In between working on cleaning up what my Mistress has decided will be my home office (I am forced to fill up three garbage backs to throw out of stuff I have been carrying around since I started living by myself! Or face punishment), and untangling a ball of string for a macrame project, I realized something: I’m being remoulded into the submissive my Mistress wants me to be. My hobbies included eating cereal straight from the box, rewatching the same five movies, and wearing exactly what was cleanest and closest to me at any given time. And before I met my Mistress my studio apartment had one decorative theme: “messy student aesthetic.”

Then, slowly I became the property of the Goddess who I now call my Mistress.

Dear reader, I didn’t stand a chance.

It started small. A little suggestion here, a gentle nudge there, some praise when I did something She liked, or being told to spray the vanilla scent on my pillows before bed (a very specific one that qualifies as Her smell). Suddenly, I’m making macrame wall decorations and hanging baskets for plants.

At some point, my wardrobe began evolving too. Packages started showing up with clothes my Mistress had ordered for me, and on trips into town together I’m pushed into changing rooms to display items She has picked out. Including having to put on pretty lingerie for Her and blushing deep red as She teases me at checkout about the sets of revealing lingerie being purchased for me with the cashier. Now slowly, items I once proudly wore are disappearing into the void to make room in my wardrobe for silky dresses.

And let’s talk about the food.

Before, my culinary expertise probably peaked at fried egg and making the occasional pancake. Now, I forage for mushrooms on the weekends like some kind of woodland elf. Just this weekend I have been making pesto from foraged leeks and eating them in tiny triangle sandwiches from preparing a high tea. She’s got me roasting vegetables I didn’t even know existed and making me spend hours in the kitchen?

I now make Her comfort foods. I bake the desserts She grew up on.

Even my free time has gone through a transformation. I now know that “macrame” is not a pasta but rather a test of patience that involves hours of knotting strings into beautiful, boho wall hangings that serve no actual function. Do I understand it? No. Do I admire Her for mastering it? Absolutely. How many macarame knots have I now made myself? Let’s not talk about it.

And while my Spotify algorithm used to feed me a steady diet of random folk songs from whatever period of history I was studying, it now gently nudges me toward Danish artists, Jazz tunes, and Bob Dylan. I didn’t choose this life. I was curated into it (okay, I might have also wholeheartedly consented to it).

But honestly, I very much love it.

I joke about being reshaped, rebranded, gently molded like an ethically sourced candle from Søstrene Grene but the truth is, I’ve never felt more happy. The more of what I used to be is erased and replaced with what my Mistress wants Her submissive to be the more owned and loved I feel. Of course the parts of me that She already liked about me are welcome to stay, but yesterday I felt myself getting excited about the thought of having items in my apartment being thrown out against my will because they did not fit my Mistress Her vision of what my home should look like.

She’s shaping me into something better. Something softer, more curious, more feminine. Something that knows it is sometimes to let go of that hoodie, learning to cook Her favorite meal, or spending a Saturday afternoon knotting rope while She sends me a message of Her approval.

Turns out, being Hers looks good on me, and what my home looks like, what my hobbies consist of, and really what my identity is, is best left to the choice of my Mistress. Being Her property and slave comes with so many other perks besides just getting my ass fucked whenever She wants it.