On Being a Slave for My Entire Adult Life

Tomorrow I will be twenty-seven.

But let’s back up a little.

Last night, I settled onto my slave furs for the night and looked over at the bed I sleep at the foot of. For a moment, I felt a rare nostalgia for it—waxed rhapsodic mentally about the little wonders of childhood that we don’t truly grasp until later.

Freeze frame. Record scratch.

I realized that Mistress—an adult, a solid thirty-seven to my upcoming twenty-seven—sleeps in that bed. I realized that most adults do. Vanillas, left side of the slash types, and the majority of s-types I’ve met all sleep in beds.

What a weird thought.

And earlier that day, Mistress had started to comment on my slave furs in some way, then cut herself off with a sigh. “You have slave furs,” she’d intoned. “Like we’re in an erotica novel.”

“I know,” I’d said, having indeed inserted my slave furs into not only one, but a trilogy of erotica novels, and a trilogy of novel length anthologies I wrote to accompany them. Not counting two published volumes of my personal kink essays or anything forthcoming. “I used to put ‘slave furs’ in quotes because it was supposed to be ironic, and then say my blanket, but then I stopped.”

Yes, we’ve passed irony. We’re just genuinely kinda like this now.

The fact is that I was nineteen when we began our dynamic; although, I didn’t officially start sleeping on the floor nightly until I was twenty-three. Even I spent time sleeping in the bed as an adult, and still now as a treat. Brains are strange places.

Still, I’ve been Mistress’ slave for virtually all of my adult life. For over a quarter of my entire life, a percentage that will only continue to increase.

For me, this means I’ve never had a traditional job. I’ve never attended a full semester of college. I’ve never lived by myself—I moved in with Mistress from my family’s home to serve her, eight weeks after we first met. I’ve never had a car to myself. I’ve had only one other serious relationship, and no other experience with serious power exchange; nor do I have a lot of experience as a single adult. I’ve never had kids. I’ve never truly had my own money.

And I never will. Asterisk. Let’s come back to that.

Mistress entered our dynamic from a very different place. She was thirty. She’d had several relationships. She had a job and a car and a (rental) house and money of her own. And, she’d continue to manage the money and assets, to have a job if she wanted one, to have other relationships if she wanted them.

We examined this gap closely, in determining if it was ethical to proceed. We decided it was, as two freely consenting adults exercising caution.

At first, we kept certain options open; then, our dynamic solidified a little more, happily ruling out all of the possibilities for me listed above, focusing on other areas of growth, making estate plans just in case.

Asterisk.

As time passed, the deeper we went, the more we felt obliged to address what would happen if, one day, I did want to experience certain things. Living on my own. Having a normal job (if I could get one, as a disabled person with no job history). It was easy to say I would always want to be a slave—I have been called the opposite of a commitmentphobe. Without having had the words for it, my desire to be a slave predates my earliest memories. A slave at nineteen, I published my first book at twenty-two, by then a married homeowner in the city I was born in. I knew what I wanted, and I got it.

What was harder was to say that I would never want anything else.

And it seemed that if I did, one day, we’d have only two options.

Option one: dissolve or radically change our dynamic. Obviously, we didn’t like this one. Further, we have an irrevocable consent dynamic. With no safewords, limits, or rights—including the right to dissolve—left on my end, the choice would be up to her. And she’s told me she’s never releasing me, though our contract says she’ll be reasonable if she does.

Option two: continue on with the status quo. Me pining miserably, but trying not to, her watching me with empathetic despair. That wasn’t going to cut it, either.

And it seemed naive to simply ignore the possibility of that desire coming on and lasting.

So, we’ve discussed the possibility—if that day ever comes—of a temporary opportunity for me to experience some of those things, for, say, a few months. The long term goal, of course, would be returning to our dynamic as normal, having had my curiosity satisfied and my fill of the reality of those experiences.

And maybe that day will never come, but, like so many other possibilities, at least we’ve thought about it and can rest assured that we have what we can of a plan.

In the meantime, though, since 2017, I’ve led a life of sleeping nude and leashed on my slave furs, only speaking when I’m spoken to, serving as a homemaker full time, wearing only my uniform, and taking daily first thing in the morning beatings—I’m aware of my disconnect from normalcy.

I have an enjoyable habit of sitting at outdoor malls, with a pretzel or a milkshake, and a book or my notebook, and people watching. I get asked to take a lot of group photos. Due to the venue, I mostly watch people buy clothes for themselves—so many different clothes! It makes my head spin.

At the same time, I have to laugh at myself. Almost twenty-seven, and baffled by a mall.

But that’s okay.

I like my life as it is.