shae, tired

I’ve been emotionally down today.

I think it’s just that I’m tired or something. It started last evening. This morning Amanda gave me the “day off,” meaning that I could be excused from her business work and she wouldn’t give me any slave things to do for her.

She didn’t have to say that I am “still her slave” — we both know my slavery is what am not what I do.

Amanda made sure I was fully dressed today, “sweatered-up,” possibly fearing I’m coming down with something because she likes to keep me half naked most of the time. Probably a little late for that, but anyway I don’t think people catch colds from being a little cold sometimes in a drafty house.

And now I’m too hot. My breasts need air.

I’m fine. More mentally and emotionally tired, I think. Not even notable enough to write about, except my posts are so often about my slaveness being used and displayed in various happenings, and perhaps I should report on the down days more. Sometimes the slave life isn’t eventful. Sometimes it can be boring.

And sometimes you just have to take a long nap.

thursday night

Thursday night she took possession of me again.

Around seven, she switched into formal with me. Had me refer to her as Mistress. Made me naked in heels and a collar. Ordered me to pour her wine. Told me to stand beside her as she sat and read a book on the couch.

She asked for water, and I brought her a glass. She looked at my nipples, chilled and pointy in the open air, and decided she was cold. I fetched her favorite throw and arranged it around her shoulders.

She took her time reading, letting me become accustomed to my slave nudity in the house, giving space for her formal assumption of dominance to sink into me.

It was perhaps forty-five minutes later that Mistress had me fetch my wrist and ankle cuffs.

She attached me to the wet bar.

It was as I’ve written before: I am bent over, forward, at the bar top, which is the depth of my midriff. My breasts hang over the other side. My legs are spread eighteen inches, my ankle cuffs attached to hooks at the base. My arms are extended the length of the bar, my wrist cuffs hooked at the ends.

Mistress sat on the stool beside me, the bottle of pinot noir and her wine glass between her and my extended body. With one hand she cupped and fondled my ass cheek, at one point slapping it lightly. Her other hand was under me in front, lifting my right breast and squeezing it.

We had talked already about my trip to Kevin’s. But now she queried me again about him, about my servicing him. “Do you prefer doing him while he’s standing or sitting?” she asked.

By asking, she was not interested in him or in the image of him with me. She was wanting to humiliate me by having me recount it intimately. She was watching me virtually in her mind’s eye. She was enjoying my sexual response vicariously as I told her and painted for her the picture of my sex with him.

“Standing,” I replied.

“And why is that?”

“I think you know,” I said.

She slapped my ass hard, and I groaned. “Of course I know. I told you to tell me. Again.”

“Yes, ma’am. With him standing, I can more easily get to his balls underneath.”

“You like sucking his balls, don’t you.”

“Yes, I do. You know I do.”

I felt her hand between my legs. Her fingers touched my open pussy lips from behind. One finger slid between my labia at the mouth of my vagina. I was wet, lots, and that pleased her.

“When you cock-suck him, do you prefer him to be already hard or soft and flaccid?”

I must have sighed. I certainly paused, not wanting to detail my every thought and feeling while giving fellatio to Kevin. Mistress slapped my ass again, this time harder.

“In-between,” I said. “He is usually in-between, semi-hard.”

“And why do you like that?”

“It arouses me to see him excited by me. But I also like how he grows more and grows harder when he’s in my mouth.”

Mistress poured herself another glass of wine. She sipped it, set her glass down on the bar top, and then sat quietly for a while. Her fingers found my pussy again, and she fondled me silently.

Amanda’s phone rang, and she went into the other room to answer it. It was a business call, after hours. She talked for a while, then went to her office to check something on her computer. More phone talk, then they finished.

She walked past me, still bound to the wet bar, and sat down on the couch with a file folder. She took some time reviewing the pages in it.

Later she brought the file to the wet bar and set it on my naked back. She opened it there, and looked at one of the reports as she sipped her wine once again. I know she is emphasizing my irrelevance to her focus and work and life. I am useful because my back is a flat surface for her file fiolder.

In time, while still reading, she fondled my pussy again, playing with me there at some length, making me hot and squirmy.

“Do you want me to make you come?” she said incidentally, the report still in front of her.

“Yes. You know I do.”

“Beg me.”

“Mistress, please let me come.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I felt in back her hand doing something. Then I realized she had the wine bottle there, between my legs, close to my pussy.

“You know you’re a whore, right?”

“Yes. I know.”

“Let me hear you say it.”

I paused, holding back, but just as long as I know I can get away with. “I am a whore.”

I felt the wet rim of the wine bottle press between my pussy lips. I moan.

“Why are you a whore?” she prompted.

“Because I love sucking cock. Because I am yours to have in any way at any time. Because I am available to others for sex.”

“Good answer. Seems you haven’t forgotten your purpose.”

“No, ma’am.”

The lip of the wine bottle pushes into me. I breathe in sharply.

“Do you think Kevin and his friends think of you as a whore?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Probably.”

“Say it out loud.”

“Kevin and his friends think of me as a whore.”

“Of course they do.”

She pulled the wine bottle back, setting it on the bar top.

I sighed, regretfully.

She got off the stool and knelt behind me. I felt her tongue licking my pussy lips. Her tongue slid between them and she lapped at my sex. I moaned, now hopeful for more, much more, but she stood, saying, “A good vintage,” and then walked away, leaving me unfinished.

Later she unshackled me and handed me a glass of wine. “Sit in the easy chair,” she ordered. “Legs open. I like seeing you so slick.”

notes to a slave girl, 3

I had used the word “partner” before. I’d like to say a few things about that.

By the way, it is not a word you should ever use with him, unless he invites it, but there is a truth in it, an understanding of something that can be helpful to you as his slave girl.

So, understand that I mean partnership in a different way than equality.

To be clear, you are not his equal. That is partly the point and pleasure of D/s. Moreover, you are not equal to his friends or colleagues or even passing acquaintances. If it is the nature of things with him that he has lovers, you are not equal with them either. You are kept as his property. It is your place in his life. It is what you agreed to.

Your owner has needs to be fulfilled. Dominant needs — to control you. Sexual needs, perhaps — to use you as a sex thing at his beck and call. Life needs — services for you to do for him. In all of this, you are a container, and he pours his urges and urgencies into you, sometimes literally, for you to sate and satisfy them. It is a partnership of sorts — an unequal partnership in which you provide yourself to attend to his being, and, by using you, he touches your deepest submissive places.

My advice is for you is just this: do not expect him always to define and conduct your slavery. Sure, follow his lead and obey what he has for you to do. But do not think of your slavery as his sole responsibility.

The misconception about D/s is that slaves are to be utterly passive. We are obedient, but that doesn’t mean we’re limp and lifeless. Actually dominants treasure personality and initiative.

So you should be seeking what your slavery should be to him. Find his need in the moment, ask what you can do for him, and offer yourself as a receptacle for whatever he wants to pour into you.

Ultimately what you have is a partnership. Not a partnership of status. But a partnership of use and service and submission.

notes to a slave girl, 1

I think the hardest thing in slave life is accepting you cannot control anything.

Initially when you enter the life, your submissiveness is thrilled, and you relish the order that comes, the restrictions and requirements, all these things that you have longed for in your deep parts.

But there comes a day, maybe the next day, when you wake up and realize you now live under someone’s ownership, that you cannot simply do what you wish to. You serve another. Your day is not your day.

My every morning starts with an outfit of clothing laid out on the bed bench by my mistress. She clothes me every day. It has become an intimacy I cherish, but it is also always the first sobering symbol of my lack of control. I cannot choose the color I feel like today or the skirt I think is cute on me. No, she controls my appearance always.

That becomes the first of a dozen things in my day to come, ways in which I cannot control my own life.

So it will be, or already is, for you. Those things will be different from mine, but, all the same, they will be numerous points of control applied by your master throughout your day. Some of these you will revel in, submissive that you are, but others not so much.

The hard part is not on day one. It’s on, say, day twenty-one or week thirty. You entered this life knowing D/s is not a single session but a relationship done in this different way. But until a submissive lives in it 24/7, she cannot really know the challenge of it day by day. You are experiencing this now.

All of us deep submissives have a need to be controlled and used. But we are also women with other normal human desires to be free. It’s this tension that makes D/s slavery so radical and remarkable. We choose to relinquish our freedoms in order to fulfill our submissiveness.

So what you’re expressing to me is normal. My experience and feelings too. It’s just that the slave life, while usually deeply satisfying to us, is also sometimes deeply hard.

rhythm and blues and time

It’s been an odd rhythm these recent weeks. A strangeness of time. Fast and slow, normal and not, all at once.

I continue to write but not finish, to be a wave rolling in and claiming dry sand, then sliding back, leaving it’s wetness. It’s as if nothing gets done, though there’s movement and churn and foam.

I realize there have been constant tides of change in my life for two years now. Maybe longer, but certainly starting with being taken by Amanda and Kevin, then being claimed by Amanda and moving with her to Denver, then establishing a new life with her. For me, everything has been ocean-surged into a deeper slaveness by training and shaping, all Amanda-infused. All that propelled us into COVID time, which has been a pulling back, the wave receding, leaving me in a virtual quarantine with a woman I love and still don’t really know. I mean, I do, yet I don’t. Which is to say she is confounding and mercurial and wonderful and mysterious.

But this is not about her and me and pussy licks and sensual bathing and the ways she delights in showing my boobs and sex publicly. It is about change and stasis, a rollercoaster of a life.

All of it swings and swirls into the weeks I’ve just lived, weeks of quiet-yet-busy, times of nothing then exposure and sex.

Words have been slow to come.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve said everything. Nothing is new. What more to write about? Maybe I feel it’s like my boyfriend of several years has gotten tired of me in bed. You who read me, watchers and followers, are that boyfriend — though adjust the gender as you wish. As you know, I’m flexible.

My writing blues are not a sudden shyness about revealing myself. I don’t mind writing about my body, my exposures, people having sex with me. Sharing my feminine xxx with everyone in words is what I am given to do, of course, what I am joyed for, readers and followers and watchers, my boyfriend in print. Yes, I like sharing myself with you, but you must be tired of me.

I believe the sex people have with me is always different from this time to that, every time I am fucked has a unique feeling. I try to capture those experiences and feelings in my writing. It isn’t always the same.

And yet it is somehow.

I suppose the new thing is my public exposures. She is making me into a public slave, but even as I say that, I know I’ve said that many times before. Even though I’m at the mere beginning of what she has planned for me, this feels already old in my tellings.

But, yes, there are new experiences. Sundays, sitting topless in the living room with our neighbor friends, the Millers. One Saturday morning, a reprise of events with the landscaping crew. Last week, giving blowjob to a stranger on our patio.

But as outrageous as the public scene is, there is a sameness to it as well. She is exposing me sexually in public ways. There is a shock in that, then a prurient curiosity, then a lust for me as people watch. Whatever my exposure is, it’s always that same pattern, those same three chords playing the blues.

My blues are not sadnesses. They are more frustrations from not “feeling it” when it comes to writing. They are probably disinclinations to write the words that are hard to come by, reluctance to do the hard work of plumbing the depths of what really matters.

I just feel caught in the rhythm of the blues, and I’m waiting for the saxophone to solo and soar.

It’s a strangeness of time. Fast and slow, normal and not, all at once.

pleased to meet you

For those who are new to me…

My name is Shae Madigan. I am a submissive, owned by a dominant woman, Amanda.

I have lived in lifestyle submission for about five years, most of that 24/7 — first to a dominant man, Michael, and now to Amanda for the last two years. This has been consensual sexual slavery, a relationship of dominance and submission, what is known as D/s.

I am in my mid-thirties. I have a college education with a degree in literature, and I love to write. in my twenties I sold real estate before pursuing the submissive life that I live in now. I have red hair, a fair complexion with freckles, am five-seven, and have curves some seem to enjoy. On any particular day here at the house you would likely find me half naked and in high heels — kept that way by Amanda, which is her pleasure, and which is how I am now as I write this — bare-breasted and well-heeled at a keyboard. In some ways, that image is the story of my life.

Being submissive is a lot of things, but primarily it’s a longing to be under someone else’s authority, to serve someone’s needs, and to obey another’s desires. It often involves forms of degradation, objectification, and sexualization — all of which are complicated and contradictory parts of submissive experience, delivering both humiliation and pleasure at the same time.

If you were to ask me if I like being submissive, I would give you an answer hours long. I do, but it’s not that simple.

I believe I have been submissive all my life, although I was unaware of it in myself in my early years and didn’t wake up to it until my late twenties. Even though I was late to the party, my submissiveness, I have discovered, is big and profound and extreme in me. That propels me to live this way as a sex slave.

These things, played out in my daily life, are what I write about in this blog.

I often write explicitly about my sexual experiences and how I am used sexually by others, but my primary goal in writing is to capture my experience of obedient submission, of being used, of being shared with others, and the emotions and relational feelings and meanings embodied in it.

Welcome to my world.


update and mom

I’ve been away from blog-writing for a while due to a sudden health issue that faced my mother in Pennsylvania. With Amanda’s blessing, I went to visit Mom for much of this past week. For a day and a night, it looked to be cancer, but after a number of hospital tests, it turned out to be just a scare not a reality, thank God. Mom has another condition she needs to attend to, but it’s not cancer and not dire, very treatable with medication. We are relieved.

Despite all the freakish drama of this, it was good for me to have time again with Mom. It was almost a year ago that I came out to her about my relationship with Amanda and also my lifestyle in D/s. I blog-posted this and won’t go through that again now, but suffice it to say she surprised me with her openness and acceptance.

This time, after the worry part, we had time to talk normal, and eventually mom got around to asking a few questions about my lifestyle. She is ever curious. She was asking this time about “how I got this way.”

This kind of question has come up recently from other people too: In an email trail with Jeremy, my former university colleague who recently found my blog. And from our progressive-minded neighbors, John and Patricia, with whom I sat topless during my public weekend as they served tea and scones in their living room. There are variations: “How did you come to want this life?” and “What do you think has made you submissive?” No one is asking judgmentally, but out of curiosity, so it feels friendly to me, and much of it goes to the nature or nurture debate that swirls around so many things.

Coming from mother, the question of “how I got this way” is not artfully posed but also not accusing or shaming in how she asks it. I know, as it comes out the question is more about her — did she make me this way? Is that a problem or is it OK?

We talked, and I assured her. “I don’t want to be anything other than what I am, Mom.”

Mother is funny in that, for a Baptist woman, she is surprisingly open to alternative preferences and practices, such as her daughter lives them, and yet she is quite naive about what this all is. Her sense of me is that I’m “sometimes” a lesbian. Her notion of bisexuality, so I learned, is really heterosexuality that’s just a bit wavering and undecided. In her view, I’m sometimes a lesbian and lesbians tend to get into that “BDSM stuff.” Sigh.

We talk, and I make efforts to clarify these things, to say that my bisexuality is deeply committed not wavering, and that I am both fully attracted to women and fully attracted to men. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t quite get this.

That’s OK. I am blessed that Mom is open and accepting and that we can talk about such things.

And that, for now, she is physically OK.

One more thing:

For mother, the foundational thing about people is their sexual orientation. Thankfully and surprisingly, she’s gotten to a place where she’s not judgmental about that, but sexual orientation is still, for her, the primary thing about a person. It matters to her, like it’s some sort of compass that gives her bearings about folks.

As I was talking with her, I realized that for me sexual orientation is one of the least important things about people. It is what it is. One hopes it is about attraction and smiles and love and erotic play and sexual pleasure and joy in being together — whatever the gender or orientation. One’s type of sexuality just doesn’t matter much.

Mother and I are so different.

Her question about how I got this way is then more about how I am a “sometimes lesbian” than about how I am a submissive. I’d hoped to be able to explain to her better what submissiveness was and wasn’t, how two women could live as domme and submissive, relationally without chains and shackles and “BDSM stuff.” You know, that “BDSM is not D/s discussion.” But we never quite got to that point in our conversations.

When I got home, Amanda tied me naked to the wet bar for the evening, with chains and shackles and all that “BDSM stuff.”

So what do I know?

the semi-naked life

This week she has kept me undressed from the waist down. Not every moment, but the better part of most of our days.

We continue to “office” from home. I bring to her folders and printed reports, walking into her study in high heels and naked below, my pussy shaven and white and smooth, my labia protruding, extended. Sometimes she gazes at me in her special lesbian domme lust. Other times she seems to pay no mind, as if this is how it’s supposed to be for her assistant in business.

Both are true in her wish list. She would like to have me partially undressed every hour of my life. She wants people to look at me with lust. Also pity, perhaps, for a girl whose life is this. And maybe judgment as well, although I think Amanda believes in a world that does not look down on a slave girl, and readily accepts her for what she is, for the beauty and pleasure she provides.
Yet there’s no question she savors my being judged and thrills at my feeling the real world’s shame.

This has been in the house, of course, but she wants it public. She’s teased that notion by having me in Zoom meetings this week, seated at my desk on video that shows me only from the waist up, though I am skirt-less below, my thighs together forming a crease leading up to my pussy crease. I am public though that public doesn’t know.

She wants the world to work a different way so that she can take me, pussy bared, to the mall. To an outdoor cafe, where I would have to be specially worried about spilling hot coffee. To the gas station, for me to get out of the car and grab a phallic hose and pump gas. To the drug store to buy tampons. Her visual jokes. Her private wishes becoming public. Her lust being shared by others.

But this is unfulfilled, because for all of her dominant power, she can’t make the world accept me semi-naked, either top or bottom.

I pretend I am not affected, that being exposed does not arouse me. Though it’s obviously otherwise. She gazes at my swollen desire. I am ruddy pink and puffy. There is no hiding.


“You’re insatiable,” Amanda says to me after I beg her for more.

“Well, you made me this way.”

“That’s what you think?”

“I used to be a virgin,” I say, knowing immediately how silly that sounds.

“Everyone used to be a virgin.”

“You know what I mean,” I insist. “I had a normal appetite for sex once. I was never this craven and wanton. You’ve conditioned me this way.”

“No, you’ve got it wrong. You were always this way. You were just sexually repressed before.”

“And you think you got me past my repression.”


“And so, in your theory, I am truly, and always have been, craven and wanton and insatiable?”

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s no theory, it’s true.”

I shake my head, but with a slight smile. “Glad you think so highly of me.”

“See, this is what makes you so cute when I display you to others. You appear shy and embarrassed and innocent, yet you are so wanting it.”

Again I shake my head. “I dispute your theory,” I say, holding back a grin.

She laughs. “It’s obvious to everyone you are sexually insatiable. You just hide it well.”

“Like maybe could we keep ‘everyone’ out of it for now? You say it like I’m on global TV. Besides, I don’t deny that I am. I just dispute how I got this way.”

“Why does it matter how?” she says

“I don’t know. It does.”

“You don’t want the moral responsibility.”

“Something like that.”

“OK,” she says. “So, what do you want your story to be? That you were a good, Baptist girl, chaste and pure, a virgin, who—”

“Well, let’s not make it totally unbelievable,” I say, laughing now.

“—forced into a life of promiscuity and conditioned to constantly desire unbridled sex. Does that sound better?”

I have no words.

Amanda is laughing. “By the way, is it unbridled sex? Or have you at some point actually worn a bridle while having sex? That would be fun to see.”

“Oh, god.”


Her fingers trace the folds of my labia in random patterns that lightly grace my sex, and it feels like something between a tickle and a spark, an arousal that makes me want to laugh and moan at the same time.

She lies alongside me, her head resting on my right breast like a pillow, looking down the length of my body, beyond my hills to the smooth vale below, where she continues to circle and trace and caress my landscape.

It is one of those times when we are nearly one, and there is no difference, and she slides into me, into my arousal of tickles and sparks.

There was a time when I was afraid of this, her coming into me in the quiet of our bed, as if I would lose myself and drift off into some outer space. But to her, so I eventually realized, owning a woman is far more than collars and commands, or parading her Shae in front of sweaty yard men, or making me do unspeakable things. Those are merely symbols of her ownership, proof of my submissive worship, the evidence of things unseen. I became aware she required yet more and other from me — a different kind of possession.

So, in some other time ago, in the sacred cosmos of our bed, I chose not to resist, spreading my legs for her, but not just for her flesh to enter mine. At that time and other times since, I’ve made myself open, inviting her inside, and she has slipped into this woman she owns, coming into me in a different intercourse.

And now we are there again. Her fingers continue their slow trace of my pussy lips, as if it’s an intricate code, a tracing of my life journey into now, a secret finger pattern that opens me and blends us.

“You could keep doing that,” I whisper. Although I’m not sure I actually spoke it. Perhaps I merely thought it.

She laughs breathily, as if she heard.