notes to a younger me 14: objectification

When you enter the submissive life, some of your experience at the hand of your dominant will include being treated as a thing not a person.

Any submissive relationship to a dominant is self-denying, of course, but the experience of being objectified goes deeper — it’s submission on steroids.

It’s important that you understand and deal with this inside yourself.

Being objectified most often involves the sexual objectification of your body and sex by your master. Common as it is for women in vanilla life, as a slave, your sexual objectification is part of your function and purpose, and will likely be a constant experience with your master. Your sexual objectification as a slave will be overt and obvious. You may even be flesh-revealed to strangers who will, of course, imagine you being with them sexually.

Another form of objectification is more literal — you may be made to assume the properties of an actual object such as a table or footstool. I once was almost made into a working floor lamp, complete with electrical wiring and bulb, by a friend of my master’s who developed an actual blueprint. There was to be a wood platform on which I’d stand in heels, a lampshade covering my head down to my shoulders. I was to wear a short skirt but be topless, my breasts bared. Thankfully, my master vetoed the idea, which probably saved me from electrocution!

A different kind of objectification is “virtual” — the treatment of you as a nameless and common object, one that is set aside, or put in storage, such as a closet or a cage.

When I first started in the life, I had an early experience of this: I was told by my Master Michael to sit in the corner of the laundry room. It was not a punishment, simply an order, and I obeyed. What I assumed would be a short time turned into an hour and then another hour. Meanwhile Master Michael went about his business, walking through the laundry room, between the house and the backyard, all the while paying no attention to me “stored away.”

Of course, it was for me a conditioning — I was treated as a possession “stored on the shelf” for a morning. It affected me deeply and put me in subspace. It made me feel I was a tub of laundry detergent awaiting the next wash.

Much of your life will not be this way, of course. You will always be more than a commodity to your owner. But, yes, he will create these objectifying experiences for you, in part for his pleasure and in part for your training, conditioning, and maintenance. It puts you in your place, literally.

My advice for you is just to be prepared for times like these. Nothing will diminish their effect on you, but just knowing objectifications will happen will help you understand the circumstance.

Do not doubt yourself in these times. Accept your place.


“People want to see your humiliation. You are most erotic to others and pleasing to your mistress when people see you are shamed by being sexually displayed.

“At the same time, they want to see you fight for your dignity. They don’t want to watch a victim. They want to see a submissive who works to maintain self-regard in the midst of being sexually objectified.”


Saturday morning. The landscaping crew arrived at 9:30. They’re scheduled for 10:00, but got here early. It was the four men from before and a new addition, a fifth man, Marco.

Amanda kept me in the house until just before 11:00. She had me prepare a pitcher of iced lemonade on a tray with tumblers.

In another kind of preparation, Amanda had applied suntan lotion to my breasts. It had some gloss to it and gave them a bit of shine, which I’m sure was intentional on her part. She debated putting the silicone O-rings on my nipples, but decided not to. As the day started, she’d had me in my red skater skirt, but I reminded her that was what I wore the last time the landscapers were here. “They’re not going to be looking at your skirt,” she said, but then thought again, deciding to have me change into my orange linen skirt instead. She also had me wearing tall heels and the copper slave collar.

Amanda then had me set out the lemonade on the the patio serving bar.

The men are re-doing our brick pathway, so they were in the back not front yard, although maybe fifty yards up the hill beyond the patio. Still, when they heard the lemonade glasses clinking, they saw us, and some of them stopped, squinted against the sun, and looked.

Amanda called them to take a break and waved them back to join us on the patio.

Amanda had been precise in her instructions for me. She wanted me to stand apart from her on the patio, beside, not in back of, the serving bar. She herself stood close to the sliding glass doors to the house.

I swear she scripts these things in her head. As the men rambled in from the yard, they glanced at her, but gazed at me. They couldn’t look at both of us side by side at the same time. Now I knew why she had us apart. Without Amanda next to me, it was only me they were looking at, and I felt the full heat of their eyes on my naked breasts. Landscape workers have no compunction about staring.

That’s what Amanda wanted me to experience.

My every instinct, of course, was to cover up. But there was no option for that. I had to stand in my embarrassment. This was what I was there for. I blushed. My nipples grew perky — O-rings not needed.

As they sifted onto the patio, two of the guys had smirky smiles on their faces. One mouthed to another a silent “Wow.” They seemed to glance at Amanda repeatedly to check to see if this was really OK, them looking at me. She stood with a smile, remaining close to the house, watching the scene before her. One of the men said something I couldn’t hear, and another laughed at what was said. Seth, the head of the crew, was on the phone and was the last to get to the patio. He ended his call, turned, and seeing me, opened his eyes wide.

Amanda invited them to have something to drink. “By the way, you remember my slave girl from last time you were here. Her name is Shae. She’ll pour your drink. We have ice water and lemonade.”

It felt like what it felt like, and I’ll talk about that in a moment, but unlike the pizza night before, I was not outside the experience looking in. For whatever reason, this time I stayed in the moment. I felt objectified and sexualized, but that was the purpose, and I stayed in the moment.

It was in Amanda’s script not to have the drinks already poured for the taking. She wanted me to pour one by one, and for each of the guys to walk up to me to receive it from me. She wanted them to have close-ups.

As I poured each glass, I managed to address the men by name. I’d remembered them all, though I had to think a moment to recall Colin’s name. The new crew guy, Marco, introduced himself and shook my hand. Seth politely said, “Good to see you again.”

So Amanda by then had walked into the middle of the patio and was in conversation with some of them. When I finished pouring drinks, she called to me loudly: “Shae, I forgot the cookies. Would you bring the cookies out?”

Of course, she didn’t actually forget the cookies. She wanted me to walk in and out of the patio in my high heels, making my breasts ripple and bounce in front of this audience. This is where the night before I had been snarky and pissive-aggressive.

Instead I said, “Yes, mistress,” and I headed in to the kitchen, my breasts dancing with each step.

In the kitchen, I took a deep breath. I would get through this. Actually, it wasn’t like this was a terrible ordeal, but it was intense.

I was being objectified and sexualized, which was Amanda’s intent and pleasure. Because it pleased her, the humiliation I felt had a purpose, which was satisfying to me. I felt I was doing well, standing there in their lust. In that I was glad to please her.

But also, in full honesty, by arousing them, I was arousing myself. I was turned on by their lust. What does that make me?

Humiliation circles in on itself, becomes another thing.

I’m told a crew break is usually fifteen minutes. Seth let this one be thirty. I don’t think it was because of the cookies.

I set the cookie plate on the serving bar, and again stood to the side. The men again came up to help themselves, getting another opportunity to ogle me, and this time more of them said things to me.

I think it takes a while for people, those outside the D/s world, to know what a slave girl in their midst really is, how they can act and speak to her. A slave like me is an oddity really. No one does this. To them, it’s strange for me, a slave girl, even to be standing there, stranger still for me to be topless, my breasts all fleshed out. They have no context for that and little for them to say.

At least at first.

But by now they were figuring me out, learning they had a kind of permission to be themselves, understanding that in my undress and exposure, I am obeying because I have to.

Marco announced, “My first week on crew. And look at this! I’m really lovin’ this job!” Laughter all around.

Jeff came up to me. He spoke loudly so all could hear: “We all voted and decided you have a great pair of tits.”

Everyone howled. How can you respond to that? “Well, thank you,” I just said, blushing.

Seth called their break to an end. They rambled back to work.

Colin, walking by me, said, “You’re really hot.” Again, I didn’t know what to say to that. It was sweet but sexual. I thanked him.

As they walked away from the patio, I heard someone mutter, “Wished we got to play with those jugs.”

Later next week I will think and write more about the strange submissive pleasure I felt in being sexualized and objectified Saturday morning. The point is these feelings are complicated and intense and contradictory, humiliations that debase me even as they celebrate me.

Afterward, Amanda reported to me — only because she delights in doing so — other things she overheard the men saying as they returned to work. Two of the choice ones were “I wanna piece of that pussy” and “God, I’d fuck the living shit out of that girl.”

“I don’t even know how to think about comments like that,” I said to her.

“In a way,” Amanda said, “they’re compliments. It means you made a good impression.”

I looked at her and said, “Amanda, a good impression is when a guy introduces you to his parents and it goes well. ‘I wanna piece of your pussy’ sounds to me like a pretty different thing.”

Amanda laughed. “Well, they were going crazy seeing you like that. They were fawning over you.”

Being an object of sexualization seems sometimes close to being an object of worship. That’s the experience, both confounding and exhilarating.

The other thing I must mention is that Amanda was thrilled by all of it. She was very pleased.

different day

This afternoon I was attached to the wall in the entryway like a nude statue in a museum.

By late morning Amanda had gone into a distant head space. Three of four Zoom meetings canceled on her by eleven am and changed her whole day. She went into a funk, finding a distant planet somewhere to park her consciousness.

I knew her angst wasn’t directed at me. I waited silently. Sometimes you have to find the galaxy your mistress is in and go there with her.

I said nothing. Soon she understood I had found her planet, was with her in this, and expected nothing. We sat for a while. I was her puppy, her Irish Setter bitch, sitting beside her, faithful and quiet.

Later, she had me strip in the entryway, make myself naked, and line myself up against the wail. There she attached me, and I transformed from faithful puppy to art nude.

All day she wanted me to be a mindless thing. An object. And I was. She didn’t want language or thinking, but a statue. I became what she wanted. I sacrificed myself to the quiet objectification of her vibe.

Amanda left me there, went to the couch to read, then returned to look at me. I said nothing and made no sounds. She did this over and over. It was a dance of a different intimacy.

Later she unshackled me from the wall and had me sit on the floor by the couch. She said nothing. She played with my hair.

Some might say it was a wasted day.

questions: sexual object

I often get questions from watchers, followers, and friends in person and on email that circle around this subject of my being a sexual object. I have written on this other times before, but the questions keep on coming, and sometimes my answers change a little given my ongoing slavery and my further experiences.

Is it your experience that you are viewed as a sex object by most people most of the time?

Yes. Not everyone, but many know what I am, and so they have that context for me. And that’s a kind of permission, I think, for them to view me sexually, that is, through a lens that interprets me as a sub-slave and sees me a woman who is kept to be sexual and used sexually.

I make a slight distinction between “sex object” and “sexual object.” (Maybe it’s just a nerd-word thing.) I think “sex object” is about people looking at me and imagining literally having sex with me. I’m not sure that’s so often true, but then, I don’t know, and you would have to ask them. But “sex object” leads one to think of the act of sex. “Sexual object” encompasses much more, suggesting a constant life of being sexual, whether or not sex is part of it — one who lives in an existence of sexual presentation and permission and play.

Do you think people in regular life, strangers who meet you, detect what you are and see you as a sexual object?

Amanda tells me they do. But I think she’s kind of saying that to make me feel more aware of myself that way. I don’t know.

I do think that over time in the lifestyle you are conditioned to react and respond in certain ways that are submissive in nature. You sit a certain way, walk and stand a certain way. You are more passive and open in non-verbal patterns. Normals don’t necessarily know what that comes from, but they notice. They might think “there’s something different about her” in a way they can’t pinpoint.

So maybe I’m an open book even to strangers. I don’t really know.

How do you feel about being seen and approached by people as a sexual object?

It’s a mix.

Much of the time, it energizes me and arouses me. It can be very fun and enjoyable for me. I think my pleasure in being sexually objectified comes from my submissiveness — I am fulfilled submissively by being made to be sexual and being presented in sensual and sexual ways.

Yet it is, contradictorily, a kind of humiliation, a reduction of “me” to my physical body and sexuality — say, like my serving drinks while topless. There is in that a feeling of shame, mostly that I am allowing that to be done to me. Yet for a sub-slave, humiliation and shame are often also rewarding and exciting and satisfying. So it can feel “bad” but also feel pleasurable.

This is the submissive’s paradox.

You can laugh, but a part of me feels that being sexually objectified is a kind of therapy I can provide to others. I don’t mean to get too full of myself in this, but I believe that we live in a culture where people are afraid of and ashamed of their own sexualities. So many people are paralyzed sexually. If by encountering me they have some moment of pleasure in me as a sexual object, and if it opens them up, then I feel I’ve done something good. (To tell a secret, I have thought that in another life, I would find great meaning and value in being a sex therapist.)

On the down side, there is always the regret I am not more appreciated for my “other” skills. Being a sub-slave is a reduction of worth, and as a submissive, you have let go of higher expectations when you enter the lifestyle. You do, but some of that still remains. Amanda does a good job of touting my abilities and interests, though she likes to delver it as a backhanded compliment — “Shae not only has great tits, she’s a fine writer too.” (She says that to tease me, but she does say it.) My point is that even though I know what my lifestyle requires, and I willingly embrace my sexualization, maybe ten percent of the time I wish for more.

Do you get tired of being a sexual object?

I think the training and conditioning of a sub-slave gives her a greater capacity for this objectification from other people. I have been conditioned in this way, and I can handle a lot of it. I have developed a higher need-tolerance for being objectified and sexualized. That wasn’t true before I entered the life.

But I know how it sounds to other women — I used to be one! — and this all sounds pretty ridiculous and impossible, if not offensive. But again, it’s the nature of the lifestyle and its culture and my special reality of being a deep submissive.

Even for me, though, there are down times. At times I feel exhausted by it, and even turned off by it. I have my cycles, biological and otherwise, like every woman. But my down times are more like ten percent of the time, at different periods, so to speak.

Can you say more about pleasure and shame in being made into a sexual object and being viewed that way by everyone?

There’s an important difference between guilt and shame. Guilt is about your own sense that you’ve done something bad. Long ago, I let go of my sense of this life as being wrong, as being sin. I just don’t believe that anymore. So I don’t think that being a sexual object, a woman of sensual and sexual identity, is a bad thing that I do. I have come to a point where I don’t have to overcome within myself a moral objection to it. So it’s not for me a feeling of guilt.

But shame is different. Shame is a sense of being judged publicly and socially, by others, as being bad in comparison. I feel shamed many times in the course of my submissive life. Being seen and treated as a sexual object is a kind of public humiliation, though, as I’ve said, there is pleasure and fulfillment in it too. I don’t think what I’m doing is wrong, but I am aware I am judged and looked down on by a social world — which believes that a normal (or good or respectable) woman does not do such things.

I have come to believe that feeling shame and humiliation in the sub-slave life are necessary and important. It will always feel this way to me, and it will always need to. That’s another subject entirely.

In being viewed by friends and strangers as a sexual object, I feel humiliated and shamed. Even as I enjoy it rather immensely.

hurt so good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

floor lamp

This is an experience I wrote about a year ago, but never posted. It was back when I was still with Master Michael. It’s all true and accurate to how the conversation happened, but it turned out to be a little silly. Still, masters and slaves can have fun. I am shaking the dust off this, and posting it now. This was just a humorous exchange on a very casual evening.

At certain time, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.

So, Master Michael starts talking to me last night about an idea he has.

We are sitting in the reading room. He is reviewing a business plan from work. I am reading a novel titled The Paragon Hotel. It’s quiet and lovely tonight, even quaintly traditional, except that I am wearing a leather dog collar and a leash that drags on the floor noisily when I walk around.

So Master is saying that he feels he should be objectifying me more.

At first I say nothing, though I’m thinking this comes from a man who loves walking his slave girl nearly naked in public. But after a few moments, I cannot hold my tongue. “You know,” I say, “I haven’t been feeling particularly neglected in that department.”

“I mean literally an object,” he says, as if that clarifies anything.

I have put my book down and to my side, which is protocol, giving him my full attention. It’s annoying when you’re in the middle of a great book, but it has occurred to me that all human relationships would be improved by this practice. I am listening intentionally.

“Cameron was telling me about his latest idea for objectifying a girl,” Master says. “He’s very handy.”

Here it is. Another one of his friends has an idea for doing something to me. It’s not just him, but others too. They come up with these things. It’s a cottage industry. “Michael, have you thought of…?” and what follows invariably involves electricity and some kind of motor and remote control. They all live vicariously through Master Michael, and I am the object of their Rube Goldberg fantasies.

“He has become fascinated with human furniture,” Master continues. “He has construction plans for a number of such pieces. This latest is how he would make a floor lamp.” He pauses. “Out of a girl.”

I can’t help myself: “You make it sound like dismemberment is involved.”

He laughs. “Living human furniture,” Master emphasizes, as if that should be obvious.

Ah. I’m really not sure how to respond to this. Master is serious in tone, yet saying this to me for a reason. Is he thinking of this for real? Or is he just testing my reaction?

“He explained it to me,” Master says. “It’s all wood, cherry wood,” he says, “and you know he’s an excellent woodworker. So there’s a solid wood base, a large circle, that the girl would stand on. There would be hooks at the base for locking her to it with ankle straps.”

“Are my legs together or apart?” I ask.

“I didn’t say it would be you.”

I tilt my head and give him a look. It’s about as sarcastic as I can go with him, but we’re casual, and he doesn’t object.

He likes it and smiles. “OK, let’s say it’s you. Actually, he did mention you. Yes, it’s you… Why does feet together or apart matter?”

“If my legs are together, I’ll fall over, at least more likely to. Apart, I have more stability. Just saying.”

“Hmmm. But it doesn’t seem as if having your legs apart is quite so feminine and proper.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about my legs being apart.”

Master chuckles. “Touche. I mean as decor. It doesn’t look proper.”

“So he’s making me into a floor lamp, and you’re concerned about my stance not being proper enough?”

Master Michael smiles. “You make a point. But Cam is an artist, he wants you to look elegant.”

“With a shade on my head.”

“We’ll get to that.”

“Still. Trying to help here. Contributing to my own humiliation. I’m saying stability might be an issue.”

“Point taken. I’ll mention it to him. No one wants you falling over.”

“I’m glad to know that people care.”

He ignores my sarcasm and continues: “From the back of the base, a pole would extend vertically. Actually, he now wants it to be more substantial and sturdy than a dowel-sized pole, so he thinks it will be a foot wide with a curved front. His slave would stand with her back against it, and her hands would wrap behind and be tightly shackled in back to the pole. Farther up, the support would have a collar threaded through to fasten the girl’s — your — neck to it.”

I nod. “Well, sure,” I say, “you’d have to make sure I wouldn’t run away.”

Again, Master ignores my sass: “Toward the top of the back support would extend a lampshade. It would be height adjustable, and would be lowered over the girl’s — your — head.”

“Where’s the light?” I ask.

“So,” Master says, “glad you asked. The base would also contain a battery pack that would supply the power. Electrical wire would run through the middle of the back support. It would connect to a strap that contains a specialized ball gag — “

“With a light in it.”


“So I would be holding a light bulb in my mouth under a lampshade.”

“Yes. Something like that.”

I shake my head but have to laugh.

“There’s more, but what do you think so far?”

“The collar is redundant,” I say.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s redundant. I’m held to the back support by means of the ball gag light. You don’t need the collar as well. Besides, the collar would likely be hidden by the lamp shade, if you’re trying to make an impression. It wouldn’t show and isn’t necessary.:

“Good point. I’ll mention it.”

Again I am aiding and abetting the crime being plotted against me. “So, do you imagine a, uh, lamp that is dressed or undressed?”

“Cameron was imagining you undressed.”

“Well, with all respect, Sir, Cameron always imagines me undressed. That’s probably what got him into this human lamp business.”

“True. What’s your preference?” he asks me.

“I think I’m a dressed lamp.”

“Of course you would say that.”

“Please hear me out. Let’s say I’m dressed in one of my fifties-style shirt dresses, high heels, wearing pearls around my neck. Very retro. Then I become a kind of art piece, performance art maybe. Makes a statement. Very cool.”

“But if you’re undressed — “

“Then I look like something from Spencer’s Gifts.”

Master Michael laughs loud. After a bit, he composes himself and says, “But you’re so striking when you’re nude.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. But you say that to all your slaves.”

“Yes, I do,” Master says with a wry smile.

I shake my head, smiling.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think people want lamps with breasts.”

That makes me giggle. We’ve gotten silly now. “Strange,” I say, “that all these hundreds of years, millennia actually, starting with torches in caves, humankind has survived perfectly well with, well, standard floor lamps. But now in 2019 Cameron has a wet-dream idea for making a human floor lamp out of me and a plank of cherry wood — and suddenly society has an insatiable need for lamps with breasts.”

“Yep. That’s about right. I’m sure if I put the ‘Shae lamp’ in the lighting department at Walmart, it would be a bestseller.”

“Oh god. Now that is humiliating.”

“Because you’re a floor lamp?”

“No. Because I’m being sold at Walmart.”

And we go on and on. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.

“You said there’s more.” I say. “Dare I ask?”

“Right. Cameron has ideas for improvements.”

“Such as.”

“Another bulb between your legs. He hasn’t figured that out yet, but it would be a similar idea. One end inserted into your vagina and the outer part being a light bulb.”

“And I suppose the inner part would be vibrating,” I say.

“No, he hadn’t thought of that.”

Damn myself.

We have exhausted ourselves, our humor and repartee. We go back to reading. His head goes back into his newspaper, mine back into my novel. But after a minute, I put my book down and say, “He is joking, right?”

“No, Cameron is intent on it. He’ll make something like this. Whether it’ll work or not, don’t know.”

“But you, you’re not seriously thinking about this for me.”

“Hmmm,” Master says. He lowers his newspaper slightly, and I can see his jaw shift into his own unique, diabolical smile.

“Oh god,” I say. I pick up my book again. “Well, for the record, I vote no.”

Master is back behind his newspaper. “When did you ever get to vote?”

“Ah, Sir, that would be never.”

“You got that right, slave.”

I am smiling. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.