Category: Slavery

Jeremy 1: slave sex

There are other places, but we have settled on the diner as an easy, comfortable choice. Halfway between him and me, both in distance and lifestyle.

I ask about him and his life, and I am genuinely interested in what he’s doing these days, especially where his mind is at on various things in the world — but our conversations inevitably gravitate to my life in D/s. I have become comfortable in his probings, as he both challenges my thinking and also is a safe repository for my secrets. But most of all, I confess, he is my connection to a life I am removed from, a life which I sorely long for.

Jeremy observes that my experiences with Master M and with Kevin, as I have written them, are more intense and “erotically drenched” than my experiences with Amanda. “Are you more inclined toward men?” he asks.

I take a moment in the realization once again that he has, through my blog descriptions, essentially watched me in my sexual encounters. My mind flits through the many posts I’ve shared of my having sex, and I realize he’s likely read them all. It’s an embarrassment, but not a blushing one, rather a deeper acknowledgment that Jeremy knows me in this way.

I smile, nodding. I must decide whether to engage in this more explicitly with him or skate past it. I jump in. “I dare ask,” I finally say, “why you feel my times with men are more… erotically drenched, as you put it.”

“It seems those accounts are more sexually heightened. With men. And you, obviously — you write about this often — have a longing, almost an addiction… I’m referring to oral sex that is.”

“Well, there’s that.” I laugh, a self-conscious laugh, I’m sure. “I don’t deny that I’m a more sexual woman than I used to think I was. Than I ever imagined I was. But more so with men? I think that’s more a matter of my blog choices.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t write about sex with Amanda very often, by choice. My choice. I have wanted to keep our most intimate moments private. So I write about my times with the men more often. That may be part of your impression.”

Jeremy nods, pondering this. He sips his coffee, then says, “I think you have written about you and Amanda, sex I mean, but I think it’s just been one time. You have the bath scenes, though. Those are very hot.”

I shake my head. “When did you become the expert of my blog archive?” I say with a chuckle.

He laughs.

I talk about the sorry state of my blog, the organizational mess it is, and my general disinterest in learning the technical business around it. He talks about some new software that he’s using to organize his work.

Eventually he returns to my sex life. He is struck by how physical the men are with me. “Is there a difference between slave sex with men and slave sex with women?”

He asks such good questions. “In my case, yes, I get how you would think that. Kevin, when he had me for slave sex, was intensely physical with me. Master M can be too. Amanda is different with me, but that’s her personality and dominant style. I’m not sure you can say that another dom woman, in handling me, would be like Amanda just because she is female. I would think female dommes can be just as physical and forceful as male doms.”

Jeremy nods, seeming to think this is a good answer. Soon he returns to his original question: “Are you more inclined toward men?”

I smile across at him. “I think I am equally ravenous with women and men.”

He laughs. This seems to satisfy him. At least for now.

dream

My subconscious mind is active these days, erotically bent, no doubt as a result of my current deprivations, both submissive and sexual. I have had a recurring dream, three times now, the first more than a month ago. What I write here is an approximation of this dream which visits me in the dead of night.

It’s a party at a hotel in some city. A banquet party. A formal affair, with women in gowns and men in suits and ties.

In the center of one of the hotel’s ballrooms, I stand alone in a vertical cage. I am completely nude. There is no particular scandal in this to the guests. It seems as if this is a common occurrence somehow.

This cage is relatively spacious, and I can turn around in it without my flesh gracing the bars. My wrists are shackled together behind my back, and my ankles are attached to a short spreader bar, just enough to spread my thighs slightly apart. I am collared, but I wear no ball-gag, so I am free to speak.

As people arrive, a hostess leads them to the middle of the ballroom to the cage where I stand. She points out the banquet table to which they’re assigned, hands them a program, then tells them my name. While a caged woman may be normal to them, I am still of interest, an erotic curiosity. They take time at my cage looking at me, until the hostess arrives with other guests.

To me it’s a profound humiliation to be kept and viewed like this. I see more and more people stream through the ballroom double-doors, and I feel for a moment a certain panic.

In my dream world where logic and consistency don’t apply, some people talk with me and others talk about me to each other. One couple engages me in a conversation about what kind of work they’re in, what I studied in school, recent travel destinations — all while they ogle my body and marvel at the sexual novelty I am. There is a normalcy to the conversation, even as I am a naked curiosity in the middle of the ballroom. Other guests treat me as if I am mute and dumb, staring and making comments to each other. One woman notes my nipple rings, in this case dangling bells that jangle as I move, while a man comments on my shaven pussy and says “The should put a ring through that.” A couple of businessmen drinking scotch-and-sodas stand side by side gazing at my flesh, providing a review of my figure — “thighs are fleshy, see?” and “full tits” but “I prefer a fuller ass…” — landing on a rating of, variably, two or three or fours stars out of five.

The dream continues as dinner is served. There are maybe two hundred people seated at a couple dozen tables. People eat, talk, and soon the room fills with the din of clanking silverware and jabbering voices.

I remain standing naked in the cage as they eat. I feel the quick peeks of people at the tables nearest me, glances of curiosity, sideways stares of lust. I look away, so as not to engage the eyes of those ogling me.

Servers and busboys hurry about, trying to focus on their business, yet many also steal glances toward me. One young server with a tray catches my eyes as I look up, and we passingly connect in a quick exchange of some sort of recognition. She is submissive, I feel, knows she could be me, and wonders if that’s a horror or a promise.

In time, dessert is served.

Taken out of my cage by the hostess, I am put on a leash and walked around to each of the many tables.

In each section of tables where I am displayed, people stop their conversations in mid-sentence and turn their heads toward me. Hands come out to touch my flesh, usually my ass cheeks and sometimes my breasts. There are comments and whispers.

There’s one unusual detail. More women reach out to touch me than do men. Perhaps men who are accompanied by a wife or girlfriend are more restrained about this. An odd observation to be aware of as I am dreaming it.

I am paraded from section to section. Each group of tables I leave resumes its chatter, perhaps about me. Each new group of tables I walk through falls into a hush.

After the meal, an emcee steps up to a low platform in front and commences a short program. He speaks of the charitable efforts of the group. I do not remember the organization’s name — not sure it’s actually spoken in my dream.

As he is speaking, the banquet hostess again takes me out of my cage and walks me on a leash to the front of the vast room. I mount the platform and stand next to the emcee, naked and high-heeled before hundreds of people. In the dream I feel deep embarrassment but also am aware of a kind of “rightness” to what is unfolding, a sense that this is what I am supposed to be and do.

The emcees speaks my name and then reads a short bio of my life. He reads from a sheet my physical measurements. He recites some of my experience as a submissive slave.

He then says, “We will open the bidding at $100,000.”

In every dream, even the subsequent iterations, this comes as a surprise and shocks me. The emcee starts into the fast-talking ramble of an auctioneer, and around the ballroom people hold up green placards on long sticks.

This is where my dream starts to disintegrate into pieces: The auction ends somehow. The hostess says to me, “There’s a couple in the back who won the bid, and they will take you home.” A man comes up and says to the hostess, “I’ll get her next time.” The emcee talks to a busboy and I overhear him saying something about suitcases in the side room.

And that’s it. I don’t remember in the dream ever seeing the couple who placed the final bid on me.

In retrospect, just for fun, I have tried to analyze the dream, but I haven’t come up with much. It obviously springs from my cage fantasies. But it’s strange that no one in the dream is anyone I recognize, all are strangers. Also, odd that Amanda is nowhere in it.

musings on orgasms

Follower John commented on my “Musings on humiliation” post, asking, “How important are orgasms to you?” At my invitation, he followed it up with some other commentary and another interesting question. So, I thought I might bring this into a blog post…. (Thank you, John.)

My immediate response was that orgasms are more important to me when I am intentionally deprived of them. That sounds a bit flippant, but it’s true.

I am not allowed to climax, except by specific permission of my dominants. This is primarily a mandate against private masturbation, and I can honestly say I haven’t masturbated alone in many years.

I say “private” because there is in my world the experience of public masturbation — my playing with myself in front of others watching. That happens occasionally, by design and permission of my Mistress. In those events, I am sometimes instructed to slow or stop in my self-administrations, allowing watchers to bring me to the edge and then pull me back. Eventually, though, who doesn’t love to watch a delayed orgasm?, and dominant others seem to get a kick out of watching mine.

John writes further of his dominant pleasure in controlling his wife’s climaxes in bed. And yes, that’s sometimes what is done with me. This is mostly at the hand of Master McKenna, who, in using me for sex, is fond of forbidding me, then watching me writhe as I try to avoid the faux pas of coming.

As women know, an orgasm itself isn’t really a measure of the pleasure a woman feels. She might not climax yet can have a deeply wonderful sex. And so, my response to John’s question “How important are orgasms to you?” is that they actually aren’t important to me as some necessary “goal” in sex.

That is, until they are. When I am forbidden an orgasm, somehow then it becomes the most important thing ever. It’s sort of like the old example “Don’t think about a purple elephant,” and thereafter that becomes the only image in your mind.

So, Master M forbids me, and it becomes the only thing I can think about, yet is the very thing I must not allow my body to do. It’s an impossible inner conflict, which he well knows. He has placed his dominant will inside me, which is another way he fucks me.

He finally gives his okay. My body releases into a wet, shuddering come. I don’t know if my orgasms then are more explosive than at other times when it’s not so… regulated, but he says they are.

There’s a similar situation that occurs, which I’ve written about — the long-term deprivation of climax over days and weeks. As much as I am used for sex, Amanda sometimes intentionally deprives me in the in-between times.

Again, an orgasm isn’t important until it is — at such times it’s the only thing you thirst for.

I do believe there are submissive orgasms distinct from physical orgasms. I have had the experience at times of a kind of climax coming from a particular confluence of submissive feelings. I may need to write about that another time…

Of course, I cannot speak to the dominant experience of controlling a submissive’s orgasms. John speaks to that well in his comment to my blog post.

But I can speak to the submissive experience of my orgasms being controlled. Giving my dominant my orgasm is in a way the ultimate submission. It emerges from the whole fabric of a submissive-slave life that is sexually defined. For me, my female sexuality is the most private and intimate aspect of my being. In my slavery, I give that to the control of others. And that’s a profound thing, whether it’s when I am taken to bed or just walking around in the course of a day, aware that my sex belongs to another.

musings on humiliation

One thing I miss being out here is the experience of being humiliated. Strangely, I long for it. I would give anything to be put in the bay window again.

I am well aware my topless sojourns in Morgan’s woods are my feeble efforts to sexualize and objectify myself. I almost hope for Mr. Morgan to traipse through someday, see me, and accost me for trespassing.

But the thing is, you can’t do it to yourself. Humiliation, that is. What I miss is the unique experience of being disgraced in obedience to dominance. It requires another. And Amanda is so good at doing it to me.

Odd to desire humiliation, isn’t it. Yet it’s always a love-loathe experience for a submissive, something euphoric in its very shame.

I have come to think that D/s, often described as power exchange, is for me more a relinquishment of dignity.

It is Amanda’s dominant pleasure to strip me of dignity as I know it. This is what thrills her. In my case, “dignity-stripping” becomes literal as my clothes come off — or perhaps it’s better said that my frequent states of undress and naked stints in the bay window are symbols of my self-esteem being stripped away.

If her only intention, though, is simply to shatter my self-esteem, that would be at best unhealthy and at worst cruel and unusual. The fact is, while she is stripping me of the dignity I once had — what I thought made me respectable — she is replacing it with a new dignity, one of submissive pride. She wants me to see my value in light of my submissive brilliance.

But while I may feel good about myself for obeying Mistress in full and ready submission, it is still humiliation — embarrassment felt deeply in cringing exposures of obeisance and acts of fleshy disgrace that never fade.

This is something not much talked about: Her humiliations of me are always there to be remembered. They never go away.

Someone observed that my bare-breasted morning appearance by the trash cans at the foot of the driveway before a crew of waste management men will be something they’ll always remember. But it’s just as much my memory, one shared with Amanda — and she and I will always know I did that, debasing myself in the eyes of strangers’ lust, on a particular day in July. It happened, and while the event is long gone, the persistent awareness is that I am a girl who does such things.

I know this, and so does she. We may live into our eighties together, but we will always have this shared knowledge of my humiliations for the memory book. Some reminisce about their trips to Europe. We share the recollections of my sexual disgrace, in great detail. “Remember the time…?” So it will go.

My humiliations live on in infamy. And in a blog.

So, humiliation is something we submissives loathe, yet how possibly can we also love it?

The answer is in the fulfillment of being submissive. I find extraordinary delight and value in obeying an order from Mistress A. When I look up at her, saying, “Yes, I obeyed you, completely and fully,” it is an accomplishment of deep satisfaction. Being a good submissive is my sweetest spot in life, and it balances the disgrace of the humiliations it requires of me.

Being humiliated is to me not an “either-or” proposition. It’s more of a “both-and.” I don’t wish to be put into the bay window naked, and yet I do. I don’t desire to be humiliated publicly, and at the same time I long for it because immersing myself in that shame is the price of my submission well done.

The cringing experience of being humiliated swirls together with the deep joy of submission to dominance. It all becomes its own thing, a kind of burning liquor you can’t get enough of.

It occurs to me that being humiliated is both an event and way of life.

There was the time I served lemonade topless to a crew of sweaty landscape men, and that was clearly an event, staged by Amanda for my sexual display. Such experiences are the most memorable, the images that make it into the memory book.

But what I find myself longing for now are not the notable scenes from the highlight reel, rather the daily experience of living in constant subservience, of my slow, dripping abasement in being sexualized hour by hour through the routine of days. This is about having to stand and wait with a coffee tray in the morning, being made to live in high heels, sitting and standing in the precise ways I’ve been taught to by a dominant man, wearing frightfully short skirts, and being kept always at the level of a slave.

It is the whole life that immerses me in quiet humiliation. A life I do not now have. This is really the humiliation I miss right now. What I so long for sitting in Morgan’s Woods.

housekeeping

…as in tidying up Mother’s house and tidying up things in my life…

Mother always kept a clean and tidy house, but because of her physical issues in recent months she has not kept up. I am not a clean-freak by any means, though I am more bothered by clutter, which Mother tends to have in spades. None of this matters except to say that out here I have had something of a side job in housekeeping and that in the housework I find a slight measure of submissive pleasure.

I dress in a simple, belted floral shirtdress, and high heels. Lately I’ve been wearing thigh-top stockings, with wide lace bands hugging my upper thighs. Of course, I am without bra and panties underneath. As such, I go about my housewifey duties with a sense of sexual servitude. As I vacuum the carpets, I find a sliver of submissive thrill in knowing I am ready and available if someone were to dominantly take me.

I know — it’s kind of lame, but I need a little something.

I have been to the store several times now for clothes shopping. Again, I have refrained from buying intimates, but I have bought skirts and tops and a couple shirtdresses. Amanda has shipped out some clothes as well, so I have an adequate wardrobe of outfits here now.

I now have standing wardrobes of outfits here, back home in Colorado, at Master M’s mansion, and, still, at Kevin’s house.

I’m not sure what that means.

A little blog business…

When I came out here to Pennsylvania, I imagined my stay to be about two weeks. I started this series “Postcards from the Edge,” thinking it would encompass my stay here and be short-lived. But obviously that prognosis has changed. I will be here for some time more.

So, I’m leaving that series titling and moving on. I’ll leave those posts intact with those titles but will blog now under other titles.

Even so, I will be writing more about my conversations with Jeremy. Past and future: we will continue to get together at the diner for coffee and conversation.

As must be obvious, I am energized by Jeremy’s probing curiosity. We have settled into a comfort zone in our talk. Or maybe better said, I have become freely open with him about the specifics of my sexual slavery.

Jeremy has a girlfriend he wants me to meet. I expect he’s needing to assure her that his interest in me is Platonic, although it is clearly prurient as well.

I continue to go to my spot in the woods not far, take off my top, and sit with my notebook. It is a nature thing for me, but also nostalgic — as being bare-breasted is in some way my communion with Amanda, who always keeps me this way. I imagine her watching.

It is in fact private property, known as “Morgan’s Woods,” but seems to be a vast amount of untended acreage in a remote area. I suppose there’s some chance that a Mr. Morgan might stumble upon me here as he his walking his land.

The issue is whether I am wary of that or hoping for it.

postcards from the edge: 12

Jeremy asks if anyone in Mother’s community knows about my lifestyle.

“No. Not yet.”

“Will you tell some people eventually?”

“Not sure.” I list for him some names of people who circle around Mom and me, helpers and providers who have been a godsend. I tell Jeremy I don’t know in what circumstance my lifestyle would come up with them, when there would be an opening for me to come out to them. “It doesn’t matter to anyone until I tell, and then it will suddenly matter and become a thing.”

“I imagine,” he says, “people will wonder more when Amanda visits. That could prompt some questions.”

I have thought of that, knowing how Amanda is with people. “Yes, and she has a way of exposing me to strangers and making it sound just dandy.” I smile, sip my coffee. “By the way, she wants to meet you.”

“I’d like that,” he says.

He is full of questions, some I’m accustomed to and others that make me think. He asks me to suggest a word or short phrase describing each of my dominants — Michael, Amanda, Kevin, and McKenna.

I tilt my head at him, thinking. This is kind of a new one.

“Not their character,” he adds, “but their style with you, how they, ah, use you.”

I start with Kevin. He’s the easiest. “Heavy,” I say. “Not meaning his weight but how he was with me… And I mean in the first phase with him, when I was his slave…”

“Not later when you were his escort.”

I pause a moment, surprised somehow that Jeremy is readily identifying me as an escort. I was, of course, an escort to Kevin, and his use of the term isn’t inappropriate, just a bit startling to hear him say it. “Right,” I reply, “the earlier time. He was very physical with me, not harsh, but forceful — heavy — my body against a wall or… on the padded horse. It was thudding and heavy with him.”

“How about McKenna?”

Again I have to think. “Master M is ‘functional’ with me. He uses me as his clerical aide, personal assistant, barmaid, server, masseuse, and… sex toy. I’m utilitarian to him, not impersonally, but functionally. He has needs as an executive and as a red-blooded male, and he uses me to satisfy them.”

Jeremy nods. He doesn’t probe more deeply on those two. Maybe he’ll swing back around with follow-up questions.

“As for Amanda,” I continue, “she’s, of course, so many things to me. I can’t really reduce her to one word or phrase.”

“I understand that you two have many relationships. But just as your dominant. What word comes to mind?”

Again, Jeremy surprises me. I think of my relationship with Amanda as having various dimensions or facets. I don’t think of what we are as being multiple relationships, plural. Maybe it’s not a meaningful difference. But then again, perhaps it’s something for me to chew on later.

“Well,” I finally say, “for Amanda’s dominance of me, the word has to be ‘exposure,’ physically and psychologically. And maybe more fully, ‘social exposure.’ She wants to share me with the world. One neighborhood at a time.”

Jeremy laughs.

I am stumped coming up with a one-word description of Michael. I tell Jeremy that I’m tempted to use the word “romantic,” but it was more romantic for me at first, then it wasn’t, then it became romantic again in a different way. “But I think that was all me, not him.”

I think some more. “Mentor,” I finally say. “Michael was my mentor in D/s. I was completely green entering into the D/s life with him. He showed me how to do it, what to expect and what was expected. What it was and what it wasn’t. He was a tutor of my submissiveness in action.”

As we move out of the conversation, I want to add more words to each of my dominants.

Kevin was “spiritual” with me in some way, which I’ve written about a couple of times. The very carnal physicality of his heavy treatments of me had a corresponding spirituality.

Master M’s uses of me are indeed functional, but they also are accompanied by sideways glances and a wink here and there that suggest he appreciates me as a partner in his humiliations of me.

Amanda is certainly far more to me than just one phrase. Obviously. Her exposures of me are indeed most prominent in my daily life, but her relationship(s) with me are diverse and fulfilling.

I cannot reduce any of them to one word or phrase.

It is later that Jeremy circles back to Master Michael. “You never wrote that much about him on your blog.”

“When Michael suggested I start the blog,” I explain, “it was late in my tenure with him. I’d been with him for a couple years before that, but the blog started almost at the end of things with him.”

“You should go back,” Jeremy suggests, “and write more about him.”

“Maybe I will.”

postcards from the edge: 11

I wake up every morning having to tell myself I can do this. I am managing, but I feel lost. Underneath this current role of “responsible adult” trying to make momentous decisions for a parent, I am just a hopelessly submissive girl longing to crawl back into her simple life of slavery.

I think that during these past six slave years I have “unlearned” certain life skills: the making of big choices, the art of leading others into my better judgments for the future, the pushing of financial buttons according to my best wisdom. These do not come naturally to me anymore.

In my recent slave years, my biggest choices in life have been in the supermarket — which flavor of ice cream to buy for Amanda.

I sit in a meeting with doctors, and the options presented to me are obviously a world more weighty than a simple supermarket choice. I sift through their jargon and somehow figure it out. Slave-training, apparently hasn’t made me stupid. I’m an intelligent woman even when sitting naked and spread-legged in a bay window (although some might question my intelligence for doing so).

I’m no dumber than before, but there are leadership muscles that haven’t been used for, like, forever. Slavery has trained me in other directions. Now in a small examination room across from medical experts, it aches me to make even just one of a half-dozen choices. Still, I get through them somehow. Push some buttons. Move everything forward.

But tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and have to coach myself into another day of making important decisions.

Truth be told, in that frozen food aisle, even that wasn’t a decision. Between butterscotch praline and French vanilla, I usually bought both. One for us to eat, the French vanilla for Amanda to lick off my breasts.

This now is such a different life.

postcards from the edge: 10

I will be seeing Jeremy again this afternoon. I look forward to it. He engages me in deeper conversation, is fascinated by my lifestyle, and is non-judgmental. His questions reconnect me to my slaveness. If sometimes his probings are explicitly personal, it is a humiliation I am starved for.

Amanda has instructed me to be fully open to Jeremy’s questions, to answer in the fullest detail. She knows this puts me in a kind of submission to him, as much as is possible in Q&A over coffee in a Pennsy diner.

This is a tidbit from my first time with him:

He says: “You write a lot about ‘being used.’ Most of the time, it’s in connection with one of your dominants having you sexually. Sometimes it’s in regard to other services. It seems so self-deprecating… I’m not sure what I’m asking… It’s just curious to me, and I wonder how you think of yourself that way, how you cope with the idea of being used.”

It’s a really good observation and question. I take a moment before answering, collecting my responses as I sip my coffee. “Well, first, I really do think of myself as someone’s property. It’s not a pretend thing or a roleplay. That is what you agree to in a D/s relationship. It’s what a dominant desires — to literally own someone. So I really am property, and I really am used in that sense.”

“Do your dominants see you as an object or as a human being, a woman?”

Another good question. “To them,” I reply, “I am both, but not an object at one time, a woman at another time. I am both all the time. A ‘woman object,’ so to speak… Mistress A and Master M use me just as they use their other object things — car, computer, TV. I am likewise functional to them, but in human form…”

“With the added function of being sexual.”

“Yes.”

“I would imagine that owning a woman like you, Shae, to readily use for sexual purposes, is the ultimate in the dominant experience.”

I take a moment, unsure if he is suggesting I myself am some ultimate sexual experience (which am not), or that using a slave as an object for sex is an ultimate dominant experience. “Perhaps,” I finally reply, “although there are many D/s relationships that aren’t sexual at all. Often the pleasure comes just in the owning, I think.”

He circles back to his original comment: “So when you say you are used, what is the dynamic of that between you and your dom?”

“It’s a sense — for both of us, I think — that they are doing something with me or to me that is non-relational, regarding me not as a person but as an object. More purely functional. I think, for them such uses of me are experiences that underscore their ownership of me as property— ”

“Which serves their particular dominant pleasure.”

“I think so.”

“I’d think the ultimate experience then, is in you being used for sex. You’re being an object available to your dominant for sex at any time. That’s maybe most extreme example of being used.”

I blush, aware of the incongruity of talking with Jeremy about myself as a sexual object. “Maybe, although I’ve come to see sex differently than I used to… But yes, it’s a unique experience for others to see me solely as an object of sexual opportunity. I don’t object to that. But it is a special form of being sexualized and objectified.”

“But is it demeaning to you, or do you find pleasure in it?”

I laugh. “Yes… and yes. It’s deeply satisfying to me, as a submissive, to be an object owned and used for sex. That maybe is another conversation — why I find that fulfilling — but I just do… Yet it’s also demeaning, of course. Deeply so. Which is the constant contradiction of the slave life — finding pleasure and humiliation in the same thing.”

“How do you handle that, being constantly demeaned?”

“For me, I try to find my worth in it. I hold to the thought I am a good submissive in what I do, that I am living up to my dominant’s expectations of me.”

“That you are a good sexual object.”

“Sexual or in other terms, serving, or just being. I find meaning just in being a good, owned object, so to speak.”

“That almost sounds vocational. Like you take pride in your job.”

“Sort of,” I say. “Though it’s not a job you walk away from. It’s a unique life that I like to think I do well. The challenge is that other people don’t see or understand the pride I might have in being used. To them it’s just about witnessing my debasement and humiliation. And then about their judging me. I struggle with how I am seen by others.”

“Understandable,” Jeremy says. “How do you handle that?”

I chuckle. “Not well. It’s always an issue for me. the public perception. From those who know what I am and judge me for it.”

“It’s a hard lifestyle for folks to understand. It violates what they know. It’s very contrary.”

“I know. I haven’t forgotten how I used to think of it when I was vanilla. Early on.”

One thing I like about Jeremy is how he keeps on point in conversation. Sometimes a person will meander forever in talking with me, and I lose track of where it’s all going. Jeremy keeps circling his subject — the experience of my being used — and he returns to it once more here at the end.

“So, for you,” he summarizes, “being used is fulfilling precisely because it is demeaning.”

I smile. I think he gets it.

postcards from the edge: 9

Life has settled into a quieter rhythm. Mother is doing well, though that’s a relative scale — she will not get “better” but is holding her own. She needs me every day but not all the time every day. I’m able to go out, take walks, and have my topless respites in the woods nearby which somehow connect me to who I am.

I have received a number of ideas for Amanda’s distance-domination of me. Thank you. I’ll keep the suggestion box open for another week. At that time I’ll post the ideas here and note who contributed them.

And yes, I will send all of them to Amanda for her, ah, possible use.

Amanda, by the way, will be coming out to Pennsylvania in two weeks. She will stay for about five days. She and I will then talk about some of the big issues of our lives going forward: my status with Mother, her continuing visits out here, perhaps another place here that might be a second home to Amanda.

No doubt, it will also be a time for her to establish some remote-domination practices based on suggestions from you.

Some have asked: yes, I will post more of my diner discussions with Jeremy.

I might say a little more about him, though I need to be careful not to reveal too much. Jeremy has a day job in a web development firm for small businesses and startups. He is not on the tech side of that, although he knows his way around the programming of a website. His job is in talking with clients about the “story” they wish to project that appeals in the best way to the clients they are seeking. This is interesting to me — the junction of creative writing and marketing and visual design — so when we are not talking about me, our conversation often goes into that part of his work.

On the side, Jeremy does some writing for small independent papers. These are human-interest articles, apparently, pertaining to local neighborhoods in the city. He says he wrote one article about a magician and another about a guy who does an act involving the swallowing of sharp objects. (Ugh.)

Jeremy has a thought he might write an article about me. I don’t know if that’s a real thing or more of an excuse to sit with me and ask explicit questions. I’m not local, and I’m not a circus act. But, whatever.

In any case, we are continuing our “conversation about moi” once again at the same diner this Thursday. He is curious, whatever his reasons, and I confess at this point I am all too eager for anything that touches my submissiveness and slave life.

I am slowly getting back to writing and am trying to respond to all who have reached out to me so kindly during this time. If I haven’t responded to you lately, I regret that, but will aim to reconnect in the next week or so.

One of the “problems” of writing now is that I don’t have my active slave life to write about. My life is suddenly boring.

I will be going to the grocery today. Maybe there’s something of interest there to write about…

postcards from the edge: 8

I find myself sitting with him in a diner in Northeastern Pennsylvania.

Jeremy seems intensely curious about my life. He has a journalist’s sensibility, at least some of his inquisitiveness comes from this natural bent — on the surface his interest in me is the same “how does this work?” drive that compels his interest in a lot of subjects.

But his fascination goes beyond that. I can feel it. His curiosity is personal as well, with an undercurrent of prurience, his natural vibe of being a warm-blooded male.

Which is fine. I told him so.

We spend an hour catching up — about me and Mom, as well as the latest on our college cohort friends. Jeremy is the self-appointed secretary of our dispersed group, the historian of that which is no longer.

He’s an energetic conversationalist, animated and driving, yet able to pause and think and verbally turn on a dime.

Conversation shifts to me, my life as a submissive. He eases into it, but it’s this he wants to get into, the real reason, I know, for this date in a diner.

He holds a rare place in the world as one who knew me in my pre-sub life back in college and, via my blog, knows my life now. I am not used to this, coming face to face with someone who used to know me when “I lived normal” and now is privy to my most personal intimacies.

He requests permission to ask about my life as a slave.

In this, I feel a humiliation in front of him. But somehow, it’s a humiliation I long for — while here, I’ve gone without the daily experience of submissive self-awareness, the particular cocktail of shame and pride that is a slave’s drink addiction. So this from him is a welcome though blushing taste of submissive feeling, tempting me to take the glass he’s offering.

I say yes, it’s okay.

Jeremy jumps in: “What fascinates me about your slave life is the sex part. Being shared, as you call it. Randomly.”

I laugh. “You don’t waste time getting into it.”

“Well, you know me. This is what I am, what I do.”

It occurs to me I could say the same. He is what he is — documentarian-inquisitor. I am what I am, submissive-slave-girl — and a string of other identifiers. We come face-to-face over coffee in thick, cream-colored porcelain mugs.

“I wouldn’t say ‘randomly,’” I reply (although I realize I’ve used that word in my writing about this). “She has her purposes, intentions. These are relationships, friends. Not strangers.”

“But they’re the people around you both that you wouldn’t otherwise choose to have sex with.”

“Yes… It’s part of being owned, of course. She can have me do what she wishes. But it would be sex with people she knows. I don’t think it’s random on her part, though. Maybe more ‘whimsical.’”

“She’s not pointing to some stranger on the street and having you sleep with him. Not random that way.”

“Exactly.”

“But Kevin was a stranger to you when he first had you. I think it was the first day you met him. McKenna was a stranger too.”

“Yes, as to Kevin. Master McKenna was more of a process before… his first sex with me.” It’s a strange feeling that I am talking with Jeremy intimately about my sex life. We are way beyond the “What’s a girl like you doing in a life like this?” routine. He already knows that. He’s read my life. Through my writings, I’ve invited him into the rooms where I’m used for sex. He’s watched.

“I’m just fascinated,” he says, “that the extent of your submission goes to giving yourself for sex with others like this. This is intense stuff.”

I nod, sip my coffee. “On the one hand, Amanda having sex-control of me is ultimate D/s. But on the other hand, the act of sex is really not the main point of things in my slavery. It’s more just a consequential outcome.”

“Say more.”

“Well, the drama in the D/s relationship is in the challenge ‘will you be so submissive to me that you will do this?’ between a domme and her sub. Will you — and you can fill in the blank—”

“Wear a collar, kneel at my feet, go topless…”

“Right. And so when Amanda says, ‘On my command, will you go so far as to have sex with this person over here….’ that command and my obedience is the real event in itself. I say yes, and that’s the primary moment for everything. If she knows I will do so, then she is pretty much satisfied in her desire for dominant control… whether or not she executes the order. And we do this all the time in public, with Mistress pointing out someone, say, in a city park whom she imagines me with, and my saying yes, I would. It never happens, and it is our D/s fun, but we both are serious that it could take place… But if and when something does happen with others in our world, my actual sex with this other person would be simply the outcome.”

“I’m sure the other person would like to be more than you two filling in your own blanks.”

“Of course, and it would be more than that. For me, sex has to be personal and intimate and meaningful, even when it would be arranged. She knows I need that.”

Jeremy looks around for the waitress. We both need refills… He turns back to me: “You say that sex is not the main point, and yet you consider yourself a sex slave.”

So often his words are a statement not a question, a description offered for me to agree or disagree with. “Well, first,” I reply, “Amanda can and does herself have me for sex however and whenever she wants. So, there’s that… But additionally, the real core of my slavery is in how I am sexualized. I am objectified, made sexual in front of others, displayed publicly in sexual ways. All of that is really what makes me a sex slave. I am defined by my submissive sexuality. That is what drives me deeply, is satisfying to Amanda, and what is erotic to others… Sex with others is not really the main thing.”

I feel, though, in saying that I may be protesting too much. Amanda does think that my serving others sexually is part of my sexualization as a sex slave. But I let that drop.

Instead, I go on to remind Jeremy that my being shared hasn’t really much happened yet, so much of this is hypothetical.

“But you yourself have written,” he says, “that you’re on the cusp of that. It seems Amanda will take you there soon. So you’ve said.”

I wonder how I feel about his referencing my own blog words back at me. But he is right. “Yes,” I say quietly. “She will.”

The waitress comes around and refills our coffee.

We’re going to be here awhile.