Day in the Slave Life: Anecdote Collection

There’s a group of us sitting around the living room: Mistress, me, my mom, my best friend. Since it includes my mom, I’m allowed on the furniture. Mistress is next to me and makes some gesture or movement I forget now, and I not only flinch, but approach the full on, Hallmark movie recoil. Fuck. 

My best friend raises a knowing eyebrow at me, almost laughing. Mistress feigns noticing nothing. But we all covertly eye my mother, coming to the conclusion at about the same moment that she didn’t notice, bending to reach for her drink at exactly the right time.  

Phew. 

I actually kind of admire that we’ve gotten to the point of that reaction, the telling reality of it, but that doesn’t mean my mother—who already accepts a lot—needs to be involved. 

… 

But where does it come from? 

9:30 AM. I hit the pager transmitter button as always to signal that brunch is ready. I wait behind my usual chair in the assigned position. Mistress comes downstairs and greets me with the usual successful inspection of the table, my uniform, the position, then slaps me, which sends me defensively reeling out of it. 

“What, are you crazy? Get back in position.” 

I do, still jumpy, but also kind of hoping she’ll do it again.  I’ll be ready and be good this time.  But she lets me sit, and we eat brunch. At the end, leaving to finish the rest of the morning task inspection, she tells me to go put in an anal plug and leave it until she tells me otherwise, before or after cleaning the kitchen. 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

My body is still a bit wired from yesterday, from, as she said, being used, sex without me being allowed to come (as usual, which I prefer, the focus it brings); I didn’t feel well, she told me it didn’t matter (true); still, I was kneeling on the bed, head in my lap, crying, by the end of it, pains exacerbated, but as a slave, glad it all happened anyway and managing a twinge of unresolved arousal. 

… 

Positions…

Once, I’m in my standard kneeling position as we chat, legs going numb. “May I stretch?” I ask, by which I mean sit on the floor in a more comfortable position. 

“Beg.” 

It’s not really that bad yet, but an order’s an order. “Please, Mistress?” 

It’ll do. “You may.”  

… 

Today, we do our weekly maintenance discipline session. Despite managing to stay still enough under the attentions of the discipline wand, which I retrieved from the mantel and presented in position, and counting properly, I still feel soaked with sweat. I ask for permission to take a “rinse off” shower (meaning I’m allowed to skip shaving and therefore the inspection after), and she grants it.

I haven’t been in the shower long, but am almost done, when she returns, throws open the shower door, shuts the warm water off. I shiver. 

“Kneel.” 

I do. The shower floor is small and unforgiving. 

She pisses on me—at least it’s warm again—orders, “Clean me up.” I do, using my mouth as efficiently as I can. “Now you can shower,” she says, and leaves me there. 

I turn the water back on—it takes a second to find the right temperature—and do it all again. 

 … 

This isn’t so uncommon. 

Another day, we’re talking in her office, me in my usual kneeling position again. She says, “Come with me.” 

I do, to the bedroom.

“Remove all of your clothing.” 

I do. 

“Kneel.  In the shower.” 

I do. I had just showered before our conversation. 

She pisses on me this time, too, trying to get mostly my face, my hair, for added effect, using the latter to dry off, and turns the water on me on full blast cold before leaving, as I scramble against the opposite wall of the shower.  

She doesn’t wash my mouth out with soap while I wait for the water to heat up again this time, though, I think, with mixed relief and wistfulness. 

Well, time to shower again. 

… 

There are only two times I remember forgetting about being on my leash. One, at night. Two: 

With friends, at home, we’re eating dinner. Just to mix things up, for fun, I’m on my leash, now that I’m done cooking, allowed to sit at the table.

We talk a long time, lingering, and as the meal concludes, we stand to head to socializing in the living room, or, for me, cleanup. 

Except that I’ve forgotten about the leash.  So I’m not especially prompt or mindful about standing and pushing in my chair and moving the opposite direction of the intuitive—looping around the head of the table, where Mistress was sitting. 

But it almost doesn’t matter: she’s also forgotten, the leash clipped to a belt loop, heading a way that I can’t follow fast enough and that tangles around her own chair. 

I have one second after I remember to think, Oh, shit, before I choke when the leash hits its end, stumbling in the right direction. 


“Oh, shit,” she says out loud.

We all laugh. 

… 

Our friends are used to us. 

My best friend is staying with us at the time, and I’m standing in the doorway to their room, talking about, of all things, the fandom of a children’s book series, while Mistress passes behind me, getting something from the garage—we’ve all recently moved—for something she’s cooking.

She starts to pass by me again, then thinks better of it, and says, “I wonder… come over here,” brandishing the small cast iron skillet.  

I step out from the slightly narrow hallway into the wider opening of our front room, still in range and continuing the first conversation. 

Crack

That thing is staggering, as it collides with my ass.  “My point is—” crack “—the second series really—” crack “—it does age with the audience—” crack “—but kind of depressingly.” Crack.

My best friend is nearly crying, they’re laughing so hard at me trying to make my fandom point between cast iron strikes. Mistress declares that the skillet is too heavy and pointless to swing this long.

Well, I made at least one point.

… 

Besides pure fun, there are all kinds of cathartic uses for pain, and one I particularly like is actually more cathartic for her: the punching bag scenario. 

Frustrated with coworkers or friends or telemarketers, she bends me over the nearest counter and lays into me with the nearest wooden spoon, or over the bed with always handy punches and slaps and kicks. 

I just like the release of feeling in it, without having to be the source of frustration. The whipping girl thing, y’know. Maybe it’s what some people get out of brat taming. But I behave. 

… 

Mistress: What percentage of being a slave is just like, keeping your mouth shut? 

Me: About 115.

… 

I’ve always wanted a shock collar, and when a reader requests an electricity play scene for one of my fiction series, I make it an excuse to get one.  I avoid writing kinks I don’t know about, and I could’ve written about the neon wand or a tens unit or anything I’ve already done, but… let me be clear: I just wanted a shock collar.

It arrives among a few other items, and Mistress helps me test it out immediately.  She fastens it around my thigh—it’s bulky, and I already have my normal collar; it seems a little safer, and its two metal prods leave very visible pink marks. 

Its shock settings go from 1 to 99.  1, okay, I felt that.  Around 5 gives me the feeling of a strong static shock from a doorknob. “Higher?” 

“Yes.” 

She keeps pushing the number higher, increments of five or so.  Before the forties, my leg spasms each time, a feeling weird more than just painful. Then I have to sit down, or lose my balance. Still, higher. 

“You’re going to ninety-nine, aren’t you?” she asks, in that you are a masochistic idiot tone. 

“Of course.” 

Eighty-five or so knocks the wind out of me briefly.  Just a few notches higher, though. It’s nice, really. 

Ninety-nine.  Jesus.  A little glad it doesn’t go any higher.  A little wishing it did. But I do ninety-nine a few times. It’s a massive but pleasant jolt. Like a roller coaster. 

Mistress rolls her eyes. 

… 

I really like blood. I might even say I need it, and, like shock collars, you can get scalpels delivered and keep them in stock. The future truly is now.

Since I’ve asked, Mistress tells me to go collect the needed items and meet her in her office.  I was already undressed, leashed for the night or about to be, at the beginning of this conversation, and goosebumps rise on my skin in anticipation and from exposure.

I kneel next to her in her office, prepped.  She selects a spot and tells me to cut a K there, her first initial. I cut the first line, a strange thrill, but am unsure if it was deep enough and actually cut, the bleeding delayed.  She’s also unsure, and I’ve redone it when the first one begins to dot with blood.  Now, they both do. Oh, well.  I cut the next two lines of the letter carefully and without redos.  She adds a few miscellaneous lines of her own, a kind of decorative monogrammed pattern. 

I clean up, adding enough gauze to not bleed on my slave furs and enjoying the lingering stinging sensations.

…  

Me, from slave furs, to cat looking down at me from the bed: You’re not better than me just because you sleep in the bed. 

Mistress, nearby: Am I not better than you because I sleep in the bed?

Me: I mean, not because you sleep in the bed.

… 

You might notice I’m a little hard to challenge as a masochist. 

The physical stuff is fun, but I’m in the masochism business for the emotion more than anything else. The ever worn down feeling of work well done. The asceticism of the slave life. The self discipline and focus required in 24/7 high protocol service. The creative inspiration it provides; the tortured artist thing. 

The talk, with an element of truth, is crucial, too—the themes of Stockholm syndrome and victim blaming and possessiveness. 

“You like being owned, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

“Good girl. That’s exactly what you tell people when they ask.” 

And the occasional catharsis.  In the moment: fear, humiliation, despair. 

Today, she yanks me onto the bed, pinning me. There’s already been the usual hair pulling, collar grabbing, bites, scratches, in this conversation. But on the bed, she clamps her hand over my mouth and nose, not around my throat, her usual choking method.

It’s strange, but it’s the slight change in method that makes me panic.  I know what happens with her hand wrapped around my throat. I don’t worry about that. But as my lungs drain the air in the small gap between her skin and mine, the seal kicking in, nothing coming, unable to breathe in, and out of air, like I’m in a vacuum, the edges of my vision start pulsing black, and I panic. Not sure what comes next or when. Not much comes of the panic; I mostly freeze, and she releases me.  I gasp for lungfuls of breath. Relief floods me with the oxygen. 

That. That was good.

… 

All in a day’s work? 

Lifestyle Masochism: What I Talk About When I Talk About Masochism

Lifestyle masochism.

Every now and then, there’s a word or phrase that goes floating around the local community or FetLife that’s useful, relatable, and catches on as part of the widespread vocabulary. While lifestyle masochism is a phrase that came to me basically at random and, to my knowledge, currently lives only inside my head, I hope someone else might find it useful or relatable, because I’d love to be able to just say it and have people really understand what I mean.  (Though anyone in the community might get a basic picture from the phrase itself.) 

Of course, first I have to explain what it means.

When we talk about lifestyle D/s, kink, or such, we’re talking about 24/7 dynamics, community involvement, or things that bring kink out from being the dirty secret in the bedroom to something a little more (or a lot).  Something that makes it part of the way we live, not just an activity we partake in from time to time.  Y’know, a lifestyle. 

Masochism: deriving pleasure from one’s own pain or humiliation.  For some, this pleasure may be sexual; for some, it may not.  It’s sexual or physical for me at times, but on the lifestyle front, the sexual part is small.  It’s something more like spiritual.  It gives me creative inspiration and catharsis, too. And when I really talk about masochism, at least as of late, I’m talking about the lifestyle version.

I think this has been partially true for me basically forever.  Early fantasies revolved around patterns more than single instances.  My desire, my need for this type of masochism—and my ability to actually handle it—has grown with time.  Isolated scenes used to be a lot more fulfilling, something I craved a lot more.  And I still enjoy a proper scene, whether mostly sexual, sensual, or sadistic, now and then.  Fucking machine?  Inverted rope suspension?  Hot wax?  Fire?  Shock collar?  Proper beating? Just rough sex? I’m usually down.  I can go for hours for impact, and I can orgasm from pain by itself, without sexual stimulation. But it’s not really what I talk about when I talk about masochism.  It’s an occasional craving, not a need.

While parts of my needed lifestyle version have been a part of our dynamic for a long time, we had a conversation a few weeks ago on this.  Decided to up the frequency, intensity, and such, and really explore the area, cutting our weekly scenes in favor of focusing on this, still leaving room for occasional proper scenes.  Mistress’ first concern, which was fair, was: Can you do this? 

A lot of people, she said—well, if you’re deep in the BDSM world, “a lot of people”—say they want this.  Fewer actually do, and fewer yet have both the desire and the ability to handle it.  Sometimes you want things you can’t have.  Sometimes you find out it’s not what you want at all.  

I agreed; but I was, and am, reasonably confident.  We’ve had elements of this in our dynamic for a long time, and a solid foundation of mutual respect, trust, and love.  We understood the risks and felt willing to take them.  I’m not too fragile. She agreed.

One minority niche we fall into is (and this is another kink phrase I basically made up, as far as I know—though I’ve seen it in law occasionally) irrevocable consent.  It’s my current catch all for what some call CNC, some call TPE, some call blanket consent—all with a lot of leeway in meaning.  Irrevocable consent, for me, means I gave Mistress full consent once, and I can’t take it back now.  No no, no safewords, no limits, no contract termination, no rights, no privacy, no initiating a divorce.  Down to no suicide, there is no way out.  She has 24/7, no conditions power over me, all areas of life.  I don’t get a guarantee of aftercare, sobriety, or safety practices.  She does things I would call limits if I currently defined them (inside of play and out), goes past when I would use a safeword if that was something I did.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  The agreement may be honor bound, but that doesn’t mean I take it lightly.

What with this being our framework, this means that by introducing more lifestyle masochism practices, we ran one major risk: that if I could not truly say no (via safewording or declaring limits or whatnot), and with these practices designed to bring about certain emotions, it would be hard to tell what was the desired level of suffering and what was the you can’t handle it; this is a bad idea scenario.  We agreed to ongoing “outside of the moment” communication, mostly via adding a question about it to Meta Sunday (our weekly check in) and agreeing to use the written form we have for raising such issues if it came up.  I’d recommend these highly.   

Now that I’ve said all this: what is it I’m on about? 

What we decided to introduce was more—what we call—“random acts of violence”.  Slapping, hair pulling, choking, collar grabbing, biting, scratching, pressure point using, pinning, knifeplay—on the short and quick side.  Just throughout the day.  Not as sex, play, special event, discipline.  Just as its own thing, scattered throughout time.  Things I can dislike in the moment, but overall gain a deeper sense of submission from, because I don’t like it in the moment, but submit anyway. 

None of these acts were new; it was just increasing frequency and intensity.  Making it look less like kinky flirting and more like something easily mistaken for abuse.  On the slightly longer side: more watersports (sometimes complete with turning the shower on cold), beating (less so the multiple implement, long, planned scenes in the dungeon with warmup and cooldown, but more of impulsively grabbing the nearest suitable object and going hard and fast wherever we may be in the house—kicking and punching always easily accessible), sex when I’m not in the mood at least to start (paired with not being allowed to orgasm).  Also nothing new, but now upped.  All paired with suited verbal exchanges—mostly humiliation, themes of Stockholm syndrome and victim blaming, possessiveness.  An element of truth—not taking it back—is essential for me. 

A character touched on this recently in my BDSM fiction series

“No. Don’t take it back. Say it. Mean it. Mean it even when we’re done, and don’t care. Tell me I’m worthless. Mean it. Prove it. Make it true. Keep me anyway to tell me again tomorrow. Let me be nothing and love me for it. Break me just so you can fix it and do it again. Make me harder to break next time. Make me able to take more and more. Just for the challenge. Make me run so you can catch me. Make me fight so you can pin me down. Make me bleed so you can treat my wounds. Hurt me until I beg for mercy just so you can give it to me and feel good about it. Let me be grateful for it. Make me wait longer to beg next time. Make my head spin. Make my world spin until I can only cling to you; control it until you become my God. Take out the rest of the world on me. Hurt me when you want to hurt someone else, because I’ll let you. Let me be good and love you and love you and love you no matter what you do. Let me love you because of it. Be sadistic. Be cruel. Be merciless. Teach me to love you anyway. Let me feel good about it. Let me be the kicked puppy that follows you home anyway. Take it all out on me and let me love you for taking it out on me instead of the world who didn’t ask for it. Let me be your reward for being good to everyone else. Tell me that’s pathetic. Believe it. Love me for it anyway. Tell me I’m pathetic. Mean it more than you’ve ever meant anything else. But keep me to tell me again tomorrow.” 

It’s been excellent so far, and we are diving deeper into it.  If I got to add one thing, it would be more blood/cutting, but that’s a soft limit on Mistress’ side she is just starting to press at.

There are other ways that forms of masochism creep into our dynamic.  We thrive on 24/7 high protocol, and being a service slave is happily my full time job.  This introduces elements of masochistic ascetism (in protocols that limit my “indulgences”—whether it’s wearing something that’s not my very specific uniform, sitting on furniture, using vices, etc.) as well as the energy challenges of providing consistently excellent service (full time level hours and 24/7 on call adds up; not to mention my love of serving the kink and vanilla community—volunteering, teaching—and guests).  Keeping focused requires a level of minimalism and mindfulness.  There is not room for much in my life that doesn’t come back to being a slave in some way, distractions, and I have to be constantly “on” to not slip on protocol, no matter what, even if it’s the tiniest details—finger or toe placement—of our daily slave position repertoire.  We have a firm disciplinary dynamic as well, and while I behave, there are occasional accidents and such—and lack of lenience here goes hand in hand with everything else (complete with two daily inspections and weekly maintenance discipline).  (We also agreed to recommit ourselves to that. As there are specific procedures, it can also be easily distinguished from such play.)  I’m summing these elements up quickly here, but they’re not a small part of it. 

It’s not for everyone, but it seems like it sure is for us. 

Related Reading:

No Safewords, No Limits: An Elaboration

Shaming of “Unethical” Dynamics Within the Community

Why I Chose Irrevocable Consent as a Label, What It Means to Me, and Why I Write About It

Uniforms and Challenges, the Literal and a Metaphor

Sadism vs. CNC