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.

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.

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.

Jeremy 4: submissive and the world (b)

This is a continuation of my diner-time with Jeremy Thursday. What I’ve reassembled here, I admit, is a bit of a jumble. Some things are out of order, but I can’t seem to fix it. My sorries. It is what it is…


After a while, we order pie. The diner has a carousel display of fresh-baked pies at the front, and it’s been our custom to order a wedge after a couple hours of chatting. I don’t eat desserts as a rule, and I haven’t been around Amanda of late, who adores chocolate, so I feel in general I’m on the calorie-deficit side of things, enough to “keep my figure,” as they used to say. (I sound like a sixties housewife. These days, I kind of am.) In any case, this is the train of rationalization that justifies in my mind this gorgeous piece of key-lime pie.

Again, Jeremy and I have other conversation, on other topics. These posts are not as linear as I report them to be. We circle and twist around the orbits of a number of subjects. In this case, it swings back to a question about social benefit and value.

“It seems you and I both agree,” Jeremy says, “as to the value of sex work in a society. I wonder if you feel the same way about your lifestyle submission and slavery.”

“Yes, I do, but of course a lot of D/s is still private, between dom and sub couples, and that’s fine, but it means it’s simply not really public or social. Most doms and subs probably don’t think much about that. When you’re chained to a wet bar, you don’t necessarily have a vision of social betterment.”

Jeremy laughs. “Probably not… but it seems your Amanda thinks that way. That there’s an ultimate purpose in the world for your lifestyle.”

“She does. She wants it all to be public. Keeping a slave as a kind of marital status.”

“Wet bar situations aside, do you see a benefit — that you provide a benefit to others you are, ah… with?”

I nod. He continues to have an impression I am generally shared with multiple people, and there needs to be some parsing of that. I am shared visually with multiple people, yes, but I am not yet given to strangers for sex. But I decide now to let that go and just roll with his questions.

“I think so, yes,” I say. “Although that may be just more about my own need for purpose. I like to think I am improving another person’s life in a submissive way. Though I sometimes feel I justify my scandal by presuming that I am a benefit to others.”

“I think,” Jeremy replies, “the others who have you don’t have any question about your benefits.”


I get a phone call. It’s Lucille, asking about a medication for mother. I leave our booth, taking the call into the diner’s entryway, but as soon as I get there, I’ve settled it with Lucille and head back.

“I’ve been fascinated,” Jeremy is saying, “by your interest in the roles of the courtesan in history.”

I’m pleased he remembers that from my blog. I talk a bit about that with him, but won’t belabor it in this post — I’ve covered that ground before.

But I tell him I believe that courtesans were used for daily remedies of social needs. They were used in a variety of roles that helped people get through the challenges of life each day. Likewise, today people in life have tensions, frustrations, needs — of all kinds, but including sexual — that often are pent up until they burst out in unhealthy, even violent ways. “These days, I think it’s all the more needed — a condition of modern and technological life,” I say. “I believe sex workers and social submissives like me provide in various ways a relief, release, of those knots in people’s lives.”

“Sexually, you mean.”

“Well, I think we tend to boil it down to sex, but it involves more than that — conversation, companionship, counseling, even massage, and then sometimes simply a playground for someone to play in for a few hours. I think this is what this could be. Should be.”


We went on a short tangent about the role of “relationship” in all this. This is something that fascinates him in his sex-worker interviews.

“Both sex worker and client seem to tacitly agree that as they have sex together, it doesn’t quote-unquote ‘mean anything.’ This, of course, provides the client a bit of cover for the other relationships he’s in — marriage, girlfriend, whatever. And the sex worker is distanced from any real attachment to the client. The sex is reduced to a function.”

Jeremy pauses there, and I wonder if he has a question in it for me. “Just how you think about that… and if you and Amanda deal with any of that in your lifestyle.”

“A lot to unpack,” I say.

“Well, I don’t need an answer. It’s just something I’m thinking about.”

I offer this: “I can’t help but think that we lose a piece of ourselves if we live life as if it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well said.”

“Well, I understand that sex work is a business, and a working girl has to protect her heart. So, I can’t judge that. But for me, I can’t survive if my encounters aren’t relational. They have to mean something to me.”

“But that goes against the lifestyle you’re in. Being used functionally, being objectified. Potentially being shared with strangers.”

“Yeah, I know it sounds like a contradiction. And I don’t know how to answer you regarding strangers… But I guess I’m saying that even in being objectified, I have to allow myself to feel. If I tell myself this ‘doesn’t mean anything,’ I’m hardening myself to myself.”

“And it seems to me,” Jeremy adds, “that others watching you, your doms or neighbors, want to see you feeling it.”

“Yes. In all those experiences, for me there’s a relationship. In my being used, in my humiliations, there is an exchange between me and another, there is something between us. It may be just a shard of relationship, but it is something exchanged.”

“Is that still true when you are used for submissive sex?” he asks.

“Well, yes. But let me back up first. This has been a big shift for me, Jeremy, from my religious upbringing. I’ve come to believe that sex is not the most important thing, not the definition of ultimate relationship. Relationships can be sexual or not, and sex can be with multiple people not just one. Sex is not the most important thing — but neither is it nothing. Sex is never meaningless, it’s always significant and personal. Just not necessarily the ultimate measure of relationship.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Jeremy admits, but let me rephase it this way: when you’re used for submissive sex, you don’t consider it the most ultimate or, say, exclusive commitment between two people, but you still feel it deeply. It’s meaningful to you somehow.”

“Yes,” I say. “There’s always, for me, emotional connection.” I look across at Jeremy deciding whether to say what’s in my thoughts. I go with it: “When someone is inside me, they’re inside me.”


There is another, lighter moment at some point that afternoon. I ask Jeremy about his sex-worker interviews. “Just curious, do you pay them for the time, then simply interview them? Or,” I say with a sly grin, “is there more going on?”

Jeremy feigns offense, with a smile: “I think that’s pretty personal, Shae.”

“Right. You’re asking me all these questions about my sex life, but when it gets turned on you, it suddenly gets too personal!”

He laughs. “Actually, in perfect honesty, I really am professional in the interviews. It’s always purely interview talk.”

“How do they react when you say you just want to talk — no sex?”

“Some are surprised. Others, well, I think they get that sometimes — clients who need to talk.”

“I wonder if some are disappointed. You’re a cute guy.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” he says, and now he is the one blushing.


Jeremy circles back to a previous thread. He always circles back. He refers to when I said that sex workers and social submissives provide a service of relieving the knots in people’s lives. He asks, “Was that your original vision for yourself in slavery?”

“No, not at first. You get into this, the lifestyle, and in the beginning it’s very personal, private. I think for many female submissives lucky enough to find a responsible male dom, it’s a Christian Gray moment, and it was for me with Michael. Romantic, sort of, and that’s a long, kind of painful story, but for me intensely personal in its kink. I didn’t yet have a vision for the lifestyle, and certainly didn’t see it as a social, public thing.”

I pause for a bite of my key-lime pie. Don’t know why key-lime has become a new thing for me. It’s so good here… I continue: “But it’s been Amanda’s vision all along to make me a social submissive, which I think is similar to that of courtesan, and I have come along to adopt her same vision.”

“So you see yourself now as something of a social service.”

I blink at that, as it sounds oddly objectifying coming from Jeremy. Not that I am offended. I smile. “I think of several people who might see me that way.”

“But do you see yourself that way?”

“Yes. Not solely that, but yes, in some measure. I think social submissives, sex workers too, can be kind of the oil, so to speak, that greases the troubles of life for others. And I am used that way.”

“You mean sexually.”

“Yes, but it’s not that only. You always seem to reduce it to that!”

Jeremy shrugs. “I’m a guy.”

I smile, shake my head. “Anyway… what I provide, I think, the social service, as you put it, is an experience of a lot of things — control of someone, ease of life, erotic moments, and sometimes sex too. I don’t think of it as just about sex. I think all of it as pleasure. It’s all a facilitation of pleasure.”

“That’s your social service.”

“Well, it’s a certain kind of pleasure, for sure, not for everyone. But for dominants, people who want to control, yes.”

“And for people who want to watch you being controlled.”

“Yes. All who can get into that, the kink of it, or maybe just the novel entertainment of what I am to them… But I think I am of value to some of those people, doms for sure, because I don’t expect anything in return, there are no strings, and I am not a problem or complication. I am simply—”

“Lubrication,” Jeremy says with a grin.

I shake my head in exasperation. “If I had a pillow, I’d throw it at you.” I chuckle: “But yes, actually yes, kind of like that.”

Jeremy 3: submissive and the world (a)

At the diner yesterday… another time with Jeremy. This is in two parts.


Jeremy asks things of me from other angles than I’m used to. Perhaps that’s why I indulge his inquisitiveness, his probings. His interest is interesting.

We sit down at the diner, order our usual coffees, and after a few minutes of catching up on the past two weeks, Jeremy launches into a question. It seems to be something he has been pondering since we last met, and it becomes a thread of conversation for this particular Thursday.

“Do you wish the world would accept your lifestyle, like, consider it a normal aspect of life in vanilla society?”

I have to think about that and take my time to answer. “I wouldn’t want it to be normalized,” I finally say. “Not in the sense of people taking it in stride, paying no attention. Living in the public stigma of it is part of the submissive experience.”

“The humiliation aspect. You need to be looked down upon.”

“Kind of like that, yes. I guess I would say that I would wish D/s could be accepted yet not normalized. Accepted simply in the sense that the practice of D/s could be more public and not hidden behind closed doors.”

“Is that what you have at home with Amanda and around the neighborhood?”

Again, I haven’t thought of it that way before. “Sorta, I guess.” I sip my iced latte. It’s bitter, and this distracts me. Diners are not cafes, nor are waitresses baristas. That sounds snooty to say, and I’m no connoisseur anyway. I return to the question, throwing it back to him: “How do you mean?”

“Seems that your neighbors know what you are and accept you. Yet it’s not considered normal to them.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right… they’re all friendly to me. Accepting in that way… I think, frankly, it’s all a little overwhelming to them, Amanda with me on a leash, how to respond to it. So, there’s nothing “normal” in it to them, but they’re open to it.”

“Curious and lusting, no doubt.”

“I suppose.”

“I wonder,” Jeremy presses on, “if you would wish your lifestyle to be viewed more like sex work today. It’s getting somewhat more accepted, though still bears a stigma.”

As I recall, we swirl off onto a tangent. Jeremy has been writing an article on sex workers and has been interviewing people. We talk on that awhile, then he circles back with a little grimace: “I didn’t mean to compare you to a sex worker…”

“Not offended,” I interrupt with a smile. “I have a high view of sex work, actually… and, with Kevin, I’ve been an escort, sort of… No, I accept the comparison, but the two are a little different — D/s is a lifestyle and sex work is a profession. I’m just saying that I wish my lifestyle were more publicly passable.”

“Maybe the comp is more like sexual orientation. Wishing the public would be more accepting of two men or two women walking down the street holding hands. For you it’s being walked on a leash.”


With the mention of Kevin, I opened a door, and now Jeremy walks through it, asking me questions about my being an escort: “How did that feel to you? The role of escort to him.”

I ordered an iced tea, setting aside my iced latte. It’s a powdered mix, not much better, but I sip it anyway. “At first,” I reply, “I was more concerned about not being his slave than with being his escort. I wasn’t sure I knew how to be with him if he wasn’t commanding me, giving me orders. That kind of worked out in short time, but by then, I was already in the escort role with him, and I didn’t think about it too much. Well, that’s a lie– I did worry about it for a while. How to be with him on equal terms but in the escort role. But it sort of developed naturally.”

“I suppose it was different from real escorting in that you already knew Kevin so well.”

“True. Although I understand that some high-end escort have just a few clients who pay them for companionship for weeks on end. They get to know their clients quite well. So maybe it’s not so different.”

“With Kevin, were you actually paid for?”

I sip my tea and peer out over my glass at him, bearing a “do you really want to go here” look. “No and yes. Amanda, in providing me to him that way, wanted to create a semblance of my being bought as an escort, for my own experience of it. So, Kevin left an envelope of payment on the morning of my departure, after each week with him. It was never that much, only a symbol, but it created the illusion, gave me the feeling of it.”

“Of being paid for sex.”

“Yes.”

“How did that feel to you?”

“It’s a thing. Even though it was a token symbol, I was aware I was being paid for sex. I mean it’s not traumatic, but it’s sobering. You always want to be thought of as being valuable for more, that there’s a relationship, but then it comes down to his using your body. You feel diminished.”

Jeremy is nursing a coffee, and though he usually drinks it black, this time he’s added cream. He tells me that about the women he’s interviewing, and how they believe what they do is providing a necessary service and take a kind of pride in what they do. “Being paid for it,” he adds, “is a necessary thing, yet they seem to have an emotional regret in that. Sort of what you’re saying.”

“I agree it’s a necessary service,” I say. “I see it that way too. It should be more on the level of social work or psychological counseling… But, yes, I think, well, for women at least, there’s often a longing for the relationship and the nature of the work, as legitimate as it may be, gets reduced to a payment for sex.”

“Could you ever see yourself doing escort work?”

That’s sort of a non-starter, and I tell him so. “As long as I’m Amanda’s slave-girl, such a thing wouldn’t be possible.”

“Well maybe that’s the better question: If Amanda decided she wanted to hire you out as an escort to various clients, would you do it?”

I sip my powdered iced tea and look across the table at him. “Yes.”

Jeremy 2: my bi

Jeremy and I have now had maybe four? meets at the diner. I continue to share my memories of our conversations, reconstructing them as I can. My memory of the conversations is not linear and swirl around in my head — I am likely to repeat myself, probably have. Our conversations themselves may have covered same ground from other diner times.

Moreover, I forget what I’ve posted before. Or written before — apart from any conversation with Jeremy. Long story short, I fear I am repeating things, so bear with me. I hope it’s still of interest — if only as a real-life example of how I talk about my life and sexuality in the presence of another person, a friend.

BTW, I’m renumbering some of these as just “Jeremy” with an added topic title. Eventually I’ll put all the Jeremy conversation in a separate folder at the top of my blog. (I kind of want to title these “Diner Dishes.”)


We talk about other things too, things not my current life, often reminiscing about our college years. I don’t recount those conversations here, as our references to people and events wouldn’t mean anything to my readers. But it’s a memory lane reverie for us, fun and richly poignant, as we each recall the future we imagined then and the future we’re in now.

Jeremy says, “We eventually become who we really are.”

We agree that in college — in our “arts & lit” cohort — we had visions of a life of the highest level artistic accomplishment — which we have not achieved. We also agree in retrospect, we really didn’t want that. Those aspirations were interests, perhaps, but not who we really are.

He confesses he had aims to become a “man of letters,” so to speak, a writer of the finest literature. But here he is as a stringer for an assortment of periodicals, writing human-interest articles. “But, you know, Shae,” he says, “this is what makes me happy. This is what I was supposed to become.”

I tell him I am blessed to be able to write. I share with him about some of my other writing outside my blog — and vow that I intend to get back to my erotica and mainstream fiction. “I don’t think much about getting published. That may or may not happen. But it is deeply satisfying just to write.”


He is curious as to how much I knew about myself in college in light of my lifestyle now.

I laugh. “Well I certainly didn’t think then that my high purpose in life was to become a sex slave!” I say it a little too loudly. Fortunately, at mid-afternoon the diner is not busy.

“You might,” Jeremy says with a smile, “want to use your inside voice.”

I laugh, blushing.


There’s a snippet of conversation that may have come in here or perhaps was in another diner visit. I share with him how I feel I’m about a “decade behind” in life. “I wish I had known at 19 what I knew of myself at 29.”

“I think most everyone can say that.”

“Yes, but my history is a slow self-reveal of my sexuality. I was delayed because of my upbringing. I wish I had come earlier to understand my bisexuality. And my submissiveness.”


He talks about his girlfriend (whom I will call Phoebe) in glowing terms. It leads him back to his self-confessed “sorry” dating life in college and romantic interests since.

He asks about my dating life back then: “Did you date a lot? I don’t recall.”

I dated some, I tell him, not a lot. I mention one guy I was kind of steady with one year and another I hung out with during a summer semester. “In college, at first, I was still kind of new to the dating scene. I didn’t date much in high school.”

“How much did you know of your bisexuality back in college?”

“I was aware, kinda sorta,” I tell him.

“Was it, I mean, because of your church stuff, was it a problem for you?”

It’s a great question, and while I have sifted through that part of my life before, I pause and take a sip of my coffee before answering. “The church calls it ‘same-sex attraction,’ and they see it as a sin, yes… They respect that some struggle with it, so to speak, and aren’t judgmental if you fight it, but they expect it to be overcome — somehow… Sure, I was aware of being attracted to girls in high school and college, but I never really saw it as a struggle. It wasn’t a fight for me.”

“Then did you see it as a sin inside you?”

I smile at his language. He’s outside the evangelical culture and doesn’t know the lingo. “Church stuff” and “sin inside you” are a little distant and “off.” No matter, I know what he means.

“Well, for me,” I finally say, “it was a background thing. I didn’t really think of myself as being bi in orientation… Also, I think some of this is different for girls than guys.”

“How do you mean?”

“Women have a more natural physical intimacy together. Even straight women commonly touch and hold hands and kiss, just as girlfriends. In college, I considered my attractions sort of in that category. It was more than that for me, but I rationalized it that way.”

“Did you have any girl-girl relationships at school?”

“Sort of. On occasion. Did you know Ashley Smith? Blonde, slender, some said she was bossy. But she was cute.

“She doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She was in other circles than ours. She was an athlete, volleyball and field hockey. I got tossed in with her on a project during some class I was in. I developed a crush on her.”

“Did that become something?”

“No and yes. We hung out together for a while. You know, social things but not as formal dates. She always initiated, asked me if I was going to something. I’d say I was thinking of it, and she say ‘Let’s go together.’ All of it was girlfriend-ish-ness.”

Jeremy laughs at my coined word.

“Well,” I say, “that’s what it is. For women it’s sometimes just a whisper of distance between friendship and intimacy. It’s girlfriend stuff… until it’s more.”

“May I ask if you ever got intimate with Ashley?”

“We did, mildly so. We kissed sometimes. Once we made out in the back seat of a car, but not all they way. We kept our clothes on but there was more intimate touching, yes. But it was nothing more, and nothing further after that one time. She had to leave school because of a family heath issue.”

“Did you later feel guilty about that make-out time with her in the car?”

“No. I never did. I think I liked it too much.”