Under The Whip

Why do I still feel guilty?

I’ve been asking myself this question far more often than I expected, why, as a Gorean kajira, do I still feel guilty for wanting to serve? Not just serving other Masters, but even serving my own Masters. It has gotten easier with time, especially with reassurance from my Masters, but there are still moments where that old guilt rises up like a shadow.

When our dynamic first began, serving my Master Calvin while my Master Damon wasn’t present filled me with such guilt I could barely breathe. I needed constant reassurance, constant reminders that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that they both wanted this dynamic, that I was not betraying one by serving the other. We’re four years in now, and yet sometimes that guilt still lingers. Even when my Master Calvin travels, I occasionally feel guilty serving my Master Damon.

It makes no sense. And yet, it sits inside me like a quiet ache.

Because the truth is, I am deeply, fiercely Gorean minded. Gorean in nature, in heart, and in spirit. It is in my blood to love men, to serve them, to find fulfillment in offering myself with openness and devotion. When I see a man I deem worthy of my service, it stirs something instinctive in me.

So why should I feel guilty for acting according to my nature?

This is something I battle with more often than I like to admit. There are moments when I catch myself flirting with a Gorean Master, and instantly my whole body tenses, my butt puckers like I’m about to be disciplined. And the thing is, my Masters have every right to discipline me simply because it pleases them, even for amusement. The thought alone makes my breath catch.

What reassures me most is when my Masters tell me that when I serve others, they are being served too. That my service reflects on them. That my obedience honors them. Sometimes I confess, almost eagerly, “I can’t wait for such and such friend to visit so I can serve him paga,” and my Masters only laugh and call me their good little whore.

And Gods, hearing that hits something deep in my belly something that only burns hotter.

Yet still, why do I feel guilty? I think part of it comes from today’s society, the insistence that I’m supposed to be an independent woman who needs no man, serves no man, and belongs only to herself. But that has never been who I am. That path would never fulfill me, never bring me peace, never match the truth of my spirit.

I am content, deeply content, being a kajira in a Gorean dynamic, serving in a Leather household. I love serving men their paga. I love kneeling in devotion. I even ache at the thought that one day, if permitted, I might be granted free-use privileges as a kajira. These desires don’t frighten me. They ground me. They make me feel whole.

My loyalty and my love will always belong to my Masters first. My Gorean soul, is happiest and most alive when I am in service, especially to those welcomed into my Masters’ hospitality.

So maybe the guilt is just an echo of a world I don’t belong to.
A world I was never meant to fit into. Because the truth is simple,

I am a slave girl.

I serve.

I bloom in obedience.

And every submissive breath I take belongs to the men I call Master.

La Kajira!

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, it comes from the absence of something sacred.

Lately, that’s what I’ve been living in. A quiet, aching space between what my heart longs for and what life currently allows.

Our home has become a place of care and compassion, full of people who need tending. Family members with illnesses, dementia, bipolar disorder, souls who need patience, stability, and love. And I give that, wholeheartedly. It is what’s right. It is what’s needed. But somewhere in the process of caring for others, I’ve had to tuck away pieces of myself.

The part that kneels.The part that bows her head and whispers, yes, my Master. The part that lives and breathes devotion through ritual. Those small, quiet moments that used to anchor me, kneeling, offering, surrendering, are no longer part of my daily rhythm. And without them, I feel... adrift.

There’s a grief that comes with that loss, even though it feels strange to call it grief. But that’s what it is. A mourning for something still alive, just out of reach. The rituals were never just “acts” or “roles.” They were breaths. Heartbeats. Sacred pauses in the noise of the world where I could just be, Theirs.

Now, I move through my days surrounded by family, keeping the peace, keeping the masks on. I smile, I comfort, I tend to those who need it most. But beneath it all, there’s this dull ache, a hunger that hums low and constant.

It isn’t about sex, or even about control. It is about expression. It is about the freedom to live in my truth. To kneel without needing to explain why. To feel Their presence in the air and know that my submission has a place to breathe. And when that breath is held too long, the edges of me start to blur. I feel myself spiraling a little, grieving what I can’t express, missing what made me feel whole.

I know this isn’t forever. I know love and devotion don’t vanish just because the rituals have paused. But still, I can’t help but feel the pull of it, the yearning to return to that space where I can exhale, surrender, and feel the world fall quiet again.

Until then, I hold the ache like a prayer. I whisper devotion in the spaces between tasks, and hope that, somehow, They still feel it, that my heart still kneels, even when my body cannot.