Service Slave Secrets

I’ve just gotten back from my morning walk. I check the time. 9:14. I groan internally.

The rule is, brunch on the table, pager transmitter button pressed, me in Waiting Position, at 9:30. This means I have to start making the food at 9:20, which means I need to largely be done with my other morning tasks before then. (The only thing left before Morning Inspection should be cooking, serving, and cleaning up brunch.) This necessitates a wakeup time of no later than 8:30, which is also a rule. The problem is that due to small tweaks made to our sleep schedule, I’m now often not done with the first set of morning tasks, sending her the, Going for walk, Mistress, message and tucking my phone into my pocket so she can track me, and getting out the door, before 8:50, which means I don’t get back and settled from the one mile loop until after 9:10. And I need just over ten minutes to complete the set of morning tasks that come after my walk. 

This means that, while it’s close, almost every morning recently, I’ve been asking for permission to be late with having brunch on the table, pushing the meal to 9:35, 9:40, with a script that starts with me (via message) saying, May I be late, please, Mistress? and then goes to her saying, Yes, you may, and then goes to me saying, Thank you, Mistress. 

Because I always ask permission, and she always says yes, and we knew the tweaks made might result in calling it close, the timing isn’t an official problem. But six years in to a dynamic like this, with a focus on anticipatory service, you develop an eye for inconvenience that has the easy potential to become problem. One day, accustomed to her saying yes to the shift in timing, I might forget to ask permission. Or she’s going to be busy with something and not answer my question. Or we’re going to really need to be exactly on time with brunch.

Since I definitely need the extra time—I already perform my morning tasks with as much efficiency as I’m capable of—and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience her by asking to move brunch time, there seems to me to be only one answer: wake up about ten minutes earlier. 8:30 is pretty well embedded in our routine, but it’s more descriptive than prescriptive, as long as brunch is on time, and the contract even says by 8:30. So today, when I once again ask for permission to be late, and she says yes, and I thank her, I mention that I will be waking ten minutes earlier. 

Except that the conversation that unfolds as I set about the second round of morning tasks—making the hospital corners on the bed, adjusting the windows and lights, spritzing the linen spray on the bed and couches, doing a quick tidy of the house, seeing to the cats and the plants—is not the of course that I expected. I hear a frustrated sigh from her office, and heavier typing than normal, which sets my body on high alert mode. The curt message tells me she doesn’t want me to do that. 

I am confused by this. The change is only by ten minutes, it’s earlier—which is allowed by the contract—it’s in the name of having brunch on time, I see no better solution, and I think my message was reasonable in tone. I understand that she has veto power over everything, but this wasn’t a change I explicitly needed permission to make; if she had just said no, that might have been one thing, but I am still trying to understand the frustration.

The only thing my mind generates is concern about my sleep. The most frequent incidental use case of her veto power is probably making me get extra rest (banning all things that would interfere with this, generally tasks she preset herself). Currently, we have Evening Inspection at 8:45 PM. The first steps come right after I serve dinner at 6 PM—cleaning the kitchen, etc. Other than that, I start getting ready around 8:25 PM, turning down the bedroom and whatnot, ending with stripping out of my uniform and getting into Inspection Position. After Inspection, I officially have the option to either be leashed for the night and settle onto my blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed and read or write or whatnot, or possibly stay up and about longer. Either way, I generally make sure to do lights out by 10:30 PM, planning on taking my usual hour to fall asleep, which lets me get my ideal nine hours in before that 8:30 alarm. Since the change is only by ten minutes and my lights out time is up to me (she normally goes to sleep after Inspection, and I am reasonable and consistent enough about my own bedtime, she doesn’t officially enforce it), I see no problem in also moving my lights out time to 10:20 PM in case of any concerns. Except adding this in does not help. 

Finally, it dawns on me. She does go to bed and wake earlier than I do, and before I am awake, currently, most days, she bikes over to a friend’s house where she has a little office set up to get some work done, then bikes home and is there to unleash me for the morning right at 8:30 when I page her and get into Leashing/Unleashing Position. Me waking ten minutes earlier would either disrupt her routine as much as moving brunch ten minutes later would if not more, or mean she wasn’t there to unleash me most mornings. While we have protocols in place for what happens if she is asleep or out of the house when it’s time for me to be leashed or unleashed, her unofficial goal is for her to be the one leashing or unleashing me as much as possible.

And I blanked that part, because, well, the whole her going out and coming back in thing happens while I’m asleep. 

I send my ohhh moment and apologize. She makes it clear she’d be more willing to move brunch ten minutes later. And it’s fine. 

Still, I had the jarring running into the end of the leash experience. Not being able to make a tiny, reasonable change to my routine on my own—because it might have meant literally unleashing myself. It made me remember that the (metaphorical) admittedly short leash I’ve largely become so used to does end somewhere. I’ve written before about reminders that my time is hers, that protocol limits my options for what to do in a specific moment—but today’s experience felt a little different. I couldn’t change, going forward, a routine item, was reminded that our rituals are in large part prescriptive, not (just) descriptive, that I cannot just change something small when it is no longer, in my opinion, the best option. Even beyond the moment, my habits cannot just change at my discretion.

It’s always an interesting moment—remembering that for us it’s not a fantasy or a roleplay or just a concept that has little bearing on my day to day life. On the one hand, I know that, logically. I know I have no power here. I know that, emotionally—I can have a strong mental reaction to someone insisting otherwise. But you can know you’re on a leash and be glad to be on it and still choke if you hit the end of it.

It’s a vulnerable feeling. On that end of the leash, you’re not the one who controls where you’re going. I know that she’ll take us somewhere that’s good for both of us—she’s not going to walk us right off a cliff, or stop in the middle of a busy road, or drop the leash and leave me alone in the middle of nowhere. More literally, I know she’ll be there to put the leash on and take the leash off almost every night and almost every morning. But I’m still completely at her command. 

Forever. 

Fill the electric tea machine’s kettle to the max line with filtered water. 

There are an almost comedic number of ways to acquire filtered water in our kitchen. The freezer door dispenses water, though Mistress doesn’t like it. So does our standalone water dispenser machine—at three temperatures. So does the drinking water faucet next to the sink, more convenient to leave something under to fill. So does the filtration system under the sink with the long tube, which is more for slowly filling large containers—like the ones that go into the standalone machine, or that I bring for hosting the TNG munch. 

Using the machine is slightly faster, though you have to stand there holding the button—there is no leaving the kettle. It makes me feel more like I’m doing something, holding the rising weight of the water, listening to it running, watching for the moment it reaches the line. But it usually makes the most sense to multitask while the kettle’s filling, the running water almost silent in the background, try to come back to it at the right moment—or, worst case, dump out a tiny bit of water. 

Into the tea strainer: 

Masala Chai: 2 Scoops

Irish: 3 Scoops

Scottish: 2 Scoops 

While the kettle fills, I check that the strainer is empty and clean, and take two scoops out of the first tall glass jar of tea, with the chalkboard sticker label for Masala Chai. Three from the one labeled simply Irish—back when Mistress mostly drank coffee, and occasionally tea using tea bags, it was just Irish Breakfast Tea—and, two for the one simply labeled Scottish. The first is multicolored; the latter two, darker, and very similar looking. The first scoop or two makes a little metallic pling hitting the bottom of the strainer, and I can already smell the tea. 

Lavender: 3 Pinches

Rose Petals: 2 Pinches

Cacao Nibs: 1 Pinch

Half Cinnamon Stick 

The scoops are all the same, but Mistress made sure we were on exactly the same page about pinches when she showed me the measurements, as far as the ingredients that come from the smaller jars. 

The lavender flowers, whole, are tiny, several of them fitting in between my fingers, and are, as you’d expect, the color that’s named after them. They scatter when I drop them on top of the tea. They smell less and less strong to me, as I’ve started using lavender oil in the humidifier in the bedroom, becoming desensitized to it. The name, though, brings back well over a decade of associations for me—a main character I write by the same name.

The rose petals are bigger, dried, with a crunchy sound and more gravity to them, mostly a pinkish red, but with yellowish parts, too. They look more like flowers to me. I find them subtle and sweet, even though I find the rose scented candle Mistress made strong. 

The cacao nibs (which I wasn’t sure of how to pronounce until I mentioned that fact to someone at a conference I was teaching at) are also tiny, but harder than the lavender, almost like tiny rocks, and a grayish brown color. The jar smells like chocolate when I open it, but, once, pondering my taste for various dark chocolate percentages out loud, Mistress told me to try some of them straight, and they just didn’t taste like much to me. 

Half of a cinnamon stick, stored in a slightly larger jar. They’re solid and can be hard to break, and I tend to try to find one that’s the average size, but thin enough for me to have no trouble breaking in half with just my fingers, getting that satisfying snap. They look kind of rolled, and some have more or different layers than others, but all are roughly the same medium brown, and have the same distinct smell. 

Tea Strainer, Lid, Lid, Lock 

Herbal Setting 

I insert the tea strainer into slot in the top of the kettle, place its lid on it, place the lid to the machine on, and twist it into the lock position, then set it onto the machine’s base. 

I hit the herbal setting button. It’s labeled for seven minutes, but that’s just steep time, not counting the boiling of the water—I know I can set my phone alarm for twelve and a half minutes to come back almost exactly when it’s actually done, giving a final, barely audible beep. I don’t always set the alarm, if I’m in the kitchen anyway and know I’ll be there when it’s ready. But if I need to be drawn back to the kitchen amidst other tasks and distractions, and I know Mistress is eager for the tea, I take the alarm with me. 

Open, Drain Strainer

Warm Pot

When it is ready, I twist the kettle’s lid into the unlocked position, remove it. The tea smells sweet and is a reddish brown at this point. I remove the tea strainer, and drain it—usually turning it mostly upside down while carefully keeping the lid in place where my hand won’t get burned—into the kettle, more dripping water sounds. I replace the lid and lock it again. 

I might have prepped some of the next stages while the machine was doing its work, or—depending on what other tasks were at hand, like cleaning the kitchen—might not have.

But now I warm the big blue teapot—already cleaned, I rinse it out again with hot water from the standalone machine. It’s the one step I added to the ritual that Mistress didn’t explicitly specify, though I’ve seen her do it in certain situations, too, when she was still experimenting with the recipe or whatnot. After years of getting her coffee, I didn’t get to make her tea after she made the switch until she ironed out the details. Then, finally, she trained me in how it was done; I took the notes and she approved them. 

10 Sugar Cubes

I place ten sugar cubes from the container into the little white creamer pitcher. Plink, pink… They’re mostly hard, but some of them chip a corner when they hit the bottom. As a longtime Hunger Games fan, I must think of the reference.

I always double check there are ten, mostly by visually grouping them into groups of three, then making sure there’s one extra. I don’t know why my brain decided it was three threes and one, instead of twos or fives, actual factors of ten. 

Then, I pour a large splash of the tea over them, and stir with a teaspoon until the sugar’s all dissolved, and pour the contents of the little pitcher into the big blue teapot. 

2 Teaspoons of Honey 

I think dissolving the honey is my favorite part of the ritual. I take one teaspoon of honey out of the small jar, drop it into the little creamer pitcher, sweet and oozing, amber colored. A little probably remains on the teaspoon when I take the second one, and just leave the honey covered spoon in the creamer pitcher. I pour a large splash of the tea in (making sure the spoon isn’t at an angle where it will make it go everywhere). Then, stir until it’s dissolved. I can feel the mixture go from thick and slow to feeling nearly like it’s water, pulling the spoon back out miraculously clean of honey. It’s so satisfying.

Then, I pour the contents of the creamer pitcher into the big teapot. 

Splash of Milk

It’s controversial, probably, but it’s just two-percent milk. Mistress tried other substitutes. But she didn’t go through enough—only using a splash per forty ounce pot of tea, which she averages two of per day—for us to buy it in large quantities, paying more for less so it didn’t go bad, and struggling to keep the right amount in stock. On the other hand, my beverage of choice is two-percent milk. It’s the only thing I consistently drink other than water, and I generally purchase about two gallons per week (three isn’t unusual). It was always handy, so she got used to it. 

For this step, tea first. I pour some into the creamer pitcher. Then a large splash of milk, pulling the gallon in progress out of the fridge, then replacing it.

I noticed, trying to pin down what large splash of milk meant when Mistress was showing it to me, that if the creamer pitcher was roughly full, from tea and the correct amount of milk, it was about the color of my mother’s coffee, a light brown. It’s funny, the personal repertoire of reference we build in our heads, the measurements and comparisons. But I know the splash without that reference, now. 

This one needs no stirring—the pouring of liquid into liquid does most of the work. 

One more time, I pour the contents of the creamer pitcher into the big teapot.

And The Rest Of The Tea… 

Straight from the kettle, I pour the rest of the tea into the big teapot, and seal the lid. 

It’s done. 

In the Museum of Science in Boston, there’s long been an exhibit about our senses and perceptions, including but also beyond what we normally think of. One of its features is a simple activity related to our sense of time. Hit a button, and, simply doing your thing, without counting seconds, hit the button again when you think it’s been a minute. Then, a screen tells you how long it’s really been. 

Often, our first tries come up short—way short. Anecdotally at least, whenever I’ve observed people giving the activity a real go, about forty seconds seems to be the first length of time people wait before hitting the button again—two-thirds of a minute.

With practice, accuracy increases. I took the idea home from the museum with me after a trip in August, played with the stopwatch on my phone, using thirty seconds, a minute, a minute and a half, two minutes, until I could consistently hit the stop button within a few seconds of the duration I’d had in mind. 

It became a mindfulness game. It’s not about how accurately you can count the seconds—as you’re not supposed to count—but being able to hold the clock in the back of your mind as you do something else. What does one minute of washing dishes feel like? What does two minutes of folding laundry feel like? 

I often preach a mindfulness practice’s uses in submission. In anticipatory service—you have to be mindful of someone’s cues and desires, without just staring at them constantly. In learning protocols—you have to be mindful of your speech, posture, and beyond, without contract permanently in hand and while also functioning in conversation. When serving in the kitchen, the ability to put something back in the oven for just another minute without always running for a timer or burning it is near priceless. 

I found it best if it became natural, and practice makes perfect. 

… 

A few months after the trip where the stopwatch game really caught my attention, we were doing our normal maintenance discipline routine, Fridays after brunch. As the final part, Mistress puts me in the corner in the bedroom—for about ten minutes, the exact timing at her discretion. When time is up, she comes and gets me. 

That day, I waited as usual. In a way, that time is hers, as all of my time is—she dictates where I am and how I stand and what I (don’t) do and for exactly how long. Yet, it’s mine, too. I’m alone, and wandering off in the relative freedom of my own mind. Maybe it’s more like she forces me to take a few minutes to myself. 

So my mind wandered, then began to come back towards the present moment, usually a decent sign that time’s almost up. But she didn’t come get me anytime soon. At first, I wondered if my internal background stopwatch was a little off, but after a while, it became clear this wasn’t an issue with my perception of ten minutes or so, or that it had been bumped to fifteen minutes. It simply had to have been way more than ten minutes. Which meant she’d forgotten about me.

It wasn’t the first time, hence my guess. Mistress doesn’t share my fascination with the little stopwatch exercise, and generally sets a timer to tell her to get me out of the corner. And today, she’d clearly forgotten to set the timer. 

I lacked options except waiting for her to remember, as my body started to heartily protest that our Corner Position wasn’t built for this kind of duration. I had one thing coming to save me, though: I had a meeting in a little over an hour from the time she’d put me in the corner. I’d set myself a reminder alarm that would go off about an hour after she’d put me there. If nothing else, she’d hear that alarm. 

I was starting to get a little antsy, though. Really, I’d wanted to do prep for the consultation beforehand, review what the my consultee wanted and write down some initial ideas—in time I’d assumed I’d have between maintenance and the meeting. The reminder alarm was just the final call for plugging in my computer and my webcam, booting up Zoom. After thinking through what I could, and thinking about my lack of time, I estimated at one point that I had about ten minutes left until my alarm went off. Bored, I decided to let myself just count to six hundred. That would be about ten minutes, and then my alarm would go off. 

I got to about three hundred and sixty—about six of the ten minutes I’d estimated. Then my alarm started ringing. Nothing happened for a rather anxiety inducing minute or two, and then Mistress came into the bedroom. (She later told me that she’d heard my alarm, thought I’d shut it in a second as normal, then got confused I hadn’t, and thought she’d come shut it for me, and go find me and alert me to the fact it was going off, and thought that I would appreciate that.) She then realized what had happened. She let me out of the corner, somewhat mortified, and I—after collapsing to the floor briefly as my body, still screaming in protest, gave out—bolted to my meeting (with permission) the second I could manage the requisite curtsy. 

Later, I ran the numbers. My guess had been off by counting another two hundred and forty seconds—about four minutes. If my estimation of an hour had been off by about four minutes, that meant I was off by only about four seconds per minute of that hour. That was kind of neat, but my time estimation skills were also, in that situation, kind of useless. Perhaps there were better things I could’ve thought about—even pleasant distraction—or been mindful of—like calming breathing. But I couldn’t help the mental stopwatch. 

And if you’ve ever been forced to stare, statue still and silent, at a wall with your nose pressed to it for an hour, as the sun moved in the sky, maybe you’ve also wondered: what is a second? What is a minute? What even is an hour? 

…

I came back to those thoughts months later, reading a wonderful book called Saving Time by Jenny Odell. The book challenges many of our cultural ideas about time. The first critical question it asks is, “Whose time is it, anyway?” 

As I mentioned above, I’m very clear on whom “my” time really belongs to. I had the privilege of choosing whom to give it to, but it’s not really mine now. 

And why did I choose how I did? I wax rhapsodic in plenty of writings about why service and why protocol and why slavery, but often it comes down to, I enjoy X, and service or protocol or slavery gives me X. But why do I enjoy X? After a certain amount of digging, I often have to accept my desire for X as seemingly basically innate. 

I created a prettier final write up for my scribbled notes on Saving Time. I centered one key takeaway in an accent color, framed by two strips of thin, patterned washi tape: Never turn your back on the ocean. 

While I was working farther down on the page, Mistress came in to talk to me. Later, about to leave, reading what I’d been working on over my shoulder, she gave my hair a hard yank. “And never turn your back on the ocean, you understand?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

“Good, because I sure don’t,” she said, humorously, but also forced to take the spotlighted note somewhat out of context, and left. 

We talked about it later, though: what the note is getting at is the importance of nature. Nature is largely going to do what it is going to do—and you turn your back on it at your own peril. High tide will come whether you are looking at and ready for it or not. Trying to control nature is both unnatural and frequently impossible. 

And what brings me to this dynamic is my nature, that it is a place I can let my nature be free. Where my desire to submit is not seen as unsafe or demanding too much instruction or provoking guilt or a product of a rigged system. In my case, it is in my nature to submit, and my nature will shine through whether I am in an ideal place for it or not. 

I turn my back on that fact at my own peril. 

… 

The book also explores other senses and scales of time beyond our systems of minutes and hours and days. Time is not really all equal—seasons vary by place and are inexact, days grow longer and shorter. There are multiple, overlapping patterns of the natural world that tell time—foliage blooming and fading, the phases of the moon, the patterns of the tide, the migration seasons of birds. 

If nature—my nature—is what brought me to this dynamic, perhaps it makes sense that the dynamic should run by such patterns of nature. Yet, cultural influence isn’t that easy to escape. I often hear that I run my life—primarily being, my slavery, my household—like a business. With contracts, logs and reviews and check ins, alarms and timers. Even as a slave and homemaker, Friday came to mean more to me than sunrise. 

But I was getting burnt out. Trying to solve my apparent time problem, I tried time tracking.

Yet any kind of time tracking I did seemed kind of lacking. Some things fit neatly—running a TNG munch, teaching a class. But if I made dinner for me and Mistress and my mother as a guest, what was I doing? Self care? I was eating and socializing, after all. Serving? I was required to make Mistress dinner, after all. Hosting, maybe? We had company, after all. Whose time was it, really? 

Saving Time proposes that just because you give something or someone time doesn’t necessarily mean you lose it, or that you took it from something else. You don’t only subtract—time can be shared, invested, planted like a seed. That time at dinner could be shared among the three of us. It was a rejuvenating time, investing in my later energy. Just like those minutes in the corner that are, ultimately, Mistress’, but also, mine. 

Trying to simplify that fact wasn’t helping. Sometimes, the familiar time systems themselves were failing me. Much as my internal background stopwatch didn’t help me when I was in the corner—if Mistress hadn’t heard my coincidental alarm, I would’ve been there until she just remembered me, regardless of the minutes or hours or my meeting—traditional time seemed unhelpful in other areas.

But a major point of time tracking was figuring out how long it took to get things done. And trying to cram how long things took into the boxes of hours and minutes and exclusive percentages of the day, with little regard for energy and consciously or subconsciously shared time, wasn’t working. As long as an activity was clearly serving at least one of my priorities, I decided I shouldn’t get too caught up on which others it might also serve. 

Seeking the whole truth, I noticed minutes and hours slipping away a little. 

I noticed, in quiet moments, other methods of telling time. How long it took for the bread dough to rise, how long it took for Mistress’ tea to steep. Yes, those things averaged a certain amount of minutes or hours, but why was that always the superior translation? If it had been three hours and the dough still hadn’t risen for some reason, it hadn’t risen. And if it had been seven minutes and the tea was still weak for some reason, the tea was still weak. I couldn’t reason with bread dough or tea leaves in terms of minutes or hours. 

Yet I’d been desperately trying to shove nature into the box of the twelve-hour clock and Gregorian calendar, frustrated when it didn’t fit, calculating based on how long it was “supposed” to take (based on cultural, and often ableist, ideals). And if something supposedly took me an hour to do, I didn’t measure how much energy it cost me, ignoring my body entirely. (Like when it was wrecked for far longer than that hour I spent in the corner.) Instead of time is money, which I’d long questioned, I thought, maybe time is energy. Even though the time (kind of) added up, I needed to do less in order to do what was really important to me, like serve. 

I still believe there’s a place for a stopwatch and time in mindfulness—you can train mindfulness without the thing you’re practicing being mindful of being important—but what about also simply coming back when the tea is done steeping or when the bread dough is done rising instead of when it’s been X minutes/hours? 

I also still believe there’s a place for alarms and timers and such—but you can’t always cram nature into them. Perhaps they should be more descriptive than prescriptive, the way we gave certain tasks and protocols a chance to form naturally before the contract described (and prescribed) them. Before I decide how long it should take to do something, maybe I should do it a few times and see how long it naturally takes, and how much energy and how many spoons it actually costs, beyond just minutes. 

Improving efficiency has to be about more than time. Doing something with less time didn’t always mean I was doing it with less energy, and as hours freed up and I filled them with more things, the energy meter went negative. 

I had turned my back on nature at my own peril—hyperfocusing on the exact minutes and hours society dictated instead of how long the natural patterns that really ran my service (and my health) took—and lost, burnt out.

Embracing those natural, inexact, overlapping patterns of time brought me closer to nature’s sense of time. I set the bread dough out to rise, and later, I start steeping the tea. The tea will be steeped, and later, the bread dough will have risen. Maybe when the tea is done but before the bread has to go in the oven, I can fold some laundry, regardless of if it’s exactly three o’clock. 

And embracing those patterns brought me closer to my nature, too—to enjoying service, instead of agonizing over minutes and seconds and hours. 

And that shift was what brought me peace. 

I’ve covered the big why of butler school and some other thoughts, and mention it frequently, but I relatively frequently hear from people interested in starting the course (the International Institute of Modern Butlers’ Full 400 Hour Private Residence Butler/Household Manager Online Course) who want more information, and often a recommendation on if I think the course is right for them. I thought I’d lay out my most frequent answers here. 

To recap the positive, the obvious pro to taking the course is the education. I have learned a lot, and a lot of it has been very applicable for me as a service slave. Other parts may come in handy later, are just interesting, help me answer questions when I teach/etc., or get used in my writing. I think pretty much anyone could learn a lot from this course that they would find applicable, though exact levels will vary. If you are not seriously interested in service, I think the course might be boring. I find a lot of the types of hard skills I’ve learned in the course to be somewhat missing within kink education, so it’s filled in a lot of those for me. 

Another good thing about a professional course is the confidence it gives you. It sets a clear bar that you will reach by the time it’s done, and gives you a highly qualified instructor and a piece of paper to tell you that you know what you’re talking about (once that’s true), on a professional level. That’s a feeling it can be hard to get out of attending large kink classes, and asking personal partners for feedback, and is very valuable for some people. If you’re shrugging at this, it might not be as valuable for you emotionally.

Those are what I consider to be the big pros. Now, let’s reality check. 

Firstly, there’s the money (always the buzzkill, I know). The course itself currently costs $2,500. This is just for the course itself. This does not count the course texts/resources (those are several hundred dollars more—many are pricey, hard to find locally, hence shipping costs, and you’ll need several of them on demand throughout the course, hence, hard to borrow, even if you can find them at your library). They currently estimate about $350 for books, and I think that is on the low end of what you could reasonably pull off, buying local/used, borrowing where you can, etc. This also does not count literally anything else you’ll need for the course, including required in person experiences, course appropriate clothing for pictures and videos, needed tools and supplies, basic technology, so on, as they come up. Be prepared; it would suck to get stuck on an assignment because you don’t have money for supplies, or are waiting on a book to ship. I know a lot of kinksters are on a budget. I was able to set aside part of my inheritance for this course. 

Secondly, there’s the other logistics. The time, focused space to work, the people in your life respecting those things, so on. The course says it takes four hundred hours to complete. I haven’t time tracked the course in detail, but… suffice to say, personally, it took me about two years to get about halfway through the course. You will be putting a lot of time in, that time will demand a lot of your energy, and this course will probably be A Part Of Your Life for quite a while, as actually doing it full time is, I think, very unlikely, due to the energy involved and also waiting on your instructor, in person experience opportunities, buying supplies, etc. Planning out your coursework time in advance can be difficult—I’ve tried many ways of doing it—due to that waiting, and because modules vary wildly in length, assignment types, so on, and you can only see the module you are currently on. So, be flexible in your approach.

As far as space: it will come down to your preferences. Some assignments will demand a space where you can take pictures/video or do certain practical assignments in the household, and then there are specific field trips. For the reading/written assignments, things where you’ll mostly need textbooks and a computer, anywhere you focus best works. The textbooks are large, heavy, and numerous if you get them in physical form (and several of them only come in physical form), and don’t always travel well. Working at home if you can, or really setting up camp somewhere with enough surface area, for a while, will probably be best. I’ve found working in cafes with plenty of seating or coworking spaces best when I want to get out of the house. 

Next, you’ll probably want a cover story. While generally I believe honesty is the best policy… I have found the course to be very conservative. As in, the fact I’m a young, American woman seems out there enough. Personally, I can get away with a few terminology swaps (“Mistress” and “employer”), omission, and tiny detail tweaks. To get the most out of the course and keep your story straight, though, I recommend being as honest as possible. If nothing else, feedback based on largely the truth is going to be much more useful to you than feedback based on lies. How close to the truth you can stick is going to depend on your exact situation.

Let’s talk about the energy, effort, and emotions involved. This course is a lot of work. Mental work—several thousand pages of reading. There are single assignments that call for reading a dry, eight-hundred page book. (And, yes, too many detailed, related assignments to fake it—and besides, if you’re going to fake your way through applicable reading, why take this course?) There’s also an emphasis on written assignments at times (including long essays on how to clean every material known to humankind). Be ready to use your verbal energies. Personally, this is a strongsuit of mine, which helps a lot. 

If you keep up with applying the standards of the course, there’s a lot of physical work—cooking, cleaning, and many forms of serving are all manual labor, and the course assumes you are doing this on a full time basis, before extra coursework. This may or may not actually be the case for you, and I do think you should make what you learn work for you, the person you’re serving, and your dynamic in terms of what you apply long term, but I do want to point out what the course calls for. I’ve definitely had to work on my health to keep up. 

This all can bring about a lot of emotions. The course will ask you early on to really take a look in the mirror and really evaluate your goals, your feelings, your reality, your strengths and weaknesses (and really work on them). You will probably have to conquer some small fears, and definitely work hard, beyond your comfort zone. You’ll almost certainly try new things (whether you like it or not, if you want to finish the course). You will generally have to get/keep yourself and your household together. You’ll learn how to serve with compassion in situations that sound ridiculous right now, how to always communicate efficiently with both transparency and respect. You’ll have to make a fool of yourself on camera until you get it right (and you will be asked to redo it again, and again, and again). You’ll learn how to polish silver and arrange flowers and pour wine down to details you’ve probably never heard of. In short, there will be growing pains. And that’s okay. But you have to be ready. If difficulty demotivates you, you might not be. 

Be aware that your instructor is someone you will have a professional relationship with. Expect that assignment you had all those emotions over to be met with “fine, pass” if you did well, and tough feedback and “redo” if not. (Yes, sometimes you will get enthusiastic praise—but it’s infrequent.) If you need a lot of positive reinforcement and reassurance to stay motivated, you might want to arrange for that with yourself, the person you’re serving, a friend, so on. 

Personally, I’ve found that, to generalize: the harder something is, the more I want it—so this all helps keep me motivated to do my best at coursework. 

So, is butler school right for you? Maybe. It’s not something I would recommend to everyone. It’s not something I would recommend to most people, to be honest. But it could be very valuable for the right person. I’m not trying to scare anyone off of it—I decided it was right for me, after all—but I do want to be honest about the difficult parts, given the investment it is. Ultimately, the decision is yours. But since I get the question and requests for more details fairly often, I wanted to lay more information out here to refer to. 

The collar I wear is made of hemp. It’s one piece of rope connected to itself via an equilateral long splice, and where each of the three ends meet, it’s reinforced with a palm and needle whipping. Mistress has made each iteration around my neck, sometimes hours of me kneeling and thinking as she worked. It needs to be replaced now and then—about every year—and it must be destroyed to be removed—cut off. A small, stainless steel shackle connects an o-ring, and that, at least, transfers between every iteration. 

But, yes, as time goes on, the collar absorbs a lot. Drops of my sweat from the service I provide, stray drops of my blood and tears from the beatings I take. And more. (Realistically, mostly skin oils.) 

Now, hemp constricts when wet. When the collar first goes on, it gets a little tight when I shower or such, but I don’t really notice. As I wear it, though, as it absorbs everything, it has more moisture in it all the time, and when it’s almost time for a new one, taking a shower feels like being choked. 

This is the reward for putting in the time, sweat, blood, and tears: the collar gets tighter and tighter. 

The more I give, the more air it takes, the more I get to feel it.

It’s lovely.

…

I believe that the collar belongs to Mistress. While I sometimes call it my collar for clarity, truly, I think it’s hers. Here’s why. 

I believe that, in terms of consensual power dynamics, we met as equals. She wasn’t my Mistress and I wasn’t her slave, for real, until we both agreed. That part was a two way street. 

Now, however, it’s a one way street. She can dissolve our contract. She can remove the collar. I cannot. No safewords, no limits, no rights, no way out. 

Because that’s a one way street, I think the collar—a symbol of that agreement—belongs solely to her. 

But, I have to wonder, is some part of it mine, too? It’s custom made around my neck, lives there, absorbs parts of me with time, and must be destroyed to be taken off of me, after all. 

There is, I think, something about it that’s mine: the privilege of wearing it. That can be taken away—like everything else I have, a privilege, not a right—but it isn’t given out of sheer generosity, either. It’s something I’ve earned. 

If for no other reason, I believe it’s earned because owning a person comes with responsibility, just like owning any asset comes with responsibility. Mistress owns the home we live in—and if the air conditioning suddenly goes out, if the house gets damaged in any way, if it experiences any wear and tear, that’s her problem, and it happens at her expense, one way or another. 

The same for me. If I’m sick or injured or aging, she has to make the big decisions, probably take care of me herself, deal with my loss of ability, pay the medical bills (all the money is ultimately hers), etc. I come with risks beyond my control. I have to deal with what happens to me, too—I’m not inanimate, but. And I take on risk by being a slave, too—but I will provide care at her command, for her convenience, out of obedience, not ownership. 

Now, she can release me, washing her hands of those problems, just like she can sell the house if it needs too many repairs, but then she’s short a slave, and everything she’s put into me. It’s unlikely she gets money out of it, and slaves are more work to reinvest in than houses. 

I take on more risk than she does, by nature of not being able to cut my losses and dissolve the situation in case of problems, even if ultimately, all assets and liabilities are hers, in a way. And I have my own reasons for taking that on, but they’re not really the main point here. She takes on risk, too. 

So, ownership has to be worth the risk.

This means I must prove that I am a worthy, animate asset, that I am doing what I can to reduce my risks and increase my value. I must have something to offer that makes me worth the risk of owning me, of putting a collar around my neck to signify that. 

If for no other reason, I believe the collar is earned because, one way or another, I proved that value. She made sure of that before she made it around my neck.

So, back to the question: is some part of the collar mine, too, if I earned the privilege of wearing it? 

Perhaps. But it’s not debt free. To keep that privilege, I must continue to earn it, every day. I didn’t really just earn it once. 

Here’s a thought: maybe I’ve only finished earning it when it’s removed.

In my mind, my slavery operates on a lien against my honor. Since our contract isn’t legally binding, what protects it—especially that no way out part for me—is integrity. My debt is lifelong obedience. I cannot leave with my honor or integrity, unless I obeyed until one of us died or she released me, paying that debt. If I don’t give her that, I lose my honor. 

Thus, I can’t have completely proven myself, finished earning the collar, until that point. And at that point, I get ownership of myself back—the right to self collar, if you will (though I might very well be dead). 

But that’s more the metaphorical collar, ownership. What about the physical collar, which doesn’t last as long? 

Perhaps I’ve earned each of those when they were removed and destroyed, then, when I had put in enough of the blood, sweat, and tears that it became dizzyingly, euphorically tight. 

…

I think the physical collar represents the dynamic in more ways than one. Where else would you first look to see the Owner’s will and preference represented? Subtle, flashy, practical, dainty, colorful, plain, leather, rope, locking, clasped, belled, tagged—collars come in all variations, and each tells a story. 

The collar I wear is, as mentioned, made by Mistress, out of rope. Rope is a big thing of hers. And that she makes it herself renders it an always handy example of her craftsmanship. Incidentally, so am I. A living example of her will, preferences, training.

To those who know what a collar means, it’s clear, like our protocol, but it’s tame (and comfortable) enough for 24/7 wear. It must be, since, like the dynamic it represents, it’s on 24/7. 

It’s also practical. Mistress likes to remind me that the weakest part of the collar’s setup is my throat. It can support far more than my body weight at its own weakest point. (And, I’m not an actual house cat who might get out and up a tree—that’s not a huge safety issue). It stands up easily to her grabbing and tugging, incorporating it into artistic rope ties, and leashing me every night. 

I do think about it frequently last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Every night, I see to my last tasks, turning down the bedroom, then strip out of my uniform, wash up, and get in position for 9:45 Inspection. 

I remove everything except the collar (and my wedding ring). Really, my whole uniform—I wear the exact same thing every day—is a display of Mistress’ preference. But at night, as required, it all comes off, leaving only the symbols that bind me to her. The collar, I note mentally, almost every time I strip entirely, is the one item I can’t remove. I eye my pager—a symbol and logistic of me being at her beck and call—but it’s not quite the same, and it comes off from where I keep it clipped to my leggings during the day, setting it nearby for the night. I leave the wedding ring, but I often take it off out of caution when I do dishes or such, tuck it into the clip of my pager and set them both nearby.

And after Inspection is done, her looking me over and telling me how my evening tasks—like cleaning up after dinner at 6—went (adequately, 99% of the time), I get into Leashing Position, which is my General Kneeling Position, except with a double check my head and hair are out of the way, the collar o-ring is in front, and with the matching leash draped across my upturned palms on my thighs. 

She leashes me for the night, and I curl up in my spot on the floor at the foot of the bed, see to a few final tasks, and go to sleep. All night, I feel the slight tug of the heavy clip of the leash, occasionally tangle my torso in the rope, or, more frequently, take it with me in my sleep when I roll over, hear the jingling of the metal bits near my throat, or the carabiner that connects the handle to a turnbuckle on the underside of the bed rattling around. At 8:10, I’ll page her or wake her and we’ll repeat the night’s ritual for unleashing. (Inspection, too, repeats, at 10:30, dressed in my uniform, for morning tasks, like cleaning up after brunch, served at 9:30.) 

So, first thing in the morning, and last thing at night—the leash, the collar, the symbol and the feeling of ownership. 

It’s a readily accessible feeling, really—there in what I do—a full time job of service, being the housewife—and what I don’t do, like speak if not spoken to.

But, if I ever need more, another reminder, reassurance, symbol—of what I am, what I do, what I’m for, what I’ve earned—it’s right there, around my neck. 

A little tighter every day. 

I’m washing the dishes after dinner as always. But it’s late, later than usual. We delayed our normal dinner time of 6 PM to accommodate the schedule of a guest, so cleanup, too, was pushed back. And, with the added person, there are a few extra dishes. So I’m still cleaning, later than usual. Last night, after dinner, Mistress ordered me to leave the dishes for the morning, deciding that I didn’t feel up to doing them due to a health flareup. So I spent extra time doing the dishes this morning, too, after the other meal I serve and clean up after every day—brunch at 9:30 AM.

And, as I’m finishing the last of the dishes for the day, admittedly eager to get back to some writing I was doing, I have the thought: imagine how much I could get done if I wasn’t always cleaning or cooking. 

I regret the thought immediately, looking around as if someone could’ve overheard it, unsure if that’s something like internal enslavement or the paranoid schizophrenia, or maybe something normal. But Mistress and the guest are both gone—they went out—so even if I’d spoken it aloud, no one would’ve heard me.

But, I think, in reverse, isn’t that kind of the idea of our service dynamic? Imagine how much Mistress could get done if she never had to clean or cook or do any of the other tasks that take about forty hours of my average week. Imagine if I could be that powerful difference. Even subtracting things she might do faster or easier or neglect altogether without me, that’s a lot of time. It’s hard to get serious amounts of work done without that kind of maintenance support. My mind goes back to the Manifesto for Maintenance Art. 

And she’s using that time well and all—being an independent entrepreneur—that’s not the issue. And overall, I’m happiest in that dynamic. But it’s human, I think, to occasionally wonder, But what about my time? It’s not actually that I don’t do anything other than cook and clean. No, I’m not allowed to have a traditional job or anything, and I don’t pine for that. But I still go hmm when I, increasingly, see people discussing my dynamic in terms of me not working—or largely not working—outside of my service. 

Firstly, it feels a little weird, because, as mentioned, service is a full time job, and it would definitely be weird to say, So and so doesn’t work, except for their full time job, in any other scenario, so sometimes I wonder if anyone else views this as legitimate. Some of them must, the way I see the stay at home spouse role discussed. 

Secondly, my time tracking shows that I spend another forty hours a week on things I consider work that aren’t service. Nine to five, no, but significant to me, yes. Writing, webinars, running TNG, going to butler school. Some make money, some don’t—and I know that part will sway some people’s definitions. Some of those things might come back to service or kink in the end, but not all of them. Yes, service must always be the top priority—but there’s some room for other things.  

And I know it’s false, but I still don’t identify as an erotica author or as a BDSM blogger (or, really, as a blogger at all, but that’s beside the point here), even though that’s what I’m best known for at this point. In my mental model of myself, I still write primarily vanilla, nonromantic, nonsexual fiction, like Contrivance, which was my main project for the better part of eleven years (and a sequel is brewing). 

But even knowing a significant portion of what I write at this point does come back to kink, a lot of it, still, does not. And writing erotica or kink blogging isn’t really a service to Mistress. She couldn’t care less if I do it or not. I’ve also embarked into vanilla webinars, into blogging about schizophrenia and productivity, other vanilla things. And I do those things because I love them, because, to my surprise, some people think I’m good at them, and I dare to think they make a positive impact—representation, education, bringing people together. 

So, yes, I do things other than cook and clean and serve. Still, I do all of the cooking and cleaning and serving that enables Mistress to do something good with her time. If we assume she does the equivalent of working full time, then she works full time once over, on her own endeavors, and I work full time twice over—once to support her endeavors (which also, incidentally, feeds me and keeps my environment clean), and once on my own projects. 

If I had the time that’s usually spent serving and supporting to myself, would it really all go towards my own projects? Probably, largely—I’m a bit of a workaholic. But what does that gain me—the ability to basically work twice as fast, in the long run? Yes, but wouldn’t it maybe be better, to do twice as much—to split my time—like I am now? Diversify what I do a little? Not to mention that her work that I’m supporting is different from my own, mixing up the benefits to the world further. Plus, rote cooking and cleaning is a nice, physical brain break from my largely more mental work. 

A recent conversation between friends summed this up nicely:

“Pretty sure if Hannah wasn’t a slave she’d just take over the world.”

“Eh, she still might. It’ll just take longer.”

Yes, I conclude to myself as I finish drying dishes and finish up cleaning the kitchen—it’s better this way. 

… 

A few days later, I sit in my office, stuck and conflicted. 

Mistress is again out with a friend, and, having just finished what I was doing, I’m not entirely sure what to do now.  

Every little idea that occurs to me seems to be blocked by rules, and by my unwillingness to interrupt her. I kind of want to get the listings up for a weekend intensive I have planned, but I still need to do the final run of the dates, the obligation and possible schedule changes, by Mistress, though we’ve discussed the intensive itself. There’s a picture on my phone I want to upload to FetLife, but I need her permission. I have to go to the bathroom—and I won’t need her permission for that once she actually leaves, but her and the friend are lingering just outside, and it’ll be easier to wait for them to properly leave than to interrupt her now. I think about taking a shower, but again I need to wait for her to properly leave to not need permission, and she’ll still need to inspect my job of shaving and such when she gets back. I have some medical phone calls I could make, but again, either she needs to leave properly or I need permission; she’s already approved the changes I’m calling about. I can’t currently leave the house to do anything except to get the mail without permission, and even that requires notification.

I feel like I’m running into wall after wall, bouncing back into an impossibly small space. My life feels like it’s on hold right now, unless I’m willing to interrupt her—which feels bothersome when it’s unnecessary and she’s socializing—and that assumes, for some of those, that she also sees it and responds. I currently need her attention to do literally anything that comes to mind first, though a few things open up once she’s out out, and eventually, more comes to mind (like writing this). 

Our protocol typically takes into account practicality—hence why there are exceptions when she’s out or asleep or such. In her presence, I can’t leave the room, sit on the furniture, shift from most of my slave positions, or speak without permission (actually, I’m not even allowed to ask about the furniture, and I have to ask if there’s anything else she wants before I can ask for permission to leave, and curtsy if I get it, and asking permission to speak if she doesn’t speak to me first is a slave position, not a verbal question—and I still have speech restrictions). But, if she’s off alone in her office, I can roam around the rest of the house and sit on the furniture. If she’s asleep and it’s the middle of the night, I gain permissions like being able to temporarily unleash myself, no Leashing Position, let myself up from the blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed I sleep on, and go to the bathroom, and releash myself (though, for first leashing for the night or final unleashing for the morning, I need to wake her). If she’s out of the house or if we’re in vanilla company—usually somewhat rare—I gain some things, too.

Now, maybe the most practical and unobtrusive thing is not needing permission or to notify her of anything at all, so we clearly don’t make every compromise for practicality, because we also prioritize rules, rituals, protocols, permissions. Pleasing isn’t always practical, and really, pleasing comes first, unless it’s very unpractical. Likewise, there’s effort for her to put in, too. 

So on days when the leash feels a little short, like today, I remind myself that pleasing comes first, before whatever I want to do, before peak practicality. I remind myself that without that leash, I more frequently feel equally stuck, not cornered into a small space but torn between infinite directions that go infinite distances, trying to figure out which one is best. I still want to be pleasing without a leash to guide me—and I don’t know which way to go. One reason I like being a slave is because trying to be perfectly pleasing to one person is a lot easier, a good compromise, compared to trying to be perfect to the world—which is impossible, yet I crave anyway. And the leash cuts down choices immensely, makes the right path to pleasing clear, and yes, I have to face the fact that it cuts down a lot, that my world gets very small, that I truly come second, but I’m not lost; I know how to please. I don’t have to wonder. 

And that’s worth it, for me.

I’ve been trying to write this post coherently for years, but I think I just recently figured it out enough. 

Some of my earliest memories aren’t of real things at all, but of immersive daydreams I had in the backseat of the car, or trying to fall asleep at night, or while swaying on the swingset.

I had a lot of spanking (and related) fantasies, but also no concept that this was something that could be done with consent, for fun, by adults, and all those bits, yet. I understood it only as a punishment, and even then, my understanding of it was largely theoretical (my parents didn’t believe in it/I have no memory of being punished as a child, anyway). 

Still, I had a bit of a conundrum: I was a good kid. I was the good sibling, the teacher’s pet, the rule stickler. In high school, my dad recommended that I might try getting a detention, or a B, for the experience. My mom concurred, and dared me to at least dye my hair purple in teenage rebellion (that one, I did; then again, she did a dip dye with me). 

I had an issue with the punishment part of these daydreams, because I didn’t like doing things wrong. So I made my fantasies heroic—taking someone else’s—the whipping girl fantasy. Or they were arbitrary, unreasonable, done out of emotion. Something to take out that factor where I actually had to do something bad. These fantasies usually took place in some kind of destitute servitude setup (which I’d figure out was also crucial much later). 

Later, I discovered the words for all of these things, but even with the ideas of sex and consent and fun in mind, I still found my mind wandering to the same ole, same ole: the punishment idea, still sans the wrongdoing. Roleplay or funishment didn’t quite do it for me; I wanted real power, real meaning, just not real disobedience, in it. Besides the physical action, there were appealing undertones of that situation that I struggled to turn away from. 

I don’t remember discovering the concept of maintenance discipline. It may have been another thing I found a word for that I’d already independently explored the concept of in my head—though without the word, those fantasies lacked a coherency. But it fascinated me. It had all of those tones of punishment, in a way—the power and discipline and structure and protocol and needing but not necessarily wanting it, helpless to the schedule—without the wrongdoing. 

When I met Mistress, it was one of the very first things we agreed would be a part of our dynamic, within the eight weeks after we met and before we moved in together and went 24/7. Over four and a half years ago now. We both wanted the idea; after that, it was just logistics. 

And the logistics have changed a few times. I’ve already emphasized this as a headspace thing, more than it’s about the action or the pain. (My idea of a nice impact scene can run four hours, so pain wise, the way we do maintenance isn’t actually a big deal for me.) I also don’t view it as preventative, as reminding me of my place or nudging me back in it—I don’t think there’s any significant behavioral changes from it—I don’t need discipline for that—so it just has mental, internal benefits, for both of us, really. So as headspace needs changed—based on life circumstances, our evolving dynamic, so on—the details and benefits of maintenance changed. 

It has almost always been once a week (with a little deviation to every other week), and it has always involved at least a spanking with the discipline wand (an implement we chose to reserve for that purpose early on, for clarity, a short, wooden cane/baton/thing initially purchased by Mistress as a magic wand at a coffeeshop). At other times, maintenance has integrated service tasks, inspections (current), lines, corner time (now a part of our punishment ritual). It has always been done at home, frequently in the bedroom, in private (it’s strange at times, how open we are, yet how many pieces of our dynamic have only really been witnessed by us). It’s always been nonsexual. It’s taken as little as twenty minutes or as long as an hour and a half. 

We have always really tried to commit to it unless it truly needs to be cancelled, and sometimes it does, and that’s okay, too. We also try to not constantly tweak the ritual, doing so only when needed, as an important part of the headspace is consistency. 

At times, it’s had an emphasis on higher protocol than our then usual (when I needed an extra dose of structure and control), on catharsis when I was constantly locking down emotions due to external issues, on extra meditative focus (lines, corner time, counting), on the service tasks we integrated when other parts of our schedule might have been disrupted. 

Currently, it works like this:

Fridays, after brunch. Fridays work best for us right now, though I think it’s been on half of the days of the week at various points as schedules have changed. Anchoring it to something else—brunch, which I serve every day at 9:30 AM, made it easier to integrate than assigning it a random, standalone time. I serve brunch, we eat, I clean up the kitchen as usual. Then, normally I have a bit of time to myself to see to a few extra chores or whatnot before morning inspection. 

But on Fridays, I take the discipline wand from the mantel (where it has always lived, always in sight, vanilla looking enough to never be questioned), and find Mistress, usually in her office, to alert her I’m ready. This involves all of the usual protocol: I wait in the doorway, I don’t speak until I’m spoken to, I say, “Yes, Mistress,” when she gives the order to send me to the bedroom to wait while she inspects my morning tasks, and, that waiving the need to ask if there’s anything else I can do to be of service, or asking for permission to leave, I just curtsy and exit. 

I go to the bedroom, strip out of my daily uniform, then kneel and present the wand in Presenting Position (kneeling, knees apart, big toes crossed in back—right over left—back straight, head and eyes down, the wand resting across both of my palms, turned up on my thighs). I don’t usually wait long, but anticipation builds quickly. At this stage, even knowing the final outcome, I always start to feel a bit of dread, which can feel bad in the moment, but is an important part—an important part to feel and then get over—from that punishment without the disobedience setup. But there is no guilt, at least.

Mistress always tells me how much she likes walking in with me like that; it’s one of her favorite moments in every week, favorite moments in our dynamic. She checks the position, takes the wand from me—I raise both of my hands slightly and tilt it into her hand. She sits on the bed and beckons me, “You may come over my lap,” and I move. Usually, she tells me about the week briefly. Praise, what’s happened of note, what she knows was hard, that she loves me and she appreciates me and she’s proud of me and I’m hers. (On the rare occasion something really didn’t go well that week, that was handled separately before now—we don’t group punishment and maintenance together.) 

Then, without much pause, she gives the same instructions, every week. She’s going to hit me X amount of times (it’s almost always ten, though sometimes it goes up arbitrarily to twelve or fifteen, or, more rarely, down to six), and I’m going to count and thank her and ask for another. Then she’s going to hit me an amount of times of her choosing (usually at least one hundred, maybe up to two hundred—I don’t keep track, I had to ask for this post), and I won’t have to say anything. Then, X more that I’ll have to count. 

“Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

Then she hits me, and it’s, “One, thank you, Mistress; please may I have another?” through ten, or whatever number she chose. It requires a lot of self control, to just count. 

Usually, she answers, “You may.” After the tenth, she’ll say, “Yes, but you no longer need to count.” 

Then there’s the middle part. I’m almost always relatively still and quiet for this part now, and after some active pain processing, controlling myself, my mind just floats pleasantly. Right now, I think the theme for me is the part where I surrender myself to it entirely, accept it, submit, feel it more than I sometimes do in the rest of the week. 

I still like the idea of catharsis, but we haven’t gotten there in years; my tolerance doesn’t seem to work like that anymore, for now at least, and it’s almost certainly not going to happen with the discipline wand, which my body is so used to, it hasn’t left marks on me for than a few minutes in years, either. 

Then, after that, “Now there’ll be X more, and you’ll have to count and thank me and ask for another. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

And we repeat that part. After the last one this time, she answers my please may I have another with, “No; you may not. You’re done now.” 

I might stay there for a minute or two. Then she lets me dress, and get in Inspection Position to complete our normal morning ritual—standing, legs spread, back straight, head and eyes up, hands clasped behind my head. She looks me over, my uniform, checks for my pager and the indent it leaves against my abdomen, runs her hands over me, tells me my morning service tasks were done adequately (ninety-nine percent of the time; if not, that would’ve been handled separately). The tasks include things like making the bed, folding up the blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed that I sleep on, and laying out the leash I sleep bound by neatly, general tidying, preparing coffee, checking on the plants and the cats, handling lights/windows/blinds, so on. 

Then, I get her sunscreen and apply it for her as usual, and then the morning is done. Usually morning inspection is at ten-thirty; on maintenance days, it varies a little, but we’re pretty much always done before eleven, and sometimes earlier than usual.

And we go about our day. The full effect sinks in slowly for me, in a way. I’ll frequently be a little off for a bit, then given new focus. It can be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster at times, but it’s worth it, in the end, leaving me better off than I was, matching what I wanted out of those fantasies, shifting slowly to match headspace needs as time goes on. After most of five years, it’s harder to imagine going without it, far outweighing any momentary dread or pain, and I’m very grateful Mistress has stuck with it, too.

It’s important to me—even though it can be hard to explain why—and I wanted to share it.