Kevin-bonding

Amanda and I have had a couple of conversations about Kevin. This has been prompted by one of the items on my “do and be” list in which I expressed my desire to be with him again. Our lists aren’t supposed to be wishful thinking, and Kevin is precisely that for me, so I expected Amanda to say so. But she didn’t.

What ultimately ended things with Kevin more than a year ago was his involvement with a woman friend, a relationship that became quite serious. I wrote about them here and also here.

For newer followers, I should probably explain that several years ago Amanda and Kevin jointly owned me as their slave; later I was gifted to Kevin as an escort of sorts. Kevin was never “mine” in a romantic sense and I was happy for him to have found a romantic someone other. (OK, yes, I was a little jealous.)

My understanding is that they got engaged to be married, then sometime last year broke it off, yet still are seeing each other. I don’t know what that means or what their current status is.


My inclusion of Kevin on my list has nothing to do with his status or that relationship with his woman friend. I didn’t intend my list entry to be “practical” or actionable. Or maybe I did, kinda, sorta. But I don’t consider him available to me, and it’s not like that for me anyway— that is, to be angling for him. Not my place to even think that way. Besides, I’m a sub-slave with her hands and other parts full (if I were not the one unavailable in Pennsylvania). I told Amanda I didn’t expect something to be done, but just needed to acknowledge on my list that I think of Kevin often and I miss him in a D/s kind of way.

Well, Amanda and I talked about Kevin. And, in the process our conversation became about something more.


I have never been able to express adequately how I become bonded to dominant men. This bond is not a romantic emotion, nor is it purely a sexual desire. The best I can express it is as an emotional yearning and a poignant body-memory that makes me long for how I was once done by a man who possessed me.

I do not believe that dominant men feel the same bonding with me, and I don’t expect they should. I really don’t consider myself to be a dom’s “significant other” — I know I really am not. A dom possibly has other submissives and certainly has other non-sub women whom he might romantically attach to. So my bonding, my emotional yearning for a man’s particular dominance of me, is one-way, not reciprocated. I accept that what I feel for any of my doms is one-sided and appropriately unrequited. A slave yearns and a dom uses — it’s as it should be, and I have no complaints about that.

But what no one tells you is that you still are bonded to him and feel this bonding long after it’s over. You carry this longing in your body as if he impregnated you with it and left town.

I think the gist of it is that when you’ve been taken by a dominant man, used by him, and made to serve him beyond your personal dignity, something happens inside you, a kind of emotional alchemy. Being defiled by a man is a profoundly intimate experience, more and other than sex with him. It’s his uncovering of your worst possibilities. It’s his disrobing the shames you will commit for him because of your deep submissive need. It’s his awareness of not only the extremes you have done but also the further disgraces you will do because you’re submissively insatiable.

His knowing you this way changes you. Bonds you to him. Later, in absentia, you find yourself craving the man who has transformed you into the slut you are.


In the sequence of my slaveries, I became bonded to my first owner, Michael, then to Kevin, and now to Master McKenna. They each have watched my desperate submissiveness, led me into degradation, and observed me undressing my dignity before them. They each have enjoyed my struggle for respectability in the midst of my depravity.

You see, any deep D/s experience goes beyond leashes and collars and somehow touches your soul. We think of carnality — the sins of the flesh — on the opposite end of a straight line from the spiritual purity of godliness. Polar opposites. But I have come to think that they actually follow along the line of a circle and ultimately the two ends meet.

This is perhaps the uniqueness of my bond with Kevin. He had a physicality to him that quietly became a spirituality. He had a way of reducing me to carnal, throbbing flesh while making it touch the spiritual in me.


Kevin’s dominant style with me always had a visceral physicality. A former construction worker, he maintained a kind of body strength even in his executive roles. It wasn’t just brute strength but also the know-how of leveraging weights and balancing loads and moving masses of supplies from one place to another. Kevin could lift me easily and deftly splat me down onto a padded bondage horse. I was all wobbly breasts and fleshy thighs but may as well have been a load of lumber. He wouldn’t lay me gently down but drop me, knowing precisely the load that was me, how far I would fall without injury, how my breasts would thud into the leather and my naked thighs smack onto the pads. This manhandling of me was one of his unique signatures and took my breath away, literally and figuratively.

But it’s more of course, and on to my point — my experience with Kevin was also spiritual. I wrote about times with him in his garage as he tinkered with his truck. He’d have me half naked on a stool in the garage with him. He wouldn’t speak, there was silence, and I was just a quiet sexual presence in his space. I knew he loved his truck more than me; he used us both. His tinkering with his Ford was a kind of worship of its craftsmanship, and I found a similar spirituality in being the object of his sexual dominance.

Kevin, of course, trained me to provide him blowjobs on demand, impromptu, and I was used by him at home and in his truck constantly over a period of months. He made me into a cock-slut, one of those “worst possibilities” about yourself that you’d never know unless a man made you. Most often, my blowjob of him was in the morning early, before he went to work. For him, I was regular, like his morning shave, and just as mundane, which I loved. For me, this became a moment of quiet devotion, as spiritual as meditation, perhaps deepened and enhanced because I could not speak — my mouth was so occupied.


And then, of course, there was the special experience of bound sex with him. Kevin would tie me bent over the leather horse, face and breasts flatted down. His ties were tight — my arms, legs, torso belted snug to the horse. My legs straddled the round of the horse at the end, and my ass extended just past the edge, making my pussy and anus open and available to him. He used both, entering and exiting me at will.

Bound sex is a unique experience with any dominant, as it makes you incapable of anything except to be used. I am there, of course, out of my own consent, but once in it, nothing is really consensual. There are safe words and signals, but I don’t use them even though at times I wonder if I want to. Part of the extraordinary experience of bound sex is this ambiguity, just as a man is entering you with himself.

Kevin was quiet in these times, and words were distracting to him. He sometimes ballgagged me for that reason, taking away one of my attributes. His business was to use my body, apart from meaning and sensibility. He liked that, over time, my ballgag would generate much saliva from my mouth, which would pool thickly around my face pressed against the leather of the horse. It was a further reduction of me to the functions of my body. I became pure flesh, used.

In bondage sex, everything you feel is magnified, doubled or tripled because you cannot do anything other, choose anything other, feel anything other. Kevin would push his fat cock into me, and it would be violating and glorious at the same time. His firm restraints so tightly binding me, tamped down the spasms of my orgasm, not repressing it but extending my shudders longer, making my ecstasy a novel instead of a short story.

With Kevin, at a point, the intensities of the flesh become a spiritual nirvana. The circle of flesh and soul completes. After, he’d leave me there used and dripping, in solemn repose, like a penitent remaining long after the mass has ended.


Amanda and I talked about all this, about Kevin being this way for me, about the nature of my bonding to him. It wasn’t a new conversation for us — she knows how he has imprinted me like with a tattoo — yet in the discussion new things came out.

I don’t think she knew my bonding to him had persisted so strongly more than a year later. I don’t think she understood before this how everyone I am shared with submissively has this potential of bonding me to them. (This got into our “do and be” list items regarding polyamory and her future sharing of me… but more on that in other posts.) The take-home point was that I am affected by everyone I am used by to any significant extent. A year later, I am still so bonded to them.

Regarding Kevin, there is not much Amanda can do. I told her again I didn’t expect her to. It has to be his call, his desire, to pull me back into him. And even then there are logistics. Even were I to be in Colorado, he lives some five hours away from us. Amanda might be willing now to share me with him once again, but that takes a lot of time out of my schedule. Meanwhile, Amanda is wishing to do more with the “neighborhood at hand.”

And so, anything more with Kevin isn’t likely. Which makes me sad.


In D/s, we sometimes make the mistake of seeing leashes and collars and all the rest as the actual thing. In fact, they are mere symbols of the inner reality. I am bound to someone internally by need and conditioning and the event of being taken, and my collar symbolizes it.

Kevin has bound me to him, an internal collar that he’s locked shut. And he’s walked away with the key.

I will always wear him.

we went shopping

There is a limit to how much “Christmas niceness” Amanda can bear, it seems. To be fair, she genuinely enjoys my mom and is happy being with us during the season of good cheer. She is less taken with the religious aspects of Christmas that I still hold on to, but she appreciates they are important to mom and me and respects them as family traditions. But at the end of several days of joy to the world, it seems Amanda needs to push it all away as if it were too many Christmas cookies.

Today Amanda announced she and I were going shopping for the day. She dressed me in nothing but my winter wool coat and high heels. And a collar, of course. I spent the day in public places while naked underneath.

It’s been a while since she’s done this to/with me. As you may recall, she used to take me hiking in the Colorado mountains, rendering me in various degrees of undress. She has conducted public park adventures with me topless, and had me work in her downtown office (when she had one) for an afternoon as I was perkily bare-breasted. But COVID hit and somehow limited her options for public display of me. (I never understood that — it seems during COVID when no one was walking the parks would be the perfect time to walk me half-nude on a leash.) And then my Pennsylvania events took me away from her for a time.

In any case, she is here now and felt she needed to undermine my peaceful holiday with a day of ever-possible sexual embarrassment.


The coat I wear is of a soft wool that doesn’t unduly scratch my bare skin underneath. It’s in cream white, short in length, coming down to a couple inches above my knees. This would be stylish atop a pair of tight jeans or even dressy with a skirt hem peeking out from below, but without either I look like a big snowball with legs.

It’s a wrap coat, and though it has buttons, Amanda doesn’t use them, instead cinching the coat tight around my waist with the tie. It has a deep V front that makes me self-conscious. I tend to try to tug the lapels closed, and Amanda says “Stop doing that.” I obey and say nothing — it’s an old dialogue, well-worn: “People will see my boobs”; “That’s the point”; “There are children”; “They’re used to them”; “There are men”; “Yes.” We don’t have to repeat my litany of self-consciousness — we well remember how this conversation goes.

Actually, the people group whose judgments I am most sensitive to I never mention: other women who wonder why a whore in white is shopping in the mall on a Tuesday morning.


This is one of those days when “nothing happened” but anything could have, which is the real story.

One of her long-considered plans for me has been to have me approach a strange man in a mall and offer him a blow job. In fact, Amanda has had me prepare “practice scenarios” for this, mostly introductions and dialogues that convince a stranger I am an ordinary woman out shopping who wants this sort of adventure. The trick, I find, is in the segue from talking about the weather to proposing a brazen sexual act. If it weren’t so serious a possibility, it would be the fount of much humor: “Speaking of sunny skies, I could brighten your day considerably…”

I have never practiced these on a human of the male persuasion, although Amanda has had her fun hearing them. She likes arguing with me the hypothetical of whether I am more of a slut if I give a man a blowjob for free or if I ask for money.

All of this is brain-play, her mental dominance of me, erotically playful but short of a more intense mind-fuck. Still, all this goes through my mind as I walk the mall in my wool coat. I see men alone, think about their lives and wives, and wonder if Amanda’s greatest rush here would be in using me or in allowing them to use me.

The mall is packed, filled with families, and I look like a walking snow globe — all reasons this will not happen today.

Even so, I know Amanda loves being here with me in the possibility of such a scene, knowing I am thinking about it and imagining ways in which it might go down.

So to speak.


Early in the shopping day, Amanda finds a corner off a service hallway, and pushes me against the wall. She opens my coat and palms my breasts. I worry that a mall worker will walk by, but I stand docile and receptive. Amanda reaches into her handbag and pulls out a Ziploc containing something. Inside are two weights on chains. She hooks each one onto each of my nipple rings. They don’t hurt, but I feel their weight, and they make my nipples extend and droop. She closes my coat, and we continue shopping.

Later, Amanda has me try on dresses in Macy’s, not to buy me one but to get me out of my coat in the dressing room. There’s a moment when she knocks on the door of the cubicle, and I open it, thinking she’s the only one in the entryway. But there’s a woman standing behind her, likewise waiting on a friend or sister in another cubicle. It’s, of course, a place for women in underwear, but I am not wearing any, and this woman gets in a full stare, slightly surprised by my flesh and, no doubt, the weights dangling from my nipples.

Early afternoon, Amanda steers me to the rest room, the one in Macy’s which is less popular, it seems. There, she takes my coat and I walk into the stall naked. It is then I realize that Amanda could walk out of the rest room, my coat in hand — indeed walk out of the mall entirely. She doesn’t, but later admits she thought about it.

We do some real shopping as well, shoes for Amanda and a sweater for me, residual Christmas gifts from each of us to each of us. We have coffee at a Starbucks and a soft pretzel at Auntie Anne’s. We sit at the fountain in the center of the mall and talk about what life might be like this next year. It’s all rather normal and fun and lovely.


In the car about to go home, Amanda opens my coat and arranges it to show my flesh and mounds and weighted nipples. She drives home via the Interstate, looking for a driver of a big rig she can pull up alongside, showing me off. She finds not one but two, the second tooting his foghorn to my utter embarrassment. I look away but do not turn away, allowing them their looks.

Amanda is the yin-yang of naughty and nice, and in the surfeit of Christmas sweetness, she finds her balance by offering me to the wolves.


But by the end of things, nothing actually happened. All day, she kept me in her control, in sexual tension in public, which is her deep pleasure. But there were no events and nothing actually happened.

At night, before sleep, I write in my journal: “We went shopping.”

begging McKenna

I’m back with Amanda now, but there is more to report regarding my week with Master McKenna… This is a conversation I had with him that was half serious and half baiting. Perhaps it’s of some interest…


It was early in the week, and Master started talking about putting a bed in the Great Room.

The Great Room, I might remind people, is the majestic center-space of the mansion. I think it may have once been a ballroom back in the day. Master McKenna has informally sectioned it off into quadrants by area rugs and furniture, though it remains one single, open space. This is where he holds board meetings and non-profit groups (and dom retreats). It’s also where he does his daily business — and /much of his D/s business with me.

I was taking notes for a report he needed to get out. I was reasonably dressed, although with heavy chains wrapped (as I reported before) barber-pole fashion around my legs and arms.

He was talking business, giving me directions for this report — and then he stopped. He stood, looked around the Great Room, and out of the blue, said, “I want to put a bed in here.”

He looked across at one of the four quadrants. It’s the one that is less used on a daily and weekly basis. When a group comes in, tables are set up in that corner for registration, coffee/tea, and snacks. Otherwise, it’s vacant.

“May, I sir, ask a question?” Early in my slavery to him, he told me he never wanted to prevent me from having opinions. “You have an interesting mind,” he said, “and I don’t want to discourage you from ideas and perspectives. I just like controlling if, when, and how you express them.” That got written down in my journal, one of a number of “McKenna Quotes.”

He nodded toward me. I proceeded, “A bed doesn’t seem to fit the room, so I have to ask why you feel you want one here.”

“It gives me another way to have you during the day.”

Of course, this was what I was afraid of. The Great Room is very public, with four entrances and floor-to-ceiling windows on each of its ends. Already people barge in on his dominations of me or otherwise witness them through glass from the outside. I replied, “You have the half-moon bed upstairs for when you have me.”

“Yes, but that’s not convenient during the days.”

“You’re busy with work during the days,” I said, feebly protesting.

“Yes, but there are breaks. Sometimes I wish to use you and don’t because getting you all the way upstairs in the bed there is too much trouble.”

“I know quite a few men who wouldn’t mind the slight extra effort to get me into bed.” It was sarcastic, I know. Clever with words I am. It just got blurted out. Sometimes he takes my sarcasm, sometimes not.

He took it from me this time, grinned, and doubled down: “I too have a list of men who have asked about you. The bedroom upstairs is too small for all of them.”

Touché. I knew that in a way he was baiting me with this, but he still seemed quite resolved to put a bed in the Great Room, like for real.

“What I have in mind,” he went on, “is a small four-poster in the middle of the area rug, accessible from all sides.” Master sipped his coffee, obviously to effect a dramatic pause. “I like the image of shackles hanging from the four posts while you are walking around wrapped in chains like you are now.”

He wants it to look like I am made “to go with” the bed, ready to be shackled into it, the bed itself somehow incomplete without me in it. It would be a public visual humiliation.

“You’re a dangerous man,” I said, “when I’m away for so long. You dream up things.”

He seemed quite pleased with himself.


He was giving me plenty of rope with which to hang myself, so I tried another tack: “It just seems less than professional a look for you in an otherwise elegant room.” In saying this, I admit to plagiarizing Amanda, as this might be the kind of decor-sensitive thing she’d say.

He replied, “I have someone who says this can be done well. It’ll work as a quirky idea done grandly.”

By quirky, he really means “unconventional,” which is his stock in trade. He majors in “different.” I honestly felt this bed idea crossed the line from unconventional into weird, yet he and I both knew my objection had nothing to do with interior decorating.

I fell into silence, though it wasn’t yet a silence of full submission. He turned back to the business at hand. l resumed note-taking.

A few minutes later, I blurted out, “I don’t suppose it would do any good for me to beg you not to do this bed thing.”

It was a faux pas, interrupting him — and also in my reducing his bold, grand, creative brainstorm into a mere “bed thing.”

Master McKenna looked at me with some annoyance yet seemed to enjoy my distress. “Begging,” he said in his familiar, professorial tone, “calls for either mercy or a bargain.” He went on to say he didn’t feel merciful toward me in this. “I don’t have reason to spare you this humiliation.”

He said nothing more, seeming to leave open the possibility of “bargain.”

I pressed forward: “So I then would beg you not to do this in exchange for my doing something for you.”

We both knew this was always the slave’s dilemma: once you submissively give your body and sex to your master, there is nothing else to bargain with. He owned me, and there’s nothing I could offer him that he couldn’t already command. Yet he seemed to be leaving it to me to try.

“I would endure an ass-whipping from you,” I offered, “to the extend of you drawing blood. I wouldn’t be able to sit down for days.”

“I don’t enjoy making you bleed,” he said. “Amanda wouldn’t be happy if I left scars on you. Besides, the bed is a sexual device and image. What you grant me should be in kind — sex.”

I found myself negotiating with an empty hand. “I already suck your cock,” I said.

“Yes, you are a frequent receptacle.”

I raised my eyes at that, even as I blushed. Unnecessarily objectifying. Nice. Not.

He went on: “But maybe you could service someone else.”

I don’t want to ask who he has in mind. Of course I have assumed he has always had the authority to command me to be used sexually by someone else, although I’m never quite sure what proxy Amanda has granted him. Also, I wasn’t sure how serious or real this begging negotiation was.

But Master McKenna seemed to be enjoying the process. “Galli might be interested,” he said.

Saying “might be” meant Galli was interested and had already asked for me in that way. Not that the thought of being on my knees before Mr. Galli was so abhorrent, but suddenly I felt squeamish, like I was whoring myself out, which I was, and I wanted to back out of my begging.

I thought to clarify one final thing: “If I did so, that would take the bed thing off the table?”

Master McKenna laughed. “Not for all time. But it would delay the bed installation… a while.”

I shook my head. “I’ll think about it,” I said, as if it was really a choice I actually had. I realized that in any case he would put a bed in there if he was really serious about it. He would also have me suck Mr. Galli’s cock, if he wished me to. It was never one or the other.

He just liked hearing me beg.


Throughout the day, the “bed thing” continue to trouble me. My slavery to Master was already quite public, my body often exposed in bits and parts to others randomly wandering in. The Great Room already felt to me like a huge auditorium on whose stage I was sexually humiliated.

But there was something about the small bedroom upstairs, the half-moon bed, and Master McKenna’s private bondage sex with me. Perhaps I liked thinking it was our personal space, an intimacy I had with him that I alone could possess.

Was he really serious about putting a bed in the middle of the auditorium? A public stage for his sexual humiliation of me?

I admit to becoming a bit obsessed with this. And that’s why in the hours that followed, I went through a bit of a brain glitch.

Later that afternoon, I presented Master an alternative suggestion: “Maybe,” I said, “you could consider a cage instead.”

I should never have brought this up, but I described for him my constant yearning for being caged, my preference for a vertical cage, and Amanda’s feng shui objection to it in her home. But perhaps it could work somewhere in the mansion.

Of course, a human cage was no less weird or inelegant than a sex bed. But for some reason it feels different to me, or perhaps it’s just that I have a specific submissive attraction to being caged sometimes. It was, in the moment to my mind, a good substitute.

Master liked the idea. Quite a lot. I felt I was out of the woods on the bed thing.

Until he said, “I think we can do that. A cage. And a bed. Both.”

Geez.

McKenna 3

The problem writing about my time with Master McKenna is that much of it is uneventful. I follow him around as he runs his businesses from the mansion. He has something for me to type, reports for me to assemble in binders, copies for me to make.

But while he is all business during his days, he keeps me dressed as I’ve described, in outfits that are professional yet exposing, corporately fashionable yet improper — though still somehow appropriate to what we both are. He speaks to me about the formatting of a report as my breasts irrepressibly push out naked from behind my blazer, and he makes no mention of them nor offers any leering look — this is as I am to be to him, so we both know and accept.

Master McKenna does not have a work mode and then separately a play mode. It is all organically one. For him, work is fun and play is meaningful — both are pleasurable. And both are serious to him, although his intensity is leavened by doses of his wry humor, which he applies to his VPs and me in equal measure.

I am not his “other life” nor am I his sexual diversion. I am incorporated (and I use that word intentionally) into the one life he lives and into the singular man he is. In a way, I have a job description which includes clerical duties alongside slavish obedience and random acts of sexual submission.

In this, I am aware I am a projection of his personality. It’s a hologram space in his life for a woman of elegance and dignity whom he can strip and debase. He somehow needs this. The gravity of his dominant planet somehow predicts the presence of a moon orbiting him. I happen currently to be his moon, silently, submissively revolving around him.

I say this not to suggest my specialness to him. Quite the opposite. If not me, he would fill his hologram space with someone else.

If I find any self-satisfaction, it’s that after all these months away, he has me back. Seems he likes me. If I were to ask him directly, he’d probably say with a wry grin it’s only because of my tits, but I’d like to think it’s because I fit him, both as his girl Friday and his girl in chains.

So when I say these days are relatively uneventful, a lot of D/s is actually happening — just internally, relationally, in the spaces between him and me. It’s a different kind of intercourse in which I increasingly align with the holographic image of a woman he possesses.

McKenna 2

It has been a mix of familiar and new.

He gave me most of the first day for me to acclimate, but I hardly needed it. I slipped easily into his thrumming schedule and personal rhythm, despite the months I’ve been away from him.

He has not changed his normal work routines for my time here. He continues to run his businesses as always, not taking “vacation time” to attend to me. I am in the background, which feels right to me, a proper measure of my unimportance.

Yet, I am a kind of personal assistant, always tethered to him, as if by an invisible chain.


And that’s the new thing — chains. Not invisible, but real steel.

As I reported in my last post, he has dressed me in heavy chains wrapped around my ankles and wrists. With me in a properly professional skirt and blazer, these chains could be a kind of socially aware fashion statement, about a career girl Friday being overworked and undervalued in the corporate office. But, of course, everyone here knows otherwise — that I wear these chains because I am what I am, with observers filling in their idea of the “I am” part.

Six hours into my stay here, Master had me remove my blouse and re-don my blazer, allowing my breasts to wobble to and fro as I work. Subsequently, he had me wrap around my neck a length of heavy chain link — literally tow chain — like a necklace, with a “pendant,” a giant Yale lock, dangling between my breasts. (I was told that Master had Jeffers procure these chains and cut them to specified lengths.)

It has made me wonder if in my absence Master spends time thinking up these things. It’s hubris of me to imagine he thinks of me that much, but I still wonder how much creative thinking he puts into it, where these ideas come from. I would ask, but there’s something better about things just being assumed and, in this case, worn, without question. I know he likes that I just submit to the chains as if this is how a woman like me should be.

Amanda was here the first evening and commented on my chains. “I had nothing to do with this,” she claimed, sporting a too-pleased grin.


I have worn them pretty much from the moment I arrived. He has me in them around the clock, and I am allowed to take them off only when I shower. I wonder if his intention is to inure me to them so that I ultimately assume them to be part of my body. Maybe like piercings or tattoos.

Maria asked me how they feel.

“Heavy,” I said. “After a few hours, I’m aware of their weight.”

I discovered they do have a somewhat pragmatic purpose. Apparently they are handy for attaching my arms and legs to bedposts.

Blake two

Somehow, she has gotten him to accept her presence during these things. Maybe for him it’s a thrill to have two MILFs in the room while one is, well, conducting services. Whatever, Blake actually seems comfortable with Amanda here observing. He even talks with her, during.

I wonder if he fantasizes about Amanda joining in, if his long game is the two of us both on our knees attending, if ultimately this is the story he wants to take back to his buddies at the bar. Does he even know Amanda is lesbian? He must, I think, as he’s seen her and me together — touching, holding hands, kissing, I mean. But maybe he imagines her to be bi like me, and harbors hopes.


It’s still awkward with him, which is to say we don’t know what we are together, what this makes me to him. Amanda opens the door and I am standing there in my denim skirt and too-thin tee, and he greets her and then me: “Good afternoon, Shae.” I do not quite know what to call him. He is not a dominant “Sir” to me, but then he’s not friend and buddy “Blake” either.

I reply, “Good to see you again, Mr. Blake,” a blend of formality and familiarity, trying that out as a form of address. He takes it and nods back at me with a slight smile.

I’m actually grateful for Amanda’s presence. She makes the awkwardness of an arranged blowjob into a graceful sitting-room social. “May I have Shea serve you a drink?” she asks him. As if the occasion warrants tea and scones. He says a beer would be nice.

I fetch. He sits. They talk.

When I return to the living room and hand him his beer, I don’t know where to be. Standing doesn’t seem right. Sitting either. I sit on the floor, but not next to him, as that would be too intimate. Which is funny to say, given the context.


I keep wanting to use the word “sinewy” to describe him. He is rippled but lean, muscled but slender. Today he’s wearing baggy cargo pants that sit low on his hips. A patterned tee in grays and blacks. It’s stylish, a kind of street fashion, I guess.

Not hard to look at, though it’s not about that for me.

I wonder if he’s dressed up a little. For me. Or maybe dressed for the occasion. Loose pants instead of tight jeans, you know.


They talk about his business, how his work is expanding and he‘s now employing two other guys part-time to help him with jobs. Amanda speaks of her company that does virtual HR and offers to help if he needs that. He says next year he will likely hire another, so maybe then.

I sit on the carpet listening silently, my legs curled under my skirt. I wonder if Blake tells his new hires about me, what I am, if the guys have a good laugh. I assume so, as it is what men of his age tend to do. His bar buddies already know. So be it. I find I’m more copacetic now about what people think of me. Well, I am in this moment, at least.


At a point, Blake says, “It’s time to do this.”

His voice is firm, and I appreciate his taking control of the moment, pushing this forward. It suggests a smidgeon of dominance, and I glom onto it like a magnet. “How do you want me this time?” I ask.

He tells me to take off my top.

I pull my tee up over my breasts, and then off, setting it aside and shaking my hair back into place. By habit, I pull my hands behind my back, offering myself, as he takes his time gazing at me.

He opens his legs, signaling me, and I position myself between them, on my knees. I look him in the eye and ask, “Do you prefer me to unzip you or do you like doing that yourself?”

“What you did last time.”

We are now in a relationship of last times and next times, like a TV saga of episodes. Blake and I have a history now and a projected future — as long as he will renew me for another season. I will have to learn his likes and remember them through the series.

I now struggle to recall what I did with him last time but assume I unzipped him myself. He was standing last time, I now recall, and he is sitting this time. This is a new logistic.

Pants are never graceful to navigate in such things, but I do my best, unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly, and opening his pants as much as they will allow me. Blake helps by pushing himself up from the chair seat, and I slip his pants down over his hips and just above his knees.


His cock lies there, semi-hard, plump and meaty.

I look Blake in the eyes and ask, “Do you have other preferences?”

“I liked what you did with my balls last time.”

“In my mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“OK.”

“And what you did with your fingernails.”

“Up and down” — I slide my hand, nails out lightly scraping his shaft — “like this?”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods.

“OK… anything else? I want it to be good for you. Like when you come, how do you want it? In my mouth?”

“I want to control that.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s not exactly a negotiation, as it’s all one-sided and he knows I am compelled to do anything he wishes.

It’s more like he’s ordering from a menu.


It is notable to me that as I take him in my mouth, he feels familiar. Every man’s cock is distinctive and has its own character. Blake’s rests on my tongue, and I remember its weight and earthy taste. The first time his cock was a stranger, this time it is a familiar acquaintance, in times to come it will be an old friend…


I suckle his balls, per his wishes, and tingle his shaft with my long red nails. My breasts flatten against his thighs as I do him.

Amanda watches my subservience. Blake seems unaffected by her presence, again perhaps harboring a future fantasy. He leans back in the chair, and the two of them talk as my mouth is occupied with his pleasure.

Their conversation becomes background noise to my slurpy cocksucking, but I hear him at one point ask her how the two of us met. Amanda takes great delight in sharing our story.

It’s an odd ambiance. It will be like this.


He is warm and throbbing between my cheeks and he starts to spasm.

I release my hand from his shaft, per his preference, and he takes himself in hand, pulling his cock from my mouth.

Blake inhales hard, and then his cum starts to shoot out. My mouth is open and he spurts into me there, several shots like frothy cream hitting my tongue, the back of my throat, and my lips, dripping.

He closes his eyes.

I swallow.

Amanda says, “Very nice.”


A little later, he says he has to go.

Still topless, I fetch him his jacket and hand it to him in the entryway. The three of us are there. Blake says, “Some times, I’ll only have time to drop in. I will need it quick.”

I nod. It’s chilly in the entryway, and my nipples are poky. “Yes, sir.”

plans

My spirits were lifted yesterday by my evening phone call with Amanda.

It has been finalized that I’ll be returning to Colorado the Sunday after Thanksgiving. It will be a full three-week stay, after which Amanda will accompany me back to Pennsylvania. She will be here with me and Mother through Christmas and New Year’s.

I am beyond thrilled about this for a lot of reasons, not least of which is to be in the presence of Amanda once again, under her dominant desire, for a period of a full month.

While I have made the best of things here in PA, it has been more difficult of late. My brief visit back to Colorado back in September showed me how Amanda wishes to “rev up” my slavery and move us into another level of D/s experience. I am excited for that, for what she has in store for me and for resumed time with Master McKenna, along with new times with neighbors and such. But upon returning to PA, all of my D/s life comes screeching to a halt, not conceptually, but it has felt like that, practically speaking. (Some of this lately has been exacerbated by the fact that the connection with Jeremy and Phoebe — what was developing as my east-coast D/s “option” — has been on hiatus, due to their professional schedules. It will resume in 2023.)

This problem of my D/s life being rocket-boosted in CO only to fall back to earth here in PA won’t be resolved for some time, but during December at least, I will be, let’s say, over the moon.


Beside being with Amanda again, I am excited about time now scheduled with Master McKenna. He will have me for five days of my three weeks there, and I will be in the mansion this time, in full submission to him once again.

He says he wishes to continue talking about his next dom retreat and the school for submissives, but this time it won’t be “off-line” as before, but in full protocol, with me in my collared, high-heeled submissive glory. Nothing like planning a retreat while on my knees in naked dom-worship.

The new wrinkle perhaps is Maria, who has managed to come out to Master McKenna more directly about her interests. He intends now to have her watch some of his active dominance of me — sit in, if you will — with me providing (somehow) commentary in situ. Besides providing an “intro to D/s” for Maria, this may be a dry run in prep of the school for submissives. Interesting.


During the three weeks, Amanda already has some things planned. There will be a tea time with the neighbors. When Amanda and I talk on the phone every evening, she never fails to remind me that Blake has scheduled a “date” with me on December 3rd. She is thinking about hosting a Christmas party that would include some of her clients. Amanda also hints at a few other “surprises.” I don’t think she means packages under the tree.

bay window, during my Colorado trip in early October

I have written about these bay window experiences before, and I fear they are not so interesting to readers the second and third time. Nothing much “happens,” after all: I am posed naked in a window. People watch. People go home.

My own psychology in it offers the most suspense, so to speak, the inner drama of my fight to maintain in public humiliation some dignity as a woman. I don’t know if our audience of neighbors sees that, but I try to represent here in my accounts.


Going back home and submitting to this again, I was reminded of how odd a thing this is. Amanda’s other “devices” for my humiliation — the entryway wall, the wet bar, etc. — are likely seen by others as her private playground with me, of interest because it is a glimpse of two lesbians doing their D/s kink. In that, it makes sense to a vanilla neighborhood.

But this bay window staging of me is more obviously intended as a social experience. It cannot be imagined as something behind closed doors because it is not — literally played out in front of public windows. My nudity in this is not accidental or peeped in on — it’s intentional and posed, meant for their consumption. I’m not sure this, then, makes sense to them or fits in any of their categories. I would think afterward, they’d walk away wondering “What was that?”

At best, it’s a kind of erotica performance art; at worst, it’s porn in someone’s backyard. They must consider it a weird thing, for sure.

Yet they don’t seem to mind. They keep showing up.


The bay window faces our back yard, which is a sloped on one side and extends far out and up a hillside, making it sort of private. Our yard is not fenced, so anyone hiking the hill along the ridge could walk down, wander in closer, but no one does. There’s an intimacy to the bay window that Amanda puts me in, even as it opens up the house to nature.

Amanda invites people into this backyard intimacy. The slope of the berm and the hill in the distance create a sheltered cove of privacy. Neighbors assemble, I know, “to see the slave girl naked,” but I also think the setting creates a feeling of cozy specialness for everyone, a sense of being “in the club.”

You have to be invited into these personal spaces — that of the yard itself and that of my private, pink flesh.


Months ago, before my Pennsylvania sojourn, I’d asked Amanda if when she put me in the bay she could display me more obviously in bondage chains. Yes, she usually chains me into my posings, but sometimes the chains and hooks are not so easily seen.

My reason was that I didn’t want people thinking I was posing naked as an exhibitionist. I don’t eagerly do these exposures — in fact, I resist them — and my motivation certainly is not in wanting neighbors to see me naked. My motivation is in obeying my mistress. My naked display is forced, required of me, despite my reluctance. I want people to know this.

Amanda understood my feeling but was skeptical of my logic: “I think that ship has sailed, Shae-girl. Fine line between you being exhibited because you want to and you being exhibited because I want you to.”

“But heavier, more obvious, bondages,” I maintained, “would show more clearly that fine line.”

Amanda nodded, and didn’t say no. I think she liked the visual of thick-gauge chains and over-sized carabiners weighing me down into my posings. But she observed, “Sounds like you want to control the story.”

I replied, “Well, I don’t want it to feel like I’m the whore in the Amsterdam window overlooking the street, where everyone walking by thinks I’m selling my body. They need to know I’m forced to do this.”

“You can’t control,” Amanda said, “what people think of you.”


This time I am blindfolded.

There is some question about the need for this. Amanda had blindfolded me before and wanted to try it again. However, now there are more lights in the base of the bay shining back at me, like spotlights on a stage, essentially blinding me, so I can’t see much of anything anyway.

However, the blindfold has a psychological effect on me. It makes me feel that people are looking at my body not my face, and certainly not my eyes. Probably ture anyway, but I feel it more deeply with a mask over my eyes.

Meanwhile, it makes me more focused on sound. I listen to voices. Amanda cracks open the two bottom windows on either side of the bay to let sound through. It’s muffled, but I can make out parts of conversations. I can hear what they’re saying about me.


Neighbors will start arriving in a half hour. There is prep first.

Amanda is posing me. I’m already in the blindfold, pulled tight over my eyes. She has me sitting to one side of the wooden chair, legs together, providing a side-profile of my body to the public view.

“You’re trembling,” Amanda says.

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll get the lights on in a minute. They’ll warm you.”

Amanda takes my wrist, the one closest to the window, and pulls it around my back, latching it tautly to a chain eye-hooked into the base of the bay floor. Sometime during these six months of my absence she’s bought some heavy-gauge chain link, tow-truck style. I’m pretty sure this is not to appease my self-image issues but because she decided she’d like the look. If a semi-trailer can’t break this chain, I certainly am not likely to. And the chain links come with more sound: when I move, it yields heavier clanks and thuds.

“Are they here?” I ask. I am hoping she will accidentally go through the list and tell me who. I know the Millers will be there. But which others? And Blake. Will Blake be there too?

She’s onto me and doesn’t answer.

I hear her crawl out of the bay. She takes my other wrist, raises it over my head, and links it to a short chair hooked into the bay window ceiling.

I imagine I look like I’m in a dramatic pose, like a flamenco twirl with one arm resting against the small of the back and the other thrust overhead, holding canastas. She is more pragmatic: “This keeps your arms from getting in the way.” I realize she means such a pose provides observers a clear line of sight to my side view: my bare thigh and protruding breasts.

My arms now tightly chained, Amanda fusses with my high heels, attaching something to hook my ankle straps together. I want your legs together,” she says. “At first.”

I say nothing. I could speak, but don’t want to. Amanda knows I’m sliding into my space of submissive quietude.

She leans close to my face and kisses me full on my lips.


Patricia has arrived. I hear her in the kitchen. “Pumpkin muffins,” she calls out. “John is behind me with the cider.”

“In here,” Amanda calls back.

I hear the soft clank of tins being unloaded onto the kitchen counter and Patricia’s footsteps into the dining room.

“Shae looks good from outside,” she says.

“I want her leaning back more. It’s still too casual a bondage.”

I hear the sliding glass door open from the patio and John announce his arrival from the kitchen. “Managed not to spill,” he says. I assume he lugged a big crock pot of cider through our backyard.

He finds the others in the dining room. “She’s a damn sight,” he says of me.


They talk a while about my pose. Amanda wants to chain my collar from behind, to arch my back.

John asks why.

“To make the pose more… bondage-y,” she says.

John gets the picture and adds, “It would also thrust her tits up and out more.”

“That too. But I’m afraid it would be hard for her to hold herself in that pose for long, and when she couldn’t, the collar chain would choke her.”

They talk some more and finally decide that if the wooden chair was turned, my back would rest on it and solve the problem. “Wish I’d thought of that,” Amanda says, “before I already chained her up like this.”

They have me pull myself up from the chair just a bit, which I do awkwardly, while John Miller swivels the chair into the desired position.

Amanda now attaches another chain to the O-ring at the back of my collar and hooks the other end to another ceiling hook. But Amanda is not happy with that, after all: “What if the chair breaks? The chain would break her neck.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Patricia says casually while walking in from the kitchen.

John adds his characteristic dark humor: “First rule of slave-keeping: you want to torture your slave, not kill her.”

Amanda puts some slack in the chain to my neck, ensuring the neighborhood event won’t become a homicide.


Amanda has set this up as an open house: people can come anytime between seven and eight-thirty. I can hear voices of people arriving. It makes me nervous, although there is nothing for me to do.

Earlier I had noticed Amanda had arranged lawn chairs closer to the window than times before. Maybe fifteen feet from the window instead of thirty or so. (Guessing.)

Closer as they are, I can hear voices more clearly. “Oh!” someone says, seeing me.

There are fresh greetings exchanged as new people arrive. I hear a “wow” from one. “Good to see her again,” a man (I think Mr. Hawkins) comments. Another replies, “Good to see her like this again.” There are chuckles.

I listen for Blake’s voice, but do not hear him.

There are compliments to Patricia for her pumpkin muffins. They’re drinking cider, and John announces he’s just also put out some booze to add to it. “Good with bourbon,” he says. “I have rum out there as well.”

In some sense, it’s an ordinary neighborhood block party with people eating muffins and drinking cider. So normal and… autumnal… and yet so strange. Again I wonder how they think of this… thing we do.


After the first half hour, Amanda turns off the spotlights in the bay, and arranges me in a different pose.

She turns the chair, and me, to face out. She’s had (this was new since I’d left) holes drilled into the seat of the wooden chair on either side. This provides a way of hooking the heels of my pumps into the chair.

So my legs are propped up, but open slightly to each side of the chair. This offers a view of my pussy, bare and slightly squeezed.

Once done, she turns the lights on again and walks outside.


For this second pose, I do not hear comments. I assume people have turned to look, but I cannot see, of course, and I imagined there’s a hush while people take in my pussy creases. And then they start talking again — conversations about their office work and construction on the interstate and a new housing development down the road.

It occurs to me that the one thing worse that sitting in pussy-bared humiliation is simply to be ignored.

I feel like an animal kept, caged in a pet store window box, less cuddly and cute, but just as interesting for a time… and then not. I wonder if any of them think of taking me home with them, then decide I’d be too much trouble, much like the red-headed terrier at the pet shop. People move on.

I think I am probably interesting to them initially because I am the woman who at other times serves them tea. This, I know, is part of the eroticism, that the Victorian demoiselle once offering scones on a silver tray is now obscenely fleshed in public view, as if the servant girl has been posed and captured into a Rubens painting in the Prado. But even then art lovers consume their fill and move on to the next in the gallery.


Later Amanda will tell me that “this all works” because the neighbor men lust for me but the neighbor women know that Amanda has me, literally, under lock and key. “It’s safe for both of them,” she says, making me think the art museum analogy is apt. To them, my fleshy breasts and wetted pussy lips are enjoyable, but held safely behind glass. It gives everyone, it seems, a way of sampling the erotic fringe that we live in without personal fuss or muss.

“And,” Amanda will add, “It’s good for their sex lives. The guys, filled up with you, go home and fuck the hell out of their women.”

“So I have a purpose,” I will reply.


The third pose has me face out again, this time with my hands chained behind the chair, my head pulled back by means of a collar chain, and my legs now straddling the chair, chained to the floor, opening my pussy gaping wide.

Strange to say, but behind my blindfold it’s as if I can feel their eyes close to my sex, as if eyelash flutters are tickling my pussy lips. What has been generally erotic to me now feels blatantly sexual. I feel my juices puddle, and wonder if they are all close enough to see my liquid desire glistening and dripping.

I think I hear the rasp of Mr. Farris’s voice garbled through the window panes, and also another man’s baritone, maybe Mr. Linden’s. I wonder what they are thinking now: not what their opinion of me is — we’ve crossed that Rubicon already, for sure — but how in the thick of their minds they are having sex with me, the local slut that I inevitably am.

I listen for others I recognize, hearing Stacy Knox’s laughter, which has a lilt and a higher register at times. I will not yet have heard Amanda’s later comment that the men are not the only ones who want to fuck me. Which is not to say Stacy does, but there is someone apparently. I wonder.

Again, I hear John Miller, now with a pitcher of cider, offering refills. I do not hear Blake at all, but he has a low, husky voice, and maybe I would not pick it up out of the crowd.


I have not much mentioned the word “humiliation,” which is not to say I wasn’t awash in it. But, strangely, the chains, the heavy “obvious” chains, helped.

I would rather be humiliated for being a submissive kept, owned, and offered than a for being a sex slut who provides herself to the neighborhood. I know Amanda feels that’s a difference without a distinction. And it’s still humiliation.

But I would rather be humiliated for what I really am than what I am not. I desire authenticity in my disgrace.


The evening winds down to a close, the heightened eroticism wafting away on the night air. Nothing has happened tonight, not really, other than cider being drunk and the slave girl being posed with her thighs spread naked in a window. People watch. People go home. There is no grand finale, no denouement, no consummation.

Later, Amanda will not tell me who was there. I will ask specific names, and she will wink at me and just smile.

But she will take me into her bed. Apparently there is a climax after all.

six short insights into my submissive life: 4

4. Nudity is still a “thing” for me.

Exposing my body has seemed to be a common practice for all my owners. I have some “assets,” so Amanda calls them, and she adds that “they need to be enjoyed by others.” Such is my life that I am frequently put into degrees of undress.

What surprises me is that after years of slavery in which I have been often kept in some form of exposure, it has never become easy for me. It still fills me with self-conscious embarrassment, and sometimes in front of certain others, deeper humiliation. I have yet to get used to it, and I don’t think I ever will.


You’d think that my around-the-house exposure, solely in front of Amanda, would be somewhat less fraught for me. And, yes, it’s less of a heightened experience, for we are both women and both intimate with each other. Yet, it’s still objectifying, for Amanda herself is fully clothed and my exposure is one-sided. I am the sex object, and Mistress presents me unto herself for her lust and sexual desire — without reciprocal revelation on her part. After all our years together, this still affects me almost as much as it did the first time.

Amanda uses my nudity as a kind of sexualizing paintbrush. She not only knows how it affects me, but also specifically knows how the nuances of the details in specific forms of exposure humiliate me differently.

Compare summer to winter. When she keeps me topless in summer, one might think it odd but understandable as a concession to the heat. Of course, most people wear a top, and this is still obviously a sexualization of me, but at least there’s a semblance of faux logic — it’s so hot today! — that comes to mind first. But in our drafty house in winter she puts me in a cardigan sweater, buttoned at the bottom but with its panels opened into a V that frames my bared, protruding breasts. There is here no reason for my exposure and every (chill) reason to have me buttoned up. Yet she sweater-warms my shoulders and arms while having my boobs pushed out. It makes me feel “presented” in some way that I don’t feel in my summer exposures. It’s a subtle difference, but it becomes a different humiliation — which Amanda well knows.

On occasion, she keeps me clothed on top but naked waist down, my bare legs usually ending in strappy heels. It sends a different signal. When I am topless, it suggests that I am to be played with. When I am bottomless, it suggests I am available to be fucked. Of course, that does not happen, unless Amanda herself takes me, but her intention in it is to make me feel a certain way in the possibility. As I walk around the house with my bare pussy exposed, I am aware my labia lips, puffy and pale, frame the crease of my womanhood and would be what others look at. She will randomly ask, “How do you feel, being like this?” She very well knows how I feel, but wants to hear me say it. I’ll put my hands on my hips, cock my head with a sassy look, and say, “Ridiculous, of course.” She’ll smile and tell me that “so-and-so” wouldn’t see me like this and say I look ridiculous. Of course, that puts in my head some thought of so-and-so, man or woman, taking me and having me for a thorough fucking. I just shake my head, and Amanda laughs, knowing full well what she has done to me.

She plays me like a fiddle.


Before my sojourn in Pennsylvania, Amanda had gotten me to a point where I was frequently topless in front of neighbors. Frequency notwithstanding, I had not “gotten used to” it, though it was starting to feel less anxiety-ridden to me. (At first, you worry what people think of you; over time, so often exposed and presented, you realize that’s a lost cause.)

It’s somehow important to the experience for me and others that I am usually made just partially undressed, most often simply topless, and even then sometimes wearing something on top but open, unbuttoned. Amanda has a sense of style and elegance even in this, and she presents me not as “forwardly sexy,” but as “submissively sensual,” if you catch the difference. Often, my bare breasts become part of the “fashion statement,” such that it is, and my submissive nature in a social context somehow contributes to the ensemble, my “look” (so I’m told). Again, Amanda is very clever in how she plays this.

There’s also something of significance in the obvious fact that I am undressed in the midst of others who aren’t. This isn’t a nudist colony. I am the topless woman in a room of fully dressed neighbor folk. This is what keeps me from becoming inured to the experience of my nudity.

One example is when I have served tea while topless at our neighborhood teatimes. In my public presentation, Amanda sends a variety of unspoken, visual messages.

There is the obvious message that I am so submissive as to obey Mistress in this extreme thing — to endure being topless in front of people, enduring their looks and lust and judgments. It also sends the message that, while I am serving tea, I am not a service slave but a sexual slave. The vanilla public may not know these various forms of D/s slavery, but I am clearly presented in a sexual way.

But I think there is another, more subtle, message in my presented nakedness. It is that “this is the way Shae is supposed to live.” I am meant, by orientation and endowment and submissive nature, to be and appear this way. This is my life, to be often partially revealed. And so I am kept.

This is what the public sees as I am trying to keep my naked boobs off of the serving tray of scones.


My nudity had become such a common part of my submissive life in Colorado that out here in Pennsylvania I have felt the need to replicate it by going topless in Morgan’s Woods.

This surprised me and delighted Amanda. It meant that she has imprinted this upon me as how I am meant to be.

Morgan’s Woods has become something of a spiritual experience for me. I wrote a fictional piece called “Phantom Canyon” (here and here and here) that captures some of the spiritual-sexual union with nature that I experience in Morgan’s Woods. But it’s also other than that — a kind of “remembering ritual” of what my submissive life in Colorado was and still will be someday.

My toplessness in Morgan’s Woods is a kind of worship and an admission of what I am meant to be.


A final note: Readers of my blog may get tired of my reporting my nakedness in daily experiences. I understand, and please know I try to restrain that from becoming too ever-present. However, it is ever-present in my life, common in my daily experience, part of what is done with me.

It is very much a symbol of my being dominated. Collared and topless, I am not in danger of anyone misunderstanding my place in life.

six short insights into my submissive life: 2

2. I am different, and I have to get over that.

Perhaps my chief failing is that I want to be accepted by everyone. It’s not always a need to be liked but is a need at least to be accepted. I always want to fit in. I aim to please, something which dominants find to be a delicious virtue in a submissive like me, but is the bane of my existence in other ways.

This applies also to vanilla culture. Here in Pennsylvania, I am face to face with this traditional world every day. I’m glad I am not part of it any longer, and I find myself criticizing it from time to time. Yet, from some deep need embedded in my personality, I want this world to accept me, not as they encounter me in my publicly presented self, but for what I am — a woman of submissive sexual orientation who lives a D/s life. I think it may be a desire to be authentic in my life, for my submissive orientation not be hushed up. But that acceptance won’t ever happen, and I have to get over that.

Amanda and I talk often about the “normalization” of D/s in mainstream culture. In a way, this is her philosophy of her dominance of me — making me more public, sharing me with vanilla people, presenting me in my sexual slavery to the outside world without apology. It is her way of normalizing me into social settings.

Of course, there are some signs that the mainstream culture is warming to the practices of BDSM and D/s, as it clearly is more and more depicted in media (although so often negatively).

But Amanda says a true acceptance of D/s will never happen. She adds, “We don’t want that to happen. We need them to be normal.” Her point is that we in the D/s lifestyle are distinctive by comparison to the norm. What we do is “extreme” because it’s beyond some common measure of what’s acceptable. This alternative life has meaning only if there is a standard, traditional life to compare it to. Our D/s practices are particularly delicious because they are considered illicit.

So, much as I may wish the traditional culture not to judge me and just to accept me, my experiences of submissive disgrace would not be humiliating if they actually did. Being accepted would make me normal.

So, yes, I am different, I know, and I do accept myself as such, yet I think I will always live in the yin-yang of desiring acceptance in the midst of experiencing shame. I will always be aware, when Master McKenna beats me with a whip, how the traditional world would shame me in my distress. I will always know, when Amanda parades me topless in public, that I am pitied in my exposure. And I am deeply conscious of the fact that when I am gifted sexually to a carpenter boy, if others knew, they’d consider me a slut and a whore.

The irony is that this very desire I have to be accepted endows me with more value to those who dominate me. My obedience visually carries, I am told, an awareness of how the vanilla world would see me in my submission. My dominants love to see this inner struggle as I kneel before them and do unspeakable things.

I am different, and the world will never understand me. I have to get over that, but somehow I think I never will.