Being a Slave Isn’t Easy

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. 

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.  

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

Tales From the Butler Academy: The “Butler’s” Relationship With Their “Employer”

(This is part of the “Tales From the Butler Academy” section. Please start here.)

Module 7 is titled “The Butler’s Relationship With His Employer.” (Being a woman and all, I’ll refer to it gender neutrally going forward. But note this language whenever I mention how traditional this course can be.) 

The jokes about this module started long before I got there, just seeing it on the syllabus. And, of course, the topic was mentioned much earlier in the course. 

“So… I’m not supposed to sexually harass you?” Mistress would ask. “No random beatings?” 

But once I got there, I realized it was a) a relatively short module, just some reading and essays, and b) honestly, super applicable.

It’s a module about communication, about trust and respect and roles. About how you must generally appreciate the other’s role even if it’s not for you, for things to run smoothly. That communication needs to be proactive, efficient, effective, routine, and largely honest. That roles must be clearly defined, lines drawn not to be crossed, before they fade away. That formal and respectful does not necessarily mean cold or uncaring. That trust on both sides is crucial to a well run household. 

While I’d expected to be very vague and a little misleading in this module at first, I actually found myself being very honest, just with the typical term swaps (Mistress, employer) and some omissions. 

Yes, my “employer” and I do have codified, optimized, routine check ins, quality assurance, meetings, forms, reviews, communication methods, checklists, role agreements. I do clarify what my job is. We do find a way for formal to be caring (even intimate)—via protocol as a love language. We do discuss our communication styles and actively work to make them mesh better together. We trust and respect and appreciate each other and are very honest. 

Rather than typing and deleting about professionalism, I found myself writing about real actions. We have long approached our dynamic through a lens so close to professional that people have tried to push, “It’s a relationship, not a business,” on us. But really, in a lot of ways, we do resemble a business superior/subordinate relationship as much if not more than a vanilla marriage, and that’s not a bad thing.

There are many parts of our dynamic that I think make the most sense from that lens: 

  • Our contract. While relationship contracts even in the vanilla world are on the rise, and are a long standing norm in power exchange, many people still think of contracts as something from the business world, especially the detailed, logistically focused kind. Our current contract stands at nearly 2,500 words, mostly bullet points, not a lot of fluff. It covers in detail our schedule, all of my service duties, our protocols, my uniform, inspections, discipline, meetings, written report systems, Light Slave Duty, and more. (More on a lot of those themselves in a minute.) We spent a lot of the first weeks of our relationship cuddled up, having sex, going on dates, hanging out, all that, but we also spent a lot of it sitting across the table from each other with papers in the middle hashing out all the details, including our more formal and specific style of protocol. 
  • Meta Saturday. While the exact day has shifted over time (I believe it was born as the alliterative Meta Monday), this has been, from the very beginning, our weekly check in. We go through a list of questions (modifying the list over time as needed) to reflect on the past week and plan for the week ahead. We celebrate wins, check in on specific areas, ask how we can do better, and discuss tasks and events. At first, this was a meeting. Then, as the typical good business practice goes, we realized the meeting could be an email, and we made it a worksheet we both fill out and send to each other, discussing more if needed. But frequently, we realized we’ve already discussed a lot of it during the week—this is just our final check that we have. 
  • Light Slave Duty. This is the equivalent of time off—or mostly off. Since I live in my workplace (a common issue for private service/domestic staff and housewives alike), I don’t skip being present there, and most of our rules, protocols, etc. never turn off (the ones that do are for vanilla company, not time off). And there are a few small duties that remain on Light Slave Duty, and the possibility of further orders. And I’m not entitled to it—it’s up to Mistress my employer. But, it’s the closest equivalent. It’s a pre codified mode that means inspections, service tasks, and schedule items may generally be skipped without consequence, to be used if I’m sick, etc. I also generally get Sunday mornings “off” to the same extent. 
  • Written issues form/formal complaint. In the case of a problem that we don’t want to just hash out verbally, and that isn’t a punishment kind of issue, we have a specific written form. It includes what happened to trigger the report, how it made the person feel, why they felt that way, what can be done to make it better right now, and what needs to be true for this to not happen again. While rarely used, it’s been very valuable when it has been. I’m not guaranteed results from it, but it’s a great way to clarify any issues at hand.
  • Inspections. Not so much some details of the process, but the twice daily quality assurance. Every day at 10:30 AM, she checks on my morning service tasks, and at 9:20 PM she checks on my evening service tasks. Then, she inspects me in our Inspection Position (I wait in this position in the bedroom—dressed for the AM, nude for the PM). I offer her sunscreen in the morning and lotion at night, and at the PM one, I also get leashed for bed. (Again—not the details of this one, just the quality assurance idea.) 
  • My journal/review system. Okay, this might not sound super businessy, but the basic premise here is basically that I keep logs that she looks over. It’s a way to review and communicate. Each night—from the very beginning—I write an entry in my physical journal, mostly briefly logging activities. Before Meta Saturday time, I create a weekly review page in summary. (I also do this monthly, quarterly, biannually—I also start a new physical journal at that time—and annually.) Then, I bring her the journal. For the monthly review, I also send her an email. The email mostly refers her to the journal, to my monthly habit/goal/task tracker I keep on a giant Post It note in my office and fill in as I go (this one isn’t required, it’s for me, but it can be useful for her to see at a glance, too), and to my monthly newsletter I post publicly. I also include statistics for the month from my websites, income, FetLife profiles/groups/events, Archive of Our Own, etc. I reference this frequently myself. 
  • My daily uniform. Not so much what my uniform is—not that it would be that out of place in a casual workplace—but the fact that I have one. The part that’s the most businessy is my pager, which I keep on me so she can page me when she need something. 
  • Discipline. Not the method—but maybe the idea of pre codified, formal disciplinary action. This is also common in power exchange.
  • And, no small thing, this is probably the most important factor that makes my dynamic an equivalent I can frequently easily talk about for butler school coursework: the part where I work forty hours a week or so for her. Being a slave majordomo is my full time job. I’m not allowed to have any other job. So on. 

You can see how I actually had things to say for this module.

This realization was pretty validating. Since I’m going to butler school hoping to merge the professional and kinky service worlds, I want them to truly be potentially equivalent.

And maybe add just a pinch of sexual harassment and random beatings.

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

A Moment—Chronic Fatigue in M/s

I’m cleaning the kitchen after dinner when I realize things are going south. The room appears dark, hazy, and swerving, but muscle memory is still serving me well. Fatigue comes on strong and sudden.

While the last few days haven’t felt particularly draining—I’ve actually felt pretty good, been on track—I realize that a lot of mild things might be adding up. Yesterday, I ran some errands, including spending over three hours at the DMV getting my driving permit—almost all standing. Today, I ran some more errands, with my mom—including a long walk around the park with her dog. My daily morning walks—a brisk mile—and light exercises, my usual duties and the trips up and down the stairs, my love of vigorous use of the swingset in the backyard, trying to use my under desk bike whenever I’m sitting at my desk, finally getting the hang of the hip lock I’d been trying to learn for aerial silks, an enthusiastic game of ping pong with Mistress earlier—nothing crazy, but it’s adding up, even though my physical needs are largely met.

Mistress called down while I was still doing dishes and told me to tell her when I was done using the water; her schedule usually lines up so she showers shortly after I’m done with dishes, but I’m moving slowly. I agree and tell her when I’m done. 

A little later, Mistress comes down to do her inspection of the kitchen for the evening, but I’m clearly still working, so she says she’ll give me more time. I don’t really have a time deadline, just that it has to be done right after dinner, which I serve at six. She goes back upstairs. 

Still working, that’s around when I realize things are going south. I’m done with the dishes; coffee has already been prepared for morning; I won’t be needing to take out the trash; things are pretty much restocked. I’m mostly at just putting things away and cleaning floors and surfaces, shutting lights and blinds, locking up, and heading upstairs for the night to see to tasks up there. I could ask to skip the rest, and she’d almost certainly say yes—sometimes she tells me to go rest—but I think it’s doable, so I finish up, feeling satisfied.

I make my way towards the bottom of the stairs. The room is pulsing black at the edges now, and I lower myself to the floor, holding the end of the railing for support. I’ve blacked out on the stairs enough; I don’t need to do it again. I call upstairs. “Could you assist me?” 

Mistress comes downstairs. She brushes straight past me, though, with her checklist, to the kitchen. So I wait. It’ll be unpleasant if she needs to use the discipline wand, but it’ll be dangerous if she sends me back down the stairs to retrieve it from the mantel, so I suppose it makes sense that she checks now, and I’m grateful she still checks, since I’ve implicitly declared the kitchen done. To be fair, in about a year of twice daily inspections, she’s needed the wand twice, so this isn’t a high risk, but it’s there.

She flicks the kitchen light off, which I leave on for her final check, and comes back. Usually, she tells me to kneel for inspection results, but I’m basically already there. She pats me on the head, tells me I did well. She offers her hand, which I take, and I stand shakily. She guides me up the stairs slowly, as she has a thousand times, but leaves me to find my own way down the hallway, which I say I think I can handle.

I see to a few upstairs nighttime tasks, like turning down the bed, before I strip out of my uniform, settle onto my blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed, and get leashed for the night, writing and doing other quiet nighttime tasks before getting plenty of sleep.

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

Lifestyle Masochism: When You Start Acting Abused

This can be read independently, but is technically part of the Lifestyle Masochism series.

When you start acting abused…

This has been a thing for a long time, really. I’ve had a lot of conversations kind of loop near this topic recently. 

I have almost always been a suspected victim of abuse. As a kid, I was neurotic, skittish, a little too eager to please, sometimes underweight, sometimes wore ill fitting clothes, sometimes poorly groomed, and seemingly always suspiciously injured, sick, or absent. Now, my parents were/are wonderful people. I just happened to a) have undiagnosed autism/sensory/motor issues and anxiety, b) grow very fast very early, c) have undiagnosed chronic physical health issues, and d) going with several of those things, be extremely clumsy. This admittedly added up to, well, a certain picture. 

Now, I outgrew or fixed some of those things, but not others. 

When I entered the BDSM scene, I was an apparently suspiciously heavy masochist. Never mind that I was looking for what some might call the extreme end of slavery; I didn’t even have all the words for that yet, and it wasn’t what I was first known for. Some people were surprised when I went the high protocol, service slave route, even though I thought I was holding up a neon seeking sign for that when I showed up as best I knew how. No, I was a masochism meme. That was what people focused on about me, perhaps fairly, because it was in plain sight. Pick up play at parties. All that. Literal memes were made. A lot of it was good natured and I laughed with it, encouraged it. Now, I bury it a little at times, because it seems to easily overshadow my other passions, something I have mixed feelings about, because I do love talking masochism—logistics and philosophy—too. 

But other rumors started to spread, to the effect that I had probably been a victim of physical abuse and that was why I could and perhaps why I wanted to take so much. Let me say it again: my parents were/are lovely people and neither of them ever raised a hand against me. Disclosure, I had a tumultuous relationship with my dad at times, including a few years out of contact, but physical abuse was never, ever an issue, and we were on perfectly good terms when he passed. (Okay, I love my parents, but I’ve yakked about them enough.) I do have some theories on why I am an apparently unique masochist, but nothing specific and solid, and a post for another day. 

But, moving forward: then it was Mistress’ turn to be the other variable in the people think Hannah is abused equation. The deep end of M/s—no safewords, no limits, no way out. The controlling high protocol. The housewife, service slave dynamic—little outside life. She picks my uniform, controls the finances, forbids me from having a job, tracks my location, has access to and limits my social media, and all kinds of things that sound bad out of the context of trust, love, respect, and consent. 

And there’s the hardcore physical sadism, and the way in which we enact it: which, yes, purposefully mimics random incidents of violence, physical domestic abuse, frequently not looking like consensual kink, sex, play. I might like it at the time, or I might hate it with every fiber of my being at that moment and long for relief. There’s a place for both, but especially the latter. 

It’s also kind of a lot to talk about when people ask me, So, what’re you into? at, say, a TNG munch.The service and protocol dynamic stuff I’m super passionate about might be a little boring to some people compared to talking about typical scenes, but I’m not too worried about them trying to leap in to “save” me, or triggering anyone with it, or dealing with surprise or accusations. There’s also frequently less explaining and justifying, worrying that they will copy my style without thinking it through for themselves and ending up hurt. Because it does require trust, communication, and self work that not everyone is up to, and that’s okay. It is always refreshing when it is met well, though, and it does happen. 

Now, many adults active in the BDSM scene used to certain things, and understand others, like chronic conditions. Some bruises covered by clothes and flashed on FetLife, and being a little quirky, won’t scare them. I’m not too noteworthy out in the vanilla world at this point, either. 

But one thing still comes up as a red flag: the flinching. From an out of place twitch to what I call the full Hallmark movie recoil, I am, relatively clearly, constantly expecting to be hurt. Almost every time Mistress reaches for me, I flinch. I edge myself away from dead ends and corners, watching how she’s subtly moving me there. I keep a distance, or get closer—what she fondly calls the snuggle defense, which is strangely effective on her—to make being struck in certain ways harder. I set things down out of the way, especially valuables or fragile items, when I remotely see pain coming, and keep my hands somewhere they can be quick to defend my face from being slapped or throat from being choked or collar from being grabbed or hair from being grabbed yanked or leggings from having a hand shoved down them, or wherever the target is. If her hands are out of my sight, I assume she has some impact implement or maybe a knife. I even verbally try to wiggle my way out of the degradation and humiliation, just like instinctively tugging at a rope tie to make sure it really holds. I can usually tell pain is coming from a mile away—it’s a sometimes pleasant, sometimes not, surprise not to expect it—but since I’m not truly going to defend myself, knowing mostly just builds anticipation. 

If any of those behaviors sound familiar: yes, I act like a victim of physical abuse. And it’s interesting this time, because my behaviors really are a reaction to being hit or choked or kicked or pinned or shoved or scratched or dragged or bit or hurt or fucked against my (momentary) will. I can’t deny that. And 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. I frequently don’t cry or scream, I almost never beg for mercy, I never actually fight her, just flinch and squirm, and frequently the only words out of my mouth in all of it are, “Yes, Mistress; thank you, Mistress.”  It’s complicated. 

But those incidents largely happen behind closed doors—obviously, I give insight into them in my public writings—but that is still not as visceral. But I can see a few people mentally flinch when they watch me physically flinch, watch that reflex kick in, because it is helpless and fearful, yet clearly expecting. 

Frequently, Mistress makes fun of me for this. “You act like I randomly hit you or something,” she’ll say when I flinch because she reached for an object near me, then slap me. 

Because the expectation isn’t wrong. She probably is going to hit me, and I’m not going to like it. And so I flinch. And others flinch to watch my constant expectation of pain. 

And yet.

We both continuously look inside ourselves. Can I do this? Should I do this? How do I do it properly? What do I need? What do I want? Why?  We continuously communicate with each other. How do those needs get met? How does this get dynamic get run to represent the underlying why and reality both? We communicate on how to communicate with each other. We check in. I am learning to be more resilient, to provide my own aftercare, to take care of myself, when needed. When pain comes hard and fast with no warning, no negotiation, no warmup, no mercy, no cooldown, no aftercare, I learn to quickly get up, dust myself off, and go back to writing or whatever it was I was doing. I have to trust that future me can take what current me is asking for. She has to trust me to not permanently go to pieces. I have to trust her to not give me what I truly can’t take and to give me what I truly need, while still acknowledging that I agreed to anything and everything and I will honor that vow regardless.  

And that’s what makes the difference, in my opinion, between helplessly acting abused and truly being abused. 

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

Service Skill: Turndown

Miscellany

  • Turn off bright/unnecessary lights, dim bedside lamps if possible, turn on nightlights. Close any windows and blinds. 
  • Tidy up the bedroom. 
  • Spritz a calming scent (check for sensitivities). See to any air quality needs, like filling humidifiers or adjusting the thermostat. 
  • Turn on quiet, calming music, or the TV/device of choice to preferred channel/show/etc. on low. Put the remote, if there is one, in a handy location. Or, make it quiet. 
  • Lay out desired nighttime activity (book, other quiet occupations).
  • Set the alarm for the morning and plug in devices, if desired. 
  • Put out bedtime drink and snack of choice, and any needed medication. Make sure the same is ready for the morning. 
  • Refresh desired bath amenities if needed/if there might be bedtime bathing. Offer assistance. 
  • Lay out clothes for tomorrow, and nightwear for that night, or help them change, if desired. Place the floor mat if there is one. 

The Bed Itself

  • Assuming the bed was made properly that morning
  • Remove any unnecessary/decorative pieces/covers, etc. 
  • Place any desired pieces that get added at bedtime (extra pillows, blankets, comfort objects). 
  • Turn down the bed. For one person, turn one corner down to form a right triangle. For two, turn down both corners. Alternatively, turn down the whole bedspread halfway. (You can also only turn down the top layers to the bottom half, turning down the flat sheet in corner style.) 
  • Fluff pillows. 

Turndown Card 

  • Neatly hand write and leave the turndown card on the nightstand/in an obvious place. Don’t forget the date.
  • Standard additions include menu for the next day, weather forecast, and other needed reminders.  
  • You can also add quotes, love notes, and more. 

Find the video version here.

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

Service Skill: Flower Arranging

  • 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.

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooks, fiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback. Thank you!

The Slave Bell (Our Pager System)

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 one of these pagers. 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 on Mistress’ desk and one by the blanket on the floor I sleep on  at the foot of the bed. A one button 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 (I sleep leashed, and if she’s awake and home, which she generally is, she has to be the one to put it on and remove it). As mentioned, 8:10 AM for unleashing. I get leashed after Evening Inspection at 9:20 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 about 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 a better option for them. Whatever works. 

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogbooksfiction, or classes. If you wish you’d seen this a week sooner, get early access here. I also really appreciate constructive feedback and signal boosts. Thank you. 

Lifestyle Masochism #3 (Your Presence Is Requested)

This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. I consider these to be stand alone non fiction examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post here.

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. 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.

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Lifestyle Masochism #2 (Stay Still)

This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. I consider these to be stand alone non fiction examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post here.

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 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. 

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Service Skill: Using Homemade/Natural Cleaners 

  • 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 boiling 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 run it with just hot water several times.) 
  • Fabric refresher spray: water, splash of rubbing alcohol, 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 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. 

If you liked this post, you might enjoy my blogfictionclasses, or newsletter, and consider supporting me on Buy Me a Coffee or leaving constructive feedback. Thank you!