football

(Thank you for patience as I had to work out a few things in my account of Master Michael’s Sunday afternoon football party. Some names have had to be changed to protect identities, and I had to get an approval to post.) 

I am sitting on the lap of a man I don’t know. His name is Mr. Richards, and he has his hand under my skirt, sliding to the inside of my left thigh. I do as I’ve been taught, accepting his explorations and answering his questions about my slaveness. He is new to my Master’s circle. He seems to have some understanding of D/s, but perhaps has never before encountered this level of it, much less a girl who is a real slave.

This afternoon is a get-together at the Skyway house for Master with some of his friends and colleagues. Bourbon, conversation, football. And me.
Master Michael loves these kinds of small-batch parties. He stands in the corner chatting with Mr. Karras, his hand palming a Glencairn glass of Blanton’s.

Master looks my way and our eyes meet. He winks at me in the middle of a sentence, approving. My afternoon submission to Mr. Richards is by proxy. I am pleasing my Master by this. And that makes me happy.

This idea of “proxy” has become a powerful thing in my slave psyche. Master empowers another to have me in some way, to some degree that Master determines. It conveys to this other person some authority and a range of rights to me, my body, and my sex. There are limits that Master communicates and manages with the proxy, limits that protect me, especially with a first-timer. Even so, I am submitting to another person, often a stranger. For me, this becomes more than a physical and sexual experience, though it is that, but also a spiritual thing. I please my Master by taking care of his friends. I like to think, then, that my submission enriches others’ souls.

Then again, it’s just a football party. This is a friendly crowd. Mr. Karras, and there are Mr. Jim and Mr. Farrar as well. Other than Mr. Richards, these other men know me, what I am, and to some extent, what I do. They call me “slave girl,” most commonly, or maybe “slave Shae.” All of them have experienced me in intimate ways before, and one of them knows me, let’s just say, really well.

Mr. Richards is asking me about my college education — my interests in school, my degree in business marketing, and my minor in writing. It feels too much like a job interview, except I’ve never had an interviewer ask me questions while his hand was resting on the inside of my thigh a couple of inches from my pussy. I sense that Mr. Richards is tap dancing (or finger tapping) until he can figure out how to ask me more intimate questions. He’s a little lost, frankly. Maybe Master hasn’t brought him up to speed?

I know that for a man to be with a real slave can be somewhat confusing — I am not his wife or girlfriend or date or mistress or prostitute —perhaps roles a man might have experience with, giving him a context for what to say. A purely submissive woman, a slave, shared by proxy of his boss and mine, now perched on his lap, is maybe new territory for him. I don’t know. But it isn’t usually like this with a newbie.

When I became a slave and began to be shared, I was somewhat surprised I had little resistance to being touched or fondled by men (or women, although in Master’s circles it’s primarily men). It probably is a testimony to my innate submissiveness, a readiness to be dominated even by friends and colleagues of Master Michael, the proxies. I don’t know why. I know it sounds to other women like a little piece of hell. But not me. I don’t flinch or tense when one in Master’s circle feels me. Not that I am always longing for it but usually I do enjoy it. And sometimes I am eager for the touch and maybe more. Then my challenge is not to become seducing or directive with my body. That would not be submissive. It isn’t about what I want, but by what Master’s friend wants. The proxy has to lead and direct. But the problem is that Mr. Richards has gotten stalled somehow.

He is, it seems, about a dozen years years older than Master Michael, who is fifteen years older than me. So Mr. Richards is likely around sixty. His age is reflected in his face lines and graying hair, but otherwise he is trim and fit. An attractive man really. One positive thing about my slavery is that it is has been an equalizer of sorts in moderating what had been some preferences and biases I had about people. I’m not sure, before my becoming a slave, what I would have thought about being intimate with a so much older man — the situation didn’t really come up — but I likely would have thought it to be undesirable somehow. But in my slavery I have come to see people less transactionally, and more missionally. Mr. Richards is important to me in this moment not because of what he will contribute to me and become in my life, but because of what I might provide and give to him. And right now what I am giving him is a pound of my flesh along my inner thigh and an experience for him of perhaps a simple joy that his hand can rest so close to my sex.

Now, I am not a sports person, so I only know that in a particular moment of the game, a player — interestingly named Girley (though now I know it’s spelled Gurley) — scored a touchdown. And I know it because three of the men jump with joy, including Mr. Richards, which sends me falling a bit awkwardly off his lap.

So he catches me, wrapping his arm around my front to keep me from tumbling to the side, and this accidentally thrusts his hand inside of my wrap top, landing it firmly on my left breast. He pulls me back onto his lap, and he apologizes.

“Mr. Richards,” I say. “You don’t need to apologize.”

He nods, pulling his hand out of my top, but not before giving my breast a slight feel.

There is a football break. A quarter? Or halftime? Not sure, but Master says to me that everyone needs another round of drinks, so I get up from Mr. Richards’ lap and become bartender girl for the next fifteen minutes.

It is enough time for the other men to connect with me. Or touch me, if they wish. When I serve Mr. Karras his vodka gimlet, he smiles at me familiarly, and asks, “How’s my favorite slut doing?”

“I’m happy, Mr, Karras. I’m really happy,”

“You getting enough?”

I roll my eyes, smile, and ask if I can do anything more for him.

“Yes, but I think you’re preoccupied.” He smiles. “Another time.”

I nod.

Master Michael would break out the Pappy’s later, so Mr. Farrar opts for another Blantons, neat, and Mr. Jim asks for a healthy pour of Weller. With Master Michael, I’ve learned my bourbons. I pour their drinks at the wet bar, then bring the tray to each of them, leaning over to serve, and asking if there’s anything else. One cups my ass cheek through my skirt.

I go back to Mr. Richards and ask what I can get for him. He wants a Makers. He seems a bit forlorn, but doesn’t know I will come back to him. Again, I think he isn’t quite aware of the program.

Finally, I go to Master Michael and ask him what I can get for him. He waves me into the kitchen. “Good girl,” he says.

I am beaming.

“Are you comfortable with him?”

“Yes. “He’s a gentleman. Sweet. But he doesn’t know what to do with me.”

Master Michael nods. “I’ll have another Blanton’s.”

I reach for the vase-like bottle and pour him a double. “I don’t mean to neglect anyone else,” I say. My way of saying that I’m trying to be a good slave, Sir.

“They know. They’re OK. I’ll say a word to Richards. He was a late add, and I didn’t have time for the talk. I was assuming the others had coached him,” Master says. “Put on your copper collar. He and I will walk you in the woods.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I go to my bedroom and open the right drawer of one dresser, a drawer that holds an assortment of collars — fabric, leather, and metal. I reach for the copper one, which is heavy, thick, and has a wide two-inch band. I install it around my neck, clicking the clasp shut, and turning it around so the big O-ring is in front. Looking in the mirror, I am again grateful that Master hasn’t had it engraved with the word “Slave” or “Slut” or the like. Not because of the added humiliation of that, but just because I think that’s cheesy. And redundant.

I actually like this collar because of its weight. The thickness of the metal adds a heaviness to it, making it feel strong and substantial. It makes me feel my slavery more. In a way, this ring of heavy metal is a constant reminder, as I walk around in it, of the “burden” of my slavery. It’s a wearable meaning.

I return to the kitchen. Mr. Richards is talking with Master Michael. Master pauses in mid-sentence and looks at me, beckoning me to come close. He fingers my copper collar. “I like this one.”

I don’t know if he’s referring to me or the collar. I think the collar. And now I see he has a leash in his other hand, heavy chain link that matches the industrial style of the collar. He attaches it to my O-ring, then hands the leash to Mr. Richards.

It seems they’ve had the talk. Mr. Richards tells me to kneel right there on the kitchen floor.

“Yes, Sir,” I say to him, granting to him my submission. I kneel, my hands automatically going behind my back in a slave position.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

I do.

Mr. Richards looks around the kitchen. Master Michael walks to the far counter and reaches for a bowl of fruit. He hands a banana to Mr. Richards, saying, “I think you were looking for this.”

Mr. Richards sticks it, unpeeled, into my mouth, telling me to hold it there. He tugs on my leash. Tells me to stand. I obey.

Master says, “I think we can make up for lost, time, Jim.” He spreads my wrap top and pulls out my breasts.

Mr. Richards leads me back into the great room, my mouth stuffed with a banana and my breasts falling out of my top. He pauses at the front as a kind of grand entrance.

The football game has started up again, but the men all look over at me. They applaud. They have comments, but I don’t remember them all. They have seen me, something like this, before. Not to say I’m old hat to them. They will observe my submission with pleasure, interest. And commentary. But the experience of watching a girl in her slavery is not new to them. One of them says to Mr. Richards, “Hey, Jim, I think she’s happy to see you,” nodding at my nipples, which are flushed, pink, and erect.

Mr. Richards leads me to his end of the sofa. He sits, commands me to kneel between his legs, facing him, my back to the TV. Again I assume my slave position. He continues to hold my leash in his hand.

He is more in control, and this feels better to me. Before, when I was sitting on his lap, there was such ambiguity. I felt it was either a creepy job interview or a strange date with Santa. Now it is clearer because I am in my slave place. He is the dominant man by proxy. I much prefer this. I know what I am and how to be. I spend much of the rest of the football game kneeling in front of Mr. Richards.

Here’s the difference between a submissive like me and normal women. I love this. Normal women are offended by it. That’s OK. I know there are all kinds of social and political objections. I don’t defend myself.

At one point, I am drooling from the banana in my mouth. Men seem to like some of that imagery — me impaled by a phallic symbol, a body function I’m helpless to control, my saliva dripping onto my breasts. But at another point it’s just disgusting. Thankfully, Mr. Richards finally withdraws it from my mouth, wrapping it in a couple of napkins and setting it aside.

Some of the other men have their feels. Mr. Farrar is sitting next to Mr. Richards, and periodically reaches over to cup my left breast, lifting it up, then letting go and watching it bounce. Mr. Karras one time walks behind me, stopping to lift my skirt, inserts his hand below, and slides his finger right over my wet labia. I catch my breath.

At one point, Mr. Richards tells me to turn around between his legs and lean my head back into his crotch. He pulls my hair to get me into the position he wants. He tells me to open my mouth. I obey. He tells me to cup my breasts and hold them up. I obey. Men watch.

Later, Master Michael walks behind the couch, behind Mr. Richards. I look up at him. He winks. He approves. I love him for doing that. I love him period, but that’s another blog or two or three. Sigh.

So there’s more to tell here. And I will. But I feel I need to say here that if I were writing a short story, this would maybe have a different ending. But this is yesterday, the football party, and real life doesn’t always have the explosive ending.

Master Michael would never allow a newbie to literally have sex with me the first time. The initiate gets to control me to an extent, but it doesn’t include actually fucking me. In time, as Master builds his confidence in someone, they will have other times with me. I imagine Master made that clear to Mr. Richards in the kitchen.

I guess the game ended in overtime? Again, my football knowledge is zero. It was news to me there was a second game.

Master waves Mr. Richards out to the patio. “Let’s walk her,” he says, as if I’m a puppy. “We’ll take the back woods.”

Mr. Richards, looking around, asks if neighbors can see.

“Yes,” Master says. “But they don’t seem to mind.” In fact there are two neighbor houses who can possibly see, but they are far off to the east and southwest. We have a large back expanse of yard. Everything is far off. Though I wouldn’t put it past Master Michael to send the neighbors pairs of binoculars.

It is unusually warm in Colorado today. Master feels my wrap top is now unnecessary, so he peels it off. “Walk her,” he says to Mr. Richards.

So away from the patio we go, me leashed and topless, and Mr. Richards the temporary owner of a real live girl. It’s warmer today, maybe, but not a summer day, by any means. Not quite sixty maybe. I feel the air, cool, around my breasts. I shiver.

The men walk ahead. I am on the leash in tow. Mr. Richards frequently looks back at me, as he and Master Michael talk. He is watching the bounce of my breasts, I suspect.

Much of slavery is simply being the object. And being OK with that.

Mr. Richards is asking questions about dominance and slavery. Some men would care less, thinking only of how they get to use me. Mr. Richards is actually curious about the psychology of it all. They talk about me in the third person. Master is doing this intentionally. He knows it pushes me deeper into my sub space. Mr. Richards is fascinated and learning, enjoying his first steps into the forest of D/s, the permission to objectify and sexualize a girl like me, and the outrageous incorrectness of it all.

He says, “This has to be humiliating to her.”

“It is,” Master says.

“But she enjoys that.”

“In a roundabout way. She feels humiliation in the way any other person does. It’s shaming. But her submissiveness also interprets it differently, as becoming her value to me, you, others. It is both degrading and valuing at the same time. And in that, it arouses her. Look.”

We come to a stop maybe a hundred yards into the woods. I’ll describe this forested area behind the Skyway house another time, as it’s a common place for Master and me. Open, yet private.

Master orders me to take off my skirt.

I obey, unzipping my skater skirt in back. I step out of it. I stand before both men naked.

Mr. Richards’ eyes drift down my body. He sees my pussy, bald, moist.

“It’s OK. Touch her,” Master Michael says.

Mr. Richards pulls my leash, tugging me to him. When I am close, he cups my breasts and he fondles me. His hands roam behind, and one gentles my ass cheek. He leans down to my face. I look up. He kisses me. I submit my lips to his. His tongue enters, likely the only penetration he will enjoy with me today, which I am now regretting. His kiss is warm and good. He is a good man, I think. A slave has desires too.

Mr. Richards turns me to one side, and his hand slides between my thighs. His index finger creases my slit. I am very wet. He looks over to Master Michael and says, “Wow.”

Master nods, and Mr. Richards slips his finger into my vagina. I open my eyes wide and “Oh!” escapes my lips. I am not expecting that.

Master addresses me: “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Mr. Richards.” My voice is weak His finger is still inside me.

I remember him then embracing me from behind, his other arm wrapping around, cupping my breast, flicking my nipple. I lean back into him. He nuzzles my ear, kissing my lobe, and whispering something that I don’t quite understand.

That would be all this football Sunday. Master allowed me to put my skirt back on, and Mr. Richards led me on my leash back to the house. Football was still on. The men made comments when I came back in, but quickly turned their attentions back to the TV. I served another round of drinks.

At the end of the game, someone won, someone lost.

After, the men each find their moment of time with me. Not long, because Monday is a work day, but time for a quick word, and a bit of touching, feeling, and maybe a kiss. Whatever they desire.

Mr. Richards is the last to leave. He thanks Master Michael “for everything,” and then kisses me goodbye.

People think that slavery is non-stop sex, but it isn’t. A master is much like a conductor leading an orchestra, balancing passages of quiet with passages of climax.

There will be another movement in the symphony.