So, how does a black person identify as a slave, given its historical connotations? Photos of enslaved Africans bound by chains and covered in whip marks provoked a visceral horror in me. But when I saw similar items used in the consensual kink realm, I would become curious and highly aroused.

Being in a master-slave relationship makes no sense to outsiders who don’t feel the same compulsion I do. That’s why—although it seems counterintuitive as a black feminist—I’m open about my experiences, and encourage others to explore their desires to be “owned.” But even after nearly two decades in the BDSM community, I haven’t figured it all out. Occasionally, I do a self-check to make sure this still feels good and right—and every time a strong hand grips my throat or a paddle whacks my backside, it always does.

I’m at my freest as a slave.

There are days when I feel like the entire world expects me to be strong, simply because that is what’s expected of black women. We must solve every problem, cook every meal, dry every tear, and make everyone else’s lives happier. But sometimes, I don’t want to make any decisions. Surrendering to my master, then, means momentarily unburdening myself from the weight I carry as a divorced black mother. My obligations are so draining, I relish the comfort I feel when I can safely give myself over to someone who respects, loves, and values me.

In bed, everything happens on my terms, which is especially empowering on days I feel like the world is beating me down. Even when my master is restraining or flogging me, I’m still in control. Slavery is a refuge that helps me escape my problems and my life.

Fourteen years after my first kinky encounter, I entered a relationship that helped me grow as a submissive. In such a power dynamic, the “s-type” relinquishes complete control to their master in ways that go beyond what is typically expected. I wanted to do more than just kneel and call my master “Sir”—I wanted him to have complete control over my life, from dictating what I ate to choosing what I wore. I craved this in ways I gave up trying to understand long ago, and as my desires grew, our relationship evolved into a master-slave dynamic.

It was important for me to serve an intelligent, hard-working, charismatic black man close to my age, so I could feel safe. I’m not into “race play,” and would never be a consensual slave to a white male master. Instead, I needed someone who could relate to my struggles as a black person, and understand the freedom I experienced when indulging in more risqué sexual acts. This man wanted to be my master as much as I wanted to be his slave, and in each other, we found the ideal partner.

When I finally uttered the words “I’m a slave” for the first time, I paused, exhaled, and smiled. It just felt right.