q and a: sex with me, p2, lesbian edition

Lots, lots of questions about my attraction to and relationship with Amanda and other women. Note that to some who asked questions, I have written separately to answer more personally.

You say your “sexual orientation is submissive,” if I understand you right. Does that mean you are attracted only to women who dominate you?

Yes to the first part: you understand me right. As I’ve written before, I believe my sexuality is driven by my submissive nature. As a result, I respond sexually to whatever, whomever is dominant.

But that doesn’t mean I’m attracted just to dominant women — it’s not that simple. I like other women as well.

I think for some there are social, cultural, maybe religious, resistances to same-sex attractions. That was me once. Once those were overcome — which happened through my own submissiveness and the life that put me in — intimacy with other women became possible and desirable. And maybe preferable.

Do you have crushes on other women? Are you attracted to women in the public arena — like movie stars, TV personalities, musicians?

Yes and yes. For obvious reasons, I won’t name names of anyone at Amanda’s workplace, or anyone I know likely reading my blog. But there are two, who will remain nameless, I have a bit of a crush on, I have to say.

In entertainment, I am over the moon for Christina Hendricks, currently of Good Girls on Netflix and formerly of Mad Men. I know this is because she reminds me so of Amanda, and also because she feels so strong (dominant?) to me. Another crush of mine is the actress Emma Stone.

I tend to be drawn to older women, older than me, again perhaps because of an impression of age dominance, or something — Catherine Zeta-Jones and Julianne Moore, for example.

And then Hollywood actresses of the forties and fifties, which readers know is an interest of mine. My heroine, Rita Hayworth. And Grace Kelly, oh my god.

You have been sexually shared with a friend and colleague of your Master. Do you think you might ever be sexually shared by Amanda with another woman?

Yes. Mistress Amanda has talked about it. I think it’s likely. I don’t know if it will be just me and another woman, or if it will include Amanda. Because of other things going on, I don’t think it will happen soon. But I don’t know.

I know the intent behind your question. You know I can’t make something happen on my own, and can’t choose someone myself, much as I might like to. It will be Amanda who decides whenever this happens and who it is with.

Your relationship with your Mistress often seems romantic. Do you feel that with your Master as well? Or do you think you can only feel a romantic attraction to other women?

Wow. That’s an insightful question! A lot to unpack there.

My relationship with Mistress Amanda not only seems romantic, it is romantic. We dance around that, and I am coy with that in my writing, I know, but we both are well aware and acknowledge that to each other. Our relationship, however, is many other things as well, and it is important for me to engage with all the dimensions of who Amanda and I are, not just one. She wants all of it from me, not just one part.

My relationship with Master K is not romantic in that sense, and I say that knowing he would not want me to think or say that it is. That is not to say, at least in a D/s sense, that his relationship with me is lacking or less. He dominates me profoundly, and there is a lot of submissive girl in me that swoons in that. He is wonderful in his pounding power.

But the last question — if I feel “romantic” only with women — is prescient, as the answer of it might be yet to be determined. I don’t know. I think my “lesbian life” is evolving and much is yet to be discovered.

My previous slavery was under Master Michael, and I think it was obvious that I had romantic attractions to him. So I don’t think that, for me, romantic attraction is either/or as pertains to gender. Yet, I admit, I feel I am more inclined toward women in a romantic way.

That is, if I can imagine a life in which I actually dated someone, it is with another woman. If I imagine a Valentine’s Day, it is gift-wrapping chocolates for a woman, who has become the love of my life. If I imagine a wedding, I am the bride to a woman who is my Mistress.

These are thoughts, feelings, dreams, fantasies. More than I should share, probably.

Amanda comes home

She arrives home at about 7:30 after happy hour with friends.

I am in the sun room, reading a book. I listen to her go through her usual entry routine: she sets her briefcase down, rifles through the mail on the table in the front hallway, walks through the atrium and living room, then stops briefly in the kitchen. I hear her then go to the east wing of the house where our bedrooms are.

I stand from the settee where I’ve been sitting. I wait there imagining Amanda hopefully seeing the newly made bed with clean sheets, and the empty laundry basket, and then her shoes set out, cleaned and polished. I am hopeful, though I cannot allow myself to expect a miracle.

I do hear Amanda opening one of her dresser drawers, then another. Perhaps she is seeing her clean clothes, folded.

I wait. Nothing. I hear her in the bathroom.

Disappointed, I sit down again, pick up my book, although my mind has no capacity for reading right now.

It’s maybe ten minutes later, and I hear Amanda leave her bathroom and open her closet door. I presume she is changing into something to lounge in for the evening.

Minutes later, she calls, “Shae.”

I cannot detect from her voice what her frame of mind is. I call out in response, “Yes, ma’am!”

I quickly make my way toward the east wing, and come to the doorway of the drawing room. She stands in the doorway on the other side.

“You washed sheets and made the bed,” she states.

“Yes, ma’am.” I cannot read her tone or demeanor.

And you did my laundry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She pauses for the longest time. “Thank you,” she finally says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

She nods, now in appreciation. “And you polished my shoes.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope you didn’t clean them with your—”

“No, I chose the more traditional way,” I say.

“Thank god,” she says, now tilting her head and forming a slight smile. “I’ve been concerned you’d get sick from all the dirt and crap you ingested.”

“I’ve been praying there was no actual crap involved.”

We stand in silence, just looking at each other. I so want there and then to run across the room into her arms. But that would be a Hallmark movie (their new lesbian series), not real life.

“Shae, I’m tired,” she says, “I want to lie down on the sofa in the sun room. I want to read or just fall asleep. I don’t want to talk.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take my book into my bedroom. I can read there.”

“No, I want you to sit on the floor beside me.”

I nod, my heart soaring. “I would like that.”

“I just don’t want to talk about anything.”

“I understand. I’ll try to keep my silent reading especially silent.”

She laughs. It feels so good to hear her laugh again.

In fact, we do just that. She reads her book a while as I sit on the floor beside her reading mine. She then sets her book down, sighing deeply from her long day. And her difficult week. As she falls asleep, she fingers my hair, coiling a strand from my shoulder around her index finger.

late night

Master and Mistress got home late last night.

I learned later that they had gone to dinner with friends, then to a play, and then to a pub for drinks. It seemed they had a good time — they were laughing when they walked in.

They were surprised to see me still up. I asked if I could get them anything, perhaps a drink. They told me they just had drinks. Master K said he was heading straight to bed. I saw Amanda look at him and give a slight nod.

Mistress did indeed notice my high heels. “Nice,” she said.

Leaving them, I curtseyed, and headed to my bedroom for the night.

Minutes later Mistress appeared at my bedroom doorway. “I want you in my bed tonight. Come with me.” She took my hand and led me to her bedroom, having me sit on the foot of her bed. She knelt in front of me, reaching for my right foot, taking my ankle into her hands. “You’ve been wearing these all day,” she said. “Your ankles are swollen.”


She removed my shoe and rubbed my foot and then my ankle. It felt strange for her to be doing this, serving me, but her massage of my ankle felt heavenly. Then she did the same with my left shoe and ankle. I sighed.

She stood, reached for my hand, and pulled me up to her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I knew you’d notice.”

She nodded and smiled. “So, ” she said, “I have to go to Kevin tonight. For awhile.”


“I want you to make yourself naked and climb into my bed. Go to sleep. I will be back later tonight. I’ll try not to wake you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I could see no clock when I awakened, so I don’t know what time it was she returned to the bedroom. I felt her climb into bed with me. I could smell on her the faint scent of Master K’s aftershave. She nestled into me, her naked breasts flattening against my back. Her arms came around and her hand cupped my breast. She whispered, “You held me when I was sick. Now my turn to hold you.”

Maybe I nodded or whispered something. I don’t remember. I fell asleep in her arms.

reflection sunday

It has been a quiet Sunday for me, which is probably a good thing. I have needed time to replenish, physically and mentally. Not that my life is so constantly in service to domination — that’s a misconception — but a slave rarely gets a “day off,” and when circumstances conspire to provide one, it is welcome.

I had thought maybe Master K would spend some time with me practicing my newly developing skill of mobile fellatio, but no, he had other plans to watch basketball with guy friends. OK. (If you really think that’s a better gig.) He looked in on Mistress Amanda, who is really is sick, bless her, with a cold flu, and he asked if she needed him at home to care-take. She said no, she had me to tend to her needs, which in any other context I would interpret as a double entendre, but today it is just literally true. She needs me as a nurse.

She is coughing and sniffling and running a slight fever and feeling like hell. So I have been her nurse and caretaker. Handmaiden. And mostly this is about making her tea and toast and plates with slices of fruit, administering Day-Quil, taking her temperature, and lying in bed with her on occasion as she wishes to have me hold her.

In fact, I find great meaningfulness in this day of caring for Amanda.

In general, I believe my slavery to others brings joy and pleasure — joy in my humiliation and pleasure in my sex — and I find life meaning in that, in being what I am to them. Yet such sex and submission are so ephemeral. They are momentary experiences that thrill but fade. It is what I have to do and be, and others benefit from my submissive need. Yet, for one day (and maybe tomorrow too), I am nursing a woman, whom I care very much about, through an illness. I feel I am doing some good in making her misery less miserable.

Again I am her handmaiden, as she calls me. Amanda is serious yet ironic in calling me that. A maiden in old times was a virgin, A handmaiden was a young virgin who served another, usually the mistress of the house. When Amanda is well, I bathe her and attend to her toilette. Now when she is ill, I nurse her and tend to her wellness. I am her handmaiden in both, and her secret smile in all of it is that I am far from a virgin, being defiled many times over. It is her secret way of defining me as what I am clearly not, her private joke about my promiscuous journey. She knows I know, that I get it, and that I smile at her dominant definition of me.

Amanda has had a few patches of “mistress” lucidity today, deciding this morning that she wanted me to be nude as I cared for her. White slave collar and a white sash around my waist and white high heels. Maybe the splashes of white are some semblance of a nurse’s uniform. Or else a suggestion of bridal virginity, Amanda’s ironic fashion statement. But in her condition, probably none of the above. “You just want to see my pussy,” I told her.

She nodded. “Your breasts too,” she replied in a raspy, nasal voice. “I like the way they move.”

Whatever. I realized I could be submissive and still put my hands on my hips, and dare some sarcasm: “Do you want me to jump rope as well?”

She had no quick reply, which is how I know how sick she is. Normally, she’d smile, say yes, and hand me a rope.

Obedient just enough, I’ve been nude most of the day, which is a small way I can lessen her misery. In her fever dreams she can fantasy about my pussy. But I haven’t jumped rope.

Amanda has slept for long stretches, and I’ve had times to think and write — although I confess when I’m not in her bedroom, I put on a long sweater. Some parts of this house are cold. I need the warmth around my shoulders. Below not so much. It’s just enough to help me think a bit.

I have been in my slavery to Master and Mistress for a little more than a month now. In basic terms, I must say that I am safe and content and happy.

I am still figuring out Master K, but he is using me now, not neglecting me, which is what I felt at first. He is, I realize, living the life of a man who owns an independent life — and a slave girl at his pleasure. I am nothing to him but his sex slave, and I cannot expect otherwise. And, of course, his firm, resolute distance play the strings of my submissiveness and sound the music of my slave desire. The more dispassionate he is, the more this slave wants him, which is the symphony he knows and performs so well. He engages me to practice fellatio on him, but doesn’t allow himself to come, in me or on me. I walk away able to think of nothing other than that. He knows the psychology of a slave — that it makes me all the more determined next time to make myself worthy of his seed.

Of course, Amanda is something else, a delicious conundrum, a beguiling mystery. And she has made me into a confusion of lovely roles , all of which I adore. She dominates me firmly, commanding my obedience, and compelling my submission. Yet she is infatuated with me, letting me lie with her as a lover licking her juicy cunt, and allowing me to bring her to whimpering orgasms. She dares to tease me with thoughts of a wedding and wifery, which, if with her, are strangely appealing. She is not serious, not really, or at least I think not, but it is a fantasy of sorts that we dance together while we live out the real life of slave and mistress — a fantasy that others would pay to watch in person. Sometimes one has to try hard not to say I love you. This relationship is an intricate web of need and desire and complication. One needs to be careful.

And I think of Master Michael, the man who still commands my heart from so far a distance of separation and situation. I think about him, and I believe he is thinking of me. If there is a master of masters, he is the one. I know now he placed me in this new slavery for reasons I knew nothing of. It is the further training of me as a slave under new dominants with different styles. It is the actual experience of literally being sold to another as property. And it is the wise understanding he had that I needed the special dominance and love of a woman.

How did he know all of that? Only because he knew me.

this afternoon

Amanda came home late morning from her brunch with friends. “I’m tired and not feeling well,” she said. “My throat is scratchy. Could I possibly have you make me some tea?”

I’m thinking irreverently, Mistress you own my ass, and certainly you can order me to make you a cup of tea. But she’s in no mood and seems genuinely under. “Of course,” handmaiden Shae says. “What else can I get you?”

“Nothing. I’m going to take a nap. Would you bring it to me in my bedroom? A little honey in it please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She disappears into that side of the house and I heat water for the tea. Ten minutes later I have her hot, honeyed tea on a tray at the door of her bedroom. She has changed into a burgundy sleep shirt and is just climbing under the covers. I set the tray on her bed stand. She looks really tired.

She leans over and sips the tea. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s perfect.” She takes another sip. She closes her eyes as it coats her throat.

“Anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

She takes more tea. “This feels good.”

“I’m glad.”

“Shae, I don’t want to get you sick, but…”

“But what?”

“Sleep with me? No, I shouldn’t ask. I don’t want you sick.”

“Not a question. Of course.” Standing by the bed, I unbutton my blouse and take it off. I unzip my skirt in back and step out of it. I slip out of my heels. Naked, I crawl into bed alongside her.

We lie facing each other. Her hand traces an imaginary line down the slope of my breast and in circles around my areola. “I told my friends about you,” she says. “They already knew in general that I was getting you. But I told them about you more specifically.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you are beautiful, adorable, and obedient.”

“That makes me sound like a Stepford wife.”

She laughs. “And what part of that do you have a problem with? Stepford? Or wife?”

“Stepford,” I say.

“They were obedient.”

“Obedient and brainwashed. I am obedient and fully aware of my humiliations.”

“Yes you are,” she says softly. “So no Stepford. You don’t have a problem with wife?

“Not at all. Especially if I’m yours, my goddess.”

She smiles. “I like that answer.” She then starts to say something more, but I put my finger to her lips. “Turn over.” I say. “Let me hold you. You need to fall asleep.”

It’s close to an order, soft as it might be. But she accepts it and turns over. I spoon myself against her and stretch my arm around her. Her hand finds mine.

Soon she falls asleep.


Monday, late morning. We’re in the old cafe downtown, sitting together on the same side of a wooden booth in the corner, sipping lattes. We are talking at the moment about childhood vacation experiences, laughing at things that went wrong while camping. Amanda is telling about her parents trying to pitch a tent in a state park at midnight in a thunderstorm. The way she tells it, capturing their frantic dialogue, is hilarious.

We’re laughing together. We’re holding hands.

This is a small mountain town, although tourism gives it some seasonal size and swells its offerings of shops and restaurants and coffee shops like this one. This cafe is Amanda’s favorite with me, although I wonder about other girls she’s maybe been here with. She kinda knows the owner, Casey, at least enough to earn his goodwill in looking the other way when we’re kissing.

Amanda sweeps my hair from my face. I love it when she does that.

We talk about something else, I forget. Oh, high school. How I was into English and lit. She was more math and science, which surprises me. She gets a kick out of learning I was a cheerleader.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I said.

“Too late” she replies. “That’s gotta be a new outfit for you.”

“Oh god,” I say. ”Walk me down main street naked, but please don’t humiliate me by putting me in a cheerleader uniform.”

She laughs hard at this. She is so beautiful.

Our conversation pauses. She leans close to my lips, and we kiss. It’s a slow kiss, lingering, one that finishes yet starts again before we pull away. Her lips are warm, moist, velvety. Her arm stretches across my body and holds me around my waist. I put my arm on her shoulder, letting it disappear in the cascade of her dark brown hair.

There is something especially lovely about the fact that we have a place and a time for just this. Amanda has every opportunity to take me to bed, or to mistress me and have my body in dominant ways. This is not about sex. It is about holding hands, kissing, and whispering. Only that. Which is a little bit wonderful.

We kiss again. Another long kiss that waits and continues, waits again, then continues.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the owner, Casey, with our lattes. “Don’t let me interrupt. I have your drinks.”

Amanda never moves her arm from my waist, and my hand remains on her shoulder. We simply turn our heads to Casey, acknowledging his presence.

“Casey,” Amanda says. “What do you think of my girl here?”

“She’s beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you,” Amanda says. “Yes, she is.”

“You both are. You make a gorgeous couple.”

“What a sweet thing to say.”

“Well, you are. When are you two getting married?” he asks.

Without missing a beat, Amanda says, “We haven’t set a date yet.”

I’m now blushing. I bury my head into Amanda’s shoulder.

“Well,” Casey says, “my best to you in that.” He feigns a tip of the hat and walks away.

I start giggling. “So,” I whisper to her, “you already have me as your slave and submissive and your handmaiden and your girlfriend and your lover. Now you’re going to have me as your wife?”

Amanda laughs. “You better start picking out invitations.”

I giggle again and pull her to me, kissing her with all my heart.

timeline and observations

I have been absent from posting for a while, and I apologize to those who follow me on this blog. As you know, last month I was sold by my former master to a dominant couple. They took possession of me three weeks ago, on February 24.

My first week with them was odd, partly because, for Master K and Mistress Amanda, the process of acquiring me, collecting me and my things, and transporting me into their home, required them to be away from work for nearly the entire week before. They each are the heads of small companies, Master K managing a network of construction firms, and Mistress Amanda leading a startup HR service for small businesses. As it happened, as soon as they landed with me back home, they were needed night and day by their employees.

So I barely saw them that first week. I had some time to write but not much to write about, though I was deeply affected, in a lovely way, by the intimate experience of bathing Amanda, which I did write about. And since then, there is more, much more for me to share with you about her, and me.

It was the end of that first week that I had my first real slave experience with Master K. It was difficult, wonderful, remarkable, brtual. I have been writing that, and will post it, but I’ve taken my time to do so, as it needs to be right. Likewise my other experiences with Mistress Amanda.

After that first week, both of my owners have been more present, and I have settled in to a reasonably comfortable slavery to them. Much to learn, though, about their preferences and their very different approach to daily life — namely that they don’t observe regular schedules or repeatable routines. They both operate on the pragmatism of the moment, their own personal needs and desires from hour to hour. With Master Michael, every day started with 7:30 coffee, and I was told schedules and requirements for my day and week. With Master K and Mistress Amanda, it is much more whimsical. That’s not any sort of complaint. Just a factual observation.

Meanwhile I’ve been kept busy, both as their slave and also as their slave tapped for clerical duties. Both of them have assured me they didn’t acquire me for business purposes, but I have some professional skills they have used me for, and some business urgencies for them caused them to put me to good use. Even in that, I have been collared and often made topless, just to reinforce my status even as I am doing professional work.
those urgencies have been handled, and I am back to the usual humiliation of being a more pedestrian slave girl. But this gives me time to write again. And there are repeated assurances from my owners that they want me to write. In fact they really want me to write about them, me with them.


It is too simple to say that Master K has possessed my body, and Amanda has captured my heart.

Maybe the first half of that is the most fully true. Master K has taken me, physically and sexually, in ways that are forceful and hard and taming. It is his right, and my submissive body responds to him utterly and shamefully. He is Oliver to my Lady Chatterly, not in the class status of that novel, but in his primal possession of me. He uses me for his basic physical and sexual needs, according to his timing and urgencies. I forget who said in Lady Chatterly “body without mind is brutish,” but there is a brute cowboy in Master K and his way with me is impulsive and rough and sexual. But, to be clear, he would never hurt me and I am not afraid with him. Quite the contrary my body wants it and submits to his reality.

Meanwhile Mistress Amanda has me very confused, in the most lovely way. She took me into her bed Thursday of that first week, and since then I have been her slave and her lover and her girlfriend. I am not always sure when to call her Mistress and when to call her Amanda. It’s true she has captured my heart. I’ll write more about that soon. But in truth, she owns my body too, though in a more natural and gentle way than Master K. The bondage room is his playground with me. Mistress and I have not yet been in the bondage room together. Her playground with me is the bath and the bedroom — and the cafe in town where we sip lattes and hold hands. We are adorable together.


Other items of note:

–Mistress Amanda has a friend who writes for some online publications. She has arranged for him to interview me and to observe me in my slave life. They’re working out a day for this to happen. Probably sometime this week. Different.

–I have been told that my time with Master K and Mistress Amanda will be six months to a year. This was not a surprise to me after I arrived here, as it was clear they had made changes in their lives that were more permanent than a month or so. Now that I’m in their servitude, many of my former fears have been assuaged, and this news is not distressing to me. I miss Master Michael, but I am assured he will be in my life again. Apparently, Master and Mistress have taken me for six months with an option for a full year. Beyond that, their life situations might change, Master Michael’s situation might change, and who knows. This is how it works. In slavery, you learn to accommodate these things, reminding yourself that you are not in control.

–Master K and Mistress Amanda have decided they want to have my nipples pierced. They “have a guy,” and they are trying to schedule me next week. I think this is in part their desire to make their mark on me, my body. I am glad it’s not ink.

–Finally, speaking of Master Michael, I received an email letter from him which was truly wonderful. He reassured me about so many things. And he revealed more of the multiple reasons why putting me into a different slavery was a necessary thing for my development. I am hoping to share this letter on my blog here. But it was a missive from heaven, as far as I’m concerned.

recent questions

Followers online and offline have asked questions. Some of my responses:

Is Shae your slave name? What is your real name?
No, I don’t have a separate slave name. My real (birth) name is Shae — Shae Maura Madigan. This is the only name I’ve ever gone by — in my professional life in real estate as well as in my slavery.

What do you call your Master? Do you ever call him by his first name?
I am permitted to call him “Master” or “Sir” or “Master Michael.” Each is generally used corresponding to the tone or formality of the context in which I’m with him. There are some rare situations in which he needs to be vanilla — that is, where others do not know his dominant lifestyle, and this do not know that I am his slave — in which case I am introduced as his assistant, and I then refer to him as “Mr. Malone.”

What does your Master call you? How does he address you? What names does he have for you?
He often just calls me “slave.” Sometimes “slave girl.” And he will frequently just call me “shae.” He goes through periods when he has a a favorite slang name for me. Currently I am “slave toy.” A month ago, I was “bumbles.” And last summer I was “tits.” He likes conditioning me to respond to those terms, and he enjoys his friends using the same name with me. So one of his friends will call me “tits,” and I reflexively turn toward him in response. Master gets a kick from seeing that. Right.

Why are you writing a blog online?
Two reasons: First I am a writer (or trying to be one). Master Michael has graciously encouraged me to spend time writing and as suggested that writing a blog online would be good exercise for me, which it is. Second, Master’s goal for me is to make me known to everyone publicly as a slave in slavery — and writing online, exposing my slave life to everyone, is a step in achieving that goal.

You’ve referred to a previous career in real estate? Why would you leave that?
Yes, I founded my own business, a real estate agency, when I was 26. I am proud of that, although it was never very big, just me at first, but later a few others. It was marginally profitable and modestly successful. I succeeded as a professional woman in a world of professional people, often men. I am proud of that.

But I left my career for several reasons. The one (and really only) reason is that I am an extreme submissive and I got to a point where I felt I just had to pursue my submissiveness, my alternative sub sexuality, and a life in which my submissive nature was cared for. Women leave careers to get married, have babies. I left my career to become a slave. OK, it’s way different and bizarre to most people, but to me it’s equivalent.

There are other reasons in the background. I had gotten tired and bored with my career. Ultimately real estate is a rat race of selling and reselling property. Then too, I turned thirty, and then past thirty, and I wondered if I would ever really experience my submissive sexuality fully. Also I met a dominant man, Master Michael, who is extraordinary, and I wanted to be a submissive part of his life…

Who else knows you are a sex slave? Friends, family? What do they think? How do they respond to you now?
This is probably a longer answer than I can address adequately here. But I’ll try a short version.

It was a condition of my acceptance (by Master) as a slave that I tell everyone I knew that I am a submissive, am entering a life of being dominated, and am committing myself to a lifetime of slavery. Now, there has been allowance for that message to be softened and modified somewhat to make sense to people who don’t understand what this life is. But there is a practical reason for doing this — Master doesn’t want there to be any room for someone thinking he has abducted me, or controlled me apart from my consent, or put me under any sort of mental or drugged influence. It’s important too be open with everyone.

Of course that’s often embarrassing and humiliating to me. But then again, that’s part of what being a slave is, and it was and still is a condition of my entry into slavery under Master Michael.

So, Master Michael has actually met my mother and sat down with her. She, at 61, wants desperately to be relevant and modern and hip, and so her version of what this is goes to “50 Shades” and the idea that Master Michael is my romantic version of “Mr. Grey.” She has no problem with the kinky parts. And, at one point she is sitting at the table in her kitchen, saying to Master Michael that when I was a girl she “never spanked me enough, so he should be sure to spank me often to keep me in my place.” True story. Now, I am humiliated, like, every day of my life now, but that left my freckled Irish face as deeply red as my hair. Master Michael charmed the stockings off my mother and they are best buds. (And, yes, I have since been spanked more often.)

Less of a story is my older, estranged brother. Long story. Sad story. I have little contact with him anyway, but I told him, and he thinks I’m a whore. So, perhaps a lesson to other subs and slaves — not everyone approves. And you will be ridiculed and demeaned by some.

Most of my professional colleagues, especially my real estate associate, Carol, have been very supportive. She remains a dear friend. Sam and Elise and Josie and Tom responded so very well, and we remain friends and see each other often. Most of them are, understandably, curious about what happens in my life, but they are respectful. I find there are issues of what I tell them and what I don’t. It’s not always the acceptable conversation at parties or happy hours.

There have been some in my former professional life who have not responded so well. Many are judgmental. Although I get that. I’m not really so offended by such reactions.

Whew… long answer!

Do you feel alone in your slavery? Do you have friends?
That’s a great question. It’s divine provision that my Master is experienced and wise about caring for a slave girl like me. Isolation and depression can be real problems for submissives and slaves. He knows that and has insisted on me developing a social life.

So, I do have a number of friends, and I get together with one or another of them pretty much every few days. Some are outside the lifestyle, others are in it themselves. Carol and others I mentioned above are people I get together with frequently. Within the lifestyle, I am very close to Lily, Ashley, and Susan, and see them often, as their slaveries permit. I’m part of a reading group that meets once a month. I also, believe it or not go to church. I’m a very spiritual person. Will write about that separately.

Thanks be to Master Michael who allows and encourages such a social life for his slave.

Is your relationship with your Master romantic? Are you in love with him?
I get this a lot. I understand why people ask. To tell the truth, It’s probably the most difficult question for me to answer.

The problem is that most people don’t have any categories other than “friends” and “couples” and “marriage.”

Living with a person who dominates you is more intimate and personal than most, maybe all, marriages. Yet it is not a marriage.

My feelings about Master Michael are my own. I understand a Master’s feelings about a slave are different, perhaps. I don’t expect the same feelings from him. I don’t think a Master and slave should have a traditional romantic relationship. We don’t go on dates. He has relationships with other women. I am a slave, and I cannot have other romantic relationships. And I don’t want to.

Yes, I have strong feelings for Master Michael. I am an extreme submissive and respond sexually and emotionally to strong dominants.

This is complicated.