She has me wear my white tiered linen miniskirt that comes to my mid-thighs. Originally it had an underskirt, but Mistress Amanda took it out, saying, “You should never be wearing anything with a modesty panel.” The linen is thin but not transparent, so my lack of panties underneath is not obvious to others, only to me.
Mistress has simply said that we’re “going out,” and I assume we’re visiting one of the neighbors. She puts me into my strappy white high-heeled sandals, and in the living room I stand perched on them waiting for her to complete my outfit and match a top to my skirt. I’m thinking something blue would be nice.
It’s late afternoon and Mistress has knocked off from work. It’s been warm today, but cloudy. Now I can see darker clouds are coming over the ridge in back threatening rain. I feel a little antsy, thinking we’d better get to the neighbor’s house before it starts to pour. Yet I say nothing.
This has been a sweet period of comfortable silence between us, these recent days and nights. It has been in a soft protocol, never declared but assumed, with me content and docile and ever-expectant in the presence of her muted and confident dominance. We know each other so well that words are rarely necessary, and to break the quiet almost would ruin the spell.
She goes back into her bedroom to change out of her work outfit. I stand in the living room, thin-skirted and bare-breasted, waiting for her to finish dressing me.
I hear raindrops on the roof.
Mistress re-emerges, now in a pair of tight, shapely jeans and a flowy pale yellow blouson top. Amanda is naturally attractive, but she dresses stylishly in ways to present herself in even more appealing ways. I think her beauty is part of her professional air and adds to her quality of dominance.
“You know I want you right now,” I say, my voice soft and husky.
“I do,” she replies with a sultry smile.
She carries a leash, chain-link, and attaches it to the O-ring of my slave collar. I am thinking it would be easier to have me put on my blouse, whatever she chooses, before putting the leash on me… but I say nothing.
Outside, the rain has become heavier now, not a harsh downpour but a steady and gentle shower.
Mistress leads me into the entryway and pulls a hat out of the closet, her straw Panama with a wide brim and a yellow band. She puts it on, and looks back at me, knowing the effect that it has, that she has.
She reaches once again into the closet, pulls out an umbrella, and proceeds to open the front door. “C’mon,” she says.
Glancing down at my bare breasts, I start to speak, about to query “Haven’t you forgotten something?” but I stop myself. I realize she hasn’t forgotten anything. Silly me, this is her very intention.
From the porch, we step into the rain, and I try to huddle under the umbrella with her. But she stops me. “You’ll be walking behind me,” she says.
I look at her for a moment too long, but salvage a nod and obediently fall back into the shower of the spring rain.
It becomes clear to me that we aren’t going to visit anyone at all.
This too is part of the unspoken life we share, in which she leads and I follow, both of us in hushed assumption of each other, even in the unlikely spectacle that we are.
The rain has quickly drenched my hair, rendering it into sopping strings dripping over both sides of my face. My bared tits are rain-soaked into a sheen of wet, and my skirt is now saturated, trending from translucent into transparent.
Mistress, walking ahead, is a picture of dry elegance, the modern version of a demoiselle in the park with a parasol in a French painting.
Even in my sodden display, it occurs to me that she woke up this morning with this very image in her mind. So often for her (and other dominants, it seems), a mental image becomes a real-life tableau for some clever humiliation of me.
She walks us around the frontage road, which is paved, and not along the ridge, which would be muddy and slick. I am grateful for this, grateful not to add mud to my list of endurances, although the frontage road is more public. No one comes out to greet us, but I imagine there are eyes looking through picture windows.
Wearing boots, Mistress is sure-footed on the wet pavement, but I in strappy heels must take shorter strides, bird-like steps, to avoid skidding and falling. I take two steps for every one of her strides.
This is a half-trot which creates more of an up-and-down motion in my walk, one which forces my breasts into a noticeable bounce, a dance of fleshy mounds. I desire to minimize this motion, as if doing so somehow would make me more respectable. But there’s no other way for me to walk.
At the same time, my skirt has now become fully dense with water, clinging to my thighs, wedging between them, framing my pussy, bare underneath, and cohering to the folds of my labia like a coating of heavy cream. I feel the impossible desire to straighten my skirt and make efforts to pull it free of my body flesh, but short moments later both my strides and the rain make it cling to my sex all over again.
It is its own sort of predicament bondage, intentionally pitting the elements of nature against my deep desire to be more modest and respectable. In time, I give up the fight, and let God have his way with me.
I have to think Mistress quite intentionally shod me in these strappy heels and thin linen skirt for this very reason, with the knowledge of their physical properties in the event of spring precipitation. She woke up this morning with this image in her mind and with my skirt and heels already picked out. And I’m sure she prayed for rain.
She walks me around the loop slowly, pausing at times, perhaps hoping someone would come out to chat, even in the rain. No one did. I think she is disappointed. I imagine next time she will call ahead. Provide everyone umbrellas.
Still, I have no doubt people are watching, and I feel the eyes of the world drinking in my wet submissive sex. The sight of me topless is no longer unusual to the neighborhood, I suppose, but I am still an erotic curiosity. Common enough as this is, it always feels to me as something freshly exposing, humiliating.
I think my topless neighborhood walks display me to others in a a balanced mix of my submission and sexuality. My being on a leash reminds people I am owned and am dominated into leashed submission. My being topless reminds people I am sexual property, available to be ogled and possibly enjoyed in a private sharing.
And in this case, the added bonus for neighbors is that I’m all wet.
We arrive back home, and the remarkable thing is that it is all unremarkable. From porch back to porch we have said nothing, leashed together in our mutual satisfaction of possessing and being possessed.
Mistress unleashes me and has me strip out of my skirt and heels at the front of the house. She goes inside to fetch a towel. Fully naked I stand outside, waiting in my tacit submission.
With the towel, I blot myself dry, squinching it around my hair to sop up the rainwater, even just a bit.
Mistress now stands close, holds my breasts in her hands, and pulls me into her for a dominant kiss. All this has pleased her immensely.
Moments later, I step into the shower. Ironically, to wash off the wet.
slave shae 