Amanda’s vision

Ultimately Amanda’s dream is to create a slave-friendly public environment. She believes that the general population should accept in its midst a master-slave couple living out their lifestyle.

Her walking me on a leash is about more than her control and subjugation of me — it’s for her a symbol to others of who and what we are. Her idea taking me to a dog park, leashing me and having me walk alongside German shepherds and Labradors is not only meant as a humiliation for me, but also intended to be a visual social statement to others about what she believes should be the normalcy of the D/s lifestyle — just as dog-walking is.

And now she has intentions for our new neighborhood becoming a Petri dish for our social experiment. Of course, even Mistress with all her special powers can’t Bewitch a whole suburban tract into adopting her vision. But our new digs are unique and offer her some possibility.

We live west of the city in the foothills of the Rockies. This house is in an unincorporated area, not in a housing development or part of a formal (HOA) neighborhood. The immediate area is sparsely populated — we have just five maybe six neighbors within a full square mile. Only one home is within sight of ours.

All of our houses are built along the side of a mountain — well, more like a foothill. The lots all slope down to a rural road, though it’s paved. Our back yard is an up-slope to the top ridge of the foothill, and off of that hangs a hiking path that winds around the back yards of a number of these other houses as well.

Frankly, this is one of the reasons Amanda selected this house originally. It has privacy and open space and, perhaps, a manageable number of neighbors.

Amanda, at the very least, would like to walk me on a leash along the public road at the base of the houses, as well as on the hiking path along the ridge. She would like neighbors to know us and not be offended (or call authorities). In her perfect vision, she’d like these neighbors to be our welcoming friends, and invite us in for drinks in the summer, all while I am collared and leashed and otherwise, alternatively, interestingly dressed.

As an aside, regarding Amanda’s vision, it’s important to understand that, if we were somehow to live in a community of just D/s and BDSM people, it would not be the same thing. Amanda’s vision is to submit me to the vanilla world and get them to accept me for what I am.

So she wants to talk individually with our neighbors to explain to them our lifestyle, what I am, and how we live. She wants them to accept our lifestyle, perhaps enjoy it paraded in front of them. In some cases, maybe there would be some negotiation of what’s acceptable and what’s not.

Now, I would never even begin to imagine how a random group of neighbors would come to peace about what we are. And I would never have the chutzpah to approach neighbors and have this conversation. I blush even to imagine it.

But as we know, Amanda is a force in talking people into things. She is unflinching and persuasive.

And, there are some other factors in her favor. These five neighbors are owned by people who don’t have children at home (there’s one she’s not sure of). She had researched that before she bought the place. She also knows that one of the homes is owned by a gay (male) couple. Another place is owned by a recently divorced man who travels a lot and is rarely home. There’s a sixth home, currently on the market and uninhabited.

As it happens, Amanda has already had one positive conversation with one of our neighbors — a married couple in their fifties. She happened to be driving by as they were pulling in their driveway. She got out, introduced herself. Told them about us.

“They are open and curious,” she said to me. “They want to meet you.”

So here we go. Sometimes I feel I got hooked on to the side of a rocket ship.

conversations and decisions, 1

I told Amanda I was ready to talk. She took the day off yesterday and drove us to one of the public parks nearby. On this occasion I was not collared or leashed, and I had all of my clothes on.

“Don’t get used to it,” Amanda said.

I laughed.

My decision seemed to be a simple one: do I go to Denver to live with Amanda? But answering that involved decisions about continuing as a slave or pursuing a normal life again.

And my answer to that involved a choice about career, marriage, and family. These are dreams we grow up with as girls, and they are important to us — even though maybe they aren’t all really so important. I can’t say they aren’t wonderful or dreamy or that I might not someday have regrets about missing out. I’d said no to these things several years ago in my decision to become a slave. But now I’m in my mid-thirties, and there may not be another opportunity.

This is partly what this was about.

I need to say something here about the model of D/s life and slavery that is practiced in our circles. Quite simply, a slave is considered real property, owned by her dominant — kept for life. A slave can be traded or transferred by her dominants, but she enters her slavery knowing it is permanent. Of course there are exceptions and circumstances that provide ways to leave, but the intention held by those involved is that a slave is to commit herself to slavery for life. I take this seriously. So does Amanda.

For Amanda to offer me my freedom and to give me a chance to rethink my earlier commitment was rather remarkable, a gesture of grace.

She and I walked a ways down one of the paths to a park bench with a view of the mountains, an appropriate place to plan the rest of our lives. We sat and reached for our water bottles. It was a hot day.

I won’t go into all the thinking process I wrestled with this week. I did see at as a tale of two lives. Choosing slavery meant there was another life I was not choosing. Was I OK with leaving behind the life of normal, the life of girlhood dreams?

There was no fanfare. No drum roll: “I want to go with you, Amanda,” I said. “To Denver, or wherever. I want to be your slave. And whatever else….”

hiking again

Friday afternoon. Hiking with Amanda. A beautiful spring day in the mountains. Conversations as I remember them…


“We’ll take a different trail than we’ve done before,” Amanda said. “We’ll go the opposite way around. It’s a little more rugged, but you’re up for it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She knows the territory, so it makes sense for her to lead. But I know she would lead in any set of circumstances. And in any set of circumstances, I would follow. It’s who we are.

She’s already told me this will be pure hiking, no slave play today. That makes me happy and sad at the same time.

She did leg stretches at the trail head, angling her body against the oak fencepost. “Feels good to be outside like this after such a long week,” she said. I sensed her releasing herself into the freedom of the mountain.

She looked amazing in a pair of khaki capri hiking pants and a plaid shirt pulled above her midriff, tied in a bow in front.

“It was a hard week for you,” I said. I was pretending to do some stretches as if I understood what they were.

“Yes. It was hard.”

“I was a disruption on Tuesday.”

“No. That was a day that disrupted you not me. I hardly knew you were there,” she said. “I had other matters that made it a hard week.”


“Let’s not talk about work. Sorry I brought it up,” she said, “This is too beautiful a day.”
“Thanks for not using the rubber bands,” I said as we were hiking.

“You hate them?”

“Yes. They make my nipples sore for two days after.”

“That make you think of me?”

“Yes. A painful reminder of you.”

“OK. I’ll use them again, sometime,” Amanda said with a smile in her voice.

“Thank you, ma’am.”
We hiked but also stopped frequently to look at the views. “Do you think you could live anywhere else?” she asked, looking across the valley from our ridge.

“I’ve always thought either mountains or ocean were good for my soul. I could do either one maybe. I guess parts of California have both. But I love Colorado.”

“When you lived in Pennsylvania, did you get to the ocean much?”

“We were a half day away from Atlantic City.” I answered. “Daddy preferred Ocean City, a little bit south. He would take us there sometimes on long weekends. He’d take Friday afternoon off, and we’d get there by dinner time. We’d spend all day on the beach Saturday. And again Sunday morning. I remember there was a place we’d get macaroons on the boardwalk. We’d drive back Sunday afternoon sunburned and exhausted.”

“And you loved that.”

“Even when I was young, I actually loved the ocean at twilight more than the hot sun and sand during the day. The waves against the sunset. Mesmerizing. Soul-speaking.”

“And this?” she asked. We both looked over a landscape of foothills and valleys and more mountains to the west, and our town below us to the east.

“This is spectacular,” I said. “The thing about the mountains is that every view is different. The ocean is a regular rhythm, beautiful and soothing in its way, but it has a sameness. Both are peaceful for the soul, but the mountains are always projecting a different show.”

We fell into silence.
“I don’t know where you grew up,” I said. “Actually, I know nothing about you.”

“Shae, you know everything about me. Everything that matters… Careful, there’s a dip around the curve here.”


“I grew up in Chicago. Suburbs. New Trier East high school. DePaul University, then graduate program, MBA. But none of that matters.”

“You are very accomplished.”

“I haven’t accomplished anything,” she said. “I’m not sure it matters.”
“You talk a lot about soul,” she said later as we hiked.

“That’s my spiritual side.”

“I don’t think about that much.”

“Most people don’t,” I said.

“I think I should. More anyway. I know it’s not religion. It’s something else.”

”For me, all this nature spread out before us is spiritual. It speaks to my soul.”

Amanda nodded. “I wish I understood what that was.”

We stopped again to sit on a flat rock to the side of our path. Amanda pulled out a water and a Kind bar, handed them to me.

“You never write about us,” she said.

I took a moment to figure out what she was saying. Then: “I always write about us.”

“I mean sexually.”

“I wrote about the first time you had me bathe you.”

“Yes. I thought that was beautiful. But that wasn’t sex.”


“Well, what?”

“Well, it was for me,” I said. “I was awestruck. Maybe for you it was just another spa session with one of your minions on a Tuesday. But for me it was something else.”

A wry smile spreads across her face. She points beyond the ridge to a valley in the distance, but I know she is savoring my words.

“It was my way,” she said, “of introducing myself to my minion.”

Standing beside her, I look far off to the valley. “Well, you made quite the impression.”

“Awestruck is nice,” she said.
“I need to know something,” I said. “Do you have another minion?”

She paused, and I started freaking out that my cute-clever question was about to backfire. Oh no,

“I have,” she said, “just one minion. And she’s the only minion I want.”

One time she popped out with this: “You have the capacity to have mental sex somehow. As if you don’t get enough for real.”

I looked her totally puzzled. “I’m not even sure what that means.”

She added, “I’m envious.”

“Of the mental part or the real part?”

“The mental part.”

You’re saying it’s good to be me?” I asked with a laugh.

“I’m saying, girlfriend, you have orgasms in your head.”

“There are other parts of my body that would debate that,” I say.

“I know. I’ve been there, remember?”

I smile. “Yes, you have.”

“It’s just something I observe. You have a rich, sensual inner life. It oozes out of you. Actually, not just me. Everyone sees it. It’s in you coming out and you don’t even know it.”

I said, “I don’t know if I want everyone to see me oozing.”

She laughed.

Sometime later she said, “But you don’t write about us now.”

I knew what she meant. “It’s too special,” I said.

She was silent. Later: “Yes, It is.”
We’ve rounded the north side of the mountain. “So was the day in the office real hard on you?” she asked me.


“I knew it would be.”

“I knew you knew,” I said. “Thanks for dressing me as you did. Made it easier.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

A couple walked toward us. We stood aside, letting them pass, and said hi. I’m grateful to be wearing all my clothes this time. We kept walking.

Later, I said, ““Your colleagues are good people.”

“They are, aren’t they.”

“I’m just a confounding reality for them.”

“Yes, you are. But you have to allow them their time to deal with what confounds them.”

“I know.”

“So, I confound them too. But I can control the conversation. You can’t.”

“I’m realizing that.”
We reached the summit of the peak we’re on. It’s not much of a mountain in Colorado terms, but it’s the mountain we have and all we can handle.

The vista was, again, breath-taking. We stood together in silence. Amanda took my hand in hers.

“Somehow I still think you could write about us,” she said again.

“You would like me to?”

“I would never tell you what to write.”

“But you would like me to,” I said.

We started down, but we were in no hurry. Another break when we reached another outlook.

“I need to ask you a question,” Amanda said.


“Purely hypothetical. But, if I were to decide to move…” her voice trailed off. “Would you come with me?”

“You two own me. Of course, I would come with you and Master K wherever you two decided to move. I assume that’s how it works.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Amanda said quietly. She stopped, got silent.

I’m confused.

She tried again: “If it were just me moving. If Kevin stayed here. It’s just hypothetical.”

“Oh.” I was speechless. That was a future that never occurred to me. What if they split? But then she said it was hypothetical. What was this about really?

I told her I assumed she and Master K would have to work things out between them about me, figure out whom I should be with. I would obey their decision. I said that too easily to her, for I know when it happened, it would be some kind of anguish for me. I didn’t like the sound of this.

“No,” she said. “Well, yes, of course. But…”

I was utterly failing to read her. Yet she didn’t sound exasperated with me, so I had to think she knew she was being cryptic.

We sat. We both knew there was something more here.

Later she tried again. “Let’s say Kevin is not in the picture. I’m not suggesting anything by that — this is all hypothetical. Let’s say you’re just with me here. This is just what if. And let’s say I somehow gave you your freedom, I didn’t own you, you weren’t my slave—”

“But I don’’t want that.”

“I know. But hypothetically, let’s say that was the case. And then, would you — Jeez, this is so ridiculous. I sound like — I wasn’t going to go here… Sorry. It’s silly. Nevermind.”

Half of what she said was to herself. I was clueless. She stood, ready to hike again and leave this behind.

I slowly replayed her words in my head. I then got it, Duh. I fully got it. I figured out what she was asking.

“Yes, Amanda,” I said. “Yes.”

She turned to me and smiled. Her face was a touch sunburned, but maybe also she was blushing a little.

happy Easter

I wish everyone a happy Easter and Passover. It’s been an interesting weekend so far.

Friday afternoon, Amanda and I went on another hike together. It wasn’t slave time, just hanging out time, and it was lovely. Terrific, actually. It helped soothe each of us after a rocky week. We talked a lot. I am writing some of the conversations we had, as they were fun, some memorable, meaningful. Will share later.

Yesterday, Master K took me in his truck to help a friend’s son move into a new apartment. Master had me wear a short denim skirt with a T-shirt. Good work clothes for a move except, of course, I am not permitted panties or bra, and so I found myself unavoidably bouncing around the new apartment of an eighteen-year-old as I tried to wash floors on my hands and knees in some way that didn’t provide him an unintentional view of the origins of life.

That took all day. I actually enjoyed the work of making the new place spotless as the men moved furniture from the parent’s house into the new place.

Nothing else eventful, except that one time in the truck with Master K, he said, “Maura,” and I immediately turned toward him from my passenger seat, leaned over, and reached for his pants zipper. He immediately tapped me on my head and said to stop. “I was just testing you,” he said.

I passed the test, and Pavlov would be proud, except, truth be told, I was expecting it.

Then today, Easter, Mistress Amanda had me join her and a couple of her friends for brunch. These were the friends she mentioned to me when we talked about my self-care — friends in the lifestyle. I was in my slaveness with Amanda during the meal, but they treated me kindly. They have someone they want me to meet, a woman, a bit younger, but submissive herself.

Home from brunch, Mistress said suddenly, “I want to see your pussy the rest of the day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After some wardrobe trial and error, she now has me in a white leather slave collar, and I’m bottomless, my pussy pale and bare for her pleasure. I’m wearing these really tall white heels. I don’t know where she got them, somewhere from the back nether-regions of her closet. They make me take really short stutter-steps. On top I’m wearing a thin white cardigan sweater, unbuttoned to my waist, open in a very wide V. Apparently my pussy isn’t the only thing Mistress wants to see.


Amanda took me to work.

This was the first time I’ve been to her office since my punishment of a few weeks ago. It’s also since I became aware her colleagues are reading this blog and following my slave life. I felt very vulnerable going there this morning.

One of the ideals of our kind of “true slavery” is for a slave to be presented publicly as the slave she is. There is no normal or regular parts of life. The idea is that a slave is to live openly as a slave in the world, not just privately and secretly in the dominant’s house.

Living as a slave in the world means that I am interactive with and engaged with others not in the lifestyle. Like in Amanda’s workplace.

This is an ideal of true slavery, maybe not so often achieved. And I’m not achieving it well so far.

(Before I go further, I want to say that the people in Amanda’s office have been great to me. I know I am a curiosity to them, they don’t know how to approach me, and they have different opinions about me, but they have been decent and kind. Also, I want to assure them that I will keep their names and identities private, and I will be careful in how I represent specific conversations.)

The first time Amanda brought me to work with her, I was collared and leashed and my slavery was made obvious — her blatant intent. It was embarrassing to me, but I thought likely I would never see them all again. I’ve been presented outrageously to strangers before. I’ve done topless hiking and encountered college students. They had their little fantasy-cum-reality, and maybe I live on as a memorable encounter they will tell their buddies. But I will never see them again. And so I thought that Amanda’s presentation of me to her colleagues would be a one-off, a red-faced moment, splotches on my chest and face highlighting my freckles, and then I’d go home to curl up with Mistress on the couch that night — never to see them again.

But she brought me back. Which challenged me, but I managed. And then again. I’m soon realizing, yikes, these good, vanilla people are reading my blog. And then I implode as I did, seriously misbehaving, which was all about my period, made known to the world, oh god. Soon they are seeing me, through my own self-description, literally licking the shoes of my mistress as my punishment. Shoes they saw later that morning in the office and likely noted were especially clean and shiny.

So I walked in to work with Amanda this morning.

This was hard for me.

Perhaps Amanda knew this. Well there’s no “perhaps” — of course she did. She dressed me today more subtly. She had me in a simple navy skirt and purple print blouse tucked in. Amanda backed off from having me wear a collar, opting for a simple cotton choker instead, less jarring in public, but enough of a symbol for everyone to think of my status. I rather liked this outfit, as it allowed me in a little way to feel that I could fit in better with the others. But still she dressed me in her desired image, and I was her artwork in this gallery of office people.

But they are more than “office people.” They are young, smart, accomplished individuals who are trying to find success and integrity and happiness in the world. They are open-minded by nature, which is the grace I perhaps get by on. They are open to people who are gay and lesbian and trans and bisexual, but that may not include a woman who allows herself to be dominated and to outside appearances, abused.

But they respect Amanda, even love her in some professional sense. And so, through her, by my attachment to her, I am maybe, perhaps, kinda adopted. But to them I’m the foster child from a very foreign country, and they’re not so sure about me.

Mistress has me work there on real projects, for which I’m grateful. The one this week had to do with real estate within the state of Colorado, the purpose of the project unknown, but my expertise in real estate is somehow useful. I’m sure that’s another disconnect for the colleagues: I used to be a professional CEO of my own little outfit, and I chose this life instead. Who does that?

The business of the day is not so interesting to report on, but some conversations are.

Around nine, I took it upon myself to go to each of the colleagues to ask if I could refresh their coffee. It was my way of pushing myself through my own fears
to say hi and face them directly. Several took me up on my offer to fetch them java, others gave me a thankful no, and one opened up a brief conversation with me.

She talked about her weekend past, bemoaning the dearth of fun things to do in a small town. She asked me about Colorado Springs and events there. We talked awhile. She asked if I ever had time to go out for fun — I think she started to ask if I were “allowed to,” which would have been appropriate, but she backed off from saying that — and I told her Amanda and I were just talking about that. That I needed to get out more, and on my own. Somehow we got onto the subject of music, what we liked, and then she got a call, and our conversation ended.

Later morning I left my project and went to the break room for coffee. There isn’t any specified time for a morning break, but I’ve noticed before some collect there around ten-forty-five. I thought I’d see people hanging out. But no one this time.

It was lunch when I ran into another conversation, one of two that included “May I ask you a question?” Amanda had stopped to pick up packaged sandwiches on our way in that morning, so I took a sandwich from our stash in the break room fridge and a Dasani to the courtyard outside the building. No one was there at first, but a few minutes later one of the guys brought his lunch and sat with me. We talked about the weather. It was cool but in the sun it was nice.

“May I ask you a question? A personal question?”


“This life you have,” he said, “why did you decide to go into it?”

So there it was, the “why” question that is always so hard to answer.

I finished a bite of my sandwich. “I just think you spend a long time not understanding what you are,” I finally said. “Then you spend time denying what you are. And at some point, you decide you have to be what you are.” It was probably more cryptic an answer than he wanted, but it came out like that, and I think it is actually really true of my journey.

He sat with that while. He said he got the part of having to be what you are. But he said, “No offense, but I’m not sure what you are is actually possible.”

That took me aback. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have known a couple people who have played in BDSM. And that’s perfectly fine. I get that. Not my deal, yet I get that. But my understanding is that that was all consensual and worked out between them, and it was for play, usually every couple months on a weekend. Kinky fun. But you are living this full time and are completely submitted, like without restriction. You are humiliated every day and you write about it. That’s the part I don’t get. I don’t know anyone who does that to themselves. Why do you do that to yourself?”

I thanked him for being honest with me. I told him I didn’t know if I could explain it. “I am submissive,” I said, “and for me that’s more than a personality trait. It’s a deep and extreme need inside me. And this life satisfies that.” It was all I could come up with.

I’ve “explained” my life to many people, but most have been at least around the lifestyle if not experienced in it. They may not understand completely, but they don’t say, “Why do you do this to yourself?”

He had every right to say that, think that, and ask me that. I don’t think his intent or desire was to judge me. It was more to understand me. My life doesn’t fit any context he knows. Even the Shae of some ten years ago would look at me now and be completely baffled and judgmental.

“It just seems self-destructive,” he said a bit later.

I just absorbed the statement. “I understand,” I said, “it looks like that.” Others out there will judge me, and I have to accept that’s one consequence of living this life. I suppose it’s part of being a slave in the world.

I asked him if he enjoyed what he is doing. He nodded, and started talking about his career goals and his current projects. He was excited about his future, and I was happy for him. We finished lunch and got back to work.

I had one other conversation mid-afternoon. She came to my cubicle and asked if I wanted to take a break with her. We grabbed waters and went outside in the afternoon sun.

She talked about her brother who was a climber and had a goal of ascending all the 14ers in Colorado. I think there are some fifty of them. I said I couldn’t begin to think of doing that. I added that Amanda and I were doing some hiking in the foothills now.

“The weather is finally good for that again.” she said. She paused. “May I ask you a question?”


“I read your blog,” she said. “You write well.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s sometimes very explicit.” She said it as if she was pointing out to me something I didn’t know.

“Does that bother you?” I asked.

“No, not really. I read erotica sometimes. But this is real life and your real experiences. My question is, if that bothers you. Are you ordered to write that? How does it feel to know others are reading about those experiences of your life?”

“I wouldn’t say it bothers me, but it makes me feel very exposed. No, I’m not ordered to write that.”

“Then why do you?’

Another why question. Often I compose in my head perfectly constructed rationales for my life and its pieces and parts, answers to the why questions. But when I’m confronted with a real why question, those seem to fly out of my head. So I stumbled through an answer.

“I guess I want,” I started to say, “no, I need to put in words the experience of my life and lifestyle. And I can’t express that without writing about my sexuality and some of the sexual experiences I have.”

Something like that. Maybe that was good enough, but I might have said something about the slave life, that, in our circles of slavery, it’s meant to be open and shared. Or maybe something about how my writing was once just for me, then became this other thing online, and now I am followed and watched — so I’m kind of just figuring this out myself, and maybe I shouldn’t write about my sex life in slavery.

But instead I added, “I’m not meaning to offend anyone.”

She nodded. We became quiet. Then she said, “The sex you write about doesn’t offend me. As a fantasy, it’s one thing. But in real life, it, like, seems so degrading. As a woman I can’t imagine submitting to that, exposing myself that way. So I can’t make sense of you.”

I smiled. “I get that a lot.”

Again, I chose not to try to explain more. I asked her other things about her brother, her family. And we talked about some personal matters in her life that I’m not going to share here, but the point is we had a pleasant conversation, and she was willing to share herself with me, even though she can’t make sense of me.

Riding home in the car with Amanda late afternoon, I was quiet. She let me have my silence but eventually said, “Were people harsh on you?”

“Some things were hard to hear,” I said. “But i know that mostly they’re trying to understand me. I appreciate they sought me out — they wanted to engage me.”

“They’re pretty open-minded,” Amanda observed. “It’s the ‘slave’ part of ‘sex slave’ they struggle with. And, Shae, most people will struggle to understand. It’s the way it will always be.”

“I know.” Well, I know that more after today. Later that night before I went to bed, this came to me:

In order to understand myself, I entered a life that no one understands.

slave days and nights

In my focus on other things, I’m afraid I neglect writing about the day-to-day life that is my actual slavery, the persistent domination I experience. While I don’t think it benefits anyone for me to report every individual thing done to me, I feel a need to convey somehow the constancy of my slavery. As well as my joy in it. It’s always there, in how I am presented, my daily duties, their various dominations of me, and the sexual services required.

Mistress has taken to laying out clothes for me the night before. Lots of short skirts and heels. Tops are always adventures in minimalism. Even when Master and Mistress aren’t there, I am to wear the prescribed outfit. And sometimes my duties for the day require me to go out shopping.

Tonight, as I sit in the drawing room writing this, I’m in a short pleated Kelly green skater skirt, with a white top, open in front with a hem tie, knotted. It’s cute, but it reveals me. Not what I would choose, but that’s the point. I belong to her.

Mistress likes dressing me younger than I am. It’s a look I’m not sure I actually pull off well, but it’s for her pleasure. On a twenty-two-year-old this would be just an ordinary Tuesday. On me at thirty-four it’s more of a thing and makes a statement about my purpose. And probably that’s exactly what Mistress is thinking. Amanda says she wants to be here “when the Jehovah’s Witnesses come knocking.”

There’s a wardrobe I came with and then another wardrobe Mistress has gradually bought for me over these two months. So what I wear now is entirely based on her preferences. There’s a subtle but significant feeling of submission in that. I am wearing, literally, what she has chosen for me. I am her artwork. I like that.

Thankfully, she has good fashion sense. Most of all, she understands my hair, my reds and oranges that require certain colors and shades, generally deep, rich secondaries and never pastels. Master Michael had help dressing me, an unnamed assistant who did well, but I’m not sure she ever really figured out how to complement my hair.

There are some duties and chores. I am to have coffee ready in the mornings at about 7:15. And with that, some fruit and a small pastry of some kind. Mistress doesn’t like donuts; Master doesn’t like bran muffins.

Other than the breakfast, they don’t want me actually cooking. Similar to Master Michael, they don’t want me enslaved to the kitchen but to themselves. That’s the reason they know about. But they’ve never had the experience of me cooking for them, which would be the other reason they don’t want me cooking.

They have a cleaning service that does the house once a week. But in between those visits they have me tidy up, vacuum, and scrub floors once a week, usually Thursday. The service comes on Mondays, so Thursday is my designated day for that chore, though I also tidy up other days voluntarily. When I do the tile floors, I scrub them on my hands and knees. Master sometimes comes home at noon Thursday, finds me scrubbing, lifts my skirt from behind, exposing my ass and pussy. I keep scrubbing. Sometimes he gives me a spank. And I say, “Thank you, Master.”

They each take care of their own laundry. Master takes his to a laundry and dry cleaning service on Saturdays, though of late I have been volunteering to deliver and pick up his laundry, and that’s now the common practice. Amanda does her laundry on Saturday mornings here at the house. Again, I have volunteered to do her laundry for her, and sometimes I just do it anyway, which pleases her to no end.

Probably the “service” I provide of most joy to them is serving them drinks. Under Master Michael, I had become a half-decent bartender at his parties. And so it’s become a stated duty of mine to prepare them drinks when they ask and to ask them even before they think about it. Master K joked one night that he always knew I “would be a good fuck,” but he actually bought me because I could make a great gin fizz. (I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.)

I actually wish I had more chores to do. I like keeping busy. But even so there’s enough daily work to remind me that I am their slave.

I think it was Monday night that Master came home around seven-ish and found me reading in the sun room. He told me to come with him to the bondage room, and he put me in a cage, locked it, and then walked away for an hour. I will write about this experience separately, but it’s, let’s say, memorable.

Master has been doing more with me in the bondage room. It’s not always sex. Sometimes he just likes to shackle me to something. He watches me a while, then leaves, then comes back and lets me go.

With Master K everything is raw and primal and impulsive. I could be afraid, except that he isn’t violent and he doesn’t drink too much. He’s always in control. And his control of me, I sense, is his way of dealing with his frustrations at work. I have a literal sense of absorbing those emotions from his body into mine. That is fulfilling to me in some strange, submissive way.

One thing you learn as a sub slave is that your time isn’t your own. I remember my first weeks with Master Michael, being annoyed when he suddenly wanted me to do something or wanted to use me. My attitude led to a punishment, and then I learned that I really, really was an actual slave to a man and my time wasn’t my own. (Note to submissives: learn this quickly.) So, these days I am well conditioned that way and I rather expect my daily life to be interrupted and hijacked by the urges of my dom and domme. The point is that you live in this expectation. If others could watch, they might think in some stretch of time, nothing is happening with you, and they would miss the psychological domination of expectation that’s always present.

Likewise, Amanda came home yesterday afternoon and said, “Let’s go for a hike!”


She even allowed me to wear khaki shorts, maybe the first time I’ve worn a pant in many months. (It actually felt odd, fabric between my legs.) She had me put on hiking boots, and then she walked away to get something from her bedroom. Standing there in hiking gear only waist down, I feared this would be another topless Sierra Club adventure.

When she returned with a thin white T-shirt. I was relieved. Alas, before having me put on the T-shirt, Mistress fitted my nipples with tight, nasty nipple bands. They immediately made my nipples lengthen and harden. Then she had me put my T-shirt on, thin enough to show my areolae and, now, dark swollen nipples.

She looked at me and beamed. “Just something to remind you that you’re my slave girl.”

I looked at her with just enough exasperation to get away with. “I assure you,” I said, “I’ve never been in danger of forgetting that.”

“By the way,” I continued, “do you stay up all night thinking of ways you can embarrass me?”

“Yes, I do,” she said brightly. “Ready?”

And we were off. We hiked for a good hour and a half. I got to keep my T-shirt on, and we didn’t run across other hikers this time, though there was a carload of people in the parking lot at the trail head who stared at me. Amanda took an extra long time getting her backpack out of the car — her noble effort to allow stares to make out my two telltale points of micro-bondage.

“You need to look away,” she said.

I looked at her blankly.

“When people are staring at you. Look away. Let them stare and enjoy your body. When you look at them, you challenge them.”

I actually knew this. I’d forgotten what I’d learned in my public (exposure) excursions with Master Michael. “They have a right to look at your body and lust,” he would say bluntly. Memories. Lessons forgotten.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said to Mistress.

“Lesson learned,” she said. And we had a wonderful hike.

Master has had me in recent days for two fellatio sessions. I don’t think these are practice anymore. He came in my mouth one of those times, not the other. I think he is controlling that, making me want him. Which I do. God forgive me, I long for it.

Last night around two a.m., Master K pulled me out of my bed and literally carried me to the bondage room. He had me undress, then he had me lie on my back on the padded table. Standing, he entered me. It hurt a little, as I wasn’t yet ready, but it was OK once he was in me.

In a short while, he climbed onto the table himself and lay on top of me, his cock embedded in my body. It become strangely conventional. Real intercourse. I put my arms around him as he fucked me. His face lay against mine. I wanted him to kiss me. He didn’t.

Eventually he came. I didn’t. He dismounted me. He never kissed me, but he came to the side of the padded table, caressed my breast and stroked my face.

So there was that.

The two of them have planned a party for their friends in a couple weeks. They entertain every few months, though this will be special, a kind of coming-out party for me.

Tomorrow I am going to work with Amanda, facing her colleagues, who read this blog.

Life is a challenge for everyone. Slave life is a challenge for me.

three short updates

I want everyone to know that I contacted my therapist in the Springs and she has set for me a phone session this Thursday afternoon. I was surprised she took me after this lapse of time, and then had time for me so soon. She had a cancellation. Thursday at three.

Also, Amanda, as she said she would, contacted her “lifestyle-aware” friends, and they will have lunch with me on Friday. I’m nervous, but thankful.

Finally, Amanda took me on a hike this afternoon. Just got back. This also is following up on the self-care things we had talked about.

I’m happy.

shae care

After I posted “self-care” Saturday, Amanda brings it up over coffee Sunday morning. She has read my post. She tells me she wants to apologize to me for not doing more.

“I didn’t mean to cast any blame,” I say.

“You didn’t. I didn’t take any of it that way. But, I’m your mistress. and—

“Goddess,” I say.

She smiles. “And… goddesses should monitor the health of their minions better,” she says.

“I’m now a minion?”

“You’re a minion.”

“Good to know,” I say. “I’ll add it to my list.”

She ignores my sarcasm. “I didn’t think enough about your relocation. How that disrupted so much of what you had in place.”

I tell her that, honestly, I had let a lot of things slide long before she took me. I also say that I myself was convicted by my own post to make some changes.

“Maybe we can work on it together,” she says. She is bright and eager, and suddenly I feel we’re in an episode of Friends, with me as Rachel and Mistress as Phoebe. Although we look nothing like them, it’s like we’re sitting at Central Perk solving my life problem of the week.

But actually it’s nice. Really nice that Amanda is involved like this. And cares. So we spend a couple hours talking about my taking my own advice in the post. She helps me come up with some action steps. We follow the five areas I wrote about:

1. People life. Amanda has two friends, both women, who are lifestyle-friendly, whom she wants to introduce me to. She’s not saying either of those two will be the answer here, or even my best friends, but they know others and I would be included in some of their social activities that would help me meet others. In time Amanda thinks I will develop my own relationships out of this. I’m somewhat doubtful, but it’s something, a start, and I’m open.

2. Body life. We talk awhile about how we both hate health clubs. Amanda belongs to one but never goes. I say that maybe we just prompt each other to go to her health club, but then I’m grateful when Amanda says, “No, if we do that, we’ll just make ourselves hate each other.”

We talk some more and agree that we both like hiking. I ask if for me that has to be topless hiking. “You make it sound,” Amanda says, “like that’s a bad thing.” So her answer is yes. But it’s exercise.

There’s a bike in the back garage, she informs me. So I might do some bike-riding now that the weather is getting warmer. I would actually like that.

Amanda also has volunteered to get me into her spa once a month. “You need a day to pamper yourself,” she says. “It’s not four-star, but it’s clean and they have all the services.” That will be sooo nice.

3. Self life. I said this was really the easiest one for me to follow through on. “I’ll make a call Monday to my therapist in the Springs,” I say. So tomorrow I’ll see if I can still get onto a schedule with her for phone sessions. Should have done this long ago.

4. God life. Amanda says, “I can’t help you there.” When I was in the Springs, I had a unique opportunity that spoke into this part of me. I’ll be writing on this later. For now, I have no answer for this.

5. Interior life. This is the one area where I’m kinda already doing well. Writing this blog is itself major therapy for me. I’m reading a lot. Amanda says there’s a regional community college here that’s small but has a lot of interesting elective classes. So maybe there’s something there. I’ll look into it.

We finish the pot of coffee. Amanda has errands to run and a friend to meet for lunch. “I’ll make a call,” she says, “and get you a spa date. And I’ll connect you to some of my friends, but you’ll have to follow through.” The hiking is the one thing she wants us to do together. But she stresses the importance of my doing much of this alone, without her. “Besides,” she says, “you don’t need your goddess to hover over you.”

“I need to hang out with other minions,” I reply.

“Exactly,” she says, laughing.

I feel better having some steps to take. It’s usually so easy for me to put off doing these things. Having a checklist motivates me. Who knows if it’ll all happen or work out or stick after a few months. But I know it’s important to try. We’ll see.

slave training in the foothills

Mistress Amanda takes me on a hike yesterday afternoon. It is a slave excursion, a measure of slave training and me on a leash in public. I know she wants to domme me publicly. This is a start.

She has me wear a short thin denim skirt and a thin white sweater top with long sleeves. It’s been getting up to sixty this week and is warm in the sun, but in shadow and up in the hills, it can be chilly. I’m also wearing hiking boots. I don’t know when in my life I’ve worn hiking boots.

She drives us to the trail head of the foothills, an open space with trails. There are a few other cars, but no people. We get out of the car, and she attaches my leash. She leads me down a particular trail, perhaps the road less traveled, which she seems to know well.

“Keep pace,” she says. “You can’t make me wait for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

It is a smooth path with a gradual incline. This isn’t mountain climbing or even a hard hike. But it’s still a rough-and-ready dirt incline with turns. I remember my training under Master Michael. That was on sidewalks and brick paths and a smooth bed of forest needles, not anything like this, but I remember how he wanted me to follow a stride behind, and no farther. It’s harder than it seems. It requires the slave to keep constantly focused on her dominant. Which is the point. Master Michael would also say, “Don’t bump into the back of me when I stop.”

Almost on cue, Mistress Amanda says, “You must stop when I stop. If you run into me, you could send us both toppling over some edge.” She is all domme business today — directing, controlling, ordering.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You tend to think too much. Your mind will wander, you’ll look away, and then you’ll bump into me. Pay attention.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

We come to a promontory with a lovely view. She stops us there, and tells me to pull a water out of her backpack. I do and hand it to her. She takes a long swig, then another. She then hands it to me and I drink too. “I like this spot,” she says, pointing west. “There, you can see over to Rifle and Parachute.”

I nod. It’s beautiful and grand.

We take in the beauty for a while, both silent. It’s really a gorgeous day.

Later, she says, “Take off your sweater.”

“I’m really not that warm,” I say, without thinking.

“I’ll let that go this time,” Mistress says sternly. “It was an order. And it wasn’t about your comfort. It was about my pleasure.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, cringing at my mistake, nd I quickly pull my sweater over my head. My breasts swing freely, naked in the warm sun.

“Fold it,” she orders, “and lay it on the flat rock there. We’ll pick it up on the way back.”

I do, wondering how far and where the rest of our walk will require me to go topless. Of course, I’ve been exposed in public before — Master Michael was a pro at undressing me in public places — but there is a kind of conditioning for a slave with the particular dom or domme she is subject to. I have to learn to trust Mistress, that she will own my public nudity and take responsibility for me in it. Frankly, I don’t yet. This is new.

“Come here,” she says.

I stand before her.

Mistress Amanda takes her hand and slaps my right breast hard with a quick flick. I scream and tears come to my eyes. “That’s for not immediately obeying me.”

I nod. I think maybe this is not the moment to remind her that she just said she was going to let it go this time. “I’m sorry, Mistress,” I say, my voice trembling.

She takes her hand up high again, and brings it down in a hard stinging slap on my left breast. Again I scream, and a tear rolls down my cheek. “I want you to feel my sting in both your tits equally.”

Well, I do. Her hand prints linger a moment on the top slopes of my breasts.

We continue our hike, which gets more steep and winding as we go. When there is a flat stretch, Mistress turns, facing me, and walks backwards. I know she wants to see my breasts jiggling as my hiking boots thud on the dirt path. I feel like an REI pinup model — some endowed girl who has never before been in outdoor clothing and gear.

We hike for a half hour, entering a forested area, thick with aspen. It is beautiful, quiet, a poetry of thin white bark, vertically praying to heaven. She stops us. There is nowhere to sit, so we stand in silence. I love this about Amanda, that she has a joy of the beauty of nature and the poetry of life. In the midst of my domination, she can stop and enjoy what’s around us.

In time, we move on. We emerge from the woods and reconnect with the trail on the other side. She has walked this before.

Our trail then crosses another trail. It is there we encounter two hikers. They seem to be college-age, both guys. They see me on a leash, topless and stop in their tracks.

Mistress could walk by them and continue beyond, but she doesn’t. She stops and says hi.

The two of them say hi back, taking a lot of time to ogle me. This, of course, is what she wants.

She starts up a conversation — where are they from? how often do they come here? where do they go to school? — and I barely hear and do not remember their answers. I am blushing, looking down to the ground.

She tells them about me: “This is Shae. She is submissive, as you can see, and she is my slave. Say hi to the guys, Shae.”

“Hello,” I say.

“How do you address them?” Mistress asks me sternly.

“Hello, sirs.” I say.

One is grinning when he says hello in return. The other speaks to Amanda: “She’s obeys everything you tell her?”

“Yes she does,”

The guy says nothing in return. I imagine he’s thinking through the possibilities.

Amanda says. “Do you like her tits?”

“Of course. What’s not to like?” one says. The other is grinning and nodding.

There is an awkward silence. I think Amanda is weighing options. “Well,” she finally says, “it’s good for her to be seen by you. Thanks, guys.”

“Our pleasure,” one says.

Amanda tugs my leash and we walk ahead.

The boys remain standing there, watching us go. I remember hearing one saying to the other, “Denny, you wouldn’t know what to do with her if you had the chance.”

We get out of sight and earshot, and Amanda stops. She takes my jaw between her thumb and forefinger and lifts my face to hers. “You will look people in the eyes. You will submit to their gazes. You will absorb their lust for you. You will see in their eyes their desire to fuck you. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“This is about submitting to others. If you avert your eyes, you are hiding from them your experience of them. They need to see your eyes so they can see how they affect you.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Next time I will let them —whoever we encounter — fondle you.”

I nod. “Mistress? You were thinking of letting them just now, weren’t you.”

“Yes. I chose not to.”

Now I feel I really disappointed her. “I’m sorry if by my behavior I caused you to back off from that.”

She pauses, looks at me. “It doesn’t matter. There will be other times. You don’t trust me yet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. This is the process. Your training.”

I nod. “I want to please you.”

“I know. So let’s take the next step.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Take off your skirt.”

I do. Again I am instructed to fold it and leave it. I now stand before her dressed in a collar, leash, and hiking boots.

She looks at me with a smile on her face.

“Are you laughing at me?” I ask.

“A little.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Your body is not made for hiking boots. It’s meant for high heels or ballet boots, footwear that is elegant and painful.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It’s true.”

“I know,” I say.

“So,” she says, “if we encountered those two boys again, now with you completely naked, your pussy open to them like this, what would you be afraid of? Them touching you, fondling you? Fucking you?”

I don’t answer immediately. “I don’t know. I’d be afraid of being hurt by them.”

“Come here,” Mistress says.

I walk to her, my leash looping to the ground. She steps close to me, and we are face to face.

“Shae,” she says. “Two things.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“First, as my slave I want you to be so fully submissive that you accept the possibility that anyone you meet might fuck you. Everyone has a right to your body and sex.”

I nod.

“Second. Shae, know that you are mine. My slave, my love. Know that I will never, never allow anyone to hurt you. Trust me.”

She places her lips on mine and kisses me.

“Now,” she says, “let’s hike another five minutes, and then we’ll go back.” It’s not close to dusk, but the sun is lower in the sky and the air is cooler.

We come to another promontory, this one overlooking the town. There are paths down, seemingly that feed close to main street, and I can well imagine scenarios Mistress has planned for me. We will be back here.

We turn around, retrace our steps. I recover my skirt and then my sweater top, though Mistress doesn’t allow me to put my sweater top back on. I climb into the car topless.

This is just for her pleasure, and I am happy for her looks and gazes, even if my breasts are goosebumpy from the cold.