I was raised by strong women—my grandmothers, my mother, my stepmother. Their ideas of womanhood, identity, and ownership came from working full-time while caring for families. They always had their own money and decided how it was spent. They honed can-do survival skills, each determined and powerful in her own way. My grandmothers were children of the Depression, carrying its lessons in their bones. My mother went to beauty school but worked countless jobs, eventually teaching herself bookkeeping because that’s where the money was. My stepmother, taught by her father to work hard, was a teacher who later built her own successful plant business.
They earned every victory, every pleasure, every moment of joy in their families and relationships. But they didn’t share their domains. My grandmothers opened their homes to me, but I had to do things their way. Every item in their houses had a history, and I touched it only with their permission. My mother’s home was the same—my bedroom was my only space. I didn’t share in the household because I didn’t pay for it. My stepmother was the most territorial. Even if she and my father bought something for me, it was still theirs because I hadn’t earned it.
By the time I had my daughter, I saw my own territorial streak. She was two, with her own way of doing things, and it wasn’t my way. I wanted to fix it, redirect her, control her so badly. Sometimes the urge was so strong I had to leave the room. I refused to become her oppressor, her enemy, her warden. My home would be her home, and she would be free in it. But it was hard.
The kitchen was the worst. The best choice was to let whoever was cooking do it alone, then handle the cleanup after. I was taught to own my territory, to keep it, manage it, protect it. If I connected with a dominant and entered his home, I could treat his things as his. But if a dominant came to my home, it would be a struggle.
That’s what happened.
A dominant entered my territory, bringing his wife of 30 years with him. In a way, that was the first breach of trust. They were never supposed to live with me in my house.
But I’m getting ahead of the story. After breaking up with my first dom, I was a mess, chasing every self-destructive red flag to fill the voids he left. We had talked daily, sometimes for five hours. He grounded me while I explored new sides of myself and gave me purpose after my divorce—a divorce I sought because my marriage was dead. Without him, I was in free fall.
I was honest about my state of mind and my life with every person I met. Until I met a man online who lived to fix things, who loved my honesty, who desired my submissive side, who was strong enough to steer me away from some of those red flags. His energy could fill my empty spaces. He promised commitment.
Sir had a submissive—his wife. I told him I wasn’t poly, that I had issues with sharing, that I wouldn’t want to share him. We talked about what life would look like: privacy, ownership, how he would own me and everything about me.
I was desperate, breaking, leaking from emotional wounds, and impatient for stability.
What followed were relationship and character red flags I saw as challenges for my selfish, judgmental self to overcome. If it all went badly, my self-destructive impulses might be satisfied, maybe enough to end my desire to submit to any man again.
My Sir is a wonderful Sir, and I love him very much. I wish it was just him. He has worked so hard and is doing everything he can for our future. But there have been many truths since I hastily accepted his collar. He’s honest, but not fully. He’s in charge, but not always. He’s a Dominant, but not entirely. He’s a man who’s survived storm after storm, carrying his trauma, doing his best to navigate it.
He thrilled the part of me that wanted someone worthy of service.
Monogamy and polyamory are discussed in many ways, but rarely through the lens of territory. For me, as a woman, conceding my space, possessions, and territory to the one I serve is one thing. Conceding them to his wife or children is another. I’m good at compartmentalizing. I could see his wife as a roommate, even a friend, and there were moments of happiness.
But there were also moments of friction, like realizing she wasn’t a good roommate and never would be. A good roommate cleans up after themselves and shares tasks. She didn’t. Why didn’t the Dominant in our lives manage that? It’s complicated. He didn’t, he couldn’t.
Three years later, he still can’t, and I can’t deal anymore. Love isn’t enough. Devotion isn’t enough. Submission isn’t enough to outweigh the constant rub of sharing my territory with another woman I can’t direct, hold to a standard, or expect responsibility from.
How do you balance personal boundaries with sharing space in relationships, especially when territory feels sacred?