I was conflicted about going back to the cafe and seeing Casey again after my topless turn there last Saturday.
It wasn’t that I dreaded going. I kind of wanted to see him again. And there is something about being exposed and returning to the scene of the crime. Well, that’s being too flippant. Truth is, there’s something else inside me about this.
I live a life now in which I am more frequently revealed and undressed in front of people I don’t know. It is simply part of my life. Some slaveries are more public; some dominants more into the public exposure of their submissives. It is its own special kind of control, I believe, maybe sort of a benchmark of a submissive’s commitment.
My submission experiences early on involved public places from time to time, and then my transition from sub to slave, at least a year in the making, culminated in a rather notable public scene, which I have refrained from writing about, not because it was traumatic but because it was so precious. My dominants, including Master Michael, and now Mistress Amanda, are very inclined toward public exposures of me, and Mistress has said she intends to do me publicly more often as time goes on. She was planning a return visit to the park when I broke my wrist.
Someone asked me if I am used to being exposed in public, that is, if I have gotten accustomed to it. The answer is no, not at all. I may have some limited experience with this, but it’s not (yet) all that common for me. And I’m not sure anyone ever “gets used” to it.
The important thing is that this is not just about exposure of my body, in this case, sitting with my breasts bared for Casey to gaze at. This is also a baring of my submissive status, my slavery to another, which has its own sweet humiliation in the truth of it. And when the scene is longer, as it was Saturday, it is also a sharing of me sexually, a revealing of my sexuality to another, and to a degree, a participation of another with me in a kind of sexual intimacy.
None of this on Saturday was bad-feeling to me. It was actually exciting, arousing, deeply touching me submissively. But while I’m a slave, I am also a woman, and there are dynamics to public sharing like this that would deeply affect any woman and that affect me likewise, something that I need to process.
There is a difference between my being exposed to people inside the lifestyle versus those outside in the vanilla world. I was topless before Jocelyn when she visited, but that was a different experience. I still felt exposed, but I knew I was understood as the slave that I am. In front of college guys on the hiking trail or the pizza delivery guy it’s different, as they have no context for a submissive woman being required to do that. Even so, in those circumstances, they probably just saw it as a dare or a fling.
With Casey, it was different and more — a long morning of sitting bare-breasted before him during his multiple visits to our booth. This “long play” was what Amanda wanted to happen. Over time, I’m sure Casey saw my subservience to Amanda in it, then observing my sexual response from it, and finally settling into watching me for his own sexual pleasure.
I probably need to parse in a more precise way what the terms “embarrassment” and “humiliation” and “shame” mean to me. I don’t know if I feel embarrassed much these days. Humiliation is more related to people knowing or learning that I am a sex slave and my looking into their eyes as they evaluate and judge me in that. But ultimately, with Casey, I don’t think my confusion is about those things.
I think it’s more that he has come to mean something to me in my visits there on my own as a writer and frequent patron. I’m not sure what that is. I don’t think we’ve had much conversation along the way, so I’m not sure why I feel that. I probably am imposing a significance onto him that he doesn’t feel himself. I think I’m able to sit in the dual truth that I am an obedient sub/slave in a corner booth on a Saturday morning and I also am a writer who sips coffee at his cafe on weekdays. I just hope Casey can handle both realties of me. I don’t know. But it’s something like that.
So I went to the cafe on Thursday morning, hopeful for a brief conversation and some follow up with him, steeled for whatever his response would be. Anything would be OK, I told myself.
I was waited on by the waitress he’s hired. Her name is Ramona. She told me Casey was taking the day off.