word studies

I wrestle sometimes with the way particular words are used, especially in the context of D/s understanding. Occasionally I like to post something about my musings on the meaning of these words. I realize many people are not so interested, but I hope followers can indulge my interest here…


Lifestyle

I use this word all the time, but only because I have to.

“Lifestyle” sometimes carries the sense of a wealthy, lavish existence. In certain uses it connotes artistic choices of decor and style. It’s also an overused advertising word. In all of these cases, “lifestyle” suggests superficiality.

Also, the word “lifestyle” implies a casual, maybe trendy choice — “we like being outdoors and have an active lifestyle” or “we’ve decided to adopt an eco-friendly lifestyle.”

Of course, D/s lifestyle is not superficial nor casual nor trendy. It’s a serious and hard choice to live in a different relational structure, a demanding (often) 24/7 commitment, and a radical departure from normal life.

And more to the point — D/s is a relationship not a lifestyle. In the vanilla world, newlyweds don’t say, “We decided to live a married lifestyle.” Marriage is to be an intimate relationship of the highest order, and “lifestyle” cheapens it.

Yet “lifestyle” says a bunch of stuff very succinctly. It is by definition “a mode of living,” and for the most part that’s how I use it. D/s is a different mode of living from other vanilla modes of living.

I can’t get away from using “lifestyle,” but I still wrestle with it every time.


Shame

In therapy, it is now commonly thought that “shame” is about one perceiving oneself as unworthy. This has been spearheaded by the work of Brene Brown, which has influenced my sessions with my therapist — who has in turn influenced me.

In that pantheon of “bad feeling” definitions, guilt is when you are literally responsible (“I shot the sheriff”). Shame is when you see yourself as faulty (“I am deficient; I am bad”). Humiliation is the experience of being seen or viewed by others as you are being disgraced. Embarrassment is a fleeting, often accidental, experience of being exposed — as when your bikini strap breaks at the beach. (I hate it when that happens!)

A further helpful distinction is that humiliation is more about the situation you’re in and shame is more about who you are.

Therapists’ counsel is to avoid self-shaming language and negative thinking. I agree with that, and for a long time in my blog-writing I avoided using the word “shame.”

However, I have started to use it again, and here’s why.

Outside of the counseling context, “shame” is also an emotion of deep intensity. In my slave experiences, “embarrassment” is rarely appropriate because my situations are not fleeting or accidental and the emotion the word suggests is too mild. I go often to the word “humiliation,” which is more apt. But at times there’s another level beyond humiliation, and it feels like it needs another gear. It’s then I need the word “shame.”

(As an aside, I think that in the D/s world, there are simply not enough words for these experiences. “Humiliation” carries much of the load, but is overkill in some cases, and insufficient in others. There are words like “abasement” and “ignominy,” which I use sometimes but are more archaic and less known. It is said that in certain Scandinavian native languages there are more than 300 words referring to “snow.” I don’t need 300 but it would be nice to have at least five words for “humiliation.”)

There’s another point to be made: in D/s, a slave is both highly valued and deeply disgraced at the same time. I agree that a slave should never feel unworthy; to the contrary, she is seen as being extraordinary in the life of D/s. But what she is — a woman kept, a woman used — is also a status of disgrace, and it’s appropriate for her to wear that as “shame.”

An example: I think of my experiences being made topless in the house around our handyman, Blake. My reaction to that goes deeper than just the sense of his visually feasting on my breasts. That much is humiliation. But in those situations he knows I am bared to him because I am an adult woman who is owned and kept as a slave. He knows my breasts are naked for him because of what I am. In this case, “shame” is the word that more fully expresses it.

“Shame” is a necessary word sometimes.


Normals

There are two words/phrases I’ve recently coined, and this is one.

In my usage, “normals” is a stand-in for “vanilla people,” those who lead non-D/s lives — ordinary people doing normal things.

Some have commented that by using the word “normals” in my writing I am suggesting that being a submissive is “abnormal.” No, that’s not my belief nor my intent. “Normals” is simply a statistical reality. More people are not submissive than those who are, and they are the norm.

Likewise, only two percent of the world population are redheads like me. The norm is for people to have black or brown hair — they are the “normals” because that’s what’s statistically most common. It doesn’t mean that as a redhead I am defective.

(However, what are the stats about a woman like me being both a redhead and a submissive? That makes me unusual for sure, though Mistress A would quickly say, “Don’t get too full of yourself, Shae. It doesn’t mean you’re special.” OK, then.)


Deep Submissive

The other phrase I’ve coined recently is “deep submissive.” I use this as a noun, describing one who is extremely submissive by nature. I am a deep submissive. (Duh.)

This is a term of degree and type. There are submissives of all kinds. I sometimes use the phrases “curious submissive,” “casual submissive,” and “role-play submissive.” A “deep submissive” refers to those of us who have an intensely strong need to live submissively.

For a deep submissive, the D/s life is not a casual or experimental thing. It is an immersive existence. The deep submissive is wired differently in how she experiences life and in the kinds of relationships she needs. For the deep submissive, submissiveness is part of her sexual orientation. For her, being dominated is not just a wish but a desperation, not just a desire but a need.

“Deep submissive” is one who seeks to live deeply embedded in a life of being dominated.


That’s all, folks.

random musing three

My submissive life is a constant struggle between humiliation and dignity.

I am property, owned by another, used by another, sexed by another. People know me this way and sometimes witness me this way. This is my humiliation.

I am also a woman of some substance, intelligence, and beauty. This is my dignity.

I know that, to dominants, my humiliation is sweeter because of my dignity. It is more compelling for one to possess and humiliate me because I have substance as a woman to relinquish. A dominant loves seeing my internal struggle as a woman of dignity finally giving in to her humiliation.

It is also true that as a submissive I find a satisfaction in being humiliated, although it’s not a pleasure like other pleasures. It still is shaming, especially in front of others — my dignity being stripped, sometimes literally. Yet in that is a strange fulfillment: this is what I am made to do and be.

For people to know this — that I am deeply pleasured by being humiliated — is itself humiliating. People see the reddening of my cheeks when they ask, “So you actually like it when…?” This becomes a circle, a spiral, humiliation begetting more humiliation, ultimately becoming fuller and more intense than an orgasm.

Afterward, I pick myself up and go searching for my dignity once again. I sometimes find it by writing blog posts.

lemonade

Saturday morning. The landscaping crew arrived at 9:30. They’re scheduled for 10:00, but got here early. It was the four men from before and a new addition, a fifth man, Marco.

Amanda kept me in the house until just before 11:00. She had me prepare a pitcher of iced lemonade on a tray with tumblers.

In another kind of preparation, Amanda had applied suntan lotion to my breasts. It had some gloss to it and gave them a bit of shine, which I’m sure was intentional on her part. She debated putting the silicone O-rings on my nipples, but decided not to. As the day started, she’d had me in my red skater skirt, but I reminded her that was what I wore the last time the landscapers were here. “They’re not going to be looking at your skirt,” she said, but then thought again, deciding to have me change into my orange linen skirt instead. She also had me wearing tall heels and the copper slave collar.

Amanda then had me set out the lemonade on the the patio serving bar.

The men are re-doing our brick pathway, so they were in the back not front yard, although maybe fifty yards up the hill beyond the patio. Still, when they heard the lemonade glasses clinking, they saw us, and some of them stopped, squinted against the sun, and looked.

Amanda called them to take a break and waved them back to join us on the patio.


Amanda had been precise in her instructions for me. She wanted me to stand apart from her on the patio, beside, not in back of, the serving bar. She herself stood close to the sliding glass doors to the house.

I swear she scripts these things in her head. As the men rambled in from the yard, they glanced at her, but gazed at me. They couldn’t look at both of us side by side at the same time. Now I knew why she had us apart. Without Amanda next to me, it was only me they were looking at, and I felt the full heat of their eyes on my naked breasts. Landscape workers have no compunction about staring.

That’s what Amanda wanted me to experience.

My every instinct, of course, was to cover up. But there was no option for that. I had to stand in my embarrassment. This was what I was there for. I blushed. My nipples grew perky — O-rings not needed.

As they sifted onto the patio, two of the guys had smirky smiles on their faces. One mouthed to another a silent “Wow.” They seemed to glance at Amanda repeatedly to check to see if this was really OK, them looking at me. She stood with a smile, remaining close to the house, watching the scene before her. One of the men said something I couldn’t hear, and another laughed at what was said. Seth, the head of the crew, was on the phone and was the last to get to the patio. He ended his call, turned, and seeing me, opened his eyes wide.

Amanda invited them to have something to drink. “By the way, you remember my slave girl from last time you were here. Her name is Shae. She’ll pour your drink. We have ice water and lemonade.”


It felt like what it felt like, and I’ll talk about that in a moment, but unlike the pizza night before, I was not outside the experience looking in. For whatever reason, this time I stayed in the moment. I felt objectified and sexualized, but that was the purpose, and I stayed in the moment.

It was in Amanda’s script not to have the drinks already poured for the taking. She wanted me to pour one by one, and for each of the guys to walk up to me to receive it from me. She wanted them to have close-ups.

As I poured each glass, I managed to address the men by name. I’d remembered them all, though I had to think a moment to recall Colin’s name. The new crew guy, Marco, introduced himself and shook my hand. Seth politely said, “Good to see you again.”

So Amanda by then had walked into the middle of the patio and was in conversation with some of them. When I finished pouring drinks, she called to me loudly: “Shae, I forgot the cookies. Would you bring the cookies out?”

Of course, she didn’t actually forget the cookies. She wanted me to walk in and out of the patio in my high heels, making my breasts ripple and bounce in front of this audience. This is where the night before I had been snarky and pissive-aggressive.

Instead I said, “Yes, mistress,” and I headed in to the kitchen, my breasts dancing with each step.


In the kitchen, I took a deep breath. I would get through this. Actually, it wasn’t like this was a terrible ordeal, but it was intense.

I was being objectified and sexualized, which was Amanda’s intent and pleasure. Because it pleased her, the humiliation I felt had a purpose, which was satisfying to me. I felt I was doing well, standing there in their lust. In that I was glad to please her.

But also, in full honesty, by arousing them, I was arousing myself. I was turned on by their lust. What does that make me?

Humiliation circles in on itself, becomes another thing.


I’m told a crew break is usually fifteen minutes. Seth let this one be thirty. I don’t think it was because of the cookies.

I set the cookie plate on the serving bar, and again stood to the side. The men again came up to help themselves, getting another opportunity to ogle me, and this time more of them said things to me.

I think it takes a while for people, those outside the D/s world, to know what a slave girl in their midst really is, how they can act and speak to her. A slave like me is an oddity really. No one does this. To them, it’s strange for me, a slave girl, even to be standing there, stranger still for me to be topless, my breasts all fleshed out. They have no context for that and little for them to say.

At least at first.

But by now they were figuring me out, learning they had a kind of permission to be themselves, understanding that in my undress and exposure, I am obeying because I have to.

Marco announced, “My first week on crew. And look at this! I’m really lovin’ this job!” Laughter all around.

Jeff came up to me. He spoke loudly so all could hear: “We all voted and decided you have a great pair of tits.”

Everyone howled. How can you respond to that? “Well, thank you,” I just said, blushing.

Seth called their break to an end. They rambled back to work.

Colin, walking by me, said, “You’re really hot.” Again, I didn’t know what to say to that. It was sweet but sexual. I thanked him.

As they walked away from the patio, I heard someone mutter, “Wished we got to play with those jugs.”


Later next week I will think and write more about the strange submissive pleasure I felt in being sexualized and objectified Saturday morning. The point is these feelings are complicated and intense and contradictory, humiliations that debase me even as they celebrate me.

Afterward, Amanda reported to me — only because she delights in doing so — other things she overheard the men saying as they returned to work. Two of the choice ones were “I wanna piece of that pussy” and “God, I’d fuck the living shit out of that girl.”

“I don’t even know how to think about comments like that,” I said to her.

“In a way,” Amanda said, “they’re compliments. It means you made a good impression.”

I looked at her and said, “Amanda, a good impression is when a guy introduces you to his parents and it goes well. ‘I wanna piece of your pussy’ sounds to me like a pretty different thing.”

Amanda laughed. “Well, they were going crazy seeing you like that. They were fawning over you.”

Being an object of sexualization seems sometimes close to being an object of worship. That’s the experience, both confounding and exhilarating.

The other thing I must mention is that Amanda was thrilled by all of it. She was very pleased.

work and submission

It’s been quite a pivot from last weekend when I was gloriously dominated by the Goddess Amanda. Monday morning we were back at work, home office of course, but all business. And so it’s been all week. Busy, long hours, real work.

Amanda has had me wearing casual business outfits this week, such that I could walk into a conference room for a business meeting and be properly and respectably attired.

Yet she has mastered the hidden erotic detail — having me wear underneath lace top stockings, or breast bands, or a waist chain bearing a dangling jingle bell. She has kept me in a collar and heels all week, and as always, sans bra and panties, details that would seem to matter less when it’s just her and me at home. I am a strip-party for her mind: she knows what’s I’m not wearing underneath as well as those secret adornments she’s decorated me with. So, in the midst of real work all week, while she keeps me dressed, I am her fantasy life.

We work in separate parts of the house, a setup that serves practical purposes. For one, we actually get more done working separately. For another, it provides her privacy for teleconference meetings. She doesn’t mind if I’m privy to them, but clients might, and the semblance of separation conveys professionalism. Our separate work spaces at home also seem to put us in the mindset of business work.

But our home office arrangement offers some other realities: I need to walk across the house to bring documents to Amanda in her study. I could send them to her instantly by email, but she likes seeing me walk into her office, and she likes that I have to wait for her to finish what she’s reading or reviewing before looking up at me. She also likes when I drop something and she can watch me bend over to pick it up.

Occasionally she will come to my writing room for a file, or to tell me something she could have told me by calling my cell. In doing so, she walks through the living room and past the wet bar, where a day earlier she had me tied, bound, and pussy-splayed from behind.

I know this because she tells me: “I was remembering the wet bar yesterday,” she says.

“Oh,” I reply without looking up from the spreadsheet. “How’s that working for you?”

“Nicely.”

And then she picks up the file she wants, pauses to undress me with her eyes, and returns to her office on the other side of the house.

So while we pivoted into the work week and we actually have been productive each and every day, the memories of last weekend — the instant replays of my submissions — are all around us, my sexual humiliations dangling and spent like party streamers the morning after.

Anyone watching us this week would have seen a businesswoman and her assistant doing their jobs: I got the master spreadsheet done on Tuesday and wrote up a draft of a client letter by Wednesday morning. We reviewed together the priority list, and we had a conference call with the home office. Amanda had twenty Zoom meetings with clients and employees. We got a lot done.

But an observer would not know our subtext. “The kitchen floor looks really clean,” Amanda says, a seemingly innocent observation. An observer would not know that Amanda is intentionally reminding us both of my body soaked in suds last weekend, my breasts flattening against the tile, twin wet mops like none other.

Today, Friday, she has me in a simple shirtdress, a bit retro as she likes to do sometimes. It covers me completely, and comes to below my knees, but Amanda knows that beneath this common dress is my naked body, piglet-pink, pale, and all perked up.

Whatever my clothing, whatever our work or home context, she peers below my surfaces with X-ray specs. There, underneath, she sees me, pure sex and flesh. That excites her.

And it excites me that I excite her. As a pair, even while working, we are serially erotic.

further thoughts, after

I drove back this afternoon, the weather cold but sunny, a leisurely drive. My only concern was staying awake, as I am tired from my week with Kevin. I kept drinking coffee along the way, playing music, and thinking about Who I Am Now.

I still imagine what other people think, wonder how I am judged, and fear facing the glaring humiliation in others’ eyes. Some part of me still is sixteen-year-old Baptist Girl in a plaid skirt with suspenders over a virgin white blouse, trying so hard to be sexually pure and sinless. These are smaller vestiges of me than ever before, but they are still there and they emerge from time to time. Like after a sex week with Kevin.

Those are mostly ghosts from my past, but I wrestle with them when they appear. I think perhaps they are necessary in my life, for without them, it would be easy. As subs and slaves, I think it is important that what we do is forbidden and alternative and shocking. We do it because we are made this way and need it, but we are pleasure to others because it is hard. Our need, and our Other’s delight, is in the humiliation of it.

We are seen for what we are, and judged, by our ghosts. And that’s what this is supposed to be.

I think I understand that, but driving home I still ask myself what I’ve done here, and what does this mean and wonder Who I Am Now.

But I’ve written too long already about the negative. The car ride was 25 percent that, but 75 percent smiles, tired as they may be.

In fact, it was a good week, a positive time with Kevin, with the constant awareness that I was pleasing my mistress in being available to him. I helped create joy and pleasure. And that in itself is a pretty good ghostbuster.

Truth be told, I rather like this odd life I’m in. I am a submissive beautifully dominated. And I have permission to be the sexual woman I am.

In a way, slavery has made me free.

the experience of… being owned as property

I wake up every morning into the reality that I am someone else’s property.

I know that, in some marriages as well in some D/s relationships, the comment “he owns me” or “I belong to her” can be a lovely, romantic notion. For me, despite everything with Amanda, this isn’t that. My sense of being owned property is more serious and weighty and literally, factually true.

Four years ago, I went through a process of declaring I was ready to enter lifestyle D/s slavery. I stood before a group of people, witnesses, and spoke of my submissive nature, how deep and driving it was, and how I felt I needed to be in a slavery arrangement. As part of the process, I was asked if I understood that in becoming a slave I would need to relinquish my rights and literally become property. I said yes and committed myself to that.

“Tangible personal property” is the legal and technical term for my status, which puts me in the same legal category as old books, used baseball gloves, and broken treadmills that sit in the corner of many basements.

That’s not just my status as listed on a piece of paper. Being immersed in slavery changes how you think of yourself. I sometimes liken myself to other possessions, such as Kevin’s truck. I have actually felt jealous of other objects, such as Amanda’s precious antique Queen Anne sofa. And as I belong to someone as a “thing” in their life, I feel the objectification and diminishment of that status — even as it deeply satisfies my submissiveness.

But, yes, I am also human property, I am a woman owned, which means something more than an old baseball glove or a sofa. That is, I have a female body, which apparently is especially desirable in a couple of specific attributes that make me a property people like to play with. My owners can dress or undress, demonstrate, and display me as they wish to themselves and others. This is, at its worst, deeply humiliating. At its best, it is elegant and beautiful, making me feel like property akin to a work of art.

And, of course, I am sexual property. Being owned as one’s slave gives my owner every right to me sexually. Plain and simple, I am used for sex at any time in any way someone else desires. Probably this is the image most have of D/s slavery and of me as a slave. As I am sometimes introduced to other people as a slave, I’m sure they immediately think that I am kept and used as sexual property all the time — that he or she, the owner, can fuck Shae anytime they want. Which is true. I cannot deny the fact of it, but I still have to live with the public understanding of it, and how people perceive me as sexual property.

As property used at the whims of others, I never know what the day ahead holds for me. I may need to stand on the front porch nude in the cold to await Amanda returning from work, or I may be ordered to scrub the kitchen floor naked while someone watches, or I may be required to endure any form of bare-breasted humiliation in public.

So this is what I wake up into every morning.

But the experience of being owned as property is also wonderful at times. Sometimes it’s like being held, like being embraced. Being owned means someone wants to own me. That I have in some sense been sold and bought means someone believes that I have value and so paid something for me.

Such thoughts are affirming. Like a toy in “Toy Story,” I may be a “thing,” but I’m cherished. And in my specific instance, given the one who owns me and who she is to me, I am the luckiest girl in the world. I wake up into that joy.

One of the saving graces in my slave life is that I actually enjoy servitude. I find pleasure in providing what others’ need. I say this not as a pat on my own back, but just to observe that this is natural to me, part of what I am. (I don’t know for sure if this is an aspect of my submissiveness or a separate trait that has become a benefit in my slavery.) In any case, being someone’s service property is something I deeply enjoy.

Another saving grace has been a particular viewpoint of all my Owners, past and present, in my slave journey. Previously under Master Michael and now under Mistress Amanda, I have been infused with an understanding that a true slave is one of the most precious things in the world. I am valuable because a true slave is a rare possession.

I believe that, but still at times I struggle. It’s not easy. To a submissive, things that feel bad can also feel good — and still they feel bad. That is the central irony of the submissive nature. You desire to be treated as property, but still you have to deal with and endure the indignity and humiliation of it.

So I am a woman owned. And every morning I wake up into that truth.

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. 🙂

crumbs

I have continued to wonder about what Amanda intends for me in this new reality ahead. She has, at times, seemed to start to lay out a vision for me, but then has not actually spoken it. She pulls back. Instead, her thoughts have emerged in comment fragments, bits and pieces of conversations, and random declarations to me. Crumbs dropped randomly and yet intentionally. She is managing my understanding.

It is clear the future for me will be different from the way she has had me up till now. As I have mentioned, when she and Kevin worked it out for her to be my sole owner, there was a change. It has been a subtle change so far, but noticeable enough between us. It hasn’t changed our intimacy at all, but it has intensified her active dominance of me — training and discipline. Different times for different things, of course, but her stronger hand and more demanding side have been much more present with me. I think these things will be all the more dramatic going forward.

I don’t know why her sole ownership of me mattered, but it did. I can only think that, before, she was providing space in the slavery for Kevin to possess me too, perhaps holding back until such a time when she could do with me what she wants. That time is now.

As I’ve reported, she is making me into something to be presented to and experienced by others. This is a kind of sex-slave object for social consumption — a woman of posture and propriety, physically shaped, bodily modified, sexually available, and formally obedient. She is enjoying the training of me, licking her lips at the process of gradually objectifying me with her special regimen. But make no mistake, she intends for this to be public and to have an outcome of presentation to others.

Such is, I believe, the life we are moving into.

My tendency has always been to seek the answer to the question, “What do you want me to be?” But I have learned that Amanda’s answer is always, “Yes, I want you to be anything and everything, at different times, as I wish or need.”

And I think those primary roles for me will be as her assistant in the business, as her companion in life, and as her sex slave in public.

But this future is not a portrait painting of me as just one of these roles at a time, but as a stained-glass mosaic of me as all these roles circling the central figure, the sun goddess who is Amanda. I am reminded of beautiful stained glass I saw at the Chicago Art Institute some years ago by Chagall, with objects floating in the night sky. I swirl around my mistress in celestial orbit.

However, the more perfect metaphor would be stained glass without the lead piping around each glass shard. My purposes and persons in her life do not, will not, have hard boundaries, but rather will need to blend into each other seamlessly, on the fly. This is starting to happen now.

I know one thing: overall there will be more people in our lives. A lot more. As compared to our place in a Colorado mountain town now, there will be circles upon circles of business clients, personal friends, and lifestyle people — and I will be known to all of them — to various degrees — as what I am.

Amanda’s domme philosophy and also her life philosophy is to be public and open. She believes that vanilla society should accept D/s slavery just as it accepts (or should accept) gay marriage. She talks about going to a grocery store and handcuffing me to a grocery cart as we walk around. She also wants to walk me on a leash partially nude in public parks. She has other public dreams for me in this slave-friendly utopia future. (I am not sure if that’s just her vision of the future or actually on a bucket list of things to do to me.)

Well, we’ll see.

But from the bits and pieces, the crumbs, she’s dropped here and there, I expect she’s figuring out an extent to which she can “make me public” to business clients and vanilla friends, as well as, of course, to lifestyle friends.

She is careful, of course, with the business side of it, to make sure everything is professional. Our first task will be recruiting clients, and up front, it’ll be best they aren’t aware of what I am. Though it is likely they will soon learn that she and I live together, and they will draw their conclusions about that part of it.

The fact is that Colorado is an interesting place socio-politically. It has a substantial base of independents and alt-culture groups, and some of these are the very start-up businesses we seek to serve. So in our business pursuits, Amanda may find a greater openness to our lifestyle than it would seem. In some cases, that may be an asset. I imagine some contexts, certain clients, in which Amanda will introduce me as her assistant and also as her slave. (Those will be fun times around the board room table, I’m sure.)

Another crumb: she’s talked more often about us entertaining. So there will be dinners and parties and some variety of socials. And this will be the new stage on which Amanda will display me. I will no doubt be the “assistant social director,” so in all likelihood will be planning my own humiliations.

If I sound like I am OK with some of this, I am, because it is Amanda. If I sound a bit nervous about this, I am, because it is putting me out there in a new way, and perhaps in front of people I’ve known in a vanilla life years ago. But it’s all a new adventure.

All I can do is obey the training and discipline of my mistress and become the redheaded image of “slave girl” she desires me to be.