Another special day for me, My ex and mother of my children finally succeeded in what she promised me.  She "destroyed everything I held dear in life".  She can't take all credit for it though.  A huge contribution was done by the total madness that is our Belgian justice system.  Where the whole world lives by the statement: "innocent till proven guilty", our justice wanted something different and chose: "guilty till proven innocent ".  Which means that if you just file false complaints?  The person who receives them will be scarred for live, and will end up with his children taken from him, homeless, and with a mountain of debt for the rest of his life. That second one was me... Since I'm gonna be living on the street anytime soon, a phantasy of mine has become a necassity in order to survive.  I'm sure y'all know what I mean by that. As a consequence, the mistress/master who takes me in as a 24/7 sissy maid will receive a great amount of gratitude and obidience.  So if you're interested in a broken but sweet and passionate sissy that's willing to relocate inside western Europe?  Make sure to give me sign. Love, Nikita❤️ 

second potenial ending to blend with majority of previous ending   Now exhausted from the day’s events, your precious body quivers, shakes lifelessly, just laying on the faux fur bed, hands still locked together, and your feet still in the spreader bar.  Completely war out from the whole day’s events that enfolded all before your eyes.  Twelve hours of pleasure, pain, excitement, desires being fulfilled, heightened arousals,  your deepest most rooted thoughts brought up to the surface for all to see.  Your path of fulfillment was laid out before Me, your strengths, weaknesses, everything was given to Me.  Now it’s my turn to reward you.   All your bonds have now been released, first your wrists, then followed by each ankle, and then finally the lock that held you to the chain, that of which held you so dearly still.  All that remained was the collar, the collar which now was yours to wear with pride.  This was my give / symbol to give to you, that you may now show the world that you are now loved, cherished, desired, taken, cared for, and belong to me.  All of that said in a simple fashion of a collar.   The reward, for your ever falling body, that is which, is slipping deeper and deeper into submission of sleep.  I place you down, now under the faux blanket; I place you on plush oversized huge pillows at the top of the bed. Silk lined sheets covered with soft rose petals.  A warm fire place glowing in the far corner; the corner that which was kept in the dark, hidden from your eyes the whole time.  (Slave went and started the fire while I was releasing your bonds.)   My, sweet baby; so sore and sexy, all at the same moment.  Looking at you with a new fresh pair of eyes, eyes no longer lusting but has contentment, restful, and happy.  I’m proud of what I have done and now own.   Sweetness I have a question for you, “are you truly happy?  Am I what you thought I would be?  All that you lusted for? Is this what you will forever be able to be?  My own, loved forever?”   As you slowly drift away to that sleepless state.

Sometimes physical things are not the heaviest things to remove.  Told that just now to a friend who recently lost their mother, and was tasked with cleaning out the house.  Sometimes i say things so deep, that i make myself pause and think. Last night, i was venting to one of the people in my RPG guild in ESO.  He was saying how he just needed reminders about posting stuff on the site and whatnot.  i told him i was done giving him reminders, and he asked why.  That was when a dam i hadn't known was ready to break, burst.  i told him, that if someone really wants to do something, they will do it.  They will do whatever they must, to ensure it happens. i reminded him that he has a wife, and a professional life, and he must be doing well enough to govern himself.  i asked him, who looks after me, who gives me reminders to do things? i reminded him, how i have -no one-.  i have sticky notes all over the place, a phone full of alarms and reminders, because my memory is crap... How is it fair, that i should have to hand-hold grown adults in the guild, to remind them and chase after them to look after their own characters.  Told him i was done, time people sink or swim. Of course, all that has ~nothing~ do to with the Lifestyle or genre on this site... Just another peek though, into my mundane life.    

Just a note — I'm probably not going to gel very well with other sub trans girls, but I'm happy to share pics and chat about our desires, so please don't hesitate to contact me if you like what you see in my profile.   Also, again a note for trans Dommes — I like Mommy Dommes who know that D/s goes both ways. I will happily fluff your ego and make you feel great about yourself if you can treat me like a baby girl who needs pampering, attention and love just in the same way. I will be as obedient to you as I can without doing anything immoral or illegal, of course, and I'll flatter, obey, pump up your ego, and be sweet and submissive to you just like a subbie baby girl or DMlg sub should be.   Same applies if you're an exceptionally good Daddy or Mommy cis Dom/me. I see so many selfish and egotistical profiles from most Dommes which are a huge turn off — the lecturing about throwing away your ego as a sub will work out long-term when you're ready to throw away your female or male ego as a Dom/me, and realize that you're serving your subs needs like they serve yours. They're your priority too, and you need to make them feel good about themselves serving you if you want them there forever. A young and horny boy or girl will serve you to get their needs for some sexual satisfaction fulfilled, but they'll be tired of your galaxy-sized ego saying that you're always right and they're always wrong just because of your relationship dynamics.A similar idea for subs: Please don't ever neglect the need for aftercare for Dom/mes too. They need it as much as you, and they're probably less confident, powerful and in control than you think. It's still a roleplay in a sense, and they have the same doubts as you about their performance. Before or after you get confirmation from them that you were a good boy/girl, be sure to puff up and stroke their egos too and tell them how you loved serving them, that they're a great Daddy/Mommy, etc. Please use your imagination. If your owner isn't good at communicating this back, be sure to ask them for an ego boost and validation as well. Don't stay with them if they become selfish and demanding, though, this is not a one-way street. You have valid needs and you need to ask for them to be fulfilled, too.

My best memory of being a slave was when I met a girl called Chloe a couple of years ago. I answered an advert she had placed, seeking a slave boy. She was actually a fashion model, but was not that highly paid, so she was looking for a slave to clean her flat in West London. First she made me put on a sparkly mini dress - so she could have a good laugh at me. I had to clean her flat while wearing it. Then she would force me to go across the road to buy her a bottle of wine in the shop. The guys in the deli could barely conceal their giggles. All the time Chloe was watching from the window of her flat upstairs, and really enjoying my humiliation. When i rang on the doorbell to get back in, she would leave me there for ten minutes, so all the passers-by could see me. This was on a busy street in Paddington. She also loved to wrestle me down, just to show how much more powerful she was than me. She would straddle me, pin my arms back above my head, and squeeze my face between her thighs. One she had got me into that position, I was completely at her mercy. There was no escape. Sadly she got a boyfriend soon afterwards, so I became redundant. But I've always been looking to repeat this amazing experience.  

I must be a masochist, because I can't seem to leave this site completely, even though I know how much it fucking sucks. It's like we're all just trolling the bottom of the barrel of humanity here trying to find a dream partner that doesn't actually exist. And yet, here we all still are, day after fucking day...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

Time to play.  To some, to do what I go through during a public scene looks easy.  Being suspended and whipped is panful and it took me a long time to perfect this fantasy of mine.  If one tiny detail is off, it can ruin the whole experience.  My goal is always to suffer as much pain as I can for a long as I can for the mutual benefit of my torturer.  So it looks easy because I spent a lot of time practicing it.  Those of you who do public play can probably relate to this.  Sometimes the smallest thing such as a dog barking in the background or one bond is too tight or too loose can screw things up and poof, you’re no longer in the right head space and it ruins everything.  One example of this is when I was tied face to face with another girl and we’re about to get flogged.  On paper, this should have been a hot scene but I took a whiff of her breath and it was nasty. I’m surprised she didn’t catch my reaction but I didn’t tell her why I stopped the scene short.  I made some excuse and it ended.  Next time, have some breath mints handy.  For this night, I wanted to put on a show.  I arrived at the dungeon a bit early, knowing that the attendees of the convention would be arriving any minute now.  I head straight to the suspension station to claim it in case someone else beat me to it.  I place the toy bags on a large credenza nearby and started to feel excited about what was going to happen to me.  The suspension station was all the way in the back of the dungeon and I was already seeing small groups of people milling in.  I purposely took my time to set things up.  I was getting into my head space.    

Friendship and Love:    In the heart of a loyal friend, a storm brews deep, As his best friend and ex-lover begin to keep Company in a way that cuts like a knife, Leaving him wrestling with anguish and strife.   The dog, his companion through thick and through thin, Now seems to conspire in this tangled spin, For the one he once loved, who was his trusted guide, Now walks hand in hand with his loyal friend by her side.   Betrayal stings sharp, like a treacherous dart, As the bond of camaraderie tears apart, His confidant, once faithful, now seems so untrue, Leaving him lost in a world askew.   Yet through the pain, a silver lining gleams, For in the depths, friendship's resilience teems, As time soothes wounds and tempers the ache, He finds solace in the bond they all forsake.   For a man's best friend and his ex in their tether, Cannot shake the bond that they share together, But in forgiveness and grace, he'll find his own mend, For in the end, true loyalty will transcend.

I have been getting a lot of emails asking to hear from my husband M. He sometimes signs on here and speaks with those who write me. So, I asked him to write a little report about something meaningful that happened to him lately. This is what he produced.    This afternoon, I happened to be in my room (dressed in regular clothes minus pants) when K came in unexpectedly, wearing a sexy, silky, blue push-up bra, red ruffled panties, and her strappy white 5" heels. It was just prior to the 4th of July and this was supposed to be her holiday-appropriate outfit for her boyfriend.  Seeing that she had gotten dressed up for her boyfriend, I knew what was coming; in this house, when K gets dressed up in something sexy, I know I will be getting dressed up in the printed ABDL diapers instead of my typical white ones. Sure enough, after rummaging through my closet, she picked out a white and baby blue trimmed t-shirt that she then put over head after telling me to raise my arms. "Isn't that cute," she remarked with a pleasant but rather condescending tone. She really likes this shirt because it stops and my waist.  This was followed by telling me to lay down for a change from my usual plain white diapers to my thick printed diapers. It was a quick change, all business, she ignored my caged penis as usual other than dusting it with powder. As she stood me up and checked the tapes, I caught my reflection in the full length mirror that hangs on the back of my door. I felt so humiliated, the smell of pee-soaked diapers coming from the diaper pail in the corner mixed with the constant aroma of baby powder filling my nose as she dressed me like a toddler, knowing she was about to have wild sex in the other room--something I would be excluded from, as usual. "You look amazing, K. I can't believe what that bra does to your boobs." I complimented her. "Thanks baby, too bad they're not for you," she told me, cupping her big breasts in her hands to emphasize her point  with a little giggle and I felt my little penis straining in my chastity device. "But I could try again if you'd let me," I said, trying not to sound too desperate. "M, how long are you going to continue asking?", she said dismissing me, "I don't even understand why you ask at all. We already came to an understanding a long time ago now didn't we? Has anything changed? will it ever change?" I blushed at the memory and meekly replied, "No." She was right of course. When I think about the conversation we had the night she told me we'd never have sex again, I know that I accepted our new arrangement. It's just that I guess I haven't got out of the habit of trying.  Turning me around, she gave me a firm pat on my diapered bottom and strode out of the room. Looking in the mirror on the back of my door again as she closed it, I again blushed with shame. About a half hour later, I heard the knock and K answering the door. I stayed in my room, working on the computer listening to them chatting at first but then walking down the hall past my bedroom into hers. They had been in there with the door closed for about 20 minutes when I heard... "M, come in here." I walked in with a little waddle and an audible crinkle, to see her bent over her boyfriend who was lying on top of the master bed. She was deepthroating his big cock and I stared in mesmerized silence, watching the thick, slippery shaft disappear into her wet, eager mouth and throat.Some secret part of me wondered less how it would feel to have that done to me and more how it would feel in my own mouth. Swallowing hard, I instinctively put a hand on the front of my soft, cushiony diapers. I just stood there watching for what seemed like eternity ignored by both K and John, but in reality was probably no more than 5 minutes. Finally, with a wave of her hand, she dismissed me, sending me back to my room, or anywhere really, just not with them. Before long, the sounds of their enthusiastic lovemaking filled the house and I listened with rapt attention. Looking at my humiliating reflection in the mirror, I blushed with shame at my pathetic image. Both of them saw me as nothing but a complete submissive, that would never change. My cheeks flushed with humiliation at the thought and I rubbed the front of my diapers all the more frantically as I took in my reflection. The short shirt, the print on the diaper that was starting to fade from the wetness after two accidents, the outline of my cage on the plastic shell. I was in frantic need of an orgasm, but because of the cage, there was little effect. Feeling sexually frustrated and wanting more, I went to my dresser and grabbed my favorite jelly buttplug--the big clear one, which I rubbed down with the baby oil K sometimes uses during diaper changes. Pulling the back of my diapers down, I could hear K moaning in the other room and her boyfriend's subtle grunting as I began pushing the fat buttplug into my eager hole. I can barely handle the width of this plug, especially at first, and I moaned with a mixture of discomfort and angst. I couldn't get it in standing and dropped to all fours. At last, it slipped inside me and I exhaled in relief. Nevertheless, as I pulled my diapers back up and sat down in front of the mirror and soon began to savor the feeling of rubbery fullness filling my back passage. M was getting what she needed and I was getting as best I could.  I don't even know how long I had been sitting there grinding, which so far had only resulted in further desire when M staggered back into my room and right up in front of where I sat. I sat there frozen as she lightly guided her fingers between her legs then told me to stick out my tongue. I crawled to her, inhaling her amazing scent, caressed her legs as I plunged my face between her legs and she let her boyfriend's creamy cum drip onto my outstretched tongue. "I'm dripping baby boy, clean me up please" she said with a smug grin and stood now with her feet shoulder width apart.I couldn't help but hurriedly press my face into her body. I could smell the result of their lovemaking as another man's sperm completely coated my tongue while I cleaned her with my mouth. Some even dribbled down to land on the chest of my infantile t-shirt. Suddenly, to my surprise, she stood me up and pulled me with the waistband of my diaper to the chair in the corner of my room where she took a seat and I stood in front of her. She abruptly pulled my diapers down. I whimpered with fear as she bent me over her lap, selecting the wooden paddle on my dresser. Feeling the cool air on damp bare bottom, I squirmed knowing I wasn't going to like what was about to happen. "You will not ask for sex again", she quipped as she brought the paddle down across both my soft, tender cheeks pushing the plug into me. "I'm so sorry" I managed to get out between the 3rd and 4th smack. I cried miserably, occasionally glancing over at my humiliating reflection in the mirror. There could be no doubt who sat at the bottom of the social ladder in this house--that was for sure! At last she finished, and after setting the paddle down, she left closing the door. Leaving me to pull my diapers back up for myself.   Sigh...just another day's activities at my house...

Most any store you go into now asks you to take a survey when you leave so they know how they can improve. A lot of websites, social media groups, blogs etc, will belittle someone leaving who dares to give feedback about just why. "It's not an airport, you don't have to announce your departure".Those kinds of snarky remarks and the childish attitudes of the users,  are often the main reason someone will decide to cease participating in any particular group. Apparently, those managing these sites don't really care why people stop coming back.I myself don't announce my leaving or the reasons for it, I just go. Sometimes I'll check back in a year or two to see if that bunch of people still exists online and often it is gratifying to see that my judgment was correct and the group is dead or almost so.Now, I'm not planning on leaving CS, but I would like to give some feedback if the owners ever read these journal entries. This site is nearly stagnant and I think the long wait to approve a new profile or change an existing one has a lot to do with it. It's a huge turn-off and block to new members, many of whom will leave if they're not able to participate quickly and will probably forget they even created a profile here after a couple of weeks.So, it's the same people here every time. Nothing against any of them, but if they weren't interested in me the last 25 times I was online, I don't think they are gonna leap to to get to know me anytime soon. We need new blood here to keep things moving or CS risks becoming another uninteresting, moribund website.Okay, it took a long time for me to get there but it's been said. Back to surfing.    

There he is, not too tall, gorgeous body, all man, all muscles, all mine. Kneeling and taking my rod like a hungry pup. I’m not going to lie, I’m a 57yo married bi man with a good looking uncut  rod enhanced by a metal cock ring. We spoke when he asked about my ring, he was fascinated. I always use it and never leaves my cock. I went to the gym and showered with it and wore no towel when I was out of the shower. That’s when he talks to me for the first time. One conversation led to the other and in day he asked me why I wore my ring and to my surprise if he could touch it. Right then and there I knew I had him. I offered to let him wear it to feel it but he hesitated. Why , I asked. He moved away and left.  The next few days he was distant but never far away. I kept my distance because I know every str8 male finds himself confused when it comes to like another man’s endowment. His brain is telling him one thing and his body is urging him to accept and surrender to the primal feeling growing inside. Eventually we met in the nearby cafe and he asked if he could sit with me. We spoke and again the cock ring came up. And I directed the conversation to our manhoods and how it is natural to look and compare. Then out of no where the question, “can you show me it again?” He is not interested in seeing my rod, so he says but I know the real motive. Later in the car I pulled up my rod but it was semi hard. “If you want to see it hard you either have to stroke it or suck it.” To my surprise he looked straight to my eyes and timidly at first he tasted his first cock. I leave the rest to your imagination. 

I was asked about the history of M/s in the U.S. so I put together this paper for my class that I teach. As many of you know, I teach classes about our lifestyle. Consensual Master/slave (M/s) relationships form a distinctive branch of the larger BDSM world, built on explicit consent and mutual trust rather than coercion. Though the language echoes the United States’ painful legacy of slavery, within this context “slave” refers to a self-chosen role in which adults negotiate the terms of authority, service, and the freedom to leave at any time. Tracing the history of these relationships reveals a story of gradual emergence from secrecy to visibility and of a community that continually refines its ethical principles. Long before the term BDSM existed, underground currents of erotic power exchange ran through American life. In the nineteenth century, small “flagellation societies” and clandestine magazines catered to people fascinated by ritualized dominance and discipline. Early-twentieth-century fetish photography and private clubs in cities like New York and Chicago hinted at a subculture that could not yet show itself openly, constrained by strict obscenity laws and the threat of arrest. After World War II, a more public foundation appeared. Returning veterans formed motorcycle clubs and gay leather bars, creating what became known as leather culture. These spaces celebrated hierarchy, uniforms, and protocol—values familiar to men who had served in the military and who now sought camaraderie and structured erotic play. San Francisco’s South of Market district, Chicago’s Gold Coast bar, and New York’s Greenwich Village all nurtured this emerging aesthetic. While not every leather relationship was explicitly Master/slave, the emphasis on ritual service and clearly defined roles foreshadowed the dynamics to come. The social upheavals of the 1960s and 1970s brought the first real stirrings of public organization. In 1971 the Eulenspiegel Society, or TES, was founded in New York as an educational and social group for people interested in consensual BDSM. TES meetings offered a rare safe space to discuss negotiation, service, and authority exchange. At the same time the gay liberation movement and the post-Stonewall push for visibility encouraged practitioners to speak more openly, while feminist debates over sexuality and power sharpened the community’s thinking about agency and consent. It was during this era that the term “Master/slave” began to be used more deliberately to describe ongoing power-exchange relationships rather than isolated encounters. Through the 1980s and 1990s the community expanded and codified its ethics. The principles of “Safe, Sane, and Consensual” became a rallying cry, soon joined by the idea of “Risk-Aware Consensual Kink,” which acknowledged that all play carries some danger if undertaken without careful negotiation. National gatherings such as Living in Leather and organizations like the National Leather Association connected practitioners across genders and orientations. Amid the HIV/AIDS crisis, leather and M/s groups became hubs of health education and mutual support. Competitions such as International Mr. Leather made formal presentations of Master/slave relationships more visible, and writers like Guy Baldwin explored the psychology of dominance and submission in influential essays and books. The arrival of the internet around the turn of the millennium transformed everything again. Email lists, online forums, and later social networks such as FetLife allowed people in small towns or conservative regions to find community, share protocols, and even post detailed M/s contracts. Education went global as conferences could draw participants from every region. Meanwhile, mainstream attention—from documentaries to the runaway success of Fifty Shades of Grey—brought BDSM into living rooms and office break rooms, if often in sensational or inaccurate ways. Academic researchers began publishing peer-reviewed studies that showed consensual power exchange could be compatible with psychological health and relationship satisfaction. Today’s M/s community in the United States is strikingly diverse. Participants span every gender, orientation, and cultural background. Annual gatherings such as the Master/slave Conference in Washington, D.C., offer advanced classes on negotiation, long-term dynamics, and the philosophy of service and ownership. Many households create written agreements spelling out duties, limits, and the right to revoke consent, underscoring that autonomy remains central even within total-power dynamics. Yet the term “slave” still prompts careful reflection. Some prefer alternatives like “property” or “servant,” while others reclaim the word as a conscious statement of agency. This ongoing conversation shows how the community remains attentive to the country’s history of chattel slavery and the need for language that honors both freedom and responsibility.  From clandestine nineteenth-century societies to today’s internet-connected conferences, the evolution of consensual Master/slave relationships in the United States is a story of people turning hierarchy into intimacy. Over more than a century, practitioners have built a culture grounded in negotiation, education, and mutual respect. Far from re-enacting oppression, these relationships transform the language of mastery and service into a chosen path of trust, discipline, and personal liberation.

Bridget Choses Enslavement   Bridget’s emotions were running wild.  The ride up to Master’s gave her ample time to reflect on this special occasion.  Bridget was to be enslaved today.  Master had often told her that all women secretly wanted to be possessed and owned by a dominant master.  Collared.  Be an enslaved slut.  Bridget had embraced her inner slave and wanted the delicious certainty of being a strong Master’s owned property.  What a glorious feeling to have no need to carry on with the soul killing charade of denying her sexuality, her submission, her needs and desires. Bridget was so sure.  She couldn’t wait for their special ritual.  The ritual was ordered by her Master but she had made adjustments and additions that had delighted Master.  She knew Master treasured her and all of her. He often remarked on her intelligence and how it drove her kink and also drove his passion to be her owner.  Master always said women with a desire for the collar, for enslavement were usually the very intelligent ones.   Before she left home Bridget paid attention in the shower.  Her shaving was meticulous. Her legs, arms, and pussy were smooth as possible. She thrilled at the thought of the way Master would cup her smooth, oiled pussy and run his hand back and forth as she squirmed and moaned. She knew Master loved to lick and kiss her clit.  He also like to use his Hitachi and a soft makeup brush on her.  He’d alternate the vibrator and brush on her clit.  Sometimes he’d just stop and listen to her breathing.  Bridget loved it when he chained her wrists and ankles in his bed and made her come over and over until she screamed.  He’d gag and blindfold her and make her come some more. Master had learned early in their play to put a towel under her.  The wet spot was something to see. Bridget’s enslavement ritual outfit was all white and had been her idea.  Master had suggested adding long white gloves and she agreed with relish.  Once out of the shower, at Master’s direction, she installed two Ben Wa balls in her pussy.  They went in nicely.  When she walked around she could feel them as she moved.  She wondered if walking in heels would accentuate the sensation.  Oh well, she’d find out soon.  Bridget loved Master’s toy collection.  He had a veritable fleet of vibrators including a very useful remote controlled beauty.  Master said he was shopping for an internet controlled vibrator for some long distance fun.  He also had a selection of nipple clamps, some fun and some she feared.  There was a lot more and she was sure the list was growing After carefully pulling on her white stockings and attaching them to her sexy garter she slipped on her skimpy white panties.  A curvy white push up bra completed her underwear.  She had a nice white blouse with a plunging neckline that accentuated her cleavage. Her brief white skirt would expose her slim legs and white stockings.  Finally she slipped on her white high heels with thosecute sexy little ankle straps.  Naturally she added accessories like a string of pearls and a bright red lipstick.  She decided she’d add her fragrance and put on the white gloves when she arrived at Masters. The miles rolled by.  Her heart sang.  She had made her decision.  It felt so right.  All the things she wanted to experience would be hers in a safe and protected place.  Master would help to explore all the dark kinky places she dreamed about.   The highway intersection appeared on her GPS. She had to turn north.   It was time to call Master.  She heard the phone ring.  Her emotions ping ponged.  Master answered with a pleased voice.  She was close.  He could almost sense her.  They both reveled in the joy of anticipation.     Master remarked that he was looking forward to draping her with his new 1/8” stainless steel chain.  Perhaps chaining her breasts with a nice halter.  When he mentioned that he’d like to chain her in Sirik Bridget’s was incredibly turned on.  The thought of the chain running from her collar to the chained wrist manacles and finally ending on the ankle manacles.  Sirik chain bondage allowed movement but served to remind her that she was owned, protected property.  Master loved everything Gorean and spent a lot of time finding ways to practically adapt the mores of Gor to earth.  A significant Gorean notion is that bondage enhances a woman’s beauty.  Bridget agreed but also concluded bondage made her horny as hell. The rural setting, the trees, the quiet appealed to her.  Here’s the driveway.  Turning right and pulling up the long driveway she found herself next to Master’s car and she knew, the beginning of her life changing event was close at hand.  She put her car in park and applied the parkingbreak.  She felt that she also applied a break on her normal, vanilla life.  She would enter the BDSM Sea.  Enter it as one of the more exotic and nuanced denizens.  She would be a slave girl, specifically a Kajira, a Gorean slave.  Bridget and Master had discussed many aspects of enslavement, slave protocols, sexual ownership, and what they each wanted.  She agreed with Master that after all, it was at its heart, an exotic adult game.  They both knew few could play the game, few could accept their role, and few could adhere to the rules and enjoy them with intense satisfaction.  Bridget loved her role and while their private play was so satisfying, she looked forward to their forays into various forms of public play.  Public Play involved exposing part of her BDSM life to the vanilla world.  Bridget always found it surprising.  She couldn’t believe the naughty sense of excitement she felt when she was exposed.  Was it humiliation, she wasn’t sure but it was very kinky indeed. She applied the bright red lipstick.  She loved the color and loved that her Master had told her he loved bright paint on her lips.  He said she was so attractive and luscious and he wanted her lips prominently displayed for him.  Next her fragrance, chosen because it was both understated and exotic.  At last she pulled on the long white gloves that came up to her elbows. Bridget and Master had discussed how she’d wear the long white gloves and he’d hogtie her and use his ball gag.  The picture in her mind of the helpless position always made her wet and horny.  Master had done this before.  Usually he rubbed a rabbit fur all over her body before he pulled her hair and squeezed her tit while he told her how he felt, what he wanted, and what he’d do with her next. As she turned toward the house she found the garage door open and as she had been instructed, she entered the garage and went to the back door leading into Master’s Rec room.  The lighting was subdued but she saw two large shapes draped in thin cloth.  She knew these were their BDSM toys.  Master had built a large cage for her amusement and a sturdy St Andrews cross that would fulfill her desire to be suspended and held helpless. Master had promised to cuff and chain her to the cross.  She knew she’d be naked and looked forward to the way master slipped a gag into her mouth before he applied something to her ass. Usually he forced a silicone bit gag into her mouth before he used his snake whip on her.  She could bite down on the bit and scream at the same time for the serious relief she craved.  Master had assured her she’d receive a serious whipping and perhaps caning that would leave some minor marks.  She wanted the marks.  She wanted to feel his touch afterward.  She wanted all of the things that ownership demanded. She knew Master had plans for an interesting combination Stocks and Spanking Bench.  Bridget had told Master she’d love to be placed in stocks and have her ass molested, pinched, bit, and butt plugged. She wondered if he’d make good on his promise to administer an enema while in the stocks.  Master had a lot of toys and equipment.  He had showed her the enema paraphernalia and it included an interesting flow meter that Master said was important to ensure reasonable flow and comfort.    Climbing the stairs she heard Master’s voice and it made her heart skip a beat.  She loved the way he spoke to her.  He didn’t speak at her rather he spoke with her, sharing his thoughts and sometimes emotions.  Master was sitting in a large black leather chair.  He was wearing his black suit with a black mandarin shirt and a nice red pocket square.  He leaned forward and motioned for her to come up.  He wondered about her trip and if the Ben Wa balls were still in place and how she liked them.  She told him about her journey and, yes, the Ben Wa twins were still in place and had directed her attention at the oddest of times, like stepping on the brakes. He asked her if she was ready, if she wanted to go through with their plans.  Did she really want all the things they had planned for, had discussed.  She knew what he was asking, giving her a graceful out.  Her mind was made up but his trust and care made her even more convinced that she wanted enslavement, wanted slavery, wanted to be an owned woman, Master’s property.  All of their discussions had led to this decision.  They both saw a Master/slave relationship as the purest and incidentally most fun form of a BDSM power exchange.  Both of their roles had been defined in term that made sense to both Bridget answered him by unbuckling her shoe clasps and removing her heels.  Pulling the ribbon from her hair she let it fall loose about her shoulders.  Bridget smiled at her Master and began removing all her clothing.  Finally she stood before her Master totally naked.  Master seemed very pleased. He rose and ran his fingers gently all over Bridget.  Master believed that a Gorean Master took great pride in his Kajira, his slave and should be familiar with every inch of her. Bridget knew that her actually collaring demanded that she be naked. She knelt gracefully before him, raised her arms over her head and crossed her wrists.  Bridget had assumed the Kolar or collar position of a Kajira, a Gorean slave.  She knew the message she was sending was that she was ready to be bound and collared.  Naturally she looked down and waited for Master.  The decision was not only made but by showing her acceptance of their planned bond to her Master she knew it was done.  How happy, how fulfilled.  She almost wanted to cry the emotions were so strong. Her life as a Kajira, a Gorean slave was about to begin.  See accepted that she must always be pleasing and offer perfect obedience. Master formally asked her why she was before him and what were her deepest desires for enslavement.  She continued to look down and at first her voice was a whisper but as she gained confidence she became secure and spoke with a clear steady voice.  She asked to be enslaved.  She pledged to serve Master in all ways.  She would be pleasing at all times with perfect obedience.  She would be the owned possession of Master, subject to his commands, dressing as he directed.  She spoke the words of enslavement, “bind me master”. She spoke the timeless pledge saying she wished to be enslaved and then crossing her wrists in front of her asked that Master bind her.  She felt the ceremonial tying of her wrists with the traditional Gorean yellow bindings.  Master then said he would complete the ceremony, their enslavement ritual, by collaring her.  She felt the collar begin to encircle her throat.  She gasped as he pulled her hair back so he could buckle the collar.  Her formal slave collar was polished metal and had a screw driven locking mechanism.  It would be difficult or next to impossible to remove, not that Bridget would ever think about removing the symbol that encircled her throat.  Master completed fastening her collar.  He took her chin in his hand and remarked on her beauty and suitability to be his Kajira. Master removed the bindings from her wrists and ordered her to stand and had her turn around slowly to display herself. She looked at herself and saw the beautiful collar.  All she could say was “La Kajira, La Kajira”, Gorean for I am a slave. Bridget now understood in a most intimate way that her master treasured her and wanted to enjoy his treasure.  Master had two more things to complete the ritual and the first had Bridget very nervous.  Bridget knew she was to be branded.  Thankfully the branding didn’t call for a real white hot branding iron.  Bridget received a henna dye print representation of the Gorean Kef, a very delicate elaborately beautiful “K”, leaving a sharp red image high on her left thigh.  Next Master spoke her new slave name. When Bridget and Master were together in their new roles, she would be “Sefa”.  Master explained that her new slave name was pronounced SEHF-ah and meant pleasure.  He said she was named that way to remind her how she must always be his pleasure slave.  She didn’t think that would ever be a problem. It was done. Bridget had been collared, branded, and named.   Master said he accepted her as his Kajira.  Master directed her to put on her garter, stockings, panties, and heels.  He snapped a leash onto her collar ring and said “bracelets”.  Bridget immediately put her wrists behind her back, slightly bowed her head, and turned around to receive Master’s manacles. Using the leash and her bound wrists he moved her forward.  Master led her around a bit and then out around the deck. Master often told her that bondage made a woman more beautiful and that served to make her move in a sensuous, elegant manner.  Bridget agreed and could think of nothing better than to be on her knees with her Master’s cock in her mouth. He took her over to a chair by the deck table.  He motioned for her to kneel.  He unclipped the leash and attached a short piece of chain to her collar.  The chain was connected to a d-ring embedded in one of the large deck posts.  Bridget was chained to a post with her wrists bound.  Never before had she felt so at peace.  She was owned.  She had been confined on her Master’s deck.  She felt the chain on her chest.  Bridget’s excitement was mixed with embarrassment and humiliation.  She was on her knees dressed like a tarty slut, out in the open for all the world to see.  She realized that Master was exhibiting her as his prize possession.  Of course she thought, it’s highly unlikely we’ll be disturbed.  We’re out in the woods on a secluded property with foliage all around.  Master laughed and said UPS or FEDEX might show up. Bridget’s life as a slave had begun.  She wished and waited for what was next.  Master said she was to be caged in his slave pen after they had discussed their enslavement ritual.  Master took a plate of fruit and picked up a small piece of melon.  He held it out for her to nibble. She daintily nibbled the fruit.  She was being fed by Master’s hand.  She felt a deep bond and happiness.  Next Master poured some of his cool drink into a small bowel.  He placed it before her and motioned for her to drink.  He was watering his slave, caring for his prize possession.  She knelt before the bowel and lapped at the drink. She felt so humiliated to be made to drink in this fashion but it also was so deliciously kinky.   Her journey had begun.  Life would never be the same.  A calmness, a fullness, a richness had descended on her soul.  Master caressed her cheek and breasts and then checked the manacles.  He also adjusted her collar.  Bridget knew master would always make sure she looked her best.  She was his prize possession. Master leaned back and took a small velvet sack from the side table.  “Nadu” Master commanded and Bridget went into the slave position that had her kneeling with her wrists behind her back. Bridget was fascinated  She knelt with her thighs spread wide, back arched, wrists crossed behind her back.  Master produced a bright red ball gag and told her to open her mouth. Bridget felt the ball pressed tightly into her mouth as Master firmly buckled the gag in place.  She found her hands bound behind her back, and the ball gag reduced her to small whimpers to communicate.  She knew she was vulnerable and totally in the control of her master.  It was delicious.  It made her wet just to think of all the things he would do with her.  The bracelets were gleaming metal and had a short length of chain between them so they were relatively comfortable. Master helped Bridget to stand.  He pulled her panties down to her ankles and helped her bend over. He guided her to lay across his lap and began to stroke and kneed her ass cheeks.  Master remarked that she had a pleasingly plump ass that just begged to be spanked.  Bridget felt her Master applying some kind of oil on her ass cheeks.  She wiggled across his lap into a more comfortable position. It made her feel exposed, controlled, at her Master’s mercy.  Bridget couldn’t believe how excited she felt, how she wanted more, more attention, more control. Master told Bridget that he wanted to assert his ownership, make sure she knew she was his property.  Bridget whimpered her assent. She wanted to be his,begged her master to have her, to make her his own, anyway he wanted.  Just do it now. Master began a slow rhythmic paddling of Bridget’s ass.  Slowly at first but soon faster and harder.  Bridget moaned and gasped. Master paused and asked Bridget if she was his, his property. Bridget thought “yes, yes, yes, have me, have all of me.  I am your Kajira and want to be nothing else”.  Master held up one finger which was the signal for silence Bridget was surprised that Master had shut her up, to be quiet.  She understood that he wanted to be in control.  He told her he felt so completed by their rituals.   Master loved the idea that they had built their own kinky world and Bridget loved the way he ruled it. He could silence her with a command or perhaps a gag.  She loved the delicious excitement when he placed a nice red silicone ball gag in her mouth.  Naturally Master could silence her by imposing speech restrictions and she always complied but the ball gag was so hot. Master reached behind her to the small table by his large leather chair.  Bridget felt his movement and turned her head.  “Oh my” she thought as Master’s hand held the red ball gag, a shiny bright metal butt plug, and a tube of lubrication.  Her heart beat faster as she realized she was in for another anal training session.  

“The Lesson in the Red Chair – Part IX: The Kneeling Return” (Obedient Redemption — Devotional Kneeling — Heightened Submission) He stood there, breathing unevenly, the echo of your three precise strikes still humming along his nerves. Not pain — memory. Not punishment — correction. His chest rose and fell like he’d been running. His hands were still locked behind his back. Sweat beaded at the base of his throat. Perfect. “You’re forgiven,” I’d told him. But forgiveness wasn’t the end of his lesson. It was the doorway to the real devotion. “Now,” I said, stepping back just enough for him to feel the loss of my nearness, “kneel.” He didn’t drop quickly this time. No. He sank. Slowly. Reverently. Intentionally. As if each inch downward was an offering. His knees touched the floor with a soft thud, but he kept his back straight, chest open, throat exposed. His hands stayed behind him, the posture tighter, more disciplined than before. He didn’t sway this time. He forced stillness through sheer will. Because now it wasn’t about holding a position. It was about earning your approval. He lowered his gaze— not in shame, but in worship. “Look up,” I said softly. He did. And gods, the expression on his face… Not fear. Not guilt. Devotion. Pure, fragile, trembling devotion. “You came back to your knees beautifully,” I told him. His exhale almost broke into a sob of relief. “Thank you, Ma’am…” “Do you know why this kneeling is different?” I asked. He shook his head slightly. “This one,” I said, lifting his chin with a single finger, “is yours. Not mine. You’re kneeling for your own discipline. Your own growth. Your own hunger to serve.” His lips parted, breath shaking. “And that,” I whispered, “is why it matters more.” His eyes fluttered with emotion he couldn’t hide — gratitude, need, reverence. I walked once around him, slow and assessing, letting my fingertips hover just above his skin. Not touching. Not yet. Just letting him feel the orbit of your authority. “Your posture,” I said, “is better now.” “Yes, Ma’am…” “Your breathing is steadier.” “Yes, Ma’am…” “And your mind—” I stopped behind him, lowering my voice to a velvet threat “—is finally quiet enough to listen.” He shivered across his entire spine. “You broke earlier,” I said. “And instead of collapsing, you came back stronger.” “Because… because I want to serve you,” he whispered. “You are serving me,” I corrected. “Right now.” I moved to stand in front of him again, close enough that he could feel the heat of my body without touching it. His eyes stayed down until I placed two fingers beneath his chin again. “Up.” His gaze rose, obedient, starving. “Tell me what you’re feeling,” I said. “Devoted,” he whispered. “Focused. I… I want to do better, Ma’am.” “And you will,” I murmured. “Because now you’re kneeling from humility… not fear.” His breath hitched. “You’re learning,” I continued. “Not because your body is strong, but because your submission is intelligent.” He trembled — not with weakness, but with the sharp, clean ache of wanting to belong to this moment. “You’ve earned something,” I said, leaning in just enough for him to feel the warmth of my breath. “Ma’am?” “You’ve earned contact.” His entire body tensed with anticipation. “Put your hands on my thighs,” I said softly. “Slowly. Respectfully. And only because I allow it.” He inhaled sharply, then lifted his palms with exquisite care, placing them gently on your thighs— not grasping, not clinging, but offering. The moment his skin met yours, his exhale broke. “That,” I whispered, placing my hand over the back of his head, “is devotion elevated.” He trembled under your touch like the contact itself rewrote something inside him. “Lesson Ten begins,” I murmured, fingers sliding into his hair with claim and control, “when I decide what you worship next.” His palms rested lightly on your thighs, trembling from the permission, not the strain. This touch — your touch — was the first true reward he had earned all night. And he knew it. You threaded your fingers into his hair, slow and deliberate, claiming the back of his head with a grip that wasn’t harsh… but wasn’t soft either. He melted instantly. “Don’t move,” you murmured. He froze, breath catching, every muscle keyed to your voice. “Do you feel this?” you asked, tightening your fingers just enough to pull a tiny gasp from him. “Yes, Ma’am…” “This is reward. Not invitation.” He shuddered, a tremble running from the base of his spine all the way to his knees. Your thumb stroked behind his ear — one precise, devastating touch — and his eyes fluttered like he might collapse forward into your lap. But he didn’t. He held position. He remembered his discipline. He honored the lesson. You exhaled, your breath warm against his forehead. “You did well tonight,” you said.

 Yuride