The Collaring Ceremony: A Ritual of Passage in Power Exchange
A collaring ceremony is a ritual of passage, marking the deepening of the power exchange between Dominant and submissive.
PROLOGUE
A collaring ceremony is a ritual of passage, marking the deepening of the power exchange between Dominant and submissive. It is also intensely personal and marks a new stage, and level of mutual commitment in that journey. In the world of BDSM, such ceremonies serve as rites of initiation, evoking echoes of ancient vows, religious consecration, and the investiture of knights. To be collared is to be transformed, to cross the threshold from independent selfhood into a state of submission where one’s identity is reframed through service, devotion, and surrender.
The ritual is a crucible of endurance, trust, and irrevocable commitment. My dominance is accepted as absolute within the context of D/s, yet it is layered with a calculated interplay of discipline and reverence, demanding not just obedience but spiritual surrender. The ceremony is designed to strip my soon to be collared slave - of any lingering resistance, symbolically breaking him open so that he may be reforged—his pain, his sacrifice, his blood serving as the currency of his submission.
I am not alone conducing this rite. Three other Mistresses—Miss Meyers, Mistress Siren, and Lady Lola—each embodying a facet of feminine dominance and power—stand as witnesses, initiators, and deities before whom the submissives must prove their worth. They are priestesses of the rite, shaping and testing the submissive spirit of my long time devotee and now initiate slave m-von-s.
Miss Meyers, standing for Sophia, the embodiment of wisdom and knowledge, guiding the mind’s submission.
Mistress Siren, Ishtar, goddess of love and war, revelling in beauty, cruelty, and devotion.
Lady Lola, Aphrodite, pleasure and seduction incarnate, whose presence exudes control wrapped in softness.
Alongside m-von-s, two other slaves, temporarily lent to Me for the ceremony will serve.
Sergei—the other male submissive, whose presence serves as both support and contrast, a reflection of another path within submission. Where m-von-s faces initiation, Sergei represents the stability of existing submission through service, a guide who silently reinforces what it means to belong to such a world.
Marie-gwendoline, the only female submissive among them, serves as both witness and standard. Like sergei, she is already owned, already trained, already shaped by submission. In her, I present an aspiration, a model of grace under discipline, challenging m-von-s to embrace his place with the same devotion, the same poise, the same unwavering faith.
It is through their shared suffering, through the whip, the cane, and the silent endurance of discipline, that the three slaves form an unspoken bond that deepens their individual submission to their Dominants.
RITUAL
M-von-s kneels in darkness. The air of the closet is thick, and the plug inside the soon to be slave is a constant, deliberate reminder of its place.
The slave spent the morning on an assignment of service, the first stage of the ritual of Power Exchange. It had to show its devotion to Me through extending its service to other Women and the many avatars of the Goddess. M-von-s moved through the British Museum with silent reverence, laying roses at the feet of goddesses, feeling the weight of unseen eyes upon him. It knows now that they are watching—Mistress Siren, Miss Meyers, and Lady Lola—each embodying a force greater than aspirant slave, each a deity before whom it had unknowingly paid homage.
At 7:00 PM, the door of the wardrobe where m-von-s has been isolated during the greatest part of the afternoon finally opens. His The slave's body tenses at the sudden shift in space, the rush of cool air over heated skin. A single, clipped command, “Come".
M-von-s emerges into the room, stripped bare. Candlelight dances on the walls, four long shadows cast in black silk, veils masking faces, our presence all-consuming. The slave's pulse hammers. It is nothing before us—less than the air, less than the rug beneath our feet. It kneels, lowering its head, awaiting our will.
M-von-s kneels in the swaying glow of the flames, breath steady, shallow, the weight of the ceremony pressing down. Stripped bare, in body and spirit—each moment pulling the slave deeper into the gravity of My will.
I stand hieratic, channeling the presence of Isis - Cybele. The room is quiet and charged, the Mistresses are poised, our joined power, a net electrifying the skin of the kneeling initiate. It lowers its gaze—not in shame, but in reverence.
“Look at her.” I command directing his gaze towards the recumbent form lying on the deep carpet.
M-von-s' head lifts at the command and surveys marie-gwendoline bound in a cocoon of black silk gauze held by intricate hemp ropes.
I trace the contour of her recumbent form with the edge of My blade of My knife.
The candlelight flickers across the steel, and a shiver courses through him.
M-von-s watches as the blade tears the diaphanous fabric, each fibre severed with careful precision. He The initiate does not miss the way her breath catches, nor the manner her body tenses at the steel’s kiss. The knowledge that he the new slave will follow where she leads coils within, a tightening thread of devotion and fear.
“She is both slave and Goddess. Be mindful of the pain she receives tonight—you will endure the same. Accept it with the same grace.”
There is no hesitation. M-von-s nods, absorbing my words, understanding their weight. To take pain is not simply to endure; it is to receive. It is an exchange, an offering, and a claim.
The slave watches marie gwendoline’s ordeal.
Supported by sergei, she yields to the whip.
The first lash lands designing a long crimson mark on her alabaster skin. Marie-gwendoline does not cry out. M-von-s observes the muscles of her buttocks absorbing the lashes, relaxed after an initial minimal contraction when the single tail lands, slashing her flesh with a corrosive kiss. The kneeling slave notices her shuddering breaths after each lash which echoes in ts body, knowing mirror suffering will follow hers, and welcoming it.
M-von-s counts silently, as she does aloud, as Sergei mouths the numbers with her. The lashes burn through the air, each one deepening the space between who they were before this night and who they are becoming. When she falters, My voice cuts through.
“I don’t hear you counting, marie-gwendoline.”
My voice As I speak—calm, unwavering—I tighten the grip on his soul. Not cruel, nor indulgent but exacting. My voice is a chisel which refines.
The initiate exhales, shoulders loose, head bowed, ready as he it will ever be for the dance of the whip….
When m-von-s' turn comes, the slave does not resist. It leans against sergei as instructed.
It is strange to be supported by an other man. This adds a layer of uncertainty to the utter newness of the whip. Sergei’s presence and hold is warm, sensual, strong and gentle. M-von-s melts in the embrace which contrasts and illuminates the viciousness of the whip.
The first lash tears and steals the slave's breath. The pain is instantaneous, searing, but it is not the sensations that consumes —it is the realisation of what it means. This is My claim, etched into the slave's body. Each lash speaks of the welcoming and acceptance of My control, My expectations, and the willingness to give. The room vanishes. There is only Me, and the path My will has carved during years of training that allow this threshold to be crossed and the deeper shaping that will ensue.
By the time the final lash lands, M-von-s is shaking, not from weakness, but from the enormity of it. So taken, the slave now belongs. And belonging is more intoxicating than pain.
Then comes the lesson in service.
Marie-gwendoline moves on all fours, steady, controlled, the bottom of a champagne coupe held carefully between her teeth. I watch m-von-s kneel, observe. The command is unspoken but clear—study, learn, emulate. The new slave examines Marie-Gwendoline’s poise, the way she carries the weight of expectation, of servitude, with dignity.
“You will serve me with the same grace.”
“Yes, Maîtresse.” The words feel like a vow.
Miss Meyers approaches, cane in hand. Marie-gwendoline does not falter. The strikes lands; the glass does not waver. The Mistresses murmur their approval.
M-von-s feels a strange pride—not its own, but shared, diffused through the space where submission and power weave together.
BLOOD, COLLAR AND… FREEDOM
M-von-s lies on the floor, arms outstretched, sergei holding the new slave's right hand, marie-gwendoline it's left. The Mistresses encircle the three devotees, a constellation of power and expectation. Miss Meyers strokes the new slave's head, whispering soft reassurances. I loom above, the scalpel gleaming between My fingers.
“Blood, the symbol of life must flow.”
The first cut is fire. Breath shudders, but he slave holds still. I do not ask if it is ready—I decide. The second cut follows, a blooming heat raises with the viscous ruby beading along the mark. And then the third, My initial carved into the slave's flesh.
I do not soothe. I do not coddle. Instead, I watch, measuring. Waiting for the moment of understanding that this is more than suffering. This is devotion made tangible.
The contract, signed in the slave's own blood, is final.
The champagne flows, laughter and pleasure lighten the atmosphere, yet m-von-s remains in the gravity of it all. The slave touches his thigh where her mark now lives, and feels it: the consequences of surrender, the certainty of belonging for the year to Me.
Collared, m-von-s is finally free.
