blake and things

Amanda’s brainstorm — movable flower baskets in the entryway — was prompted, she said to me last week, by something she read and something she heard.

Back in September she read about a dom who converted almost every room in his house into an opportunity for bondage, discipline, or humiliation. This man had a refrigerator fitted with straps so he could bind his slave girl to it for periods of time. He had a coffee table to which he could tie her in some way, and wall mounts for her in various rooms. He had a way of strapping her to the top of the washing machine in the laundry room.

Amanda was taken with the idea — but for a different purpose. “Less about bondage,” she said, “and more about display.” Apparently as we looked at houses to buy, she was also looking through this lens. I never knew.

Then in early November, Amanda was talking with Valerie, a domme and lifestyle friend. Valerie spoke of decorating a particular room creatively, such as to cleverly conceal its bondage uses and present it to her vanilla friends as a lovely normal entertaining space. Valerie said she “had a guy” who was a carpenter and handyman and did this work for her.

All of this made Amanda think about a specific possibility for me in our house. And it put her in touch with “the guy.” Blake.

Amanda has never been big on the “bondage room” thing as Kevin has.

Kevin sees the bondage room as his private BDSM universe, one in which he can “B&D” me to his heart’s content. Within the privacy of this place, he can manhandle me as he wishes, that unique kind of foreplay of his which leads him to his edge and his power-fucking of me.

While he has shared with his closest friends and colleagues his dom lifestyle, Kevin keeps his bondage room experiences with me mostly private. He doesn’t want to be on display. For Kevin, the bondage room is a place set apart, almost hidden, where he has me and does me.

Amanda, on the other hand, sees her dominance and my submission as importantly public. Our D/s life together cannot, should not, so she believes, be contained within a private room. She wants to be known by others for what she is and likewise wants me to be known — and seen — in my submission, if not my humiliation, publicly.

So this notion of a house that can display her dominance of me to friends and guests and visitors was especially appealing to Amanda. In her vision, I become the accent piece in the visual presentation, the distinctive artwork, a kind of performance decor for others to experience and delight in — or perhaps ogle and pity.

I have long lived in this concept of being Amanda’s artwork. I have written about it as a theme in her domme administration of me. I am palpably aware of it at times and the way she handles me. And in this latest period of her shaping my body to her specs, I am even more literally a figure sculpted in her image.

Amanda now has a home in which her artwork can be displayed in creative ways. At the same time, as she made clear to me, she doesn’t want the place to look like a “Halloween house.” It needs to be comfortable, inviting, warm. Not threatening. She wants our lifestyle to be seen and known, but she doesn’t want the house to look like a dungeon.

So she got to thinking of creative ways to conceal the method of her madness. And she pondered the best room of the house in which to try this. Naturally, she thought immediately of the entryway, the most public place in the house, as where to start.

This is where Blake came in.

When Amanda first revealed to me the mounts in the entryway and hung me there, she cryptically referred to this man, “Blake,” who had helped her construct this.

I hadn’t known of any man named Blake in our acquaintance, so he was a surprise to me.

She had contacted him two weeks before Thanksgiving. They met, and she described her idea for the entryway. Almost immediately he told her how he could construct it to make it look natural. She said she hoped to get it done during the time I was away in Pennsylvania with my mother. His schedule was full but had a cancellation last minute, and he was able to do the work on Tuesday morning before Thanksgiving.

So that’s how that went down.

I met Blake for the first time last weekend.

He is twenty-five years old, though looks a bit younger — attractive, tall with short black hair, gangly with long arms and legs, sinewy in build.

Amanda invited him to lunch with us when we were downtown last week going through our paces on a normal business day. Blake joined us a little late, and apologized. He’d had a job that took longer than he’d expected. “No worries,” Amanda said with a smile, and then she introduced me: “This is my slave, Shae.”

Blake didn’t blink an eye at the nature of my introduction. It was clear he’s been in and around our world before. He smiled, reached out his hand, and said, “Good to meet you, slave Shae.” Then he added, “So you’re the lucky recipient of our little installation.”

I nodded and smiled back, blushing a little.

As we talked over lunch I was struck by how intelligent he was. If he looked younger than his age, he sounded mature, well in advance of his years. He spoke as an artist speaks, in the language of design and shape and color. His interest is not just building things but creating beauty and interest in unique ways. He’s an artisan.

Amanda talked with him about some other ideas for the house, not lifestyle related but just some general remodeling changes she has in mind. She mentioned she would want him back to “finish the entryway,” which has to do with installing two more eye bolts at ankle length near the baseboard. Apparently I need to be there for the proper measurement. (So it seems that having my neck and wrists attached to the wall with steel is not enough, that my legs and feet have way too much freedom yet.)

Beyond that, there was nothing more to our lunch. Blake seemed nice.

So it was yesterday. Amanda said to me that we’ll need to schedule those measurements when we get back from Pennsylvania. She said some things about wanting the eye bolts to be able to accommodate several different heights of high heels. She added that for the measurements, she’ll have me nude.

“I don’t see,” I challenged, “how my wearing clothes has any bearing on the proper measurement of my ankle placement.” I don’t know why, but my words came out sounding officious and defiant.

Amanda glared at me. It was her “I’ll do with you what I want to do with you look.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course,” I quickly said.

“Consider it a belated Christmas present,” she said with an edge in her voice.

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied, trying to find my proper place and tone with her again. I had misstepped and now tried to get back into marching position. “Of course, I’m always happy to be a present for you in that way… or in any way you wish.” Now I was sounding awkwardly fawning and ingratiating, and I knew she knew it.

“Not me, silly,” Amanda said. “A Christmas present for Blake.”

It sunk in. Sometimes I’m really dense.

6 thoughts on “blake and things

  1. Your blog is one that I am most curious about and relate to most. All your posts turn me on, and I could imagine myself in your position. At the same time, you give such great insight into your life as a slave and in your dynamic with your Amanda. I love this idea of having places everywhere in the house that could be used for bondage and other things. It’s creative in a fun, and probably useful way, from what it sounds like :p

    Liked by 2 people

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