introducing myself, again

Every so often I feel I need to re-introduce myself to readers. New followers jump into my blog mid-stream, not knowing the context of who I am and the life I am in.

I hope this helps.


My Nature

My real name is Shae Madigan, and yes, I’m of Irish descent and have the stereotypical red hair and freckles. I’m in my mid-thirties (getting a little hard to admit to that these days). I identify as bisexual and submissive, which requires a lot of unpacking to understand — the submissive part, not the bisexual part.

You see, I believe submissiveness is not a personality trait but a sexual orientation. It is part of my sexuality and compels what and whom I am attracted to.

As a result have chosen a life of Dominant/submissive (D/s) slavery. This is a lifestyle in which people agree to be in an alternative relationship with each other, in which one controls completely and the other submits completely, often to extremes.

I have lived in full-time D/s slavery for more than six years.

Currently I am owned by a woman, Amanda, whom I live with and serve 24/7. I’ve been her slave for three years now.


My Blog

I am a writer by training, education, and vocation. A college grad, I have a degree in literature, which doesn’t mean much, and a focus in creative writing, which means little more.

I document my slave life in this blog. I started this blog some four years ago (two years into my first slavery) and have posted nearly a thousand entries. (Navigating to many of those early posts is a challenge — so sorry, and I’m working on that…)

I like to think that I somewhat effectively communicate not just what is done to me as a slave, but the experience of it, and the psychological and emotional journey of living the slave life.

I should mention that some of my entries are quite explicit. Be duly warned: I write frankly about my sexual life and sexual themes.


My Journey

It took me most of my twenties to discover my submissiveness and the degree of my submissive need. I had grown up in a conservative religious home and church, which repressed me in various ways from knowing and accepting myself. That’s a frequent theme of this blog.

Before giving myself to the slave life, in my twenties I worked in real estate. It was an ill fit for me, but I managed to start my own agency and got a taste of the business world. (As it’s happened, many of the dominant people in my life are executives in business.)

Through my real estate work, I met a man named Michael who became (well, two years later) the first man to own me. I don’t mean “own” in the romantic sense, but literally, as his submissive and slave.

After my years serving him, I became the property of Mistress Amanda and her (then) partner Kevin.

Later, Amanda and Kevin split and Mistress and I moved to the Denver area, where we live now.

Mistress Amanda now shares me with another dominant man, Master McKenna.

This has been the sequence of my slave life for the past six years.


My Sex

There are different kinds of D/s slaves — service slaves, kitchen slaves, professional slaves, display slaves, sex slaves, and many others. In most D/s slavery a submissive serves in an assortment of all of the above. Some D/s slaveries are not sexual at all. Some specialize in one or another “slave type.”

In my case, I have been designated and made into a sex slave. Which doesn’t mean I’m so good at it, just that I am used that way.

Being a sex slave is a life of sexual objectification. In this life, that reality isn’t offensive, just the common way of being seen and talked about in the lifestyle. I live in it and accept it.


My Body

Not that it matters: I am five-seven, 135 pounds. Pale skin, freckles, as I’ve said, with long, over-my-shoulders red hair. I have by some accounts “really good breasts” (sizable, natural, and roundish), too-narrow hips, and a slightly flattish rear end. I am shaved just about everywhere that hurts, and I have been given pierced nipples but no tattoos.

So now you know what gets objectified.


My Personality

As a writer, I love words. I like playing with words. I enjoy being clever and humorous with words.

My dominant owners generally enjoy my humorous word-play, but sometimes it leads me to slips of sarcasm and servings of Irish sass. My mouth gets me in trouble (oh, in so many ways!).

I am curious about people and the world, enjoy the arts, and am interested in a lot of subjects. (I know that sounds like a yearbook entry.)

I generally have an upbeat, positive demeanor — although recently have dealt with some depression (see below). I am usually a happy girl in my life of slavery, although the life is often difficult (again, see below).

I also have moments of smoldering temper, not attractive in a woman who’s supposed to be submissive. However, it does give my owners opportunity to discipline me. Also, I have an inquisitive mind, ideas, opinions, and am prone to express them, sometimes brashly. My dominants usually allow me room for that, often giving me just enough leash to hang myself.


My Family

My father died when he was too young and I was just twenty-two. His death devastated me. But it also released me, in a way, to find myself.

Over the past year, my mother has had some health issues affecting her mental capacity. I have spent quite a bit of time with her in Pennsylvania. My mistress, Amanda, continues our lifestyle long-distance, and has visited PA frequently over the past months. Likewise, I have returned to Colorado at times.

This is my current situation, and it has been difficult. I have struggled with depression.

But there is some hope — an arrangement for my mother’s care. This possibility is playing out as I write this.


My Reality

The slave life is difficult. Many sensibly wonder why a woman like me would choose this.

I know what I am deep down — submissive and needing dominance. Being in the life is deeply satisfying at that primal level, yet deeply hard. Mostly because I know very few people understand it.

This blog is my attempt to be understood.

swimming through the muck

My therapist Jillian says I’m in a mild depression. She’s been on Zoom with me twice a week, talking me through this. I’m OK, and there’s some hope at the end of the tunnel, but it’s continued to be a down time. I talk with Amanda every night. I’m really doing OK, but it’s like swimming through something thick and cloudy.

I won’t belabor the details, for I don’t think my state of mind is of that much interest. I’ll just say that it’s curious my current ennui has happened not inside my life of humiliation and abasement but outside of that in the vanilla world. Apparently I was meant to live in subjection and submission. That I can handle emotionally. Go figure.

No, I haven’t posted much this week, but I have been writing. I’m specifically working on the much-belated Q and A post that I promised some many moons ago. So sorry I never got to that. But I captured from you all so many great questions. Coming back to them now. Responding to them in blog words is actually helpful to my heart. I’ll post something soon, likely in several parts… BTW, I still welcome questions you’d like me to speak on: shaemadigan@comcast.net

The good news hope is some further movement on the agreement with Lucille. To be clear, the delay has had nothing to do with her. She is eager and exited to do this. It’s a win-win for her and us. The process just takes a long while, having to be vetted by various authorities, financial and legal, and papers wind up sitting on desks for days before getting attended to. But now, we may be within a two weeks of something final.

More on that to come, but from me now a cautious “Yay!”

poly and sharing

Our list conversations took place here in Pennsylvania between Christmas and New Year’s, mostly in the living room of my mother’s house. We tried to replicate our common positions in Amanda’s house — each of us sitting on either end of a large couch, our backs against each side rest, facing each other, toes almost touching. However, mother’s couch is from another era before comfort was invented, so we moved around the room into other seatings at different times. On occasion, our discussion extended into trips to the grocery store or drugstore. Most of the time, a mug or thermos of coffee was in hand.

One of my list items — “becoming more poly-oriented” — seemed to align with one of Amanda’s — “the sharing of Shae” — so we talked about them together.


I admitted to Amanda I really didn’t know what I meant about wanting to be more poly-oriented. It is an aspiration toward something nebulous.

Let me come at this in a roundabout way: bear with me…

At a certain point in life, you are what you are, and it really doesn’t matter how or why. For an obvious example, I am submissive, profoundly so. It used to be I wrote passionately how I was made this way, born into this “condition,” and that it wasn’t a result of or reaction against how I was raised as a girl. I still maintain my submissiveness is nature not nurture, but the argument now is not so important to me. I am what I am, and how I got here doesn’t so much matter.

This applies to me in another way. Whether by nature or nurture, I am still “morally oriented” toward the idea of monogamy.

I know, this seems ridiculous, considering my submissive lifestyle and how I am used. But that’s sort of the point: as a slave, I do what I am commanded to do, even unto multiple sexual relationships. I obey orders to be joined to multiple others in sexual ways.

But in all that, I still feel the moral conditioning deep down to need to justify what I do. I write often about this, how I feel promiscuous and shamed because of my slave life, yet I crave doing it. Maybe to justify my moral shame, I strive for meaning in the relationships that people have with me — even when they use me in non-relational ways. I “attach” to people who dominate me, perhaps thinking by doing so I legitimize the “unholy” relationship. I seek to make my services to another, even a random person, to be the best I can provide, possibly convincing myself that quality is somehow a virtue in a life that is not virtuous. And most of all, I find myself coming to love the dominants who debase me — my loving of them in their act of doing me maybe again a moral justification for what I do.

I know that some people — dominants, followers — try to argue me away from such a moral conditioning. (This is even as they find my wrestling with my shame to be especially compelling for them to watch.) But my response here is like the other: this is how I am. My moral compunctions are not my beliefs any more, not my rational thinking. They are not a philosophy I need to be talked out of. They are just somehow imprinted in me, whether by nature or nurture, and I cannot do or be anything other. I have become resigned that this is something I will always wrestle with.

Again, in this way too, I am what I am, and how I got here doesn’t so much matter.


It was about two years ago that I began to learn about polyamory. This changed my moral landscape somewhat. I found a kind of noble sensibility in the idea that we are capable of loving far more than monogamy allows.

I realize that my life of D/s slavery is not a prototypical example of polyamory. My multiple dominants and sharings are not true examples of poly-groups or polycules. My slave life is not actual polyamory, and I’m not publicly justifying what I do by claiming that.

But for me internally, if I think of myself as woman capable of “being love” to multiple people, I find something of my purpose. I don’t deny that I am wanton at heart, a trait which is released and given permission by my slave life. But I still have a desire to make, say, my depravity meaningful, to bring my loving, even so one-sided and unrequited, into the lives of people who use and consume me.

Well, it’s something like that. And something of what I’m getting at in my list item: “Become more “poly-oriented.” As I am used promiscuously, it helps me to think in terms of my being polyamorous — having a greater capacity to love.

This was some of the discussion with Amanda.


Her list item, “the sharing of Shae,” sort of connects to my “poly thinking.” And both of our list items had the neighborhood in mind.

This has been tricky for me to write about, as many of our neighbors now read this blog. But during my Pennsylvania absence, Amanda has been in discussion with everyone around the block about certain things when/if I get back. So, conversations have been had, and Amanda’s woo has been in high and effective use. I’ll get into that at some point in a future post. But the point here is that Amanda has created a potential playground within the neighborhood in which I might be shared in various ways.

From the first moment Amanda acquired me years ago she has talked about sharing me, and I have written many times about her intentions. Her item “the sharing of Shae” has been on her list for years, but always thwarted by circumstance (our move, her work, COVID, Pennsylvania). The difference now is that she might actually be able to make it possible this year.

The sharing of me is Amanda’s highest pleasure. And that in itself is an added motivator for me to give myself to it even beyond my submissive need. By being gifted by Amanda to others, I am gifting her.

But in all this from time to time, my original “moral orientation” kicks in. In traditional, monogamous terms, this seems so, well, patently wrong. Becoming the neighborhood slut is a scarlet-letter social shame — or that’s how I have internalized it. I have lived my slave life in conflicted sensibility — feeling guilty for being so broadly sexual yet justified in that I am dominantly made to be promiscuous.

Now, however, this new “poly thinking” seems to provide me another way of understanding myself. I have a capacity for being love to multiple people, and isn’t that a good thing? It doesn’t seem so wrong, then, to become pleasure to multiple others.

Or so I am telling myself…


So, “thinking poly” sort of helps lead me into a readiness for being shared. I say that, although I don’t quite know how one gets ready for something like this. And of course, I am still in PA, and my path back to Colorado is unclear.

But this was the gist of one of our list conversations.

about those lists

As usual, I’ve started something I’m having trouble completing.

Writing about our year-end lists is harder for me to do than I imagined. Mostly this has to do with the simple fact that most of the items on the lists depend on my being there, in Colorado, for extended periods of time — all dependent upon my mother’s situation and this possible pending arrangement for her care.

I just don’t know about that yet, if it will work out or what it will look like, and in the meantime, I have trouble writing about things that might not ever happen.

Admittedly, in the moment I’m in a deep funk. But I’m deciding not to write about the lists as I had promised. I just can’t do it right now.

Though I reserve the right to change my mind.

the lists

Usually at the turn of a year, Amanda and I exchange lists of our personal intentions for the future. These aren’t intended to be the usual New Year’s resolutions (dieting, working out more), though some have an aspect of self-improvement. They also aren’t bucket list items — things we want to do before we die.

These are our personal intentions reflecting our desires for “being and doing” over the next twelve months. Amanda and I prepare our lists separately, then talk through them together. Ultimately, what matters is not so much the lists themselves but the deeper conversations that emerge from them.

Shae’s List

  1. Work out a good arrangement for Mother’s care.
  2. Execute Master McKenna’s plans for retreat and school.
  3. Renew something with Kevin.
  4. Counsel/tutor Maria, however she wishes to go.
  5. Become more “poly-oriented” (re neighbors).
  6. Find my inner “copacetic” in regard to Blake.
  7. Pursue a regular outside interest/hobby, apart from D/s.

In fact, I had several more items that had to do with my mother, but in the final version have collected them all into number one. Amanda and I started our discussions with the mutual understanding that much will depend on such an arrangement with Lucille — if not, much of my time will still be here in PA, and all bets are off.

Amanda’s List

  1. New startup company.
  2. Pennsylvania office.
  3. The sharing of Shae.
  4. Someone to bring into our couple.
  5. Gazebo.

Over the next two or three posts, I’ll try to share the frank conversations and intimate thoughts Amanda and I discussed on each of our list items.

we went shopping

There is a limit to how much “Christmas niceness” Amanda can bear, it seems. To be fair, she genuinely enjoys my mom and is happy being with us during the season of good cheer. She is less taken with the religious aspects of Christmas that I still hold on to, but she appreciates they are important to mom and me and respects them as family traditions. But at the end of several days of joy to the world, it seems Amanda needs to push it all away as if it were too many Christmas cookies.

Today Amanda announced she and I were going shopping for the day. She dressed me in nothing but my winter wool coat and high heels. And a collar, of course. I spent the day in public places while naked underneath.

It’s been a while since she’s done this to/with me. As you may recall, she used to take me hiking in the Colorado mountains, rendering me in various degrees of undress. She has conducted public park adventures with me topless, and had me work in her downtown office (when she had one) for an afternoon as I was perkily bare-breasted. But COVID hit and somehow limited her options for public display of me. (I never understood that — it seems during COVID when no one was walking the parks would be the perfect time to walk me half-nude on a leash.) And then my Pennsylvania events took me away from her for a time.

In any case, she is here now and felt she needed to undermine my peaceful holiday with a day of ever-possible sexual embarrassment.


The coat I wear is of a soft wool that doesn’t unduly scratch my bare skin underneath. It’s in cream white, short in length, coming down to a couple inches above my knees. This would be stylish atop a pair of tight jeans or even dressy with a skirt hem peeking out from below, but without either I look like a big snowball with legs.

It’s a wrap coat, and though it has buttons, Amanda doesn’t use them, instead cinching the coat tight around my waist with the tie. It has a deep V front that makes me self-conscious. I tend to try to tug the lapels closed, and Amanda says “Stop doing that.” I obey and say nothing — it’s an old dialogue, well-worn: “People will see my boobs”; “That’s the point”; “There are children”; “They’re used to them”; “There are men”; “Yes.” We don’t have to repeat my litany of self-consciousness — we well remember how this conversation goes.

Actually, the people group whose judgments I am most sensitive to I never mention: other women who wonder why a whore in white is shopping in the mall on a Tuesday morning.


This is one of those days when “nothing happened” but anything could have, which is the real story.

One of her long-considered plans for me has been to have me approach a strange man in a mall and offer him a blow job. In fact, Amanda has had me prepare “practice scenarios” for this, mostly introductions and dialogues that convince a stranger I am an ordinary woman out shopping who wants this sort of adventure. The trick, I find, is in the segue from talking about the weather to proposing a brazen sexual act. If it weren’t so serious a possibility, it would be the fount of much humor: “Speaking of sunny skies, I could brighten your day considerably…”

I have never practiced these on a human of the male persuasion, although Amanda has had her fun hearing them. She likes arguing with me the hypothetical of whether I am more of a slut if I give a man a blowjob for free or if I ask for money.

All of this is brain-play, her mental dominance of me, erotically playful but short of a more intense mind-fuck. Still, all this goes through my mind as I walk the mall in my wool coat. I see men alone, think about their lives and wives, and wonder if Amanda’s greatest rush here would be in using me or in allowing them to use me.

The mall is packed, filled with families, and I look like a walking snow globe — all reasons this will not happen today.

Even so, I know Amanda loves being here with me in the possibility of such a scene, knowing I am thinking about it and imagining ways in which it might go down.

So to speak.


Early in the shopping day, Amanda finds a corner off a service hallway, and pushes me against the wall. She opens my coat and palms my breasts. I worry that a mall worker will walk by, but I stand docile and receptive. Amanda reaches into her handbag and pulls out a Ziploc containing something. Inside are two weights on chains. She hooks each one onto each of my nipple rings. They don’t hurt, but I feel their weight, and they make my nipples extend and droop. She closes my coat, and we continue shopping.

Later, Amanda has me try on dresses in Macy’s, not to buy me one but to get me out of my coat in the dressing room. There’s a moment when she knocks on the door of the cubicle, and I open it, thinking she’s the only one in the entryway. But there’s a woman standing behind her, likewise waiting on a friend or sister in another cubicle. It’s, of course, a place for women in underwear, but I am not wearing any, and this woman gets in a full stare, slightly surprised by my flesh and, no doubt, the weights dangling from my nipples.

Early afternoon, Amanda steers me to the rest room, the one in Macy’s which is less popular, it seems. There, she takes my coat and I walk into the stall naked. It is then I realize that Amanda could walk out of the rest room, my coat in hand — indeed walk out of the mall entirely. She doesn’t, but later admits she thought about it.

We do some real shopping as well, shoes for Amanda and a sweater for me, residual Christmas gifts from each of us to each of us. We have coffee at a Starbucks and a soft pretzel at Auntie Anne’s. We sit at the fountain in the center of the mall and talk about what life might be like this next year. It’s all rather normal and fun and lovely.


In the car about to go home, Amanda opens my coat and arranges it to show my flesh and mounds and weighted nipples. She drives home via the Interstate, looking for a driver of a big rig she can pull up alongside, showing me off. She finds not one but two, the second tooting his foghorn to my utter embarrassment. I look away but do not turn away, allowing them their looks.

Amanda is the yin-yang of naughty and nice, and in the surfeit of Christmas sweetness, she finds her balance by offering me to the wolves.


But by the end of things, nothing actually happened. All day, she kept me in her control, in sexual tension in public, which is her deep pleasure. But there were no events and nothing actually happened.

At night, before sleep, I write in my journal: “We went shopping.”

a mother-child Christmas musing

I trust others had a good Christmas with family and friends. Amanda and I had a quiet day with Mother; Lucille stopped by later for a second round of gifting, and we all had tea and scones. It was laid back and quite lovely.

This house is filled with childhood memories. My earliest years were in a different house — we moved here in my pre-teen years — but our move was just across town and the Christmases from both houses blend together in memory. They offer opportunities to prompt Mom: “Do you recall when…?” She does pretty well retrieving older times; remembering yesterday is the bigger challenge.

I’ve written before about how my relationship with my mother has flipped “roles” in this current season of our lives. These days, I am no longer her child, but am parent to her child. But if there were ever a time when I might slip back into my childhood for a spell, it would be Christmas morning.


Aspects of D/s might naturally incline one to slip into a child persona: dominants are often older than submissives; a dom assumes a kind of parental authority over his sub; slave training can be about conditioning certain behaviors, like rearing a child; discipline can be in the form of physical punishment, even spanking. One can easily imagine the words being issued: “We’ll have no more of that, young lady.”

But in my D/s experiences, this hasn’t happened. It is true that my dominants have been a half-generation older than me and that their authority over me has been full and extensive, if not absolute. Yet they have not “parented” me. And I do not slip into my inner child as a response to those who rule me. (Now, in D/s I sometimes feel things that recall my girlhood experiences, and I might write such things to express my fullest and deepest experience, but I generally don’t respond to my dominants in a childlike demeanor.)

That I am in my thirties is perhaps part of it. If I had started in D/s earlier in my twenties, perhaps I would be seen and experienced differently. I can imagine myself at the age of eighteen with a dominant who is fifty or so, who might naturally drift into more of the parent-child dynamic. It’s been said I have a “girlish face,” perhaps the result of my freckles, and accentuated when I pull my red hair into a ponytail — and sometimes my owners like that “Irish lass look.” But as Amanda has said, “Shae, you don’t have the body of a teenager, and you’re certainly not a virgin.” (Thank you, Mistress, for making such a point of that last part.) Her point being that I have a developed figure, as they used to say, and it would be hard for me to assume the teen-girl persona convincingly even if someone wanted me to.

Master McKenna once said to me that he prefers “adult women who know what the cost [of submission] is.” And I think that’s the common understanding behind true lifestyle D/s. It can be playful at times, but it’s not about a parent playing with his child. Rather, the pleasure comes from a dom owning a woman and the submissive desiring to be owned and kept as a adult.

I think another point is that all of my D/s relationships have shunned the idea of role-playing. We don’t play the part of dom and sub — that is what we are, full-time. I don’t play the role of “child” to my dom’s “parent.” It’s just not true or real to who we are. (I realize that “child play” is part of some D/s and BDSM, but that’s just not our thing.)

I have no particular conclusion to this. These are just my musings.


On Christmas morning, I sat on the living room floor opening presents, much as I did when I was a young girl in the same house, daughter to the woman who raised me, the one who sits on a chair across from me.

But I am, by a set of circumstances and aging, now also a mother to my mother.

I’m also aware that, just weeks before, I was with a young man in his twenties named Blake who likely sees me as a particular mother “type” to him — in fact, a MILF, as he might likely identify me.

And on this Christmas morn I sit at the feet of Amanda, who is much like an older sister I never had.

I am at the same time owned by Amanda and another, Master McKenna, who see me as an adult submissive woman who chooses to sacrifice herself — her autonomy and dignity — unto their dominance.

I suppose this is the point — that we are all of the above — girl, lass, daughter, sister, mother — all wrapped into the Women we are.

Amanda and me, in PA

It is different here, with her, our D/s having to be imagined between us, under-spoken and quietly carried out in hushed will and worship.

We return from a day of shopping, fun for us together yet tiring, our legs and feet aching from tight boots and a day-long trek across mall tile. Lucille is at home and watches as we pile shopping bags and boxes on the dining table.

Amanda plops down into the occasional chair, the one with the nested footstool underneath. Lucille observes as I kneel by Amanda, pull out the foot rest, slide her boots off, and begin to massage her feet. It must be obvious my legs and feet ache just as much, especially since my boots have a short spike heel, yet I am at Amanda’s feet, attending to her ache and not mine.

This is not prompted by a command, some spoken flourish of Amanda’s dominant desire nor is it even a gesture, some silent signal she secrets off to her submissive. Nor is not some altruistic expression of my love for her, no, not really. It is what what I instinctively do, what I submissively do.

Enduring my ache as I assuage hers is my purpose.

Lucille observes this and finds it notable, which I know because she brings it up later, inquiring.

She knows about our D/s together, as I came out to her some time ago. Lucille doesn’t judge us, and we could be more overt, but we choose not to, that choice itself never spoken just known between us as what’s best. This internal knowing of ourselves and what we are to each other is a deprivation of sorts, but also more intimate and meaningful in a way out here. I am not, as I am in Colorado, all flesh and sex, carnal dripping and desire, my submissive need bare as breasts. And here, Amanda is not directing me into her diabolical humiliations, enjoying my submissive sex shared.

Here it is simply a foot massage.

Lucille comments on it, curious. Is it a submissive ritual? I say no, just something I “had” to do. Is it something Amanda signals to you somehow? No, she didn’t. I just knew it was what I should do. Would Amanda discipline you if you hadn’t done it? Again, no, she never expected it from me.

“You must love her very much,” Lucille says.

It is something that my mother used to do with me all the time — assume and resolve my emotions for me, finishing my relationships like paragraphs — and I resent it, even though Lucille intends it sweetly. “I do,” I simply say, conceding with a shrug.

But “love” is not the depth of the meaning. I could have said to Lucille that real love is Amanda flying out to PA all these times to share this mother-season with me, and a simple foot massage is the least I can do. I could say all that, all true, and yet that makes love a transaction. Which it is, I know that, love being a back-and-forth, give-and-take. Sure. There’s all that.

Yet, “love” is a forced and false resolution to the paragraph that is Amanda and me. I am submissive, she is dominant, each of us extremely and desperately so. We find in each other a fulfillment of our desperation.

When I sit beside her and massage her feet, I am massaging my own submissive need. And Amanda knows this. This is the deeper meaning, unsaid.

So, yes, it is different out here with her, a story unwritten and not much told aloud, our D/s having to be imagined between us, under-spoken and quietly carried out in hushed will and worship.

PA again

Amanda and I have flown back to Pennsylvania, and we will spend Christmas here with my mother.

My time in Colorado was submissively satisfying, deeply so, and my only complaint is that I didn’t have more of it, more time living in the daily constancy of the slave life. As I’ve written before, waking up each morning as a sex slave to others is a unique and extraordinary thing.

Mother weathered my absence rather well once again, and there is now discussion about shifting things so that Colorado is my primary residence, with trips back to Pennsylvania being the occasional exception. This sort of reverses the current arrangement. Mother is not getting better, of course, but her condition has stabilized somewhat. Lucille has reason and interest to move in here, and there may be stars aligning to make this possible.

Yet much to consider and determine. We’ll be discussing options over the holidays.


Some have observed that during my time in Colorado it didn’t seem I had — or was used for — very much sex. This hasn’t been intended negatively but has just been people’s simple curiosity: am I actually being used as a sex slave and, if not, is there a shift in my status?

Responding to this puts me into the rather funny position of having to assert that I was, by golly, well-used sexually, rather often and sometimes randomly. For a woman who has confessed to being a slut yet resists being known as such publicly, this is a conflicting space to be in. 😉

So, yes, there was more sex in my Colorado days and nights than I reported on. I can report that Master McKenna had me at least once every day, and that I had a “date,” so to speak, with Blake not once but twice. Not that any of this is a point of pride and distinction, but rather a confession of the woman I am to others.

And there was more. I don’t report everything. I sometimes wish in my blog writing to make the point that the submissive life is a state of being, a way of living, not an endless series of sexual fireworks. Even a sex slave like me doesn’t do this for the sex.The condition of being submissive requires more than that — a daily, constant experience of being dominated by others. So, perhaps I sometimes understate the “sex show” aspect to make the point about slavery in the ordinary.

Also, sometimes there is a sexual encounter/occasion that, for reasons of someone else’s privacy, I am restrained from writing about. I can confess to you some of this has been happening in the background, but is not yet anything I can make public. Don’t mean to be unduly cryptic about that, but it’s what it is.

And then it’s true I don’t write much about my sexual relationship with Amanda. This is not because she has forbidden me to, but because it is something I consider more sacred in some way. I promise to share more of her and me together (she would like that too). I can say we have different modes of being together sexually, and more often than not it is as Mistress and slave. But sometimes it’s mutual in status and a different lovemaking. So it’s just that when I do write this, I wish to make it as remarkable as I experience it.

All of this is to say Colorado was a significantly sexual time for me. Whether it was more or less than what a sex slave should be used for, I’ll let others figure out.

If anyone was worried, I assure you I was more than adequately enjoyed.

McKenna 2

It has been a mix of familiar and new.

He gave me most of the first day for me to acclimate, but I hardly needed it. I slipped easily into his thrumming schedule and personal rhythm, despite the months I’ve been away from him.

He has not changed his normal work routines for my time here. He continues to run his businesses as always, not taking “vacation time” to attend to me. I am in the background, which feels right to me, a proper measure of my unimportance.

Yet, I am a kind of personal assistant, always tethered to him, as if by an invisible chain.


And that’s the new thing — chains. Not invisible, but real steel.

As I reported in my last post, he has dressed me in heavy chains wrapped around my ankles and wrists. With me in a properly professional skirt and blazer, these chains could be a kind of socially aware fashion statement, about a career girl Friday being overworked and undervalued in the corporate office. But, of course, everyone here knows otherwise — that I wear these chains because I am what I am, with observers filling in their idea of the “I am” part.

Six hours into my stay here, Master had me remove my blouse and re-don my blazer, allowing my breasts to wobble to and fro as I work. Subsequently, he had me wrap around my neck a length of heavy chain link — literally tow chain — like a necklace, with a “pendant,” a giant Yale lock, dangling between my breasts. (I was told that Master had Jeffers procure these chains and cut them to specified lengths.)

It has made me wonder if in my absence Master spends time thinking up these things. It’s hubris of me to imagine he thinks of me that much, but I still wonder how much creative thinking he puts into it, where these ideas come from. I would ask, but there’s something better about things just being assumed and, in this case, worn, without question. I know he likes that I just submit to the chains as if this is how a woman like me should be.

Amanda was here the first evening and commented on my chains. “I had nothing to do with this,” she claimed, sporting a too-pleased grin.


I have worn them pretty much from the moment I arrived. He has me in them around the clock, and I am allowed to take them off only when I shower. I wonder if his intention is to inure me to them so that I ultimately assume them to be part of my body. Maybe like piercings or tattoos.

Maria asked me how they feel.

“Heavy,” I said. “After a few hours, I’m aware of their weight.”

I discovered they do have a somewhat pragmatic purpose. Apparently they are handy for attaching my arms and legs to bedposts.