woman. girl. child.

This is a slight musing, perhaps, not worth a lot of time. Maybe it’s something of a word analysis, though not quite my other word-study postings — “whore” https://slaveshae.wordpress.com/2019/02/11/whore/ and “slut” https://slaveshae.wordpress.com/2019/04/13/slut/ and“cocksucker’ http://’https://slaveshae.wordpress.com/2019/05/05/cocksucker/ Not teasing here, but perhaps I should put my word-studies in a separate menu.

When I was first acquired by Amanda, in our first week together she told me that she considered me a woman, not a child, and that she was not looking to me to be “her child” in any way.

I didn’t quite understand what she meant at first.

She said that sometimes a domme-sub relationship fell into a child-parent thing. She said that was even more likely given that I had two dominants over me, male and female. She wasn’t speaking for Master K — I remember her saying , “He might call you ‘baby child’ for all I know” — but she said, for her, she saw me as an adult, a woman who was her submissive, slave. “It means more to me,” she said, “that you are an adult woman who has sacrificed herself to slavery under me. We are both adult women, doing this together.”

So sometimes she says things that make me want to follow her to the end of the earth.

I write lots of things down — thoughts, comments, ideas — in my diary, and this was one. And now I have come across this again, and it gives me some reason to muse on it.

In my writings about my slavery to Mistress and Master, I know I have sometimes used “parent” imagery, as that is part of what I feel in certain situations. Perhaps I should be more careful of that, but the nature of submission is one of diminishment, a lower status, and possibly as a child to an adult.

Let me pause and say that there are those in relationships with significant others, in partnerships, and in marriages, who use endearing terminology together, and I am not judging or commenting on that. In my vanilla life, I was in a relationship once where my boyfriend started referring to me as “baby girl.” I’m not saying I loved that, but it was his term of fondness for me (and I put up with it). But that is between one and another in a romantic or love relationship, and even in cases where such relationships are D/s. I’m sure not assailing those preferences and choices. (I listen to an erotica blog where the woman co-host refers to her husband co-host as “Big Daddy,” and I find that really cute and sexy.)

But in my world, this becomes an interesting conversation. In fact, Master K doesn’t refer to me as “baby” or “child.” And, as I mentioned, Amanda seems to fiercely defend me in some feminist context as a “woman” — one she joyously dominates into utter and abandoned submission.

The interesting middle ground is when I am called “girl.” I am “slave girl,” “my girl,” and “sub girl,” by Master and Mistress quite frequently. I know in a vanilla world of political correctness, this is not acceptable, and I actually respect that. And so, I don’t think any of the women in Amanda’s office should be referred to as “girl” any more than that any of the men should be referred to as “boy.” But of course, in this my alternative lifestyle of submission and slavery, there are no such constraints. I accept the terminology. I am called far “worse” things. And the term “girl” often gives me submissive feelings.

The thing is, there really isn’t much of an option between “slave” and “girl for Mater and Mistress.” In public, where the term “slave” is probably offensive and at least awkward, what else conveys a sense of hierarchy and submission?

So, when Master K introduces me to someone as “his slave girl,” part of me (still) blushes to be identified publicly as a slave, yet another part of me thrills by him saying I am his. And when Amanda tells others I am “her girl,” I know the code: to public others, it means I am her girlfriend or her lover, and to those in the know it means I am her slave.

Whether I am “woman” or “girl” or “slave,” the terminology puts me in bed with her. In that, I am hers. And to me there is absolutely no offense in that.

whore

The other day I was called a whore.

I am called many things in my slave life, sometimes objectifying words and phrases that, when said in a certain tone, can actually be endearing. Master sometimes calls me his “fuck toy,” and in his delivery, it can be tender. In another context it is literally true. And then in other situations he and others use the same phrase with me in ways that are intentionally objectifying. And that’s OK with me too — I submit to it.

When you are a slave, when you live as the human property of another, verbal degradation is sometimes (often) part of the slave experience. You expect it and you accept it and you are objectified. It sparks your submissive feelings. Often I am aroused by such things. Sometimes I regret that I am aroused by such things.

So being called a whore by this man was not to me offensive per se, though it was somewhat unexpected given he was a stranger to me, raw as it was delivered, and harsh given some of the details and circumstances of the moment. But they really don’t matter.

I am also a writer, which means I am fascinated by words and their meanings. And being called a whore by this man prompted me to think about several things. Maybe this won’t seem interesting to you, but in any case, I shall ramble:

The word “whore” literally means a “promiscuous woman or prostitute.” The word “promiscuous” means “indiscriminate mingling or association, especially having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis.” Those are the established meanings.

And here’s the thing: most of those definitions are actually true of me. I am shared sexually with others on “a casual basis.” My slavery  is social, through my Master, and involves something akin to “indiscriminate mingling.” I am used for lots of sex, quite frankly, giving truth to the word “promiscuous.” The part that isn’t quite true is “prostitute” — I do not take money for what I am and do.

I have at times assumed some self-justification in the fact that as a slave my sexual life is not my own, that in a sense I am made to be promiscuous. But more recently I have come to feel a bit guilty about that assumption. To say I am forced to have sex isn’t really true. Yes and no. My original agreement to become a slave was consent for everything that it requires of me. And there are always options for me to say no. But I don’t say no. And, in fact, I enjoy my life of slavery, my life of so-called promiscuity — not every situation or moment or order or sexual act, but most of it I like, if not truly adore.

I was flash-backing  about my life, the times before I got into active submission and before entering into the slave life. I was an independent professional woman who acted freely. I was never a social butterfly, but I did have relationships, and frankly slept with multiple people. So was I promiscuous? Is there a specific number of sexual experiences one is allowed before the term “whore” becomes appropriate? Is it four, ten, twenty? How do we calculate at what point I actually become a whore?

I went back to memories of high school and college: how we as girls created hierarchies of classmates, categorizing ourselves into groups — girls who were popular, girls who were pretty, girls who were fun, girls who weren’t virgins, and then girls who slept around. This became a social ladder, and we all spent obscene amounts of emotional energy obsessing over where we were on it, aware the worst thing would be the lowest rung, and to be called a “slut.”

So do we — do I — do the same thing now? After all, it’s a bit ridiculous for me as a real slave to put myself on a ladder above that of a prostitute. She sells her body, yes, but then I’ve given away my body. Is there really a moral difference there between a sex worker and a sex slave?

The interesting thing about the incident (and from my point of view there really was no incident) was what happened after.

The situation was a business meeting with a number of Master’s colleagues and an outside agency. Master brought me in as an assistant for the meeting because his usual assistant, Karyn, was ill with the flu. He brings me in sometimes. Now Master’s lifestyle, and my enslavement to him, are common knowledge among his colleagues, and to some extent to the outside partners and agencies he works with. He is a very public person about all of this. And some from this outside agency had this same knowledge. But I am there as his assistant. This is business.

The man who called me a whore was from the outside agency. He’s maybe 25 or so, and very bright, but clearly full of himself. I was in the meeting room placing reports at each seat around the table. Hardly anyone was there yet. This young businessman was trying to be jokey with one of his agency buddies. And he said loudly to his buddy, intentionally so I could hear, “She’s his little whore.”

So, again, I am used to be called things like that. I’ve been called a whore many times and will be called a whore many more times. And as I’ve said, maybe I really am, definitionally, a whore. That’s all OK. And I knew what the young man was trying to do — to present himself as included in the circle of Master’s friends who are in the know about me. It was narcissistic of him, but that’s pretty common.

In the back in the coffee area was Mr. Karras. I’ve written about him before. He’s a long-time close friend and associate of Master Michael. He’s at the Skyway house all the time and he’s had me at different times.

Mr. Karras heard the whole thing.

A moment later, with coffee in hand, Mr. Karras walked over to the young man and his associate, gently but firmly put his hand at the back of the young man’s neck, and said, “Son, she is Michael’s pride and joy. What Shea has chosen to be to him is no business of yours. You have not been included in his circle, and if I hear anything like that from you again, I’ll make sure you never will be.”

Right. He did that.

Like I say, I was not actually offended by being called a whore. But what Mr. Karras said was pretty amazing.

After all that transpired, I looked at Mr. Karras across the room and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

He nodded back with a crusty smile.

And for the rest of the day I was walking on sunshine.

submission

I’ve seen this as a writing prompt question, but it was also asked of me a couple weeks ago by a colleague of Master Michael, a man name Jason, who is intrigued by my life and slavery:  “What does being submissive mean to you? Is it willing surrender? Passivity? Consenting? Obedience? Letting yourself be conquered? Acting meek and humble? Something else?” (I don’t know if that was the exact quote from Jason, but it was something like that.)

I believe there’s a difference between the “submissive” that I am and “submission” that I do.

I am by nature submissive. I was made this way, born this way, for better or worse. This is who I am. I believe it is literally my sexual orientation. As I understand and experience this in me, it means that I respond to dominant things and people and situations in certain ways that involve attraction, desire, arousal, longing, and surrender. I am somehow compelled by that which might contain or possess me.

I cannot help myself from responding this way. It is maybe like the fascination a young boy finds in discovering a fallen bird’s nest or the obsessive binge-watch of “Big Little Lies” on HBO or the compulsive curiosity I felt as a high school girl when I first touched a boy’s penis. These are things we are drawn to without really choosing. Likewise, I am involuntarily drawn to situations and things and people who are dominant: I felt this when I saw the Grand Canyon. The size and breadth of it felt dominant to me, compelling me to get to the bottom and be enveloped by its mass. Inexplicably, I respond physically and emotionally to massive mechanical machines and vehicles —weird, I know, but true. And I am physically and sexually and emotionally affected by men and women who give off a vibe of dominance. None of this is a choice for me, which is in a way humiliating. I know if I were placed in the cab of a Caterpillar combine harvester in the middle of a Nebraska field, I would have, I’m sure of it, an orgasm. And how do you explain that? But more to the point, this is the ineffable thing inside us submissives that makes us kneel before a dominant person and beg them to take us and subjugate us. That in itself is humiliating even as it’s orgasmic — and then more humiliating because it is orgasmic. This submissive orientation inside us that we never chose and cannot control is just damn humiliating, isn’t it.

This is the submissive that I am. Let me get back to the original question and write about the submission that I do.

This is for me a dance between my personality and my slavery. Perhaps it’s my Irish heritage, but I am sometimes opinionated, outspoken, and defiant. I tend to express myself boldly. I have a sense of humor that sometimes has an sarcastic edge to it. Now, to be clear, I am still very much an introvert. I am on the quiet side and do not jabber or chatter. But when I feel strongly I tend to speak my mind.

What to make of this? Well, for one thing, I have come to understand that being a submissive in what I am has little to do with having a submissive personality. Having a submissive sexual orientation doesn’t mean I’m naturally meek and recessive and acquiescent in terms of my personality and behavior.

Nor should I be.

When I entered into my slavery, Master Michael made it clear that he demanded obedience but not passivity. He required servitude but not a grovelling girl. He would subject me, he said, to humiliation, but he would not tolerate self-denial and worthlessness. He would train me in submission but not extort from me my self-esteem.

He said then (and it was so powerful to me in that moment I have remembered it, written it down, framed, and posted it on the wall in my writing nook): “Shae, you are obviously an attractive girl — luscious hair, shapely legs, gorgeous tits. In your slavery to me, of course, that is often what I how will use you and enjoy you. But you are specially desirable because of other attributes: your quick wit, sharp tongue, sense of humor. As I enslave you — and know that I will utterly enslave you — my intent is to shape, enhance, and play with those parts of you, not to diminish or eliminate them.”

It helped me understand I was a better slave to him because of my strengths not because of my weaknesses. A dominant doesn’t want a girl who has nothing inside.

Admittedly, submission is a strange life. It requires us to sacrifice ourselves in a life of subjugation and humiliation — and yet it is in that giving of ourselves we find the treasure of our submissive beings. With good fortune we become owned by the better angels, those who value the core of who we are.