business meeting, tuesday

We are led into a client’s meeting room, and make our way around a glass conference table with an aluminum frame, bare bones as befits a startup company. The assistant asks us if we want water or coffee, takes our wishes, then leaves.

This is one of our new acquires; they’ve signed up with us for the next three years. We’ve had several meetings with them before this, and here we are starting to put into play the services that our company provides them.

Amanda dresses me differently for clients we are pursuing than those who have signed up with us. For the former, it’s me suited in a blazer and skirt, white blouse. For the latter, as today, we’re a bit more casual, and she has me in a dark red flare skirt and a tight white scoop neck top. Heels, always, these with an ankle strap. And a collar, this one in between a bondage style and a fashion choker. My look is appropriate, but different in subtle ways.

I take the conference chair next to Amanda’s. As I sit, I reach to my skirt behind, but instead of folding it under my legs, as common and proper, I hold it back, so that my bare cheeks and thighs underneath are flush against the nylon mesh of the chair. This is per Mistress’s policy, and she has had me practice this so that it’s a single, fluid move, not so obvious. My skirt catches some air in back, and finally settles around me like a tent.

In this case, only one of the client team has arrived. Patrick is their financial guy, maybe 25. They’re all young, yet crack-smart. We did hellos when we walked in, but now Patrick is engrossed in his computer screen as we all wait. Though maybe not so engrossed really — I could see his gaze lift toward me slightly as I sat down. He noticed me and the oddness with which I did that.

The others walk in. The head of this group is Daniel, his cohort is Josh, and their manager is a young woman named Stephanie. Daniel is the oldest, and I judge him to be around 30.

Our clientele, so far, tends to be businesses made up of early-twenty-something men and women or else older men in their sixties. The twenty-somethings are brilliant in digital and social media ways, and the older clients seem to be refugees from larger corporations, men who always “had this one great idea” for starting their own business and now are playing out their dreams.

The three walking in apologize for their lateness — another phone meeting delayed them. Amanda shakes hands with Daniel in the corner of the room, and I stand to give my greetings to Josh and Stephanie. Soon we all sit down. Stephanie, directly across from me, notices my slight fuss with my skirt in back.

I notice being noticed. This is what Amanda wants, for me to be self-conscious, not in a nervous way, but as an awareness of how I am seen. No one thing about my appearance draws attention, perhaps, but in the aggregate I’m a bundle of different: pierced nipples, collar, flare skirt, high heels. Who knows if someone will see the lock on my collar in back — it’s mostly hidden under my hair.

Of all possible audiences, a group of twenty-somethings is likely most tolerant and least judgmental. A goth girl in black with a nose ring would probably not elicit much reaction from them — they know what she is. But an Irish lass in her thirties with freckles and nipple piercings, always wearing a collar, is more of a challenge to categorize.

What adds to the intrigue is what presents as my relationship with Amanda. To them, I am her business colleague, yet I am more deferential to her in my speech than what would be normal, and I answer her with “Yes, ma’am.” They pick up on my subordination to her. And I’m sure they have, at some break time, seen us together talking, and her arm going around my waist in back, or her common gesture of pulling my hair back from my face. Again, they would be non-judgmental if they simply understood us as a lesbian couple, but there is something “other and more” about us, me, that keep them guessing.

In time, Amanda imagines us all, over a casual dinner and some drinks, opening up more to each other, more personally, a time when questions might come out, and she can answer in such a way as to reveal my submissiveness and slave status.

That day will come.

We get into our work around the conference table. The meeting goes well. Amanda keeps it professional. She is consummate in her bearing, winning and wooing while at the same time being thoroughly confident and authoritative. I provide handouts for the table and manage a Powerpoint cast onto the screen at the far end.

I know that this same Amanda of dignity and professionalism who commands the room, would dearly love to have slipped a dildo onto my seat as I sat down, and for my sitting to become an act of latex intercourse. She would imagine a remote in her own hand to command the dildo to swirl and wiggle, squishing around inside of my cunt. All this while I am pulling papers out of the file folders and pressing keys to advance the Powerpoint slides. She would love it if I had to suppress an orgasm. Or two. Or three. In front of a group of young turks who see me as a Dublin MILF.

I know all this because Amanda has told me. This precisely. Of late, she has become oddly open about her fantasies of me. Open and almost giddy. It seems strange in light of the fact she owns me, owns this body that I still sometimes call my own. She can do anything she wants with it. And does.

But still she enjoys spinning these fantasies in her head.

I doubt that Amanda is thinking this as she lays out the process to the team in front of us. But I am, and I have already fallen behind in triggering one of the slides on the screen.

The meeting goes well, ends well. These are good people. At the end, we set up a schedule of procedures and a follow-up session.

Afterward, as we stand to go, I “carelessly” drop the napkin provided with my coffee onto the seat of my chair. Picking it up, I manage to inconspicuously wipe the seat clean. Seems I made it a little wet.

quite a morning

Wednesday morning was certainly a thing in my slave life.

My work project for Amanda at her office finished up a week ago Wednesday, and I’d handed in my report. My Monday/Wednesday routine of going to work with her has ended, and I didn’t go to work with her Monday. But Wednesday this week Amanda wanted me to come in one more time to attend a meeting with her financial advisor and talk through some of my report’s recommendations. (For those who don’t know, this has to do with real estate, which was my career in my previous life.)

As is my requirement, I was standing in the breakfast nook at 7:30 bearing a tray of coffee mugs and a freshly brewed carafe at my side. I had already showered, done my makeup, and dressed for work — conscientiously prepped to go to the office — but, as is the standing order, without a top, which was draped over a chair in the drawing room.

Master K entered, poured himself coffee, reached around my tray and fondled my breast. I said, Thank you, Sir.”

Amanda entered shortly after, asked me to pour her a mug of coffee while she checked for something in her briefcase. Coffees poured, I started to pour myself a cup, when Master uttered, “Maura.”

Reflexively, I squatted before him at the breakfast table. He had me sit to the side not under it. Amanda, still riffling through her briefcase, said, “Kevin, have her take off her skirt so it doesn’t get it dirty. She’s going to work with me.”

He nodded to me, so I took off my skirt and draped it over a chair. So I squatted, naked, and unzipped him. He read the newspaper, making my work trivial, intentionally diminishing the value of my newfound skill of 2019. He was slow this morning, and it took some twenty minutes, but when he came, it was in two big mouthfuls, and I couldn’t swallow fast enough. It drooled on my breasts. I apologized for spilling, but Master waved it off.

By now, Amanda was waiting for me in the car. The meeting was scheduled right at 8:30, we were late, and it was important.

I put my skirt back on, slipped into my wedge sandals, and grabbed my blouse. I pulled one of the microfiber dish towels from the kitchen drawer, wet one side of it, and stuffed it in my purse. I finally walked out, topless per rule, to the driveway, and climbed into the car with Amanda.

I could tell she was miffed at the delay, not upset with me, but with Master K for taking so long with me and doing me so late. I was out of breath from rushing around, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

Amanda, driving, said, “You have it on you.”

“Oh, right.” I pulled the towel out of my purse and, with the wet end, wiped my breasts, which had caught droplets of Master’s cum from my mouth. Once they were cleaned, I dried my breasts with the other end of the towel.

Fifteen minutes later, Amanda looked right to change lanes to exit the interstate. In doing so she saw something on me. “You have some more, right in the nook of your neck.” She pointed to her own neck to show me where..

I sighed, pulled out the towel again, and this time, using the visor mirror, wiped my neck, upper chest, between my boobs, under my boobs, and my abdomen — to make sure I was clean before walking into a business meeting.

“He got you everywhere,” she said.

“I couldn’t take it all,” I replied, apologetically.

“I know. It’s OK.”

Normally, she drives us around the back way, down an access road around the back of the office park — all to avoid traffic while I am topless in her car. But this time, because we were running late, she took the direct way.

She pulled into the parking lot, and drove down the back row of parking spaces. Our routine and timing were off, and I had yet to reach for my shirt in the backseat. I did so, but we were parking before I got it on.

My top was a button-down shirt that I kept buttoned except for the top two buttons, so as to allow me to pull it over my head in one motion, quickly. So as I was searching for the bottom of the shirt to climb into, Amanda had already parked in a spot directly facing another car pulling in to the space opposite.

It was Megan. She saw us, and waved at Amanda, then looked over through her windshield at me. She saw my state of undress, my naked boobs, and her eyes opened wide.

I quickly slipped the shirt over my head and pulled it down over me.

We were late for the meeting, and Amanda rushed inside. I followed, passing Megan. She said with a smile, “Looks like quite a morning.”

I replied, walking past her, “You have no idea.”

Our financial advisor was already in the sitting area. Amanda was apologizing to him as I hurried in. He looked at me a little oddly, and I wondered if somehow I still had cum on may face. No — I realized my shirt was on, but disheveled and not entirely buttoned.

I apologized for my lateness too, and followed them into the conference room. Along the way, I managed to tug my shirt down and button my middle and upper buttons. I had no idea what my hair looked like.

I recovered. His first question was why we weren’t locating in Denver’s Tech Center. I said we weren’t catering only to the tech startups, although that’s a big opportunity. My idea, I said, was that we could locate our business office farther west where it would be cheaper, then rent meeting space on a day- or week-basis in various of the business neighborhoods as we needed to.

Despite being in my real estate element, I was fully aware of my slaveness. I was still tasting Master K on my tongue. Because of the rush-rush, I hadn’t had any water or coffee since the mouth cum. (Master K was happy to hear later his man-cum coated my mouth during the meeting.) And then too, I was sitting in a conference room without any underwear, my constant state, barely having donned a top minutes before.

I reminded our advisor that we are a virtual service. Businesses looking for an online solution don’t expect us to have an elegant building. Also, the startups who need what we offer have modest office spaces themselves. They are impressed by our own startup roots. Additionally, I said, Denver is a matrix of under-valued business neighborhoods that we should serve. This approach gave us flexibility.

Mistress had not required me to wear a collar today. I could have handled it, of course, but she knew my presence in the meeting with an outsider would be distracting if I did.

The meeting went well. Another step toward something. At around 11:00 we were done, and Amanda and I walked him out to the lobby. He left.

Walking back, Amanda lifted my skirt and squeezed my ass cheek from behind. “How’s about some coffee?”

My first sip was heaven. We debriefed, and Amanda was very pleased. She was suddenly relaxed and playful, and I wondered if she was going to do something with me. I was feeling a kind of high too, after the ridiculous morning and the good meeting.

But nothing happened. Amanda is in control of herself and properly aware the the needed propriety in the workplace. But I know she wanted to.

It became noon. Amanda had a lunch appointment. I had forgotten to pack a lunch for the day, but I went to the lunchroom where I could get a water.

Megan was there, and we talked. “You don’t have to explain.”

I said, “Thank you.”


This is how yesterday afternoon went:

The three of them sat down for a light lunch of vegetable soup and finger sandwiches. I served the food and made drinks. Master K asked for an Arnold Palmer, and I wondered if he did not drink alcohol at all or was just keeping his head clear for the drive back. Miss Amanda asked for a white wine, pino grigio.

They talked awhile about the D/s community we’re all in, some of the changes going on in the circles. Miss Amanda said at one point, “That’s why we’re so pleased to get Shae. We don’t have the patience or the time for training. We wanted an experienced slave.”

I stood in the corner, occasionally refilling water glasses. Master Michael asked for a whiskey sour.

The conversation was casual, random, relaxed among them. They talked a bit about the Super Bowl and then business. Here I heard about Master K’s construction company — he owns it and is president. (Later I would hear about a startup small business Miss Amanda is involved in.)

One conversation thread was especially memorable to me. Master Michael was talking about the back lot the house sat on, the far woods, and walking me outside. “Unfortunately, we have eight inches of snow on the ground, otherwise I’d take you on a tour of the grounds.”

“Shae,” Miss Amanda asked, turning to me, ”as he walks you outside, are you on a leash?

“Usually. Yes, ma’am.”

“Besides here in back, what experience do you have as a slave in public? Exposure, I mean. Nudity.”

I stepped forward from the corner of the dining room, my hands behind me. “I’ve had experiences in the office park construction area a mile to the east. Sometimes business offices. Rest stops on interstates. Also, Master likes taking me to public parks, so theres been a lot of that.”

“Physically exposing you?”


“How do you feel about being exposed in public?”

“It’s humiliating. In a good way—”

“A submissive feeling.”

“Yes. Bad-good.”

“Humiliating and satisfying.”


“I know,” she said.

It went something like that. It was memorable in substance because it was a connection between the two of us. In it was a small revelation: Miss Amanda herself had had submissive experiences. She understood what I felt. And something else became clear. Mistress A is a switch. I had only been told the two were both dominant. But that would mean they were always bringing in submissives from the outside. More likely, Miss A sometimes submitted to scenes with Master K. So why were they taking me now?

The conversation retired into the great room and its leather chairs and couches. I served another round of drinks, then stepped back into the corner.

Miss Amanda said, “Come here, Shae. Sit on the floor by me.”

I did, at first kneeling, assuming the formal slave position.

“No,” Mistress said. “Casual. Legs to your side. Get comfortable.”

I rearranged myself and the room conversation continued.

Miss Amanda reached down and ran her fingers through my hair. I leaned into her touch. It felt good.

The room conversation continued. It was about me, and again I was in the third person.

“She is fairly low-maintenance,” Master was saying. “But she needs enough time to herself. Writing, processing her experiences.”

“If not, does she get ornery?” Master K asked. “Cop an attitude?”

“No. She gets mechanical. Goes through the motions without engaging them. She can dissociate. Not good for her or anyone.”

“Ah,” he said. And the conversation went on. It was lazy and and sleepy, like the fmaily conversation after a Thanksgiving dinner. Except this was the event of my transfer to this couple as their new slave.

After a while, there was a lull, and Master K addressed me. “Stand and come here.”

I obeyed and stood before him.

“Slave, give me a blow job,” he said.

Oh. OK. It was random, sudden. But I don’t think I hesitated or paused. I figured it was a test of sorts. Or maybe he just wanted a blow job.

Master K slid forward in the chair, undid his belt, open his pants, unzipped, and pulled out his cock. I knelt in front of him, sliding myself between his legs. I reached for it, but he stopped me.

“No. No hands. Just your mouth.”

I nodded, placing my hands behind my back, then leaned forward and slid my mouth over his cock. It is of average length but considerable girth — thick, meaty. It filled my mouth considerably.

The conversation continued as I was doing this, Master K, almost oblivious to my tongue sliding along his shaft, asking Master Michael what chores I was required to do.

Master Michael talked a while, answering.

The talk became a drone in the background. I took my time, doing him slowly. His cock grew hard and I felt veins bulging. I assumed Mistress A was back in her chair watching.
Later In the background Master Michael asked Miss Amanda if she wanted another drink. They went to the wet bar and chatted.

I continued to slide my mouth down and back on Master K’s cock. I looked up, and he had let his head fall back onto the top of the chair. It made me feel, at least, that he was enjoying it.

Master Michael and Miss Amanda returned. There was more conversation.

And then Master K stopped talking, tensed, groaned, and exploded his come into my mouth. I took it all, or what I thought was all. He jerked again. I eventually pulled out from him. I swallowed. But his cock spasmed once more, and it shot like a surprise across my upper lip and cheek and into my hair.

Then Mistress A was handing me a handkerchief. I took it and cleaned Master K’s shaft till it was dry. He pushed his cock back into his pants and zipped up and re-buckled.

“You hadn’t eaten lunch,” he said. “Now you’ve gotten some protein.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Mistress Amanda pulled me to my feet and had me face her. She was smiling in a kind of approval. She took her finger and wiped the shot of come off my lip and cheek. She held her finger in front of my mouth, and I licked it clean. She left her finger in my mouth for a stray moment, and I sucked it. Then she straightened my hair, sliding her fingers through it on either side like a comb.

“I’m a mess,” I said.

She smiled. “You’re beautiful, Shae,” she whispered.

In that moment, I felt a deep relief. Of all my ordeal, one was being acceptable to this couple. Perhaps I was. Maybe I passed the exam. “Thank you,” I said.

Mistress took my face between her hands and pulled me close. She kissed me. And then again, more slowly. I will report honestly that I also was eager, my lips open and willing. She then pulled away, taking my wrists in her hands and placing them on her shoulders, and putting her arms around my waist. We embraced, feeling our breasts pressing tightly through our clothes. Our lips came together again.

After a time, we pulled apart. Miss Amanda turned to Master Michael and giggled. “Can I have her?” she asked, smiling.

Michael nodded, smiling.

I am still trying to understand what all was happening in these moments with her. She was dominant with me, yet it was lustful and passionate. From her and also from me, between us both. And even more. There was something more. I don’t know what.

And then Master K, giving me a mouth-fucking — was that indeed a test? It seemed I passed. Was this a primal thing — him marking his turf with me? Leaving his DNA in my body? The claiming of slave Shae. Or some such thing. I don’t know.

Master Michael often says I think too much. Perhaps. Perhaps it just was what it was.


Tonight I am under new ownership, although it almost didn’t happen.

We had a significant snowstorm last night — flights canceled in Denver and here in the Springs because the intensity of the snowfall was too heavy at times. While it had stopped snowing this morning, it seemed the snow-packed roads would postpone the meeting today. I didn’t know where this couple was coming from, but even for them to get to the Skyway house in Black Forest is a challenge after these kinds of storms.

But as it turned out, roads got cleared, they got to the house late morning, and things happened as planned.

There is much to tell — about the happenings today and then much more about the two who now own me. I won’t have time in this post to cover it all. In fact, I write this on my phone while sitting in the back seat of this couple’s SUV, so my writing is limited. Well, I’m making short notes, reminders of things to expand on later. I hope to have time later tonight when we arrive to polish these notes and post something late.

To get some details out of the way: This couple has given me permission to write about my slavery to them and to name them in my writing. They are open and public about their lifestyle, like so many in the D/s community circles we’re in, and will allow me use their real names. However, I am to keep secret the location of where they live. I can only say they live in Colorado, which is why we’re driving somewhere, not flying.

Also, I need to make it clear the two of them are not married. They’ve lived together for about three years. I find it interesting that their primary point of connection is more their D/s relationship and less of a romantic one, although I will no doubt learn more of their relationship in the days to come. They are together in a way, yet independent, and I will have to navigate that.

So, her name is Amanda. His name is Kevin. I am to address her as Mistress Amanda or Miss Amanda or Mistress A, depending on the situation and context. I am to address him as Master K or Sir K.

They arrived just before noon.

Master Michael had made sure our long driveway got plowed by the hired service in time for their arrival. I spent the morning getting ready — my full routine of bathing, shaving, and moisturizing, then an inordinate amount of time fixing my hair. The air is so dry, and static is everywhere. I was panicking.

So, yes, I was nervous. I wanted to make a good impression on them. Master Michael did too: He had me wear an especially revealing outfit — a short, loose skirt in a pattern of red and orange sworls, and a gauzy stretch top that slightly flattened my breasts and nipples against its sheer nylon panel. Also, he put me in five-inch heels to point my feet and shape my ankles. And of course a collar, my copper metal one, with an O-ring in front. He had thought ahead about the outfit he wanted to present me in, and he’d bought the skirt and top for me to wear for this occasion.

Also, he told me, “light makeup.” And I know exactly what that means — his code for the precise touch, blend, and shades of concealer, foundation, and strategic dabs of blush that don’t hide my freckles and leave me looking natural and casual. I know the look of me he wants. And in this, I started to cry, realizing that this was the inner language Master and I had, which I would no longer have with him — this and all the body care I do every day for his tastes and pleasure.

It has been like this for weeks now, the dread of awaiting my punishment, the melancholy of being let go by Master, and the anxiety of meeting my new owners. All of this merged at about ten a.m. this morning while I was fussing with my hair and doing my makeup. My tears ruined everything.

Master Michael heard my meltdown and came into my room. He stood behind me seated at my vanity, and placed his arms around me. I sobbed. He held me, looking at my face and eyes and tears in the mirror. After some minutes, I quieted, and he said, “Shae, this is a punishment. It is also a test. Make me proud.”

I lifted my eyes to his, our connection through the mirror’s reflection. He was signaling me, as much as he could. He would have me back. Someday. Sometime. I said, “You know I will, Sir.”

He nodded. Walked out. And I somehow pulled it together and put on my face. With freckles shining through.

The doorbell rang, and I was introduced to Mistress Amanda and Master K, who took possession of me this afternoon.

I must confess something here. In my slavery, I am put with — shared with — an assortment of people of different looks and appearances and body types. Real people are not perfect, they don’t look like models, and in fact I think that “imperfection” is more interesting and appealing anyway. So I think I can say honestly that what a person looks like is of no particular importance to me. In fact, what I feel when I’m with someone tends to be about the non-visual attributes of a person — strength, personality, energy, need, urgency, control, and so on.

But, that said, I confess that when thinking about a person (here, a couple) whom I will be serving and submitting to 24/7 for some time to come, I harbor a hope that they will be reasonably attractive. (This sounds so wrong and superficial to say.) But my point is that until this moment at noon today I didn’t know what this couple looked like. They had had pictures of me for some time, and in fact I was told they had seen me at one of the community circles. And anyway, the doms know what we slaves look like, they just do. But I had no idea of their appearance before they walked in.

And as it turned out today, I was surprised, pleasantly so.

Master K is an imposing man. He is massive in the best sense — tall, maybe six-two, with a square, brawny build. Muscular, not as a bodybuilder, but thick, likely from a lifetime of physical work, like a farmer or loader. I learned later he owns a construction company, one he worked for at one time. I think he’s in his late forties. He has salt-and-pepper brown hair, receding a bit, a square jaw, and a faded scar across one cheek. While not perfectly handsome, he has a commanding presence and size, both physically and in demeanor, a natural dominance. Which, of course, is appealing to me.

And Mistress Amanda: darkly beautiful, with long brunette hair that curls and falls over her shoulders, kind of like the way mine does. (I thought, between us we have a lot of hair!) She has wide-set hazel eyes, kind of unusual, but lovely and intriguing. Miss Amanda is slightly taller than me, not sure but perhaps five-nine. I’m guessing she’s close to forty, and though her face is natural and smooth and she looks a bit younger, she has a maturity about her. Or maybe that’s her natural dominance. She’s not overweight, by any means, but fleshy, yes, and top-curvy, filling out her jeans and sweater nicely.

These are first impressions, and as such, they are likely superficial, but this is how I first saw them and felt them. And they were appealing to me, which is not the point or the importance, but it’s how I saw them. A very positive first impression.

Master welcomed them in. I stood by the doorway, feeling the cold sweep in from the outside and roll up my legs and between my thighs under my skirt. The two of them greeted Master and did not speak to me directly, though they eyed me thoroughly. This is protocol.

With Master Michael, they went through the usual chit-chat about weather, the snow, and driving conditions. They sat down in the great room, and I remained standing, to the back and side.

They talked about me in the third person. Not unusual in the slave life, but notable to me in this moment of transition. Three people discussing intimate detail about me, in front of me, as if it were the conversation of adults transferring ownership of a puppy. Some of it was a practical and necessary exchange of information about me, but I knew that the three of them had had extensive conversations among themselves before this, in person and over the phone — so much of this was really a process of putting me in my place, humiliating me, exercising dominant control of me through their verbal third-person objectifications.

I will defer the rest of the story — the afternoon lunch and an unexpected thing and the chemistry that already started between me and Mistress Amanda — to tomorrow, when hopefully I have time to report in full.

(I must add, though, that Miss A is really beautiful in an exotic, mysterious way. And already she has made me comfortable in this.)

The time came for them to leave. With me.

We were all on the front porch, They said goodbye and stepped back. Master attached my leash to the O-ring of my collar, then handed it to them.

I looked at Master Michael with tears in my eyes.

He pulled me into his arms. He whispered, “You’ll be OK.”

I said in a trembly voice, “I know.”


The other day I was called a whore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Karras heard the whole thing.

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

Right. He did that.

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

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

He nodded back with a crusty smile.

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