly.”

morgan’s woods

I park the car in a little alcove off the dirt road that runs through Morgan’s Woods. There is no traffic here, probably only the owner himself, Mr. Morgan, as I imagine him bearded and fifty, I presume, canvassing his property in a faded blue Ford pickup. Rich people always have a beater truck they love to drive in.

The alcove is not visible from the dirt road. I made sure of that. So, my imagined Mr. Morgan would not stop along his prowl to investigate who was poaching on his land.

I leave the car and walk about a hundred yards into the dense forest. There is no path, no one has ever trodden down these leaves, which is part of the experience I like. I come upon a glade where sun breaks through. There is a patch of grass, green and fresh, and I sometimes come back here with a towel to lie down and bask in the sun. But today I have farther to go.

Still, this glade is where I take off my top. I’m in a flannel shirt of orange-and-sienna plaid, and I slowly unbutton it as if the woods is my lover looking. I pull my shirt off, and my pale breasts feel the cool air. There’s a branch of a sapling that serves every time as a hanger, and I drape the shirt there, where it hovers like a ghost in my closet.

Topless now, I walk farther toward my sweet spot, through thickets of maples and oaks with low branches that spank my breasts like whips. Ten minutes of this, and I will be reddened and scraped, marked by nature, which is, to me, a lovely thing. Especially here in this world of proper living and dull kindness, the scratchy pain of it is an experience of love. It is about feeling, well, something, anything.


My spot these days is a particular oak tree set at the edge of a creek.

I am disallowed from wearing jeans or shorts, which would be the dress code for woods-walking, so I wear a short denim skirt and my orange-striped tennis shoes. The denim would be too heavy for Amanda’s liking — she’d prefer me in thin cotton — but I need to sit on twigs and leaves, and the heavier fabric offers a slight cushion for my unpantied flesh underneath.

Here I sit, against the oak, and I lean my head back, closing my eyes. I feel the breeze off the creek against my breasts, and I smell the earthy aroma of the forest loam. The silence is not actually silence — it is a constant rustle of leaves, trees chattering in the background, a hushing lullaby that sends me into half sleep.


I have dreams. Dreams of being taken and tied, like my forest play with childhood friends. And more adult dreams as well, being roped to trees, face-in, my flesh tender against the bark and my arms circling around the girth of a trunk, as if embracing the phallus of a god.


Later I awaken and step gingerly down to the creekside. There’s a spot with stepping stones into the middle of the trickling water. I make my way, each hop step jouncing my tits, until I stand in the middle of the waterway, with cold water seeping through my shoes.


It is time to go. I walk back, I stop at the glade and retrieve my shirt, but do not put it on. I find my car in the alcove, and there I begin to clothe myself again. But I have another thought. I put my flannel shirt in the car.

I walk, bare-breasted, out to the main road.

I do not know what I hope for here. Perhaps I simply wish to extend this nature-reverie. But it matters to me to be revealed as I am, somehow, even unto no one. Or else, it’s the danger of the stray someone driving through. More likely I long for the humiliation of the mere possibility.

Maybe it’s just that I hope to meet Mr. Morgan stopping, peering out of his faded blue Ford pickup, and enjoying the view in his woods.

out… and about Lucille

I came out to Lucille yesterday.

I’m in a kind of reckless, what-the-hell moment these days, my submissiveness having been untouched for so long. My dialogues with Jeremy are wonderful, but they leave me with longing in the very personal parts of me he is probing, a wishfulness for what I had before. My slavery has become nostalgia.

This was somehow my impulse to tell her. I needed someone else to know.


Lucille spells me with Mom during my afternoons at the diner with Jeremy, so she knows about Jeremy and our college friendship.

It happened that Lucille was here yesterday afternoon for a time. Mother was napping, and Lucille and I were on the porch talking. She asked me about Jeremy, what we talk about at the diner. I could have steered away from that but didn’t. I just impulsively felt like telling her about what I am.

I just said I “need to tell you something.” And it went from there.

My coming-out experiences, limited as they’ve been, have had to navigate the double-punch of my personal reveal: that I am bisexual and that I am submissive. The problem is that people are likely to be judgmental of the first and clueless about the second.

I’ve come to a shorthand for this, focusing primarily on my bisexual orientation and my relationship with Amanda. “I’m in a relationship with another woman…” so it goes, and so it went with Lucille. The news of my submissive orientation can seep out later, even naturally, as it did here — but more on that in a moment.

I never know in these parts what any particular person believes, what they consider to be morality. While certainly not everyone in this region of Pennsylvania is morally judgmental, this particular burb is immersed in the conservative religion of my childhood world. Lucille comes from this too, so I expected some measure of judgment or even rejection from her.

She was reserved at first, not saying much, and I felt perhaps I had made a big error. I know people need time to process, but even so, Lucille’s countenance remained cloudy, hard to read, and I had the sense this was not going to end well.

She just said, “Thank you for telling me.”

“Well,” I said, “I just thought I should say something. In light of my dates with Jeremy. He has a girlfriend, and, well, I do too. He and I are just friends.”

Again, Lucille was slow in responding. She eventually spoke: “I have a sister. She lives in Florida. We have always been close. She is gay…” Lucille now looked over at me with a soft smile. “I just want her to be happy.”

We talked more then about her sister, details that should remain private. I mentioned that I had come out to Mother a couple of years ago. “Now we all know,” I said.


Later, Lucille noted that I often wear a collar. I have worn chokers out in public, but at the house I’ve worn metal. She asked if my collar was like a “ring of commitment” to Amanda. “Kind of,” I said. “You might say we have a different kind of relationship.” I chose not to try to explain further, not to itemize “different.” Lucille didn’t ask.

That was all that needed to be shared for now about my submissive lifestyle.


I still don’t know exactly how Lucille thinks about my orientation. I find that church people can have strong biblical beliefs against bi and gay, but for some, when it involves a member of the family or a close friend, it becomes a different reality. There’s a mental opposition but an emotional acceptance.

Perhaps that’s true for Lucille. But in these moments Lucille was clearly accepting of her sister, supportive, it seems, and loving.

And she remains warm and friendly with me. That’s all I can expect.


Recklessly impulsive as my coming out was, it occurred to me later it needed to be done.

Amanda will be visiting soon, her length of stay still to be determined, and our relationship will be obvious to anyone who hangs around us for more than a cup of coffee. Lucille will be here frequently, as she always is; she and Amanda will meet; Lucille will see us together.

Amanda is never discreet with me, doesn’t have to be, but I imagine she’ll try to be sensitive to Lucille’s presence. Still, there will be kissing and the kind of touching of me Amanda does that’s delightfully inappropriate. At some point, that and my freckled blush will be witnessed.

Even so, what will be most telltale, what will give us away, is the simple look we exchange, the one in which Amanda peers into my deepest parts, the core of me she owns, and sees my trembling and willing abandonment to her.

But for a while longer, that’s just nostalgia.