sextet

Fiction. Sort of.

She climbs out of the car after her long trip.

Short skirted and heeled, she wears nothing on top. She’s had to endure the honking attentions of passing cars.

Her big breasts bounce as she walks up to his front porch. She takes a deep breath. She rings the doorbell.

There on the concrete, she kneels, placing her hands behind her, pulling her shoulders back as she’s been trained to. This thrusts her breasts outward, her nipples already erect with anticipation.

She hears the plodding of heavy feet in the house. She sees the doorknob being turned from inside. She prepares herself.

Her mouth opens and her tongue extends.

The man opens the door, looks down, and immediately laughs at her.

He likes making her blush, and it pleases him that she doesn’t change her posture and that she keeps her mouth open despite his derision.

The man steps onto the porch and walks around her. He lifts her skirt from behind. She is not wearing panties. Good — he has trained her to be uncomplicated.

Without words, the man positions himself in front of her, this time closer. She is pink soft flesh in folds and curves. Wet, and so very willing.

The man unzips his pants.

She feels herself tremble, not from the weight of her body stressing her knees but from his presence. He is thick and muscled and commands her without uttering an order.

She watches as he pulls himself out and strokes. Even open to the outside air, her tongue waters — she longs to taste his flesh, feel his cock between her lips.

She waits.

He has now made his manhood into a missile, long and steely, and she imagines it, heat-seeking, plunging into her — she cares not where. She just wants him inside her.

She watches his slow steady stroke become more rapid.

Her tongue waits expectantly.

The man pierces the silence with a yell: “Hey, guys… out here!”

Two men appear in the open doorway. One man, short and heavy, says, “Look what the cat dragged in.”

The other man, sporting salt-and-pepper hair, laughs at the scene unfolding on the porch and reports, “She’s got big tits.”

“Join me,” the girl-master says, his cock out and hard and ready. He slows his stroke. He will time it all perfectly.

The others unzip.

She is red-faced now, surprised by these other men, strangers to her. Their crude comments are matter-of-fact and nonchalant, suggesting they had been told about her. They knew what she was. They knew what she did.

These two have their cocks out. Pumping fast, they’ve made themselves quickly hard, so the shame she feels now is not about their witnessing her debasement but about their participating in it.

Even so, she knows she must do this and remains kneeling, obedient, tongue extended.

The man who rules her steps close. She breathes his familiar musk, bought balsam mixed with earthy lust.

She hears him say to the others, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

She waits, overcoming her worry about these strangers, accepting her place to be docile and willing for his use of her. And theirs.

He strokes himself three more times, then stops, holding his cock steady an inch from her face. He jerks thick stripes of heavy white cum across her tongue neatly.

She feels it land there, warm and oozy. She leaves her tongue out, obediently, knowing he has worked his art on it like brushstrokes.

The man with salt-and pepper hair steps forward, and she sees his cock big and purpled and ready. He continues stroking as he erupts. She feels the spurt splattering her cheek. Another spasm shoots into the back of her mouth. She keeps her tongue out, receiving yet more as he milks additional dollops of himself onto it.

The man who rules her says to the others: “You have to stop stroking the moment right before. That way you have better aim and can paint her the way you like.”

Her tongue, extended all this time, now bears a full puddle of cum, and she feels some dribbling off the sides and onto her breasts.

The short, squat man now steps forward, and she sees his cock close up, inches in front of her face. He is thick and fleshy. He too is ready. He stops stroking and squeezes himself. He grunts, and she receives his ejaculation — he sprays her face in a drenching of thick white froth.

So quickly, they are done with her.

Striped and covered, she remains kneeling, deep in humiliation. She cannot bear to look at them. She draws her tongue, finally, back into her mouth, and swallows the flavor of moss and shame.

Looking at their feet, she says in a frail voice, “Thank you, sirs.”

This is her training, which she is determined to follow even in the midst of surprise.

He will be proud of her. She is sure of it.

The man who rules her tells her to stand.

Yes, he wishes to do her more and again, overnight and through the weekend, days and nights. Indeed, he knows she would do anything, and the three of them could have their fun. But, patience, he tells himself. He is cultivating her for more, much more. That will be another time.

“You may not clean yourself until Altamont,” he says to her. “There’s a rest stop there. An hour away. You will have to ask in the store for the restroom key. Let him see you like this… Go now…”

He knows she will do so to the letter of his law. He knows she will feel and taste the men all the way to Altamont. He knows she will imagine his buddies talking about her tits after she leaves, laughing about her utter submission to their perversion of her. He knows she will pray tonight that he was pleased with her today.

He watches with admiration as she walks in dripping disgrace to her car in the driveway, engine still warm, ready for her three-hour journey back.

a note about Master McKenna

I have not yet posted anything about my enslavement to Master McKenna, but that’s rather by design.

As of this post, he has had me for six Saturdays of training/serving. In June, he will have me for a full weekend.

When I first started with him, it was my thought that I would write about each of my Saturdays with Master as they happened. But after the first Saturday, it became clear to me that to do so would be misleading about his overall strategy with me, which has been unfolding more with each subsequent day he has me. I also have had a hard time “capturing” Master McKenna in words, and I want to do him justice in my representation of him to everyone.

So I have been waiting in place on writing about him until I can get to the right words about the fuller picture of his domination of me.

But then, two times ago with him, he had me in a “free to speak” time, and we were talking about my blog writing. He suggested I wait to write about him until after our June weekend. I appreciated that he was not ordering me to wait, and he made it clear he did not intend to read or approve what I wrote beforehand. This was just a suggestion. But he said the June weekend would put into practice much of my training. There will be others there, apparently, and it will be then my “place in his life will become clearer.”

Another development has come from Amanda — some additional insight as to her purposes and plan for me with Master McKenna.

So I’m swirling this all together like I’m making a fine stew, waiting to serve it until it all blends properly. Fortunately I’m better at words than cooking. (I don’t even know if that’s how stews are made.)

I think I will write a few things now just as general posts about what Amanda has said and then about Master McKenna’s life and personality and style. I will, though, wait until after the June weekend to write the weekend experience with him, using that as context for sharing about my training Saturdays with him.

Just letting everyone know…

One more thing: I would assure everyone that my experience with Master McKenna has been relatively good so far. I think he is pleased with me. He is professional and can be severe at times, yet he has a personal side to him and communicates with me well. I am learning him, and at times that’s been a challenge, but it’s my purpose at this moment to shape myself to him.

So, all to say, more to come…

updates

Next Thursday, May 20, I’ll be going once again to visit Kevin. I’ll be with him until the following Monday. As always, I’ll have my laptop and will try to write, but often, as you know, I am, well, preoccupied. We’ll see.

Originally, Amanda was going to accompany me on this trip. Her business home office is located there, and she has a staff of people she needs to see again in person. She wouldn’t stay with me and Kevin, but at a hotel or perhaps the home of one of the staff people.

All that said, she’s decided that this time she’s too busy to make such a trip, despite needing the time with her staff. That will likely happen in late June.

Next Thursday morning, Master McKenna will stop by the house here before my trip to Kevin. I presume his intention, as he hinted earlier, is to write a message on my body for Kevin to read. Boys will be boys.

Amanda continues to work long hours. I am concerned about her. This currently is due to some developments in her business that I cannot share publicly, but I can say it will not last forever. Yet for some weeks to come this work intensity will continue.

Amanda is out of sorts and knows it. She yelled at me earlier in the week, unprovoked, and yesterday in a biting, spitting way called me a whore. I responded quietly, “Yes, and you have made me this way. It’s what you want me to be.” She retorted, “No, it’s what you are. I just give you opportunity to be what you’re afraid to be yourself.”

I knew she was letting off steam and let it all hang in the air between us. In substance, it was a nothing burger, as they say. She has called me a whore before, though more playfully and teasingly. It has more reality bite to it now because I am with Kevin and Master McKenna, and the way she said it made it sting.

My “whoredom” is not something I deny, but I prefer to give it the context of my slavery, that I am a whore by virtue of my obedience. Amanda thinks I hide behind that too much, that I need to face my own innate promiscuity. These are familiar themes between us, and normally we discuss them civilly. In this case, the same words just got twisted into a hiss.

Later she apologized. Thank you, I said. It’s OK.

The slave life becomes different things at different times. I’ve become her handmaiden during these days of toil and tension.

She takes coffee from my tray in the mornings but quickly scampers into her office hole. I barely see her all day. She doesn’t finish until early evening, maybe eight or so.

It is then that I attend to her. She falls into a puddle on the couch and I bring her wine. I tell her she needs to eat something, and she consents to a sandwich or leftovers, which I serve her on a tray.

Often now she asks that I rub her feet. I think this is odd because she isn’t on her feet much all day, but she asks for it. Perhaps her body tension settles there? I sit at the opposite end of the couch and take her feet in my lap. She sometimes drowses off a while I massage her toes and soles and ankles.

Sometimes later she will head to bed, but requests from me a back massage. This is non-sexual, which sounds strange to say given we are two women in bed, nude, with scented oil and lots of touching of curves and flesh. But she is out of it, and the purpose is not for sex, although I won’t say it isn’t erotic. She falls asleep, and I go to my bedroom and try not to touch myself.

It is on weekend mornings she asks for me to bathe her in the big vintage tub. This becomes a blend of day spa services and brunch and multiple mimosas. These are among our best times together.

The weekend promises to be warm although with a threat of rain. Amanda says she wants to take me to a park and share me with the world.

notes to a younger me 12: breaking you

When you first start with him, you will be eager to sink into his dominance, immersing yourself in the slavery he keeps you in. And he will indulge himself with you, playing with his new toy. Even for an experienced dominant it is still a dream to have a woman to do anything he wants, and he will exercise the possibilities, ordering you to do whatever and all for him, from fetching his slippers to licking his cock at lunchtime.

rules redux

A further thought or two or three on the basic rules required of me in my slave life:

My rules are not the realization of my slavery but the foundation for it. They are not the finish line, but the starting block.

To Mistress, my submission isn’t really about my bearing a coffee tray every morning but more about other things — my being leashed for a slave walk or my quiet acquiescence at a tea time with a neighbor or my docile surrender to Master McKenna’s training. These are the actual realizations of my slavery.

My rules are there to help define the basis for life with Mistress A. Some of my rules — morning coffee and happy hour and doing laundry and scrubbing the kitchen floor — are just regular daily, weekly reminders of my position and purpose. And other rules — clothing and collars and shaving — are simply reflections of how Mistress A wants me to look and be. These are her ways of shaping my appearance to suit her pleasure.

Also I think it’s worth pointing out that there aren’t so many rules here as to make life tedious, either for me or for Mistress. In my humble opinion, some dominants can micromanage their slaves. It is their right to do so and in some cases may be how they are wired, but I think an overabundance of rules in daily life becomes fatiguing for both slave and dom.

Finally, I would simply add that these rules now have become routine for me. They have become my new normal. When Mistress A and I went to visit her family, I woke up early each morning conditioned to prepare coffee for her. I didn’t have to during our visit, but I truly missed doing so. It felt abnormal to me not to.

I think this is what a domme wants — a slave whose life is permanently shaped by her, a slave whose life is molded into new normals she has prescribed. And it starts with very simple things like a coffee tray at 7:15 every morning.

my basic rules

This is another “catch-up post,” provided for those who have started to follow me of late but have not had the chance or desire to plow through my earliest posts, where some of this has been mentioned.

Daily Rituals

There are two daily rituals required of me:

Coffee in the morning. Every morning at 7:15, I am to be standing outside of our kitchen bearing a tray with a carafe of fresh-made coffee for Amanda when she gets up. She often emerges from her bedroom around 7:30, which means I am standing there for at least fifteen minutes holding the coffee tray, doing nothing but waiting. Sometimes it’s longer.

She wants me to start the morning aware that my life today is dependent on her. It also reminds me that I am essentially unimportant, my only purpose in that moment being utilitarian — providing her a service to make her morning better. It starts my day in slave space.

This is a practice that goes back to my first days under both Amanda and Kevin when were were all together. So I’ve been doing the coffee ritual every day now for more than two years.

Drinks at four-thirty. Most every day in the late afternoon I pour Amanda a libation, usually a glass of wine. Her work sometimes goes well into the evening, so sometimes she cancels this, or else takes a glass of wine at her desk.

Like morning coffee, the ritual also involves me bearing a tray and serving. While this ritual can become a casual happy hour time for me with her, there’s a formality in it that emphasis my service and obedience.

Chores

Amanda keeps me as a sex slave not a service slave, so I am not given long lists of chores each day. However, I am to do two things each week:

Laundry. Usually on Thursday I do the laundry for both me and Amanda. (This does not include ironing or dry cleaning, which are sent out.) Often I wear a vintage fifties shirt dress, belted, and heels, as Amanda likes seeing me look traditional retro while I’m walking through the house carrying laundry baskets to the washer and dryer and while I’m folding clothes.

Scrubbing the kitchen floor. This chore is not usually necessary, but is required of me just because Amanda likes watching me do it. Usually she has me do it nude on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and a pail of sudsy water. I think this started in the earlier days with Kevin, who likewise enjoyed watching me. Being on my hands and knees is obviously subservient, the work of scrubbing is menial, and my nakedness in the midst of suds inevitably renders my body wet and messy.

I actually like scrubbing floors. For some reason it gives me a sense of accomplishment. So when I do the kitchen floor, I am intent on doing a good job and I strive to be thorough. My devoted intention to the task, I guess, is sometimes humorous to others given my nude and slippery state of being.

Clothing

Amanda chooses what I wear each day of my life.

The night before she lays out on the bed bench in the hallway my outfit for the next morning. When I awaken, after my shower, I put on whatever is there. Sometimes there’s just a skirt, which means I am to go topless. If shoes are laid out but no outfit, that means she wants me nude for the day. Occasionally, there are no shoes or outfit — nothing at all is left for me on the bed bench — which means I can choose my own clothing for the day. (But that’s a rare event.)

Amanda has told me that seeing me wear the clothing she lays out for me — seeing me in her choices — thrills her to no end. As for me, being dressed by another is a powerfully submissive feeling.

Bras and Panties

I am forbidden underwear at any time, so I do not wear bras or panties ever. I am always nude under my skirts and tops and dresses.

I think this practice had some original rationale arguing that my physical sex might need to be be covered by clothing in public but should not be inaccessible to others. I’ve often thought this to be funny, conjuring up the idea that we sure wouldn’t want to inconvenience the stranger in a restaurant who would suddenly want to do me but finds the extra step of unclasping my bra in back just way too frustrating to make me worth his while.

So I’m not sure that rationale really holds any more. I am without bra and panties simply because Amanda wants me this way.

I am told it is erotic to others to know I am not wearing anything underneath my clothes. But I don’t know how they know that or would be informed of such. Then again, being braless under many tops I wear can be rather telltale.

And, of course, there’s the “Shae outside in a short loose skirt on a windy day” thing.

Collars

It’s a basic rule for me to wear a collar always. There are some social situations that are exceptions to this, but mostly I’m wearing a collar 24/7.

However, Mistress has given me permission most days to choose the collar I wear. I have a wide assortment of collars, from fashion chokers to fabric collars to heavy metal slave collars. She says my choice of collar gives her a bit of a clue as to my mood that day. I am not so aware I am choosing that way, but so be it.

While wearing a collar is routine and automatic for me daily, it yet it’s a powerful experience to be collared. It puts me in my submissive space and keeps me there. Every look in the mirror reminds me I am owned property.

Pussy Shaving

I am required to keep my pussy shaved and bare and smooth at all times. This becomes an every two- or three-day exercise, using a variety of creams and gentle shaving.

I do not know if this is just the way Amanda prefers me as her lover or if it’s her requirement of me as her slave. Probably both.

Masturbation

I am forbidden from masturbating ever. The one rare exception is that on occasion, Amanda might have me masturbate for her while she is watching.

Of course the principle is that a slave never has the option of providing herself pleasure. A slave’s sexual pleasure must come only from one’s dominant.

I can attest to a deep submissive feeling in the simple reality of being denied access to my own body.

Others can enjoy my body, but I cannot. So it goes.

weekend

She was uber-domme with me this weekend.

Friday afternoon, she finished work at around four. A bit early for her, but she was physically and mentally done — I think she put in eighty hours this week. Amanda shut the door to her home office and almost immediately beckoned me, made me topless, and wrapped tiny bands around my nipples and larger bands around the base of my breasts.

She knows this becomes a slow torture for me — pressure that alternates feelings of pleasure and a deep ache. I could have taken this to be her domme desire to control me or to discipline me, but it was neither of those, I well knew. She herself was hurting, so tired and spent, and she wanted me to hurt with her.

It made sense to me later that she had no energy to try different pain sources on me, say, a flogger or whip or whatever. All that would require effort from her, energy she did not have. These bands, once installed around my breasts and nipples, would do their dirty work all evening without requiring work or creativity on her part.

Amanda ordered me to fetch her a drink, and that was the beginning of an evening of servitude. I did the bar maid thing. She invited me to join her, and I poured myself a Viognier, sitting on the floor beside her, my breasts already becoming bulbous and tight, and my nipples growing a deep ruddy crimson.

She talked to me about work, but it wasn’t a conversation, and she went on and on. I knew she needed to process. She had me fetch her a pillow, and then a snack, and then another drink. Later some chocolates. She was demanding, but that was OK.

There are times when a domme is intense on you not because it’s a dominant “scene” or strategy or moment but just because she has needs, she wants to unload into someone. She owns you, and so she can. She has no energy to be diplomatic and she doesn’t need to be: She knows whatever she says or does to me in a time like this will not offend me or be relationally difficult tomorrow.

It is perhaps an undervalued aspect of D/s: the slave used as a relief valve: I absorbed her dominant need into me, allowed her dominance to flow through me, and endured the hurt she’d put me in.

Well, she fell asleep, almost in mid-paragraph, her face resting against the back of the couch. She really was so exhausted.

She was not out for long, maybe for ten minutes, eventually waking. Her eyes found me, still sitting opposite her. I hadn’t moved. She seemed happy about that. I was right where she had put me.

I asked her if she wanted something to eat. She said no, but then when I mentioned we had leftover finger sandwiches from our tea time with Mr. Hawkins, she changed her mind. I prepared a plate for her and served it to her on the couch.

“How do your boobs feel?” she asked.

“As you’d expect,” I said.

“Say it.”

“I’m in agony.”

“Good.”

Later, she retired to her bedroom. I just sat on the floor by the couch where she left me. I thought she had forgotten me, forgotten that I was still banded around my breasts and nipples. I heard her in the shower, and I imagined she’d soon flop into bed. I did not feel it appropriate to take off my bands, yet I couldn’t imagine a long night with them on, and enduring this hard ache until morning.

But she eventually re-emerged from her bedroom, now wearing her short satin peignoir in Egyptian blue. It looks so stunning against her long dark brown hair. I wanted her so much but knew she wouldn’t take me tonight.

She had me stand before her and pulled me close to kiss me. Of course, she knew in doing so, she was pressing herself hard into my swollen breasts. My eyes watered from the pain.

She pulled away, looked down at my breasts and said, “You look good in purple.”

I breathed in deeply. “You look lovely in blue, Mistress.”

“Let’s take these off,” she said.

Of course that’s a moment of please-yes and please-no, the Catch-22 of wanting relief from the ache but knowing you have to go through pain hell to get there.

She reached under my breast, worked her fingers inside the band, and stretched it wide to be removed.

I bit my tongue, resolved not to scream or protest. My eyes filled with tears. I took rapid short breaths.

She removed the band from my other breast as well, then rolled the tiny bands from each of my nipples.

“Sleep well,” she said, leaving for her bedroom and shutting the door..

The story Saturday was that she kept me on leash all day. I mean literally. I was leashed from the moment of morning coffee to bedtime around eleven.

Most of the time, the other end of my leash was in her hand.

The day itself was uneventful mostly. It was her pleasure to keep me bare-breasted in the house and out on the back patio, though she had me in a peasant skirt and wedge sandals.

The day was warm, and Amanda took me for a walk up on the ridge., but that has become less satisfying to her, as no one else from the neighborhood seems to frequent it. She would love to run into someone, with me on a leash and my breasts out swinging and happy to see them. But we had the ridge to ourselves.

In the afternoon she took me in the car to a couple of local parks. Unfortunately, they were teeming with people — the bright warm weather and the relaxation of COVID restrictions prompting people to bound out of their houses. It wasn’t conducive for a naked slave parade.

I think Amanda went there hoping to display me, but once there just didn’t have the energy to manage it.

In the car, she had me put on a T-shirt, white and tight, but kept me on my leash. She found a trail that seemed to be the road less taken, and she walked me for a while. I got looks prompted by seeing me in my slave collar, leers from watching me as I was led about on my leash like a dog, and smirks for the various meanings of the word “bitch” that came to mind.

But that’s a rather normal outing for us, and the day was uneventful.

The only thing that was a somewhat new submissive feeling to me was the constancy of my leash — that I was kept chained to Amanda every moment of the day. There was something in the experience of that which aroused me.

Sunday turned cold here, and we stayed inside. I was not on a leash nor having to endure breast tortures. It was a laze and graze for us. Amanda provided me ample time in the morning to write and to call my mom for Mother’s Day.

But just when I thought it would be a quiet and normal day, Amanda installed me onto the wet bar.

I’ve written about the wet bar many times before, and this was no different — my legs were spread and attached to hooks at the ends of the bar, my ass and pussy became open and exposed to the room, my midriff was stretched flat across the bar top, and my breasts hung down the other side.

Once she got me locked in, she roamed the house for a while. Of course, in that position, my head was face down on the bartender side of the bar, and I couldn’t really see anything. I heard Amanda in the kitchen, at the sink, then going downstairs to the basement, and then rooting through bureau drawers in her bedroom. From time to time, she’d set something on the bar top beside me.

Well, she’d arranged an assortment of cylindrical objects on the bar top.

Amanda stepped back and looked at me strapped in, my pussy gaping out between my spread legs and nine household items beside me, eagerly awaiting their auditions to become dildos.

I think mostly she just liked the visual.

Yet she did go through them all, starting with a zucchini, which she oiled up and pressed between my pussy lips from behind. There was also a taper candle, a magic marker, a wooden kitchen spoon, and a water bottle — along with other vegetables — a thick carrot, a narrow cucumber, and a small round beet. There was also one of Amanda’s actual dildos, presumably as a standard against which to measure all the other screen tests.

She took her time oiling up each object, checking for rough edges, and then gently introducing the object, slowly, into me.

Sometimes she would ask “How does that one feel?”

I’d pause, then say, “Feels like I have a wooden spoon in my vagina,” my droll sarcasm a disembodied voice speaking from the other side of the bar.

She laughed.

Maybe a half hour later I had been fucked by nine of my closest household friends, a veritable baseball team — though I never had enough time with each to get to know him.

None of this was for the purpose of pleasuring me. She had her own purposes. Just as soon as the penetrations had made me uber-aroused, she was done. I begged her to finish me, to make me come. She loves hearing me beg.

“No,” she said.

OK then.

Later she unbolted me, and I cleaned up and joined her on the couch as I nursed a glass of Barolo.

“You’re planning a party game,” I said, figuring it out.

“Yep.” she replied. “Working on something. We’ll see.”

I leaned my head against the couch. She looked so amazing. Just her in tight jeans and a tunic top that draped and shaped her fullness. Mmmm.

“What?” she asked as I stared.

“You’re so gorgeous.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re turned on and wet.”

“Yes, but still, you’re gorgeous.”

She blushed then, and I realized how seldom I ever see her blush.

She sipped her Viognier. “Of the different objects, which one did you respond to the most?”

I thought for a moment or two, then said, “The beet.”

Amanda nodded. “It just popped right in, didn’t it.”

“Yes,” I said, “he and I had a little something going, I think.”

An interesting weekend.

By later Sunday night, Amanda was already working again, preparing for her week ahead, ready to jump into toil and tension once more.

The weekend was a process of her doing me from pain to possession to play. It eased her mental state to pour her stuff into me. I think one purpose for a slave is absorption. She becomes a container for the frustrations and tensions of her mistress.

I think also it matters that in a D/s relationship, the dominant doesn’t have to negotiate or be careful of feelings. With Amanda this weekend, she just did me as she wanted. She knew she could without any fallout. I knew well enough not to protest or ask questions.

Tonight, at the end of Sunday, Amanda is relaxed, rested, and recycled.

Tonight, at the end of Sunday, I am aroused and sexually needy. Which means I’ll be doing a lot of begging this week.

tea time with Mr. Hawkins

FYI, I am changing names and blurring some details in respect of the privacy of others.

We had our first tea time with a neighbor on Thursday. I made watercress sandwiches from Patricia’s recipe, and we’d bought an assortment of small pastries from La Belle’s. That included mini quiches that were to die for. I arranged them all on a three-tier stainless server, along with tea in a pot on a tray.

Amanda had me wear a short eyelet skirt in burnt orange and a white pullover top that hugged my breasts tightly and showed the outline of my nipple rings. I wore modest heels and one of my slave collars — the copper one to match the colors of my skirt.

His name is Christopher Hawkins. He’s in his forties and has a shaved head, which, judging by his hairline, seems to be a fashion choice, not a necessity. His face sports a stubble beard, well trimmed. He wears glasses, classic black rectangles.

Amanda sat with him in the dining room. I served the tea and pastries as she engaged Mr. Hawkins in conversation.

Mr. Hawkins is an advertising executive who travels frequently to visit potential clients around the country. He talked about his company in some detail, specifics which I won’t share here, but he has a background in both design and business, which seems to suit what he does.

He and Amanda had a lot of business-speak to occupy them for quite a while. Of course she, the queen of woo, drew conversation out of thin air like a magician. Mr. Hawkins was engaging and conversational, as befit his executive role of promotion for his company.

I eventually took my seat beside Amanda but got up to refill their teas and replenish the sandwiches. Amanda intentionally wanted me in a role of serving.

“We moved in here,” Amanda was saying, “at the end of 2019, and almost immediately COVID hit. We had wanted to do this earlier, introduce ourselves to our neighbors, but we all got quarantined. So now that things are opening again, we wanted to reach out and meet people.”

“Like I say,” Mr. Hawkins said. “The timing for this worked out well… so good to meet you finally. I’ve seen you around… I’ve wanted to connect more with the neighborhood, but my travel keeps me away so much.”

“I’ll fill you in — I researched these neighborhoods along the front range before we moved,” Amanda said. “I wanted us to be in a place where people were fairly open-minded. This area, especially. I wanted that.”

This, I knew, was her foray into telling him about our lifestyle. She was testing the waters. How would he react to “open-minded”?

“Similar for me,” he said. “I would live downtown, if I could, I love the vibe there, but rentals are so expensive now, and paying premium for downtown space I don’t actually live in for about half the year just didn’t make sense. Suburbs are so bland and cookie-cutter — I think it violates my sense of design. These custom homes in the foothills are at least different from each other, with some interesting choices. Mountain living. Different. So, I’d hope our neighbors might have a certain independence from the ordinary.”

“You never know,” Amanda said, “We’ve made good friends with The Millers, John and Patricia. The next house over. They’re wonderful. Curious and interesting. I think you’d like them Christopher. We’ll arrange to invite you to get together with them, maybe something on the patio when it gets warmer.”

“I like that idea.”

“In the summer,” Amanda said, “we practically live out on the patio. We’ll go out there a bit later. Show you the back yard space.”

We got into into a discussion of what we do when we’re not working, which both Amanda and Mr. Hawkins chuckled over, as they both spend so much time working that they have trouble thinking of what else they do. Still they got into a discussion of the hobbies they pursued.

Mr. Hawkins mentioned he liked biking: “When I’m home, I ride almost every day.”

“We haven’t seen you out,” Amanda observed.

“My yard backs into the open space, and there are bike paths there that go for miles east. I don’t bike around the frontage road. I would have to do endless loops — when I have time, I might bike a hundred miles.”

As he talked about biking, something made sense to me: Mr. Hawkins has a slender frame, and while it looks like he keeps himself in shape, he doesn’t seem to have a muscled physique. But biking would be the exercise that rendered him that way.

“What are your hobbies?” he asked. It was directed to both of us.

Amanda mentioned doing jigsaw puzzles and reading, how these days she likes mysteries and legal thrillers (although she falls asleep easily when reading them before bed at night). She spoke of doing certain home projects with the help of our guy Blake. I wondered if she’d mention the wet bar retrofitting and the entryway wall, but she didn’t.

“What do you do for fun, Shae?” Mr. Hawkins asked.

“I read a lot, a little bit of everything. My background in college was literature. I guess the main thing in my life is writing. Fiction mostly, but I also write a blog online.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“You’re welcome to, but I must warn you, it’s a lifestyle blog. About the unique nature of our relationship. My life under Amanda.”

And that, quite accidentally, was the opening.

He asked to know more, and Amanda began to unfold it all for him. “We practice an alternative lifestyle, Christopher. Shae and I have a dominant-submissive relationship. I am dominant by nature.”

Mr. Hawkins turned to me: “And so you, Shae, are submissive.”

“Very,” I replied with a laugh.

“I’ve never known people who actually live this way,” he said. “This is fascinating.”

‘To be honest, Christopher,” Amanda said, “it’s one reason we want to get together with our neighbors. We want you to know about us, that we live in this kind of lifestyle. We don’t want you to be offended by us.”

“Not at all. I think everyone should be able to live their lives as they prefer. Actually, I find it intriguing.”

Amanda chuckled. “Well, don’t speak too quickly, Christopher… Shae, go get one of your leashes. The chain.”

I left for the hallway closet where she stores my paraphernalia. I returned with the chain leash in my hand. Amanda took it, clasped one end to my collar, and held the other end in her hand.

“So,” Amanda continued, “one of my hobbies, so to speak, is mastering this girl on a daily basis. And what I like to do is walk her outside on a leash. We sometimes take the ridge in back, which is quite private. But, quite frankly, I like things to be open and public. So I like to walk this girl on the frontage road. On a leash. But I get concerned about what others think.”

“Well, that wouldn’t offend me. Actually, I’d enjoy the view.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. I just don’t want people calling the cops on us — anyone thinking I’ve kidnapped her and am engaged in something illegal. This is consensual, the way we want to live. But I want her to be seen as what she is.”

Mr. Hawkins looked over at me, and it felt like it was with a new awareness, perhaps coming from Amanda’s words to be seen as what she is. “It’s not a problem for me,” he said.

“I’d hope that if we walked by your place and you saw us, you’d feel comfortable coming out and chatting with us.”

“Certainly.”

“Our intention is to have these tea times and meet everyone, introduce ourselves and our lifestyle…. We’ll do some things this spring in a group thing, maybe a BBQ… Which reminds me, would you like to see our back yard?”

They retired to the patio. It was a warm day for a change. They sat on the settee. I served them glasses of wine and sat on the ground beside Amanda, who held my leash. Now he was seeing me truly in my position of slavery — collared, leashed, and at her feet.

They talked business some more, and it seemed to me that Mr. Hawkins was genuinely interested in Amanda’s work. They talked about HR services in the COVID era, and how his company had to adapt. Seems they had a lot in common and genuinely enjoyed talking about it.

He circled back around to our D/s lifestyle, asking general questions, seeming truly curious. “Like I say, I know about BDSM from a distance and that some people play in it, but I haven’t known anyone who actually lives it daily.” He asked how we met, and Amanda told him our story, carefully phrasing it so as not to get into details about how she found me and took me, and nothing about Kevin, not as yet, which always complicates things. Likewise, she never, as I recall, called me her “slave.” She is really accomplished in how she can make us seem so normal.

“Christopher,” Amanda said, “if you have any contact with our other neighbors, maybe put in a good word on our behalf. Fine for anyone to think of us as different — we are — but I would want them to know we’re harmless.”

“Glad to, and I will. Like I say, I don’t know the neighbors. There are those two guys in the house around the bend from me and a family in the other place, the one catty-corner to mine and up a ways. Those would be the most likely for me to meet. If it comes up, of course, I’ll put in a good word.”

After-thoughts:

In all, a rather successful tea time.

Amanda doesn’t expect all the other teas to go so well. It is her way in business and life to assume the negative, so she works hard beforehand to prep for the worst, equipping herself to overcome objections. Still, by her own assessment, this with Mr. Hawkins went better than she had even hoped for. He will be an ally.

Yes, a good first tea time.

She never mentioned to Mr. Hawkins that when she walks me on a leash, she sometimes has me bare-breasted or even fully nude. She said to me later she didn’t think it was wise to push that point quite yet, that he and others could be brought along later to accept me exposed. After we sit down with everyone for tea, she said to me, “After we gauge their openness, we’ll have a patio party, and you will serve topless. That will get them accustomed to things.”

“Things” meaning my breasts. OK, Mistress A.

I liked Mr. Hawkins, though I didn’t ever have any strong feeling toward him one way or other. He is essentially a high-level corporate salesman but didn’t seem to have most of the not-so-good traits I associate with “sales types” — self-absorption, slickness, superficiality. (Maybe that’s an unfair stereotype.) I’m guessing his design background gives him an arts sensibility and that tempers the usual business-and-sales quirks. He engaged with both of us with curiosity and interest and grace, and he talked with me directly and respectfully.

I rather think, though, that he was more taken with Amanda. He had eyes for her, not me. The two were engaged in business talk much of the time, most of which I didn’t go into here. They have a lot in common that way. They both are roughly the same age, I’m guessing.

It’s presumptuous for me to assume anything could develop between them, especially since Amanda seems to emphasize her attractions to women, and of course has me. But I don’t have to mean that kind of a romantic attraction. I just think Amanda lacks a really close friend. It would be nice if Mr. Hawkins emerged in our lives as a friend for Amanda.

notes to a younger me 11: status

When you enter the D/s life, you have to accept a lower status. It’s very important how you understand this and how you cope with it.

In one way, “lower status” refers to social status. You will be kept at a level beneath others in the social world you occupy. Your slavery will eventually be known and it will be looked down on. You will be made subservient to people you don’t know, and you will be diminished in standing and in others’ perceptions.

In another way, “lower status” refers to your relationship with your master. You are not his wife, nor his girlfriend, nor one of his buddies. You are “something other,” a slave to be used. He may at times treat you at what seems a higher level — say, talking with you as a friend — but do not swoon in that too much, as he will return you soon enough to the lower level of his slave, which is where he will most of the time keep you.

In yet another way, “lower status” refers to your identity. You are property in this world, property owned by him. This is more than words, and will be something you experience directly — you will feel like one of his possessions. It isn’t so bad, really, being in the same category of his car or truck or the couch in his living room. Your submissiveness will thrill in providing utility and delight in being used. Yet the challenge comes when he is finished and sets you aside. That’s the difference between being a possession versus being a significant other.

In yet a further way, “lower status” refers to you sexually. You are in his life to provide him his sexual pleasure when he wants it, in the way he wants it. But again, you are not his lover — not at that high a level — but rather his sex toy. You will develop feelings for him, because you cannot do sex without committing your heart, but in the intercourse of things, you will still just have the status of a sex toy.

Your lower status in this life in all of these ways will be humiliating to you. Because you are an extreme submissive, at the very same time they will be thrilling to you. Yet the slave life of lower status is difficult, and sometimes it confuses your thoughts about yourself. This is the paradox and the life of being an owned submissive.

Remember that in all this, you are special to him — precisely because you accept your lower status in his life. You embrace being used by him, and frankly, few other women in the world can do that. Your inexhaustible submissiveness is what gives him dominant joy, such that no other social group or vanilla lover or buddy or car or couch can give him.

You must still recede into the lower status of his life. But hold on to the truth that for him there is no one else like you.

hard and soft

My life is lived between soft and hard, smooth and rough.

Soft her breasts are, so fleshy against my own, our tits pressing into each other like pillows negotiating space, giving and taking, making billowy impressions and folds. Her nipples become erect, and though I sometimes describe them as hard, they aren’t — they actually bend as my tongue pushes them, so pliable and almost apologetic for appearing so bold. Her pussy lips are smooth between my fingers, warm and thickly swollen, slick with her wetness, slippery like melting Jello.

Rough his chest is, hairy and coarse as he rolls his body against my breasts, scraping them like fine sandpaper. His biceps, muscled and hard, support his body over me, his pecs well developed from years of lifting lumber and carrying women to bed. My fingers caress his face and its hard angles, scarred along one cheek by a harsh experience back when, bearded with stubble that bristles my face when he kisses me. There are jagged crags within him, a violence he harbors, which he now expresses between my legs. He thrusts into me with force and weight, his cock like steel piercing me and stretching my vagina to fit him, an intercourse of his rough dominance and the sheer hard power of his injection.