Blake, forgetting, and my punishment

I truly would rather not write this post, but I have to…

The last time I posted about Blake, I mentioned that Mistress Amanda told me to report whenever he had a time with me, our “dates,” as Mistress likes to call them. She didn’t order me to provide full descriptions, but she told me to report each and every time this occurs.

Well, Blake had another “date” with me a week ago, Tuesday.

I regret to say I failed to report it as I had been ordered.

Mistress addressed this with me this morning. As usual, I was ready with her service tray at 7:15, and after pouring her coffee, she sternly directed me out to the patio. She sat, told me to stand. “You haven’t reported your cocksucking of Blake last Tuesday,” she said. “It was my order. You failed to do it, Shae.”

My heart sank.

Mistress said she does not expect me to post these “notifications” within hours, or a day, or even two days of my servicing Blake. But this went seven days. “It’s now been more than a week since you cocksucked him, Shea,” she said, “and you’re now only aware of your failure because I had to remind you.”

She went on to say it was cause for punishment.

I apologized. I just plain forgot. I admitted to her that her original order was clear, that it had registered with me then, and that I knew I was supposed to do it. But, I have been a little distracted of late, with the sharing, Stacy, and my McKenna time, and my new gig at the Savannah ranch with horses.

Mistress said none of that is an excuse.

I said I wanted her to know it was not an intentional defiance. No, I don’t want to have to report out every time, I said, but I wouldn’t defy her order for that. “It won’t happen again,” I promised. “I’ll post a notification right away.” I begged her to give me grace.

She made it clear she already had given me grace, a full week of it, waiting for me to post this. I never did.

I had no reply, no defense. Hers was a clear and direct order. I failed to obey it.

So I regret to tell everyone I am now going to be punished for this.

Mistress further lectured me this morning about a deeper problem: “I have the feeling,” she said, “that you ‘forgot’ my order because it was something you wanted to forget.”

I protested: “I’ve willingly submitted to servicing Blake every few weeks.”

She drilled down into it: “Because, Shae, that part you actually like. But the part of reporting out on it you don’t like. You like giving blowjobs because of the slut you are. You don’t like the reporting of it because you don’t like being seen as the slut you are.”

That stung. Because it’s true. I admitted to her that her regular booking of me by appointment with Blake makes makes me feel so sex-worker-ish. And the reporting out on it intensifies that.

“Exactly,” she said. “I can’t have you saying yes to this and no to that. I can’t have you showing up at Stacy’s door because you secretly want her, while conveniently ‘forgetting’ to obey me in reporting out about your blowjob time with Blake because you don’t like that part. It’s a problem.”

I didn’t respond, but I couldn’t deny her point. I didn’t protest further. I was close to tears.

Mistress said that later this afternoon she will inform me what my punishment will be. She wants me to stew in my chagrin for a while.

Already, I have played over and over in my head how I possibly could forget posting about the Blake date. I don’t think I was intentionally forgetting, my passive resistance, and all that, but maybe so.

As usual, my greatest punishment is myself. I pride myself on doing well, the straight-A girl even in slavery, that sort of thing. This is a big blue F on my report card.

It will gnaw on me. Mistress A knows I do this to myself, that I create my own anguish.

It’s been a very bad morning.

fashion bondage

One new development in Mistress’s domination of me is the use of what I will call “fashion straps.” These are thin ropes, soft, apparently made of silk, woven together to make cords. Notably, they come in fashion colors.

Today she has me in a royal blue skater skirt and topless, but for two royal blue fashion straps looped around my breasts. Think underwire, without the bra. Each strap circles my breast once, then attaches to my neck collar O-ring.

Mistress thinks of it as a bondage I can walk around in. “This way,” she says, “I can have you bound and still use you for things.”

“Thanks for reminding me of my utilitarian purpose,” I reply.

I’m afraid she thinks these fashion ropes are equivalent to clothing, that they are some sort of actual covering. “You know this isn’t the same as a T-shirt, right?” I ask.

“I think of it as a bra-top.”

She doesn’t actually think that, for she has me throw a T-shirt over the ropy arrangement when we go to the grocery. Yet she keeps me this way when neighbors pop in invited, which they are doing more these days.

“Now that you’re a horse woman at the ranch,” she says, “you should appreciate the art being roped.”

I look at her quizzically. “I don’t think when they rope calves, they take time to do shibari.”

She is reading these days about shibari, the art of Japanese rope bondage. I think the concept of that suits her sense of design and fits her feng shui approaches to home decorating. And her dressing of me has always been for her a form of decorating. So now these two interests are merging.

I have to admit the ropes are not uncomfortable. They’re soft and don’t irritate my skin below my breasts. The loop of the ropes squeezes my breasts slightly and pushes them out a touch. It’s not pronounced but just a slight increase of protrusion. Not that I need any help that way.

Later, over wine, she’ll take my ropes off and try another rope design, taking her time to create something new on me. I think she takes quiet pleasure in it, like doing a crossword puzzle.

“I think this rope thing,” I’ll say, “is just your excuse to fondle my breasts.”

She’ll look at me bemused, replying, “Silly girl, I don’t need an excuse to do that.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

She’ll continue to wrap me in rope, experimenting with symmetrical and asymmetrical, and sometimes very random like some Shibari Jackson Pollock.

And I’ll be reminded of something I overheard Master McKenna saying to a colleague: “When you own a girl like that, there’s no end to the things you can do with her.”

D/s slavery without sex

One of my followers has posed an interesting question (I’m paraphrasing a little): Can you imagine yourself being so deeply submissive that you would be willing to endure (even crave) being diminished without being permitted to have sex ? Or is sex essential to the D/s experience as you know, experience, and love it?

A great question, and it reminds me of a little verbal game that Mistress Amanda plays with me.

Sometimes she and I toss hypothetical questions back and forth. She says, “What if I were to order you to…” and then fills in the blank with something, usually something extreme. I am required to answer truthfully. It’s our version of “Truth or Dare,” although for us there’s no dare there.

We talk about my answer and its implications. The real point is always how far does one’s submission go to obey and satisfy another’s dominance? (I think this is what you’re asking with your question.)

Of course, the classic hypothetical is something Amanda has never asked: “Would you jump off a tall building if I told you to?” “No,” I would reply, “and you wouldn’t ever ask me to.” We believe D/s to be life-expanding not life extinguishing.

Ours are more practical hypotheticals, mostly of the variety of how would I feel if she made me do this or that. I never quite know if these are truly hypothetical or plans in the making. She has an obsession with public parks. I always say, Yes, I would obey that,” usually adding, “but I have a question.”

“You want to know,” she assumes, “if it will land you in jail.”

“No,” I reply. “I want to know, when I land in jail, if you’ll have me wearing anything.”

My recent hypothetical to her was, “If you were to get another slave girl, what kind of submissive would you be looking for?” Admittedly I was probing her intentions, and it wasn’t reassuring when she has a ready answer and many minutes of commentary on the subject. When she finished, I replied, “I was hoping you’d just say you’d never thought about it.”

Amanda sometimes poses the question, “If I were to sell you to another dominant for his full-time ownership, would you go, obey, and submit?” That’s another blog post perhaps, but the point is that we entertain some rather serious hypotheticals in our friendly little game.

Which brings us back to your question. Yours is a hypothetical that Amanda could well pose in this way: “Shae, if I were to require you to never have sex again for the rest of your life, would you submit to that in obedient submission to me?”

My answer is more complex than you may imagine.

When I started in D/s eight years ago, I was not a very sexual person. I had come from a vanilla life that was only sporadically sexual. In my twenties, sex was not really important to me. I didn’t date much and had sex rarely.

I explored some things, such as going to a BDSM club which I wrote about here, but that was simply my effort to taste this mysterious part of me that was submissive — I really didn’t see it as about sex, per se. And I explored my bisexuality, notably in my brief relationship with Chandra, but that was more about my curiosity about lesbian romance than it was about any need for sex.

And when I entered into my first D/s relationship under Master Michael, I had no particular expectation of D/s being sexual. I recently posted this about being his slave back then: “I was just submissive to him, in any way he wished me to be. I think this is probably true for most D/s couples: there isn’t one slave type designated and enforced, the slavery has various facets and forms. Some D/s is not sexual at all. And, with Michael, sex was never the primary context for my slavery to him.”

So, part of my answer to your question is that there was a time when I was not so sexual as I am now, when sex was not my primary need or expectation in a D/s relationship.

Back then, if my first owner, Master Michael, had posed this hypothetical, it would have been easier for me to answer than it is now. He might have said, “I will take you on one condition, that you will never have sex with me or anyone else under my ownership.” Back then, I very well might have said yes.

The complication is that over the past four years I have been cultivated — conditioned — into a heightened sexuality.

I am made to live in perpetual sexualization. I am seen by others as a submissive whose purpose is to provide sexual pleasure. I am used for sex by increasing numbers of other people. I am kept in a kind of constant arousal. I am not permitted to wear a bra and panties, which is a deprivation that makes me deeply aware of my sexual possibility. I am not permitted to masturbate or otherwise touch even my breasts as self-pleasure. I am intentionally kept and cultivated as a profusely sexual woman, literally as a sex slave.

I don’t say that as a good or bad thing. It has been consensual, of course, but an outcome of my obedience. It doesn’t make me special or better. God knows, I often think the opposite, and it frequently shames me. Mostly it’s just simply the state of my current existence.

My point is, that given my deepened sexualization now, for me to suddenly be required to stop, to be deprived of sex, and to be forbidden any form of sex for time eternal… well, that would be extreme and difficult… even cruel. It would be a kind of “lifestyle whiplash.”

It’s a little like an addiction to something you have to be weaned off of. Perhaps if that were done, if I were re-cultivated into being a service slave rather than a sex slave, if we could turn back time, then your hypothetical would be easier for me to imagine…

One other complication in answering your question is that I believe my submissive nature to be a form of my sexual orientation. My (bi)sexuality is submissive in some way.

Vice-versa, my submissiveness is sexual in its very nature. You cannot separate them completely. This is actually some of the reasoning behind my being designated and cultivated as a sex slave. In that identity both my submissive nature and my sexual orientation come together.

I insert that here as another thought in this conversation but I won’t go into it now. I’m not sure how much I have to say about it — it remains mostly a mystery even to me.

I must point out that, even though I now live in a sex-rich life, sexual deprivation is sometimes used on me in temporary applications.

Master McKenna is famous for delaying his sexual use of me for several days — I think in doing so, he’s demonstrating his control of me. Mistress Amanda sometimes just decides that I should be sexless for a stretch of days or weeks — usually keeping me “pent up and perky” for a future occasion. This isn’t used as punishment, or hasn’t been yet, but is simply made a part of my submission and obedience.

Your question includes an interesting clause asking if I might even crave being sexually deprived. And yes, I have to say there is something submissively satisfying in these temporary deprivations. Obedience to what I cannot have is very powerful.

But these are short-term, practical, and strategic deprivations. I read your question instead as a kind of “forever” hypothetical, an ultimate measure of whether my submissive need or my sexual need is primary.

In my current moment, truth or dare, I have to admit my body answers that on the sexual side of things. My body knows the depths of my sexual desire that my mind is not always willing to acknowledge.

But my mind answers this way: ultimately I am submissive first and foremost. I was aware of my submissiveness as a girl even before I became sexually aware. I have lived more of my adult life as a woman without (much) sex. I was in the D/s life for some years before sex became so much a part of everything. It’s only in recent years that I have been so intensely sexualized. And I’m well aware that later in life sex may become less important — and/or that I may be less desired at an older age. This current hyper-sexual phase may be short-lived in the span of a lifetime. And what do I have then?

Well, it will then be my submissive nature and need that gives me purpose and pleasure.

So, if someday Amanda poses to me your hypothetical, “If I were to require you to never have sex again for the rest of your life, would you still submit and live in slavery to me?” my answer would have been cooked in all the ingredients of this post, all these thoughts and considerations baked in.

If she somehow made this a real thing, a real order-request, it would be with great agony that I would reluctantly say yes, accompanied by tears over the sense of loss of what I no longer would have.

Such a great question. Thanks.

Stacy visit

Stacy stopped by last night.

I was in the living room reading. Amanda answered the door. I heard Stacy’s voice. “I can’t stay long,” I heard her say to Amanda, “but I wanted to stop in, say hi.”

I sat up in my chair.

Still in the entryway with Amanda, she asked, “So how’s my girlfriend Shae?”

Which warmed my heart, of course.

“Come see for yourself,” Amanda replied. “She’ll be very glad to see you.”

Entering the living room, Stacy was all briskly executive and impressively professional, as she is and as Amanda can be, but as she reached for me I felt her softness, familiar now from our night together. She put her arms around my waist, drew me in, and kissed me. “Have you been a good girl since I last saw you?”

“Not at all,” I replied.

Stacy laughed.

She held my hand as Amanda led us out to the patio, but Stacy indeed couldn’t stay and we all remained standing. She explained she would had stopped by sooner but had been traveling for work and just had gotten back at the end of a long week.

There was nothing more of note to report, except that Stacy put her arm around my waist as she talked some business with Amanda. Then Stacy left.

I do not know if Stacy had read my recent “redux” post about her, and stopped by in some sort of confirmation of my feelings expressed there. It doesn’t matter — her visit was clearly for the sole purpose of seeing me, however briefly, and that made me feel that what we shared together actually meant something to her.

Again, I have no expectation there will be more between us as time goes by, and it isn’t supposed to, I know. But for one moment in her busy schedule I was given a place in a corner of her life.

diminishment and value

Sometimes I find myself in a convergence of different thoughts from various people, thoughts that prompt a post. So it has been these last few days. Lately it’s been about self-worth and the submissive life of degradation.

D/s is a radical social construct. It redefines the nature of relationship. Traditional culture sees relationship as a mutual, equal connection. D/s puts relationship into a unequal hierarchy of control and relinquishment.

To put it in simple terms, D/s is a lifestyle in which some people like being dominant and some like being submissive, and together they’ve agreed to live this way, a way of intentional inequality.

That intentional inequality needs to be created, imposed, enforced. Turns out it’s hard to make a person less equal — human worth is baked into us. D/s is a relationship goes to unusual measures to effect inequality by practicing forms of diminishment, the active devaluing of one by another.

This is done to me, as readers well know, in various ways.

I wear a collar, often an industrial metal collar with O-rings that cannot ever be imagined to be a fashion statement. My collar sets me apart at a lower status, diminishing me in the sight of others as one who is kept and owned, as property. (I was once taken to a pet store by my Master, fitted in the aisle with a dog collar, which he then bought, having me wear it as we walked out of the store. This was a diminishment of me publicly, a suggestion that I live in some way at the level of a dog, perhaps connoting to some that I am a bitch, kept.)

Each morning, I stand with a tray of coffee for Mistress at 7:15 a.m. This diminishes me to a level of utility. I am useful for a service I provide. My diminishment is deepened when Mistress emerges from her bedroom a half hour later, and I am still standing there silently bearing her tray of coffee, and she breezes past me, saying, “Don’t need coffee this morning,” and walks on into her home office for the day. In any traditional relationship this would be an inconsiderate snub because of the assumption of equality. In D/s, she and I both know it’s part of the life, that we are unequal, and this emphasizes my lower status as a useful object, like a tray or a coffeemaker. In a way, her “snub” is a gift to me, as it diminishes me in a way that, as a submissive, I need.

As everyone knows, I am not permitted to dress myself. Some think this reduces me to the level of a child, but it’s not that at all. My diminishment is quite the contrary, coming from the obvious fact that I’m a thirty-something woman who must bear the image her Mistress desires each day. I am not what I want to look like but what she prefers me to look like. Thankfully Mistress does not put me in clown suits. However, she often makes me topless, which is her preference for observing me and a diminishment of me to the level of sexual object.

I also experience verbal diminishment. This is most effective because words are so important to me. Mistress calls me “slave girl” often and also “slut.” Master McKenna calls me “fuck toy.” Such terms and names are most diminishing when I know they are true of me. (Those are.) Also they are more diminishing when they are used more casually, normally, not in a tirade of name-calling, but in the course of normal life. Master McKenna often says to me first thing each day, “How’s my fuck toy this morning?” which is all the more blush-worthy because that’s how he used me during the night. And such terms are diminishing in a different way when others outside my immediate world use them of me. Recently, Mistress was thrilled when follower Mtoussieh called me “neighborhood slut” in a blog comment.

I don’t wish to get into the psychology of submissiveness here. I don’t myself understand exactly why I give myself to being diminished and degraded in all these ways, and others. I know it’s too simple to say I like it, for I often resist it and deeply feel the humiliation of it. Yet I do want it, and somehow find my true identity in it, some confirmation of what I am and am meant to be. And there is something to be said for my going through it, enduring it, like a race run and won.

I don’t understand why. But my point in writing about this has to do with my sense of worth and value in the face of my daily degradation.

It’s not accurate to say that these acts of my diminishment are games that my dominants play with me. This is not “wink-wink, let’s play roles and I’ll call you names.” My degradations are real — my collar is public, my services are actually performed, my boobs are truly on display, and I am called “fuck toy” for a reason rooted in reality. My degradation is a real experience for me, applied to my life with serious intention by my dominant-owners.

After enduring these things, I do not walk away thinking my degradation is just pretend. So the challenge is maintaining some sense of worth when I am rendered worthless.

How does one do that?

Well, first off, I really don’t know.

It’s not that I have some self-help system for maintaining dignity. I think I have by nature a pretty healthy self-regard, and maybe that’s part of the answer — one just has to have an inner strength about themselves to do the submissive lifestyle. I’m tempted to say that you “have to be strong woman to be a weak submissive,” which is wrongly worded in several ways but kind of makes the point. To endure true degradation, you have to have some sort of inner resilience and self-confidence.

It should be said that this is also what dominants want and need in a submissive. They actually don’t find pleasure in utterly crushing a submissive’s psyche permanently. They do enjoy pushing her to her limits, challenging her self-assumptions, imposing upon her challenges and endurances.

But they need her to be able to bounce back for more the next day.

I think another way of looking at the submissive life of diminishment is as a kind of therapy. It’s at least an interesting analogy.

I go to see a therapist, lifestyle-friendly, on a regular basis. Jillian leads me to explore parts of myself, my childhood, my sexual experience, my religious upbringing, my fears and worries. In some ways, this is a process of deconstruction, of forcing me to confront certain demons and to admit to myself aspects of me that I don’t like. But ultimately, therapy strips you down only to build you back up, stronger from the process.

I think of the submissive life this way. As I submit to degradations, I confront parts of myself I don’t want to admit to. For example, I am a far more sexual woman than I ever imagined myself to be before I entered the lifestyle. Even now, I don’t want to accept the degree of this, my capacity for pure sexual lust, my inveterate wantonness. (Even writing those words here is a struggle of admission.) But my life of objectification and sexualization pushes my face into the truth of that about myself. I endure the humiliation but come out of it the other side a stronger woman and a stronger submissive than before.

Of course, when I’m made topless by Mistress and we have an unexpected visitor to the house, I’m not thinking “This is good therapy.” 😉 But I do feel there’s something to be said for the analogy.

Ironically, I find my worth also in the very experience of being degraded. The fact is, not many women can do this.

Submitting to a dominant’s control, living a life of relinquishment of rights, and enduring multiple degradations, makes me unique and valuable — even in my disgrace. I often get to some point of immersion in the life and have to ask myself “Who does this?” meaning that no one in their right mind would sacrifice themselves to this treatment. Yet I do, and in that very thing, in my will to endure degradation, I am precious.

This is not about me boasting, patting myself on the back. It’s meant as an affirmation of many submissive persons who read my blog and share in this same lifestyle, or variations of it.

I read about — a true story — a man who was browsing a second-hand shop somewhere in Georgia. This was 1970. (I think I read this in the Atlantic magazine.) He ran across some old photographs, not worth much — faded and scratched and dusty. He bought one for fifty cents. Later the photo was identified as an early daguerreotype from 1843 of President John Quincy Adams, one of the earliest presidential photographs ever taken. It now is displayed in the Smithsonian.

We are all in some way faded and scratched and dusty. I find the submissive life, a life of diminishment, to be a way of finding my lost self in a second-hand life. In my lowly state, I am authenticated.

True submissives who can handle the life of diminishment are rare treasures indeed.

how do you solve a problem like Maria?

Forgive the flippant song title from “The Sound of Music.” I couldn’t resist… although I think I used it before.

In fact, this is a serious post. I’ve been torn in knowing how to write about Maria in her current family situation. This is sort of an update on things with her.

I know, this may be TMI for most readers. I feel I need to explain these circumstances, as they involve both Master McKenna and me. But I realize this is a soap opera…

I might say first that Maria herself is a reader of this blog. She says that she’s learned much from my posts and that they’ve been instrumental in her decision to explore this life. (I’m honored.) So Maria is well aware that I live my slave life out loud in this WordPress space. And she knows her life and mine are now intertwined as we both are to live submissively together under Master McKenna. Some time ago, Maria gave me permission to write about her and me and Master McKenna specifically (perhaps explicitly) in my postings.

That was agreed to before. But this is a different matter, as it has to do with Maria’s family situation outside the mansion. There are privacies that should be maintained.

Yesterday, I discussed this directly with Maria at lunch. I said there was no reason for me to go into her family situation on my blog, but I felt I needed to say something in regard to her situation with Master McKenna.

What follows has Maria’s permission for me to express. It’s a lot, more than I had intended, yet maybe not enough to forestall further questions about aspects I cannot reveal.

Maria is in her thirties, unmarried without children. Her mother is separated, and her father still lives in the area. They are going through a divorce. She has two adult brothers. They all live separately, her brothers have families, and Maria has lived on her own in an apartment until just now, when she moved into Master McKenna’s mansion on the third floor.

It is perhaps best for me to state what this isn’t. These are not family health issues or physical emergencies. If they were, Master McKenna would not only be gracious but seek to help. Nothing I’ve heard from Maria suggests there’s any physical abuse involved within the family, although by my reckoning, there may be emotional coercion and psychological abuse.

There’s apparently a lot of drama surrounding the impending divorce. Maria’s mother is not a strong person emotionally. It seems her father is bullying her mother, manipulating financial things, and creating little explosions of drama impulsively. I realize there are always two sides to every story, but the point here is only how Maria’s mom perceives it. Maria’s brothers tend to side with their father. Maria sides with her mother. Her mother needs Maria for support and calls her frequently.

There is more underlying this than I can share here.

Maria tells me she would never have committed to anything with Master McKenna had she known this would be a problem. Her parents decided to divorce in January, and these conflicts only popped up later, in April, seemingly triggered by things in the separation agreement.

Somehow the whole family thought it a good idea to have Easter dinner together. But that exploded, forcing Maria back to the mansion on Easter Sunday, earlier than expected. Master McKenna was not pleased.

Master McKenna is not an unreasonable dominant. He understands what Maria’s family predicament is and has shown considerable forbearance. At the same time, her family drama has called her away so frequently as to make any D/s schedule for her with him, any training plan, nearly impossible.

The further complication is that Maria, a ways back, got out of her apartment lease to move into the mansion. This was Master M’s plan. The mansion is now her home. She has to live there, even if she isn’t actually there a lot of times. It’s rather awkward.

Master McKenna is exasperated like I’ve never seen him before. He is normally very pragmatic, a great problem-solver, which has equipped him to be the CEO he is. But in these matters of Maria’s family dynamics, he seems at sea, probably because he can do nothing about them.

His only connection to her is as her dominant. He is not her father or caretaker or husband. He cannot do anything to solve her family issues, and in the meantime, he is connected to someone in theory whom he’s not connected to in practical reality. In business terms, he sees it as a “dotted-line relationship,” which is usually problematic. (My amateur analysis.)

He feels helpless in the situation. And it’s never good for a dominant to feel helpless.

So, I had some ideas about this and also a legal suggestion from Amanda and then some good advice from the outside (thank you, Nora). Yesterday (Tuesday) I had lunch with Maria, and later in the afternoon talked with Master McKenna, and there’s now a temporary solution in play.

I suggested they both consider a pause to the slave training. I proposed, for the time being, Maria should live freely at the mansion without any obligation to Master M. This will be approximately until I come there (in three weeks) for the month of June. Essentially, I have suggested to both of them that they stop for now and start over later.

During this interim, Maria will advise her mother to get a restraining order on her father. (Amanda tells me restraining orders are common in divorce proceedings, not as any implication of abuse but as a clear boundary for both parties. Amanda is surprised this wasn’t done as a matter of course. I have some questions about the mother’s legal counsel, but that’s not my business.) If this is done, it should eliminate the urgent calls for Maria to show up to her mother’s house at the drop of a hat.

I have proposed that in June when I come to the mansion, Maria’s training start then. This will be the re-boot, the start-over. As if no family drama has intruded.

However, I have additionally suggested that Maria’s training time then be during days only, say from eight to six, like a workday. This gives her opportunity to leave in the evenings and be with her mother if need be. Any family issues can be scheduled for attention during her nights.

Maria’s internship has always been intended to last two months. She now will train in June alongside me, then in July alone with Master M. (This works with his travel schedule.) After July, as previously planned, Master McKenna will decide if he wishes to take her on as his slave part-time or full-time.

By then, at the very least, Maria’s mom and dad should be officially divorced, and these issues should be behind her.

So, I had lunch with Maria yesterday, proposing this. I then talked this through on the phone with Master McKenna later in the afternoon. They sat down and talked this out face to face last night.

Both of them have agreed to this plan, and are proceeding with it — as Master M says, “effective immediately.”

It doesn’t seem to me this is so brilliant a solution that they couldn’t have gotten to it themselves. But I think they both were trying hard to make this work and got mired in the mud of it. They couldn’t see a path out of it.

Both are relieved. Maria has time now to come and go at the mansion without feelings of guilt. Master McKenna has a solution to a difficult problem, and he is always fond of solutions. Her submissive internship will go forward, just starting later than originally planned.

Master M said to me on the phone, a brightness now in his voice, “There’s another benefit in this.”

“What’s that?”

“Now I have you alone to myself in the evenings.”

I didn’t tell him that was my plan all along.

Robert and Stacy redux

I have continued to have fond thoughts of Stacy in these days after. I’m well aware it’s as much about the circumstance as the relationship, but I do find myself thinking of her, being with her, and smiling at the memory.

By “circumstance,” I mean these persistent memories are in part about the arrangement of my being shared. For all my fret and fuss ahead of time, I found I rather liked the sharing experience. There was something nice about being bedded without ropes and chains and having the ability to love freely. Not that it would lure me away from my life of submissive sex, but it was sweetly memorable in the difference.

By “relationship,” I do not mean I presume an ongoing closeness with Stacy, or expect more from her with me. Part of the pleasure of the “gifting experience” is that intimacy is a one-time proposition between strangers, and that assumes the ability to walk away without further expectation. I know this. I have no intention of clinging to what cannot be there. But I’m simply expressing that the recollections of my intimacy with Stacy still tingle.

As promiscuous as I am in my life (or made to be), I feel these after-longings often. My situations are mostly with dominants, a different vibe, but I still walk away from their hard fuckings of me with a soft desire for the person. My ongoing desire is not to be “their one and only,” but merely to have a place in the corner of their mind space for what I am. I don’t need my dom to say he loves me, just to say I belong somewhere. Which sounds sad in a way, but it’s not. I’m happy just being someone’s concubine.

Perhaps that’s what’s going on now in me regarding Stacy. I don’t expect there will be anything more. That was never the arrangement. And that’s fine. But that doesn’t mean I’ve walked away without continuing to feel something for her.

It has struck me that Stacy and I came to each other with two different purposes. Hers was to have a full lesbian experience. Mine was to be shared in a vanilla sexual experience.

Each of our purposes allowed the other’s purpose to be explored.

I think this was a serendipitous alignment, never intended and probably impossible to coordinate ahead of time. But there it was, each of us being something the other wanted. It was like the stereotypical scene of a couple eating a bite from the other’s plate, arms extended with forks feeding the other their own culinary delight. I think this made the night more fulfilling in some way I didn’t realize until after.

It was for each of us a “first time.” Stacy had not been with a woman, not fully, ever before. I had not been “shared vanilla” ever before. One could quibble about that, citing certain experiences I’ve had and written about, but in those I am more clearly submissive, provided to them as a sex slave for their sexual needs. This with Stacy was a vanilla, mutual, sexual relationship for us both.

I’m not sure what more to make of all this. Maybe nothing. If and when I am shared with other neighbors, I don’t expect we will have merging interests quite like that. And now I’ve already had the “shared vanilla” experience, so am no longer a virgin in it.

But that’s okay. In future arrangements there will be, I expect, other points of intersection. And I am realizing that part of the pleasure is thrill of allowing strangers into our private places — which is unique with each new situation.

Amanda is bemused by my little infatuation with Stacy. I wish actually she were more jealous, but she’s almost maddeningly not. She arranged this and seems smugly pleased it worked out so well. Like she’s saying, “I knew you would feel like this.”

I am perfectly content living perpetually in a closed room just with Amanda, but, you see, she just has to open all these doors. I reluctantly walk through a door and suddenly get all omg about what’s on the other side. She knew all along my capacity for more and that the wonder existing on the other side would enthrall me.

Now she teases me about my lingering feelings for Stacy. “Maybe you could apply for a job at her company and become her assistant,” she said, trying to sound serious. “Then you could see the love of your life every day.”

I threw a pillow at her.

There was a moment in my night with Stacy when I cried. Tears of happy, of course, but not what you’d think.

I have wondered if in my experience of lesbian sex there is something about my knowing, as a woman, what she is feeling, as a woman. I knew exactly what Stacy was experiencing. It was as if I felt my pleasure — and also a portion of hers. That becomes almost too much, an overflow, a surfeit of sensation that sometimes comes, and comes to tears of some kind of ecstacy.

Maybe it was that, I don’t know, which becomes unexpectedly a deeper bonding. And makes it take longer to fade.

calendar girl

This will be an update on my schedule and the people in my life. I know these are boring to read. However, some have said they like them, that it provides an understanding of the reality of my life.

I’ll keep it brief. If this stuff bores you, don’t read it. Or maybe skim it. I understand…

The big item on my calendar is my next stay with Master McKenna. It will be a full month long, most of June. Riiiight. Kind of a big deal.

The reason for this circumstance is that Amanda is to be traveling during that stretch — starting with a conference in New York and business meetings in D.C. and Atlanta. That will be followed by overdue visits to her extended family in various places in Florida and Alabama.

For her time away, Master McKenna was only too glad to have me, and of course he means that in so many ways…

She’d wanted to take me with her, but that becomes complicated to do with her family. One side of Amanda’s family is rather open-minded and socially liberal — i.e., accepting. We visited some of them at a time when Amanda’s favorite aunt was seriously ailing, and I wrote about it here. The other side of Amanda’s family is quite conservative — i.e., non-accepting — and these are the folks she is visiting in June. Amanda is outspoken about her sexual orientation and would be unapologetic about me, but on this side of her family it’s just not worth the effort. My presence would sort of defeat her purpose in re-connecting with those family members after a long time away.

I always look forward to being with Master McKenna, and am excited about a full month with him, but it will be different being under him for a longer stretch of time. Living with someone in sexual submission for weeks on end is a different rhythm, less intense in one way but more relentless in another.

So… Master M has had issues with Maria. This isn’t about her commitment to the life and training, but about distractions she has with her adult family at home.

She simply hasn’t been there at the mansion for much of this time, drawn away by issues with her adult siblings and stepfather.

Master is exasperated, she is in tears, and he has called on me to come alongside and somehow mediate. So I’ve had one lunch with her and am scheduled to have another this week.

I’m not sure how much of her personal life I am able to share here, but I will address this somewhat more fully in a separate blog.

As I mentioned in my last post, I am spending Tuesday and Wednesday mornings at a horse ranch north of us, run by a woman named Savannah. It is deeply enjoyable, I’m learning a lot, and it is a needed change of pace for me.

I was surprised but blessed by all the positive comments from followers and friends when I first announced this. The sentiments were affirmation of my need for outside interests and connection and how good this is for me. There were others, but specifically my thanks go out to Sindee and Nora, for your good wishes in this. 💖

I do not intend to post much about my training and work at Savannah’s ranch. This is my own private experience, I feel, apart from my slave life, and for now I kind of choose to keep it to myself. I’ll mention it from time to time, but briefly. Know that this is happening in the background of my life, and is serving to keep me mentally healthy and balanced.

I am now scheduled to be shared with another neighbor couple. This will be in July. I will offer some more detail about them in another post.

I am grateful that this isn’t happening any sooner after my sharing with Robert and Stacy. In a good way, it has taken me a while to process my time with them. I may be finding that the experience of being shared is not fleeting but lasting, that there are deeper bonds than I might have imagined from a one-night-stand, so to speak.

Finally, a quick word about my mother in PA. (In my posting about my submission and slavery and sex, it never seems appropriate to reference my mother, but there is a calendar item for her now, so I will.)

Lucille seems to be thriving in the house there and in the caretaking of her. She says that my mother seems to be “holding her own.” When I talk on the phone with Mom, it takes her a while to mentally navigate the displacement of space that a phone call is (“Are you here? I can’t see you”), but she recognizes my voice, which is half the battle. Lucille and I plan to try a Zoom call next time.

The point of the mention here is that there is now scheduled in late July a trip for me back to PA. This will be a short visit, a few days, but it’s now on the calendar.

I think that’s all of it for now. At least the first part of my summer.

Just another boring update from your calendar girl Shae.

a day in my life

I have covered most of this in other posts, but there are new readers and followers, and some things have changed. Since I’ve been back with her, post-Pennsylvania, Mistress Amanda has settled me into most of our former routines but a few new ones as well, most all of them sexualized.

So here, once again, is a day in my life…

She dresses me every day, like before, which is to say that at night she lays out my outfit for the next day, placing it on the bed bench outside my bedroom.

For those new to my life, I am forbidden to wear slacks or jeans, only skirts. And Mistress has now become more fond of skater skirts on me (which happens also to be Master McKenna’s preference). A skater skirt is suitable for home and shopping, yet practical as submissive attire: short and usually pleated, it flares out from my body, making me more accessible to dominant hands.

Regular readers know I also am forbidden to wear a bra and panties. This I have never gotten used to, and being panty-less still makes me feel vulnerable wearing short skirts in public places.

A new wrinkle is that Mistress Amanda has less often rendered me fully topless around the house, which used to be the almost everyday practice. Now, she has me in button-down tops and blouses that she can open up in front, adjusting my décolletage to expose my breasts to varying degrees. Not that she has to have a reason for this, but she does have one: neighbors are stopping in to visit more often these days. “It’s not,” Mistress says, “to keep them from seeing your boobs but that you are potentially a gift to them at some point. I want them to have some surprise when they unwrap you.”

That logic, apparently, doesn’t keep her from walking me outside au naturele within sight of neighbor houses. Or displaying me in the bay window. Dominants, it seems, are not subject to the laws of logic.

We have had two rituals. Now, one she’s maintained, the other she’s changed.

I still bear coffee on a tray in the mornings, standing and waiting for her to emerge from her bedroom. She often drinks her coffee standing as I hold the tray, and she talks to me about the day ahead, for both me and her. This has been a ritual since my early days serving both Amanda and Kevin in the same house.

The other ritual, the one that’s changed, is my serving wine to her in the early evening. I’ll share about that in a moment.

In the past, I’ve had two weekly chores, but she’s added one since I’ve been back.

I have always done laundry, hers and mine, on Thursdays. I also do our linens and towels. This takes me through the morning into early afternoon.

My other regular chore is scrubbing the kitchen floor. You might read more about it here. I usually do this on Fridays. This is a hands-and-knees job involving suds and dirty water and my getting slick and sodden. I use tiny brushes to clean the crevices around tiles. I have become a bit obsessive about it, as if “my” kitchen floor is a little piece of my life I can control. Scrubbing the floor is also a spectacle of prurient interest, as Mistress often leaves her office study to watch me.

The new chore added to my weekly routine is dusting on Monday mornings. Mistress has a cleaning service that comes once a month, but dusting is not their strong suit. It doesn’t need to be done every week, but that’s sort of the point — making her slave perform unnecessary tasks, especially on a ladder in a short skirt. Apparently, Mistress has suddenly developed a strong distaste for dusty ceilings.

As I’ve reported in this space, I am now spending time on a ranch nearby learning the care and feeding of horses. Mistress Amanda has been gracious to allow me to do that, actually quite glad I am doing so. That has worked out to be on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.

So every weekday morning is consumed with either chores and horses.

My afternoons are usually my time for writing and reading. I usually have about three or four hours to do what I want, and mostly that’s writing.

I don’t mean to suggest it’s “free time,” for a slave girl is never free, and other things come up for the doing. As I hold the coffee tray in the morning, Mistress sometimes says, “I’m gonna need you to…” and then finishes with some clerical task she needs me to do for her work. She used to employ me part time for this, but ended that for payroll and tax reasons; yet she has continued using me for ad hoc work needs here and there.

In this clerical work and in my chores, I am sexualized, dressed in some form of exposed fashion. I don’t “mind” this, as it’s my submissive place to be made this way, but as in most things, I never really get used to it. I know it’s her purpose to keep me always aware of being objectified in sexual ways.

As for the work, I don’t mind the chores, as I am happier when I’m kept busy. I’m still not sure about this dusting thing, though — it bores me.

Each day, Mistress enjoys a “happy hour,” a glass of wine. This has become a ritual for us, my serving us both glasses of wine on a tray — “bearing a tray” bookending the beginning of our work day when I serve coffee on a tray at 7:15 a.m. and the end of the day at happy hour.

The actual time for this happy hour is variable, depending on Mistress’s work schedule. She tells me when she’ll be ready for it — as early as 4:30 but often as late as 6:00.

The new wrinkle is that she has revamped this ritual to have happy hour with me “installed” at the wet bar. For those new to my blog, this post will describe it best.

At the designated time, Mistress leaves her home office and finds me already naked and bent over the wet bar in the accustomed position, my legs spread, my arms extended across the bartop, and my breasts hanging off the bartender side. I will have previously poured her a glass of white wine that sits in front of a bar stool to my side. And I will have placed, at her direction, a flogger beside her wine glass.

She locks my ankles and wrists into the eyebolts of the wet bar. And then she sits on the stool, sips her wine, and talks to me, unwinding from her day.

After a while, she stands, picks up the flogger, and applies it to my naked ass cheeks. And that’s an experience to share in another blog post.

But this is a whole new thing.

At first with this revised end-of-day ritual, I thought I would miss our times talking together on the couch. Before, our happy hour found its way onto the couch with wine and nosh plates, a time for casual conversations. This new ritual of me installed into the wet bar, seemed to get substituted for that.

But Mistress actually didn’t replace that, just moved it farther into our evening. After “attending” to me at the wet bar, Mistress unhooks me, and we both change into casual clothes. We collect what we want to eat from the kitchen and find our way to the couch. Our casual conversation is still there, the only difference is now that my sorry ass is more tender to sit on.

Some have asked about our meals together. Since neither of us cooks, we rarely sit down to a table for a formal meal. We tend to nosh, pulling things out of the fridge on small plates. We do eat together, but often casually on the patio or on the couch in the living room.

In the evenings, we sometimes read on the couch or patio (I read books, she reads magazines), or stream something on TV.

One new thing is daily walking. Mistress has always taken me out on walks, but now it’s every day. She says we need to get more exercise. I asked her if she thought I was getting flabby. “No,” she simply said, “me, not you.” (I hadn’t noticed.) Usually this is her walking me on a leash around the neighborhood. Sometimes it’s a walk up on the ridge, as I just wrote about. How I am dressed (or if), is always an adventure.

At some point in the evening she will say something like, “I think I will have you tonight,” by which she means have me sexually. Other times she may say, “I don’t want you tonight,” which I am not to take as a rejection but as a simple statement of her desire to be alone. Sometimes, she’ll say, “I want just a little taste tonight,” by which she means she’ll enjoy me for a short while, after which I am to return to my own bed. But I am always available to her as she wishes.

It isn’t always so formal, of course, and sometimes we are just girlfriend lovers. I’ve written about that here.

On average, in one mode or other, she has sex with me three or four times a week.

What I’ve written about here is our weekday routine. Our weekends are quite different — difficult to write about because they are so random and varied. There really is no routine on weekends.

Weekends, she and I tend to live in a more casual protocol, so to speak. We’ll go shopping together, see a movie, go into the city, hang out at a park, attend a neighborhood barbecue. It’s more girlfriend-ish.

But in certain things on weekends, we still live in D/s mode with each other. Mistress has me draw her a bath Sunday mornings. I guess that’s become a ritual too. I wrote about it here and here. It’s a very special time, I have to say.

Saturdays are when we do grocery shopping, and somehow she always seems to slip into her “Evil Mistress” mode at King Soopers. She finds all kinds of ways to embarrass me there. I’m always blush-faced by something she shouts across the produce aisles while holding up a cucumber.

Despite that (or because of it), it’s so good to be back in my life with her…

a walk along the ridge

It’s been a mighty long time since Amanda has leashed me and taken me for a walk up on the ridge. She did so on Monday.

My sojourn in Pennsylvania for nearly a year precluded any chance of ridge walks, and before that was winter. While we could hike in colder weather, we don’t, Amanda feeling that there’s not much point of it if she has to keep me bundled up. We figured it was late summer of 2021 when we had our last ridge walk.

Regular readers may remember that we live in the foothills of the Rockies. Our neighborhood is a huddle of ranch homes (now nine) set spaciously apart (think two football fields distant) in a wide expansive arc around a hill-mesa. There’s a path that rises up one side of the hill and circles around. This is what we call the ridge. It’s a good hiking path, much of it within sight of the back patios and porches of the houses.

At a time, this was a frequent activity for Amanda and me, a chance for her to walk me on a leash semi-publicly.

Monday was projected to get to about 70 degrees, and Amanda set aside her work late afternoon to walk me up on the ridge.

Sometimes she has had me topless when we’ve hiked. This time she wanted me completely nude. At some point in my next life I’ll get used to this, but I still am not now. It seems to be Amanda’s great pleasure. I’m just not sure if her satisfaction comes from observing my body naked or from her thrill in dominating me such that I am indeed fully naked in public against my respectable will. Probably both.

That said, the ridge is not much populated these days. We are the only ones in the neighborhood who walk it, and only occasionally do we see hikers there from other parts of the area. My public exposure is mostly unto our neighbors who might witness us from their patios a hundred yards away.

I showed up on the patio undressed, wearing only brown hiking boots and white socks. “Not a good look for me,” I said to Amanda.

“If we see anyone, they’re not going to stare at your feet.”

This time, there was a new wrinkle. “I want you to wear this backpack,” she said. She pulled out a small brown canvas bag with straps.

“What do we need to carry?” I asked.


I looked at her puzzled. She looked at me as if I were missing the point, which I often am.

She put some books in the backpack to fill it out and weight it down, none of it necessary for a forty-five-minute stroll.

She just wanted to watch me, nude, carry a backpack.

There was some fussy business with her arranging the straps of the backpack on me. Namely, she couldn’t decide how to place the front strap across my chest.

At first, she had the strap straight across my breasts, covering my nipples, like a string bikini bra, only made of a canvas strip. But when she tightened it, the strap “divided” my boobs in two, upper and lower flesh bulging out. “Doesn’t look right,” she said.

I couldn’t help myself. “If we see anyone,” I said aping her earlier comment, “they won’t really care so much.”

She threw me a look, repositioning the strap just above my nipples. “There,” she said, but when I moved, the strap slipped higher over the top slope of my breasts to my upper chest. That was where it was intended to be really, above my breasts, but it still didn’t suit Amanda.

She tried again, this time placing the strap just under my nipples.

We started to walk out from the patio, but Amanda looked at me and stopped. “That’s going to rub your nipples raw,” she said. “And your girlfriend Stacy will not be pleased if your nipples are raw.”

I blushed, this being a continuing thread of teasing from Amanda these days, subject for another post maybe. “Nice,” I said.

So there was another fussy adjustment, this extending the canvas strap under my breasts into their crease, lifting them up a bit, like a platform bra.

Finally, this was the solution she went with.

After all these years with her, I still do not understand her unique pleasure in showing me off so nakedly in public spaces. I know it is her pleasure, but I don’t know the chemistry of it. It just is her thing, her dominatrix thing, at least one of them.

I have a sense of pieces of it. She knows my public nudity is a humiliation to me, submissively felt, something that challenges my dignity, which I so struggle to maintain. Her making me walk on the ridge like that becomes about her power, her control, over me to make me unrespectable.

I have realized more since being back from my Pennsylvania sojourn that for her there is also simple lust in seeing my body. I think this has always been true, but for some reason I’m just now more aware of it. I think I’ve always perceived Amanda mostly in terms of her dominant nature, but there is something also to be said about her lesbian nature and her pleasures in looking at my body. I write so often about being topless because it’s how she has me live with her and is how she delights in seeing me. I never quite get used to this, but yes, I rather like her looking at me that way.

But there’s another aspect, I am starting to think. She somehow enjoys my nakedness in front of others as a sexualization of me. That is, she enjoys watching others observe me in various stages of undress, and seeing them lust for me in the experience. I think she finds joy in (a) their sexual imaginings of me and (b) my submissive humiliation and (c) her sexual memories of having me — all of them mixed together all at once.

That’s my current theory.

It seems, when you enter into another’s domination of you and give yourself to them, you walk into their unique sexuality, the urges and fantasies and particular pleasures they create with you. It’s a wonderland of a kind, and while I tend to want to analyze and understand, ultimately I must simply submit to the mystery of their kink.

Amanda walks me on a leash along the ridge. Sometimes she walks beside me and we talk. Sometimes she attaches the leash to the O-ring at the back of my collar and walks behind, as if I am the transportation pulling her up the slope. Sometimes, of course, she walks ahead of me, talking the lead.

And sometimes, while in the lead she turns around and walks backwards so she can watch me on the leash behind. It may be so she can talk to me. But sometimes there are no words, and I know she is simply watching my nakedness in the public air, enjoying the sway and bounce of my breasts and the moistening slit of my bare, pale pussy.

She also enjoys seeing my pinkish cheeks, which in autumn would be from the bracing fall breeze but here on a warm day in May are the blush of my humiliation, so pretty in her sight.