Last fall, as Amanda and I were moving, setting up house, starting a business, wooing my mother, and settling into a new life together, the formality of my slaveness to Mistress fell away. The practice of our D/s life together was less constant. There were domme-sub times, of course, but fewer, less defined, and we somewhat let go of our usual forms of address, “mistress” and “slave.”

In fact, I was no less submissive to her, no less her slave during this time. I am submissive 365, not by will or effort but by nature. (I can’t not be submissive, whether owned or unowned, whether actively dominated or not, whether bound or free. My constant inclination is to submit to any other person around me, which apart from a slave master or mistress, is dangerous and leaves me susceptible. For me and others like me, there is a saving grace in being owned by another, for then I am protected from my own submissive vulnerability. But I am digressing….)

My point is that with Amanda I am always submitted to her even if the formality of my slave relationship to her is not always observed. Submission, as I have said many times before, is not only what you do, but what you are. But last fall, while we had our D/s moments, there was simply so much to get done, so much new in our lives to handle, and so much travel that Amanda didn’t have the energy to formally direct me so often as her slave — nor would I have had the energy to observe her dominance in the best, satisfying way.

We never talked about this. It just happened, how we “did” ourselves just flowed naturally into a pragmatic relationship of getting things done.

We hit 2020. After New Year’s Day, it felt intuitively that season of our lives ended. We seem now to be in another pattern. Again it’s changing naturally, this time back into a more formal observance of my slaveness to her.

This week I’ve been working side by side with Amanda at the office, going to lunch meetings and business appointments with her. Our work life together has been conducted as colleagues. For now, anyway, Amanda wishes the office and work to be observed this way.

But as we leave the job in the evenings heading home in the car, I address her as “Mistress.” I say, “Mistress, what would you like when we get home?” or “Mistress, what may I fix you to drink at home?”

And she says, “I would like my slave to draw me a bath” or “I want you to serve me a gin-and-tonic.”

We fall into our comfortable pattern of dominance and submission.

I address her as “Mistress” not because she’s told me to or because we agreed to do it this way. I do so because I want to, need to. After a day of feigned equality, I need my Mistress again, my submissive fix. My natural way of being with her is as her submissive property — that’s what feels right to me. Being her colleague at work has its pleasure too, but that’s unnatural to me and requires effort.

Likewise, as she gets into the car with me, leaving the office behind, she naturally responds from her domme soul to my submissive posture. She receives me as if I am an offering to her, and she morphs into her always beautiful dominance. And soon, after all day being colleagues, we are home, mistress and slave, and I am serving her a gin-and-tonic in the bathtub.

For me, there are two lessons in this.

A D/s relationship finds its own pattern and definition. I for one have always wanted to have definitions of my sub-slave relationship to my master or mistress. I have desired clear lines and labels and boundaries. But a D/s relationship becomes what it must be, what slave and goddess crave it to be together. Amanda has always known this. I am still learning. I don’t need to define it. It just happens, finding its own kaleidoscopic design.

The other lesson is that dom-sub relationships, like most relationships, simply go through different seasons. Some D/s seasons are more active, some more passive. Sometimes the seasons are endlessly long, and other times way too short. Sometimes there are no leaves on the trees and the landscape is icy. Other times there is fresh life, and the D/s relationship springs anew.

Many times the life that emerges is different from before, and the relationship requires us to change and adapt and make it beautiful in a whole new way.


Tonight the air is cooler, a sure sign of fall. There’s a swirl of wind. The trees rustle. Right now as I sit here, the sun holds on to the day, but barely, starting to spread and glow along the horizon. It will get chilly soon.

It is a change of seasons for me as well.

Amanda has me wearing a strapless bandeau midi dress, in deep scarlets and oranges, a pattern that is both floral and paisley. The fabric is frightfully thin, draping my curves and flowing around and between me in the breeze.

Amanda regrets not thinking of a bandeau dress for me earlier in the summer — so easy to pull the top down and reveal my breasts in the car, but easy to cover up again quickly. Mistress, though, is not about flashing, but about revealing. She wants people, strangers, to stare at me and consume. And she wants me to go through the time-consuming process of taking something off or putting something on — a conditioning of me that blurs the line between public and private. Even so, this is a convenient dress for her to have me in. Amanda bought me two of these bandeau dresses on sale, and I’m guessing she’ll have me in the other one tomorrow at the cafe.

My hair has grown out fuller after its recent trim — enjoying its seven days of perfect until it starts into messy again — and it tumbles over my bare shoulders. My hair, like me, needs to be tamed over and over again —bound to the will of curlers just as Amanda has me wrapped around her finger. Eventually we both — my hair and I — emerge from the shaping “salon,” styled and trained to stay in place.

This evening I’m in high heels, the fashionable bondage — four-inch pumps in a wine red that match my bandeau dress. These make it hard for me to get out of the patio lounge chair but somehow make me more fuckable, which to Amanda’s mind is perfect for me.

A few days ago, I was “theirs.” Now, after the decisions made, I am “hers.” Of course, I have always been hers in practice and presence, and to Master K have always just been his sex toy. But there has been an impression of his ownership of me too: this has always felt like a joint custody.

Now it is different. Just in these couple of days since our conversations in the park, the season has changed. Amanda, and Amanda alone, owns me, and the feeling is subtle but palpable. Amanda feels it too and is starting to handle me differently.

She is making me into an image she has for me.

She always has dressed me; I’ve always worn the clothes she’s laid out for me. But this is different somehow, as if she’s not just dressing me, but making me into something, not just controlling what I wear but controlling precisely how I appear to others.

I am wearing a collar tonight. I often wear collars of course, but this is made of sateen, with a lock in front, a measure of elegant. It too is wine red, the color of my heels and dress.

And my lipstick, also chosen by her, is the same scarlet wine, glistening.

I perhaps have looked like this before, though I feel this is different. I am “put together” in a different way. I think this is an image Amanda has in her head. I think she is making me look like an image she imagines of me or of a slave she wishes me to be. And she can do this because she owns me, solely, completely, utterly. I am hers now, no one else’s.

Another breeze picks up and swirls under my dress. It billows up then settles again.

The winds are changing. It feels like a new season.