hurt so good

I’ve been given a reprieve from my debauchery — for the morning at least, as I’ve been granted time to myself and promised a casual time with Amanda at the cafe for brunch. So already this Saturday a.m. I’ve taken a leisurely bath, and I spent good time washing and pampering my hair, which had gotten to be a god-awful stringy mess. So I feel a little more settled this morning than I was last night when I posted. I don’t regret writing what I did in “wanton”, but it was more desperate and less thoughtful than I normally like to be. Still, it was what it was.

Today on the other side of sleep and shampoo I have a profound feeling of being used. And I don’t mean that in a negative way. Like so many feelings of the submissive experience, there is good in the bad feeling, thrill in the objectification, fulfillment in the humiliation. I have these past days and nights been used by Master K as a container for his (ridiculous!) libido, a holster for his cock and a champagne flute for his cum. He has deposited himself in me. Mistress too, her fingers occupying me, filling me.

The temptation, when people talk about us submissives, is the shorthand that “you subs enjoy being objectified, you love being used.” It’s not so simple. I experienced the shame of being used as a container all week. I felt the thorns of humiliation in being serially used for sex since Monday. Those are hard, difficult, painful feelings, as they would be to anyone else. The fact I am a sub-slave doesn’t simply turn them into pleasures.

But, yes, those things are also deeply pleasurable in this strange chemistry of submission. Being Master K’s “container” also means I am filled by him. Being used means I am useful to him. Being taken means I am wanted by him. All of it gives purpose to my slavery.

So the experience of being used is not just some masochistic joy in the objectifying experience. It is both the hurt and the good at the same time. It is accepting and enduring the hurt in the process of enjoying the good that accompanies it.

So as I sit this morning writing this, my body aches from being sexually used this week to a degree and frequency I haven’t quite experienced before. It has been relentlessly objectifying. I feel all that and yet I feel a satisfaction that I have been a good slave to Master and Mistress, being fully to them what they expect a slave to be sometimes.

I have fulfilled that and, container that I am, been filled by that.

q and a from the workplace

More people at Amanda’s workplace have been asking me questions. Again, I welcome them. Perhaps they can know me better through some of my answers. I am answering a few of the recent ones here. Note that in this case I’m writing mostly to people outside the lifestyle….

In terms of daily life (schedule, routines, things you are made to do each day) — do others who practice this lifestyle have a life like yours? Is yours typical?

I know submissives who have daily and weekly routines somewhat similar to mine. A lot of slave “business” — dress, presentation, posture, restriction, training, discipline, sexual services — is common to most D/s and slavery lifestyles. Different dominants may give more emphasis to one or another, but weekly life usually contains many of those elements.

24/7 slavery looks to people on the outside as extreme, which it is in some ways. But a 24/7 slavery is also a 365 slavery. Good dominants understand it’s a long game, and their slaves need to be used submissively, yes, but also need fulfillment in other ways. A sex slave like me needs to find meaning and interest and fulfillment in life. For me that’s writing, reading, arts, movies. For another slave it might be art, music, sports, cooking. Good doms know their slaves must thrive. So a slave life sometimes can look quite “normal” in some ways, even though the heart of it is slavery.

Now, some slaveries are more “programmed” than mine is, more focused on training. This has been a recent conversation by Amanda with Jocelyn and with Master K, the thought being that some part of my life ought to be more structured and devoted to perfecting certain skills. What is best for me is a different conversation, but it is true that some submissives have a more regimented life than mine has been.

And some slaveries are different from mine because they are different life situations. Some married people define their relationship as a dom-sub slavery, but their lives might need to accommodate work for both of them, children, family. So their routine of slavery is different from mine.

Another difference is that I serve two dominants, and each has a slightly different interest in me, a somewhat different use and intent. This makes my slavery perhaps a bit more active than others, maybe more chaotic. Although it is really Amanda who manages me, and she keeps my life from feeling too random.

But overall, yes, I think many 24/7 arrangements are similar to my slavery in daily practice.

Do the things you’re made to do as a slave, over and over, start to feel ordinary, mundane? Does slavery become “old hat,” so to speak? Boring?

Well, I can tell you my slavery has never been boring!

But I understand the question, and it’s a good one. I think that the answer is in the psychology of me, of all submissives, and how we experience life as duties and services and usages. We find pleasure in things that control us, are demanded of us, use us. And what we experience in the submissive life, even in repetition, is endlessly different.

I won’t deny there are times I am made to do something again, and I start to approach it as a kind of drudgery. But usually my “submissive” kicks in, and I start to experience it as a price I pay for the privilege of serving Mistress or Master, or as a “pain” I endure for my service to them, or as a dreary task that I delight in precisely because it is dreary. It demeans me, and I fulfill my purpose as a submissive to them because it does precisely that. This is the illogical, counter-intuitive mind of a submissive, but that’s how it works.

In many things, the experience is layered and subtly different and freshly revealing each time. Whenever I am walked on a leash, I feel the same basic things — being controlled, being led by someone, being in bondage to another. The fact that I’ve been walked on a leash hundreds of times before doesn’t deaden my experience the next time. The next time I may feel more of the subjugation of it — my being put in my place by Mistress. Another time, I may be more aware of how this appears to others in public who see me, a feeling of humiliation in their presence. Another time I may be more aware of how I am sexualized as a woman, perhaps in a revealing outfit, led helplessly on a leash. Sometimes I am all too aware that dogs are led on leashes by other people in public, and my experience is one of degradation. And usually, it is some combination of those experiences and others that make the thing different for me.

I don’t expect others to understand my submissive pleasure in these “negative” feelings and experiences. But my point is that these activities are like a fine wine with complex notes, and whether the tenth time or the hundredth, it opens up yet again differently.

Do you consider yourself an exhibitionist? How do you feel about being exposed in public? What is that like for you?

No, I don’t think of myself an exhibitionist. I was never so inclined before my entry into the sub-slave world. I would never choose to do that on my own.

I had to learn something about this myself. There’s a significant difference between what is commonly known as public exhibitionism and what is done in a D/s lifestyle as “public sharing.” Of course, to others outside looking in these appear the same, no doubt. But what is done with me in my slavery (and apparently what I will be made to do more of), is quite different from girls gone wild at a kegger, lifting their tops showing their boobs, or the creepy guy in the park flashing unsuspecting women. Those are designed to elicit a surprise response from unsuspecting people.

What is done with me is talked about as “public sharing.” In this, I am revealed, often gradually over a period of time. I am exposed for people to watch and enjoy. The point of it is not to surprise people, but to press me into the experience of being sexualized in front of random strangers.

By nature, I am not so shy about my body, but neither am I one to expose myself or flaunt my assets, so to speak. In my vanilla life, since I had gone through a childhood of repression, I had finally come around to being more accepting of myself and my body. But as a adult woman in a vanilla life, I was still modest.

In the act of submission, however, under the province of a dominant, I do what I am told, I submit and expose myself as instructed — and, quite honestly, I find great release and freedom in it, even while experiencing embarrassment and humiliation.

Do you think about your life into the future? Do you have a desire to get married? Have children?

Yes, I do think about this more often these days. I don’t have any desire to leave this lifestyle, not only because of Mistress, but because of my desire to stay in slavery and continue living fully as a submissive. That may change, but I could see myself in this life for many years to come.

I don’t think that marriage is of much interest to me, but children are. I love children, and I am sometimes now feeling a desire to have a child. That’s a big change, I know… I’m also getting to an age when I need to think about it and decide. Of course, this is more complicated in the context of my slavery. I haven’t come to any conclusions and I think any real decision about it is still a little ways off. But I am wondering what those options are.


I was conflicted about going back to the cafe and seeing Casey again after my topless turn there last Saturday.

It wasn’t that I dreaded going. I kind of wanted to see him again. And there is something about being exposed and returning to the scene of the crime. Well, that’s being too flippant. Truth is, there’s something else inside me about this.

I live a life now in which I am more frequently revealed and undressed in front of people I don’t know. It is simply part of my life. Some slaveries are more public; some dominants more into the public exposure of their submissives. It is its own special kind of control, I believe, maybe sort of a benchmark of a submissive’s commitment.

My submission experiences early on involved public places from time to time, and then my transition from sub to slave, at least a year in the making, culminated in a rather notable public scene, which I have refrained from writing about, not because it was traumatic but because it was so precious. My dominants, including Master Michael, and now Mistress Amanda, are very inclined toward public exposures of me, and Mistress has said she intends to do me publicly more often as time goes on. She was planning a return visit to the park when I broke my wrist.

Someone asked me if I am used to being exposed in public, that is, if I have gotten accustomed to it. The answer is no, not at all. I may have some limited experience with this, but it’s not (yet) all that common for me. And I’m not sure anyone ever “gets used” to it.

The important thing is that this is not just about exposure of my body, in this case, sitting with my breasts bared for Casey to gaze at. This is also a baring of my submissive status, my slavery to another, which has its own sweet humiliation in the truth of it. And when the scene is longer, as it was Saturday, it is also a sharing of me sexually, a revealing of my sexuality to another, and to a degree, a participation of another with me in a kind of sexual intimacy.

None of this on Saturday was bad-feeling to me. It was actually exciting, arousing, deeply touching me submissively. But while I’m a slave, I am also a woman, and there are dynamics to public sharing like this that would deeply affect any woman and that affect me likewise, something that I need to process.

There is a difference between my being exposed to people inside the lifestyle versus those outside in the vanilla world. I was topless before Jocelyn when she visited, but that was a different experience. I still felt exposed, but I knew I was understood as the slave that I am. In front of college guys on the hiking trail or the pizza delivery guy it’s different, as they have no context for a submissive woman being required to do that. Even so, in those circumstances, they probably just saw it as a dare or a fling.

With Casey, it was different and more — a long morning of sitting bare-breasted before him during his multiple visits to our booth. This “long play” was what Amanda wanted to happen. Over time, I’m sure Casey saw my subservience to Amanda in it, then observing my sexual response from it, and finally settling into watching me for his own sexual pleasure.

I probably need to parse in a more precise way what the terms “embarrassment” and “humiliation” and “shame” mean to me. I don’t know if I feel embarrassed much these days. Humiliation is more related to people knowing or learning that I am a sex slave and my looking into their eyes as they evaluate and judge me in that. But ultimately, with Casey, I don’t think my confusion is about those things.

I think it’s more that he has come to mean something to me in my visits there on my own as a writer and frequent patron. I’m not sure what that is. I don’t think we’ve had much conversation along the way, so I’m not sure why I feel that. I probably am imposing a significance onto him that he doesn’t feel himself. I think I’m able to sit in the dual truth that I am an obedient sub/slave in a corner booth on a Saturday morning and I also am a writer who sips coffee at his cafe on weekdays. I just hope Casey can handle both realties of me. I don’t know. But it’s something like that.

So I went to the cafe on Thursday morning, hopeful for a brief conversation and some follow up with him, steeled for whatever his response would be. Anything would be OK, I told myself.

I was waited on by the waitress he’s hired. Her name is Ramona. She told me Casey was taking the day off.

red bows and pigtails

Yesterday morning before she left for work, Mistress Amanda dressed me for the day. She put me in a red skater skirt and white wedge sandals. She tied my hair into pigtails, using white ribbons on each side. She had me wear a red fabric choker.

I asked her if she was trying to make me look like a schoolgirl, like I was eleven.

She said, “Darling, with boobs like yours, no one will think you’re eleven. But that reminds me…”

She disappeared into the drawing room and reemerged several minutes later with lengths of red yard. Mistress then tied lengths of yarn around each of my nipples, tight, then into bows.

She stepped back and looked at her Barbie. Even with my cast and sling marring the overall effect, she seemed pleased.

“I feel silly,” I said.

“Since when did any of this become about you?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, deferring immediately. “I’m sorry. I hope I please you.”

“You do. You look very cute.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Do you feel humiliated?” she asked.

“Yes, a little.”


being a woman of elegance

My therapist Jillian (I now have permission to use her real name) is a licensed counselor who lives in BDSM and D/s lifestyles. She is a switch, experienced both as a dom and a sub, though she plays most often as a sub. I think of Jillian as a cross between a motivational speaker and “sub-whisperer,” and she talks about “empowering the submissive.” Which sounds like a contradiction in terms, but in a way that’s her point and her passion.

Since she and I have gotten back into sessions again, she’s been talking to me about some new things. This is a paraphrase of what I remember her saying in a phone call earlier this week. It is incomplete and probably slightly misstated in some places, so any quibble with her statements here are probably my error in translating them.

“Any dominant over you, Shae — Master K or Master Michael or Mistress Amanda or some other — derives pleasure from doing things to you that rob you of dignity and your self-image as a woman. That’s not a criticism. That’s what they are supposed to do as doms. It’s how they are wired. And that’s what we, as submissives, want them to do to us. There’s something in dominance and possession which we subs respond to and need.”

Jillian said she didn’t need to, with me, go into all the back psychology of that. “You already know a lot of it, Shae.” Her point with me was that I need to see my life as a repeated process of degradation. “You are constantly sexualized and subjugated, and you need to deal with the impact of that on yourself.”

“The issue,” she said, “is not how to avoid the humiliations of submission. That’s what we love and need and get pleasure from. The issue is how, repeatedly, to recover from it and rebuild a sense of worth and value.”

“How do I do that?” I asked. So we talked about a variety of strategies. She said my writing online was really important to this. For any sub, she said, any artistic expression — writing, painting, music — is a primary way a submissive processes what she experiences.

She believes more social connection is important. She said she knew it was hard to find persons outside the lifestyle to be understanding of us in the lifestyle. But ideally, someon like that. (I really am trying to build some social connections and outside relationships.)

Jillian talks about a spiritual process — and by that she means meditational — a regular time I can be present with myself, with no other distractions, to think about who I am as a human being, and as a woman of dignity.

She says this is most of all a mindset — how I think about myself. “If your life goal is to be a slave,” she says, “then you will limit yourself and your life to that. If your goal is to be a woman of elegance who lives as a slave, then you aspire to be a person of dignity and value.

I am realizing that for Jillian the phrase “a woman of elegance” encompasses a lot of things. It isn’t for her about the outward appearance or some false image of beauty. It is an inner elegance that comes from confidence that comes from a core of self-value.

She says, “The secret is that doms get much more pleasure from a woman who is confident, who has dignity, and who conveys elegance than one who is self-doubting, depressed, and conveys her own sense of unworthiness. They would much rather dominate a woman of inner strength than dominate a woman who is already broken.”

I have much to think about.

sunday afternoon questions

A few hours after posting “orals” yesterday morning, I received these email questions from a follower: How do you feel when, after writing about yourself explicitly like you did this morning, you socialize with people who have read your blog? Do you think they are imagining you in their mind when you’re with them?

My short, quick answers: I feel embarrassed a lot of times. And yes, I am aware that some people, when they’re with me, imagine me in what I wrote about in one of my experiences, that they are literally picturing me that way. That too, of course, feels humiliating to me.

To be clear, I believe there is no shame in people having sex. But to describe the sex I’ve had and for that to be known is a more embarrassing level of exposure for me, as it would be for anyone. And then for it to be as a result of my enslavement — being ordered to do it, and submitting to someone else out of submissive obedience — is really what my feelings of humiliation come from when I’m face to face with others.

I think people assume I must have become used to the public aspect of my lifestyle by now and that it doesn’t phase me so much to be known and “seen” in what I am and do. Not so. Just being introduced as a slave to anyone in the vanilla world makes for at least a basic level of shame, which I feel as intensely the fiftieth time as in the first time. To be further “seen” in the explicit acts of submissive service I report on and later be with those people face to face is something I’ve never gotten used to.

Maybe it has a little to do with personality. I am actually shy and introverted by nature. I have a feisty streak, which never ends well, but that erupts only occasionally (thank god). I am more outgoing around people I know and trust, and I probably sound more confident and assertive in my writing, but I am really quite reserved around most people and sensitive to what they say and think of me. I’m also the product of a conservative religious upbringing, which I have since left behind, but which still affects me in these areas and also reminds me of who’s out there. So I’m not the type who just does what she does and doesn’t give a damn what people think. I very much care what people think. I tell myself not to expect others’ approval, but emotionally I still hope for that, again, as much the fiftieth time as the first time.

There’s always the question of why I do this — in particular, write what I do and submit to the social embarrassment it yields. I probably need to say again that my extreme submissive nature compels my choice to live in a lifestyle of slavery. What I haven’t written about so much is that my slavery has been defined as an open and public thing. It has been the aim of my dominants to make me known to the world, transparent about my slavery and what’s in it to others, even strangers.

They have encouraged me to write, in part because they are aware how core to me my writing is, because it’s good for me. But the other part of their intention is that it exposes my life as a slave to a broader population. They literally want me to face those people who read about me. They want me to feel embarrassment and humiliation in these things.

So this is all part of the concept. It’s what’s supposed to be.

the humiliation of doing

I’m a little dangerous when I have time to write, as I have today. My doms are away today and this is allows slavegirl time to explore the nature of submissive humiliation. I have spent a lot of time in my sub life thinking about this. It’s an intricate topic, not to mention experience, and it’s impossible to fully grasp it or describe it. That’s why I keep trying to arrticulate it. Today has provided for my latest attempts.

I want to follow my previous post with this post on the humiliation of doing.

The temptation is, of course, to list those humiliating things I have done or might be told to do, and address them one by one. I know some would love for me to do that, and I accept that, the watchers who want to see me through my words do the unimaginable.

But I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you. The thing is, I have found that becomes an endless and rather meaningless exercise. There is, in fact, a writing prompt list of some thirty-three different acts of various levels of degradation (I’m sure there are many such lists, but I possess one). And, I find that strangely, the list gets a little boring. The thing is, in themselves, acts of daring are rather meaningless. And kind of beside the point.

I think this was one of my realizations in my brief previous life (before slavery) dabbling in BDSM. I found the exercise of role play in clubs with a partner and the progressive “thrill” of added dares was ultimately, for me, empty. That’s not to say such things were easy for me or beneath my level — no, most things on the kink list I have never done. And I say this not meaning at all to judge anyone in BDSM. It’s just that for me it all got a bit tedious. Why? Because my need is about total submission and submersion in a sub life to a person, in relation to another, not in specific acts themselves.

To use a recent example from my life, being on a leash in public Is not about being on a leash in public. In other words, I don’t “get off” on it, not that in itself. What I respond to is being presented as my mistress’s slave in front of others. I respond to the fulfillment of her dominance by making me do that. I see in her eyes her pleasure in my exposure and public humiliation.

Hypothetically, I could sometime take a walk in the foothills on my own. I could wear a collar and leash dragging on the ground. I could, at some point along the path take off my shirt and go topless. I could walk through a trail intersection on my own and encounter a couple of wide-eyed college fratboys. And in that experience I would have no personal, submissive, or sexual response, other than feeling silly that I was caught without my top on.

But when Mistress Amanda walked me on a leash along that same path, I felt bathed in submissive anticipation, desire, and also apprehension — all because my Mistress was controlling me and I didn’t know what she was going to have me do next. My submissive response came from my relationship to her. And when we encountered the two college boys, I was truly humiliated as they ogled my breasts and as Amanda engaged them in conversation. Why? Because they could see that she controlled me and that I obeyed. My humiliation exists in her domination of me and my obedience to that. Yes, I have to learn to keep my eyes up; I have to allow myself to see their perceptions of me and let them see my shame. I’ll do better another time. But why do I need to do that? Because it is in the relational exchange where the real experience of dominance and submission occurs.

I know this discussion often goes to considering acts of service that are especially degrading. Again, we seem to get back to lists. What gets lost in such things is the particular intimacy between a dominant and slave that especially degrading acts create.

Mistress Amanda has now used me during her time of the month to replace her tampon — to remove one and insert another. It is a degrading task, of course, but it is not the task that so matters. It is the subjugation and intimacy that goes with it — how she uses me to take care of her menstrual need. It is a statement that even her own bodily functions are not her own to do, but the province of her slave’s duties. But it’s even more than that. While it was in fact an act she ordered me to do, it was also a sharing of herself with her slave in one of a her most private bodily functions. And after performing this task, after attending to her body in this most personal way, we became closer to each other thereafter. It’s resulted in an added measure of closeness, as if the literal physical closeness has equally become an emotional closeness.

Likewise, as I wrote about my claiming, Master K that night used my mouth as his toilet. He filled my mouth with his urine. Now I do not get off on urine play or watersports per se. And it is damn humiliating to write about that. But again, within the bigger experience of my master using me for a night in his claiming of me, this was part of my developing relationship to him. And although he might not ever talk about it this way, when I felt his piss warm and wet and bitter in my mouth, it was one of the more intimate times I’ve had with him. He shared that private and forbidden part of himself with me. And I gave myself to his degrading use of me.

But I think what goes unsung in this discussion of acts of humiliation are the more simple, common acts of everyday slavery. Assuming a slave position at Master’s feet as he reads the newspaper. Dressing for Mistress in clothes she likes me to wear that she knows I don’t like. Serving coffee from a waist tray wrapped around my waist and held up by a chain to my collar. Curtsying for Master, as he wishes me to when I leave his presence. These acts of doing, though not extreme, are humiliating as common practices of my slave life.

Today, even with Master and Mistress away, I have worn high heels. It’s very faux fashion — me in a denim circle skirt and white cotton top, but then these anachronistic tall white heels. (Very Mayberry, except for the heels. Andy Griffith’s squeeze, Ellie Walker, would never wear tall heels. Well, too, she’d be in a shirt dress. Nevermind.) But I’ve worn these heels today, all day, despite the way they make my ankles ache, as an act of submission to Master and Mistress, even in their absence. Master will never know, or notice. Although Mistress Amanda, when they get home, will totally notice. She will see and nod and smile, Wearing bad fashion and painful heels are my own self-imposed act of humiliation. Quiet and subtle, my humiliation of doing.

But I don’t do it because I get off on the pain of wearing heels. I do it for Amanda’s smile.

the humiliation of being

I wake up every morning knowing I am someone else’s property. It is a status I have chosen, though I have no choice each and every day.

I awaken into the humiliation of my life, the awareness I am a thing owned. I feel in my body the verbs of possession — “had“ and “have” and “has.” I am “had” by the woman two rooms down the hall and the cowboy man in a bedroom across the house. They are people who “have” me like they have a Lexus SUV and a Ford truck — my Master sliding into his F-350 like he slides into me and rides me for his pleasure.

This is the humiliation of “being,” which is vastly different from the humiliation of “doing.” The humiliation of being derives from who you are. I am an extreme submissive, a real life slave, a woman who needs to be owned and possessed as a thing, as a toy, as property vying for time with a Ford pickup.

I will be called many things in the course of my day and night. Mistress has taken to calling me “princess,” which she sometimes uses when she finds me too precious, but sometimes just because she thinks of me that way, which I find adorable, the language of girls in love. But she also calls me “slavegirl,” and not as a term of fondness, rather a term of identity. The humiliation is not that she calls me this, but that it is in fact what I am.

The life I awaken into isn’t about name calling. It is about terms of address that are usually in some way true. We are most humiliated by things we know are true.

Master sometimes calls me “cunt” and I really don’t like that, not because I am so humiliated by it in itself but because I answer to it: “Yes, Sir.” I answer because I am his slave. In responding, I connect with this label for me and confirm with him that is part of my identity. I have a vagina, a cunt, but that is also, in this life what I am. Master also often calls me “subgirl” — ”Amanda, where’s our subgirl?” (as if he’s lost his phone or one of his dozen remotes) — which could mean “submissive girl,” but more like “below the status of a girl.” It’s a subtle shaming, certainly, a name that I sometimes imagine as on my name tag at a conference.

These humiliations of being are about my identity, how I have come to see myself, what I answer to. But they are also about how others see me. Master also has taken to calling me “fuck toy,” which is very much how he thinks of me and uses me. In his perception of me, it is true, and it becomes my ever-present humiliation.

The humiliation I awaken into is extended into my preparations for the day. My body belongs to others, and I spend a ridiculous amount of time each day making it soft and lubricated and appealing for them. Some of this is every woman’s normal routine, but my regimen is twice what I ever did before I entered this life. I am self-shamed by this conscious preparing of my body to be used. I now have specific concerns about my body as a slave body — for example, my worry that my labia need to be fuller and my attempts using a cream to make them so. I am mentally conditioned these days to feel my own body as an object, flesh that needs to be pretty and soft and warm and wet for others’ pleasure. This is a kind of self-objectification, treating my own body as a separate object just as others do.

I now wear a collar nearly 24/7. It has become a part of me, to the point where if I don’t have one on I feel incomplete. They now have me in high heels most of the day, the fashionable bondage that goes with every outfit. Of course, I haven’t worn a bra and panties for a couple of years. These are simple things, but also are they way I’ve become conditioned to be. This is now normal for me. I am the subgirl who is collared and heeled and naked and available underneath, at all times. This too has become my being. The fact that’s true is, again, a humiliation.

So humiliation is something I can feel all on my own, within myself. But it is magnified in front of others.

When Mistress Amanda introduced me to her colleagues as her “slave,” there was humiliation in being understood by strangers as such. But, again, the greater humiliation — evidenced in the blushing of my chest and face — came from the fact that it is true. In front of strangers, I was identified as a sex slave and imagined, I’m sure, in various situations of submission to Amanda. The common question from a stranger is, “If your Mistress ordered you to do anything, no matter what, would you obey her?” These colleagues were all thinking that. My humiliation lies in my answer — I know and Amanda knows that, yes, I would do anything for her.

The “doing” of any particular order is the humiliation of doing. Knowing I would do it — and do anything — is the humiliation of being. It is humiliating because it is what I can’t help being, a slave to my mistress.

There is a lot of humiliation in that “can’t help myself” bit. It’s sort of the tipping point of all this. It’s the humiliation of the alcoholic resisting but ultimately reaching for the whiskey bottle. For me, it’s the humiliation of wanting to be a “respectable woman” yet unable to resist the order from Mistress to kneel before her and extend my tongue. Again, it’s not so much what she places or pisses on my tongue that matters. It is that I cannot resist submitting my face and mouth to her pleasure. Normal girls don’t do that.

And that’s another aspect of the humiliation of being. I am not normal. I know that. I don’t apologize for that. Yet, one does sometimes desire normality. One looks at the lives of those she is submissive to, or those women in her mistress’s orbit, and thinks what if. What if I were normal that way, and more regular sexually and emotionally, and had a life of accomplishment and respectability. Of course, I once did have that life. Or really, I pretended to have that life for almost a decade. And that was not me. Because “me” is an extreme submissive. So I am here, waking up into a world where my Mistress calls me “slavegirl” and my Master calls me “fuck toy.” Part of the humiliation of being is the understanding one is not normal.

Some say that in submission and slavery humiliation is actually a good feeling, as it is something a submissive desires and converts into pleasure. I don’t agree, or at least I would argue a different view.

I think humiliation is humiliation, in a vanilla person’s life and in a slave’s life. It is a kind of pain, emotional pangs, anguish. I feel this deeply every day. It’s not a different feeling than others have. It’s not something I enjoy in itself. However, what I do desire (I’m not sure “enjoy” is the right word here) is to be controlled and possessed. That is my core as a submissive. My humiliations are embedded in experiences of others’ control of me, and being controlled is, for me, pleasurable and joyful. Yet the pain of humiliation is very much a part of that and deeply felt.

When Mistress Amanda has me kneel in a slave position before her, I feel her control of me. I feel the humiliation of being a grown adult woman kneeling formally in front of another adult. I am aware I am a piece of property she owns. She sees my humiliation from all this in my eyes, and she enjoys it in me. She delights in my shame. And then I thrill to see her delight. She feeds off my submission to her, her control and humiliation of me. I feed off of her joy in controlling me and in humiliating me. This is the intricate symbiosis, I think, of the dominant-slave relationship.

Ultimately, my humiliation of being is perhaps most realized in the name I am called most often: “slave Shae.” Shae, of course, is my real name, my birth name. And now Master has poached my middle name — “Maura” — for fellatio services. My true, full, real identity is redefined and attached to my slaveness.

This is who I am. My being. My humiliation.



proud or humiliated?

Are you proud of being a slave or is it humiliating to you?

My temptation here is to answer, “Yes,” and to leave it at that. But, of course, I’ll say more. It’s a really good question.

For me there’s a difference between being happy as a slave and being proud as a slave. In general, I am happy and fulfilled in living the slave life. Of course, like anyone, I have good days and bad days, and there are things that are difficult and hard. But overall I am content and happy being a slave in a slave relationship, now to both a mistress and a master.

Because I was born this way — with an extreme submissive sexuality — I need to be a slave in a slave life 24/7. (I know there’s a lot to explain and unpack in that statement, but for now trust me that it’s just true.) But this need, this submissive sexuality, and to the extreme it is in me, is not what I would wish for in a different life. But it is what I am. So, in a way — and I want to say this carefully — I feel that this need is a handicap I must live with. Often I wish I were different, with a normal sexuality and a traditional relationship and a regular life. But I am what I am, and true slavery is the only life I’ve found that allows me to be what I am, and thus to be fulfilled. But no, nothing in this is a matter of pride. To the contrary, it is something of a life sentence. Being a slave is something I am resigned to be.

The one thing I am proud of is that I have persisted in trying to find myself through my adult life, from my college days through my professional career, through various friendships and relationships. And I am proud that at a particular point I was brave enough to leave behind everything, pursue my need, and submit myself to a literal and real slavery. I have fought to understand my extreme sexuality and to get to a life that satisfies it. I am proud of that.

I also feel a kind of pride when I am satisfying to my owners, my master and mistress. I experience a deep enjoyment when I pleasure others, through their use of my body or my servitude or my attitude or my willingness to live in submission to them.

But I can feel proud in those “accomplishments” and yet feel humiliated in the doing of them. Of course, living as someone’s sexual object is humiliating. Submissive life is humiliating. Being dominated in public is humiliating. Meeting Amanda’s colleagues at work and being aware that I am a slave to her is humiliating. Enduring a long night of my master fucking all my holes” and claiming me is humiliating for me to write about here. Being sold by one master to this master and mistress is humiliating. Knowing how I am seen and judged by others is humiliating.

But humiliation is the ground zero of the slave life, and you have to accept it as you experience it every day.