Master McKenna, me, and sex: 1

Several notes:

First, this is a work-in-progress, and will be three parts or so…

Second, in the recalling of my times with Master McKenna, I confess there is a sequence of training sessions I am confused about. That is, my after-notes are messed up, and at least one is missing. Further, the individual sessions have blended in my mind. He often at the beginning of a new session reviews what I’d learned in the previous session, and this makes the distinctions from session to session blurry in my recollection. All to say that I may have in previous posts referred to a training session by a particular number in the sequence, but that may have been wrong.

Third, this is posted with permission of Master McKenna. In fact, I asked him to review this to be sure it would not be an issue in my ongoing servitude to him. He has approved it, and has made no edits or requested changes.

I have been reserved in sharing publicly my sexual experience with Master McKenna — or more rightly put, his sexual uses of me. I haven’t been shy about this for my own sake, but I’ve wanted to capture his character and dominance first without coloring it with things sexual. As he said to me once in that Sensei way of his, “Sex with a slave is not the point but the process.”

Which is not to say he hasn’t had me sexually — he has. But his sexual activity with me indeed has been part of his process of mastering me, shaping and molding me to him, his making me sex gradually becoming my ultimate submission to his mastery of me.

Let me talk about this a little…

Master McKenna kept me fully clothed during my first three or four sessions with him. As I’ve written before, he focused first on my sitting, standing, and walking, then on protocols — speech and forms of address, then on my behaviors with him in various social situations.

Of course, he had me in short-short skirts and tight sheer tops and high heels, his male-dom preference for me. So, yes, he mad me sexual to him like this, but I remained clothed nonetheless.

I was also well aware that this practical training of my everyday presentation was much about conditioning me to move my body as pleased him — which itself had a sexual undercurrent. Being able to stand cleanly from a sitting position (my new skill!) is, on the one hand, his version of simple slave etiquette. Yet, on the other hand, it’s the public proof of his precise control of my body — suggesting to observers other ways he might command my body to bend and behave — and open up.

(A quick aside: I went through two sessions of this training by him and it seemed to me very technical and physical and extraneous to his domination of me. Yet at the end of the day, I realized that by training my body, say, to walk a precise way to his side and a step behind, he had gotten into my head. I had the distinct awareness he was inside me, by means of my training.)

Still, my first number of sessions with Master McKenna were free of overt sexual expressions. In fact, in that time, I don’t believe he ever actually touched me. If so, it was to position me as he wished me to stand or sit, but even in that, I don’t recall he ever did.

I do remember that by session three or so I wanted him to touch me. This isn’t to say I specifically longed for him in some sexual way. Well, not yet. But I was in a process of being “fitted” to him, and in that is a kind of early intimacy that draws you in. I desired to feel his touch, not necessarily a sexual way such as fondling my breasts, but even just his hand on my arm or shoulder.

Session four, as I recall, was about training me to undress on command. Of course, this is the story of my life under Amanda, but the question was if I could transfer to him the same immediate response to his “undress” commands. Again this was a certain degree of rote repetition — my taking my top off over and over in the course of doing other things — and in this there is a Pavlovian kind of learning.

So it became “Shae, top off,” or “Shae, skirt off,” then “Shae, undress” — all with an eye to some private group or board he will entertain in some future moment. This was a role play at times in the Great Room, with Master McKenna uttering “top off” and my making myself bare-breasted as he described the men around the table, who they were and what position they had in companies.

We rehearsed what I did with the top I just had taken off (a quick fold and placement on the table near Master McKenna’s seat) and where I am to place my hands (unfussy, to my sides). We reviewed how I would serve drinks topless, how I was to distribute papers while in some state of undress, and how I was to sit in a chair along the wall topless when I wasn’t used.

I don’t recall so well the very early times with Master McKenna here at our house, before my trainings, when he and Amanda were still negotiating my slavery to him him, but I don’t specifically recall that I was ever undressed for him at any time in the beginning. I think it’s likely he had not actually seen my body until this fourth session or so.

As I stood topless in training, it was important to me to feel he liked what he saw. This wasn’t my own insecurity, but more my awareness that men like certain figures and bodies more than others. You never know who your body reminds a man of.

When he saw me naked the first time, he smiled faintly with a slight nod — always the somewhat inscrutable McKenna with his methodical stoicism and quiet, confident command — but a response of approval nonetheless, enough to reassure me.

Still, I don’t recall him touching me even then.

I will write another time about my little theory that dominants are either consumers, commanders, or creators. I may have to work on my terminology, but you get the idea.

Master McKenna is definitely a “creator.” Perhaps a better term is “presenter” or “producer,” but the idea is that he takes a slave like me and creates her (shapes, produces her) into the image of what he wishes to present.

“Sex with his slave” is not the top priority it would be for the “consumer” dominant or the “commander” dominant. For him, sex has another purpose — namely to wed his slave to him in a kind of intimate dependence.

This, I assume, takes a great deal of self-discipline, not because I am so lust-worthy, but just because a dominant with a slave girl simply can do her whenever he wants. He could have taken me on day one, but instead he waited, intentionally holding himself back and creating in me a longing that became part of his mastery of me.

It was the next session when Master McKenna touched me, finally.

It was a “Shae, top off,” command, and this time he came behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. I remember this specifically because his touch was electric. I startled, uttering “Oh!”

Even this was a training point, something like: “When you undress, keep your shoulders back. Let your tits push out. Not so much that you’re projecting them but enough to make them available.”

I think there is a particular feel to the dominant touch, different from other experiences by normals caressing or fondling me. It isn’t physically different but psychologically different.

With Master M, then, there were other touchings, here and there, each one drawing me into him like a bee to honey.

Another time he had me topless in training once again, and he walked up to face me. He put his hands on my breasts, cupping them. I inhaled from his touch.

“Say I am Granger [one of his board members],” Master McKenna says, “and he fondles you like this, what do you say?”

“Thank you sir.”

“Right. And what if he goes on to say you have beautiful tits?”

“I would reply, ‘I’m glad that you like them, sir.’”

“Good. You never pull back or lean in. You let him enjoy your tits until he is done.”

After that there were more touchings, always for training purposes. I became keen on discerning when he was pleasuring himself — a recurring brush of my skin, a lingering fondle, a gracing of his fingers on my thigh — and, sure, I read too much into this, but in fact he was beginning to take possession of my flesh, one slow touch at a time.

In one of my last few training sessions before the retreat, Master McKenna had me spend more time sitting on the floor. Ostensibly it had to do with how I assumed a sitting position with my legs curled under me, and then how I got out of that position to stand up. It had to be elegant and graceful. He taught me how (I wondered at the time he must have taken to figure this out), and I learned another new skill.

It happened out of the blue: I was sitting on the floor beside him and he presented a scenario. “How would you respond if Granger told you he wanted you to suck his dick?”

I was startled by the bluntness of the statement. Even as a hypothetical, this was unusual. He was drawing me into a role play. He knew he’d surprised me, and gave me some grace as I took a bit of time to collect my thoughts.

“Mr. Granger,” I finally said, “I would love to suck your cock. But you’ll have to first get the permission of Master McKenna.” I said it cleanly, but even though the act itself has become somewhat common in my life now, the thought of saying this to an utter stranger made me blush.

He liked my response — and maybe my blushing. He affirmed my first line, supporting my willingness and desire for “Mr. Granger.” But he instructed me that in such a request the responsibility is on me: “Permission to access you as my property is your duty to procure.”

He talks this way sometimes, with a kind of officious vocabulary. I took a moment to parse it, then replayed my response:. “So, I would better have said, ‘Mr. Granger, I would love to suck your cock. But I’ll first have to get the permission of my master.’”

“Yes. That’s the idea. You should additionally ask when he would want you.”

I replayed myself again: “Mr. Granger, I would love to suck your cock. But I’ll first have to get the permission of my master. When would you like me? I will then ask Master McKenna.’”

“Good. Realize I’m not dictating those exact words. It’s better that they come naturally from yourself in the moment. But those are the main points.”

“I understand.” Later I would think on this and realize that it requires me to address my sucking a man’s cock in front of two men and a total of three times: My first response to Mr. Granger, my request of Master M, and then my return response to Mr. Granger. Three times a lady.

“So… let’s say in that situation, you come to me, and I give you permission to suck Granger’s cock. How will you do it?”

“How? What do you mean?”

“I want you to show me.”

“Oh,” I said, then again more slowly, “Ohhh…”

I cocked my head toward him. This was different, a shift in everything, and I wasn’t sure if we’d switched out of the role play and into actually doing this with him. “You know, sir, you could have just asked me straight up. I think your odds were pretty good that I would have done this for you anyway. I mean, without bringing Mr. Granger into it.”

This is me with my sass showing. He likes it sometimes. “Shut up,” he said to me with a grin, “and slide in between my legs.”

I positioned myself, sitting back on my ankles, a foot from his crotch.

“The correct starting position,” he said, “is with your hands behind your back, looking up at me. Start there, and then you can use your hands.”

I did so.

“You may now begin.”

I nodded slowly. “Just to be clear,” I asked, “am I sucking Mr. Granger’s cock or am I sucking your cock?”

Master McKenna looked down at me with a slight shake of his head and a curled smile. “Does it matter?”

I might have said that it mattered because if it were Mr. Granger it would for me a submissive experience of fulfilling master’s wishes with someone else. If it were Master McKenna for real now in this moment, it was something I had longed for during all these training weeks. But I didn’t say any of that.

Instead I replied, “It matters because if it’s you, sir, I would ask how you like it. If it’s Mr. Granger, I would just go ahead and pleasure him my way.”

Master McKenna laughed.

“So,” I said, “how do you like it?”

the week to come: fragment 4

As I leave to go to Kevin in another hour, I am thinking about my role of escort with him and how it is proving to be an effective thing in a certain way.

As I’ve written before, I am to him sometimes a “friend with benefits,” but there is also between us an awareness that I am his regular escort, a role defined for me in this from the beginning. We flip back and forth between these types of relationships, but there are differences, and being an escort to him creates some boundaries that are useful.

Escorts have their regulars, of course — repeating customers that become casual friendships of a sort. And there are high-end escorts with wealthy clients who take them on week-long, even month-long, excursions.

I am an escort in both those ways to Kevin — to him a recurring as well as a longer-term sex-companion experience.

I assume that level of professional sex — repeated arrangements, longer gigs — involves a lot of relational “work” for an escort quite apart from the sexual center. Most long-term time is not spent in sexual play. Accordingly, an escort must be interested and interesting, entertaining her client-partner with grace and passion even when not in bed.

Likewise, I serve Kevin with my personality as well as my body. While Kevin may at times be quiet and inscrutable, he is an intelligent man with varied interests and pursuits. He finds me compelling enough even with my clothes on. So this is good. Even if he is not so immersed in the world of words as I am, we are able to have good conversations. I don’t think of this as “work” for me, but it is akin to what an escort does in such situations.

I sometimes think a test of the best relationship is when two people can be comfortably silent together, when the absence of talk is easy and natural. Again, Kevin is prone to silence, but in the past that hasn’t always been “comfortable.” Yet these days, he has opened up to me more, and I’ve learned some of his rhythms. We can talk for a time, but then fall into a silence — albeit now a silence that is warm and accepting. This, it seems to me, is the character of a friendship, even one with benefits. We don’t have to entertain each other. (As I’ve posted before, I think Kevin had not early on realized this, but I’m hopeful this time he will settle into this comfort zone of us as friends being around each other but not necessarily doing something together.)

On the other hand, there are different advantages with my being Kevin’s escort.

As friends, even as we assume the benefits, there is the obligation for sex to be mutual and timely — that is, “Do you feel like doing something later?” and “What would you like?” — the usual negotiation of sex between two people. But as Kevin’s escort, the assumption is that I have an obligation to service him. He can (and does) then say, “I want to spread you on the table” or “I want you to give me a blow job.” It can be sudden, opportunistic, demanding — and still appropriate in the context of my being his escort. As the “client,” he has every right.

Of course there is a kind of subservience in this, my bending to his desire, that suits the submissive me so very well even though this isn’t D/s. And, though I demur at Amanda’s oft-used comment about “my capacity for sex,” it is a rare time that, well, I ever “don’t feel like it.”

As an escort to him there is also a built-in emotional boundary. Sometimes the sex is more of the “tender is the night” sort that feels, delightfully, like actual love-making, and teeters on the precipice of relinquishing hearts. But even then in the afterglow of kisses, we both know this is not about falling in love, for I am his escort, not the girl next door.

It is true that in some sense I always fall a little in love with the one I’m with, but that’s a different thing, subject for another post…

It’s also true that this boundary between love-making and actual love is freeing to Kevin, allowing him to not worry about attachment and complication. The day after he makes sweet love to me in the bedroom at twilight, he will at lunchtime push me forcefully against the living room wall and fuck me standing up, using my body without explanation or gentility.

It’s as if the physical drywall between living room and bedroom is a virtual boundary defining what we are and what we are not supposed to be.

(And there I made a drywall analogy, which Kevin would appreciate so very much.)

notes to a younger me 11: status

When you enter the D/s life, you have to accept a lower status. It’s very important how you understand this and how you cope with it.

In one way, “lower status” refers to social status. You will be kept at a level beneath others in the social world you occupy. Your slavery will eventually be known and it will be looked down on. You will be made subservient to people you don’t know, and you will be diminished in standing and in others’ perceptions.

In another way, “lower status” refers to your relationship with your master. You are not his wife, nor his girlfriend, nor one of his buddies. You are “something other,” a slave to be used. He may at times treat you at what seems a higher level — say, talking with you as a friend — but do not swoon in that too much, as he will return you soon enough to the lower level of his slave, which is where he will most of the time keep you.

In yet another way, “lower status” refers to your identity. You are property in this world, property owned by him. This is more than words, and will be something you experience directly — you will feel like one of his possessions. It isn’t so bad, really, being in the same category of his car or truck or the couch in his living room. Your submissiveness will thrill in providing utility and delight in being used. Yet the challenge comes when he is finished and sets you aside. That’s the difference between being a possession versus being a significant other.

In yet a further way, “lower status” refers to you sexually. You are in his life to provide him his sexual pleasure when he wants it, in the way he wants it. But again, you are not his lover — not at that high a level — but rather his sex toy. You will develop feelings for him, because you cannot do sex without committing your heart, but in the intercourse of things, you will still just have the status of a sex toy.

Your lower status in this life in all of these ways will be humiliating to you. Because you are an extreme submissive, at the very same time they will be thrilling to you. Yet the slave life of lower status is difficult, and sometimes it confuses your thoughts about yourself. This is the paradox and the life of being an owned submissive.

Remember that in all this, you are special to him — precisely because you accept your lower status in his life. You embrace being used by him, and frankly, few other women in the world can do that. Your inexhaustible submissiveness is what gives him dominant joy, such that no other social group or vanilla lover or buddy or car or couch can give him.

You must still recede into the lower status of his life. But hold on to the truth that for him there is no one else like you.

untitled: a short fiction

Daniel is inside me, thick with the swell of lust.

I am wet for him. I know I am just his woman of convenience — though convenient on a regular basis — yet I can’t help myself. I want him. So I am open. Hungry. Juicy.

His body lies atop mine, and his muscled weight slides back and forth, his chest hair scraping across my smooth skin, rolling my breasts and rocking my naked flesh. His mouth lies beside my ear whispering directions — “slow,” “easy,” “let it come” — and I almost laugh at this man who, like many others, cannot help but issue commands even during sex. Even this he must control.

My arms drape over his shoulders and my hands cling to the back of his head. It is as if I loved him, and maybe I do in some way. Does it prostitute me more to give the guy not only my pussy but also my heart? Or is that the other way around?

He changes his angle and his cock pumps me more, now gracing my clit every other stroke or so. I close my eyes. Maybe I love all the men who fuck me like this and make me come, as he just did moments ago. Do I shudder just for him or for others too? I can’t remember.

He thrusts himself farther in. His balls slap me underneath. And suddenly he stops, holding himself there.

It is the briefest of moments.

From a rock solid standstill, he erupts and gushes his semen into my deepest places. It is warm and thick and demanding. It coats me inside.

Daniel pushes himself off my body, sliding out of me. He angles himself over to the other side of his bed, stands, and walks out of the bedroom without a word.

Sitting in the corner is his wife.

She wears a pretty sleeveless sundress, yellow-and-orange floral. Standing, she walks to the bed and reaches her hand out to me. I take it and our fingers intertwine.

“Dierdre, I think you’re a little overdressed,” I say.

“I always like to be presentable for the show,” she says in her thick voice. “You know that.”

posts about Kevin

A long-time reader and follower, Violette, asked me recently if there was a way of pointing people to my posts that are specifically of me with Kevin. (By the way, Violette is an excellent blogger herself, at DeepViolet, here. )

My blog, I know is a mess, but I found a way of collecting some of my Kevin posts, and I’m listing them below. I think these are roughly in chronological order of when they happened and when I posted them.

For newer readers, I might explain that I once was co-owned by both Amanda and Kevin, both dominants. We all lived together for about a year. The earlier posts reflect my life with him during this time. (I might also mention that Kevin used my middle name, Maura, as a code word…)

Later it was arranged for Amanda to move out and to take me with her to the Denver area. Part of the arrangement involved my visits back to Kevin, now in a different (non-slave) role with him as a kind of companion-escort. I am now a slave to Amanda and a “sex-something” to Kevin. The later posts were written in this newer arrangement/relationship with Kevin.

This is not an exhaustive list. Just posts I could easily locate quickly. There are others of me with Kevin in the blogroll, if anyone wishes to root around in it.

the claiming of shae
at his feet
monday, more practice
coffee is not just coffee
the ways he does me
quite a morning
this morning

Kevin time
how it goes with Kevin

four tips on writing true-life erotica

I’ve been asked to write more about writing, specifically about non-fiction erotica — that is, based on my own life and experiences. I’m not sure most people want a writing course from me, but I offer a few tips here, for what they’re worth.

A disclaimer, or more like an asking forgiveness ahead of time — I am using mostly excerpts from my own writing here. It isn’t that I’m a perfect model of good writing. There are many things I write that violate these very principles. But my own writing is easily at hand for me to retrieve and use here as examples.

1. Be sure you want to put yourself out there for all to see.

At first, it was not easy for me to write about myself sexually. It was strange to picture myself having sex — seeing myself in the experience — and finding words to describe my experience “in sex.” And it was one thing to write for my own sake, personal accounts that would forever remain in my private computer files, but it was another thing to write for the purpose of making my sexual experiences public. Posting myself online was a scary thing.

Looking back, it was weeks before I actually posted something that depicted me in something of a sexual situation. This was one of the first experiences I posted about, back when I was with Master Michael:

Master orders me to take off my skirt.

I obey, unzipping my skater skirt in back. I step out of it. I stand before both men naked.

Mr. Richards’ eyes drift down my body. He sees my pussy, bald, moist.

“It’s OK. Touch her,” Master Michael says.

Mr. Richards pulls my leash, tugging me to him. When I am close, he cups my breasts and he fondles me. His hands roam behind, and one gentles my ass cheek. He leans down to my face. I look up. He kisses me. I submit my lips to his. His tongue enters, likely the only penetration he will enjoy with me today, which I am now regretting. His kiss is warm and good. He is a good man, I think. A slave has desires too.

Writing about yourself this way is not a casual, easy thing to do. My advice is to measure this carefully before you put yourself out there. Once you do, know that people will imagine you, fantasize about you. That’s not a bad thing. But it’s a thing, and you need to know that people reading you will have sex with you in the theater of their minds. That may excite you, as it does me., but if it creeps you out, obviously you shouldn’t do it.

2. Find nouns and verbs that evoke the sensual aspect of the physical experience.

The first part of this — nouns and verbs — is writing 101, but I don’t know of anything that’s more important to good erotica than this tip. The simple truth is that adjectives and adverbs are boring and tedious; nouns and verbs are what make prose exciting. Here’s one made-up example of bad writing with unhelpful adjectives and adverbs:

A large, ominous house is on the dark hillside.

The problem with adjectives and adverbs is that they make people work harder in reading. Here we had to wade through the adjectives “large” and “ominous” before we know what they refer to — “house.” It seems like a little thing, but a lot of this kind of writing tires out a reader over the course of an article or book. It’s why she stops reading before the end.

Here’s a better way of rendering this same sentence:

The mansion, brandishing spires like knives, perched high in the twilight.

The same sentence, without adjectives, using vivid nouns and a more specific verb is easier to read and picture specifically. The tip is to let your nouns and verbs do the describing.

It isn’t that adjectives and adverbs are wrong to use sometimes. They exist for a purpose — yet a more limited and targeted purpose that is usually how they are used. Often they don’t add what you think they add. Recently I posted this, which has minimal adjectives or adverbs, about bathing Amanda:

I wring the sponge on her breasts, dripping them with white suds. I let it coat her tits like milk, and I use my hands to make it an even layer all around. I reach beneath the water, below her breast curves, lifting each as I sponge her creases underneath.

The other part of the tip above is to use nouns and verbs that evoke the sensual. This is from an account of the first time Kevin had me:

He steps close, his cock touching my cheek. I lean toward it, opening my mouth and taking it between my lips. My mouth remembers it from before — it’s weight, it’s girth, the texture of its skin folds. He tastes like mushrooms smell, some combination of his musk and the earthy pungency of my ass, and it occurs to me that the comingling of our intimate flavors is kind of marriage, albeit a matrimony of domination, one consummated by a man’s cock sodomizing a girl’s asshole in bondage. It is this unequal mingling of flavors that coats my tongue. He remains soft but I like him that way too, and his cock even at rest makes my mouth its home.

(OK, that brings back the memory… back to the task at hand…) In writing this experience I focused on “weight,” “girth,” the texture of “skin folds.” I wrote about the taste of him, “mushrooms,” and “flavors” and “coating my tongue.” The point is that in writing erotica, you aren’t just reporting the physical act of sex (which is boring) but reporting your memory of sensations and senses in vivid and unusual nouns and verbs that capture the feeling of those experiences.

3. Use different words than are common, and feel free to coin new words to serve the purpose at hand.

I think the enemy of good erotica is sameness, triteness, commonness. Better writing finds fresh language for the familiar. This applies to writing sex as well. Here, I wrote about me and Amanda in bed one night:

Her fingers trace the folds of my labia in random patterns lightly gracing my sex, and it feels like something between a tickle and a spark, an arousal that makes me want to laugh and moan at the same time.

She lies alongside me, her head resting on my left breast like a pillow, looking down the length of my body, beyond my hills to the smooth vale below, where she continues to circle and trace and caress my landscape.

It is one of those times when we are nearly one, and there is no difference, and she slides into me, into my arousal of tickles and sparks.

I found some different words to bring into the memory — “tickle” and “spark.” I used them differently than their normal context, making them a description of my sexual arousal.

Sometimes you do well to make up words, coin new language to create a vivid image:

My body is exposed, variably and subtly, in glimpses and wishes, to those who who goggle a girl in a short coat showing lots of thigh and leg and boob.

“Goggle” as a verb conveys a sense of motion, bounce and bobble, and perhaps also echoes “ogle.”

She has granted me up to three buttons from the bottom, enough to close the sweater in front while still keeping it open on top, allowing my breasts to hang out and joggle when I walk.

Maybe I just like “oggle” words? Here “joggle” is a similar coinage as the one before. The point is to find freshness of language in describing your erotic experiences.

4. Transform the physical into the larger context of emotional and spiritual experience.

When someone fucks me, it is almost never “just” a physical experience. It is for me a swirl of desire, pride, doubt, humiliation, pride, purpose, and meaning. It is about love and not love, comfort and pain, guilt and pleasure and atonement. It is about the relationship with the one who is inside you, what it is and isn’t and what you wish it were.

The key to good erotica is to never allow yourself to write just the physical description, but to connect it with a larger sense of your inner and outer worlds.

Here I moved from the physical description to my state of mind and emotion at the time:

He pushes into my mouth. He pauses. Leaving it there on my tongue, his meat touching my cheeks, my saliva juicing and covering him. I do not assume it is a special intimacy with him, or that he desires such with me, but we submissives always dream that there is more, don’t we? Yet it is, to me, somehow lovely even as it is forced and rough.

It happens that I am a spiritual person, something I don’t write about often. But even in my slave and sexual life, I see things through a lens of spiritual meaning. This fragment is from a piece “Atonement,” which I posted as a fiction piece but is directly informed by my own experience:

I gasp. It has begun.

He pushes deep inside me, then slides back. Forward and back. My vagina grips him tightly, against my will as I would rather expel him from my body. But this is what I must do. This is what I am for.

He is slow, too slow, and I yell for him to finish. “Come, please come!” I scream aloud.

He doesn’t. He continues to impale me, over and over, and soon a vein along the top length of his cock slides directly against my clitoris, like a bow against the catgut string of a viola. I scream.

And now he grunts, tenses, and ejaculates. It happens just as my instrument breaks, and I explode into shudders.

He shoots his sin inside me. My orgasm is a sign. He is forgiven.

I hope this post is helpful.


I’m tired yet again today, which is not surprising, given the rigorous and sleepless twilight of my time with Kevin. He is physical with me, and I don’t mean by that abusive, but heavy and forceful in ways I am not used to. He is about weight and thrust, making me shake and jiggle against the wall or as he marries me into the bed.

After, he is ready for sleep, but I am breathless and slick, too exercised for slumber. I do not complain. He is like a weighted blanket that feels heavenly on top of me — for a while, until he becomes a wrestling match to move.

Days and nights of this, and upon my return I am exhausted and sore. Amanda asks me where I ache, and I sheepishly reply, “In my thighs… and my jaw.” Which paints for her a pretty complete picture of everything.

She laughs at me. I shake my head and lean my head against the arm of the couch, soon falling asleep.

two questions

If you weren’t with Amanda, would you still choose to be in D/s and serve someone else as their slave?

That’s harder to answer that it might seem.

If I have learned anything in my years of 24/7 slavery, it is how deep my submissiveness actually is and how much I crave the experience of being dominated. It goes far beyond the usual trappings of D/s. There are times, Amanda would tell you, when I am so extremely desperate in my submissiveness that I am in tears, begging her for her extreme dominance. It isn’t about pleading for her to tie me up or to whip me, not the usual D/s trappings, but a deeper thing about constraining me mentally and psychologically and emotionally. I sometimes get to that level of need, and I can fall apart without a dominant’s emotional control and restraint of me.

In my years before entering D/s life, I was in the business world, real estate. While I’d become modestly successful, in my last two years I was starting to decline, losing interest in my work and career, but also beginning to feel these depths of my submissive craving. I was profoundly unhappy and quite a mess. It was because of my submissive need.

So, remembering that, the thought of re-entering vanilla life is not attractive to me, and I don’t have any particular illusions that I could survive very well outside of a D/s life.

The difficulty comes more with the notion of starting over — being new to a different dom, learning from that person what he/she would want and prefer.

The truth is that in a D/s relationship, as you the submissive are learning and being trained into a new servitude, your dominant is likewise learning you and your dimensions emotionally and physically. This mutual learning is like any relationship, except it has the complexities of dominance and submission. It takes time. A lot of time.

Four Amanda and me it’s been almost two years, and I think it’s taken most of that time for me to learn her and what she expects from me.

So the thought of starting over is hard to swallow.

The other consideration is one of meaning: what I want my life to be about. At the end of my life, what would I look back on and say I actually accomplished? Amanda and I have discussed this a lot, for her and for me.

She is a businesswoman, a damn good one. She happens also to live this alternative life as a domme and dominatrix. She is comfortable in that, being known for that, and takes pride in all of it.

The greater question is me. Do I want to look back on my life at some future time and say that my primary accomplishment was in being a sex slave? I might say that I was “a damn good one,” but does that count for anything? In fact, between Amanda and me, yes, there is much accomplishment in that. But in terms of others, the world, the public, it carries different and lower assessments, obviously.

Of course, many people spend their lives in the service of others. Doctors and nurses and therapists and hospice workers, to name a few. At the end of those careers, it’s not that they created something or built something, but they served a lot of lives and made life better for many.

I know I am perceived differently, but in a way, I do the same. I make life better for Amanda, and sometimes for others, yes, in sexual ways, but better nonetheless. I bring pleasure to people by offering myself as pleasure.

These are the things I think about. And sometime ramble about, as I am doing here.

Perhaps my saving grace is my writing. In my writing I am creating something new. I’m not referring here to my blog writing but my fiction writing. Perhaps at some point, I will finish my current novel, and even write others. And perhaps those will get published some way, somehow. And maybe I’ll be interviewed and become a modest sensation because I’m a “successful” writer and, by the way, also live in this alternative relationship as a sex slave. I could be proud in that.

I know writing and getting published in itself doesn’t make me important or significant. But it is something else I might hang my hat on.

Anyway, ultimately my answer to the question is yes, if something happened, God forbid, and I was unable to continue with Amanda, I would likely “re-up,” so to speak, if possible — if someone would take me. I would learn someone new. I would continue in the D/s life. I would find my purpose, as I do now, in serving as the pleasure of others. And, perhaps, in my writing.

If you weren’t with Amanda, would you prefer to be with a man or a woman?

This question came to me without an important piece of information: in D/s slavery or in vanilla life?

If I were to re-enter vanilla life, likely I would seek a relationship with another woman. I am bisexual, for sure, equally attracted to men and women on the surface of things. But in terms of the promise of fulfillment and sexual intimacy and long-term life, I know I would most likely find greatest satisfaction with a woman.

If the question is about living in another D/s arrangement, I might rather choose to be with a male dominant. In fact — and Amanda knows this about me — in slavery I have strong desires to be dominated by men as well as by, well, Amanda. I don’t mean to stereotype, and some doms can have the same traits as dommes, and vice-versa. But in general, male dominance is more tactile and physical, more blatantly sexual, and I confess I sometimes miss that, and having desires for that.

How I answer this is no reflection on Amanda. As everyone knows, I would choose her above every other option. But the question is about me apart from Amanda, and in this way, if I had a choice in a new slavery, I might choose to serve a man.

In a way, my life under both Amanda and Kevin was the perfect storm for me. He “claimed” me, as we spoke of then, through his sheer physicality and brute sexuality. She, on the other hand commanded my heart and mind with her beauty and feminine dominance. For him, I would kneel before him in a heartbeat as he unzipped his pants and pushed himself into my mouth. For Amanda, well, I would follow her to the end of the earth. As I have done.

I fear that I might be with a male dominant for a month or so and then find I desire the touch of another woman. So it goes. If so, I imagine my Master would not so much mind sometimes allowing and watching me with another woman. Even Amanda is talking about doing that.

a letter to new followers, part 1

Thank you for following me. I don’t pay much attention to metrics on my blog, but it’s satisfying when someone new subscribes. I appreciate that you’re reading me.

You may or may not have found the parts of my site that give an overview of me and my life. I desperately need to reorg my blog roll — things are sometimes hard to find. Sorry about that. So I thought I might post something current that provides you a bigger-picture summary about me and this life I live.

My name is Shae Madigan. I’m in my mid-thirties. I’m a college grad with a major in literature and a focus in business. Some of my education was in writing, which is one of my deep passions and the driving force for my blog.

I live in an “alternative relationship,” which means a non-traditional relationship that operates according to different rules. Specifically, I am submissive, and I live in subjection to a woman, Amanda, who is dominant. You may know this as D/s — Dominant-submissive. My submission to her is 24/7, and she’s had me for more than two years now.

My life in subservience to Amanda is something she and I consider a “slavery.” I know this can be misunderstood, and we don’t use the term insensitively, only In the context of D/s and our arrangement. I had the initial choice of living this life under her, and I always have the choice of leaving. But in everything in between, she owns me, I am her slave, and i must do her bidding.

There are different kinds of D/s slaves. Amanda keeps me as one of those types — a sex slave. This means, obviously, that I am often used for sex, but also that I am frequently, nearly every day, sexualized in what I am to wear and how I am talked to and how I am treated. Again this is her preference and our understanding.

And so this blog is about my life of slavery. I write about how I feel doing this life and the unique nature of the submissiveness within me. I try to write honestly and explicitly about everything in my life. So, it should be obvious, but I issue the warning that my blog is often explicit. I write often about my body, my sexualization, and sex itself, as it happens in my daily life. If that disturbs you, I encourage you to unsubscribe and unfollow me.

Otherwise, I welcome your presence. Whether your interest is curiosity or a desire to learn about D/s or maybe just simple lust, I am pleasured by your being here, and I welcome you to my blog.


P.S. By the way, if you wish to contact me directly, perhaps to ask a question or to say hi, you can email me at


Amanda told me to write about this: Imagine, she said. What if…

They see me this way, the men do, my body bared, my flesh pink and pale, my breasts full-orbed and plump. They have seen naked women before, of course — women better than me, in their beds and on their desks — and I am perhaps nothing new, another in a line of many, though they seem not to mind as they fondle me with their eyes, forming visions of doing me. Every woman to them is new and conquerable.

But I am bound in a collar, latched in wrist cuffs, and shod in the highest of heels with ankle straps, locking. This makes me different to them, rarer at least, as I am captured and already tamed, a more exotic delicacy for their consumptions. Submitted as I am — such that my “yes” is implicitly packaged in my nude and bondaged presence — I present possibilities not problems, for I am not about if, but about when and how.

They see me this way, and it is a dance of flesh and wish. I feel their eyes take in the swell of my breasts. Across the room, they breathe in quietly as they stare, inhaling their lust and feeling their cocks harden behind tightening zippers. In response, my skin flushes, and my nipples grow and redden, and my pussy lips begin to glisten.

One of them smirks as another whispers something to his friend. A fourth asks me a question, the first of many, and I am soon engaged in a sexual interrogation, such as it is, with me like this, swelling wet and no place to hide from men like them. I am like a leashed lamb presented for evaluation before the state fair judges, or otherwise, as a kind of worship. Or is it a sacrifice?

In their eyes I am wanted for my flesh and breasts and cunt. But I answer with words and intelligence, and this for a moment challenges the fantasies of this battalion of men before me. Being articulate as I am doesn’t allow them to think of me as dumb and docile as they mount me between my legs. Their mental penetration of me screeches to a halt.

But they get over it quickly enough.

In a flash, it occurs to them my verbal intelligence also shows I am keenly aware I am being used and objectified — that I know exactly what they are doing to me — and yet I still stand before them as submitted naked flesh, available for the fucking. I understand and yet I am willing. As one mutters under his breath: “Now that is hot.”

Really though, the only question that really matters to me is how she will play this out? Will she give me to all of them at once? Or will she give me to just one?