Author: HannahTheScribe

Select your flowers. Pick ones that are fresh, and keep the combination simple: monochromatic, shades of the same color, or up to three complementary colors.

Remove unwanted/wilted bits. Make a diagonal cut near the bottom of the stems (cut to size depending on size of vase if needed). Remove any foliage that will fall below the water line in the vase. 

Clean vase if needed. Fill half to three quarters of the way with room temperature/lukewarm water with floral food. Create a guide grid using floral tape or wire if desired.

Add flowers. First, any base greenery, then focal points/larger flowers, then filler flowers/smaller ones, then “floaters”/miscellaneous filler pieces. You can use a Lazy Susan to rotate the vase and see it from all sides, or turn it yourself.

Give the flowers a light spritz of water to recreate the look of fresh dew.

People always want to know about our pager system.

For a largely outdated technology, it’s certainly an attention grabber. Two hour class, first question in Q+A? Pagers. Random inbox message? Pagers. Comment on a full length, mostly unrelated blog post? Pagers.

So… why?

I get it. I think a large part of it is the slave bell thing. Press the transmitter button, slave appears, and gets the refill, does the thing, so on. Mistress doesn’t even need to put what she wants into words, no shouting, “Slave!” (this created the rule that I need permission to make a phone call, and notify her if I accept one), no texting, just hitting the right button. It doesn’t invite anything but an instant, unquestioning response. The pagers themselves can’t send messages back, and I can usually only be buzzed by one person. It’s the peak of me being at her beck and call, and her beck and call only. That’s all true. 

Realistically, I use the transmitter buttons more than she does, built into services and protocols for things like efficiently requesting to be unleashed for morning (8:10 AM), or alerting her that brunch or dinner is ready (9:30 AM or 6 PM daily, then I get into Waiting Position), though her response will be at her convenience. 

This may still be part of the appeal—a dynamic and lifestyle structured enough that a significant amount of necessary daily communication can be done via pressing preset buttons. We’re both generally home all day, so it works for our range.

On the technology/setup itself… 

We each have the ALPHA staff pager from LRS. I’m required to keep mine clipped to my daily slave uniform. Mistress mostly keeps hers on her desk and might bring it with her if she moves around the house for any length of time when she’s expecting I might page her. She accidentally broke the clip on mine while shoving me once, and since she didn’t usually use the clip on hers, we traded cases. 

There’s a six button transmitter (Pronto Six-Button Push-For-Service Device) on Mistress’ desk and one by the blanket on the floor I sleep on at the foot of the bed. A one button version of the transmitter lives in the dining room.

Mistress has three active buttons on hers, so three distinct messages she can send me by pressing the assigned button, basically: coffee/water refill, check messages (to make sure I get a notification for a text message, etc.), and come here. These page me. I can keep all other notifications off 24/7 and be able to focus on her. She can also send non urgent digital messages without interrupting what I’m currently doing this way. 

The one by my blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed has two: check messages, leash/unleash request. As mentioned, 8:10 AM for unleashing. I get leashed after Evening Inspection at 9:45 PM.

The one button in the dining room is generally used as my alert that the meal is ready (as mentioned, 9:30 AM or 6 PM daily, then I get into Waiting Position), though we also use it as an attention request button that (mostly, overnight) guests can push if they have an urgent question; so, it pages both of us. 

We set this up over a year ago now, and it’s been going great. No complaints. I’d highly recommend it to those in similar situations, though plenty of people may find something else to be a better option for them. Whatever works. 

This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. These are stand alone non fiction/memoir examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post “What I Talk About When I Talk About Masochism”.

…

I’m making some natural cleaners in the kitchen when my pager buzzes. I lift my shirt a little and tilt it towards me from where it’s clipped to my uniform leggings as always. Your presence is requested in the loft.

I’m curious. There are currently three active buttons on the pager transmitter that sits on Mistress’ desk, marked with little sticker icons. One, if she presses it, pages me with, Refresh coffee and water. I’ll go to her and collect one or the other or both and refill them and bring them back. One tells me to check my messages, indicating she wants a response to something she can’t communicate with a transmitter button urgently, or at least wants me to see it, which allows me to keep all digital notifications off. The third makes my pager buzz with simply, Your presence is requested in the loft. Her office. The equivalent of ringing a more old fashioned slave bell. The simple, Come here, without the yelling, “Slave!” that created the rule that I need permission to make a phone call (or to notify her when I answer one) before things get awkward. Even with the pagers, the rule is still in place, actually. 

She uses this summons the least, since she could use check messages to communicate most things. But that’s the one my pager displays now. 

I have the feeling she just wants to harass me. On her daily spreadsheet printout, there’s a section that says simply, How to Harass Hannah Today.  Sometimes I notice the note she makes under it before she does it. Either way, I know it’s there and that generally something is in store each day.

So I go upstairs to the loft. As they say, when the slave bell rings, you answer it without question. Okay, I don’t meet many people that so literally applies to, but.

She asks what I’m up to. I tell her about the cleaners. She confirms I have no dangerous chemicals sitting open on the counter or anything. Approaches me casually, then slaps me across the face, hard, so fast I have no chance to see it coming. While I’m still reeling, she does something that ends with me landing on the floor, though I’m too disoriented to tell what. 

From there, it’s the usual flurry of abuse, the kicking, punching, choking, pulling me by the hair. I remember sliding clear across the kitchen floor when she pulled me by the hair the other day, the throbbing for hours after. Fond memories. Right now, the pain is everywhere. It’s wonderful. She tells me how pathetic I am. I agree. 

She yanks my clothes out of the way, fingers me, roughly enough I squirm, much more pain than pleasure. She presses one finger into my ass with negligible natural lube, though that might be my favorite kind of anal and, while it’s uncomfortable, I squirm less. I don’t remember all of the taunts she throws at me during this. The usual, slut, whore, slave, property, bitch, owned, masochist, pathetic, mine. Her other hand tight in my hair, wrapped around my throat, wrapped around my collar, smacking my ass. 

She stops abruptly, stands, gives me one more hard kick, and leaves. I hear water running in the nearby bathroom, probably washing her hands. I don’t manage to move right away. I don’t try very hard, to be fair, since it doesn’t seem urgent. 

Still, she makes fun of me for this when she returns. That I don’t have the sense to run. I end up on the floor somewhere else—dragged, maybe, or shoved after a go at standing—and she fingers me again. Taunts me for getting off on all this. “What are you?”

“Your slave.” A familiar ritual. 

“That’s right. I own you. Show me. Show me your body does what I tell it to. You’ll come exactly when I tell you to. Ten. Nine.” 

The countdown is familiar. I can picture the little upwards line graph of pleasure amount versus spoken number in reverse order. 

“Eight. Seven.” 

Increasing. I’m wetter this time. 

“Six. Five. Four.” 

I’m pretty much there. Not struggling to hold it back, but I know I’ll do exactly as she said.

“Three. Two.” 

Maybe struggling to hold it back. I whine.

“One. Come.” 

I do. It’s lovely. After, I’m panting, coming down. “Thank you, Mistress.” 

She dismisses me shortly after; I fix my clothes, stand, curtsy as always, and leave.

 

This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. These are stand alone non fiction/memoir examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post “What I Talk About When I Talk About Masochism”.

…

I’m in my office, sitting at my desk, though I’m turned to the side and my laptop is in my lap, doing research for a writing project. 

Mistress comes in and I don’t think we make much if any small talk—I can see the Look, and set my laptop safely out of the way—before she tries to slap me hard across the face. Not quite quick enough—my hand flies up defensively, reflex, and she ends up hitting me solidly in the wrist, which still kind of hurts. 

And so comes the taunting. “Do you think that’s the appropriate response?” and others. 

Well, no. My answers are scattered; I’m getting shoved around in the general direction of the bed—my office is in the aptly named master retreat, a room with no door to the hallway, but double doors into the master bedroom. We call it the Hannah Habitat. I land on the bed on my back with my feet still almost on the floor, my hands pinned, but she can’t seem to keep me pinned enough one handed to hit me again without that flinch reflex in the way.  She pulls me to sitting up. It goes roughly like this: 

“What are you?” 

“Your slave.” She asks me this several times a day. There is only one correct answer. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“That you can hit me when you want.” 

And so on. “So stay still. You like being owned. You like me hitting you. You should be thanking me for it. Not all this wriggling. Now keep your hands down.” She keeps trying to nudge me into position, hands out of the way, shoulders down, head up and straight, but every time she so much as twitches, reflex kicks in. Still, with more force, she manages to hit me again, hard, several times—I’m starting to wonder if it’ll leave suspicious bruises—as I’m shoved back onto the bed, pinned, choked, degraded, and of course hit again. 

She pushes me onto my front, pulls my clothes down, notes the marks remaining from the toy I made mostly of barbed wire, some tape. “Did you like that?” she asks. “Did you like getting beat with barbed wire? Did you like telling people about it, and how the barbs with your blood on them fly off?” 

Yes, I did.

She spanks me. “See, all this wriggling when I try to hit you in the face, but on your ass, you practically beg for it.” 

I’m completely still. I have begged for it. For both, probably. 

“Can you imagine all the wriggling you’d be doing if I tried to hit you in the face like this?” 

She probably shouldn’t hit me in the face like she’s hitting my ass now.

With a few more shoves, she demonstrates this point by hitting me in the face again despite my wriggling. “What can I do to make you stop with that?” 

Actually, I’ve done a decent amount of research into that, mostly for applying it to fiction because I doubt she has the patience for it, but my answers are kind of scattered from slaps and the struggle and not enough oxygen with her fingers around my throat. 

At some point she tells me to stand, that I can fix my clothes. She finds my pager, slave bell, where it came off of my leggings, but it’s intact in its clip case thing, unlike the old clip that she broke by shoving me around like this.

“Kneel.” 

I do. My body finds the position easily, the right placements of overlaps of toes and fingers and details, just like it does several times a day, with that and other positions. 

“Thank me for hitting and abusing you.” 

“Thank you for abusing me.” It’s amazing how easy those words are to say. I think they are more awkward to hear myself say than to feel, than to want to say, because I know how many people would think it’s sick. Others, hot. 

She moves her own clothes and orders me to worship her; I do. It’s not for long, though; she grabs me tight by the hair like a leash and pulls me towards the master bathroom. Rather than sliding straight along the floor like I sometimes do helplessly when she drags me by the hair, I largely manage to cooperatively crawl, though I’m unsure if that was what she intended.  

She orders me to undress again. 

I know what’s coming. I make a helpless, small sound of—despair? dread?—but undress. 

“Kneel in the shower.” 

I do. The bathroom light isn’t even on.

She pees on me. The stupid thing is that wasn’t even really what the distressed sound was over. I just don’t want the hassle of showering after right now, of emerging cold and wet. We all have our pet peeves. 

“Clean me up.” 

I do. I don’t really object to that part, either, swallowing droplets without complaint. 

She fixes her clothes. “Thank me again.” 

“Thank you, Mistress.” 

She makes a vague gesture. “You may do whatever you want in the shower.” Which means I don’t have to shave, present for inspection afterwards. 

One more time, required, but genuine, “Thank you, Mistress.” 

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” She leaves. I shower. 

All purpose cleaner: two cups of water, one tablespoon of washing soda. Store in spray bottle. Spritz surface and rub clean and dry with cleaning rag/suitable tool of choice. 

Abrasive cleaner: combine small amounts of baking soda and water where needed until it forms a paste. Gently grind off stuck on dirt/food/etc. with sponge/mildly abrasive tool of choice. Rinse and dry.  

Drain maintenance: pour one cup of washing soda into drain, let sit for a few minutes.  Follow with three cups of hot water.  

For lime/mineral deposits on fixtures: soak in vinegar using cloth, bag, etc. to soften it up to be removed/let it sit for a few hours. Then, rub clean with cleaning rag/tool of choice and rinse and dry.

For toilets: add one cup of vinegar and one cup of baking soda to the bowl. Let it sit for several minutes. Then, swish and clean with a toilet brush, then flush the toilet to rinse it.

For lime/mineral deposits/mold in containers (humidifiers, coffee makers, etc.): fill it with vinegar, put it in sunlight. Let it sit a few hours, agitating or scrubbing if needed. Thoroughly rinse and dry. (For coffee makers, you can sometimes run it with just hot water several times.) 

Fabric refresher spray: water and desired amount/combo of essential oils in a spray bottle. Spritz on beds, couches, carpets, etc. 

Hard floor cleaner: one cup of water, one quarter cup of vinegar, two tablespoons of rubbing alcohol, a few drops of liquid dish soap, and desired amount/combo of essential oils. Store in bottle and apply it to the wet mop, or store it in a spray bottle, then spray it on the floor and mop. 

Carpet cleaner: one cup of water, one half cup of vinegar, one teaspoon of salt, and desired amount/combo of essential oils in spray bottle. Spray, let it dry, then vacuum.

When I was fifteen, I took a weeklong vow of silence.  I learned a lot, and as the years went on, I frequently thought of doing it again.

Now, it’s been over eight years since the weeklong vow.  A lot has changed. So I thought I had a lot to potentially learn with a second go round, in what felt like almost a new life. 

When I first pitched that concept, Mistress was skeptical. I’m her main source of company, after all. So, years passed, but a new comment on “The Benefits of Silence” brought it back to the front of my mind.  I mentioned the comment to Mistress offhandedly, but it seemed her outlook on it had changed; she offered that if I wanted to do a version of it again, she might be willing within certain parameters.

I didn’t press right away—the timing wasn’t right—but a few weeks later, I floated a more specific idea, and she agreed.

Just a weekend vow of silence—from the time I fell asleep Friday night until the time I woke up Monday morning.

…

So came Saturday morning.

My morning alarm went off. I stirred on my usual blanket on the floor and shut it. I hit the pager transmitter button and got into Unleashing Position, cold air hitting my bare skin as always. 

Now, I wrote a post on our morning ritual: “24/7 High Protocol: First Thing in the Morning”. And when I say in it, “This is how I wake up pretty much every morning,” I really mean word for word.

Being 24/7 high protocol, many of our required interactions are so scripted that I really didn’t need to speak my lines at all. Realizing the true extent of that was interesting.

Mistress came in and unleashed me. She gave me permission to use the restroom, so I didn’t need to ask. And today, the required, Thank you, Mistress, was an appreciative nuzzle.

…

For the first vow, there had been more planning.  Negotiating with my parents and teachers, warning friends, carrying a makeshift whiteboard with a brief note on the back explaining the project.

This time, I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone other than Mistress, and didn’t really plan to until it was over.

I started to wonder about this when I went on my morning walk (Mistress, as usual, predicting my required notification that I was leaving, so I didn’t have to text). 

Doing the same mile loop at the same time each morning, I tended to pass largely the same few people and dogs whom I was used to greeting. Still, I reflected, a nod or smile or wave wasn’t that out of place.

Later, I relied on Instacart instead of a quick walk to the store when the sealed milk in the fridge unexpectedly expired early, and quietly headed inside when I sensed the neighbor might be about to make conversation over the back wall. (He sent his young son to our front door with the lemons from their garden instead—Mistress got the door, though that’s usually my job.) 

…

I mentioned Mistress’ early skepticism.  

At first it seemed that while she would now allow the weekend vow, it was without enthusiasm. But as the time’d approached, her enthusiasm had risen.

At first, she talked about how I would be choosing not to talk that weekend. Then it was about how I wasn’t allowed to talk that weekend, an important distinction. Something I would happen to be doing (with permission) versus something she would actively be enforcing. 

By the time I served brunch on Saturday—9:30 as always, hitting the ever handy pager transmitter button and assuming Waiting Position behind my usual chair—she was getting more enthused. “You may sit,” she said first—I already wasn’t allowed to do that or ask to on any other day, always silent as she did a quick check on my position, the table setting, whatnot, so that was as normal.

She noted that she was more talkative at brunch, as she was doing one hundred percent of the talking.  She mocked my required silence happily and was already verbally plotting a third, pet play based vow of silence that I could spend leashed to her desk with maybe my notebook, but it would be a digital detox day, too. I’d already done a digital detox day recently, and spend plenty of hangout time leashed to her desk while we do our own things, me on the floor.

I decided to take the plotting as a good sign.

…

Saturday is our review day.  We both have reflection and planning worksheets to fill out and share with each other, and other review tasks. I write a weekly summary of my daily slave journal entries and bring her the notebook.

So it was a good silent day of self reflection.

(This later got moved to Friday, but—at the time.)

…

I felt no strong urge to break my silence, as I hadn’t the last time, and there were no accidental slips (there was one, during the first vow, an exclamation when someone dropped something). 

The only thing that really gave me pause this time was the amount I apparently “talk” (more like mouthing words) to and for myself, and to and for my fictional characters, and putting that on pause even when alone. And, no conversations with the kitties.

I still felt very strongly connected to my fiction that weekend, even old, typically forgotten projects coming back into my mind. 

As I was silent, the background noise of my head seemed to have the volume turned up a notch: my inner monologue, what I call the music station, the white noise and conversational chatter, the fading out of this world and into my characters’, the intrusive delusional thoughts. 

It was around my fifteenth birthday that I experienced my first definitive symptoms of what wasn’t diagnosed for almost another three years as paranoid schizophrenia. I was much newer to psychosis during my first vow.

But now, I had more insight into such changes and more sangfroid in handling them (and a better medication choice), just observing my mind curiously. 

…

Communication, when I did feel the urge, was slow.

I realized I remembered most of the ASL alphabet, but Mistress didn’t, and it felt like cheating, anyway. 

More of my communication was regularly happening electronically than at the time of the last vow.  Mistress, my mom, my readers, my butler school instructor, the tenants.  I tried not to chat incessantly, but used messaging when I really had something to say. I put off asking permission to return one non urgent property management call until Monday. 

At one point, I asked Mistress for permission to use the restroom in person. Our typical protocol dictates that I wait in the doorway of her office (the loft) silently when I want her attention, waiting for her to acknowledge me.

So when she did, I pointed to myself and to the bathroom doorway perpendicular to what serves as her doorway.  She didn’t get my vague gesturing, though, and after several tries, she was standing in the bathroom looking around in confusion when the oh moment struck, and she granted it, which counted as permission to leave, cutting my figuring out how to ask if there was anything else I could do to be of service, then permission to go, without speaking. 

So I just curtsied and went into the restroom, leaving the door unlocked as always.

…

Sunday (and Wednesday and Friday) nights, sex is scheduled at 9 PM. (The schedule has shifted a bit since.)

It really went largely as normal—it’s not like I say much other than a, Yes, Mistress, here and there. As is pretty typical, I wasn’t allowed to come, but after, seeing to turndown and a few last tasks, settling onto my blanket on the floor for the night, I was allowed to masturbate there, and that was very nice.

…

So went my silent weekend.

It was interesting to compare the two experiences, to replicate the vow with the way my life is now, being a high protocol slave and all. I think there will always be some fun new observations.

I’ve decided to do it about once a year. Maybe one day we’ll do Mistress’ plotted pet play version. And every other day, we have the speak when spoken to rule for a taste of that feeling.

I don’t think of self care as service.

Firstly, I’d like to specify that—for this post—when I say self care, I’m talking about basic physical health maintenance—a healthy, regular diet, hydration, basic hygiene, enough sleep, so on. I’m not currently speaking only of luxury self care or of mental self care, and am mostly speaking of the day to day, not lifestyle overhauls.

Now, self care is valuable. The very basics of it are even necessary. On either side of the slash, with or without a dynamic, kinkster or vanilla—you need water and food and sleep and such to survive. To be healthy, you need enough of those things, regularly, and it needs certain healthful qualities.

That’s also reason number one why I don’t think of self care as service: I have to do it, with or without Mistress. It’s not an option. I did it before her. What I strictly need and what is reasonably healthy don’t change because of my dynamic.

My personal—not universal—definition of a service is something that Mistress would need or want, independent of me. Now, there are services I initially introduced her to, but now she’d want them independently.

Making her meals is a service. With or without me, she has to eat. Cleaning the house is a service. With or without me, she’d want a clean living environment. (And—as a side effect at the very least—this does mean that there’s food and a clean environment for me, too.) Taking care of her is my job.

Now, without me, she’d probably lower her standards of clean. She’d probably handle certain tasks in a way that was easier or faster, or neglect them entirely, unless there was someone else to outsource to. This happens on a small scale when I’m too sick to serve and put on Light Slave Duty. But in her ideal world, she would still want those tasks to have been done, frequently and well, and there are plenty of others she would pick up doing herself eventually.

So, those are services she just wants done, period, with or without me. And I love providing service. It’s my full time job.

But, if I wasn’t in her life, she wouldn’t want or need my self care. Sure, as a kind person, she’d wish good self care on any given person out there, but it wouldn’t really have value for her. Because she does own me, you might say that I’m taking care of something she owns—the same thing I do when I take the cats to the vet or put gas in the car, which I do consider service—but since the possession I’m maintaining is myself, it’s more like me paying my own marginal costs, solving a problem I create, a net neutral at best, rather than adding value to her life. So it doesn’t meet my personal criteria for service there.

Let me give a disclaimer: I’m not naturally inclined to self care. It’s not a talent of mine, for various reasons, including the schizophrenia. Left to my instincts, I am a monomanic tortured artist workaholic who views self care as a necessary evil. However, I don’t truly endorse that method, and so I try to rise above those instincts and take care of myself to get more done, using productivity systems and, well, Mistress ordering me to take a break already.

Aha, you might say. So she does want your self care. Well, yes. And I’m grateful for that. There are a few things to consider in that, though, besides her just caring about me.

One: not everything I do because of Mistress is a service. Yes, we view service as a key focus of our dynamic, but we also have other focuses and are generally M/s. To me, a lot of other things I do because of her fall under acts of submission, but not service. While submission and service are highly correlated concepts for me—but certainly not for everyone—they’re not exactly the same.

I think of acts of submission as anything I do because of Mistress. This could be obeying a once off order, doing a recurring service task that was assigned, obeying a rule or protocol, asking for permission when required, wearing my daily uniform, assuming my slave positions, so on. I exclude from this the things that I would do with or without her.

So, some self care acts are not acts of submission, either—things I do attend to well myself. But some—the ones I do only because of her—are, by my personal criteria at least. That is an act of submission because it is not something I also happen to want—I am submitting to her will: having a largely healthy slave. And submission is important to me.

Another thing to consider: it’s difficult if not impossible to provide consistent, quality service without consistent, quality self care. My service declines when I’m too hungry, too tired, too dehydrated, so on. While I don’t think of self care as service in itself, it is a crucial step one towards service. For her, ensuring my self care is, if nothing else, a cost of quality service.

In my Anticipatory Service class, I have a section on learning new service skills. While learning the skill might not be in itself service by my criteria, you sure can’t provide that service without it. I view self care similarly.

Likewise, if you have a traditional job, self care and learning probably aren’t part of your job description, but you can’t do your job well without them.

And because I want to do a good job, I must value self care at least for that.

Say, virtually all of my to do items come from one of two places: my calendar, and my recurring task list.

I have rules about what goes on those. It must connect to at least one of the following: writing, being a kink educator, running Las Vegas TNG, going to butler school, being a slave (service or submission), or the basics of maintaining my health. I chose these areas based on their reflection of my personal core values list. I do plenty of other good things, but those don’t earn a place in the official systems.

And you saw my health listed in there: it deserves the priority because it feeds the other categories, including my service.

Now, being a slave also affects my self care in other ways. We’re high protocol and practice lifestyle sadomasochism. This affects my self care.

I sleep on the floor, nude, on a leash, with a set wakeup and bed time. I need permission to go to the bathroom. (Sometimes she accompanies me and throws humiliation in there.) I need permission to shower, am required to do it regularly, am required to shave everything neck down whenever I do (unless I gain permission otherwise), and am required to report for an intimate inspection after. (Sometimes she uses this opportunity for watersports, soaping, cold showers, etc.) So if I ask for the required permission to shower (a basic self care act), and she says no at the moment, doing so then would not only not be service, it would be disobedience.

I love all areas of our dynamic, and sometimes they require self care, and sometimes they make it a challenge.

In the end, I want our dynamic to be about her, for her to get the best deal she can get—and sometimes that means putting myself aside, but sometimes that means overcoming that instinct to make sure she has a largely healthy, well taken care of slave.

I don’t think of self care as service for me—but it’s part of our dynamic, and it’s important.

This is how I wake up pretty much every morning.

…

My alarm goes off.  8:10 as required. I shut it, blink myself awake.  I hit the pager transmitter button that will make Mistress’ pager buzz with the message for a leashing related request. My pager—slave bell—unbuzzed by this particular alert, sits nearby. 

I move towards Unleashing Position.  Kneeling back on my heels, knees spread, big toes crossed right over left, back straight, with my hair and head out of the way, collar o-ring and thus leash clip in front, leash resting on my upturned palms at the tops of my thighs. 

Some mornings, I’m not quite there yet when she comes in, but she’ll unleash me anyway. Other times, she waits. I like it when she waits.

As I move, my blanket slips from around me. I sleep leashed on the floor at the foot of the bed; my blanket—slave furs—is warmth, a bit of padding, and my primary bedding, though other things—like an extra blanket, a pillow—phase in and out. It’s pretty comfortable.

Today, air hits my skin as the blanket slips; I’m required to sleep nude and I’m not allowed to touch the thermostat, so I frequently feel a little chilly.

Mistress unleashes me for the day with greetings and asks if I have any questions for her.  Since she’s prompted me, I can speak to answer (speak when spoken to). I ask for permission to use the restroom (required if she’s awake and home/with me), in the required format—using may, please, and Mistress.  She grants it.  

“Thank you, Mistress.” The required response for permission answers, and real gratitude. The same goes for feedback. Unless it would be disruptive to the conversation.

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.”  The usual response, and real amusement. 

I usually wait until she leaves to get up.  If I want to leave when still in her presence, there’s the asking if there’s anything else I can do to be of service—doing it—then asking for permission to leave, curtsying before exiting.  If she dismisses me, “You may go,” or such, I can just curtsy and exit.  That and the speech restrictions only shut off with rare need in vanilla company.

But once she leaves, I’m free to just head for the restroom.  I’m not allowed to lock the door unless there’s company, but I don’t mind.  

After that, I go to dress in my daily Uniform and see to my required morning tasks.

… 

Now, that can be a lot to keep in mind from the contract before I even get dressed in the morning, in the first few minutes of being awake.  But I love it, and several years into our dynamic, slowly adding things with a lot of investment in practice, training, and experience, it’s actually pretty automatic, feels natural, and is harder to stop than to do.  Some things are easier than others.  

It does require being always “on” to an extent.  No weekends, no holidays, no hours off from protocol.  And Mistress always has to watch for it. 

In all ways, my dynamic has to be my top priority.  Here, that means I’m not allowed to have a job.  That means figuring out the finances. That means a full time job’s worth of service, always on call.  That means no no, no safewords, no limits, no rights, no way out.  That means her deciding what’s best without limitations. It means a lot, and I don’t, shouldn’t, can’t, take it lightly.

But, we live this way every day—first thing in the morning forwards—and we love our dynamic and each other, and that’s what counts.

General Notes on Picking Your Tea Selection:

Offer both caffeinated and decaf options (in case of sensitivities).

For an event, pick teas that brew in the same temperature range for ease of serving.

Making a Pot:

Heat filtered water (measure it first, or before pouring into the pot) to the correct temperature, depending on type of tea.

Warm the teapot and the cups by filling with hot water for a minute, then dumping it out. Rinsing with hot water will also work.

Place one teabag or one tablespoon loose leaves (in the strainer) per cup in the pot. (Some add “and one for the pot”, or might want more or less depending on how weak/strong they like their tea. Check for preferences.)

Pour the hot water into the pot.

Cover, and steep tea for the correct amount of time depending on the type of tea/preference.

Remove teabags/strainer.

Serving Tea:

Ask how they take it (milk, sugar, lemon, etc.). Ask first in case you need to leave room for additions like milk or hot water.

Pour the tea.

Provide the desired additions.

Note: if you already know how they take their tea, they might prefer you put in milk/sugar/etc. first.

Create a soothing environment.  Offer a basic selection of drinks, snacks, and/or entertainment.

Place towel on floor, then foot bath (check sizing) with hot water (as hot as comfortable) and desired additions. Essential oils of choice and bubbles make a traditional luxurious touch.  For serious dead skin removal, try a large splash each of vinegar and mouthwash, though beware this might stain skin and the bath. 

Remove old polish if needed.  

Soak feet for fifteen to twenty minutes. 

Remove dead skin from bottom of feet.  Foot file and then pumice stone works best.  You can also remove hairs if desired with method of choice. Work on one foot at a time, leaving the other soaking.

Use a cuticle pusher to push back cuticles, removing loose dead skin around the nail. If there’s a lot, you might want to use a cuticle trimmer. Work on one foot at a time, leaving the other soaking.

Trim, file, and buff nails. Gently clean under nails with the cuticle pusher. Keep each foot out of the bath when done with this step.

Dry, then moisturize and massage feet. Apply cuticle oil to cuticles and nails; massage in. A gentle pull on toes and circular motions around the ball of the foot tend to be popular.  

Apply a clear base coat, two coats of desired color, and a clear top coat.  Toe separators work well here, during and for drying. Let coats dry completely before the next one; keep them thin and even. Keep common polish colors on hand.