What does it mean to be a “good” submissive, anyway?

Normally when I post Sir JGood enjoys my writings, so if Sir is concerned then I’m concerned too. After all, concern is not the norm for us – we’re normally happy-go-lucky people. 

Sir is concerned that in calling me “Snack”, Master and himself had put me in an uncomfortable position, even, one that I don’t enjoy. It’s kind of hard for me to explain: I don’t love it, but I don’t hate it – yet.

I enjoy being their pleasure, I just don’t enjoy having a name because of it. That’s the bit that I find  objectifying. 

Sir and I broke it down some more, and I explained to Sir JGood that I felt it reduces me to just-sex, the very thing that I didn’t want to be. I have so many other attributes to offer – and he and Master Levi know this – that being just sex, I feel, seriously undermines my potential. After all, there are so many other things I can be.

Sir asked me if this was related to slave Shae’s post, about objectification, and I admitted that it “probably hasn’t helped”. Nothing against Shae there; this is my cross to bear, not hers. 

It’s more complicated than just an issue with objectification though. We’ll get onto that in a moment. 

Sir explained some about some of the submissives he knew in his past, which helped some and then didn’t. On the one hand, Sir’s examples helped me to see the many different “flavours” of submissive, and that no, we’re really not all alike. On the other ,however, Sir simply gave my mind another example to compare myself to. Another example of why I’m “not good enough”. 

I’m not that girl, and I will never BE that girl. 

I did wind up apologising to Sir for comparing myself to others, and Sir gracefully accepted my apology but told me that it wasn’t necessary. 

I think there’s a fear in us submissives, when associating with experienced Dominants, that there is a bar that has been set: that we have to be completely obedient, “trained”, into all kinds of extremes, thoroughly masochistic, down for anything etc. If we’re not, then we simply won’t be “good enough” for them. 

Maybe for Dominants too, I suppose there is a fear that they won’t be “as good as” the last one. Maybe they might not be as strict (or too strict), too kinky (or not kinky enough), maybe they fear they don’t look how a Dominant “should” look or their hobbies outside of kink might not seem “Domly” enough, and so on and so forth. I’d welcome thoughts on this: what fears have you had when comparing yourself to your kinky predecessors in D/s relationships? 

Of course in all this, I lose sight of the one simple truth: they don’t desire me because of what I could be, they desire me because of what I am. They don’t desire me because I could be good; they desire me because I’m fun.

Oh, and because I’m willing to suffer for them. Dominants seem to like that in us submissives. 

Sir instructed me to “be yourself”, which I found somehow both liberating and submissifying (yes, it’s a word, Shae made it up) in one. There’s a peculiar kind of obedience in being uniquely you, under orders,

But even if SIr had liberated my mind now, I still had other questions: if not a sex slave, then what kind of submissive/slave am I? What kind of objectification do I enjoy? 

Enter “Shadow”.

Shadow helped me understand that I am indeed a service submissive, but, I wondered, whether a “pleasure submissive” was a thing too? Suppose that a pleasure-submissive is a kind of off-branch sex slave? Not one that serves the purpose of getting their Dominants off (or, like in Shae’s case, gets others off for their Dominants’ pleasure [sorry, Shae!]), but one that receives pleasure (and sexual torment) for their Dominant’s pleasure? Well it seems that yes, sort of, maybe. 

There’s not much on pleasure sub’s online, save for a very sketchy post on Urban Dictionary which hardly the internet bank of wisdom. So I asked Shadow – ChatGPT by OpenAI – if there such a thing as a pleasure submissive?”. Here’s what Shadow had to say:

Short answer: yes — absolutely. You can be both a pleasure submissive and a service submissive and still draw a firm line at not being a sex slave. Those roles describe what you like and how you get off; they don’t force you into every behaviour or erase your agency.

Here’s a clean way to think about it, plus practical language and scene ideas you can use with your Dominant (note: I left that bit off to keep this fairly short). 

What each role means (quick)

• Pleasure submissive: You receive — you love being spoiled, worshipped, edged, tended-to.
  
• Service submissive: You give — you enjoy doing things for your Dominant (help with household, rituals, ceremony, acts of service) and that act of giving is erotic.
  
• Not a sex slave: You refuse the idea of being treated as an object whose bodily autonomy is ignored. You want pleasure and service exchanged within negotiated limits and respect.
  

How they can coexist

• Your giving (service) can be emotional/ritual or practical (making tea or coffee, running an affectionate errand) while your receiving (pleasure) is sexual/sensual — both can be erotic.
  
• You can trade service for rewards (praise, attention, a sensual scene) while still keeping absolute control over sexual consent for specific acts.
  
• Roles are flexible by scene: you might be more service-oriented in daily life and more pleasure-focused in bedroom scenes”

I’m not sure about being worshipped – that seems a little Domly to me – but besides that, I think Shadow has a good grasp on my submissive identity. Maybe not pampered either – I’m not really the pampering sort – though sometimes I get pampered by force. 

And what about objectification? Shadow drew up five different types of objectification, and how each might fit me (or not): exhibitionistic, playful, devotional, aesthetic and possessive. 

Shadow said that exhibitionistic and aesthetic objectification were the weakest matches for me; I don’t desire to be shown off in any way, shape or form. “Devotional” was a mild match, because of my tendency to be deeply devoted to my Dominant counterparts. Playful and possessive were the strongest matches: playful objectification just suits my personality, it’s not serious and both of us know that. As for possessive? My body simply elicits the most carnal surrender anytime my ears hear “mine”. 

Saturday afternoon and after my “lecture” from Sir JGood, Master notices that I’m quiet. Not down exactly, just lost in thought. 

He wants to know why and I don’t want to tell him, the very last thing I need is both of them up my ass simultaneously. Also, not like that. 

So I opt for a game of “if I can’t see you, you’re not really here”: if Master can’t make eye contact with me, I don’t have to converse with him. 

Master knows this game, he also refuses to play it. 

So he stole my first pillow, I growled and covered my face with another. Master stole that one too. 

So not to be outdone. I grabbed my Musicozy headband earphones and pulled it on and down over my eyes. I wear it for sleep sometimes, but it’s great for daytime use now, too. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Master asks. Master already knows it’s not, he’s just giving me the chance to realise it for myself. 

“One hundred per cent” I reply, bold as brass. 

“Such confidence” he replies, “it’s almost a pity it gets you into so much trouble.” 

Master’s taking of me is tender in the way that he leaves me well bitten and thoroughly defiled. He takes his time with me, not to make love to me but to savour the easy capture of his prey. 

He pulls my “blindfold” off at the same time as he pulls out of me. I whimper at him softly, half in protest at his rough treatment and the other half missing him already. Master chuckles down at me. 

Sunday was a catch-up with the family, a first since my birthday and Master’s illness. Before we left, I run some errands, including taking some recycling out. No sooner than I step out, Mr C – who was bent over a bag of chippings – speaks to me. He confuses me; for the minute, I couldn’t work out where he was.

“You looked everywhere but at me then” he grins. I glare at him, and he starts chatting. 

He mentions some things that he’s apparently bought for me, that I tell him he shouldn’t have worried about. Lending him my combi drill doesn’t require financial redistribution. Friends help friends. It’s what we do. 

Just as Mr C starts on some monologue about some “super-rare, only available in the US, £150 drill bit set”, Master steps out with the rest of the recycling. Mr C shuts up immediately and busies himself again, and Master and I smile knowingly at one another.

Mum is emotional after her surgery cancellation but she’s holding up okay. She admits that she vented in frustration when she found out that her surgery had been postponed, then found out why, and now she feels guilty for her behaviour. I’ve tried to console her, as much as is all that any of us can do right now. 

“Fluffy says hi, by the way” I say. Mum’s confused. Who’s Fluffy?

“JGood” I smile, “he told me to say Sir Snookiebear says hello, so I told him I’d let you know that Fluffy says hi.” Mum laughs. Master winces. 

 “Sorry it’s late” my brother says, tossing a roughly gift-wrapped package onto my lap. Inside is three new tops, one of them I know definitely isn’t me. 

The first is a pink paisley-pattern vest top with bows halfway down the front – pretty and surprising on me, we agree it would look cute with a pair of jeans and some silver dangle earrings. 

The multicolour flower top isn’t me, as predicted: there’s brightening up my wardrobe, and then there’s…  that. He tries, though.  

The third and final top is a tan-and-ruby striped button-down top, which we all agree is more of an “evening” top. 

“Your jewelry and make-up is out, but with some gold earrings and some darker lips, I think you’d absolutely rock it” Mum says. I smile. 

Dinner was a chicken dal, which is probably my new comfort food. The first dal Mum made she added courgette instead of spinach, and she made it vegan: still very tasty, but I wasn’t a big fan of the lumps of courgette and I really missed my meat. The chicken dal, though? I could have eaten bowlfuls of that if only I had the room!