As I have mentioned in the “Slave Lounge”, recently my bondage play has been evolving/transitioning into a Master-slave relationship. At this stage it’s still more a game than a serious commitment. Nevertheless, it has been an enlightening experience, to be exploring my innermost desires and my outer limits. Like all good things, it doesn’t come easy and there is always a price. However, the most salient aspect of my slavery is what a joy it has been.
Hopefully I shall get around to describing my lifestyle in detail. For the time being, here’s an account of a not-so-typical day in the life of a “wannabe” slavegirl, which should convey some of its flavour. This was Friday a couple of weeks ago. Rob, my live-in boyfriend, and I had been feeling our way forward as Master and slave for several months, and the previous night I had told him that I was ready to take the experiment to the next level. I thought it might be fun but also a pertinent learning experience for us to go “all the way” for the next three days. What follows is what happened on that first day.
The funny thing is, looking back on it, that Rob didn’t really have much say in the matter. I told him what was going to be, and he just went along for the ride (though I have to admit he ended up playing his part to perfection). I suppose I still have a lot to learn about being the docile, respectful, obedient slavegirl.
There is some sexual content here, but nothing too radical. On the other hand, it’s not a very exciting or dramatic story. That’s important, actually. Being a slave 24/7 is pretty mundane for approximately 22½/7. It’s not like you’re serving in the chateau of Roissy or dancing in a Gorean tavern. You still have to go to work each day, buy the groceries, mow the grass, take out the trash, etcetera. That’s the difference between fantasy and reality.
****
It’s just before dawn and I lie awake thinking about my day ahead. I gently nudge Rob and he rolls over to face me. There is just enough light in the room to see that his eyes are still closed. If he’s asleep, I don’t want to wake him, so I try to ease myself out of the bed; but I feel his warm hand on my back, softly stroking my bare skin. I lay down again and begin to say something. He just smiles and places two fingers on my lips. He slides his body over mine, kisses me, whispers words I do not hear. He presses close to me, pushes into me. Afterwards, for a long time, he just lies there, still inside me. He’s breathing heavily, but otherwise he’s silent and unmoving. I wonder if maybe he has gone back to sleep; or it could be that he’s deep in thought about what this day holds for us both; or perhaps he’s giving me time to think. But as the first rays of the rising sun sweep into the room, I decide that it is time for my journey to begin. I very lightly pinch his ear and he draws away. He watches me as I leave his bed, and I feel his stare following me until I am out the door.
A quick shower clears the early morning fog from my brain. The water caresses my skin, fondles my body, swirls about my feet, tickles my toes. It has rarely felt so sensual, and I know the reason why. As I’m drying myself, I glance at the mirror and see my reflection through the dissolving mist. I let the towel fall to the floor and I study the image. I perform a little pirouette, arms outstretched. I’m not vain, but on the whole I like what I see. I could put on a few kilos, do something creative with my hair; I’m not exactly over-endowed in the breast department, and my backside is as flat as a... I am suddenly aware of what I’m doing, and that unnerves me. I pick up the towel and wrap it around my body. The soft fibres are a comfort against my skin, and the strange mixed emotion of arousal and shame quickly fades. I reach for my robe, decide against it and leave it hanging forlorn upon its hook.
By the time Rob has emerged from the bedroom, I have breakfast cooked and on the table. It’s a special treat for a special day, and he nods with approval.
“Very fine, Sarah,” he says with a cheerily indulgent smile.
“Thank you... Master,” I reply. I’m hoping that the small hesitation doesn’t register; then I feel myself blushing as he grins at me. It takes only a second to realize that he was not talking about the meal laid out for him, as his gaze runs the full length of my naked body.
Yet it’s nothing that he hasn’t seen before. It’s only that he is seeing it in a different light today... and if I have my way, from this day forward. It is his property now. I am his property now. I haven’t really thought of it like that until this moment, but it’s something I should get used to. And almost as a reflex, I cast my eyes downward and lower myself onto my knees. My Master takes a step towards me. I place my hands rigidly at my side and I subtly separate my thighs, to signify that every part of me belongs to him. He puts his hand on my bowed head and affectionately pats it, as he would a pet puppy. We’re both playing now, but the tension is rising. I start to sweat and tremble, and I feel the familiar, agreeable tingling inside me.
Rob breaks the spell... just as well.
“Coffee’s getting cold.”
He takes his seat at the table. I wait, still kneeling, for an instruction, but none comes, so I get to my feet, feeling just a little foolish. I tell myself to remember that it is a slavegirl’s duty to anticipate the needs and demands of her Master, without having to be told. I pour his coffee and juice, prepare his cereal, butter his toast, dish out his bacon and eggs. When not waiting on him, I stand in humble silence by his side, ready to serve and obey.
After a while, he notices me staring keenly at the spread before him.
“Sit and eat,” he says.
“No thank you, Master.” I’m not being selfless. Breakfast has never been a big part of my day.
“At least some coffee.”
That I won’t pass up. There is only the one cup on the table, but I have an idea. I kneel again, this time next to his chair. I put my hands behind my back, as Rob holds the cup to my lips. It’s a nice little gesture, symbolizing that whatever small pleasures I am permitted are entirely at my Master’s discretion, and they are enjoyed only through his indulgence. I’m sort of proud that I thought of it on the spur of the moment. When I’m finished, he dabs the corners of my mouth with his napkin and kisses me on the forehead. I rise and begin clearing the table.
“Good girl,” he says quietly.
“Thank you, Master.” I like those words. Each time they roll more easily off the tongue.
While I complete the cleaning up and washing up, Rob gets dressed. He has an interview for a summer job this afternoon, so he’s looking extra spiffy as I come into the bedroom.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“Extra spiffy,” I respond. Well, he does.
I stand by the open closet.
“What should I wear?”
He looks at me for a moment; and then with a mock frown: “What’s wrong with the way you are?”
I check out my nude reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Probably not the most suitable for classes. Well, as my Master, this is your decision.”
No response.
“This belongs to you,” I say, sweeping my hands up and down my torso.
He considers the options for a few more seconds. I figure this can go one of two ways – he will choose to either cover up his property or show me off. His brow furrows.
“I dunno... a skirt and blouse...”
He waves his hand along the line of clothes hanging on the rack, before pointing out a couple of items, in a dismissive, desultory fashion. He’s chosen a pleated miniskirt and a low-cut top. The ensemble’s a lot skimpier than I would normally wear on campus; so he’s going for the show-off (or he’s teaching me a lesson). Oh well, it’s turning into a hot day, so I hope I won’t be too conspicuous.
“Undies?”
He sort of recoils, not quite certain if I’m joking. (I am.)
“Of course.”
“Just making sure.”
“Don’t get too cheeky... slave.”
“No, Master. Please forgive me.”
“You’re forgiven.”
When I’m ready and we’re about to leave, I suddenly have an idea and go back to the bedroom. From the dresser drawer I take out a silver-embossed black leather choker, a gift from Rob, to which is attached a little plaque engraved with his name. I think it’s apt, and it’s also appropriate that he put it on me himself. I hand it to him, and once more I kneel as he fastens it around my neck. With this I will be his all day, even when we are apart.
Rob decides that I should do the driving. He’s never liked cars; but that doesn’t mean he’s in any sense unmanly. If you could see how I drive, you will understand that it takes an act of great courage to be in the passenger seat when I’m behind the wheel. As we slide into our seats, he looks across at me and then downwards with an expression that is supposed to be meaningful but isn’t. It takes me a few seconds before I comprehend and comply. But as I do so, he sort of rolls his eyes... I don’t think he anticipated that I might take him seriously. Well, let that be a lesson for him – when a Master commands, the slave obeys.
By pushing against the seat with my knees and shoulders, I raise myself until I can reach under my skirt and pull down my knickers. As I draw them along my thighs, he says “Not all the way” and I leave them crumpled at my knees. For some reason, having them there is more – what’s the word, stimulating? – than taking them off altogether. I know what’s expected next (I’ve read the book). I bunch my skirt at the back so that when I lower myself onto the seat again, my bare flesh comes in direct contact with the upholstery. It is cool and slick against my naked bottom. It’s a queer, arousing sensation... just like in the book.
When we’ve reached the campus and parked, I am about to get out when Rob tactfully reminds me to pull up my panties. Good catch – the carpark is a busy place, and that could have been an embarrassment. I expect him to give me some sort of instructions for my day, but all he says is “See you lunchtime” before striding off. I stand there and watch him go, feeling suddenly empty and oddly alone.
Still, it’s going to be a busy morning. I have a physics department conference to attend, followed by a meeting with my dissertation adviser, and after that a session with my tutorial group (a half-dozen undergraduates whom I mentor on a weekly basis). I get a few interested looks, since I’m showing more leg and chest than I usually do. But it’s nice, not just the attention but also the constant reminder of what I am, what I have become.
One of the girls in the tute group admires my choker and notices the tiny label. “Who’s Rob?” she asks.
“He’s my M... boyfriend,” I answer. For an instant I fear I have given myself away, but then it occurs to me. It must have sounded like I was saying “Mmm, boyfriend” as in “Yum, boyfriend.” I can’t suppress a giggle and she looks at me quizzically. (Okay, it doesn’t come across as funny as it did then. You had to be there.)
Rob and I meet for lunch, but we decide to play it cool. I am not yet ready for a public coming out, and anyway, he’s preoccupied, rehearsing his interview. He desperately wants this job, and not just because we’re impoverished postgrad students. For the past few months I have been the breadwinner and rent-payer. He’s never had ego problems, but nevertheless it can’t be easy for him, especially if he is to be Lord and Master of the household.
The only time my slavery comes up is when I inquire what plans he wants to make for this evening (this being Friday). He asks what I want to do, and I reply that it isn’t up to me, not any more. He considers the implications of what I’ve just said for a while, then proposes “a night in.” With that, he’s on his way, with the standard “I’d wish you good luck but you won’t need it” from me.
Back in my office I take care of some business, then head off home. I put in an afternoon at the computer. (I get paid to read and sort scientific abstracts... simple work provided you don’t mind hours staring at a screen.) Around three o’clock I get a phone call.
“Darling, luvvie, sweetie...” I gush (okay there’s a yuck factor here, but I was excited), “... how did it go?”
He’s non-committal. That’s not bad news, because he always likes to play the cool, unflappable he-man. We’ll find out the result next week.
“Can you pick me up around five?” He pauses, then gets back into character. “Pick me up at five sharp.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say.
“And I’ll be with a friend.”
A friend? His? Mine? Ours? I don’t ask, but it bothers me. This night, of all nights. What’s my Master up to? He makes no mention of dinner, but that’s not an issue. I never cook dinner on Friday. That’s Rob’s night off – and if you’d tasted my cooking, you’d understand why.
I get back to work, trying to put the mystery guest out of my mind. When it’s time to go, I get back into the skirt and blouse Rob selected this morning – after all, I haven’t been given new orders. And as I pull into the university carpark, I’m relieved to see that the companion is Jack. He’s my former boyfriend, and neither of the guys has shown any awkward feelings about our continued friendship. Yet as they get into the car, my mind begins to race. I’m trying to figure out the angle. Why Jack, why this day? He’s the one who introduced me to “serious” bondage (as opposed to the tie-up games I’ve played since I was a little girl), and it was he who gave me my first, unforgettable taste of the seductive allure of slavery. Do they have something planned? Should I be worried?
Jack gets in the back seat and evidently doesn’t see me push my knickers to my knees, because that’s the sort of thing he’d comment on. The second time doing this, it again feels strange. As potent as the symbolism is, I’m still unsure what it is supposed to represent. A reminder that I’m available for my Master’s pleasure? That my body doesn’t belong to me? That I shouldn’t take the things I’m used to, the things I’m comfortable with, for granted? Maybe all of the above. Perhaps it simply means that I overanalyse.
On the way, Jack brings up the subject of my slavery. It’s not a secret, at least not to him and his lady love Sabrina. The four of us have already shared some experiences. However, Jack sounds impressed at how far we’ve come – farther, he tells us, than he and Sabrina. That makes me pleased and proud. From the tone of his voice, I wonder if he’s a just a tad envious that I hadn’t gone all the way when I was his girlfriend.
When home is in sight, Jack phones Sabrina. The conversation is efficiently staccato.
“Rob and Sarah’s... Around seven... You’ll get the food? Great... Indian’s good... Hold on.”
He turns to Rob. “How’s Indian sound?”
“Sounds good.”
“Indian it is,” Jack tells Sabrina.
No one consults the little slavegirl behind the wheel. That doesn’t bother me; but I’m still perplexed that Jack and Sabrina have been invited.
Once inside the apartment, the men collapse onto the sofa and kick off their shoes. I head for the kitchen and grab two beers from the fridge. Back in the living room, the guys are already engrossed in a football replay on television... not exactly how I thought we’d be spending this evening. But it’s not my place to complain, so I kneel on the carpet in front of them – being careful not to block their view of the game – and make my offering. Rob smiles, while Jack’s expression remains characteristically inscrutable. Thereafter they ignore me as they sip their beer and watch the TV.
After a while, I’m starting to get bored and my knees are beginning to ache. Rob rescues me with an order, for chips and dip. I hurry back to my workstation; and while I’m there Sabrina arrives. I’m more baffled than ever. I thought she was bringing the dinner at seven o’clock. Okay, that was obviously a misunderstanding, but I’m still surprised she and Jack are here... though I am starting to get an idea.
Our visitors have a kiss and cuddle as I’m bringing out the snacks and a fresh supply of beverage. Sabrina nods at the two guys, claps her hands and draws them slowly apart. Jack and Rob get the message and shuffle sideways to widen the gap on the sofa. She snuggles cosily between them. I’m looking towards her just as she’s taking her seat, and I catch something remarkable. She flips up the back of her skirt, and she slips her panties off her backside just before her skin touches the fabric. It’s a smooth, seamless action, the sort of thing that comes with practice. She’s not at all self-conscious doing it next to Rob. And it’s exactly what he had me do in the car. It cannot be a coincidence.
“Refreshment?” Rob says.
“I’m dying for a caffeine fix,” she replies.
“Jack, coffee?”
“Nah, just keep the brews coming.”
Rob turns to me. “One coffee.” I can tell by the way his lips form around the first letter that he’s about to add “please” but he checks himself. Then he blinks and sort of smirks. “Thanks, love,” he says, deciding that submission and obedience do not revoke common courtesy.
“Yes, Master.” I say that not for his benefit alone. I quickly glance at Jack and Sabrina. He doesn’t react at all. She allows herself a subtle smile but does not look at me.
When I return a few minutes later with the coffee and new beers, the television is switched off and the three of them are openly discussing my slavery. I kneel again to serve – my knees are getting a good workout today – and I remain in that position, hands behind my back, head bowed and eyes downcast, while they continue their discussion. I’m somehow not surprised that the more rigorous interrogation comes from Sabrina, and she talks about me as if I weren’t there. It’s mostly about rules and expectations. Jack tries to bring up the subject of penalties and punishments, but Rob skilfully evades the questions.
However, one short exchange causes me to shiver.
“Have you spanked her? Anything like that?”
“Nah, nothing like that.”
“So how do you punish her?”
“Punish her for what?”
“Disobedience, disrespect...”
“She isn’t disobedient, or disrespectful.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Well, if she hasn’t done anything to deserve punishment...”
“She’s always done something.”
I’m still mulling that over when the doorbell rings. Sabrina springs from the sofa, smoothing out her skirt and readjusting her knickers as she bounds past me.
“Dinner’s arrived,” she calls out.
I’m still kneeling on the carpet facing the boys on the couch, and desperately hoping the angle to the doorway is acute enough that the delivery guy can’t see me. As Sabrina goes past in the other direction, Rob taps me gently on the shoulder.
“Go help,” he says.
I join Sabrina in the kitchen and we dish out the curries and rice and roti and chapati. She never says a word to me. I set down the meal on the coffee table, while she brings out a bottle of wine. Rob directs me to arrange two settings on the sofa side where he and Jack are, the other two facing them. When it’s time to eat, Sabrina and I are to take our places on the floor, sitting on our haunches. But just before we do so, there is one more procedure. Rob confers quietly with Jack, who nods his consent.
Rob tells us to strip down to our underwear. I’m wearing a bra, Sabrina isn’t. She doesn’t seem to mind. Then, in a now familiar ritual, as we sit we shove down the rear of our panties so our naked buttocks are resting on our heels. There doesn’t seem to be much point in doing this, but maybe that is exactly the point. With even the most routine and commonplace of actions, you must be constantly reaffirming your slavery, never allowing yourself to forget what you are and what you are not.
It’s counterintuitive, really. The little rituals (such as the bare backside thing), the minor irritants (like all the kneeling), the petty injustices (Jack’s undeserved punishments)... These are not what you hate about being a slave. They’re what you love about your slavery. They are the constant reminders that your pleasure comes from your servitude, from just being on hand to serve and please your Master. There is, as I said at the beginning of this piece, a price to be paid, but it’s a price that I am discovering is one worth paying.
A while back I was corresponding with a slave who wrote: “Cultivate your Master’s dominance by cultivating your own submission.” It’s like a feedback mechanism – the more you flourish in your submission, the more your Master thrives on it, and in turn the more you flourish. To do that properly, you must understand that you are his* property every minute of the day, even when he’s not there with you. In a way, your Master is always there, inside you. All those trivial and gratuitous impositions are what don’t let you forget.
Oh dear... I seem to have lapsed into pontificating mode. Anyway, the story is getting rather long, so this may be a good time to stop... with apologies for not finishing it straight away. I will try to complete it over the next few days.
* I’m speaking here as a female-hetero slave.
~ Sarah
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