Under The Whip

I recently went to a discussion group, and I honestly didn’t expect how much it would fill my cup. There was warmth in the room, laughter, thoughtful conversation, and that quiet feeling of being understood without having to explain myself too much. One moment in particular stayed with me. A fellow submissive shared that she has an altar in her home dedicated to her submission.

As she spoke, I felt something in me light up.

Since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. The idea of creating an altar for myself feels deeply grounding. I love the thought of having something tangible to look at, something that helps me visualize my submission and keep my intentions clear. A space that gently reminds me who I am, how I serve, and what I am working toward, not out of pressure, but out of devotion and care.

More than anything, I’m drawn to the quiet intimacy of it. A place where I can sit with myself, breathe, reflect, and reconnect with my submissive headspace. Somewhere I can honor my service, my growth, and my commitment in a way that feels nurturing and intentional. The more I imagine it, the more it feels like an act of self love through submission, rooted, mindful, and entirely mine.

As I sit here, my heart a little fluttery with excitement, I’ve started to lovingly ponder what I might place on my altar. Just thinking about it makes me feel warm and centered. So far, these are the pieces that are calling to me.

I imagine beginning with a small purple cloth, the exact shade that represents the House of Koch, laying the foundation for everything else. Resting on it would be my very first collar, the one my Master Damon gave me, now retired, but still so full of meaning and memory. Alongside it, my wolf tag with my name on it. It once hung from my collar, but after it was removed, it became something just for me, something deeply personal.

I would add the candle I had when I first met my Master Calvin, its presence reminding me of beginnings and the feelings that stirred in me then. I’d like to place a framed copy of my slave papers there as well, honoring my identity and the path I walk. Perhaps a few crystals, chosen intuitively, and a vase of flowers, or maybe even a small plant, something I can nurture, the way I nurture my submission itself.

I love the idea of keeping my small recording device there too, so I can softly speak my thoughts when they arise and later give them form in words. Maybe my favorite Gorean novel would rest nearby, or a small card with my favorite submissive quotes, something to read when I need grounding or inspiration. Of course, there would be a picture of my Masters, watching over the space, and finally, a small piece of leather, simple, symbolic, and deeply comforting.

Even imagining it all together makes me feel more rooted, more present, and quietly happy in my submission.

So what would you add to your altar? Let me know in the comments!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the Gorean novels and what they actually say about slavery, devotion, and desire, especially when compared to how parts of the Gorean Lifestyle sometimes get practiced or spoken about today. This is coming from my own heart, from a place of submission, reflection, and love for the philosophy as I understand it.

In the books, it is very clear that most often there is one slave for one Master. That bond matters. Many kajirae become love slaves, deeply cherished, deeply wanted, and deeply seen by their Masters. Even when the text explores darker or more controversial elements, such as Masters who genetically created slaves with deformities because they found them exotic. It still reinforces one powerful truth, every slave was unique. No two were the same. No two were desired for the same reasons. Slaves were not interchangeable objects, they were individuals, shaped by purpose, temperament, body, and spirit.

That’s why it truly troubles me when, in the Gorean Lifestyle, I hear kajirae tearing each other down. “She’s not obedient enough.” “She’s not pleasing.” “She doesn’t have this skill or that skill.” As if there is a single mold we are all supposed to fit into. As if worth is measured by a checklist instead of by presence, intention, and devotion.

The books never supported that idea. Quite the opposite. Masters celebrated their slaves. They delighted in their differences. One slave might be prized for grace, another for fire, another for softness, another for endurance. Diversity wasn’t a flaw, it was the point. It was what made ownership meaningful and desire specific.

As a kajira at heart, I believe this deeply, I do not need to be like any other slave to be valuable. And neither do you. We are not meant to mirror each other. We are meant to be ourselves, offered honestly and fully, for the Master who desires exactly what we are.

So please, do not berate another slave for not being you, for not serving the way you serve, or for walking a different path of obedience. She is not you. And honestly? Her Master likely prefers it that way.

Submission is not sameness. It is sincerity. And diversity, in all its forms, is a beautiful thing worthy of celebration.

Some quotes from the books. That either reference specific types of slaves, or how the Master's will and pleasure controls them.
For More Research - Please Read The Series!

It is a beautiful moment when the woman realizes that the man who owns her is her love master, and the man realizes that the girl he bought, looking up at him, tears in her eyes, is his love slave.
Then the only danger is that he will weaken. One must be strong with a love slave. If one truly loves her, he will be that strong. The slavery in which a love slave is kept is an unusually deep slavery. She must serve him with a perfection which would stun and startle other girls; if she should fail in any way, even in so small a way that the lapse would be overlooked in the case of another wench, or bring perhaps a mild word of reprimand, she is likely to be tied at the slave ring and whipped; there is a good reason for this; she is, you see, a love slave; no woman can be more in a man's power; and with no woman must he be stronger. Beasts of Gor Book 12 Page 236

Though any Gorean male might make me, in spite of myself, a panting, orgasmic slave in his arms, I knew it had been only he, Clitus Vitellius, whom I had truly loved, and yet loved. In his arms I had always been the most helpless. He was my love master. Slave Girl of Gor Book 11 Page 358

Lara's lips had been rich and fine, sensitive and curious, tender, eager, hungry; the lips of Vika were maddening; I recalled those lips, full and red, pouting, defiant, scornful, scarlet with a slave girl's challenge to my blood; I wondered if Vika might be a bred slave, a Passion Slave, one of those girls bred for beauty and passion over generations by the zealous owners of the great Slave Houses of Ar, for lips such as Vika's were a feature often bred into Passion Slaves; they were lips formed for the kiss of a master. Priest-Kings of Gor Book 3 Page 53

Ho-Hak's right ear twitched. His ears were unusual, very large, and with extremely long lower lobes, drawn lower still by small, heavy pendants set in them. He had been a slave, doubtless, and, doubtless, judging by the collar, and the large hands and broad back, had served on the galleys, but he had been an unusual slave, a bred exotic, doubtless originally intended by the slave maters for a destiny higher than that of galley bench.
There are various types of "exotics" bred by Gorean slavers, all of whom are to be distinguished from more normal varieties of bred slaves, such as Passion Slaves and Draft Slaves. Exotics may be bred for almost any purpose, and some of these purposes, unfortunately, seem to be little more than to produce quaint or unusual specimens. Ho-Hak may well have been one so bred.
"You are an exotic," I said to him.
Ho-Hak's ears leaned forward toward me, but he did not seem angry. He had brown hair, and brown eyes; the hair, long, was tied behind his head with a string of rence cloth. He wore a sleeveless tunic of rence cloth, like most of the rence growers.
"Yes," said Ho-Hak. "I was bred for a collector."
"I see," I said.

"I broke his neck and escaped," said Ho-Hak. "Later I was recaptured and sent to the galleys."
"And you again escaped," I said.
"In doing so," said Ho-Hak, looking at his large hands, heavy and powerful, "I killed six men." Raiders of Gor Book 6 Pages 15 - 16

Ho-Hak had been bred a slave, a degraded and distorted exotic, Raiders of Gor Book 6 Page 88

I have not mentioned exotics, incidentally, slaves bred or trained for unusual purposes. Fighting Slave of Gor Book 14 Page 164

Another slave, an exotic, bred for stripes, put more laundry beside her. Prize of Gor Book 27 Page 136

[More Quotes On Exotics and Bred Slaves, Both Male, and Female]()

"You will learn to
wear tunics, and silks, and bangles," I said. "You will be taught to kneel and move. You may be perfumed and painted. Swordsmen of Gor Book 29 Page 383

Just as, in our world, it is not uncommon to seek the advice of an interior decorator in obtaining and organizing the appointments of one's own dwelling, so, too, in the Gorean world, it is not uncommon to call in a trainer and beautician to appraise and improve a girl. Slave Girl of Gor Book 11 Page 216

Men are so vain. You should see how some of them lead naked, painted, bejeweled slaves about on leashes, put them through slave paces publicly, make them dance in the open for tarsk-bits, put them up as stakes in the dicing halls, and marketplaces, and such. Prize of Gor Book 27 Page 154

This was the day of my collaring. I was not permitted cosmetics. Captive of Gor Book 7 Page 269

How incredibly, and yet rationally and justifiably, I felt at his mercy. He was my master. He owned me. He could do whatever he wanted with me. He could trade me or sell me, or even slay me upon a whim, should he wish. I was absolutely his, his girl. Slave Girl of Gor Book 11 Page 108

I would allow Vika to share the great stone couch, it's sleeping pelts, and silken sheets. This was unusual, however, for normally the Gorean slave girl sleeps at the foot of her Masters couch, often on a straw mat with only a thin, cotton-like blanket, woven from the soft fibers of the Rep plant, to protect her from the cold. If she has not pleased her Master of late, she may be, of course, as a disciplinary measure, simply chained nude to the slave ring in the bottom of the couch, sans both the blanket and the mat. The stones of the floor are hard and the Gorean nights cold and it is a rare girl who, when unchained in the morning, does not seek more dutifully to serve her master. Priest ings of Gor Book 3 Page 67

How incredibly, and yet rationally and justifiably, I felt at his mercy. He was my master. He owned me. He could do whatever he wanted with me. He could trade me or sell me, or even slay me upon a whim, should he wish. I was absolutely his, his girl. Slave Girl of Gor Book 11 Page 108

✨A love story told by one very spoiled, very grateful slave girl ✨

I still remember the very first moment I saw You, even though it was only pixels on a screen. You were standing on a dock in a Gorean sim in Second Life, solid and commanding, while I wandered the city alone, bored, bratty, restless, quietly hoping for something. When SL worked its little magic, I zoomed in on You, tall,

handsome, confident, and every part of me whispered a desperate little prayer, Please message me. And then You did! Just a few words. Just a simple conversation about roleplay.

But it was enough. From that moment on, every day after work became ours. Cassia and Rodric, my Port Kar Princess, and Your Dark Dreamy Physician, were the first lock and key to wrap themselves around my heart, and gods, how deeply they sank in. Two months later, You reached out again. I still grin like a silly little thing when I remember it.

You: “You sound like a really submissive woman.”
Me: “I am.”
You: “Do you want to be My submissive?”
Me: “YES.”

And just like that, the spark caught. The fire began.

I was Yours online. I remember the name You gave me, the ritual, the meaning, Your Rune. A name I still carry tucked safely in my heart and soul. We stumbled at first. We argued. We were rough around the edges. But You grounded me. You matured my submission. You made me see that I wasn’t honoring it the way I promised I would.

“You can be angry from your knees.”

Those words changed me. You taught me that I could feel, struggle, hurt, and still belong to You. That my emotions didn’t disqualify me from being Your slave, they simply needed to exist within my surrender. You saw me. You knew I wasn’t trying to run. I wasn’t trying to escape. I just wanted to lay everything down and give myself. And You gave me the strength and the safety to do exactly that.

“I see you,” You said.

And You did. In a way no one else ever had, or even dared to try. We talked more. Discovered we lived only an hour and a half apart. And then, You came to see me.

No vetting. No protocols. No long safety speeches. We were helplessly drawn together. There was only one instruction from You.

“Once I meet you, tell me if you truly want to be Mine.”

I was meant to be a service slave only, no sex, just obedience. And honestly? I was perfectly content with that. But then You saw me. We spent the day training, teasing, testing. You drove me home. And then You kissed me. A massage later, cuddling, hands down my pants, I was done for.

And I melted. Completely. Hopelessly.

After that, there were no limits, not to desire, not to devotion, not to love. I gave You everything… even my slave papers. And I knew, with a terrifying and beautiful certainty, There was nowhere else in this world I could ever belong but with You.

You traveled endlessly just to see me, exhaustion written across Your body while I ached with missing You, craving nothing more than to serve You every day, every moment.

And then my world shattered. My brother was murdered.

You rushed to me after a twelve hour shift, held me through the night, left at dawn for another shift with barely any sleep, and still came back that same day, and again for the funeral. I couldn’t even speak. You stood beside me. Held me. Read the eulogy when I broke apart. You were, and still are, my strength. My person.

Six months later, we moved in together. Our own place. Our dog. Our cats. Our ferrets. Our little, imperfect slice of heaven. That was when I became Your Deka, Your obedient, pleasing one. All I wanted was to love You, serve You, and give You everything I was. Then came the hospital.

Watching You nearly die was the first time I ever truly knew fear. I still don’t know what infection it was only that the medication they gave You was the same used for the bubonic plague, and I almost lost You.

But You lived.

And I got more time. More years. More love than I ever dreamed I deserved.

The years blurred together, theme parks, adventures, growth, mistakes, healing, fighting, forgiveness, learning how to be better, learning how to be us. We endured loss. Explosive fights. Hard boundaries. Deep pain. And still, it didn’t break us.

Six years in, we opened our hearts wider. And Calvin found us, and we found him. I became both of Yours. I went from Rune, to Deka, to Ava. I am Ava. I am Yours. I am happy. I am loved.

The transition wasn’t easy, monogamy to polyamory, one Master one slave to something larger, deeper, more complex. But once the fear loosened its grip, once the emotions settled, It became beautiful.

I get to love You. I get to watch another man love You. And I get to love him too.

Seeing You and Calvin together cooking, gaming, dancing, being ridiculous, riding roller coasters I refuse to touch, fills me with a warm, fizzy happiness I can’t put into words. Curled together, the three of us tangled in blankets, laughter, kisses, soft touches. Paradise.

I get to grow. I get to fall deeper. I get to be held. I get to refine my submission, communicate better, hold boundaries, and love You fully, flaws and all.

Before You, I didn’t truly understand love. Not until this exact day, ten years ago, when a silly, handsome avatar on a dock changed everything.

You love me deeply. Wildly. Imperfectly. Unconditionally. We fight. We struggle. We get frustrated. But if I have to argue with anyone in this life, I want it to be with You. And with Calvin. No one else gets that close to my heart.

You are my strength. My compass. My home. My safe place. You are grounded, silly, intelligent, hardworking, passionate, kind, open hearted, and endlessly loving. You carved Your name into my soul. And I am honored, truly honored, to celebrate ten years with You.

I cannot wait for the next ten. And the ten after that. And every year You allow me to kneel at Your feet, curl against Your chest, and whisper that I am Yours.

Because You are my Master. You are my Daddy. You are my world. You are my person. And I love You, freely, fiercely, wildly, and forever.

Happy Ten Year Anniversary, my Master.

Your pet is still and always, hopelessly, joyfully, willingly Yours.

I love You!

💜💜💜

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!