writing life at the end of a pandemic year

It occurs to me that this year of lockdown has been both a blessing and a curse to my writing process.

One blessing is that being contained in a house without a lot of social interruptions or the need to rush around “doing things” frees me to focus on the one solitary task of writing. Of course I still have my primary focus — Amanda — to serve and satisfy, but there is simply less of everything else to do. When you eliminate shopping, trips into the city, dining out, and so on, there is more time at home. It is a lesson of sorts in how little of that is actually necessary. And not only do I have more time for writing, but you have less cluttering my mind to distract me.

The curse of being locked down is that there is much less experience socially and publicly and out-and-about to stimulate your mind. All of that supercharges my writing, and when it’s absent for long stretches of time, months, I find I become vacant mentally. I read, of course, and that helps. Netflix and streaming channels are other experiences that enrich, but after a time, feels fairly empty and uninspiring.

Even in terms of my slavery and Amanda’s uses of me, this is a lull for both of us. My servitude continues, of course, and she finds her purposes with me, but this pandemic year has derailed her plans for me, and despite her best efforts, she hasn’t been able to do what she would wish for to me. We support each other in “this worst f times,” but we are both rather listless these days.

And so it is that I have found this once again to be a slow time for my writing. There have been several of these stretches this year, and I’m in another one. I’ve taken to return to old experiences to write about. Even for an introvert like me, I guess you can get to the end of yourself.

I might argue that COVID time is a little like a coma state. Not even a dream state, for dreams are rich and creative, but a state of coma in which you’re alive but not experiencing anything. I guess I don’t really know what a coma state is like, but that’s what I imagine. Life becomes a slow nothing.

So here’s hoping we all soon will awaken from our coma.

rhythm and blues and time

It’s been an odd rhythm these recent weeks. A strangeness of time. Fast and slow, normal and not, all at once.

I continue to write but not finish, to be a wave rolling in and claiming dry sand, then sliding back, leaving it’s wetness. It’s as if nothing gets done, though there’s movement and churn and foam.

I realize there have been constant tides of change in my life for two years now. Maybe longer, but certainly starting with being taken by Amanda and Kevin, then being claimed by Amanda and moving with her to Denver, then establishing a new life with her. For me, everything has been ocean-surged into a deeper slaveness by training and shaping, all Amanda-infused. All that propelled us into COVID time, which has been a pulling back, the wave receding, leaving me in a virtual quarantine with a woman I love and still don’t really know. I mean, I do, yet I don’t. Which is to say she is confounding and mercurial and wonderful and mysterious.

But this is not about her and me and pussy licks and sensual bathing and the ways she delights in showing my boobs and sex publicly. It is about change and stasis, a rollercoaster of a life.

All of it swings and swirls into the weeks I’ve just lived, weeks of quiet-yet-busy, times of nothing then exposure and sex.


Words have been slow to come.

Sometimes I feel as if I’ve said everything. Nothing is new. What more to write about? Maybe I feel it’s like my boyfriend of several years has gotten tired of me in bed. You who read me, watchers and followers, are that boyfriend — though adjust the gender as you wish. As you know, I’m flexible.

My writing blues are not a sudden shyness about revealing myself. I don’t mind writing about my body, my exposures, people having sex with me. Sharing my feminine xxx with everyone in words is what I am given to do, of course, what I am joyed for, readers and followers and watchers, my boyfriend in print. Yes, I like sharing myself with you, but you must be tired of me.

I believe the sex people have with me is always different from this time to that, every time I am fucked has a unique feeling. I try to capture those experiences and feelings in my writing. It isn’t always the same.

And yet it is somehow.

I suppose the new thing is my public exposures. She is making me into a public slave, but even as I say that, I know I’ve said that many times before. Even though I’m at the mere beginning of what she has planned for me, this feels already old in my tellings.

But, yes, there are new experiences. Sundays, sitting topless in the living room with our neighbor friends, the Millers. One Saturday morning, a reprise of events with the landscaping crew. Last week, giving blowjob to a stranger on our patio.

But as outrageous as the public scene is, there is a sameness to it as well. She is exposing me sexually in public ways. There is a shock in that, then a prurient curiosity, then a lust for me as people watch. Whatever my exposure is, it’s always that same pattern, those same three chords playing the blues.

My blues are not sadnesses. They are more frustrations from not “feeling it” when it comes to writing. They are probably disinclinations to write the words that are hard to come by, reluctance to do the hard work of plumbing the depths of what really matters.

I just feel caught in the rhythm of the blues, and I’m waiting for the saxophone to solo and soar.

It’s a strangeness of time. Fast and slow, normal and not, all at once.

writing the slave life

I’m out on the patio this morning. I’ve been getting up earlier than usual and sitting here to think and write. Lately it’s been cooler in the mornings — I’d say it’s down into the 50’s right now — but this white sweater is keeping me cozy.

I’ve struggled to write recently. It’s not a writer’s block this time, and actually I’ve written a lot of words over recent weeks, but most of it I would never post. Many of my efforts are just half-written parts and pieces, unfinished observations without context or endings. It feels like a lot of nothing, although something is there. I just don’t know what it is.

Sitting here, as I look into the night sky — end of summer, it is still mostly dark at this hour — I am reminded that scientists say space is not empty. It is filled with “dark matter.” You can’t see dark matter. It seems like a whole lot of nothing. Yet it’s not nothing but something. We just don’t know what it is.

I think the slave life is like this. A lot of slave life, believe it or not, is the “dark matter” in between the cosmic highlights. Three weeks ago, I was displayed topless in front of five sweaty, beautiful men, right here on this same patio. It was a high event of my slave life so far, like the breathless experience of seeing a shooting star in the night sky. And yet I am aware the real experience of my slavery is not in these events but in time in between, the quiet of the day-to-day, the regular blandness of nothing which is still something. This, I think, is the dark matter of life.

This is important to actual living. We need down times, moments when nothing dramatic is happening, periods when we can breathe again. I have needed time to process what happened on that Saturday morning, how it made me feel to be gazed at sexually, and what it opened up inside me. And I am also aware that much of my slavery occurs in this dark matter of life with Amanda, in which “nothing happens” and yet that “nothing” is the invisible substance that structures my entire slavery to her. It is this that is my cosmos.

I started this thought trail talking about writing. My point is that writing about the slave life often prompts me to write about this in-between dark matter of life. But it seems once I put it in words, it seems to disappear and become inconsequential and silly. And I wind up with observations and writings without endings.

A case in point: Amanda prefers me these days in Taylor-Swiftian matte red lipstick. But to write about it would be a random nothing — trivial and uninteresting. It would be a particle of dark matter that, well, seemingly doesn’t matter. Yet it does.

I am wearing bright matte ruby red as I write this. Now she could care less about Taylor Swift. She’s not trying to make me look like her. I don’t have Swift’s alabaster skin or overwhelming blondeness. I have red hair and freckles and big boobs. But this red lipstick is just a look that she wants on me.

This preference for matte red was never a thing of debate or an agreement we came to. She didn’t even really order me. She said something, and I just did it. I made myself into her preference — one of those many daily “becomings” that I do for my mistress — all because I am her girl, her slave, her owned thing and pleasure.

To an unknowing observer, writing about this is just a piece of nothing. Yet someone more aware would know that if she controls how my lips look, she might also control what my lips do. And as she has so ingloriously stated, the reason she wants me wearing this lipstick is because she likes to imagine seeing me with a cock in my mouth and my full, matte red lips wrapping around its flesh. In her mind’s eye, ruby red lipstick is a humiliation of me — and I willingly wear it because I am her slave.

Seeing me this way, she senses my silent shame and submissive thrill, and she joys in it. Wordlessly, between us this becomes a pingpong of awareness — my submissive acceptance bouncing back and forth against her domme pleasure.

But it’s just a lipstick.

There’s no event in this. No high drama. Nothing happened. It’s just part of the dark matter of our day-to-day lives. And yet it is the cosmic fabric of my slavery to her day to day.

These down times, the breathing spaces, this dark matter of my slave life, is constantly filled with such random, blandly uninteresting things. They are just fragments and observations. I start to write them, but they lie on the page without seeming substance or purpose or ending.

Yet I suspect these pieces of nothing are what it’s really all about.

travel thoughts

As scheduled, I drove to Kevin’s yesterday. It’s been, I think, almost seven weeks since I’ve was with him, although it seems like yesterday. Which is not to express a regret, but just to admit that for me the notion of actual time seems elusive.

This I know: that the plan is to continue this arrangement about every six weeks. Originally, it was to be once a month. Then COVID. And now it seems Amanda and Kevin have agreed that the sweet spot is about every six weeks for about a week each time. We’ll see.


The drives here and back in the car have become a wonderful time for me to collect my thoughts. These trips, the travel parts, tend to settle me and ground me.


It struck me that the easiest way to explain my life is simply to say that I am in an alternative relationship with two other people.

We all used to live together: Amanda is dominant. I am submissive and bisexual. And Kevin is, well, a man who wants to fuck me.

Then Amanda and Kevin split. I went to live with Amanda. I visit Kevin periodically.

So it’s really just a three-way sexual relationship, but I know it sounds like a TV show.

Anyway, if you’re tuning in to season five, that will catch you up.


There is much about my “public weekend” I have yet to write about. The landscaping crew experience that I posted was the most intense, but there were several other “events” to tell about.

One was a visit with our neighbors, John and Patricia Miller, in which I sat topless in their living room for two hours. It’s a credit to them that they made me feel comfortable and relaxed in their presence. I’ll write and post about it soon.

Probably more important than my walking around bare-breasted in front of strangers are some of the conversations that Amanda had with me, revealing more about her “philosophy of Shae,” and her plans for me in the future. Again, I will post on this soon.


Kevin has us going to a Labor Day party this afternoon.

I frankly am a bit tired of social events, but at least I get to keep my clothes on at this one.

moonlighting update

Yesterday Amanda called this man Josh, the journalist who is developing this interview 360 project. They had a good conversation.

Amanda was pleasantly impressed and feels he may be legitimate. She told me he seemed primarily interested in working with me for editing and writing. He was figuring the time would come to about eight hours a week.

Amanda suggested he and I try this out for one month, then review how it’s working. He gave a figure for what he could pay me, but Amanda said she didn’t want me taking any money for the work, that I would do it for free.

She made it clear to Josh there is no commitment on our part for an interview; that’s a separate discussion, and Amanda would consider it later. Josh, she said, was fine with this.

Late yesterday afternoon, Josh sent Amanda an informal work agreement, summarizing what was said and agreed to. Already this morning he sent me an email with some preliminary thoughts and a few attachments. After I review these, he and I will talk further.

Seems I have a little editing gig.

moonlighting?

I have been contacted by a man to do some writing and editing for him. I’m not sure much will come of it, and it may not even be a thing. But it’s potentially interesting.

His name is Josh. He’s a journalist and writer by profession. He has an idea for an online website that would be primarily interviews. His intention is to probe deeply and fully into a person’s life, learning not only what they do but what they feel and who they are. That’s his pitch anyway.

He is interested in ordinary people not celebrities. The unique angle is that he is fascinated by people who are in alternative sexual lifestyles, varieties of sex work, and non-conforming sexual relationships.

He calls them “360 interviews,” a combination of formats — true story, factoid, and sidebars — but a series of interviews as the focus. So far, no website has been created and nothing has been posted publicly, though he apparently has conducted several of these interviews and has had them transcribed.

He found my blog. He is interested in me for two reasons. He is asking to hire me to edit his copy, as well as write some things for him. He feels he needs an editor-writer who understands alternative sexual experiences.

The other reason is that he wants to interview me — or maybe me and Amanda together. He is considering us for one of his 360 interviews.

If this is for real, it’s of interest to me. Not so much being interviewed but doing some of the editing and writing that it seems he might need. I don’t need the money. I’m just eager for another challenge in my writing.

Amanda is skeptical, although she is agreeing to take a next step with him. She and I have been contacted before by people who wanted to interview us. In fact, we have been interviewed, at least partially. But nothing came of these, and we have felt that we have been used for other intentions.

So we’ll see.

mash from the past

I had an unusual experience earlier last week, and it brought me to reflect on my college years.

I haven’t shared much about my earlier life here. I don’t think most people are interested in those details, my history, and it doesn’t relate directly to my submissive life now.

I’ll try not to bore you, but bear with me for a few paragraphs, and then I’ll get on with it….


Back in college, I had two circles of friends I hung out with. One was what I called the “theater posse.” I was only peripherally involved in theater, but I made friends with some of the acting majors, and they included me in their group. They were fun and creative, but by my junior year this group had moved along or away, and was no longer a part of my life.

The other circle was my English lit cohort. It was common, though not required, at the beginning of one’s sophomore year, to declare a major with a particular focus. I declared English lit as my major, and writing as my focus. it happened that six other students declared the same lit/writing focus, leading us along a similar course path over the next three years.

Not all cohorts of this kind actually get along that well, but we did and ours became a social group as much as a study group. It’s been a long time, but those times with Marta, Scott, Shaniqua (whom we called “Neek”), Jeremy, and Darius were important to me. I was still a conservative church girl finding herself in a big secular university in Pennsylvania. They all were supportive friends who respected me.

Sadly I have lost touch with them. Even at the end of our senior year, we had started to disperse. Marta and Darius graduated early. Scott had a family crisis and couldn’t finish his final semester. After graduation, most of them went to New York or Boston or Philadelphia to pursue careers. Of course, my journey brought me to Colorado. Circumstances intervene and we find ourselves in different lives.


Monday this past week I received an email.

It said, “I found you! Discovered your blog. This is Jeremy.”

My first thought was how wonderful it was to get reconnected to Jeremy all these years later.

My second thought was, oh crap, he’s been reading my blog. And in fact he had been reading a number of my posts going back months. In his email he was asking questions about the D/s life and how and why I got into it.

Those of us who write online about being submissive and being dominated do so because in some way we want to be known. We want to share ourselves and our experience of the submissive life. Yet our lives of submission are still secret from some or many, usually because there are people we know who would not likely understand, for whom the knowledge just would cloud our relationship with them.

I write personal and intimate things with some expectation they will be read. Of course. I cannot be so shocked, really, when I know Jeremy has read about my sex life. I wrote it and posted it, and somehow I wanted others to read it.

But mostly I expect to be read by those in D/s life themselves, perhaps by people in D/s communities. I am always aware that others outside the lifestyle read my posts because they’re curious. And I accept that new acquaintances in my life come to read my blog. Usually these people who read about my submissive, intimate life are those who already know me in some way as the submissive woman I am. This is what I am to them, and I’m OK with that. What they read about me is how they know me.

This letter from Jeremy was a mash-up of my past into my present. That’s what’s jolting. I just never thought about people from my past finding me here. Naive of me, I suppose. I just never much thought about it.

But people from my past never knew me as I am now. This is quite surprising to them, I’m sure. And maybe shocking or pitiable. I don’t know.

I have been asking myself if this is an actual Problem. Maybe not. But it makes me feel exposed. Like one of my frequent fiction themes of being undressed and sexed and the lights coming on to reveal that I’m on a stage and an audience is watching. (I seem to write about that often, so maybe I should like this.)

Anyway, there’s no conclusion here. I don’t know. I’m still swirling in the feelings of this.


Well, I emailed him back, trying to be a Composed Adult Woman owning her life of submission. Though there isn’t much one can say casually and concisely about how one English Lit girl became a sex slave.

I guess circumstances intervene and we find ourselves in different lives.

Jeremy, welcome to my blog.

my reply to Mr. Drake

This is my email response to Mr. Drake. I actually wrote it early last week, and sent it last Tuesday.

I’ve been informed that he and Amanda have had some communication on the side, which I am not privy to. But through that, he has given permission to post this here on my blog.

As before, the name “Mr. Drake” is an alias, and I have redacted other specifics that would be problematic to him in real life.


Dear Mr. Drake,

Thanks for writing back to me and considering my request. I apologize if my original letter was too formal. I didn’t know how to approach this with you. You’re a man I don’t really know and you’re being drawn into an intimacy with me — it’s just unusual, and I haven’t been quite sure of myself with you.

Amanda says I need to learn how to be more open and intimate with people I don’t know. Apparently things like this will be more a part of my life. There is an art to it, she says. So, I’m afraid you are part of my early training. Lucky you!

Here is the link to my blog — https://slaveshae.wordpress.com/ — if you decide to read some of it, you’ll get to see a whole lot of me in my daily slave life. Interspersed also is some of my fiction (always labeled as such), which is probably more apt for I would be, with your per mission, doing with you. As I write stories, I put myself in the mind and body of my main character, who is usually a version of myself anyway. I imagine what those experiences would be, how I would feel sexually, how my body would respond. In a way, it’s like they really happen to me.

So I’m just saying that if you allow me to write about you as I am requesting, this is how I will approach it. That is, I will experience it as if I am literally with you, Mark. It’s the only way I can write. I will imagine myself with you here in our living room, what our conversation will be, serving you drinks. So writing about you and me together sexually will come from my own visualization of that actually happening.

You asked me three questions, and I’ll try to answer honestly and personally.

How does it feel to write and request this? It is embarrassing, but I want to be clear that’s not about being (or imagining myself being) with you. I am more than honored you’re even writing to me on this. It’s just the public nature of it, this sexual request played out in front of others. Truth is, in thinking about it, I can’t help but imagine myself present with you (my mind goes back to the New Years party), standing there with a drink in my hand talking with you, other people listening. And at some point I’m asking you casually, “May I give you a blow job.” In my mind’s eye, other people hear that, look at me. I blush.

It feels like that.

Part of it is that I don’t really know you — which is not to say I don’t, or wouldn’t, like you, but that you are essentially a stranger of whom I’m asking an intimate, sexual thing. And it feels promiscuous to me, sort of, and again “in front of” others. So I feel exposed in writing and requesting this of you. This gets into the sexualization of me as a slave, which I’ve experienced a zillion times, and yet feeling the ever present tug as an adult woman to be respectable. That’s another subject, I guess.

But the other thing, in full disclosure, is that this is humiliating because I know I actually want to. Frankly I want to do this with you. I suppose one can’t be embarrassed by something one would never do. My humiliation comes from my own desires for it, knowing what is inside me.

Which leads to your next question…

How do you feel about giving blow jobs? So I could say some things about being ordered as a slave to do all kinds of sexual things in my slave life, but I know that’s not what you’re asking. The plain truth of it is that I like giving blow jobs.

In my new life under Amanda — and she knows all of this — I miss the experience of being with men. She is more than enough for me, but I do long to be sexual with men, which she is trying to provide for. Part of that, honestly, is the experience I desire for a man’s cock, the feel of it in my hand and in my mouth and on my tongue. So, to answer your question, yes, I enjoy a man’s cock in my mouth. And yes, speaking most frankly, I would be excited to make love to your cock, Mark.

You hardly know me. How will you write this and make it about me in a personal way so I can enjoy it? I had not actually thought about that. Just hadn’t gotten to that point yet.

If you give me permission to write this, I wonder if it would be possible for me to ask you a few questions about you, and, say, your preferences. And maybe kind of how you would like to have me. I’m not asking for you to spend much of your own time responding. Writing this is my task, not yours. But I’d be looking for some details about you is all. Do you have other ideas for this? I’m happy to do what would make this a more personal experience for you.

Thank you, Mark, for being patient with me. I would very much like to experience this with you virtually, as it were, and I hope you will give me permission to write about you and me sharing this together.

slave shae

p.s. I know you have Amanda’s cell number, and so you may by now have her email address also, but you requested it so here it is: [—].