the meaning of home

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

surprise

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

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

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

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

The main thing was that he had me topless.


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


Still, there were commercials and half-time.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


Two things were interesting in those moments.

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

other things this week

There was something new Friday, uneventful but different.

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

something special

There is something special about it being leisurely, not subject to time or purpose. It is the slow delicacy of these moments that yield such pleasure, the quiet ease with which the act unfolds into casual, unhurried attentions of touch and tongue. It becomes a sensuous quiet, seemingly endless like a dream.

He pays no mind to me, reading and reviewing papers in his chair during my doings, and it’s better that way, my administrations then having no expectation. What happens or not will be what it is or isn’t, and there’s no need for it to be more. It becomes less of an act of intention and more a plane of existence.

Mine are the caresses of adoration, a celebration of his manhood. It is real for me, this personal devotion — an obsession, for one thing, to kiss and coddle men’s cocks, which I could do forever, but also a worship of him uniquely, the specific “Master M” cock he bears that drives his manhood and mastery of me. He joys in both — laughingly making fun of my compulsion for cock in general and quietly receiving my wonder and awe at his cock specifically. He knows now I will think of this in moments apart and dream of him in darkness of night.

I thrill as I take one of his balls between my lips, knowing that the source of his manhood — this engine of his leadership of companies around the world and of his control of me— is swathed in my wet liquid warmth. I hold him there gently on my tongue as if a precious gem.

I breathe deeply as I nurse his soft firmness. Slowly, without need, it’s my fingers first, touching points at the base then along his shaft, as if I’m playing a ballad on a guitar. I kiss his tip, tasting him, sweet and smoky, then softly place my kisses along the length of his shaft, both wrinkled and tight, veiny and smooth. This something-special quality that a cock possesses — to be opposite things at the same time — mesmerizes me always.

I can’t help but think of him inside me below. A cock, even semi-erect, forecasts its own destination. And in the case of Master M, he is willing to wield it upon me, brandish his sword into my vagina, and dominate my sex. But while it’s compelling to think about that, I remind myself of the simple pleasure of this having no motive and no end game. It’s about the journey, slow and meandering. I need not detour this into a fucking of me, for god’s sake, of which there is no shortage, nor do I need to entice it.

Licks and kisses for the longest time before taking him in my mouth. Many more minutes — fifteen, twenty? — of my tongue encircling just its head, entranced by its smooth yet coarse texture, like fine sandpaper. Moments of my lips gracing his tip, an oral meditation interspersed with silences, as if I’m praying the rosary.

I realize it’s now been a while since I attended to his balls, and like a girl playing with imaginary friends, I go back to them, precious souls, tilting my head close, silently apologizing for my neglect and comforting them once again with my juices.

His softness becomes hard, a metaphor for his dominance of me. I guide his erection between my lips and across my tongue, wrapping my cheeks around him. I hold him there, closing my eyes. If my attentions are worship, this moment is right at the very gates of heaven.

There is a unique sensuality that comes from not being hurried, something special in the experience of a cocksucking lasting an hour or more… like a long bath. In time, every inch of his cock and balls are slathered with my wet — my dripping wet. His cock now glistens in the light of the lamp he reads by.

It isn’t the point but it happens, and as I slowly slide my mouth back along his shaft, my lips catching slightly on the ridge around his cock head, he starts to come. It burbles up warm from within him, like the thick lava of a slow volcano, not violently erupting, but rolling out, oozing upon ooze, leaving dollops inside my mouth and on my tongue, then over my lips like gloss, and down my chin like liquid sugar.

This is not, as in other times with a purpose, the end of the affair. I continue, first collecting his cream from my face and lips, capturing it all and making it a part of me. I clean his shaft with my tongue, careful not yet to lick his head, so sensitive after, but I attend to him there later.

And there is a “later,” and a “more,” my journey with his wondrous cock continuing until it settles heavy in my hand and my head rests on his thigh and my eyes close into dreamy bliss.

work week

This week for him is a work week, and so it is also for me as his assistant, which I’m sure others in the house place in air quotes: “assistant.” I expected to do work for him as before and am glad for it, even though my tasks are clerical and mundane.

I think the submissive life is more pleasurable when it’s enacted through work. I am a passive body and soul in slavery, by nature and training receptive and absorbent, but passivity is not the same as idleness. Doing office work translates me into actions, through which my submissiveness is viewed by him. And it turns out, others.

What has made it more adventurous for me this week is that he has often kept me half-dressed. Of course, Amanda keeps me this way often back home, but for the most part we don’t have relative strangers wandering into the house freely at all hours of the day and night. This here is different.

Monday morning, he said: “By having your tits out, people will know you are my slave girl.”

I replied: “I’d have thought they’d get that idea clearly enough from my metal slave collar and half-leash… sir.”

We have found between us this kind of softly barbed conversation, this gentle repartee. It’s new in my submission to him. It started right away Sunday night, as if it had grown by some sort of osmosis during my absence. He likes my ironical comebacks, though I’m careful to stay away from the edges of defiance. My mind works this way, and it’s lovely he allows me this space with him.

I have come to think of it like this: I must yield him my body at all times but I am allowed to speak my mind, albeit carefully and selectively. My body is passive and yielding, yet my mind is a touch feisty. He likes this.

Anyway, I suppose my clerical work of (usually) report-making has several purposes, not the least of which is that actual reports have to be made for real meetings. There’s also the purpose of keeping me out of his hair often enough during his daily business. He doesn’t want to have to tend to me in the midst of tending his businesses, but he likes seeing me bustle around being active (not idle) — and “with my tits out” to signify to the clueless what I actually am.


Strangely, he has been having me wear longer skirts for my day work — longer being a relative term, just not micro-mini — simple, A-line skirts hemmed to just above my knees.

I have quite a wardrobe here now, ironic in that I don’t wear bras or panties and, often, a bare minimum of anything else. But I have a bedroom with closets and an armoire filled with possibilities — clothing I might rarely wear sometime. This is my bedroom and wardrobe even when I’m not here. The thing is, whatever the folly of keeping a wardrobe in my life of undress here in the mansion, it gives me a feeling this is a place where I belong.

Amanda helped me build this wardrobe, of course, and for this visit she helped pack more to add to it. In consultation with Master M, Amanda packed one of the suitcases herself, keeping it blind to me, and I packed another of what I expected to need along with some toiletries to complement what I already have here. A-line skirts and blazers were in the suitcase she packed, outfits requested by Master M, a mystery box to be discovered by me Monday morning. This was all a thing between them.

So, today, for instance, I am wearing an A-line business skirt in navy blue. Matching blue pumps, office-appropriate. I also sport a matching blue blazer, sharp and dignified. All of it seemingly proper except for that fact I’m not wearing a top underneath. The blazer opens into a wide V in front, its center button not contributing much to my respectability. Besides which, the blazer is frequently, on and off during the day, made optional by him — that is, it’s his option to have me take it off entirely.

I don’t ask why — in these sorts of things men have mysterious associations they entertain themselves with — better to not know the images they imagine. I assume, though, that Master wants the appearance of business propriety with the hint of scandal behind a barely buttoned blazer. Or that he just likes the picture of his lowly business assistant openly and unapologetically sexualized. Or that he enjoys the look of a clerical assistant trying to do real work and struggling to appear normal. Normal, for everyone else is a business suit. Normal, for me, is half a business suit.

He also likes the control: at times during the day, he tells me to take off my blazer, and I go about my business fully topless. It is specifically intended to humiliate me in a new way — which it does well enough — his half-dress of me making me blush into splotches between my breasts and above, tell-tale and embarrassingly obvious, his way of featuring me in the mansion as his part-time employee and full-time sex toy.


A lot of my work for him is copying.

He has in the mansion a small room dedicated to office machines — a copier, two printers (one laser, one color), a notebook binder machine, and a spare computer on a table for visitors’ use. This is not used much by anyone else during my times here, though was used frequently at the retreat and would possibly be of use for guests staying the night.

I make reports — complex reports of many pages interspersed with color charts and inserts. These need to be printed in parts, then collated and assembled, then spiral-bound into a notebook handout. And that would be one report times fifteen or twenty copies. There are different reports as well, maybe two or three a day, although I expect some of this demand piled up over the holidays and during my convalescence.

I’m not complaining but describing: I spend a lot of my time in the copy room, glad to be busy and not strung up by chains in the corner of the Great Room where I’d be kept idle and rendered merely decorative.

At the same time, it is here in the copy room that I am most self-aware of my toplessness — my work requiring me much of the time to look down at a copier or at the piles of printouts on the table I am collating. I see my bared breasts full and pale looming over the copier or jutting into my piles on the table, my orbed flesh pressed against plastic and metal. Sometimes, as I collect a swath of pages and tap the edges on the table to align them, the paper flicks my nipple, one or the other, sending a little kind of feeling through me.

One has to be careful of paper cuts.


His posse of mansion help and business colleagues have been in and out all week. Their access and randomness of walking in on me with him is the nature of this place and of his lifestyle. He is open about himself, his work, and his dominant lifestyle. He expects me to be so too.

So, to put it bluntly, most of them have seen my tits this week.

But, of course, that’s not the full of it, for it’s all about the context. If I were his wife, walking through the mansion in an open bathrobe, that would be one thing. If I were, somehow, the entertainment for a group of board members, a stripper, say, dancing for an event, that would be one thing. If I were differently dressed, say with a spaghetti-strapped top under an open business blazer, and if my strap broke, my boob becoming uncovered and flashing briefly, that also would be one thing. Breasts happen.

But for me to work in the mansion openly topless all the time, my status known to all as the submissive-slave I am, a life that most do not understand or approve of — that’s another thing entirely.

Maria, the housekeeper, friendly to me and lifestyle-curious, saw me walking about topless on Monday, and she raised her eyebrows but smiled warmly. Jeffers, the landscaper who lives outside mostly but likes to peer through windows at me, has gotten his eyefuls. He’s a little creepy but harmless. Mr. Galli, Master McKenna’s business manager, witnessed my being spanked my last time here and my nakedness in that event. He was here Monday, his usual day, and met with Master as I took notes for the two of them… while I was topless.

I never get used to it. Not really. You get past the immediate urges to cover up and the automatic blushing from being seen by yet someone else or someone new. But, again, it’s the context of my being bared because of my subservience that cringes — the image of me as one who has to obey him, being the submissive I am, one who has this need to be dominated to such an extent that I give myself to be humiliated in front of others like this.

Lest I forget, there is Phyllis, the caterer, who despises me and delights in my debasement. She has popped into the Great Room from time to time, ostensibly to ask McKenna a question about meals. Yes, it is true that her normal schedule has her coming to the mansion later in the afternoons when Master is active with me: she preps dinner then and stocks the fridge for breakfast and lunch the next day. So, it is natural perhaps for her to nose into the Great Room between four and six each day. Yet that’s the also time when Master starts a working happy hour which involves bourbon and work calls — and doing things to me. Phyllis seems to walk in at times when I am strung up naked and subject to “corporal humiliation,” as he puts it. She pretends not to notice, ignoring me with a sniff of dismissiveness, and I swear she bears a slight smile as she is walking out.


Later in the week — well, Thursday — Master M said: “I’m tired of seeing your tits.”

I said: “I don’t think anyone in my entire life has ever said that to me.”

He smiled: “Put a top on.”

“Will be interesting to see how long this lasts,” I reply.

later Sunday evening

I cannot possibly write everything that has happened this week. And there are days with him yet to come. But I will write what I can.

Back to the Sunday night of my arrival: this is about one conversation, several floggings, and a very sweet subspace.


After my three comes, so hair-triggered and urgent, Master M leashes me and walks me through the mansion into the Great Room. I’ve written about the Great Room before — a massive space that would dominate me even if the man wasn’t here. I am a small body of female flesh, soft orbs of breasts and cheeks, dwarfed by the immense expanse of hard old wood, heavy leather chairs, and, again, a ceiling that reaches to God.

But, of course, he is here. He has me stand high-heeled in the open middle, my hands behind my head, commanding me not to take any step forward. He then pulls a flogger from out of nowhere and snaps its flat leather tails against a leather chair, yielding a sharp-sounding crack.

He takes the flogger to my ass, lightly at first. He paused and walked in front of me: “Do you know why I’m flogging you?”

“Because I came without your permission. I’m embarrassed that I did.”

“And why did that happen? I barely touched you.”

“You had to know I would. I haven’t had… anything… for three months.”

“Oh… you poor baby,” he says mockingly.

I say nothing, my hands behind my head, my legs together and perched on tall heels, and my eyes locked into his.

“Do you know there are many people who don’t have orgasms for years? And you complain about a few months.” His tone is gently derisive, yet warm, almost jokey, and I play into the feel of it.

“They aren’t like me, though.” I remind myself and add belatedly: “Sir.”

“You mean they’re not an insatiable cunt and closet whore like you?”

I can’t help but form a wry grin: “I was reaching for a nicer way to say it.”

Master M chuckles. He’s loving the repartee: “And what would that be?”

“Maybe simply that I am more sexual than most… kept this way to be hyper-sexual… and when I am not permitted to for so long under circumstances, it’s more difficult.”

“Or maybe you’re just an insatiable cunt.”

“Yes, that’s shorter to say, sir.”

He chuckles again and circles me, his flogger in hand. It being Sunday night, it’s the end of a weekend for him. He works some on Saturdays, but Sunday is usually his down time, play time. And now his toy has come for a visit.

“I want to think that, if you were visiting me after being deprived even for a full year, you would still not climax until I gave you permission. Maybe something to train you on… I could work it out with Amanda — maybe a New Year’s resolution — no orgasms for you in 2022. Not even when she gives you to everyone.”

“I’d like to request we not try that, sir,” I say.

He smiles. “Why not?” The answer is obvious, but he wants to hear what I come up with.

“It would also deprive you and Mistress from watching me in orgasm. I know you love that so much.”

Master M erupts in laughter and has to walk over to the leather chair to sit down. He looks back at me with smiles and a faint shake of the head. “What am I going to do with you?” he says with feigned exasperation.

“Oh, I think you already have that figured out… sir.”


There are then three rounds of his flogging me — one for each of my comes, he says. He makes it clear he is not punishing me for having orgasms but for having them without permission: “You know what you should have done.”

“Yes, sir. I should have asked you for permission.”

The first round is gentle, blushing my ass cheeks. The second is harder, making them redden, though short of welting me. I welcome the dull sting and absorb his pleasure into my pain, but the challenge is to stay standing and not to step forward from the weight of his blows. I manage to keep my stance.

The third flog is across my breasts. He has me tilt my head back and to the side, away from his direction, and he takes the flogger to my tits, gently but endlessly, as if experimenting with how he can make them jiggle with the flick of the tails.

Three rounds, three flogs. Three times a lady.


Afterward, he pours himself a bourbon, lights a cigar, and has me sit on the floor beside him in the leather chair. When his cigar is in his mouth, his hand plays with my hair. I lean my head against his pant leg.

I am in a sub-space now, long awaited and now realized — not only a coming-down from my comes but also a deep submissive satisfaction from being male-dominated after so long without. It is a moment of being utterly abandoned into his control of me, without fear and yet with respect of his physical mastery, trained as he wants me, sexually open with him in every way at any time, and feeling profoundly submitted to his uses and humiliations.

He tells me to sit facing him. I scoot over, curling my legs under me as I fit myself between his legs. He puffs his cigar and tells me a few things about the week ahead. There is silence then, not awkward but a solemn communion. I am trembling, not from sexual need nor fear, but from sheer delight in being submissively there with him. Before him. Inside him.

“I want you to suck me.”

Without words, I unzip him, pull him out already half-erect, and take his cock into my mouth. I find a slow rhythm in the quiet, him in the chair and me between his legs, alone in the massive expanse of the Great Room.

Master M sips his bourbon, tilts his head back, and puffs his cigar into the air above.

first hour

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

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

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

“You have no idea.”

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

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

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

“Good. Take off your clothes.”

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

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

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

He looks at me for the longest time in silence.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I did.”

“Yes, of course. You probably did.”

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

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

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

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

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


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

“You shaved yourself for me,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I come again.

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

it’s become clear…

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


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

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

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

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

That’s a beautiful thing.


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

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

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

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

“Nice, that.”

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

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

“You passed beyond innocent and respectable years ago.”

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


We talked about her sharing me.

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

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

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

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


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

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

That may be where we are now.

In any case, it’s become clear now…

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

I’m OK with that.

therapy things

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


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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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


One takeaway:

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

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

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

So you see why this is complex.