She had dressed me proper, by which I mean “retro fifties,” a belted shirt-dress with tiny flowers printed upon a mint background. She kept me fully clothed this time, no mounds of glory showing, and I served tea and finger sandwiches in tall heels.
Mistress has been more “costume-y” with me this time back. For laundry day, she put me in a white-aproned A-line dress, slightly reminiscent of a maid’s outfit, and for one wine-soaked happy hour Wednesday she dressed me in a pink bustier-dress, strapless and sleeveless, a fashion lacking only Playboy-bunny ears. Neither of these were outré uniforms, per se, not the stereotypical costumes, yet suggestive of such and vaguely objectifying. People seeing me in such outfits look twice, distantly sensing the visual references. She’s good at this.
Truth is, I’ve missed her actively dressing me each day, and these are bondages of style that I savor. Even when they’re pink or mint.
The tea was a sort of a neighborhood welcome home for me, which was lovely, though I don’t like being the center of attention. More men are coming now, and it was a full table of neighbors, minus just a few. They expressed genuine concerns about my mother, and asked questions about Lucille and the house in PA. In between tea pouring and replenishing trays of hors d’oeuvres, I stood table side, and said some things about my last few weeks out east.
I found that the shirt dress, with its billowy underskirt, fluffed out my hips, making me feel awkward placing my hands at my sides, as they feel too far extended. Instead I held my hands in front, my fingers interlaced, a look that probably seems too quaintly prim for a woman who is sometimes displayed spread-eagle naked in the bay window on hot summer nights.
The neighborhood I left a year ago was curious about me as an oddity. Back then, I was a guilty pleasure, and they partook of my slavery visually, like people rubbernecking a highway accident while driving by. Riveted but reserved about me, they were, I suspect, filled with judgments and doubts even as the nodded with smiles.
The neighborhood that I have come back to seems now to accept me in my various modalities — girl-next-door, writer, MILF, slave, sex object, tea server in a Donna-Reed dress. During my absence, it’s as if they had some community meeting in which they voted and collectively agreed to move forward on “agenda item #4, slave shae.” Not really but sort of feels like that. I feel less judged and more, well, adopted.
So as I filled them in on things in PA, moving among them serving mini-scones, my dress swishing, I felt a new vibe from them, that I am not only seen and gawked at in my slaveness, but now also known by them in my deeper submissive crevices. In this, they accept me, not as a kind of prurient tolerance as before, but now as their own guilty possession. I may still seem weird to them, but I am their weird, their group secret shared, their community foster child.
This is a brave new world for me, in which my life and lifestyle are crowd-sourced, rendered into a poly pudding.
I’m honestly not sure how I feel about this.
“Mistress” and “Amanda,” both and one, are the best that’s ever happened to me. There is love and respect mutually between her and me, forged in the intimate privacy of our remarkable relationship. What we share together alone, is a mosaic of many different shapes and shards. I cherish that and don’t want to lose that to the public neighborhood. There is something to be said for privacy.
At the same time, I have always known Amanda’s grand utopia is the public experience of dominating me, sharing my humiliations visually and sexually in open spaces, geographically and socially. This was her dream in the beginning, back when she bought me: Her time sharing me with Kevin, I see now, was always intended to be temporary. Her scouting for a house in the Denver area was about finding a secluded foothill where she could woo a manageable handful of neighbors into participating in the execution of my slavery. Her sharing me now with others is simply another stage in her realization of a public and poly form of D/s.
She has gotten to this moment finally. And I want to make this happen, for her sake. I know it represents an escalation of her dominant need. She knows she can privately command me to do the most humiliating things and I will satisfy her wish, obey her order, and descend into profound shame.
What she wants now is to do this in shared intimacy with a crowd.
I will submit myself to this.
However, she knows this isn’t just my dread-and-noble sacrifice to fulfill her dominant need. It’s also my submissive need, my next level perhaps, a deeper immersion in my development as a woman and as a true slave.
Amanda, again, knows I need this before I know I need it myself.
As always, she’s a step ahead.
I made one last pot of tea and served teacups around, my dress swishing against chairs and my breasts straining the buttons of my bodice as I leaned over each time to pour.
When done, I sat in the chair in the corner, my hands folded primly in my lap. I did not have a seat at the table, even though in a way I was the centerpiece. I am slave and server, set aside until further notice, for a future time when I will become the community concubine.
Amanda, seated at the head of the table, leaned back as the neighbors talked and jabbered. Her eyes caught mine, and she smiled. I smiled back. It is a moment, a private moment.
It may just be that in this strange experience of the “poly public” something that deepens our private, personal love.
slave shae 