the meaning of home

I’m home now, as in Amanda’s place. I need now to distinguish “homes,” given that one surprise of my week with Master M is how I’ve come to adopt his mansion as a home too. I may have to find a way of designating each place as such — perhaps simply “home” and the “mansion,” with the latter simply understood as my home away from home. The mansion felt comfortable for me this time as a place where I belonged.

There are interesting connotations in referring to “Amanda’s Place” and “McKenna’s Place” — the sense that in these two homes there is not only a place for me to be but also that here “I am put in my place,” that these are worlds in which I am kept.

Submissive that I am, those thoughts I take as positive, and they warm me.

Maybe it’s a submissive thing (it certainly is for me) that belonging is so important and has a deeper meaning than for most people.

The experiences of being dominated — the events and practices and paraphernalia of my willful degradation — in a way are less important than my sense of being owned and kept — the context of belonging. For better or worse, I will do anything for anyone if I feel, within them, I have a place of belonging.

Belonging is, of course, more than a physical place, though the building in which my belonging happens is perhaps a symbol of the deeper reality of my “home within my dominant.” I have a home in Amanda’s being — and while this house is not that itself, it has become a symbol of her and of me in her.

This last visit with Master M, as I’ve said, felt more like home than ever before. The mansion with its vast rooms and soaring ceilings is not what I would consider as a “cozy,” but it now feels like proper place for me — it is inside me now as a physical space, just as Master M is inside me physically and sexually. As he commands me and my body, so does the mansion dominate me and my body. Something like that.

There is in all of this a wonderful submissive feeling — that of being contained. I sometimes write about my occasional longing to be caged. I know that sounds odd to most. Whereas most people think of being caged as an imprisonment, for me it’s a reassuring comfort. A cage provides structure and boundaries and clarity to my life. In a cage, there is nothing for me to do except simply to be.

“Amanda’s Place” and “McKenna’s Place” are not places for my incarceration, but quite the contrary, they are comforting structures — cages of belonging — “relationship homes” in which I am free to be exactly what I am.


I’m not sure how to write about Sunday at Master M’s. There was football. And there were men.

Master had friends over, three of them, strangers to me. I would say all were in their fifties. I served snacks and drinks in high heels, carrying trays between the kitchen and the media room and making drinks at the bar.

I was collared with the heavy titanium and leashed with a half chain. The men seemed already to know what I was, and Master M provided no explanation of me as his slave. It seemed to be common knowledge.

He had me in an orange-red flared skirt, not short-short as Master sometimes prefers but mid-thigh nonetheless.

The main thing was that he had me topless.

I would realize later that this was a kind of training of me as much as an entertainment for the men.

I had been topless before in the company of strangers at the mansion — the retreat of dominants last year — but that was highly structured with rules and pedagogy, and I was mostly a kind of “classroom” practice model of sorts. This was different, random, very testosterone-y, and I didn’t know at first if there were any rules for anyone.

Objectification and sexualization are experiences that Amanda loves to create for me, obviously. She has made them common in my life, in front of the whole the neighborhood and trash men and landscapers, but to say these are common experiences doesn’t mean I have become inured to them. I am ever aware of my exposure and my sexual vulnerability even just with Mistress A, much less other neighbors. Here, in the company of strangers, I was experienced enough to handle the situation well enough (like I didn’t freak out or anything), but I was self-conscious all the same.

The men were already in front of the big TV when Master led me in. I was introduced to each one by an initial — Mister A, Mister H, and Mister Z. I have no idea if those initials correspond to their real last names. They, of course referred to each other by first names, but addressed them as “mister” and last initial, or simply “sir.”

One said to McKenna, “We wondered where you were keeping her.” Another said sarcastically, “Nice outfit.” There were comments about my tits. Also interest in my metal collar, with a short conversation about slave collars with combination locks. Master M instructed them I would be taking their drink orders. Which I did, asking each one by name/initial, what he would like. One said, “What I’d like I’m not permitted to have.” The others laughed. I blushed.

The innuendo aside — it was an afternoon and evening filled with them — his response suggested to me that they had some limits previously placed on them by Master McKenna. I have long reached a point of trust in him, and yet I know at some point I he will share me with friends, that is, for actual sex. I didn’t know if this on Sunday was the time for that.

The one thing I am good at is taking drink orders, making drinks, and being a bar maid. In fact, this is a skill I’ve developed entirely within my years of slavery, first to Master Michael, then to Mistress A, and now to Master McKenna. It was never a need or opportunity for me in my vanilla life in my twenties.

In some respects, I welcome the task of being a bar maid in group situations like this. On Sunday, it gave me a focus in the midst of randomness and a touch of rowdiness.

The interesting thing to me was how the men avidly watched the football game even though I was buzzing around them, my jiggly breasts bared, serving drinks and eats. They actually watched the game. This amused me — it seeming like a bachelor party with the proverbial stripper popping out of the cake naked, but the men lining up to get servings of the cake.

Still, there were commercials and half-time.

Apparently it was permissible for the men to have me to sit on their laps. In the process there was fondling, of my breasts and legs. Each of the men talked to me personally while I was lap-sitting, but somehow my college education and degree in literature never came up. One was interested in my nipple piercings, and he toyed with my nipple rings. One expressed curiosity about what was underneath my skirt. I said to him teasingly, “Well, sir, if you don’t already know that, then you probably have no business having me on your lap.” He smiled and the men laughed. I looked over at Master M, and he was grinning. Apparently, my retort was still within the bounds of approved submissive response.

Hands went under my skirt, as it happened, along the inside of my thighs, but never touched my pussy. Perhaps that was one of their rules.

I probably have never been so extensively fondled in a single day in my entire life.

In the midst of football, the doorbell chime rang, and Master M ordered me to answer it.

Big surprise: my eyes opened wide. It was Amanda.

“I hope you’re behaving yourself,” she said breezing in past me.

“I don’t think the others share your concern,” I said. I walked her to the media room, and introductions were made. Amanda seemed to already know one of the men. It was clear that Master M was expecting her, and that they had arranged her appearance together.

Amanda said to the group, “I hope you’re enjoying our toy.”

Two things were interesting in those moments.

One was that Amanda’s appearance did not especially comfort me about the situation I was in. That is, I didn’t need to be comforted — I trusted Master M to ensure my safety and control the scene. If Master M gave the men more liberty with me, it was no different than what Mistress A might allow.

This was not a negative about Amanda at all — I trust her implicitly to ensure my safety, both physically and mentally. It’s just that in these moments, I realized how far I’ve come with Master M that I trust him just as implicitly as I do her.

The other interesting thing was Amanda’s statement to the group: “I hope you’re enjoying our toy.” The word “our.” I belong to Amanda and McKenna both. This also came out at the retreat, but I felt then it was more of a postured statement to establish Master M’s rights to me. Here it was more a matter of fact.

That doesn’t trouble me. Amanda will always be my primary, with other forms of relationship and different benefits. But as a slave girl, I belong to her, of course, yet also to Master M.

Amanda could care less about football, but she enjoyed watching me being manhandled by these men. This is why she came. There will be more of this. She has cultivated me all along so I will be safely submissive in sexual situations that she can watch.

There isn’t much more to say. I didn’t know there was another football game in the evening, and so the fondling party continued. Master M gave me some time between games to freshen up, some time apart, and I appreciated that. Amanda left halfway through the second game, needing to prep for the week’s business work. I would be coming home to her the next morning.

I have further thoughts from this experience on Sunday but will ponder them more and share them here in future posts.

other things this week

There was something new Friday, uneventful but different.

Master M took me with him to one of his businesses. I rode in the car with him to a small office space a half hour away. It was a satellite office for a business he runs in Los Angeles, about thirty people, just cubicles, a break room, and a meeting room. I’m not permitted to get much more specific than that.

So, I’ll answer the next question — yes, I was fully dressed, in one of the blazer/skirt outfits, this time with an actual boat-neck top underneath, and sensible heels. While I wore a collar, perhaps the only concession to my status, it was modest and fashionable — thin and rounded, smooth, stainless, and subtle. It bore an O-ring, but that was turned to the back and hidden under my hair. I actually looked respectable for a change. Like a real assistant.

In fact, I was introduced at the beginning of the meeting as his assistant. I blended into the background after that, taking notes, keeping my mouth shut, although I don’t know what I would have said anyway.

It was different being in the car with him. And a new experience being in his vanilla business world.

I’ve wondered why he took me out like that, what his purpose was. It would be nice to think he enjoys my company in the car, my “delightful conversation” even when I have all my clothes on. It wasn’t a “slave event” apparently — nothing happened. He didn’t really need me, as anyone at the meeting could have taken notes. Maybe he intended to show me some aspect of his work, the businesses he runs. Perhaps it’s a prelude to something later.

This afternoon and evening there will be football on TV, I am told, and Master M is having some friends over to watch. We’ll see where that goes.

It has been a deeply good week for me, reassuring in how I have so easily fallen back into my submission to him. It all has returned to me after the hiatus, all my training and instincts, my trust in his handling of me, my ready yielding of my body to him. In the absence, I had begun to worry about myself, about him with me, how it would be. But my fretting was for naught — it all feels like I never left.

If anything, the surprise of the week is that there have been steps forward:

I have come to a sense that this is my other home. I have a place here physically, as I wrote about, but also socially — the people of the manse, whether they approve of me or not, accept my presence here now. It helps that I am on a lower social level (although maybe the point is more that I accept my lower level and don’t presume to threaten their status with him). I suppose it’s also helped for them to see him using me and to realize they would never want that debasement for themselves.

I have also developed in my greater acceptance of my frequent nudity around and about. I talked with Amanda about this on the phone last night. It isn’t that he keeps me much more exposed than Amanda does, but that there are more people popping into the mansion at random times. It really is an open house, accessible to a wide circle of Master’s colleagues, acquaintances, and friends. Amanda asked me if I have “gotten used to it.” I said no, that I still am self-conscious and feel my exposure to them, but there are so many visitors so randomly dropping in that I have given up any pretense of control. She liked that. I suppose it’s always good for a slave to confess she is given up control of this or that.

It occurs to me how Master M’s approach is like and also different from Amanda’s. They both have created worlds in which D/s is practiced.

He has created a physical space — the mansion and grounds — that are a kind of lifestyle ecosystem. It’s a business headquarters for his operations but also a structure that houses his dominance. The size of the place, its physical geography, makes it feel like a complete world, one in which the lifestyle of dominance and submission are accepted and openly executed.

Amanda has created around her and me a D/s world as well. For her, though, it’s not physical space but relational space. She has wooed people, neighbors, into an understanding of my submissiveness and the practice of her dominance of me. In a sense, she has enlarged our world by including more people.

I am being returned to Amanda tomorrow (Monday). It will be lovely to see her again. We have talked on the phone almost every night I’ve been here.

first hour

Master himself answers the door when I arrive. I stand on the front portico in my too-short skirt and sheer top, both like wrapping paper that barely covers the gift box. I am not nervous but eager, way too eager.

He gets a call on his cell just as the door opens, waving for me to step in as he takes the call. I schlep my two suitcases into the atrium, which would turn out to be an overkill of wardrobe in light of how he keeps me later in the week. I stand quietly while he finishes his call, hands properly to my sides, feeling small in the large atrium space, realizing the mansion with all its size and weight itself dominates me.

He returns. “Have you missed me?” He says it nonchalant-like.

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles once. He walks slowly around me, as if evaluating a new car in the auto dealer showroom. He then stands off, looking me up and down. Objectification begins.

“Amanda says you are fully recovered now. You have no limits?”

In the broader context that’s a complicated question, but I know what he means: “I’m fine.”

“Good. Take off your clothes.”

He is wasting no time. I am proud of myself that I am present in this moment and don’t hesitate. I expect he is looking for that, hoping I’d pause noticeably, warranting a punishment. Not that he needs an excuse. He’s made it clear that hitting me is a matter of his prerogative not requiring purpose. Still, he sometimes likes it as training.

But I immediately cross my arms, reach for the bottom hem of my pullover top, and draw it up. It catches on my breasts, tugging them up, and finally clears, releasing them to bounce out.

I pull my top over my head, fold it, and set it on the floor beside me. My eyes find his again as he takes in my toplessness and remembers a former playground. I reach in back to unclasp my skirt. It slides over my hips and off. I am now fully naked before him, standing there in the open atrium in my strappy high heels and titanium collar.

He looks at me for the longest time in silence.

The first moments are always a kind of synchronization, maybe like the boot-up process of a computer, its various systems talking to each other once again after being asleep. Me: “I am here.” Him: “Are you willing?” Me: “Yes. I am.” Him: “Will you submit your flesh to me?” Me: “Yes, sir. Here is my body.” This is the back-and-forth of few words and much body language. And now I am back in it, synced to him.

His eyes fix upon my breasts for some time, then slide down to my vulva and bare pussy, my labia glistening. His are gazes of emotion-memory mixed with future intention, nostalgia and lust co-mingled like juices in intercourse. In his silence, watching, he is beginning to fuck me visually.

I absorb his dominant desire, letting it first coat me like lotion, then seep in, softening. It had been mere minutes since I appeared at the doorstep, and already he is inside me in a way, his gaze pulling open my lips and penetrating my womanhood.

He breaks the silence: “It’s been a while.”

I nod. “I hope you still want me, sir.” It is the obvious thing to say, demonstrating my submissive longing for him, not really a question. And yet it is.

He reads me that same way: “You thought I would lose interest?”

“During my illness, yes, I thought that. There are others. You could have others.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Yes, of course. You probably did.”

He wants me to think that, to imagine that, perhaps hoping it will torture me in some delicious way. But it doesn’t. Jealousy is a feeling of possession, a terribly unsubmissive emotion. I am fully capable of it — I am deeply jealous of Amanda’s possible alternatives to me, even though they have been imagined not real. But with Master McKenna, I feel differently. I assume he has others or could have them. I don’t need to be the only one. Just one. I simply care that he still wants me. Will have me again. Will take me back now. Of course, he will, but these are thoughts anyway.

Our words echo in the big space of the atrium, its openness winding up a staircase to other levels and soaring high like a cathedral. He remains six feet away, intentional no doubt, the distance a succulent tension, his eyes reaching across and continuing to fondle my breasts like fingers — a metaphor with real effect, as my nipples now have become engorged as if flicked softly by his eyelashes.

He asks a question that drills into the heart of my current state. I have for three months been absent from the twins of my being — the submissive and sexual needs that make me what I am. We both know this, although I doubt he really understands how desperately eager I am right now.

He asks: “Do you want me to whip you or fuck you?”

I breath in deeply. The question is either/or. “Yes,” I say.

In time, he walks behind me, wrapping one arm around in front, his hand cupping my breast. His other hand slides down my hip and thigh, then in front, where he slips his fingers down my abdomen and just above my vulva.

“You shaved yourself for me,” he said.

“Yes, I know you prefer me this way.” I also know it pleases him to think I was preparing myself for him long before showing up on his doorstep. He controls me even when I’m back home attending to my toilette in my bathroom.

I can feel his cock through his pants, pressing between my ass cheeks. I want that, like I want all of him right now. And it is now that I know I won’t last for long. I have been so pent up, I’m like a shaken-up seltzer bottle — every nerve ending of my body ready to pop.

His hand wanders from my front to my rear, his fingers pushing between my ass cheeks, one finger extending. He inserts it into my anus. I have lubed myself for him, and he slips in easily. Feeling him there, I breathe in deeply.

I wonder if he has looked at the clock and later will calculate that it has been just twenty-eight minutes since I arrived, that in less than half an hour he has managed to finger fuck me anally. Of course, I am not a real challenge, I’m so easy, especially this time. Yet does he think this in a later moment, have a laugh at how quickly he has claimed me, gotten inside me here?

In his arms, I am trembling. Yes, he has gotten into me physically, literally so, but I felt him inside my submissive heart even before I arrived. When I stepped into the atrium, I was already his, so ready to be taken by him, by the presence of his dominance. My twin needs merged now head together toward a climax possessed.

He slips out of me behind and lifts his finger to my mouth. I take it between my lips and in across my tongue, tasting my defilement.

His finger soon finds my pussy below and, wet from my tongue, aligns vertically between my labia. I close my eyes. I am now lost in him, in his sexual dominance, his handling of me, and in my hopeless vulnerability to him. He nestles there, and in that singular moment, his finger rests upon my clit.

I try not to, but I shudder. My head falls back against his chest. I come.

He gives me the moment, enjoying my standing orgasm. “I didn’t give you permission,” he says. “I will have to punish you.”

Still in the throes, my voice warbles: “I know.”

He chuckles at my swoon and desperation. And now his finger slips inside me, burrowing into my tunnel, into my submissive soul.

I come again.

Before he is done with me, there is a third, and I can hardly stand up.

it’s become clear…

So, Amanda and I have had conversations this week and last about us and about what “us” is to become. Some of this has been in terms of goal setting for the next year, a process we go through annually. But this time it’s also a longer view, Amanda revealing to me more of her own dominant inner workings. So, this post is going to be more about her — my understanding of her perspective in owning me.

One thing we’ve talked about is the matter of “escalation” — the idea of a D/s slavery needing to try more things, more deeply, more extremely, in order to be satisfying to a dom and/or sub. Amanda was saying that her uses of me do not need to be constantly escalated for her to find pleasure and joy in being with me.

There are things you intuitively know about someone from living with them in relationship, and I suppose I knew this all along with Amanda, but it meant a lot to me to hear her say that so directly. A submissive’s pleasure lies in the becoming the pleasure of her domme, and one tends to think she has to perform the “next new thing” to continue to be submissively pleasurable. But Amanda said, “If we were to live in our current state for years to come, I would be happy.”

This re-calibrates my mind from sometimes doing something in order to measure up to her pleasure to doing something because I simply desire to be her pleasure. It’s a subtle difference, but significant.

As it turns out, Amanda does indeed intend to extend my slavery into new things, and that will be an escalation, for sure, but her point was that she doesn’t have to “escalate me” in order to be quite satisfied with me and what we have.

That’s a beautiful thing.

There was talk that echoed conversations we’ve had many times before. Repetitive, perhaps, and yet it’s part of a “checking-in” to see if we are together in the same understandings as before.

She talked about how I respond when presented with something new: “You go all ‘Baptist girl’ for a bit, then you eventually do it.” This is old territory, but “Baptist girl” is a new-ish phrase for describing it.

“Well, I was a Baptist girl,” I replied, “but parts of that are still in me… I didn’t know I was showing it.”

“I like it actually. It lets me know how far you have come as I defile you.”

“Nice, that.”

“I just need to know when anything is too much for you. You never’ve used your safe word. So when you flash Baptist girl at me, I wonder for a moment if you’re raising a white flag.”

“No, I’m not. You know me — I usually have that moment of regret that I’m not longer innocent and respectable, but I get over it.”

“You passed beyond innocent and respectable years ago.”

“Thanks…” I make a face. “But, yeah, I know. Sometimes I just have to remind myself of that.”

We talked about her sharing me.

She said she thought I should look at it differently: “It’s not that I think you need more and more extreme experiences. It’s that I want the sexual intimacy with you that comes when I watch you with others.”

I knew this, but here she stated it more directly than before. In some way, I am a surrogate for her, and she gets a sexual high through me, watching me. I accept that, want to be that for her.

Her watching is one thing, AOK by me, but “with others” is another. “With others is a big universe,” I said, adding, “but I know what you’re doing.” By which I mean the creation of smaller circles of people who are friendly to our lifestyle and open to me (being open, literally, to them). Maybe the people next door, maybe a neighborhood, maybe some client circles. Safe zones for the execution of my slavery.

Not new news, but perhaps a new wrinkle in our time together. It’s not just about my submissive need nor her dominant need, but about a deeper intimacy between us as she watches my, well, defilement.

It’s a remarkable thing when one person owns another and can do anything she wants with her.

It has certain pleasures at the beginning when a sub is trained for the first time into the preferences of her mistress. It has deeper pleasures along the way as a sub begins to intuitively anticipate her mistress’s desires. And it becomes yet a further euphoria when sub and domme are meshed together through extraordinary experiences shared.

That may be where we are now.

In any case, it’s become clear now…

That the execution of my slavery is changing. That Amanda desires with me a further intimacy that comes from sharing me and participating in the sharing. That Amanda is building around me circles of people and contexts in which she can make this happen.

I’m OK with that.

therapy things

My therapist, Jillian, has long advised me to keep my sessions with her private and to refrain from writing my counseling experiences on my blog. Even though much of my blog is confessional and explicit, I have followed her advice, and I do not post the specific threads of my therapy with her. The following is simply a top-level reference to a few things from our sessions, and I have permission from her to mention them this one time…

Jillian is lifestyle-friendly — in fact, participates in the lifestyle herself. She sees the lifestyle as necessary and healthy, and her work is generally not remedial but maintenance — not about “fixing trauma” but rather about keeping one balanced.

Jillian can address trauma if it’s there, but she doesn’t believe, as some do, that submissiveness must be caused by something dark and devastating earlier in life. Recently she pointed me to a research article that summarized a study showing submission and dominance are not necessarily linked to trauma but seem to be intrinsic orientations in people.

For those of us who are submissive or dominant in the lifestyle, this is sort of “yeah, duh,” but it’s nice that research seems to support what we intuitively know.

The one thing in my childhood that became a level of significance in adulthood is my relationship with my father, who passed away many years ago. I won’t go into it. but I’ll just mention that my relationship with him was complex and difficult and has an influence over me today. Yet it was not abusive nor ever rose to a level of trauma.

Jillian makes the point that my relationship with my father continues with me even though he died so long ago. So, it’s important for me to find reconciliation with him even now. This has been part of my therapy work, and I won’t go into the details of that, but I’ll just say this: My father was never the cause of anything I am today. I am what I am apart from him. It’s important that I don’t believe I am broken in what I am. I need to celebrate my being a sexual submissive. Although my father has influenced me, obviously, he is not the explanation of me.

Likewise, it’s important I don’t ascribe some sort of blame to him for my nature. I can’t have it both ways: I can’t celebrate what I am at the same time as blaming him for what I am. And that’s what I had been doing for a while…

There’s a phrase Jillian has been using of me that I find of interest: sexual submissive. I think it fits me pretty well.

The term recognizes that there are many whose submissiveness does not have a sexual component — and then some, like me, for whom it does. There are service submissives and sexual submissives, and maybe others too. The terms denote the primary aspect of a person’s submissive nature.

While I feel my submissiveness is sometimes nurtured by simple obedience and service, I am more deeply fulfilled when I am dominated sexually. The term rings true.

It’s important to recognize this is not necessarily always about acts of sex but often about sexuality more generally. I have long thought that my submissiveness was part of my sexual orientation, and this term “sexual submissive” points to that possibility. As a submissive, I am fulfilled by “being treated sexually” — objectified and sexualized — as much as being used for actual sex.

One takeaway:

Much as I am fully given to being a sexual submissive, I also resist it on some level. I know that’s because of my moralistic upbringing, which still echoes in me from time to time.

My nature is to be submissive and sexually poly, as I am dominated to be. Yet a part of my mind judges me for that.

That moralistic upbringing is embodied by the memory of my father.

So you see why this is complex.


As of Monday, I was officially unquarantined. Mistress A marked the moment with a kiss. I stood with coffee on a tray, as per usual, and she poured herself a mugful. I set the tray aside, and she put her arms around me, pulled me in, and kissed me. Our lips lingered, as if remembering.

“We can do this now,” she whispered.

“We can do other things too,” I replied, which is the closest I get with her to saying something seductive.

But it is back to work for Amanda, after the holidays of time off and just a few intermittent hours in her home office. She has me working as her assistant today, ostensibly for setting up a new report format, but I think mostly because she wants to see me bounce in and out of her office during the day.

She has me half-proper in a business outfit — an A-line navy skirt, knee-length, with matching blue kitten heels, and on top a white cardigan, buttoned just once at my waist and framing my bare breasts. During the day I will have reason to come to her with questions, reports, coffee — and my state of partial undress will seem normal, as if the latest office fashion. I always feel my nakedness, but my toplessness is so common that I can become unaware of my context, the danger being that during one of Amanda’s Zoom calls, I will step to her desk to hand her something and inadvertently walk into camera view. It has happened.

Revealing me — in slave status and in body — remains a challenge for Amanda with her clientèle. She wants to introduce me to everyone as her slave and have them respond to me in whatever way they choose. But, of course, there are business proprieties to be observed and professionalism to be maintained. Amanda is careful about that and hews to common rules of the workplace. Yet she yearns to share me and believes there are a few clients who would be open to this knowledge of me, especially if it simply came out in happy-hour conversation that this is the life we live.

As it happens, she has an in-person meeting today in Denver with a new client and has decided to take me with her. This will not be an occasion for a Shae reveal, though she will enjoy buttoning up my cardigan before we go and see if publicly she can get away with how I fill it out.

It occurs to me I am her trophy wife. That’s not a bad thing.

the architecture of subspace

I have climbed back into a subspace room, at least one of them, in which I feel immersed in the life of submission once again.

Subspace sometimes seems to me like a building, if you can imagine it, of concentric rooms, each one inside the other, like nesting cubes. I enter the building and immediate find myself in an outer subspace room, but there are inner spaces, and then more inner spaces, to slip into.

You can get lost in the inner rooms, and when you do, it’s glorious. You abandon yourself into the will and whip of dominant others. For now, I am just in the initial room, but it’s feeling lovely to be back.

The other rooms beckon. There will be times for those.

We are never not submissive, but most of us have to live both in and out of that building, sometimes multiple times within the same day. We are then not immersed in it, rather submissives interrupted, having to pause for this or that to function in the vanilla world (or survive the ravages of an illness). We must leave the building at times, leave subspace, for, say, our morning meeting with the personal banker about a credit card problem or our afternoon appointment with the doctor — people and places that do not know the submissives we are and therefore treat us as normal. These are forced time-outs from who we really are.

We long for an existence in which our every moment is submissive, where there is no time-out or other life to attend to. We wish for an immersion in the life of submission, to be fully what we are made to be.

This immersion we long for seems to me a function of both people and time.

To be surrounded by people who know us only as the submissives we are — this is immersion in a community that defines us strictly as submissives and tacitly treats us according to our status.

Time immerses us too: when we go to bed at night as the submissive and in the morning wake up as that submissive still, it feels this is what we are, sunset, sunrise, now and always. Days on end without pauses and fits and starts become a baptism of time, an immersion in the life, a stepping into further rooms of subspace.

I realize now Amanda has been creating for me that community of people who know me only as the submissive I am. Her neighborhood wooing is designed to create a social circle that allows my slavery to be constantly on display without needing defense or apology or even explanation.

Her wish is to extend this bubble even further, to perhaps a man like Blake, possibly a client of hers, already Master McKenna, and potential others to be named later. Yes, part of it is for Amanda’s pleasure in showing me off — “See what I own!” — but the other part, I see now, is to create a village around me that I never have to leave, one that features multiple rooms of aware people and submissive experiences and intimate relationships.

I am back in the building after a few months of being out of it. I was never not submissive, of course, but was sick and incapable and off to the side in a different la-la-land, my sub-slavery interrupted by circumstance.

I reside once again, for now, in the outer room, with inner rooms beckoning, holding deeper and different subspaces for me to slip into.

All of it is perpetual immersion in the life I am made to live.

new year, 2022

Wishing everyone a happy and safe new year…

I shall write another time of the goals Mistress A has for me, but for now I might simply express a few wishes and prayers for the year ahead.

For continued health for my mother in Pennsylvania…
She has some health issues, potentially serious, but has been doing well since her earlier event. I truly want her to be well, of course, to feel good, and yet I admit my own self-interest in it. A number of scenarios, as I have written before, would likely entail my leaving my life here and moving to PA to care for her.

For my peace of mind as Amanda takes me deeper into sub-slave life…
I trust her implicitly and obey her readily in all things. Yet I tend to fret and stew about what is done to me. I need to let go more, relax more in my submissive experience. She would enjoy me more if I were sometimes less fraught.

For everyone’s protection against COVID, and a soon return to some semblance of common life once again…
I don’t mean this to sound so sweetly altruistic. It is selfish actually, in the sense that COVID has restrained Amanda’s plans for me and others’ uses of me and dimensions of my submissive life that we all would like to happen. But yes, I certainly hope for everyone a relief from the virus threat and a departure from this era of COVID. We all need to get past this.

For a deepening of relationships, especially mine with Amanda…
I wish this for everyone, that one’s most precious relationship could grow deeper and richer. For me, what has developed with Amanda is precious and full. In some ways our relationship is made possible precisely because of its alternativeness — in a life of dominance and submission there isn’t much left unconfessed and unknown, most everything is laid bare in the doing. For all of that there’s more for us to explore, and I pray for it to delve even deeper. This one’s for you, my North Star…

Here’s to a happy new year of health and safety, new experiences, and deeper immersion into the lives we were meant to lead…

return to (ab)normal

As of Monday, I have resumed all of my slave duties for Mistress A — the a.m. coffee and p.m. happy-hour rituals of standing and presenting, my weekly chores of laundry and kitchen-floor scrubbing, and the frequent ad-hoc jumping up to fetch and serve things for her majesty’s pleasure. This is actually comforting to me, the status of daily life I belong in.

The only nod to my mono recovery is the afternoon nap, still in my daily schedule for maybe another week.

I’m allowed to be used sexually again as of next Monday, January 3. Mistress A is following the doctor’s recommendation of that date. That’s a guess on his part, a safe outlier date, but she is following his letter of the law for my own welfare and others’.

However, she has warned me that, even then, she’s not necessarily going to reward me sexually, much as I am pent-up and all insatiable. “Why,” I asked, to which she replied, “You’ll have to relearn that you exist for others’ pleasure, not your own.”

Oh, yeah.

The other date of note is January 9th, when I will return to Master McKenna for most of a week. I am beyond excited for this.

Not only is this my return to him after a long absence, it is perhaps my first time with him when I am fully trained in his preferences and somewhat experienced in his uses of me. For me there won’t be so much wondering what’s behind the curtain of his dominance. I mean, there are always surprises, but I know how he wants me. I already know the lay of the land… so to speak.

The last time he had me was early October, so my absence from him will have been almost three months. He has visited me several times during my convalescence, including once I didn’t know about when I was sleeping and never saw him.

His visiting has meant a lot to me, but maybe even more to Mistress Amanda. She has always trusted him with me, else my slavery to him would not have been arranged in the first place. But his visits during this time have underscored his goodness.

I don’t take this in any romantic sense, nor as a father’s compassion. Simply as a dominant man attending to the welfare of his submissive treasure.