The Party (Fiction)

Note: This is flash fiction, which is generally defined as a really short, short story. One rule of thumb is that it is to be about 500 words in length, although some allow more words. This comes in at 500. I find flash fiction is a good exercise in economical writing. It forces you not only to eliminate any unnecessary words, but find other words that do more “work.” It’s not the only kind of writing you want to do, of course, but it’s a good discipline. Here I’m trying to adapt erotica into this flash fiction format.

He warned if I toppled any glass I would be given lashes in front of the crowd.

The problem with the waist tray was that my breasts, which would be made bare for the event, jutted into the space above the tray. This was fine for stemless wine and cocktail barware, which sat comfortably under, but made tall champagne flutes and highball glasses precarious. My breasts swayed slightly when I walked, tending to jostle any glasses that tall.

“I can’t help it,” I apologized, “they just move.”

Master Jack grunted but would hardly complain, for he valued my assets. Indeed, the whole point of the waist tray was to frame my tits above the tray for all to see.

He put me in a black miniskirt and strappy heels and my titanium collar with a Yale lock in front. He shackled my wrists behind my back and filled my mouth with a ballgag.

The tray belted around my waist, with chains holding up its front corners. The question was whether to attach the chain ends to the piercings in my nipples or the O-ring of my slave collar. Master tried to attach the tray to my nipples, and it worked sort of, but my nipples elongated like springs when the tray was filled with drinks, making everything unstable.

The O-ring it was.

People arrived around seven, some thirty of them, men and women, strangers offering leering smiles when they saw me.

Master announced at the beginning — “My slave cannot serve drinks in tall glasses… for her tits are too big.” Everyone looked at me and I was obvious and people laughed.

All evening I walked around in a random pattern from bartender to party guests, my breasts jiggling, framed between the chains.

Later I became weary from being in my heels all evening. My shoe caught on the edge of the Oriental rug. It was a minor stumble, nothing really, but two empty glasses toppled over on my tray.

Immediately Master Jack led me to the wall. He beckoned the crowd to watch. He made me bend over at my waist and grab my ankles. He lifted my skirt from behind, revealing my cheeks. I felt the air, circulated by the overhead fans, waft over my shaved pussy.

He announced my stumble, that there were to be two strokes. He handed a whip to one of the guests. “Have at her,” he said, and everyone laughed.

I heard the whip being raised. It whistled through the air, landing flat against my flesh.

I screamed, trembling.

“Harder!” someone said.

The second stroke landed. I yelled again, gasping from the slice.

People clapped, laughing.

I felt blood trickle from the stripes I’d been given.

Master straightened me, facing the guests. My tears made my mascara run. He left the back hem of my skirt tucked into my waistband: my welts were visible to everyone.

I continued serving drinks on my tray.

Someone asked Master Jack, “Where do I get one of her?”

phantom canyon: part two (fiction)

We get back to the truck. He wants me again to stand by the sapling at the edge of the pull-off. He says something about wishing I had other shoes. I know he means high heels, so out of place in the forest, but that’s his whole idea.

“You’re not taking pictures anyway,” I call out, “so what’s it matter?” I figure that In the Photoshop of his mind, he can replace my wedge sandals with cherry-red, five-inch heels.

Soon Jameson comes to stand behind me, and for a time we watch together the nature we’re in. A breeze picks up and makes the leaves rustle. The sun’s rays, filtered by the aspen, dance along the ground. He wraps his arm around my bare waist, and I reach my hand up behind his neck, leaning my head back against his chest. This is the moment I have wanted — us both together in nature that we share, his dominant body against my submissive nakedness, our union a communion in a forest of hushed silence.

A car approaches, then passes without slowing, the driver probably not seeing us in the rear view.

Jameson slides his hand up my midriff and cups my right breast, letting it pool in his palm. I close my eyes, swooning in the moment. He slides my nipple between two fingers, and squeezes. As always when I’m aroused, I think of clever things to say, but this time I don’t speak, not wanting to pierce the quiet.

His other hand slides down to my pale and shaved vulva, then between my legs to my pussy. There, he fingers my lips, already extended and hungry, making me need to squirm, but I don’t, instead holding still so his fingers won’t leave me.

I realize I am holding my breath. I exhale slowly, and it tells Jameson, if his fingers hadn’t told him already, how his touching affects me.

His index finger collects some of my wet, and with it slowly paints the outer ridges of my labia. The breezes immediately cool them, and I sigh as the air evaporates my ooze from them, just making me even more puddled in between.

Another car sounds from a distance. It seems to approach from the south. Jameson leaves me, disengaging, walking back to his truck, as I remain in plain view and puffy arousal. I resist the urge to hide and simply stand without covering myself.

Indeed, the car appears, slows. And then it stops.

I catch my breath.

It parks behind Jameson’s truck. A heavy-set man in jeans and a black tee gets out.

“How’s it goin’?” he asks.

“Great day for a photoshoot,” Jameson says.

“Yep, looks like,” the man says. He looks across the pullout to the alcove where I am standing. From that distance, he can see my body, but not my blushing.

“Yes,” Jameson says. “Waiting for the sun to find an angle.”

“You have the model for it,” the man says. “Pretty one.”

“Here,” Jameson tilts his head toward me. “Let me introduce you.”

The men walk my way. There is no way to hide or cover myself. I decide to stand full on and try to maintain my dignity.

“This is Shannon,” Jameson says, like the stranger is a friend of a friend at Thanksgiving.

The stranger says “Good to meet you” — polite but delivered with a shit-faced grin.

I nod to him. I don’t know what to say, sure that Emily Post never had advice for proper etiquette in this situation. I put on a thin smile but say nothing, pretending to be a model.

But a real model would have a robe. There is no robe anywhere in sight, and the stranger, I’m sure, sees through the sham. Why it matters I do not know. Whether nature model or slave girl, I am still nude, all flesh and curves before a stranger’s eyes. He knows this too, seeing me for what I am — a woman naked in the forest for strangers in cars.

Now the stranger’s eyes shift into a different awareness of me, a sensing of my humiliation. I redden, which he also notices with a smirk and which makes me blush more deeply. Humiliation begets more humiliation.

Nothing’s been said, but he knows exactly what I am.

The stranger and Jameson walk back to the truck. I hear patches of their conversation. “Pretty girl,” the stranger says, “nice boobs,” and then he adds with a chuckle, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, here’s the kind of photo I was trying to get…” Jameson says to him, as their voices fade, falling out of hearing range.

The men have pulled a length of chain out of the truck, along with other items. They walk back to me at the edge of the woods.

They have quickly figured out how to work in tandem. Jameson throws the length of heavy chain over a branch of the tree. The stranger holds a pair of cuffs and now wraps them around my wrists. Jameson attaches one end of the chain to my cuffs, so my wrists are linked together. The stranger pulls the other end of the chain until my arms are extended above my head, then wrapping the chain tightly around the tree trunk to secure it.

The two men step back and look at me now chained naked and pale to a tree branch overhead. My head is tilted down and to the side as I look away, flushed in my humiliation.

The men walk back to the camera and tripod, talking about me, about getting the right shot, about whether to take the camera off the tripod and move closer, about how this should or shouldn’t be done — they way men can discuss the theory of something for hours when simply trying it would take just two minutes.

I hear Jameson giving the stranger instructions. “It will be timing,” he says to the man, “you’ll be behind her, touching her, bringing her along… ”

They moved the tripod closer, and Jameson pretended to adjust it, directing the man to step behind me. “Let’s start,” he says.

The man positions himself behind me and inches close, then tight. I feel the buckle of his belt cold and hard against the small of my back.

His hands reach around me and cup my breasts.

I do not resist, but I regret the violation. Not the violation of me but the violation of nature, my worship interrupted. I don’t want this chunky man stranger to be touching me. I want Jameson. With him, it was perfect for a few moments, the two of us in a wedding of nature. Why now this? Why this stranger?

Jameson stands behind the camera that he cannot operate, but he isn’t pretending to, not looking through the viewfinder. He’s just watching the stranger fondle me.

Soon the man slides one hand down, across my waist and below into the paleness of my sex. He cups my vulva, and I catch my breath.

His fingers feel rough as they slide along my labia. I feel myself swelling there, opening, my pussy becoming wide and wet. My earlier distress that it’s a stranger touching me fades away until it no longer matters. The stranger, oddly patient, now nestles his finger length-wise between my lips below, which coat him with my ooze.

In such a short time, I have gone from a wish that this would not happen to a wish that it would, and I am now complicit in the act with a man I don’t know. I writhe in my wrist constraints above my head, but it isn’t any attempt to get away, rather the natural response of my flesh, coiling and uncoiling within the pleasure. Below, my flesh curls around the man’s hand.

He plunges a thick coarse finger into my cunt. I squeal.

It feels scratchy, but not such that it hurts, just making me all the more aware of the foreigner inside my vagina.

His thumb dips into my wet and then graces my clit, and I breathe sharply.

This becomes a rhythm as his finger slides in and out of my pussy and his thumb touches and retouches my clit. His other hand continues its feel of my breast with soft squeezes. He’s a one-man band, creating a kind of forest music without sound — my huffy breaths and occasional sighs the simple percussion.

I close my eyes and lose track of time. It becomes a kind of heaven I didn’t imagine, maybe even a paradise I didn’t want, but now an eden I deeply craved. I want this to be over and yet never end.

He brings my body to an edge, and I feel like I’m at the brim of a cliff and about to fall into the depths of phantom canyon. I open my eyes, but see only a blur as I am dizzy from my swoon.

The stranger steps up his tempo, and I am now breathing faster and faster, uttering a moan once each cycle.

It continues, my moans becoming more frequent and breathier.

Suddenly, his finger slows its pumping in and out of me, his thumb easing its pace but now lingering longer when it slides across my clit — like a lyrical, slow movement of a symphony, an achingly beautiful largo.

And then he stops altogether. It is as if his strumming fingers hand off the melody to my flesh, my spasming curves and folds continuing the tune onward into a musical climax.

I step off the edge and soar into the canyon below. My body shudders visibly, my head falls back.

The stranger quickly steps away. Out of the shot.

Jameson clicks the shutter.

I hang there, my body limp, as Jameson thanks the stranger. They talk in words I hear only as faint murmurs. They say goodbye, and the man drives off, having made himself a memory in me never to be forgotten.

Jameson leaves me there, my body used, as he collects the camera and tripod and other items and stows them in the truck.

In time, he unshackles me, and I, shakily, find my footing. I put on my clothes.

He shows me the image in the viewfinder of the SLR.

The stranger is not in the picture. I am alone in the thick of my orgasm, my head tossed back in the throes of my coming, my pussy catching a ray of sunlight glistening, and parts of my body slightly blurred by my spasms.

And it is more. The blur of my orgasm is pitched against the backdrop of aspen in sharp focus, as if the forest, all of nature, stopped at once for my moment of ecstasy. Finally, after a whole day of yearning, I literally became one with nature

It, somehow, against all odds, is a perfect picture.

I turn to Jameson and say, “You take one picture in your whole damn life, and this is the one?”

He grins.

In the truck on the way home, Jameson says, “The man is named George.” He says it as if I want to know, but I would rather the memory be less specific than that.

We ride in silence.

Jameson says, “George is an old army buddy of mine.”

phantom canyon: part one (fiction)

This is the first part of two. A fiction piece I’ve been working on lately, but haven’t been able to finish. Maybe posting this part will help me stick the landing…

It’s a dense woods on the side of a mountain, blanketed in aspen, sloping down to a canyon below. A road runs through it, dirt packed into bumps and ripples, a public route, though only occasionally traveled.

Jameson drives us far along this canyon road, well up the mountain. At a pull-off he parks the truck. The road is some forty miles up one side and down the other. We aren’t yet at the crest, but near to it.

He leads me by my leash to a massive boulder with a flat-angled facing, which he has me lean against. He drops the leash, it clinks against the rock, and Jameson returns to the truck.

This forest is stunning, the white tree trunks rising up to heaven. The rustle of leaves seems a new kind of quiet, a soft noise that becomes a hush.

Jameson has fetched a camera and a tripod. He sets up the tripod about twenty feet from me, and mounts the camera.

I can’t help but laugh because he has confessed before that he doesn’t know much about cameras, maybe the one mechanical thing in the world he isn’t good at. I even doubt that the camera works, but for his purposes that doesn’t matter.

He hears my laugh, grins at me, and says, “You’ll pay for that.”

“I know.”

He walks to my side, and leans against the boulder. His arm comes around me in back, and his hand rises up behind to span my neck and collar. It seems symbolic of things between us, a gesture both protective and possessive at the same time.

He checks the solid hold of the spring clasp connecting my chain leash to my collar.

“Afraid I’ll get away?” I tease.

He chuckles, says nothing, and tinkers some more. It’s just what he does — he plays with hardware and the flesh of this girl, hard and soft together.

He’s up again, now rummaging through a steel tool chest in the back bed on the truck. I wish he would sit still, allow himself to breathe in the crisp mountain air, watch the sun filter through the aspen in slats and beams.

Returning, he produces a huge Yale lock the size of Montana. He hangs it off of my O-ring in front and locks it. I feel the weight of it tug my neck forward and feel like I have to fight its pull.

A car drives by, reminding that this place may be remote but it’s still public. The road itself makes it hard for a car to do more than thirty-five, and often you have to take it much slower. This car, a middle-age couple in an SUV, slows even more while passing us, looking at me, looking at Jameson’s camera and tripod. They drive on.

He reels in my leash and takes the other end as his eyes scan our landscape. He wants to attach me to something. I think he wishes there was a large eye bolt screwed into the side of the boulder, something he could chain me to.

“Take off your dress,” he says.

I figured it was coming to this, and it doesn’t surprise me. I look into his eyes as I reach for the top button of my shirt dress. For better or worse, it’s my nature to passively submit, but I know as well this is how he likes me — quietly obedient. And maybe it’s why he likes me. My hushed acquiescence without protest is peaceful to him, relaxes him. It occurs to me that while I find peace being in the calming nature of the wilderness, he finds peace in the calming nature of me.

My buttons are undone and I continue to look into his eyes as I pull the bodice open, and loop the dress over one shoulder then the other. I slide it over my breasts and to my waist.

Early on, when I knew I would be this way with him and it would be like this, he had me look into his eyes during such things. That way, he said, I would not be distracted by what or who was around me, focused not on my shame and only on my obedience. It was later that this became unnecessary — while I still felt the shame, I endured it, and in a way it no longer mattered. Yet I still looked into his eyes, as I do now, perhaps from habit, more likely to watch his glistening lust for me.

From ten feet away, he eyes my breasts, my orbs of pale flesh striped by shards of sunlight.

I push my dress over my hips and down my legs. I lean over to gather the dress before hit hits the ground, stepping out of it and draping it over my arm in one fluid motion, as if undressing in the forest was something I did every day.

Now I am wearing only my metal slave collar and my wedge sandals. I breathe in as Jameson absorbs my femininity — my naked teats and my soft folds below — now suddenly presented in a landscape of rough tree bark and hard boulders.

He has his visual moment with me, his eyes lingering, fucking me.

He takes my dress from my arm and lays it on the passenger seat of the truck, leaving the door open and my dress draping down, empty of me.

Jameson takes my leash and walks me to the edge of the pull-off where a wedge of forest begins again. He loops my leash around the trunk of an aspen, fastens it, chaining me there. The leash chain hangs from my collar to the tree in a “U” that doesn’t quite touch the ground.

All day he has been attaching me to things. It seems an obsession for him, something deep within him tinkering and playing.

Being leashed and chained, of course, often makes me feel like a dog, a pet cared for, yet kept tamed and chained. However, I often feel that my leashed identity is actually less animate, that I am more of a thing, an object, than a creature. My leash chain is a holder. My attachment is simply a place he stores me for a while.

I am important to him, but only when I am important to him. Like a set of car keys placed on the kitchen hook. Like a mechanic’s tool he won’t use till next time. At times he sets me aside. At times he attaches me to a tree.

Jameson leaves me, walking down the road. He rounds the bend, and I can no longer see him. I feel alone, set aside.

I hear a car approaching from the north, its tires crunching the gravelly road.

I stand naked and still, my pale flesh like the bark of an aspen sapling exposed at the edge of the woods. My hands are free, and if I wished, I could unhook my chain from the tree and hide. He doesn’t want me to do so, of course.

He has made like he’s gone for a hike, but I wonder if he’s circled around and is watching me from some stand in the deeper forest.

The car rolls through. It slows but passes. If it had come from the south, the driver would surely have seen me. But this forest edge is an alcove of sorts, an inset shielded from cars coming from the north, like this car. The driver could have spotted me through the rear-view mirror, perhaps why it slowed. Maybe.

In time, I hear Jameson’s heavy boots trudge up from the road. He says something about the creek below. He wants to walk me there.

He removes my leash, taking me by hand across the road through the aspen on the other side. Slender twigs hang down and slide across my naked breasts; crisp leaves on the forest bed crunch under my sandals and sometimes prickle the open tops of my feet. It is as if the forest is reaching out, touching me, trying to make sense of my presence, so soft and round and warm, in its crackly midst.

It isn’t far, the only challenge being a steep section from the forest edge down to the creek. He has me jump to him those few feet, and he catches me in his arms.

It is a narrow creek but with a strong flow of water, and it sings a melody of rushes and ripples. To the north, the creek widens and the trees fade back, allowing the sun to shine fully on my bare flesh, its rays warming my breasts and my thighs. Jameson walks along the creek bed, as if he is exploring, but I know better. Sure enough, he stops fifty yards upstream and turns to look back. I grant him his gaze, remaining still. It’s a full minute, maybe more, a moment for him to take in my feminine nature framed by mother nature.

I dare to step into the water, letting it cascade over my sandaled feet, but it’s freezing, and I shriek, jumping back, my breasts jiggling as I stumble a bit, but somehow I regain my footing. I laugh, exclaiming, “Oh my god!”

I hear Jameson laugh too, like an echo.

The point of all this, it eventually becomes clear to me, is that there is no point. Which is lovely.

More to come…

fiction fragment

The beginning of a story perhaps. Fiction. Well, sort of…

Why it happened with him, I don’t really know. Sure, I remember when I met him and how I responded to him that first time. I can go back through the subsequent events and try to recreate what did I know when, how one step led to another — but in the sequence there is no why.

I have searched for the why of me with him, as if some simple thing can be a justification for the unthinkable. But it’s wrapped up in me, like a ghost hidden in the crevices of the woman I am.

You see, sometimes there is no “why,” and you choose a man that first time because of what’s in you, an unknowable craving that somehow, inexplicably, he juices and sates. You drink him, and then he’s in you, and then you are dependent, and then you never choose anything different.

I don’t ask myself these questions any more, but others do, wondering about me, and me with him, and how it is cruel to me and debasing and all these things they will never understand — why would I do this to myself, and that sort of thing — all of it the source of my shame. To many, I’m at least a curiosity. To most, a disgrace. To some, a terrible pity.

I know.

untitled: a short fiction

Daniel is inside me, thick with the swell of lust.

I am wet for him. I know I am just his woman of convenience — though convenient on a regular basis — yet I can’t help myself. I want him. So I am open. Hungry. Juicy.

His body lies atop mine, and his muscled weight slides back and forth, his chest hair scraping across my smooth skin, rolling my breasts and rocking my naked flesh. His mouth lies beside my ear whispering directions — “slow,” “easy,” “let it come” — and I almost laugh at this man who, like many others, cannot help but issue commands even during sex. Even this he must control.

My arms drape over his shoulders and my hands cling to the back of his head. It is as if I loved him, and maybe I do in some way. Does it prostitute me more to give the guy not only my pussy but also my heart? Or is that the other way around?

He changes his angle and his cock pumps me more, now gracing my clit every other stroke or so. I close my eyes. Maybe I love all the men who fuck me like this and make me come, as he just did moments ago. Do I shudder just for him or for others too? I can’t remember.

He thrusts himself farther in. His balls slap me underneath. And suddenly he stops, holding himself there.

It is the briefest of moments.

From a rock solid standstill, he erupts and gushes his semen into my deepest places. It is warm and thick and demanding. It coats me inside.

Daniel pushes himself off my body, sliding out of me. He angles himself over to the other side of his bed, stands, and walks out of the bedroom without a word.

Sitting in the corner is his wife.

She wears a pretty sleeveless sundress, yellow-and-orange floral. Standing, she walks to the bed and reaches her hand out to me. I take it and our fingers intertwine.

“Dierdre, I think you’re a little overdressed,” I say.

“I always like to be presentable for the show,” she says in her thick voice. “You know that.”

fiction: fragments of a story

The first time Eleanna and I met, M had my wrists and ankles shackled to a table in the massive living room, and he was impaled inside my vagina, fucking my body with such force as to make my breasts roll like ocean waves. She’d walked in, watched a while, and casually said, “I see you’ve met my husband.” Between moans, I nodded. Eleanna held my hand during the remainder of my violation, and soon I came in shudders. Grunting his last, M pulled out, his cum oozing out over my labia, dripping on expensive Tuscan marble.

It would be months later that Eleanna, again, would hold my hand as M was doing me in another relentless intercourse, and I would come to orgasm. And she would come too, just from holding my hand, feeling my climax as it rippled through me into her. She’d be standing in her swoon, her knees buckling a little, and blood would rush from her face. She’d then lay herself, shuddering, over my naked breasts, forming a cross with our two bodies, as if it was a sign of heaven.

dream (repost)

I posted this dream-fantasy-fiction piece some time ago. It expresses some of the feelings I just wrote about in “two fantasies.”

I had a dream the other night. Later I would realize this was a blended narrative of a fiction story I wrote a while back and a real place I remember from about three years ago. And probably part of a fantasy I harbor deep within.

Amanda has brought me to a bar that sits on a hill outside of town. It’s an old dive of a place, with a wooden veranda on two sides and outside walls of chipped red paint and neon Corona signs.

She looks amazing in tight jeans and a smart white embroidered shirt. As in many dreams, sometimes the emotions are stronger than the visual memories, and in this, I feel so proud to be hers. (Clearly in the dream I have a keen sense of her ownership of me.)

Meanwhile, she has dressed me in a very short antique pink skirt with fringe tassels and a white lace bell-sleeve top. (I don’t remember the act of her dressing me in the dream, but I recall feeling that I have been dressed by her.) I remember being very “filly.”

So Amanda takes me, the frilly, girly one, by the hand and leads me inside. The bar is dark and dusty with rays of sun piercing through windows. We sit at a table in the middle, not at the bar.

It’s not crowded. There are men at the bar in twos and threes, maybe seven or eight. There’s man and woman at a table in the corner. The bartender pours beers and sets them on a tray. A waitress picks up the tray and serves it to the couple in the corner.

The waitress stops by our table and asks what we want. “Sam Adams for me,” Amanda says. “She’ll have water.”

Here, my memory of my dream falls apart. I can’t remember specifics for what happens next. We drink and there’s some conversation I don’t remember. There’s a small dance floor area next to a small music stage, but there’s no band, just music playing over the sound system. For a while we’re outside again, and there’s some vague business that happens in the sun on the bar’s veranda, but I don’t know what it is.

Then the dream becomes clearer, and we’re back inside. Amanda pulls me onto the dance floor, and we dance to the music. Later, we sit down again, but she holds my hand, obvious like, for people to see. I have an awareness that some of the men at the bar are turning to watch us. Or maybe they did when we were dancing.

Amanda leans toward me and kisses me, long and slow. I know she is doing this for show. (This is, in real life, very Amanda — fearless in public).

Amanda then goes to the ladies room.

She returns, and it’s like she’s a different person. She looks the same, but as she sits down, she orders me to stand. Then she pulls me down across her lap, without explanation. I’m just obeying.

Once I’m stretched across her lap, she pulls my skirt up from behind and reveals my bare ass cheeks.

The she starts spanking me hard.

I am in shock, and at first I can’t say anything. Then the force of her spanks compels me to scream. She pauses and spreads my thighs apart. Then she resumes her spanking of me.

I am crying, more from the sudden rift between me and Amanda which I do not understand, than from the sting of her spanks, though they are hard and painful.

I am aware that the some of the people in the bar and standing, watching, and coming in for closer looks.

She stops. Tells me to stand. I do, and she pulls the fringe hem of my skirt up and tucks it into the waist of my skirt, which pulls it above most of my ass and my pussy.

I stand before strangers revealed, tears running down my cheeks.

She tells me to sit, but I cannot, as my ass is beet red and stinging,. So I continue to stand with the bar full of people watching my humiliation.

This is one of those dreams where you wake up trembling, in a sweat, and carry for a while its emotions into waking life. I want to make it perfectly clear Amanda did not actually do this. It was a dream. I don’t know what it means. Or if it means anything.

writing about slavery and sex

I frequently get specific questions on writing about my life, in particular about sex and how I am used in sexual situations. Some of this I have addressed in posts before, but is time for a reprise. Still, many of these questions are new.

Does it embarrass you to write explicitly about yourself as a slave and about being used sexually?

Yes, it does. I have moments where I think about who is reading this, that some are in my public life whom I will see in the next week or so. I am also aware there are likely some who know me personally but I don’t know they are reading me here.
So it is something of an exercise in self-humiliation.

If so, why do you do it?

I had always written a paper journal, going back to my pre-teen years. At a point in my slave life, my Master (Michael) had me start writing some things to post online. This became a blog online, and then, after a break from writing, I started this WordPress blog. It’s been encouraged and sanctioned by Mistress Amanda.

I believe my owners have genuinely wanted to support my writing and have me share it with others. But I also think they have seen it as an aspect of my slavery, a process of revealing me to friends and strangers.

I remember the first time I wrote about myself having sex. My words were awkward and self-conscious. I couldn’t quite bear to reveal that part of myself on (then) paper, couldn’t allow the words to exist in a physical form. I trashed that piece and several after. But over time, I managed to live with some of what I had written. And now it flows more naturally, though not always more easily. In a way, writing about sex became a kind of therapy for me, a recovery from my conservative upbringing. In another way, it was a part of my submissive journey, opening me to be presented through words in a public form.

I have come to believe that sex is wondrous and beautiful. But also it is, for most people, private and intimate and personal. So sharing, in words, about my being used for sex is a form of allowing myself to be watched publicly, and often it’s impersonal and not so intimate — so it violates social norms. Which is also the nature of submission and slavery. That’s where the embarrassment and humiliation come in.

But humiliation is necessary part of my daily slave life, a constant requirement of me. It is a mystery how humiliation works in the submissive soul — how it is hard and degrading yet pleasurable. But so it is. I accept and absorb the embarrassment of being viewed and watched and enjoyed by others through my blog writing. This is difficult for me even as it pleasures me. That’s the nature of D/s life.

By writing about people having sex with you, are you an exhibitionist?

No, I am not an exhibitionist. I do not get any specific satisfaction from being exposed publicly, online or in public life. I would never reveal myself in public on my own. However — again the mystery — it pleasures me to submit to being exposed, which as you know from reading my blog, happens quite a bit. But that satisfaction comes from my submission, not from some pleasure in exhibiting.

For me as an extreme submissive and slave, I live life desiring to be accepted and considered “normal,” even though my sub nature and my lifestyle are usually looked down on and judged by people in vanilla life. The exhibition and public presentation of me as a sex slave is not an easy thing for me.

When someone is having sex with you, are you thinking about how you will write it?

God, no!

Actually, one of the most important things in slavery is to remain present in the moment. The danger is dissociating, letting your mind focus on something else completely and abandoning and numbing your body to the uses required. It’s important to remain in the moment, present with the other person or other people.

But beyond that, I think there is, even in slave sex that is often on-demand or “forced” or bondaged, a relationship going on, and I truly want to experience the other person and how he or she is enjoying me.

What have you learned about writing about yourself sexually?

I’ve learned that not only is it impossible to capture all I experienced, but doing so even if I could, would not be enjoyable to read. So I try to remember the primary feelings I had and to identify the primary “dynamic” in play with the other person — rough, teasing, romantic, forceful, humiliating, etc.

I’ve learned that the physical actions of sex that are so arousing and stimulating to me in the experience, are mostly boring to read about. Instead what is more interesting, but also true to the experience, is my response and feeling about myself in the moment.

I’ve learned that it’s important to stay true to what happened. There is a tendency to over-dramatize it. Sometimes it is dramatic, but many times it is not so much. As I’ve written before, I don’t always orgasm. And you can’t show that you did if you didn’t.

You have mentioned the colleagues at Amanda’s workplace. You’ve spent time with them, worked alongside them. And you’ve said they read your blog. How is it with them, knowing they’ve read your experiences having sex?

Well, at first, this was challenging to me, which is reflected in my blog posts earlier in the year. I hadn’t before had much of that public connection to people reading my blog, and it was embarrassing to me.

In meeting them at first, being introduced to them bluntly as “Amanda’s slave,” it was humiliating. But that’s the normal course of slave life. It became more of a challenge for me as I learned they were starting to read my blog.

So, I’ve gone through a process of dealing with that. They have had questions for me about my slave life, and I’ve had conversations with some of them about submission and D/s and the struggle women face in society and so on. And at times they have teased me, in good nature, about something or other that I’ve written about. I’ve taken the teasing as a good sign of acceptance by them. They have been generous in receiving me into their circle and friendship.

Aside from the workplace colleagues, have you ever met people in person who follow your blog? That is, someone whose only connection to you is through your blog? If so, what was that like?

Yes, I have met in person two people who know me only through my blog online. One was a man who lives close by. Another is a sister slave in the Denver area.

In both cases, the meetings were short, over coffee, Amanda present. (I need to make it clear that these meet-and-greet connections have been selected and chaperoned entirely by Mistress Amanda. I don’t decide these things.)

The meeting with the man went well. He had a lot of questions. He was not really dom or sub himself, just a fan. I think he was at first a little nervous in meeting me. Likewise, I was nervous too, as that was the first of these experiences for me. Mostly he was just curious about me. It was a pleasant time.

Jeniffer is a college student and submissive (I have permission to use her name). Again over coffee, and again a lot of questions, mostly about how you know what your submissiveness means for your life and lifestyle. Jen had a few questions for Amanda as well, but I think Amanda recognized she was a bit intimidated by her being there, so Amanda left us alone for a while. We will probably see Jen some more after our move there.

Have you ever had sex with someone who is one of your blog readers?

No, I have not had sex with someone who has been a follower of me online. I suppose the follow-up question is whether that could happen sometime. I really can’t answer that one way or other. That’s Amanda’s decision.

If you were provided to me for a sex session, would you write about it?

(Ahh, so that’s where this is going.) Well, first, I don’t think it’s very likely to happen. But if it did, I would write about it only if I had your permission first, and then only if it was with the go-ahead from Mistress Amanda.

Is writing from your life experiences similar to writing fiction? How are they alike?

A lot of writing is finding the right words and style to express experience, whether that is real life or story. Of course, fiction requires you to come up with the events and characters and detail. Real life is there in front of you.

But both real life and fiction require you to establish a sense of believability and reality. Just because something really happened to me doesn’t mean it will be believable to a reader. I have to work to establish the reality of my life in my blog writing much like the reality of the worlds I write about in my fiction.

Also, blog writing, for me anyway, is a regular, almost daily exercise. I don’t — and can’t — take endless hours to rewrite my blog posts over and over in multiple drafts, to perfect what I post. So, writing my life is messy, imperfect, and sometimes just kind of awkward in one way or other.

Fiction usually is something I labor over more, take time to rewrite and massage, and try to bring to a higher level. Sill, when I post my fiction, I consider it maybe a second or third draft, not quite so polished yet as if I were having it published.

Have you published any of your writing? Have you thought about it?

No, I have not published anything. And, well, sure, I’ve thought about it, but I haven’t really considered it seriously. Not at this stage of my life. And given what my life is, what my daily life requires of me, I can’t focus on that now.

How much time do you spend writing your life experiences in your blog versus writing fiction?

Writing my blog is about three-quarters of my writing time. I go to fiction writing when I have a bit more time or have less to write about from my daily life. I’d like to spend more time writing overall and more time in fiction. But I have this day job that requires me to serve others. 🙂

update: unfinished business

This is kind of an unusual update. I know there are a number of things I have promised to readers over these months. I’ve promised them with every intention of fulfilling them, but circumstances have made some things impossible.

  1. Accounts of my being shared. When I was shared with Mr. D, the idea was that he’d write about his experience of me and I’d post it. He has not written that. I think the reason is that he just isn’t much of a writer and doesn’t want to do that. I don’t think he was disappointed with me that time, and he’s said positive things about me to me since that time. But I don’t know.
  2. Interview with me. Mistress Amanda had a contact with a freelance journalist and gave him permission to interview me. He did. He came here, and I spent parts of two days answering his questions. We were supposed to get a transcript of the interview for final approval, but never did. He is still promising to send something, but we think it never will see the light of day. However, if anyone sees an interview with me posted out there on the Internet Machine, let me know. A further note: Amanda has since done an interview with another person who wanted a domme’s-eye-view of an actual slavery. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to post that, but maybe. The thing is we have been contacted by a number of people who have interest in interviews or videos of us. Amanda doesn’t want what we are and have to become too public. But there are things being considered.
  3. My “slave emails.” I started this with a couple of people who emailed me directly, and I posted these emails in a separate section of my blog. My intention was to share ongoing email relationships with you all. The problem is that my emails from watchers and followers has multiplied. These correspondences mean a lot to me, and I respond personally to each person, friend, watcher, follower who writes me. But for me to secure permission and format these to post these on my blog takes time away from me actually writing. So I’ve been moving away from doing that. My apologies.
  4. My First Time… Another sub-menu on my blog of my experience of the “firsts” in my submissive life. I have gotten away from that, but intend to continue it. More to come…
  5. Fiction. I am still writing fiction, and I will post more. I’ve been in a bit of a hiatus because of my wrist, but am back at it now. Truth is, fiction is my first love, and I will always write it.

I probably need to be careful of promising too much, but some things just happen. Or don’t happen, as it were….

q&a on writing

Questions on how I write.

What do you enjoy writing most: fiction or non-fiction (this blog)?

A great question. The simple answer is that it goes back and forth.

Writing the blog is a submissive experience for me. I am sharing my submissive mind, heart, body, and sex before a crowd of watchers and followers. It’s very intimate for me. Writing the blog pushes all my submissive buttons, which is arousing to me, yet also can make me feel exposed and embarrassed — submissive experiences. On this blog, my sub/sex life is public, being lived out in front of others. So it becomes an extension of my slavery. And I think Mistress and Master know that and is a reason they carve out a lot of liberty for me to do this. It serves their dominant purposes too.

I think writing the blog is good for me. I’ve just written about self-care, and writing online is a form of therapy in a way. I love doing it.

However, writing the blog every day, which I try to do, is also tiring. Well, it’s more that I get tired of myself, reading my own voice on the page over and over. So sometimes I need a break, and I spend more time on fiction.

Actually I’m writing fiction all the time, but I focus on it more at times when blog writing gets tiresome. Fiction pieces take a lot more to develop and are longer, so I post them infrequently. Actually I write a lot more fiction than I ever post. I also write fiction that has nothing to do with sex or D/s or this lifestyle. I like relational stories and have played with genres, including currently an espionage novel.

My lifestyle fiction allows me to play out scenarios I might not ever experience. (Though who knows? Never say never.) Many involve characters that are fragments of myself. Some are fantasies I actually have, or dreams I remember.

What’s meaningful to me in writing both my blog and my lifestyle fiction is to express the inner experience of submission and dominance and relationship within in those dynamics.

How long does it take you to write a blog post?

There are events I report on, experiences I re-experience, and then ideas within my day-to-day slavery that take more time to develop.

This morning the event was Amanda wanting to talk with me about self-care. Later in the day I wrote about it in roughly an hour. Then I walked away from it (well was whisked away by Master K), and came back to it later on. I remembered a few more things then, added them in, edited myself, then posted. Maybe two, three hours overall. But this is reporting something that is just literally what happened.

The experience, say for example, of my personal times with Mistress Amanda take more time, as I’m trying to convey not only the “event” of it but my inner feelings and experience of her, and of me and her in relationship. It takes a lot to convey inner feelings and the chemistry of relationships. Especially with her. (God, especially with her!) These posts may get a first draft in a couple hours but maybe take several more hours over some days to really deepen and enrich the truth of them.

Then there are idea pieces, such as my recent piece on self-care or my blog titled “slut.” These I often spend more time developing in my head than they take actually to write, so it’s hard to say. Sometimes they take more time because I am well aware I am giving advice to people out there and I want to be responsible and accurate in what I say. So these may take a couple hours for a first draft, but get worked on over and over for a number of days.

How much time each day do you write?

Many mornings I awaken early and write for an hour and a half before the day starts for Master and Mistress. There are exceptions to that, as sometimes they have early plans for me. But early mornings, between five and seven are the richest writing times for me.

I usually have time late morning to write and then some afternoon time to write. In the evenings I am usually filled (literally) by Master and Mistress but sometimes I have a block of time to write, though usually I’m too tired.

I look for blocks of two hours as choice segments for writing. Of course, Master and Mistress sometimes take me to work with them or use me (Amanda) during lunch hours or happy hours. I flex. But I usually find three or four hours each day to write.

There are days, maybe once every two weeks, when the stars align and I can write for much of the day. I love that.

What are the greatest challenges for you writing this blog?

I feel that my mission in writing this blog, my duty for myself and others, is to effectively express the deep, complex, and unique experience that a submissive lifestyle is. Doing that seems ever elusive and impossible, though I keep trying.

I am blessed with a good memory, especially when I am focused in an experience or when the experience is utterly intense for me. I don’t have a photographic memory, by any means, but I can play it back in some way. I remember really well what was said — I captue dialogue in my head — and I also remeber what my body feels, and my emotions in those moments. I cobble it together somehow.

But the elsuive goal is always capturing the essence of an experience. That’s always a daunting challenge.

I also feel challenged in understanding the dominant experience and motivation. I know my dominants enjoy seeing my submissive need, my helplessness, and my humiliation. But in writing I don’t really know what makes them what they are. Well, in life I don’t know what makes them what they are — they challenge and stymie me.

What’s your best strength as a writer?

God, I don’t know. I only hope that something I write is helpful or stimulating or arousing or meaningful. Something.

What’s your primary weakness as a writer?

I can get condescending and “preachy.” I work hard to rewrite and edit this out, Sometimes I just want to “tell” rather than “show.” Not good writing form.

What do you wish you could do on your blog but can’t?

I admire other bloggers who can write a short entry, even just a paragraph, that is meaningful, observant, and short and sweet.

I start writing and it’s just a profusion of words. It gets long. I’m too wordy. Sigh.

Do you have a particular approach to writing sex scenes?

I really don’t approach it as writing “sex scenes,” per se. Writing my blog, of course, it’s not a “sex scene” to me, but rather the sex I actually experience. So I recapture sexually and emotionally my own memories of it and try to render that in words.

My approach to writing fictional sex is really to put myself into the scene — what would I experience sexually? How would I respond? Usually my fiction is first person and the character is an extension of myself in some way, so that becomes easier.

But capturing the experience of sex in words is difficult for any writer.

One mistake some writers make is to try to show the scene literally. The more effective way to write sex is to write it as prose-poetry, using poetic language and evocative imagery. The point is to capture the experience of sex, not to depict the act of sex. There is a visual aspect to the scene, for sure, but that needs to be tied to feelings and meanings.

What’s the hardest thing for you to write about?

My own orgasms. Maybe orgasms in general, but especially my own. Maybe because it’s so utterly intimate, and writing about myself that way is so exposing.

I think we tend to think of an orgasm as a physical response, but it’s much more than that. The complex of emotion and sensation and desire and fantasy is almost impossible to capture in words.

Also, as women know, there are so many kinds of orgasms and they thrill different parts of our bodies to different degrees. My orgasm may sometimes be quiet and subtle, yet that’s not to say it’s not absolutely extraordinary. It happens that more often than not, I tend to be more physically obvious when I climax — my body expresses it — and that plays better on the page, but it’s not always a reflection of my core, of the depth of my climax.

In my blog, I try to be, and I think I am, truthful about my own sexual experience. But in fiction, there tends to be an obligation for the climax of the story to be the climax of the heroine. The come together, so to speak.

So this is complex. Much more to say about it all. But my own orgasms are very difficult to write about.

Do you write with attention to what gets you viewers of your website?

Truthfully, no, though I understand the temptation to do so. Others are good at that, but I’m not.

I have such little control of my own life and control of my writing times to pay attention to when others are tuning in. Some days I simply can’t write, because of my slave duties. I have no idea of how to “juice” the metrics of my blog. I have a following, which is gratifying, but I simply don’t have the ability or freedom to pay attention to the statistics.

I write because I want to write. I write about my life to express my submission and slavery. I don’t mean to sound particularly noble, but I don’t think much about numbers.