Tag: D/s Dynamics

“But isn’t it automatic? After this long, at least?” 

“Yes… and no,” I say. We’re lingering over dinner, talking about protocol and what goes into remembering it, or doesn’t. 

Mistress is distracted, going upstairs to get something and coming back before I can finish my answer. But I’m not, and I can’t be—which is part of my answer. While she’s gone, I, too, rise from the table, but am alert, knowing that if she comes back before I sit again, I’ll need her permission for the chair, which I’m not actually allowed to ask for, and she’ll probably order me back into Waiting Position first, which is how I wait behind my usual seat before meals, after I hit the pager transmitter button to inform her food is ready, at the two assigned times each day. 

I also know that her leaving and coming back ends the interaction, even though I was basically mid sentence. Under the speak when spoken to rule, once she speaks to me, I can speak for the rest of that interaction—until one of us leaves (her at will, me with permission, asking first if there’s anything else I can do to be of service, then asking for the permission, then curtsying and going) or we’ve both been quiet for a while—back and forth like normal, without another direct question or prompt or permission. So I remember to keep my mouth shut now, even when she comes back, until she prompts me for the rest of my answer. 

While all little things, that adds up to a lot to bear in mind. 

When I’m able to finish my answer, I elaborate. 

There are several factors that affect how automatic a protocol is for me. 

The first—which she easily identified and is perhaps relatively obvious—is how long it’s been in effect. Our oldest protocols are four and a half years old now. But we add and tweak things frequently. Things got added and tweaked just this morning, based on the recent development of me getting my driver’s license. Older protocols are more likely to be automatic. But that can take years, depending on the other factors. 

Another factor, though, is how frequently it comes up. Now, most of our protocols come up rather frequently. 

I typically use five of our eight codified slave positions multiple times per day. Kneeling (used frequently when in her presence in lieu of the furniture), Waiting (for both meals I serve daily), Inspection (for both daily inspections, plus after showers—taken with permission—mostly checking on the shaving rule), Leashing (for morning unleashing and nighttime leashing for sleep, where I sleep on the floor, nude), Curtsying (every time I leave her presence, after the asking if there’s anything else I can do and obtaining permission). Another is Speech Request Position (to obtain permission to speak if I really need to and she hasn’t prompted me), which I use slightly less because I frequently just wait for her to speak first. The other two are primarily for maintenance discipline (weekly) or punishment (rare), though sometimes they come in handy for other things. I still practice many of these on my own in the mirror to check in on them. Not rocket science, but I like the bar high. 

Likewise, my uniform is exactly the same every day, and hasn’t changed significantly in a solid year and a half. Being basically the only clothing I own at this point—a few copies of each item—it’s not hard to remember, though I still double check I have small items, like my pager, and store any rare exception items separately.

If a protocol super rarely comes up, we often cut it. Still, there’s a range. The more I do it, the faster it becomes automatic. 

The factor that was less obvious to her was if the protocol was a do or don’t, if it was an if/then or a don’t/until, if there was a cue to start it or a cue that released it. Our more specific speech protocols have cues. She, in a way, initiates them, like a ritual. If she gives me an order, I say, “Yes, Mistress.” If she grants a permission or denies it, I say, “Thank you, Mistress.” If she gives me a compliment or a critique, I say, “Thank you, Mistress.” These all have cues to begin. If, then. 

But, speak (only) when spoken to isn’t an if, then. It’s a don’t, until. Don’t speak until prompted. Do not do this common thing until the cue. And there is no reverse, no don’t speak cue, just silence and existence. And that makes that one trickier. I must always, with no cues, keep it in mind, until the cue that I’m allowed to speak, creating my own cues for it. 

A lot goes into all of that until it’s automatic. 

Practice. Like the hours of checking positions in the mirror. 

Journaling, habit tracking.

Reminders everywhere. (She sprang the no using the bathroom without permission—if she’s awake, and we’re both home or out together—rule on me on my birthday, minutes before my mother—vanilla company—arrived to celebrate, leaving little time to think it through. I quickly left a large reminder note for myself in the master bathroom, which I use most often and guests don’t usually go in, which I took down a few weeks later. She didn’t come up with a way for me to subtly ask for the bathroom permission in vanilla company for over another six months.) 

Then there’s meditation. Lots of kinds of meditation, and lots of it. As a habit, and in the moment as needed.

Managing all of my emotions around protocol.

And a now yearly total silence vow for a day or weekend, resetting my awareness of my words. 

In some situations, I sit and review all applicable protocols before proceeding. As mentioned, I’m new to driving, so I still take a moment and sit in the car when I leave or arrive somewhere, remembering new or recently modified rules like always notifying her when I’m leaving the house and when I’m returning (if I’ve been gone longer than twenty minutes), asking permission to drive anywhere, though I can walk to get the mail and go on my required morning walks without permission, keeping her informed of my general plans, making sure she can track my location via my phone (ensuring it’s with me, and WiFi/cellular is on—for me, that’s far from a guarantee, otherwise), and parking in the shade and refueling at a certain level if I can, and taking all of my things back out of the car. Plus, like, remembering how to drive, safely. 

And almost any time we interact, I count protocols on my fingers. 

First, I usually press one finger into my palm as a reminder for speak when spoken to. This is also a reminder to wait in the doorway if entering her office, to not go farther, to wait to be beckoned in, then move, kneel in position if it’ll be a more than a minute. 

Once spoken to and in place, I release it, replace it with three fingers—permissions, feedback, orders—for the speech protocols I mentioned above. Permissions also covers the rule on asking—making sure to use may, please, and Mistress. 

If things get quiet, I switch back to the one, for speak when spoken to. If I’m thinking about leaving, I also switch to one, for our exit protocol I mentioned. 

The positions mostly get assumed before she comes in, or on demand, or as part of the things above. 

Even what is basically automatic, I want to be sure of; I want it to be done well—and that’s largely on me to figure out. The counting part is mostly automatic by now.

I have very little punishment immunity—there is no safe period for a new protocol, there is no automatic forgiveness for small accidents, there is no real time off from protocol, just not scaring the vanillas and such. 

We’re careful in our protocol design and tweaks because of how inflexible it is once in effect. And once it is, Mistress pointed out that she almost forgets it’s there, views it more as automatic code switching for her (interacting with me versus anyone else), and she views our dynamic as casual and relaxed because the protocol doesn’t really affect her actions as much, though she has to check on some things, like at inspection times (a job I appreciate).

I, however, have to handle what I call the protocol fatigue that definitely flares up now and then from keeping it all in mind, several years into 24/7 high protocol, on top of a full time job’s worth of service, and the effects of lifestyle masochism with irrevocable consent. 

And it’s definitely worth it. While I am service oriented and strive for useful more than anything else, I also want to be simply pleasing, elegantly bent to her every whim and preference, obviously obedient, adherent to every detail. My mind can’t frequently wander too far from her, with all of those things to keep in mind (and I’m not allowed to be answerable to anyone else—like having a job). The detailed training and behavior modification fulfills my desire to be as close to perfect as possible—for one person, because you can’t please everyone.

So is it automatic? Yes and no. It’s complicated. Some are easy, automatic now. But they don’t need to always be. I’m willing to put in the work when they’re not. 

I’m looking to teach others about that process, too—writing this, launching my How to Learn Protocols class—because there’s definitely more to it than meets the eye, whether it’s automatic now or not. I’m passionate about the process and the results both, and love living it, and discussing it with Mistress over dinner, or teaching it in a Zoom webinar, or writing about it in a blog post.

Maybe that’s part of why it doesn’t become automatic more quickly for me. I just love thinking about it too much. 

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”.

…

Morning inspection happens at 10:30 as always; Mistress checks my morning service tasks, looks me and my uniform over in Inspection Position, approves; I apply sunscreen for her. 

When we’re done today, she says, “When you’re ready, come to my office.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

I have a few chores to see to, packing up and planning to do, before I’ll be ready to head out for a few outside things. I clean the litter box, move the laundry to the dryer, so on. 

I know, somehow, by her tone, that she has some unpleasant thing in store for me before we leave. I turn over guesses in the back of my mind as I do the chores. 

On her daily planning template, there’s a section labeled “How to Harass Hannah Today”. This amuses her. The whole joke of it’s not like I wake up in the morning and plan how to screw up your life today. Except, she does. In her morning planning, something gets penciled in. Last night, I noted that her page for the day had said, Make knell (sic) on rice, though that hadn’t happened. My best guess is that it got pushed to today, and that’s what’s coming, though it occurs to me that her carpeted office is an odd place for this. 

When I get to her office, I wait in the doorway silently as required. She beckons me in, and I note a large, sturdy but relatively thin wooden cutting board on the carpet, bearing the anticipated rice, before she says it. Ah.

She has me take my leggings and underwear down to below my knees, but generously not off entirely, since I already have shoes on; at her order, I set my pager that was clipped to my clothes to the side. I’m right here; she doesn’t need to page me. She tries a few things with my shirt and bra for more aesthetic exposure, but they’re not staying in place; they come off entirely. 

I kneel up on the cutting board. We’ve mentioned the rice a lot, but oddly I don’t think we’ve ever done it. It’s uncomfortable, but not the utter agony I’ve heard about in FetLife writings, though few things are for me, which is a fun challenge. 

Just the rice isn’t exciting for her, either. She yanks on my hair, pinches my nipples hard, hits me wherever’s accessible, tries to get me to go down on her, but the angles don’t really work, and it’s brief. I squirm, but stay on the rice. 

Today’s lecture is, “You know, if I did this to someone else, I’d be, like, in jail. But you, you love it.” But me, I beg for it. But me, I can handle whatever she throws at me. But me, I’ll do anything for her. But me, I’m incomplete without the suffering. 

She picks up a metal ruler from her desk. It’s there for drawing and such, but it’s handy. She traces the front of my left thigh and selects a spot, tapping it. I tense and wriggle in anticipation. “Stay still,” she reminds me. “Keep your hands out of the way. This is metal; if you move your hand, I’ll break your wrist.” 

I’m wringing my hands behind my back. I keep them there. She hits that spot on my thigh with the ruler, hard, enough to leave an almost immediate, distinct welt. I hiss and writhe; it does have an unexpected bite. She picks another spot right below it. Same thing. Paces around to my other side, right thigh. Two more to, “Even it out.” One, two. Oof. 

Shortly after that, she lets me go. I stand, dress, and, unasked, clean up the rice. Some has ended up on the carpet, brushed out of my skin, where it left indents, and it’s quite a job to find all of the tiny white rice in the thick white carpet, though I quickly discover that if I brush my palm over the carpet, the remaining rice jumps up.

And soon enough, we’re ready to go. 

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

Place towel, then adequately sized bowl or basin with hot water (as hot as comfortable) and desired additions, on a table at a comfortable height where you can sit across from each other. Essential oils of choice and bubbles make a traditional luxurious touch. Ensure good task lighting. 

Remove old polish if needed.  

Soak fingertips/hands for ten to fifteen minutes. 

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.

Trim, file, and buff nails. Gently clean under nails with the cuticle pusher. 

Dry, then moisturize and massage hands. Apply cuticle oil to cuticles and nails; massage in.  

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

9:35 PM.

My reminder alarm goes off as always.

I’ve probably had one eye on the clock, so it’s simple to wrap up the writing or whatnot that I’m doing, most of the time. 

I see to my final evening tasks. Write the nightly turndown card with tomorrow’s reminders, meal plan, and weather forecast, place it in its spot. Turn down the bed. Fill the humidifier. Lay out my blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed (slave furs). Little things.

9:40, my pager—slave bell—gives its “goodnight” auto off buzz. 

I strip out of my daily uniform as required, shivering a little—slaves don’t touch the thermostat, or so I’m told around here—and give myself a once over in the mirror, freshen up.

9:44, I get into Inspection Position. Standing, legs spread, hands clasped behind my head, head and eyes up, back straight. I can hear Mistress going down and up the stairs, checking on tasks I did earlier downstairs—cleaning the kitchen after serving dinner at 6, preparing the coffee machine for tomorrow, shutting down the house. 

Back upstairs, she comes in and looks the room, then me, over, circling me, prodding—the usual mix of caresses, slaps, squeezes. 

I’m silent, waiting for her to speak first. Speak when spoken to. My arms ache and tingle a little. 

She tells me I did well, lavishes me with praise. 

“Thank you, Mistress.” The required response. I mean it. And even though it goes this way ninety-nine percent of the time, there’s always an element of relief. 

“You may get me lotion.” She sits on the end of the bed, lying back. I get out of position, grab the lotion, and rub it into her elbows. The nightly default is at least that. She rubs it in a little more and rubs the excess into her hands. “You may do my feet, too. And rub them a little.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” The you may is no matter—it’s an order. Yes, Mistress. So I do as told. 

When she seems content with that, she sits up. I get into Leashing Position, kneeling, knees apart, big toes crossed in back (right over left), my leash across both of my palms, hands resting on my thighs, tossing my hair out of the way, checking that the collar o-ring is in front, that my back is straight. She takes the leash clip from me and clips it to my collar. Gives me a few more pats on the head, says goodnight, and goes, off to do a few more things and then settle into the bed and sleep. 

I settle into my blanket, seeing to a few final-final things. Set my alarms for tomorrow. Plug in my devices. Write my slave journal entry. Take my meds. Message my mom, Goodnight, I love you. More. Most. Seriously, goodnight. And shut my laptop.

And then it’s time for sleep.

“But you could walk out the door right now,” a visiting friend says. We’re all in Mistress’ office, late at night. “I’ll help,” he jokes, looking at her.

“But you could leave,” another friend says, during dinner, gathered around our dining table at a play party. Others agree.

“But you could get out,” says a close friend. We’re at the park at sundown. They look around. “Couldn’t you?” 

I hear this all the time when I mention being in a no way out/irrevocable consent dynamic as a slave. 

And admittedly, my answer is usually subpar. Put on the spot, to explain it concisely, in a way comfortable for the audience, I fail to give my full, real answer. I point to difficult—but not impossible—logistics, to just not wanting to leave, anyway.

But here’s a better answer. 

… 

I read a really good book, which, since I’m about to give a spoiler for the sake of metaphor, I’ll not specify and be vague about.

But, the main character is in your standard fictional culty institution. She gets sent to The Rehabilitation Center (you know the trope). It turns out to just be a little suite. 

There she waits, for months, processing the events that brought her here. Eventually, another member that is finally allowed to visit her secretly convinces her to escape the institution, and sneaks her a set of lockpicks. 

Later, the main character goes to pick the lock on the door. Panicked, she realizes that something is wrong; what is it? 

The door is already unlocked. 

It was never locked. 

She just never found the mental clarity to open it. 

… 

The reason I take issue with the but you could sneak out right now argument is that it’s simplistic, and, ultimately, victim blaming. 

In many cases of domestic abuse—the thing these people are compare-and-contrasting me to—it’s not logistics that truly keep people trapped. Being a literal prisoner is not so common in these cases, and the logistics may be difficult—but frequently, they’re not impossible. I see it as unusual for someone to spend a long period of time in a relationship while wholeheartedly wanting out, but being stuck on logistics. The vast majority of the relationship is usually spent not truly trying the lock on the door. 

It’s spent in that emotional fog. It’s a lack of mental clarity that keeps you there, or—in a lot of cases—keeps you coming back. It’s the invisible bonds between you and your partner. 

Where there’s a will to leave, there’s usually a way. But the will isn’t a guarantee, either.

In academic literature on the subject, the stages of change model is frequently used. The stages include precontemplation (not intending to make a change any time soon), contemplation (the problem is acknowledged; change is considered), preparation (planning for change), action (implementation of the plan), and maintenance (reinforcing and sustaining the change). 

However, one 2009 study (“Exploring Boundary Ambiguity Using the Stages of Change Model” by Lyndal Bee Lian Khaw and Jennifer L. Hardesty) on leaving abusers posits that preparation is not a necessary stage in terms of change itself, citing that almost half of participants did not engage with this stage at all (and this was consistent with other findings), and this did not seem to affect the action or maintenance stages. 

In other words, the important part, pre action, was contemplation (acknowledging the problem and considering change), escaping that mental fog, breaking the invisible bonds—not figuring out the logistics of escaping and breaking out the door.  

… 

Now, the bond shared between you and your partner is what keeps people in most relationships, for better or worse. 

But what kind of bond is it? How was it created? And does it run both ways? 

Feelings of things like mutual safety and happiness, created by consistent caring, keep people in healthy relationships. 

But in abuse cases, trauma bonds come into play. 

Trauma bonds typically run in one direction—they are part of the victim’s relationship with the abuser (rather than the abuser’s relationship with the victim). 

They are created via recurring, cyclical patterns of intermittent reinforcement (like positive attention, gifts, physical affection) and intermittent punishment (like physical, verbal, or sexual abuse). 

And intermittent reinforcement is more powerful than consistent reinforcement in terms of habit forming.

In other words, the abuser becomes the victim’s addiction that they just can’t quit.

…

But that’s generally speaking, about what keeps people in relationships. 

What about me? What truly keeps me here? 

If emotional bonds are what keep people in any relationship, and that bond can be, say, a healthy one or a trauma bond, which is it around here? 

To an extent, we have the healthy bonds. Love, respect, trust, safety, happiness, consistency. 

But that’s far from all of it. 

There are two defining factors to a trauma bond: a power imbalance and that intermittent reinforcement and punishment cycle. And we purposefully cultivate both. 

The power imbalance—shown through 24/7 high protocol and the service/housewife dynamic. I sleep leashed on the floor, I have no privacy, I wear only my uniform, I speak when I’m spoken to, and I serve on a full time level schedule. 

The intermittent punishment/reward cycle…

We have no official reward system for behavior, and I have no rights—things like aftercare aren’t guaranteed—so all rewards (psychologically speaking) are intermittent. Sometimes I get them, sometimes I don’t.  

We do have an official punishment system for behavior, but it’s not frequently needed, and I have no limits, no safeword—so she can also give any form of punishment (psychologically speaking) at any time, for any reason, intermittently. 

And we make exactly that a goal—the random, unpredictable violence—not as sex, scene, event, or formal discipline—being frequent, especially when, in the moment, I really don’t want it. 

So there’s that. 

… 

Additionally, there’s what I call the honor lien—and I don’t take that lightly. I frequently use this quote from my erotic fiction (the I’ll Give You series) to describe it: 

“[Our contract is] honor bound, and it says you own me, and I can’t change that. If I go back on it, I lose that integrity. It’s like a lien. I either honor the agreement or lose something momentous. Telling someone they own me really meaning something, ever again. […] I said that—anything you wanted to do—I’d let you. And if you don’t abide by the law or religion or social pressure, that doesn’t change what I said. So if I break the contract and leave and say it was because you were doing something illegal—I’m still breaking the honor ties. So I forfeit my right to leave with that integrity, to you—because the only way to leave with that is if you release me. You have a lien on my integrity with my debt being lifelong obedience. To include forfeiting all other rights. Unless you release me. If, when, I die, you die, or you release me—the debt is paid; my integrity is something you can’t take at that point.” 

But some brush that off after a certain point. 

And there are tricky logistics involved in leaving. But they’re not impossible. 

And, of course, at the end of the day, I’m very happy here.

But what really keeps me in? Especially if that stopped being true? If the honor lien became no longer enough?

The trauma bonds we try to replicate, really. Yes, we have a certain type of trust at the core of it. I am safe in that trust in certain ways. But am I safe from being beaten when I don’t want to be beaten? From sex when I don’t want to have sex? From fear or humiliation when I don’t want those emotions? No. 

And if it looks and feels like abuse in the moment, well—my mind reacts like it’s the real thing. I flinch when she moves the right way and have other behaviors that indicate constantly expecting to be hurt. I have the occasional nightmare about it. I do the freeze and fawn response. 

I’ve written about this before (“Lifestyle Masochism: When You Start Acting Abused”):

“Irrevocable consent is messy at times. Did I consent? Yes. Once. Years ago. Did I want to be beaten with no warning or warmup today until I screamed? Casually dragged across the floor by the hair yesterday? How about the sex when I was so sick I cried last week? In the moment? Probably not. That’s where the defense reactions come from. But I really want those things to keep happening overall, and I want to not want it in the moment, to gain that sense of ultimate submission from it, because in the end I submit anyway.”   

And I have the mental wiring of internal enslavement, and I describe my decision making like this (in “Decision Making and Internal Enslavement: A Metaphor”):

“So I’m standing at a fork in the road.  One clear, sunny path leads to the obedient action.  The other path—to disobedience—is shrouded in fog.  The clear path is the obvious best choice, the one I normally happily continue down.  But, even just mentally pondering the foggy path, it’s like wandering into that thick fog and constantly getting turned around.  I always end up back where I started like ultimately bouncing off a force field.  If I could see the path clearly, I’d notice that it dead ends in a few feet.  But sometimes I don’t see or remember that it’s a dead end.  But I start to dissociate, and thoughts swirl in that fog, too much to continue down that path.  Because of that guarantee, that the fog is too thick, there isn’t really a path there at all, no matter the apparent intersection.  And so I go wander down the clear path again.” 

It’s complicated.  

I sometimes call it, lightly, abuse without the hassle. 

Ultimately, we create these bonds with purpose, we communicate outside of the moment, there is a core of love and trust in ourselves and in each other. I consented once, forever.

And that bond works for us. 

People often tell me that they envy my life as a slave, and a keyword that comes up to describe it a lot is simple. And they mean well, but the word simple makes me cringe a little. To me, it implies easy, and, for me, even as someone who is naturally inclined towards submission and service, being a slave isn’t easy. Slaving away means working hard for a reason. To me, slavery is a lot of things: 

It’s dragging myself up from my blanket on the floor in the morning after being unleashed, shivering. 

It’s falling off the side of the bed trying to get up after sex that was painful and only she got pleasure from, and I didn’t want to be used today. It’s having sex when I don’t want to have sex. 

It’s dripping sweat from dirty work while she relaxes.

It’s practicing a new slave position in the mirror for an hour to make sure it’s right.

It’s a thousand trips up and down the stairs per day for chores. 

It’s making a million small service decisions that she doesn’t want to be bothered with. Here’s a vision. Now make it real. 

It’s lying on the floor near tears and trying to figure out how to get back up after being randomly beaten for the third time that day when I didn’t want it. It’s being hurt when I don’t want to be hurt. 

It’s my legs going painfully numb from kneeling on the floor when I don’t get permission to change position. 

It’s giving her a massage while my body aches. 

It’s having limited energy to use on anything but her. It’s not being allowed to spend too much energy on anything but her, like having a job. It’s more than a full time job’s worth of work. And there’s plenty else I want to do.

It’s needing to figure out how to learn a new protocol perfectly and immediately, by myself. It’s the 24/7 mental demand of high protocol. It’s only speaking when spoken to; it’s all the speech restrictions to keep in mind.

It’s setting out to learn any service skill that might be useful. 

It’s hours and hours and a lifetime of communicating, of adjusting my communication style, of making it work, of prioritizing the dynamic above all else.   

It’s a complete lack of privacy. Not being allowed to lock doors. Sharing all my passwords. Being tracked via my phone. Not even being allowed to leave her presence without permission to be alone. Two daily inspections of my work and body. It’s not being allowed anything to myself. 

It’s a complete lack of financial control. 

It’s not having control over my digital life—rules for my friends list, not being allowed on most social media, needing permission to make a phone call. Limitations to work within. 

It’s having no control over my body. Patiently waiting for permission to receive pleasure, use the bathroom, shower—accepting the possibility that further humiliation gets thrown in there—sticking to my specific uniform and not getting creative license.

It’s dealing with the occasional throwing things, aggressive driving, bad moods, hard days. 

It’s not getting my way. 

It’s never being entitled to warmup, cooldown, aftercare, or sobriety. Sometimes, it’s being told, “No aftercare,” before we start. It means no safeword, no limits, not ever being allowed to leave. 

It’s always, always being on call, with no guarantee of Light Slave Duty or being allowed to go out. It’s constantly being ordered to do things, even while on Light Slave Duty.

It’s being expected to do it—anything—immediately, without complaint, without question, with a smile and no expectation of reward. 

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But is it easy? No. Few worthwhile things are, and I wouldn’t really want it to be, or it wouldn’t feel authentic. Slave is a heavy word. Not everyone could or should do a dynamic like this, and I think it’s damaging to pretend otherwise; it’s just not worthwhile for everyone.

I love being a slave. And I frequently talk about what I love about it. But it’s a disservice to pretend it’s always easy. If I’m going to write and teach about it, I think I should be honest, realistic, let people know what they’re really getting into if they’re chasing a dynamic similar to mine. 

So: easy? No. 

But, everything I dreamed of? Yes.