notes to a slave girl, 3

I had used the word “partner” before. I’d like to say a few things about that.

By the way, it is not a word you should ever use with him, unless he invites it, but there is a truth in it, an understanding of something that can be helpful to you as his slave girl.

So, understand that I mean partnership in a different way than equality.

To be clear, you are not his equal. That is partly the point and pleasure of D/s. Moreover, you are not equal to his friends or colleagues or even passing acquaintances. If it is the nature of things with him that he has lovers, you are not equal with them either. You are kept as his property. It is your place in his life. It is what you agreed to.

Your owner has needs to be fulfilled. Dominant needs — to control you. Sexual needs, perhaps — to use you as a sex thing at his beck and call. Life needs — services for you to do for him. In all of this, you are a container, and he pours his urges and urgencies into you, sometimes literally, for you to sate and satisfy them. It is a partnership of sorts — an unequal partnership in which you provide yourself to attend to his being, and, by using you, he touches your deepest submissive places.

My advice is for you is just this: do not expect him always to define and conduct your slavery. Sure, follow his lead and obey what he has for you to do. But do not think of your slavery as his sole responsibility.

The misconception about D/s is that slaves are to be utterly passive. We are obedient, but that doesn’t mean we’re limp and lifeless. Actually dominants treasure personality and initiative.

So you should be seeking what your slavery should be to him. Find his need in the moment, ask what you can do for him, and offer yourself as a receptacle for whatever he wants to pour into you.

Ultimately what you have is a partnership. Not a partnership of status. But a partnership of use and service and submission.

notes to a slave girl, 1

I think the hardest thing in slave life is accepting you cannot control anything.

Initially when you enter the life, your submissiveness is thrilled, and you relish the order that comes, the restrictions and requirements, all these things that you have longed for in your deep parts.

But there comes a day, maybe the next day, when you wake up and realize you now live under someone’s ownership, that you cannot simply do what you wish to. You serve another. Your day is not your day.

My every morning starts with an outfit of clothing laid out on the bed bench by my mistress. She clothes me every day. It has become an intimacy I cherish, but it is also always the first sobering symbol of my lack of control. I cannot choose the color I feel like today or the skirt I think is cute on me. No, she controls my appearance always.

That becomes the first of a dozen things in my day to come, ways in which I cannot control my own life.

So it will be, or already is, for you. Those things will be different from mine, but, all the same, they will be numerous points of control applied by your master throughout your day. Some of these you will revel in, submissive that you are, but others not so much.

The hard part is not on day one. It’s on, say, day twenty-one or week thirty. You entered this life knowing D/s is not a single session but a relationship done in this different way. But until a submissive lives in it 24/7, she cannot really know the challenge of it day by day. You are experiencing this now.

All of us deep submissives have a need to be controlled and used. But we are also women with other normal human desires to be free. It’s this tension that makes D/s slavery so radical and remarkable. We choose to relinquish our freedoms in order to fulfill our submissiveness.

So what you’re expressing to me is normal. My experience and feelings too. It’s just that the slave life, while usually deeply satisfying to us, is also sometimes deeply hard.

in good standing

He is impulsive but not wild, urgent but not violent.

In the midst of our conversation, he suddenly stands, holds out his hand, and says, “Come here.”

He leads me to the living room wall and pushes me against it, face forward. He tells me to spread my legs, and I obey.

I hear him unbuckle his pants. They slide from his hips and I hear the belt buckle clink when it hits the ground.

He lifts my chemise from behind, and I feel him against my thighs and then my ass cheeks, until he guides his cock and finds my opening. He pushes himself into my pussy. I breathe deeply from his fullness inside me.

He slides his feet behind mine, his legs aligning against mine, his torso leaning into mine. He pins me to the wall, his weight pressing me there, flattening my breasts into fat disks against the wallboard.

This is the closest he has come to force and bondage. He would dearly love to take me in the bondage room, but Amanda has forbidden it. He can have me but not as his submissive, not as his slave. Instead he pins me against the wall with his body. It is a different form of capture.

His urgency is exciting to me. I like being pinned, and truth be told, I would love for him to drag me into the bondage room and humiliate me there like he once used to. This here is not enough, but it’s what he can do, and I give myself to it, and to him, and to his heavy body pressing the breath out of me.

He swings his hips and pumps me from behind. It is raw and rutting, a primal fucking.

And quick. In a few minutes he tenses and pushes his length deep inside me. He groans, releases, comes.

Between heavy breaths, he kisses the back of my head. He steps away and I hear him pulling up his pants and buckling them again. He returns to his chair.

I remain against the wall, catching my breath and my composure. I turn and walk to his chair. I touch his shoulder and ask if he wants something to drink. A beer.

I go to the kitchen to fetch it and feel his slick semen between my upper thighs.

I bring him his beer and return to my chair. In time we start talking again.

sunday night

It is the briefest of moments.

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

I am wet for him. I know I am just his woman of convenience, yet I can’t help myself. I want him. So I am open, cavernous. Hungry. Juicy.

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

My arms are draped 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. Maybe I love all the men who fuck me like this. Perhaps I just love anyone who makes me orgasm, as he just did moments ago.

I suppose it’s not befitting a prostitute, to love the guy. Or is it more of a prostitution to not only give the guy your pussy but also your heart?

He changes his angle and his cock pumps me more, now gracing my clit every other stroke or so. I close my eyes.

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

It is the briefest of moments.

And then, from a rock solid standstill, he erupts and gushes his semen into my deepest places. It is warm and thick and demanding. It coats and marks me. It claims me.

I am Kevin’s once again.

I am such an easy lay.


Amanda decided last night to order pizza for delivery. We order pizza sometimes, but this wasn’t just a sudden whim of hers.

An hour-plus later the doorbell rang. Amanda told me to answer it.

She was on the couch reading, and I had just poured us wines. I stood in front of her, glancing down at my bare pale breasts, and my nipples puffy from the O-rings. I gave her a look: we’re really going to do this?

She glared back at me.

“I don’t have money,” I said in feeble protest.

The doorbell rang again.

“For god’s sake,” Shae,” she said sternly, “answer the door, invite him in, and wait there while I get my purse. I’ll bring the money to you.”

I knew this was all intentional, her setting me up for this, and I pursed my lips and shook my head slightly at her.

The doorbell rang again.

I walked across the house, took a deep breath, and answered the door. There are two or college guys who deliver for this pizza place on different shifts. I don’t know their names, but one is blond and one is brown-haired. This was the blond guy.

As I opened the door, he said, “Delivery for Amanda— “ and he literally stopped mid-sentence as he saw my breasts and nipples.

I blushed and just stood there. “Just a second. Sorry. We’re looking for the money,” I said.

Amanda called from the other room. “Invite him in, Shae. It’s hot out there.” Again, I knew all of this was a script she had planned in her mind.

I invited blond guy in and he came just inside the doorway and we stood there. He was trying not to stare at my breasts, but he was anyway.

I was the one blushing, but It’s just my nature to feel that he was the one uncomfortable and to feel a responsibility to make him feel more at ease, so I searched for something to talk about. Of course, he probably wasn’t uncomfortable at all and was enjoying the view. “It really has been hot this week,” I said lamely.

“Sure has,” he said. “And my car’s air conditioning went out.”

“Oh, no.”

“Feels good in here,” he said.

“Yes, it does. We’ve been sunbathing on the back patio this summer,” I said, “but this week it’s been too hot even for that.” I think I thought by saying something like that I was offering a reason for being topless in front of him — evoking sunbathing and such — but I realized I was saying that we weren’t sunbathing this week because of the heat, so it made no sense. Then again, I didn’t imagine he was checking my logic.

“Shae,” Amanda called. “Would you come here?”

Gladly. I left blond guy in the entryway. Amanda was standing in the living room with money in her hand, and held it out for me.

I again glared at her. “Tip included?”

Amanda formed a wicked little smile. “I’ll bring the tip.”

So, the thing was, she would have just walked to the front with all the money anyway. Instead she wanted me to walk out and walk back. She wanted blond guy to see my breasts swaying. She wanted him to watch as my high heels jostled my tits as I walked back.

Which is what happened. I jiggled back to the entryway and handed blond guy the payment. He handed me the pizza. Amanda was right behind and gave him a ten, a very generous tip. “Sorry about the wait,” she said. He was very grateful.

Of course, Amanda couldn’t be done quite yet, the script in her mind still playing out. “How has business been?” she asked. “Has it picked up again?”

I sighed. Really? Blond guy talked a while about how everything had shut down for COVID, but then things were back to normal. Amanda asked if he was in college, and he talked about school being online this fall.

Finally, he said, “I’d better be going. Your pizza’s getting cold.”

I wanted to say snarkily that everything was plenty hot, but I didn’t. He nodded to Amanda, grabbed another parting gaze at my breasts, and headed back to his car.

After he left, Amanda scolded me for my pissy attitude. A bit of a lecture. Well deserved. I’ll write about that separately.

Then we ate pizza and drank wine on the back patio.

She said, “Tonight he’s going to fantasize about having sex with you.”

I sipped my wine and looked at her. “That gives you great pleasure, doesn’t it.”


ordinary time

It’s been another week of work and normalcy. These periods of nothing special are lovely but I’m afraid they provide very little eventfulness to write about on a slave blog. Yet in this season of my life I find this comforting.

In a way, the blandness of our week reveals more of the real dom-slave relationship she and I have. The real sub-slavery between domme and girl do not depend on what happens, not upon shackles and leashes, but on the nuances of how she and I simply are.

I remember, early in my life with her, I worried about what I was — friend or slave. I even wrote about that here, and with a certain obsession. Now that’s not even a thought. In our plain everydays, she and I drift in and out of being friends and lovers and domme/slave — from one to another to another — quite seamlessly. These are quiet, subtle transitions that happen in the movement of ordinary time. It is a dance of dances, from tap to hip-hop to salsa to ballroom.

We are not always in sync, nor all sweetness and light, nor is this romantic bliss. Amanda has been buried in work all week, and I have followed her work ethic. She has been exhausted, and I have been stewing over a separate thing. We have had a spat or two, some sharpness of tongue, occasional grumblings. Yet the train we’re on always emerges from those dark tunnels, out the other side into a routine rhythm, clacking along the tracks.

I am still collared, almost always, high-heeled, almost always, and there are my formal times of serving coffee or drinks. We maintain the visible structure of formal slavery even in the absence of events that test it. My slavery to her is not this week testified to through highlights and headlines.

And between us, it is not needed. The proof of my utter and helpless enslavement is in the way she has imprinted my life with her dominance. The proof of her possession of me is her internal branding of me, the mark she has made within — the evidence of things unseen.

In soon time, no doubt, something will happen visibly and publicly, and my slavish obedience to her will once again be revealed to others for their amusement and lust.

For now, though, it is ordinary time.


It is not a great difference — my being an escort or my being a slave. In both I submit, albeit in different ways. In both I am objectified, reduced to my physical attributes. In both I am used.

I have long thought that the most important “skill” of a slave is to find personal value in being used. As a slave, I am good at this. In being an escort of sorts, I am still learning, though much seems to be a transferable skill.

Kevin’s sexual need is immense, and my value is to be a container for it. I am a bucket, not just for his sexual liquid, though certainly that as well, but also for his manhood. It is as if he empties his man-stuff into me and that provides him capacity for more of it to fill him again. Where testosterone and manhood and male ego all come from is a mystery to me, but they come from somewhere, and they reload him with fresh juice.

I really believe I have value in being this container for him, as ignoble as that sounds. I find satisfaction and purpose in receiving Kevin’s manhood in all its forms, willingly allowing him to fill and coat me with himself. I find there is an art in doing so without creating emotional complication or relational obligation.

But this doesn’t mean I do so without feeling. Kevin wants to know I thrill to him, that after he has pounded and emptied himself into me, I feel his use of me. He wants to know I experience him deeply.

Again, some of this is just the natural attribute of being submissive. But some is also learned. Frankly it is hard, when a man is inside me, for me not to love him a little in that moment. What that is, I don’t know — perhaps the love of being used.

What I have had to learn is to understand that “love” for what it is, know what it isn’t, and to let it not become a complication or obligation for Kevin.

q and a: sex slave

You are/are called a sex slave. What does that mean in your daily life?

I am called a sex slave, and I also am a sex slave. I have come to accept that.

It means I am seen and viewed and treated as a sexual object a lot of the time. I have come to understand this as being three things: sexualization, sexual play, and acts of sex.

Sexualization refers to what is done to me to make me aware of my sexual purpose. It is, quite literally, about making me into a sex object. It may be how I am addressed, what I am called, words used abut me when I am spoken to. It is also how I am dressed (or not dressed) on a daily basis. As everyone knows, I am not permitted to wear a bra or panties, and this is creates a constant self-awareness that I am different, and that I am available sexually. Also, I may be sexualized int he way I am made to sit or stand or walk.

Sexual play is about how others touch me intimately. It isn’t sex itself, but it is about being handled or fondled by others because I am a sex object and sex slave. If my mistress makes me available to them, they may play with me as pleasures them.

Sex is maybe the ultimate experience in being a sex slave. My primary purpose is to provide myself for sex with Amanda. But she may be starting to share me with others, and in our arrangement and definition of things, sex with others, as she chooses, will be part of my slavery.

Does slavery make you more sexual?

Yes. Sexualization and sex play make for a kind of constant foreplay. Even just physically, I am aroused a lot of the time. I think there’s a sweet spot for sexual activity in which one’s libido and sexual drive are heightened.

In my pre-slavery life, I think I was more sexual than I allowed myself to be. But now in slavery, the frequency of sexual things has certainly made me “more sexual” more/most of the time.

Do you ever get tired of being treated as a sex slave, sex object?

Yes. Sometimes. I think at some points there is too much at once, and I just get mentally tired. Like I say, there is a sweet spot of frequency and stimulation and arousal. Too much — or too little — dampens my sexual capacity.

I think an important part of this is how I am treated in other ways. If I didn’t have other things that gave me significance and value, I would likely resist my sexualization each and every day. But I am valued for other things, other interests — my abilities in the workplace with Amanda, my writing, my interests in books and the arts. And so I never ever feel that being a sex object is my only value, even if others reduce me to sexual use and pleasure.

Did slavery make you bisexual?

Interesting question. No, but I think that in vanilla life we don’t always give ourselves to the fullest range of sexuality that we actually have by nature. Slavery does open you up, so to speak, to other experiences that you might never have permitted yourself to sample.

For me, I know now I have always been bisexual, but my conservative, religious upbringing made that part of me forbidden to acknowledge or express. That repression persisted through my adult life until close to the time I was in D/s and considering a submissive life 24/7.

So, my slavery, yes, has allowed me to open myself to lesbian experiences, and as a result I have discovered a broader ranger of my sexual self in my bisexuality.

Of course, Amanda makes it easy to go there.

Did your need to overcome repression lead you into into D/s slavery?

The answer is no. If anyone really knew how fucking submissive I am, there would be no question in anyone’s mind that this is the life I have to live.

I think our sexuality is a lot of things, not just one. This includes orientation but also submissiveness and dominance as well as a rich fantasy life and an array of desires.

For me, my eventual decision to overcome my repression became an open door for both my bisexuality as well as my deep submissive nature.

Do you have advice for a submissive women entering the D/s lifestyle for the first time?

I have written and said this before, but will say so again and again — because this is dear to my heart, the fulfillment and safety and well-being of other submissive women like me.

Make your obedience in sexual slavery intentional and meaningful by giving your absolute best to it.

That seems hard to do. You are sexualized in terms that are not your choice and required to submit to sex in various ways others want to have you.

But it’s important not only to submit yourself but to devote yourself to what is being done to you. When you are made to wear a revealing dress, wear it well and proudly. When you are called a certain name, receive it intentionally. When you are made to give a man a blow job, make love to his cock like he’s your knight in shining armor. When you are taken by a mistress into her bed, give yourself to her with passion and pleasure.

I am writing about sexual slavery specifically, but this applies to other forms of D/s submission and submissions that are not sexual at all.

Submission isn’t passive. It’s not about silently absorbing what is done to you. That will, in fact destroy you. Submission is, yes, about being the sex slave you are, but also about giving yourself to it actively.

Submission is about living this slave life richly and meaningfully and intentionally.

submissiveness: a dialogue

He asks me to tell him what makes me submissive, what submissiveness is, how I understand it within myself.

I don’t really understand it myself, I say. I’ve been made a certain way, and it’s like being born with a defect, or more likely with a special asset. Maybe it’s kind of like having bigger breasts, I say, though submissiveness isn’t physical. Or akin to having a good memory for details, though submissiveness isn’t a mental, brain thing. But maybe it’s genetic, I don’t know.

He says it seems like it would be a personality type, or a set of personality traits. Maybe a submissive person is shy and quiet and timid and passive. That’s what I think, he says.

I say no, that isn’t true. I myself may be quiet at times, but otherwise I can be outspoken and talkative. Ask Amanda, who often just tells me to shut up. I am strong-willed in certain areas. I know other subs who are not passive. Some of the excitement, I say, between a dom and sub is in fact the strong will of the sub being tamed by the patient dominance of the master. Actually, a timid, passive submissive is not usually so interesting to a dominant.

I go on: Also true of a dominant, I believe. Doms are not always alpha types, not always leaders in business. A dominant might not be aggressive and assertive according to some personality stereotype. I think dominants tend to be inwardly confident, and they convey a desire for control. So there are some things like that. But they may be quiet and thoughtful… No, it’s not a personality thing.

OK, then, (my friend continues searching), is it a sexual thing?

Yes, I say. In a sense. I believe it’s a form of sexual orientation perhaps. I’m bisexual and also “sub-sexual.” It’s a kind of sexuality. A way in which I am drawn to people, and how others are attracted to me. But, to be clear, it’s not just a kind of sex. Not just about sex itself. And I’m not submissive only when I’m having sex. I am submissive also, I say, when I’m reading a book, or making coffee, or walking down the street. Submissiveness is something I experience in everything.

That’s really different, he says.

Yes, it is. And so the other thing is that people can detect I’m a submissive.

They can?

Yes. People know. I think maybe doms and other subs are especially attuned to it. They can know that about me without me even saying a word.

How does that make you feel?

Sometimes it is annoying. I don’t want to be that transparent. I don’t like that someone labels me that way right off. It can be a bit humiliating, for people to reduce me to a level right off. But also it is their way of knowing me. It is what I am, and I have long ago accepted it.

So does that make you submissive to them?

A little. Yes, it puts me in a submissive place with them. I am owned by Mistress Amanda, of course, so there are good boundaries for me, but in the moment of meeting people who identify me as a submissive, I often experience a form of submission to them.

Why would you choose a life like this?

Well, I have been made this way. That part I can’t choose. The question is whether I live a life that is true to how I’ve been made. That part I can choose.

And you did choose that.

Yes, I certainly did.

three things

the world I was put in
the person I really am
the life I long to have

The world I was put in… was one of moral beliefs and spiritual routines. Those two things, simply put, were “avoiding sin” and “reading the Bible.” Together they added up to faith, so I was told. Church was the weekly cornerstone of this religion I found myself in. I have spent three decades disentangling myself from it.

The person I really am… was a mystery to me until my mid-twenties, although I had some glimpses of her from the time I was a young girl, eight or nine. What I discovered later in my life were two things: One, I am an extremely sexual woman. Two, the woman I really am is one of profound submissive need and desire.

The life I long to have… is one in which the people I know are people who accept the person I really am. The life I long for is one in which people love me even knowing I have a sexually submissive life, scandalous by most common perception. The life I long for is one in which I’m dominated by both men and women in ways that are safe yet extreme.

How do you answer the three things?