words about myself: dignity

I am spending some time trying to write each day despite my general fatigue. I want to write, but I don’t have the stamina to do it for very long. Consequently a blog post that used to take me an hour now takes several hours spread over a couple days. Part of this is a mental fogginess, and I’m aware my writing is just not very sharp. I pray my words make some sense anyway. Bear with me…

I was early into my slavery to Master Michael. He seemed bothered about me in some unspoken way. Normally, he was forthright about such things but this time wasn’t. Something was niggling at him.

I would learn later he had been bothered by something he detected from me, in me, something subtle and vague, yet something he couldn’t articulate.

He finally figured it out: “You struggle for dignity, Shae, which I understand. It’s the challenge of all submissives. But the dignity you come to seems to be in spite of your slavery, when it should be because of it.”

His comment has remained with me. It seems I always need to learn this lesson.

He was saying that what I projected to others was something like, “Yes, I do this submissive thing with this man, but I’m an intelligent, respectable woman anyway.” I was, in my own subtle way, sidelining and diminishing the D/s life I was in, somehow suggesting I just did it “on the side for fun” but otherwise I was a “proper woman, you know…”

I still wrestle with this.

Amanda noticed something like this after my first exposure in the bay window when Patricia and John watched. The next day, in the course of a clothed, normal interaction with them, I acted as if that had been a performance of a kind, something acted, and now I was normal again and proper.

It was folly for me to project that, as Patricia and John are intimately aware of my submission and slavery, and yet with them I copped an air of being above the shame of the bay window experience the night before.

It’s hard to look someone in the eye when they are remembering your naked sexual disgrace. It’s hard to embrace that and be dignified in it, not in spite of it.

This again goes to my common struggle between living out my slavery in front of “lifestyle” versus “vanilla” people. I won’t belabor that discussion yet again. Just allow me to say that, in the lifestyle company of Amanda and Master McKenna, I manage to project dignity because of my slavery. But in the company of vanilla neighbors, it seems I still try to project a dignity in spite of what I am.

I have spent most of my slave years coming to an acceptance of myself as a submissive, as property, as a sex slave kept and used. Self-acceptance is hard to get to, but I have over time come to that understanding of me. I am a deep submissive and need to live as slave property to another.

But the further lesson is acceptance of what I am in front of others. It is the wish of my dominants that I stand publicly in my humiliations, proud and dignified for being a slave. This is what I continue to work on: dignity in front of the vanilla world for being what I am.

Submissive training never ends.


So I’ve been dealing with a health issue for a couple of weeks that’s left me fatigued and mentally foggy. It’s also made me disinclined to write.

I’m under doctor’s care now, and it’s nothing serious, manageable with a medication and a vitamin. Am feeling marginally better now, although it will take some time.

I laughed inside when the doctor talked about it being weeks yet before I get back to normal. “Normal” isn’t a word used of me very often.

This experience has made me aware of something: it seems I have both a sex drive and a “submissive drive.”

During this down time, my malaise has rendered me without much energy or desire sexually, but my submissive drive, so to speak, has been just as strong. Admittedly, I haven’t had the energy to perform submissive service either, but I’ve had the desire for it.

I’m not sure how to understand this, or whether it even matters.

I write this humbly, knowing that many reading this have dealt with far more serious health issues. Here I don’t mean to solicit undue sympathy, just to report why these days I’m not writing as much as usual.

wash out

It is cold and rainy here, washing out Amanda’s plans for her Halloween adventure featuring me in a bay window. She is disappointed but will reschedule it for another weekend. It didn’t have much to do with Halloween anyway.

As for me, I’m a bit relieved. I was just about to write another “Words about Myself,” this one on dignity, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage being dignified while on a stool naked and spread-eagle in front of the neighbors. Now I have some more time to figure that out.

Tonight, instead, she will probably do things to me, but I think it will be just me and her diabolical majesty.

words about “words about myself”

There have been a lot of insightful comments to my “words about myself” posts. I am learning from your advice. Thank you. Also, I am touched by some of you who seem to be protecting me from the “slings and arrows” of certain words, especially in advising me not to give a damn about being called a “slut” and how I am certainly not a “whore.”

I assure you I’m not fragile in being called things, but you’re sweet to encourage me like this.

I accept that words are part of how I am dominated. Some are body paint, not really my true colors though marking me suggestively in view of others — it soon washes off. Others are tattoos, etched into me by their truth, even if a truth that only I know.

The tattoos, while stinging, testify to how D/s can be as deeply honest as relationships can be. They hurt, but they signify who we really are.

Whether in marriage or slavery, we fear being exposed and yet we long to be truly known.

words about myself: slut

I’ve had an interesting conversation with a friend, a dominant man (not named Kevin or McKenna), about the words “slut” and “whore” — as applied to me.

He contends that “slut” is appropriate to me while “whore” is not. There is a sweetness to him in protecting me from the unfair label of “whore” even while he readily and deliciously calls me a “slut.”

I do not resist his disparagement, and even, in a way, cherish it. My only argument is semantics and truth: I believe both words are applicable to me.

Once again I am abetting my own humiliation.

I should provide more context about “semantics and truth.”

Living in a 24/7 slave life, I am used to being called various disparaging things. I know it is part of any dominant’s pleasure to be able to address me as such and to watch me receive it tacitly. I accept “name-calling” as part of my lifestyle, part of the process of dominant persons treating me like a slave. I cannot control what they call me or whether the labels they put on me are true to what I am.

But, maybe just because I am a writer, words and meanings matter to me. I respond differently when a word used of me is true than when it’s clearly not. You can call me a “prostitute” but that’s obviously not true, and therefore I don’t really feel demeaned by it.

Some of this is the role-playing doms and subs sometimes do, especially on the BDSM side of the lifestyle. In calling me prostitute, a dom may be saying he wants me to play the part of one. Okay, but I don’t role-play very well, and D/s isn’t acting.

Ultimately, I believe, it’s more interesting and erotic and meaningful if in some way I actually, even just once, took money for providing sex. Then, your calling me a “prostitute” has sting and bite. And puts me in my slave place.

The primary definition of the word “slut” is a “woman who is promiscuous, one who has many casual partners.” It seems also that the word embodies the ideas of lust and choice — that it is my wanton wish to sleep around with casual others, and so I decide to do so.

I’ve had people write/comment to me that many women have more sexual relationships than I do, and so I would not be considered promiscuous. At very the same time, I’ve had people write/comment to me that I have sex with Kevin and Master McKenna and Amanda and am sexual in front of others randomly, so, of course, I am promiscuous. It seems hard to quantify — it’s more than two somehow but is three the tipping point? Everyone has their number, I suppose.

But there’s also the obvious point that I am kept as a sex slave, which implies frequency and suggests quantity.

Yet as a submissive submitting to the will of my Mistress, I am made to be sexual with others — it is not my choice. For me “promiscuity” is an obedience. Am I a slut if in my submission I am made to be one?

Of course, in that is a bit of dodging (as Amanda often points out). There is the deeper question of what I natively wish for and lust for, what I truly am as a sexual woman with desires that neither Amanda or Master M dictate.

And this is the part of the “slut” label I usually wrestle with: Would I be a slut even if I were not in a D/s lifestyle?

I have an image of myself when I was twenty-two: sexually coming of age yet relatively chaste, a product of my repressed childhood but emerging from that, finding myself as a woman yet still modest sexually. As they say, almost a virgin.

I have another image of myself at twenty-six: beginning to explore my submissiveness (which I still considered my submissive “side,” failing yet to recognize it was all of me). Even then, I was not promiscuous by any stretch, but I was then open to relationships that became sexual. But more to the point, I was beginning to realize how deeply and intensely sexual I really was, beginning to know the wildness of my longings — and that actually scared me.

Well, this is one of those “sliding doors” thought experiments.

I can go back to the twenty-two-year-old Shae and believe honestly that if I weren’t in D/s lifestyle, I today would be like her — morally modest, monogamous, and someone’s faithful wife.

Or I can go back to twenty-six-year-old Shae and see in myself then the precursors for a much more permissive sexual life today, even if it were vanilla. I would know more of the depths of my desires and pervasive lust, and it would not be hard to project the truth — that I would have been one promiscuous girl if left to my own devices.

Would I be a slut even if I were not in a D/s lifestyle? Maybe the answer lies in between those two scenarios, but I fear that it is actually much closer to the second. My dominant friend, whom I mentioned at the beginning, calls me “hypersexual.” I know that’s actually got a clinical definition, but I don’t have to look it up — it seems so very descriptive of what’s deep inside me.

In fact, I am both Shaes. My heart and personality are governed more by the twenty-two-year-old Shae. I seek modesty and dignity and moral respect. My sexuality is governed by the twenty-six-year-old Shae. I am a hypersexual woman of deep desires and lusts.

So when someone calls me a slut, it’s true.

Even though a part of me doesn’t want it to be.

words about myself: elegance

Already this sounds self-boasting, and I don’t mean it to be. You will remember the many times I’ve spoken of my klutziness, of stumbling over own my feet at parties, of spilling drinks from a tray. I can be a tripping mess, so clearly I’m not suggesting elegance as some level I’ve attained. It’s clearly not (yet) my own accomplishment.

But apart from any social elegance, I think it may also be a mindset, one which is being instilled in me gradually.

I think something started when Master McKenna trained me early on in how he wants me to sit and stand and walk. It reminded me of the old concept of etiquette training for women, “finishing schools” that tutored women on how to present themselves elegantly in social settings. The results of Master M’s training of me are subtle, but real.

Amanda is herself an elegant woman, tall and graceful and confident in red lipstick. She seems always to have been amused by my occasional swirls of bumbles and stumbles, and it may be she likes that side of me — she certainly accepts it. And yet she also seems to have an image of me as her “slave of elegance.” It’s evident sometimes in how she dresses me and how she takes me on walks. I am the girl on her leash at parties, and she wants me to be seen standing “beside and behind” her in a certain sort of refinement — to be a slave of confident grace.

To that end, she has appreciated Master M’s physical training of me, and extended it into our lives together. I have continued these postures throughout all my hours and days, when I’m with Amanda as well, and it’s now more of what I am.

Of course, these rules of slave posture and etiquette are just the physical window into my slave mindset. Elegance in standing from a sitting position without fuss and extra fidgets itself compels a whole way of thinking about myself as a slave. It is about projecting a quiet, unfussy, acceptance of my slave state to others, about a clean confidence in the midst of my public humiliations, about a passive grace in the face of people’s judgments.

Recently, Amanda has been dressing me in maxi skirts and high heels. It’s a combination that can be quite elegant, but she’s also, in her dom fashion statement, kept me topless. The lesson, though she’s never stated it, is how do I maintain the elegance of the outfit even while my breasts are amply displayed? And somehow it happens: I walk about the house in “the Master M way,” my shoulders back, my steps economical, my posture straight and unfussy. More to the point, I appear notably unapologetic for being only half-dressed. Or at least sometimes.

This may be one of those occasions when outward presentation works an inner transformation. And vice-versa — once it becomes internal, it prompts the external behavior.

It’s true that my behavior training has cause me to start thinking differently.

How, I am now asking myself, can I be “elegant” while shackled to the entryway wall as guests are arriving? How can I possibly be “elegant” while stretched over the wet bar, my legs spread and ass out?

I think it has something to do with the idea of “unfussy” — learning within myself how not to mentally and psychologically “squirm” but rather settle into an inner tacit acceptance of my place and purpose. I recently wrote about a submissive woman I observed whom I was mesmerized by. I think it was this — a kind of inner, passive elegance that I saw in her.

To be clear, neither Amanda nor Master M are wanting me to be lifeless and robotic. None of this leads to that. I still express my “sparkling personality” through my new elegant postures of outward body and inner being. And I can’t say my new training has eliminated my klutziness. Amanda rather likes my oopses and finds them endearing. Master M smiles when I stumble, although I suppose his tolerance may have to do with how many drinks are on the tray I’m carrying.

But I am learning that my elegance in presentation has to do with my inner self-acceptance as a slave. It’s becoming a subtle shift in my slavery.

words about myself: “value”

The irony is I am valued for allowing myself to be devalued. My “worth” often lies in giving myself to being objectified and used sexually: often a literal stripping of my being from a higher value down to a lower value — and then being valued all the more for giving myself to it.

Of course, a submissive enjoys being devalued in some mysterious way, and a dominant thrills to having a girl like me whom he or she can devalue in daily life. This is the dynamic of D/s. I accept it. I submit to it. I “enjoy” it.

However, “enjoy” is a more complicated feeling than that suggests. Being devalued is a submissive pleasure, for sure, but not just casual “fun.” While it’s a deeply satisfying life somehow, it also involves a sobering struggle to replace the value stripped from me with something else that reassures me of my worth.

I am placed, naked, in the bay window, my legs spread and my pussy bared and gaping. My value is stripped from me as people observe and lust. In those moments, I have to find something within that gives me a purpose-value despitemy shame.

So I tell myself that by submitting to this humiliation I am pleasing Mistress A. In being viewed sexually, so I whisper, I provide an erotic pleasure to others. By obediently giving myself to this exhibition, I become a better slave.

I believe these all to be true, and I use them to build up my value even as I am devalued.

Even so, I know the audience is simply seeing me objectified. I’m not just a nude girl, but one who has been made to show herself this way, one who has obeyed and now sits in public with her womanhood glistening.

Who does this? No one, except a deep submissive, except someone like me.

And in that, perhaps, is a perverse sort of value.

Yes, my value is partly based on scarcity. True submissives are hard to find, so it goes, like truffles buried in mossy loam. Uncovered and taken, we become a rare delicacy, valued for our unique taste.

Yet our scarcity comes also from the ignominy of living as a slave: Who would submit to such a life? Not many, it seems. I am rare, I kinda know, but dubiously so: I’m “precious” because no one else will clean the toilets.

But I have convinced myself that a slave is in a unique category of provision and purpose needed in the social structure — a world in which everyone else is bent on achievement and importance and being successful. The world needs more people to be on the bottom, literally “bottoms” who are happy and fulfilled being so.

I think a slave provides to dominant persons a useful and flexible relationship that becomes a kind of lubricant for their daily lives. I provide assistance in the middle of stress, therapy in the middle of conflict, and, well, sex in the middle of the day.

In this, I have come to truly embrace my value as a submissive to others: bringing comfort and pleasure into their lives as a slave.

I don’t have a personal mission statement, but if I did, that might be it.

At Master McKenna’s retreat, I was “valued” by five dominant men for my breasts. I know, because they said so in front of me: “She has a good tits.” “They bounce nice.” (I went to college, have a degree in literature, and it comes to this. 😉)

But I am used to it now, my value being reduced to my boobs — or my legs or high-heeled feet or my thighs or my pussy in a bay window. In vanilla life, this sort of thing is rather forbidden anymore; in the slave life, it’s sort of the point.

But more to the point is that my erotic objectification to those men at the retreat was also influenced by their experience of me in sessions — hearing me respond to questions, witnessing my way with words, chuckling at my sense of humor. In other words, my tits are even better to them because I am a reasonably smart cookie and somehow I’ve made myself topless anyway.

I don’t mean this to be just about me — it applies to every submissive and whatever skills and talents and smarts she possesses. I’m talking about one who plays the piano or who can cook a delicious meal or who has amazing intellect or is a part of the PTA or leads a reading group. In D/s life, as she is reduced to having a great pair of legs or a killer ass, she is all the more juicy because she can do these other things.

I know that when I am devalued, it means more because I have abilities of worth that are being stripped away. I am more attractive sitting pussy-bare in a bay window because others know I am a woman of words and now am not able to use those words, reduced only to my sex.

These are just my musings on the subject of value. But maybe I can end on a note of (humble) advice.

Yes, the submissive life is very much about being devalued. But I think it’s a mistaken notion that the best slave is one without any self-worth.

To the contrary, the best slave is one with a lot of worth to be stripped away.

back in it

Following my time with Master McKenna, Amanda has eased me back into her dominance. She gave me a couple of “light” days Tuesday and Wednesday, for which I’ve been grateful.

But she has me back in it now.

Friday afternoon two of our neighbors stopped by. This is the younger couple, Robert and Stacey, whom we just haven’t gotten to know as well as the other neighbors. Amanda had run into them by chance at the grocery store, and they’d talked, and she invited them to happy hour at the end of the week.

For this, she allowed me to be dressed. (It’s sobering to realize that now, for any social occasion with any of the neighbors, I need to report whether I am dressed or not. It can go either way…)

Amanda had me in a skirt and top and sensible shoes, but also collared in my heavy titanium, and my half chain-leash dangling from my O-ring.

We had a pleasant time, though perhaps notable in that the two of them were curious about our lifestyle and asked questions. Previously, they had seemed aloof to us, and perhaps put off by my slavery. This time, not so much.

It was interesting they asked their questions of Amanda and not me. I was serving drinks and sitting to Amanda’s side, but still it was noticeable they weren’t addressing me directly. At times, Amanda would throw one of their questions over to me to answer, but generally it was as if they were observing my second-hand status under Amanda’s rule.

On Saturday, Amanda put a thick rubber band on my tongue, then took me out shopping.

Yes… I don’t know where she gets these ideas.

The rubber band didn’t hurt, just curled my tongue, making speech relatively garbled. I sounded like my mouth was full of cotton. Or, as Amanda, baldly stated, like my mouth was full of cock.


It seemed like a little silly thing at first. Amanda laughed at me when I tried to talk. Then the novelty wore off, and I was left with my tongue in bondage for the afternoon.

What happens is that you gradually choose not to talk so much. I wondered if Amanda just wanted to silence me. But I figured not. We were both in a good place together, and she had been without me for more than a week when Master M had me. I guessed that she just had this idea to do this to me.

So we shopped, for clothes and groceries, and I just didn’t talk so much.

In the grocery store, Amanda had me ask a clerk where the “paper plates” were. It came out “wawer wayth.” The clerk was understandable confused, and Amanda stepped in to clarify.

Later she said, “You’re cute when you try to talk with a mouth full of cock.”


Last night, Amanda had me sit in the bay window again. She had me nude, shackled to the corners, sitting on a stool, my legs parted. I was blindfolded

She watched from outside. To my knowledge, no other neighbors were watching.

She had put a couple of old bed-stand lamps, small and dim, in the bay window corners, but she said they didn’t cast enough light. She also talked about how she can make it possible for me to hear people outside with the side windows closed. This week, she’s going to talk to Blake about these things.

I think she’s wanting to make this a Halloween event.


Since my recent time with Master McKenna, I have found myself in a different kind of space.

Domination stays with you, it seems.

In the background now is this sense of detachment from him, not as in aloofness but as one who was once attached, then became detached, and now so longs to be attached to him again.

Being used by a man, and so thoroughly, is a unique dependency.

We submissives need to be consumed. It’s the beautiful shame of our being. While we claim that being dominantly used is (strangely) satisfying to us, the truth is that we are never satisfied, that the more we are used, the more we crave.

They make us need them.

He has gotten inside me, made me dependent, made me crave him, to the point that sexual intercourse with him is simply a metaphor.

Now he has pulled out of me, and I am empty. Detached.

Until next month.

If M is my consuming dominant, Amanda is my nurturing dominant.

In her arms I find replenishment, upon her breasts I find rest, and between her dripping lips I find nourishment. She dominates me, yes, but in a way that only another woman can dominate another woman, in a way that celebrates what makes me female and submissive.

From her, I fill up the crevices of my womanhood that he consumes.


I left some of my clothes in the bedroom closet at Master M’s. It’s by Amanda’s suggestion and Master’s permission, a pragmatic arrangement that alleviates my need to bring two large suitcases when I come to him each time. He likes seeing me in an astonishing number of different outfits. That’s his preference, and I willingly submit to it, but it means I have to schlep a full wardrobe each time.

This way my “McKenna wardrobe” will be there already.

The intent is pragmatic, but the feeling is deeper — the sense that I have a permanent place in Master M’s life. It’s just one closet in one bedroom among a jillion rooms in the house, so I don’t take it as signifying much and certainly not making any statement about my place in the hierarchy. I certainly won’t let Ms. Phyllis know: she can rest easy that I am no threat and will continue in my lowly position as the mansion whore.

Yet, having a closeted wardrobe at the mansion makes me feel that I have my submissive place in his life. I am living there not just visiting.

Upon my return, Amanda has been hand’s off. She’s always good in providing me space afterward, knowing McKenna times are emotionally taxing to me. We have talk time, girlfriend time, but she dials back on her dominance of me for a spell. Thank you, Goddess.

I’m sure she’ll rev things up again this weekend.

My body is still buzzy from my spanking. There’s a physical memory.

And there’s a residual humiliation: Remembering that I really did that. That I was spanked as Mr. Galli watched. That I was exposed and shamed in front of him.

It stays with you.

Otherwise, what was notable about my week with Master McKenna was the normalization of me in his world.

While he will always be in the process of training me, I feel I have now kind of graduated from a “beta phase” into the actual life of being his submissive. While I’ll always be practicing my form and precision, I now have at least a small measure of the elegance and courtliness he wants from me in front of others.

It is this veneer of graceful dignity he wishes to strip me of for my degradations. And then he wishes to watch me put it back on. That’s his special pleasure, I know now.

He will have me as his assistant and sex slave. To him they are perfectly compatible. I will be both to him, occasionally at the same time. There will sometimes be bondage and sometimes spanking… and sometimes photocopying.