Late this morning Amanda took me out to the cafe, our frequent weekly routine. I hadn’t had much time with Amanda since Wednesday, and this was most welcome, even though I was still in my funk from the past several days.
She decided to allow me to wear a top, not that there would be some realistic option to have me sit topless in the cafe downtown. Though I put nothing past her. As it happened, she nearly did so anyway.
Amanda had me wear one of her own floral A-line skirts. The blouse was a simple white cotton V-neck button-down.
But she didn’t allow me to wear the blouse until we got there, keeping me topless in the car. She drove us downtown, finding a parking spot on the side road around the corner from the cafe. It was only then she allowed me to put on the blouse. But in the passenger seat I had trouble angling my right arm through thee arm hole, and eventually I said, “Fuck it,” and got out of the car on this residential street, my breasts bare and bouncing for anyone to see. It was a perfect metaphor for the crap life I’ve been living. Then standing, I was able to crawl into the blouse, finally.
Amanda came around and stood in front of me. “Relax, girl,” she said. “Calm down. You are so wound tight.”
I sighed deeply. “OK.”
Amanda stretched the panels of the blouse over my breasts and buttoned it up in front. She turned me around, unzipped the skirt in back, tucked in the blouse all around under the waistband, and zipped me up again. She pulled my hair back from my face. “Let’s get some coffee.”
It was then I knew she’d read my frustration blog from last night. I don’t know how — something in her tone, her way with me just then — but I just knew.
The cafe was fairly busy inside, but we got the corner booth with the curved bench seat, our favorite spot. Casey the owner came by, made small talk, and took our order for coffee and scones. He has a waitress working for him, but he always serves us himself.
Amanda said then she’d read my blog. “Sorry you’re frustrated. I really am. You broke your wrist. That sucks. I get it, that life is a really a hard patch for you right now. You have every reason to write out your frustration, scream, cry. Do that. Get it out. But then, Shae, get over it. Move on. If you let this go further you’ll cross a line, and then we’ll be in slave punishment hell again. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”
I said nothing at first, just looked at her. She said nothing more then, waiting for me to deal with what she’d said. I bit my lip and was close to tears. I settled into a pouty silence.
Amanda said nothing. Our silence dragged on.
I knew she was right. I was flirting at the edge of a meltdown. SHe was doing an intervention. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.” Then more silence as I tried to come up with words. “It’s not that I can’t handle the injury,” I said. “It’s that I can’t be a good slave to you and Master while I’m like this. I can’t serve you. Serving is what I do, my only value, and I can’t do it. And then Jocelyn comes by and talks about what a proper slave must know and do, and I know I am not trained in the way she thinks is necessary, and all the while I can barely serve you drinks on the patio — I have to make a half dozen trips. This cast is just plain ugly, neither you or Master K will even touch me, you think I’ll break or something, and so again I’m failing at what I am and do… and now, damn it, I’m just repeating what I wrote last night.”
Amanda said nothing, waiting for me to be finished. Then she leaned over and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss, soft, warm.
Casey appeared with our coffees and scones, and stopped in his tracks when he saw us. Amanda didn’t stop for him, her lips remaining on mine, and she kissed me more. Finally, she pulled back. “Shae,” she whispered, “you are beautiful and you are desired.”
I nodded. It was one of those frustration sets that had felt monumental and deep for days, but when I finally blurted it out last night in a post and now at the cafe with Amanda, it started to shrink in size.
“Thank you,” I whispered.