a neighbor’s comment

When I was in Colorado last time, I remember a question that one of the neighbors asked at the tea. I was in the kitchen assembling the tiered server with mini-scones. (We have taken to these smaller bite-sized pastries over the larger ones. People seem to be hesitant to take the full-sized scones — they are big — not wanting so much, and they feel it inappropriate to break off just a part of one. So, the mini-scones are more popular at the tea, although Amanda and I are sure that folks eat more “scone” in total with the minis.)

One of the neighbors had used the bathroom and upon her return stopped briefly in the kitchen to ask me this question: “Is it hard for you back in Pennsylvania, not being in your place as you are here? I mean, as a sex slave.”

I answered her, saying that yes, out in PA, I miss Amanda, of course, and I feel a little aimless. I spoke of my mother and how that was a lot to deal with yet rewarding — all things I’ve expressed here on the blog — but I added something about feeling in my submissive life in CO that I have purpose, which is missing in PA.

My response was something like that, and it didn’t go any further, as the time was brief and the moment had passed. But since then, I have recalled that conversation, thinking it notable in several ways.

Primarily, I find it interesting that this neighbor had used the term “sex slave” to identify me. This is in fact true of me, of course, and I don’t feel any anguish over her using it of me. Her tone was genuine and friendly. It just made me realize how far this neighbor has come in understanding this lifestyle and what I am. And I have to assume others have evolved to some depth of awareness about me as well.

I also find it notable that she felt comfortable calling me a sex slave in front of me. Not only does she understand (and seemingly accept) that I am a woman living in a submissive life that is quite openly sexual, but that I am myself comfortable being addressed as such. She assumed (correctly) that I wouldn’t be offended by her calling me a sex slave to my face. I think it takes some maturity and comprehension to use the term casually with me as a point of description not disparagement.

It is apparent to me that in my absence for most of eight months, Amanda has maintained and furthered relationships with the neighborhood. She has continued the monthly teas. Social butterfly that she is, she’s socialized with them in their homes, parties and summer BBQs and such. I have to think Amanda has, in her understated way, been creating in them a mind-space of increased acceptance of us, and of me in absentia.

This one neighbor’s comment makes me think that, during my hiatus, they all have had more time to assimilate the oddity that Amanda and I initially represented, to normalize us in their minds, and to accept what I am, a sex slave, as more natural and relational than pornographic.

In my mused remembering of this, I have wondered if any of the men in the neighborhood would have likewise called me a sex slave. I don’t know. I welcome readers’ thoughts on this.

My sense of it in general is that men are eager to imagine me as a sex slave, but may be less likely to call me that to my face. Dominant men, yes, they call me what they will, but the average guy in our neighborhood group is a corporate professional likely schooled in some workplace sensitivities. So, maybe they think of me in disparaging words but are more civil to me in my presence.

Many women are also corporate professionals, but I have to think that sometimes they are threatened by me as a sex slave around their men. However, perhaps in time they find some satisfaction in calling me a “sex slave,” as it puts me in my place, so to speak. (Although this particular neighbor woman was not using the term “sex slave” in a demeaning way.)

The other thing of note in this woman’s comment was her phrase “not being in your place as you are here.” Again, her tone was one of friendly interest not spite or derogation.

It was interesting (and satisfying) to me that she understood I have a “place” of submissive status and that it’s something I need — such that I would miss it in PA. All of that is true, and it impressed me she seemed to get it, all of this, about me.

I realize I may be making too much of this one snippet of conversation, but there’s one more thing. I sensed in this woman’s approach to me a sense of ownership.

It may be something like a daughter going off to college then returning, and friends and neighbors adopting a kind of protective, knowing interest in her. It is like I am now their golden girl in some strange way, sent away into the world, now returned. Her comment carried the possessive sense of “we know what you are, what you need, and how that’s hard for you, but now we’re glad you’re back… in your place.”

I don’t resist this or take it in a bad way. It’s rather sweet, actually.

But it all suggests to me that, as I return to Colorado, to my place of submission, the neighbors are not the same as when I left them. Their view of me has evolved, matured.

They are no longer just watching my slavery, but starting to assume a kind of verbal participation in it.

Interesting, but I don’t know what this means.


My spirits were lifted yesterday by my evening phone call with Amanda.

It has been finalized that I’ll be returning to Colorado the Sunday after Thanksgiving. It will be a full three-week stay, after which Amanda will accompany me back to Pennsylvania. She will be here with me and Mother through Christmas and New Year’s.

I am beyond thrilled about this for a lot of reasons, not least of which is to be in the presence of Amanda once again, under her dominant desire, for a period of a full month.

While I have made the best of things here in PA, it has been more difficult of late. My brief visit back to Colorado back in September showed me how Amanda wishes to “rev up” my slavery and move us into another level of D/s experience. I am excited for that, for what she has in store for me and for resumed time with Master McKenna, along with new times with neighbors and such. But upon returning to PA, all of my D/s life comes screeching to a halt, not conceptually, but it has felt like that, practically speaking. (Some of this lately has been exacerbated by the fact that the connection with Jeremy and Phoebe — what was developing as my east-coast D/s “option” — has been on hiatus, due to their professional schedules. It will resume in 2023.)

This problem of my D/s life being rocket-boosted in CO only to fall back to earth here in PA won’t be resolved for some time, but during December at least, I will be, let’s say, over the moon.

Beside being with Amanda again, I am excited about time now scheduled with Master McKenna. He will have me for five days of my three weeks there, and I will be in the mansion this time, in full submission to him once again.

He says he wishes to continue talking about his next dom retreat and the school for submissives, but this time it won’t be “off-line” as before, but in full protocol, with me in my collared, high-heeled submissive glory. Nothing like planning a retreat while on my knees in naked dom-worship.

The new wrinkle perhaps is Maria, who has managed to come out to Master McKenna more directly about her interests. He intends now to have her watch some of his active dominance of me — sit in, if you will — with me providing (somehow) commentary in situ. Besides providing an “intro to D/s” for Maria, this may be a dry run in prep of the school for submissives. Interesting.

During the three weeks, Amanda already has some things planned. There will be a tea time with the neighbors. When Amanda and I talk on the phone every evening, she never fails to remind me that Blake has scheduled a “date” with me on December 3rd. She is thinking about hosting a Christmas party that would include some of her clients. Amanda also hints at a few other “surprises.” I don’t think she means packages under the tree.


I have decided I don’t like this life out here in Pennsylvania. I say that in my little-girl voice. It’s boring yet busy, the worst combination for a submissive woman who is a writer. I’m all mopey.

I am dreaming now of my past dominations, like a starved woman drooling for a lavish buffet. I want to be back in it, overwhelmed by the sheer will of my owners and submerged one again in their humiliations of me. I am practically volunteering to be chained into the easy chair, my legs spread and pussy gaping, for visitors to observe with grinning condescension.

If I have learned anything by my sojourn here, it is that I cannot go home again. I cannot return to the pre-life I once lived, before I knew what I truly am.

a difference between my two places

One of the subtle differences between my life here in Pennsylvania and my life in Colorado is that people here (PA) see me as normal, not knowing me as a submissive. Here, when I am introduced to someone, I am simply my mother’s daughter from Colorado.

They may see me wearing a collar, though around mother’s church friends it is usually a fashion choker. They don’t know what that symbolizes. They may detect that I am not wearing a bra, though I’m not flamboyant in that. Such things may strike them as a little off, but they have no knowledge context for categorizing me in a D/s life of submission. Most don’t even know such exists.

Conversely, in Colorado, most anyone I am introduced to has a connection to Amanda — clients, neighbors, service people, her lifestyle friends — and so they know her and usually know of me. Even before I say “Pleased to meet you,” they know I am a submissive living in a D/s relationship under her. Some know more than others — aware that our relationship is executed as D/s slavery — but most at least have a mental script about me before we even meet. There (in CO) I am my mistress’s submissive from Pennsylvania.

You could say that in CO I am labeled and in PA I am not. But in this case, I prefer being labeled, though it still feels cringingly humiliating when Amanda identifies me to someone new as her slave. Even though I blush as I detect the shifting shades of the others’ faces as they reassess me and place me in some compartment of their social judgment, it is who I am and what s true to me.

Here in PA, wearing a choker and no bra, I am not labeled but then again I am not known. I feel a little lost.

I’m not sure there’s much to make of this. It’s simply a difference between my two places.

D/s focus redux: your comments

A number of you responded to my post about different kinds of focus in the D/s life. Allow me to highlight a few things here.

My conjecture was that those of us in D/s relationships are dominated by another with a primary focus. I suggested seven:

Punishment/pain focus

Of the responses (some of these are public in the comments section below my post, others came to me by email), most stated a service focus, indication that simple tasks and services were the primary, say, “love language” of the D/s relationship.

Some spoke of sex being included in their D/s relationship, but no one named a sex focus as primary. My own sex-focused slavery notwithstanding, this doesn’t surprise me, for through my years of blogging I’ve come to that general conclusion from comments and emails. People on the outside of the lifestyle, however, might be surprised by this, imagining D/s only in sexual terms.

For some, the primary dynamic seemed to be an obedience-focus but such that resulted in service tasks. I acknowledge that obedience and service (and maybe behavior) blend together.

Humiliation and pain were mentioned, but never as a primary. A bondage focus was never mentioned, again perhaps prompting a double-take from those outside the lifestyle. (We might not, however, that we are sampling the D/s side of the lifestyle not so much the BDSM side. Still, it’s interesting…)

More specifically…

I liked what John Hunt Fitch commented: “It’s a comfortable feeling that she belongs to me, and I make the major decisions (and minor ones if I want to).” It strikes me this is a kind of baseline for a lot of D/s relationships.

John B said his relationship was service-focused, but with pain “running right behind it.” Helen said hers was mostly service-focused, but included humiliation sometimes; she also noted sex was part of it, but “not why she was submissive.” There were other emails that echoed this — that one’s submissiveness was decidedly not linked to their desire for sex.

Candice (eroticlesbianromance) spoke of a current fiction series she is doing that involves female fight clubs and the training of a submissive to fight. Intriguing. Relatedly, Shaniqua, by email, spoke of her own D/s relationship that has as its core dynamic verbal fighting and argument. All of this vibe is interesting to me.

Perhaps in the same vein, I found Girlieboy’s contribution to the discussion fascinating: “What I am driven by is surrender. She is primal and I am prey—and that need not be sexual or any of these other things, because the surrender is to become subservient.”

Sindee commented about her secretary actually being her dominant (even though Sindee was her boss). This was echoed in a response comment by Girlieboy who likewise had a secretary once who “dominated the heck out of her.” This echoes my own relationship with Amanda as her sometime assistant. There is something unique in the boss-assistant/secretary relationship that has dom-sub dynamics in it. In my fiction I often write about the professional work environment: usually a female boss finding her submissive expression in unlikely side arrangements.

Takeaways…It’s all a small sample, of course, but…

It’s not explicitly stated, but I get the impression that many of those responding are in informal D/s relationships. What I mean is that D/s is found within an existing relationship — perhaps marriage or a serious partnership. That it’s not about a dominant finding a submissive (and vice-versa) and formally developing a relationship based on their D/s orientations. By informal, I mean that D/s is discovered later in a relationship, a subset of a love relationship existing, a pattern of roles each partner evolves into.

Conversely, I live in a formal D/s arrangement and am shared with others in a more formal way as a submissive-first, relationship-later kind of way. This is not better or worse, just different from many who responded.

Again, these responses also confirm a picture of D/s relationships having a service-primary focus and not a sex-primary focus. When I started writing my blog years ago, I was gently corrected by someone who challenged a comment I made about D/s necessarily being sexual. I was green back then, didn’t know anything though I thought I did (the worst of all possible hubris), and made the newbie mistake of assuming my (sex) slavery was a model for all others. I quickly learned that much D/s lifestyle is not sexual, or at least not primarily. These responses here support that.

In the end, the perhaps the takeaway is that relationships happen, evolve, develop in a vast variety of ways. D/s is shaped by each relationship in its own way creatively. D/s is not just one thing but many, and that’s what makes it so intriguing.

D/s focus: a question for you

I’ve been thinking on how various D/s relationships are, say, focused on a specific aspect of D/s. For example, some who practice the D/s lifestyle focus a lot on bondage while others hardly ever engage in bondage.

I would think most D/s arrangements at least dabble in a variety of D/s experiences, but it seems to me that often one thing becomes a primary focus/style/preference/orientation.

I started listing some of these. Which is primary for you? What have I missed in this list?

Obedience-focused. The relationship is primarily based on the dominant giving orders and the submissive obeying them. These may be minor, simple. The pleasure dynamic is in the act of obedience.

Behavior-focused. A submissive is trained to behave a certain way. This may be as basic as a trained posture, or how to sit/stand/walk, or manners of speaking. The primary dynamic in the relationship is the dominant’s shaping of a submissive’s physical bearing and actions and presentation.

Service-focused. The relationship has primarily been defined in terms of work and chores and services. I assume here that the dominant finds particular pleasure in being served, and the submissive enjoys the constant requirement of being busy with services.

Humiliation-focused. The primary focus of the D/s relationship is in debasement of the submissive. This may be physical but can also/otherwise be psychological. It may be private and/or public display of submission.

Bondage-focused. The D/s relationship is enjoyed primarily in forms of bondage and restriction and perhaps imprisonment. Ropes and chains, say, have a particular erotic meaning and feeling.

Punishment/pain focused. The D/s is most deeply experienced through acts of punishment and, perhaps, the administering of pain. May or may not be about sadomasochism per se — sometimes its about the psychological experience of being punished.

Sex-focused. Where the D/s relationship is primarily focused on the submissive’s sexual use and random availability. This may be about being shared sexually. It also can be about the dom creating a sexual mindset in the submissive.

I ask for your input. What have I missed?

Again, I think most D/s relationships practice a number of these. Some of them overlap. But my hypothesis is that one is a primary focus.

I also wonder if besides a primary focus there’s a secondary focus. For example, the primary of my D/s slavery is a sex-focus, but a strong runner-up, so to speak, is a humiliation-focus.

What about you? What’s the primary and secondary in your current relationship?

If you’re not in a current relationship: As a dominant, what would you say would be your most desired primary focus if you owned a submissive? As a submissive, what would you say would be your most desired primary focus if you were owned by a dominant?

lunch. maria. redux.

A few further thoughts came to me yesterday after I posted about my lunch with Maria.

I thought of future conversations that might be good to have with her. Lunch was about the two of us talking together as submissive women, finding friendly connection in that, and exploring possible D/s baby steps for Maria. It wasn’t the time for further and deeper discussions about the life.

It has occurred to me that if and when that time comes, I might forge several discussions with her, as follows…

One would be the delight and danger of attraction in D/s.

I am aware that Maria’s current interest may be a romanticized attraction to something she sees between me and Master McKenna. She has glimpsed what he does with me, and perhaps she is thinking, “I’ll have what she’s having.” On the one hand, that testifies to the genuineness of the submissive within her. On the other hand, watching him with me is not the same as experiencing it herself. The activities of D/s, I might say, are challenging, hard, and often humiliating; they can break you, bring you to tears. Ultimately they become deeply fulfilling and extraordinary, but you often have to go through hell to get there. The rewards are worth it, I would say to Maria. but it would be good not to allow herself to become enamored of the image of D/s and dream of it as all cookies and cream.

I also imagine that Maria may have some attraction to Master McKenna himself. To that, I would share my own first D/s experience years ago with Master Michael, who rejected me as his slave the first time round because I was in love with him and not really committed to the life of D/s slavery. You can’t allow yourself to be drawn into D/s in pursuit of an infatuation.

And/or maybe Maria has some attraction to me. Which would be lovely, but then again not the right reason for pursuing and entering the D/s life.

I realize that Maria might choose to make D/s a part-time thing, an occasional indulgence in her life. That’s fine, and what;’s most common. I know that full-time, 24/7 submissive life is a rare thing to happen or make possible.

But if Maria did come to a point of wanting to live full-time in D/s — to commit her life to it — I would want to talk with her about the reality of giving yourself to another.

That is, in D/s slavery you kind of live another person’s life. Your owner — master or mistress — becomes your entire focus, your primary purpose. You live for them. Which means in a way your own life is channeled through them. You sacrifice your wants and needs and become the fulfillment of theirs.

I think we might consider this a commitment beyond that of marriage. Which is not to put marriage down. It’s just that a full-time D/s life is equally momentous and, I might argue, a more profound ultimate destination.

In marriage, two people give themselves to each other. While there is some sacrifice of one to another, it goes both ways, mutually. And that’s a beautiful thing. But in a D/s arrangement, one gives herself to another completely, and the other uses her completely. It is intentionally un-mutual. Of course, yes, the submissive is fulfilled in that very thing — the upside-down of the submissive psychology in which being used is her pleasure. But the nature of a D/s relationship is extreme, posing the question to the submissive, “How far will you go in living entirely for another person?” This is extreme, beyond what we know in traditional relationships within friendships and marriages.

I think D/s, in this way and to this degree, ultimately creates a uniquely meaningful depth that cannot be reached in traditional relationships — but again, it takes a lot of sacrifice of self to get there.

(BTW, I am fascinated by those who have poly relationships within their marriage commitment. In these marriages, both partners have agreed that a further commitment of one can only be found through another outside relationship. For example, a submissive woman married to a non-dominant man is allowed to seek an outside dominant for her fulfillment. I think this is such a beautiful thing, an image of utter trust and permission. It suggests that a D/s relationship might provide a uniquely deep and fulfilling dimension not otherwise available.)

I might have another discussion with Maria about the types of submission/slavery there are, and why it may be important to learn early on what type is most fulfilling to her.

I have written before about types of D/s slavery: service slavery, professional slavery, sexual slavery, display slavery, bondage slavery, obedience slavery, pain slavery, “pet” slavery, and so on. Some of these derive from Gorean mythology, in which women were kept for very specific roles and functions.

But today, we commonly think of D/s slavery in general terms, being about a variety of practices — obedience, trainingm bondage, and maybe sex. Most D/s involves all of that and more — a general smorgasbord of D/s activities. Yet I would say to Maria that eventually something emerges between dom and sub as a primary preference, or type, within the slavery. A dominant may have a preference for one type or another, and likewise a submissive may be most fulfilled by one type or another.

I’m just saying that it’s best for a submissive to have an idea of what her primary slave type is.

The most obvious case-in-point is a situation in which one desires a slavery that is non-sexual while the other is seeking sexual availability as a primary focus of the slavery. If a submissive needs her D/s life to be non-sexual, then that’s got to be figured out ahead of time with any dominant who wishes for a slavery that is sex-primary. Otherwise, the arrangement won’t work.

In Maria’s case, I might assume that since she is employed in a service job of doing housecleaning and laundry, she might be suited for “service” slavery. Yet, when you think about it, that might be the last thing she wishes her submissive life to be about. Only she will know in time, but it will be good for her to get to that self-understanding of her primary slave type..

(As for me, I have evolved, you might say, into being a sex slave. I also enjoy the aspects of behavior-focused slavery (posture and speech) and obedience-based slavery (following orders precisely). All of these have been part of my slaveries, but being used a sex slave has become primary. In my history, under Master Michael I was a kind of “general-purpose” slave, and it’s been since I came under Amanda that my sexual focus has been developed.)

There’s a “love languages” angle to slave types: about your submissive slave type being matched to the type of slave he most prefers.

These three conversations probably seem somewhat random, but I think of them as fitting into the file folder labeled “Future Considerations for a Developing Submissive.” They might also get linked to my other folder labeled “Curriculum for Slave School.”

lunch with Maria

When I was in Colorado, I had lunch with Maria. This post is a brief overview of our conversation. It may not be of interest to most, but I offer it here as a glimpse of what might be the beginning of my relationship with Maria and her possible involvement with Master McKenna and me at the mansion in the future…

To quickly review, Maria is the woman who provides Master McKenna’s mansion cleaning and laundry services. She works hard, he pays her well, she loves her job. She’s in her early thirties, Hispanic, with dark hair, lovely eyes, and a really cute smile. During my services there, Maria and I have developed a friendly connection. She has seemed interested about my slavery to him, prompted by glimpses of Master M’s sessions with me. In my times there, she’s asked me a few questions, signaling an interest in my lifestyle and what it means to “live submissive.”

Master M is aware of Maria’s interest, and has encouraged me to counsel her and perhaps become, if she wishes, her tutor in the art of submissive living.

Some of this conversation might be informative to readers here. I’ll share the high points, avoid repetitions. BTW, I have Maria’s permission to share this, though I am also respecting her wishes to omit a few private things.

We had a lovely lunch. It lasted two and a half hours. And we had wine. 🙂

“It’s nice,” I said, “to see you in another setting than in the laundry room of the mansion.”

She smiled. “Yes. And I could say something the same about you. Not the laundry but—”

“Tied up in the Great Room,” I said.

We both laughed.

We had both known this getogether was ultimately for the purpose of talking about my D/s life and her possible submissive inclinations, and our conversation slid into that rather quickly.

If there’s a difference between curiosity and interest, Maria has alreadyu crossed over. Curiosity can be distant, objective, “for someone else.” Interest suggests something more personal, subjective, and possible. When I first came to Master McKenna’s mansion, Maria was curious. Now her questions come from her personal interest.

She asked about how I knew I was submissive. I have written about that often before, so won’t rehash those details here. She had experiences and awarenesses in childhood and adolescence that were submissive, much as I did. She likewise comes from a religious background (Catholic) that tends to be repressive about sexual things. We compared notes.

For me and others, I said, being submissive is actually inborn, deeply interwoven into who we are. But for others, submissiveness is just one desire among many, optional and occasional. I suggested it was something for her to think about.

Maria has a bearing that suggests a deeper submissive need like mine. While I don’t believe you can determine a person’s submissiveness by their personality type (sometimes quiet persons can be quite dominant at heart), I have picked up in her all along — and here at lunch — a submissive presence that makes me feel she is on the edge of discovering some depths of her submissive nature.

Interesting to me, she never asked me why I do this life. That says a lot to me. I think because of what she already knows inside herself, she already knows why.

I was careful to remain neutral in my approach to Maria regarding the submissive life. In the past, I’m afraid I’ve been too much a cheerleader for D/s, not cautionary enough. D/s life can be hard, and living in submission 24/7 is on another level of commitment. Of course, it can be extraordinarily wonderful as well, and opens you up to dimensions of life you never dreamed of. But the cost of the life is significant. I tried to represent all of this to Maria in a fair balance.

I also spoke with her about options for D/s that are not 24/7. Maybe a part-time connection with a dominant, something online once a week, or possibly friend or significant other. I mentioned that some people “role-play” sub — from time to time slipping into a submissive role with a dominant partner. That might be an option too. However, I said, she needed to be careful that a partner is genuinely dominant and not an abuser.

That led us into a discussion that I was unprepared for. I said that a true dominant “cultivated” you. He can be severe and rough and all-consuming, but there is something you feel with him that’s proud of you and interested in making you better. You can feel that, I said. I also fell back on my old adage about consistency and anger, “If a dom can’t control himself, he has no business controlling you.” True, but my words on this were inadequate. I’d appreciate feedback on this.

Of course, the elephant in the room was Master McKenna, so to speak. If there is an example of a genuinely dominant man who was severe in his way yet responsible in handling his slaves it is him. I also mentioned my former master, Michael, who was benevolently dominating. And, of course, Amanda, although our relationship is unique, not purely domme-sub.

We talked about all of them. “I have been fortunate,” I told her. But her reference point is Master McKenna, and she has seen how he is with me.

I told her that I thought it might be possible for Master McKenna to include her in one of his sessions with me.

Without hesitation, she said, “I would like that.”

Eager though she was, she soon expressed reservations: “I can’t do what you do with him.”

I replied, “When I started in submission, I couldn’t do what I do with him now.” I explained that this is a process over time of training, cultivation, experience. “It doesn’t happen all at once.”

She said she was shy about her body, and admired how well I handled being nude around and about the mansion.

I told her she is beautiful and would be much desired in that way. “But,” I added, “being undressed in public view has been a long-developing thing for me, still difficult for me often.”

I also explained that not all forms of D/s are sexual and have to involve nudity. “Going in to any submissive relationship, you can define for yourself what it should be and not be. You can specify limits. And there are different types of slavery, not all being sexual or physical.” I assured her, “if something works out with Master McKenna to include you in some things with me, he will take you slowly.”

I mentioned that simple things can be amazing submissive experiences. I told her that Master McKenna might just teach her how he wants her to sit and stand and walk, and how incredible that would make her feel.

She just smiled at that. (Again, Maria has such a delightful smile.)

There was much we talked about that I’m not representing here. Some is not lifestyle related (shopping and clothes), some is about my submissive nature which I’ve already written about often (i.e., my submissiveness being my sexual orientation), and some is quite personal to Maria and not her wish to be made public as yet.

I told Maria in very general terms about Master M’s planning of another dom retreat. I felt it was too soon to suggest she observe some parts of that (which is what Master intends). But I said that was in the planning stages.

And I also mentioned Master M’s idea of a school for submissives, although I didn’t call it that. I just said that he wanted to create something — a retreat or conference or a curriculum or a school of sorts — for the purpose of explaining the D/s life to prospective submissives and training them in basic skills. I told her he had asked me to develop this, to start planning a curriculum, and perhaps to be its director if it comes to fruition.

“I like the idea of developing it,” I said. “Writing the curriculum and such. But I’m less sure about actually being the director. I find it ironic for him to tap a submissive for the purpose of leading something.”

“But you would be perfect for that,” she said. “Think of it just as sharing your experience.”

“I suppose.”

“By the way,” Maria asked, “Any chance I could get into that?”

bay window, during my Colorado trip in early October

I have written about these bay window experiences before, and I fear they are not so interesting to readers the second and third time. Nothing much “happens,” after all: I am posed naked in a window. People watch. People go home.

My own psychology in it offers the most suspense, so to speak, the inner drama of my fight to maintain in public humiliation some dignity as a woman. I don’t know if our audience of neighbors sees that, but I try to represent here in my accounts.

Going back home and submitting to this again, I was reminded of how odd a thing this is. Amanda’s other “devices” for my humiliation — the entryway wall, the wet bar, etc. — are likely seen by others as her private playground with me, of interest because it is a glimpse of two lesbians doing their D/s kink. In that, it makes sense to a vanilla neighborhood.

But this bay window staging of me is more obviously intended as a social experience. It cannot be imagined as something behind closed doors because it is not — literally played out in front of public windows. My nudity in this is not accidental or peeped in on — it’s intentional and posed, meant for their consumption. I’m not sure this, then, makes sense to them or fits in any of their categories. I would think afterward, they’d walk away wondering “What was that?”

At best, it’s a kind of erotica performance art; at worst, it’s porn in someone’s backyard. They must consider it a weird thing, for sure.

Yet they don’t seem to mind. They keep showing up.

The bay window faces our back yard, which is a sloped on one side and extends far out and up a hillside, making it sort of private. Our yard is not fenced, so anyone hiking the hill along the ridge could walk down, wander in closer, but no one does. There’s an intimacy to the bay window that Amanda puts me in, even as it opens up the house to nature.

Amanda invites people into this backyard intimacy. The slope of the berm and the hill in the distance create a sheltered cove of privacy. Neighbors assemble, I know, “to see the slave girl naked,” but I also think the setting creates a feeling of cozy specialness for everyone, a sense of being “in the club.”

You have to be invited into these personal spaces — that of the yard itself and that of my private, pink flesh.

Months ago, before my Pennsylvania sojourn, I’d asked Amanda if when she put me in the bay she could display me more obviously in bondage chains. Yes, she usually chains me into my posings, but sometimes the chains and hooks are not so easily seen.

My reason was that I didn’t want people thinking I was posing naked as an exhibitionist. I don’t eagerly do these exposures — in fact, I resist them — and my motivation certainly is not in wanting neighbors to see me naked. My motivation is in obeying my mistress. My naked display is forced, required of me, despite my reluctance. I want people to know this.

Amanda understood my feeling but was skeptical of my logic: “I think that ship has sailed, Shae-girl. Fine line between you being exhibited because you want to and you being exhibited because I want you to.”

“But heavier, more obvious, bondages,” I maintained, “would show more clearly that fine line.”

Amanda nodded, and didn’t say no. I think she liked the visual of thick-gauge chains and over-sized carabiners weighing me down into my posings. But she observed, “Sounds like you want to control the story.”

I replied, “Well, I don’t want it to feel like I’m the whore in the Amsterdam window overlooking the street, where everyone walking by thinks I’m selling my body. They need to know I’m forced to do this.”

“You can’t control,” Amanda said, “what people think of you.”

This time I am blindfolded.

There is some question about the need for this. Amanda had blindfolded me before and wanted to try it again. However, now there are more lights in the base of the bay shining back at me, like spotlights on a stage, essentially blinding me, so I can’t see much of anything anyway.

However, the blindfold has a psychological effect on me. It makes me feel that people are looking at my body not my face, and certainly not my eyes. Probably ture anyway, but I feel it more deeply with a mask over my eyes.

Meanwhile, it makes me more focused on sound. I listen to voices. Amanda cracks open the two bottom windows on either side of the bay to let sound through. It’s muffled, but I can make out parts of conversations. I can hear what they’re saying about me.

Neighbors will start arriving in a half hour. There is prep first.

Amanda is posing me. I’m already in the blindfold, pulled tight over my eyes. She has me sitting to one side of the wooden chair, legs together, providing a side-profile of my body to the public view.

“You’re trembling,” Amanda says.

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll get the lights on in a minute. They’ll warm you.”

Amanda takes my wrist, the one closest to the window, and pulls it around my back, latching it tautly to a chain eye-hooked into the base of the bay floor. Sometime during these six months of my absence she’s bought some heavy-gauge chain link, tow-truck style. I’m pretty sure this is not to appease my self-image issues but because she decided she’d like the look. If a semi-trailer can’t break this chain, I certainly am not likely to. And the chain links come with more sound: when I move, it yields heavier clanks and thuds.

“Are they here?” I ask. I am hoping she will accidentally go through the list and tell me who. I know the Millers will be there. But which others? And Blake. Will Blake be there too?

She’s onto me and doesn’t answer.

I hear her crawl out of the bay. She takes my other wrist, raises it over my head, and links it to a short chair hooked into the bay window ceiling.

I imagine I look like I’m in a dramatic pose, like a flamenco twirl with one arm resting against the small of the back and the other thrust overhead, holding canastas. She is more pragmatic: “This keeps your arms from getting in the way.” I realize she means such a pose provides observers a clear line of sight to my side view: my bare thigh and protruding breasts.

My arms now tightly chained, Amanda fusses with my high heels, attaching something to hook my ankle straps together. I want your legs together,” she says. “At first.”

I say nothing. I could speak, but don’t want to. Amanda knows I’m sliding into my space of submissive quietude.

She leans close to my face and kisses me full on my lips.

Patricia has arrived. I hear her in the kitchen. “Pumpkin muffins,” she calls out. “John is behind me with the cider.”

“In here,” Amanda calls back.

I hear the soft clank of tins being unloaded onto the kitchen counter and Patricia’s footsteps into the dining room.

“Shae looks good from outside,” she says.

“I want her leaning back more. It’s still too casual a bondage.”

I hear the sliding glass door open from the patio and John announce his arrival from the kitchen. “Managed not to spill,” he says. I assume he lugged a big crock pot of cider through our backyard.

He finds the others in the dining room. “She’s a damn sight,” he says of me.

They talk a while about my pose. Amanda wants to chain my collar from behind, to arch my back.

John asks why.

“To make the pose more… bondage-y,” she says.

John gets the picture and adds, “It would also thrust her tits up and out more.”

“That too. But I’m afraid it would be hard for her to hold herself in that pose for long, and when she couldn’t, the collar chain would choke her.”

They talk some more and finally decide that if the wooden chair was turned, my back would rest on it and solve the problem. “Wish I’d thought of that,” Amanda says, “before I already chained her up like this.”

They have me pull myself up from the chair just a bit, which I do awkwardly, while John Miller swivels the chair into the desired position.

Amanda now attaches another chain to the O-ring at the back of my collar and hooks the other end to another ceiling hook. But Amanda is not happy with that, after all: “What if the chair breaks? The chain would break her neck.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Patricia says casually while walking in from the kitchen.

John adds his characteristic dark humor: “First rule of slave-keeping: you want to torture your slave, not kill her.”

Amanda puts some slack in the chain to my neck, ensuring the neighborhood event won’t become a homicide.

Amanda has set this up as an open house: people can come anytime between seven and eight-thirty. I can hear voices of people arriving. It makes me nervous, although there is nothing for me to do.

Earlier I had noticed Amanda had arranged lawn chairs closer to the window than times before. Maybe fifteen feet from the window instead of thirty or so. (Guessing.)

Closer as they are, I can hear voices more clearly. “Oh!” someone says, seeing me.

There are fresh greetings exchanged as new people arrive. I hear a “wow” from one. “Good to see her again,” a man (I think Mr. Hawkins) comments. Another replies, “Good to see her like this again.” There are chuckles.

I listen for Blake’s voice, but do not hear him.

There are compliments to Patricia for her pumpkin muffins. They’re drinking cider, and John announces he’s just also put out some booze to add to it. “Good with bourbon,” he says. “I have rum out there as well.”

In some sense, it’s an ordinary neighborhood block party with people eating muffins and drinking cider. So normal and… autumnal… and yet so strange. Again I wonder how they think of this… thing we do.

After the first half hour, Amanda turns off the spotlights in the bay, and arranges me in a different pose.

She turns the chair, and me, to face out. She’s had (this was new since I’d left) holes drilled into the seat of the wooden chair on either side. This provides a way of hooking the heels of my pumps into the chair.

So my legs are propped up, but open slightly to each side of the chair. This offers a view of my pussy, bare and slightly squeezed.

Once done, she turns the lights on again and walks outside.

For this second pose, I do not hear comments. I assume people have turned to look, but I cannot see, of course, and I imagined there’s a hush while people take in my pussy creases. And then they start talking again — conversations about their office work and construction on the interstate and a new housing development down the road.

It occurs to me that the one thing worse that sitting in pussy-bared humiliation is simply to be ignored.

I feel like an animal kept, caged in a pet store window box, less cuddly and cute, but just as interesting for a time… and then not. I wonder if any of them think of taking me home with them, then decide I’d be too much trouble, much like the red-headed terrier at the pet shop. People move on.

I think I am probably interesting to them initially because I am the woman who at other times serves them tea. This, I know, is part of the eroticism, that the Victorian demoiselle once offering scones on a silver tray is now obscenely fleshed in public view, as if the servant girl has been posed and captured into a Rubens painting in the Prado. But even then art lovers consume their fill and move on to the next in the gallery.

Later Amanda will tell me that “this all works” because the neighbor men lust for me but the neighbor women know that Amanda has me, literally, under lock and key. “It’s safe for both of them,” she says, making me think the art museum analogy is apt. To them, my fleshy breasts and wetted pussy lips are enjoyable, but held safely behind glass. It gives everyone, it seems, a way of sampling the erotic fringe that we live in without personal fuss or muss.

“And,” Amanda will add, “It’s good for their sex lives. The guys, filled up with you, go home and fuck the hell out of their women.”

“So I have a purpose,” I will reply.

The third pose has me face out again, this time with my hands chained behind the chair, my head pulled back by means of a collar chain, and my legs now straddling the chair, chained to the floor, opening my pussy gaping wide.

Strange to say, but behind my blindfold it’s as if I can feel their eyes close to my sex, as if eyelash flutters are tickling my pussy lips. What has been generally erotic to me now feels blatantly sexual. I feel my juices puddle, and wonder if they are all close enough to see my liquid desire glistening and dripping.

I think I hear the rasp of Mr. Farris’s voice garbled through the window panes, and also another man’s baritone, maybe Mr. Linden’s. I wonder what they are thinking now: not what their opinion of me is — we’ve crossed that Rubicon already, for sure — but how in the thick of their minds they are having sex with me, the local slut that I inevitably am.

I listen for others I recognize, hearing Stacy Knox’s laughter, which has a lilt and a higher register at times. I will not yet have heard Amanda’s later comment that the men are not the only ones who want to fuck me. Which is not to say Stacy does, but there is someone apparently. I wonder.

Again, I hear John Miller, now with a pitcher of cider, offering refills. I do not hear Blake at all, but he has a low, husky voice, and maybe I would not pick it up out of the crowd.

I have not much mentioned the word “humiliation,” which is not to say I wasn’t awash in it. But, strangely, the chains, the heavy “obvious” chains, helped.

I would rather be humiliated for being a submissive kept, owned, and offered than a for being a sex slut who provides herself to the neighborhood. I know Amanda feels that’s a difference without a distinction. And it’s still humiliation.

But I would rather be humiliated for what I really am than what I am not. I desire authenticity in my disgrace.

The evening winds down to a close, the heightened eroticism wafting away on the night air. Nothing has happened tonight, not really, other than cider being drunk and the slave girl being posed with her thighs spread naked in a window. People watch. People go home. There is no grand finale, no denouement, no consummation.

Later, Amanda will not tell me who was there. I will ask specific names, and she will wink at me and just smile.

But she will take me into her bed. Apparently there is a climax after all.

six short insights into my submissive life: 6

My blog is my confessional.
It sometimes embarrasses me to report my life as I do.
And yet I do.

I had a friend in college who was in theater. She shared with me a recurring dream she has about being on stage and forgetting what play she was performing. In front of this dream audience, she stumbled through a scene and suffered public humiliation. It was only a dream, but she felt deeply the humiliation during her sleep — and was relieved to awake from it.

My blog feels like that sometimes. It’s a public presentation of what I am to a readership that’s virtual (though very real). I don’t consider it a “performance” or “acting,” like my friend, for it is my actual life as it happens, reported. But it too is embarrassing in a public way and feels like I’m on a stage, perhaps in the way that actors experience in performance dreams.

Writing my blog is sometimes like that, sometimes cringingly humiliating as I relive those experiences a second time. But blogging helps me process my humiliations, and it actually helps that you as readers are part of that process. You compel me to make sense of my disgrace.

When I started my blog years ago, I had few readers and it was mostly an extension of my private journal. As time went on, I was blessed with more of you following my blog, and my naked life was shared more broadly. But even then, there has been some comforting distance in the virtual nature of the space.

But now, more and more people I know in real life, face to face, are reading my blog as well: some of Amanda’s clients, our neighbors, my college cohort friends, people associated with Master McKenna, now Blake and his friends, and so on. I’m now aware that what I write in my blog some evening reveals and exposes me to those I might have coffee with the next morning, or meet for lunch at a diner, or encounter in one of Amanda’s Zoom meetings. It’s kind of a cringing humiliation to know someone who sees me in person has just read about the sex that someone had with me yesterday.

I am living my life out loud, which sounds good but also means I have no private space. Often I feel like like I’m standing on a stage in blushing shame.

But then again, I bought into it: this is “slave life according to Mistress Amanda.”

In my fiction, I frequently explore themes of penance and confession, usually about sex as related to sin. I don’t believe sex is sin, but I believe many of us feel that it is. One story I wrote, “Penance”(which you can find here, or under my fiction menu), imagines the BDSM punishment of a woman, Leigh Ann, as her personal ritual of penance and confession.

For Leigh Ann, the process is relentlessly circular: her confession is actually a kind of permission to do the very things she confesses. She pays people to humiliate and whip her. Doing so frees her to be the promiscuous woman she is.

Perhaps it is likewise for me, in different circumstances. I’m aware my blog is a form of my own confession to others — “this is who I am and here is what I have done.” I admit to the things I do in front of you as online readers. I share my “illicit” experiences in this with you, a theater of people, known and unknown. I publicly describe the scandal of my submissive and sexual life.

My blog is my confessional — it embarrasses me, but it also is somehow necessary for me to write.

Maybe in this, as my confession, you all give me permission to do the things I do.