Blake 2

It has been hard for me to capture in words the true experience of that day, my physical exposure, and the submissive feelings of those hours. I have needed some time and distance to write this, though I have diary notes, as always, to remind me of what was said, what happened, and what didn’t happen.

---

I had been bound to the wall, then was taken down like a nude painting.

Now I sit again in the chair in the entryway. My legs are together and angled properly, as if there’s anything proper about any of this.

Blake is now doing the finish work on the lower part of the wall.

My experience is quietly sexual. You cannot put me in an undressed submissive posture with a man and expect me not to feel aroused. And it shows. But at the same time, it is not about sex exactly, as I do not expect it nor do I fear it. It’s just a slow eroticism, driven by my obvious availability, and my awareness of it.

He looks at me at times, and I feel his eyes. He is doing his job, yet watching me. He is polite in the watching, but quiet, and there’s much in his quiet I wonder about.

I wonder if it is more remarkable to him that I am a woman sitting here naked or that I am a submissive woman obeying someone else in order to be naked before him. Does he think I would do this if I weren’t made to?

He is a smart man, I am sure, but I doubt he thinks about such things. This is the psychology of a submissive. And, even then, probably this is a labyrinth only I get lost in.

No, he just looks over at me, my breasts and my pale pussy — I feel him drinking me. He seems about to speak, then just comes quiet.

---

There is something about his work, his hands, the business of handling metals and woods, nails and screws, tools with loud motors and batteries or cords. His is a world of solids, hard materials that have edges.

I have no hard edges. I sit across from him, soft flesh in hills and valleys, supple skin that slopes and folds, parts that swell and ebb like ocean tides. It is my nature too, my submissive desire being a kind of spiritual flesh, flowing like mercury, constantly oozing into new forms and spaces, begging by its nature to be constrained.

As he measures the baseboard in the entryway, it occurs to me that this man of precision steel edges could not actually measure my breasts. His ruler is too hard and straight, and his metal tape, though flexible, too crinkly awkward and imprecise to calculate my flesh and fullness.

There is some satisfaction in that for me: the thought that a slave like me can be caged but not contained, can be bound but not broken, can be mastered but not measured.

Ah, these are the things one thinks about when sitting naked with a carpenter.

---

Amanda has me sit in the easy chair as the two of them stand and analyze the task to be done. It’s actually quite simple: eye bolts on the underside of the chair to attach my cuffs to.

They start with my arms, and Amanda demonstrates me by pulling my left arm around and down. Blake eyes where my wrist falls toward the rear legs of the chair. “You will need some links of chain,” he says.

Amanda says that’s fine here, that she just didn’t want the clutter of chains in the entryway.

“Just five or six links, I’m guessing,” he says. “I can make it so the chains are attached to the bolts and are stowed there underneath out of sight. They can be already there when you bolt her in.”

“That would be super,” Amanda says, pleased.

He is talkative with her, it seems, and as he says “bolt her in,” I feel he is actually complicit with her in executing my slavery. This is his installation of hardware for my bondage, and I wonder if he is feeling Amanda’s unrestrained joy in all of this, and now beginning to channel it himself.

Blake has me draw both my arms around and behind, telling me to make sure I’m evenly seated and my arms are the same extension on either side. I stretch my arms backward, and my breasts jut out even more.

Amanda tells Blake he can position me himself. “You can touch her. She won’t break.” And he does, at one point squatting behind the back of the chair and taking both my hands in his, and eyeballing the position. He tells Amanda to look at me from the front to see that I’m sitting straight, which she does.

She winks at me, and I glare back at her (all this, really?), and she pronounces to Blake that I am straight. Which in some other context would be hilarious.

He marks the chair legs then walks around in front.

The intention is for my legs to hang over the padded arms of the chair, my ankles shackled to eye bolts underneath. Of course, for the work to be done now, it requires me to open my legs.

I have no reason to believe Amanda and Blake conspired on this ahead of time, but it seemed to me that my “positioning” in the chair was totally unnecessary, that Blake from the start could have simply turned the easy chair upside down and drilled the eye bolts into the chair legs in a matter of four minutes. It would have worked fine.

But Blake now stands in front. I am actually feeling giddy now, perhaps my tension earlier in the morning wearing off. The absurdity of it all has become humorous to me.

Blake actually tells me, “Open your legs.” And I immediately feel a flood of funny, an immediate rush of one-liners: “Not on a first date…” or “If I had a dollar every time a man said that to me…” or “You know, I’m not that kind of girl…” When, of course, obviously I am.

Maybe I’ve been smiling through this or maybe my pause has made him realize how that sounded. He tries again: “Put your legs over the chair’s arms and make it comfortable.”

I shake my head slightly and slowly, as if to say I can’t believe this, and, repressing a laugh, I lift my legs up and over, letting my ankles dangle on either side.

There’s nothing that says “comfort” more than splaying open your bare pussy in front of a carpenter man.

Amanda, standing over to the side, is the director of this all-day play. She is having her fun. She loves the control. She cast Blake as the leading man. If at first he seemed bland and stoic, turns out he has the cool reserve of Keanu Reeves.

Blake, having been given permission to touch me, slides his hand under my thigh and shifts my leg further forward. His hand is rough and warm. His touch floods me. He asks if that’s comfortable, and in all my scandalous exposure, it again seems funny to me, given my Blake-sized crevice yawning before him. I want to say something snarky. I start to, but Amanda picks up on it, and gives me a steely look that says behave yourself.

The director wants the scene a certain way.

“Yes,” I finally say. “Comfortable.”

He makes marks on the inside of the chair legs then tells me to stand up and to the side.

I do so, and Blake flips the chair over and drills eye bolts into the legs in about four minutes.

---

We are well into the afternoon and we have the wet bar to do yet. No one has had lunch. Amanda offers Blake a sandwich, and he says that sounds good. I beg off, asking Amanda if I might lie down, take a short nap. She wonders if I’m feeling OK, and I am fine, just tired, for some reason. I know when I get giddy and everything gets funny to me, I am at the edge of tired.

I nap but do not dream, or such as I remember. My awake reality is itself enough like a dream today.

---

I re-emerge from my nap in my short robe, which purpose is not really to conceal me for a few additional seconds in an otherwise nude day, but to give me a sense of being a model for a shoot. Not sure that’s working, though.

Amanda and Blake are behind the wet bar, and she is trying to explain to him her idea. She sees me, waves me over. My robe comes off, and I stand at what now is a familiar position, my legs apart, my torso bent at the waist, and my breasts hanging down on the bartender side.

“You see,” Amanda says, “she’s the right fit for the bar.”

“So you want to chain her into it,” Blake says.

“Yes. At the base, and I’m thinking a hook chain from her collar to the bartender counter on this side.”

“How bout her hands and arms?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know.”

I am aware Blake’s conversation with Amanda is easy and natural. It seems he now has become more fully Amanda’s partner in planning my domination. I wonder if he is dominant too, or if it’s Amanda’s natural woo that has beguiled him.

They arrange my arms in different ways, as if I’m a Raggedy-Ann doll. Blake suggests just locking my wrists together behind my back. Amanda explains how she likes the possibility of my flat back being a surface for drink glasses.

Blake goes on a while on an idea of constructing a tray that would straddle my back, for a firmer and steadier surface. His words are coming fast now, as he’s in his element. Maybe it’s because he feels good with Amanda, but more likely he’s excited about solving a woodworking problem. Again, he is complicit in my being used, but he does not think in terms of flesh and girl and curves, just angles and oak.

I find myself wondering if he is different when he’s not working, when he’s dating, when he’s in bed with someone.

They have me stretch my arms out along the length of the bar top. Blake says the bartender will have to reach over my arms with glasses, not slide them, and there’s likely to be spills. “That’s OK,” Amanda says, “she can be spilled on.”

---

Stretched out along the wet bar, I tune them out. Their voices fade into mumbles.

The account of that Sunday is only partly about Blake. I realize it’s actually much more about Amanda.

She has mashed two people together in a kind of experiment.

She has that rule over me but not him. Yet he has gradually allowed himself to be pulled into this scene beyond the specific functions of hammer and nails. She has not only won him over, but she has gotten him to join the planning committee. He is brainstorming with her now in pursuit of my sexual use. God.

As for me, her intentions have been all over the place, confounding me. Of course, everything serves her domination — the whole day is about submerging me in submissive experience. And well done. Check that off the list. And I know there’s an element of her wanting my public exposure and to a stranger. Check, check.

But I don’t know what else she expects. Is my day-long nakedness in front of a man to mean something more? It has made me feel objectified and sexualized, for sure. Is it some sort of conditioning of me? Am I supposed to get used to it? For I certainly have not — I am just as tremulous and vulnerable-feeling now at the end of the day as I was this morning.

Does she intend for Blake to have me? Is there some sexual outcome to this day? There has been this tension for six hours now, which is a nervousness that something will happen and also a fear that something won’t.

I decide Amanda would not hesitate to give me to him. I think she would. In fact she’s almost dying to. But I doubt that she would engineer that for him. She would think about how he would feel later, about our future work and relationship with him. She would not assume that level of goddess control over his life. I don’ think. Or maybe not yet.

But he is enjoying himself now — this creative partnership with her, my submissive presence all day, my open pussy and my hanging breasts as I assume a humiliating position across the wet bar. He is drinking in his pleasure, and that will be enough for her. At least for a while.

---

Amanda now is talking with Blake about a bench step behind the bar. “So a person can be positioned at the same level as Shae’s mouth,” she says. I expect her to say more, to be more explicit, to explain she wants people to have access to me for blow jobs — but she doesn’t need to.

Blake nods and says that even with a bench step, the guy would be distanced because of the bartender counter. “But here’s what might happen instead.” Blake goes to the end of the bar and demonstrates. He lifts himself and kneels on the bartender counter. “It could be like this.”

Amanda nods, but she’s not liking it. She’s still thinking.

Blake says, “With her, especially made like this, guys will find a way.”

“Yes,” Amanda replies, “but the whole presentation is about making access to her easy, not with obstacles… The whole look is meant to be an invitation… Is it possible to cut out the center part of the surface on this side, so someone could stand in the gap?”

Blake eyes the bartender side. He kneels down and looks underneath. “Yes, I think so. I’ll have to angle the cut. Otherwise you’ll have sharp edges. I can round them too, like the other corners. Re-finish, of course.”

Amanda agrees. “Let me think about this cutout thing.”

---

Blake finally sets about putting in the eye bolts. I move to make room for him to work. “No,” he says, “I need you in place.”

I’m not sure he does, but I obediently resume my position. He grabs his measuring tape from his waist belt and goes to the bartender side, measuring the full length of the bar. He does math in his head apparently, then measures the halfway point, the exact middle. He marks that with blue tape. He then has me stand in that center point.

He circles the bar again, now is behind me. Again his rough hands are on my hips. I feel the front of his jeans against my ass. “Lean forward. Keep your head in the same position,” he says, “but now spread your legs to the distance you had before.” His hand now comes inside the upper part of my thigh, inches from my pussy, and it makes me start. He pushes my leg out. I adjust.

Now he is touching me more freely than before. His hand then goes to my other thigh, pushing my leg in place. I am standing upright, but he puts his hands on my hips and instructs me to lean across the bar top. I obey. He wants to see where my waist bends. So he says. He has me repeat this, bending over at my waist.

He says to Amanda, “She has to be as natural in this as possible. Otherwise she won’t last long.”

Amanda is behind me, so I can’t see her. I imagine she is nodding. And enjoying this immensely.

He comes to the bartender side and has me lean over again. My breasts slide against the bar top edge, then tumble over the side. He reaches under and feels the bar top edge as it frames the lower curve of my breasts. His fingers slide along my breasts where they meet the wood. “Can you lean over so there’s more space here?’

I try again and there is a smidge more space, which is better. He feels that space, and my flesh once again.

Blake has me stretch out my arms, and he measures points under the bar top.

It is late now in the afternoon, but he is taking his time.

---

Finally I am dismissed from the wet bar, but Amanda has me stay present, standing, and still naked.

Again, installing the eye bolts is relatively swift and easy. They are all hidden, except for the ones in front, which will be painted a dark color that will blend in.

Once installed, Amanda wants to see me locked in.

Once again I assume this position now so familiar it’s part of my physical memory, and I am finally, firmly, attached to the massive wood of the wet bar.

This is what Amanda has longed to see for so many months, and along with the entryway and the easy chair, it gives her a playground for her incarceration of me, bondage opportunities that are organic to the house, open and part of living spaces, party spaces, not sequestered in a dark bondage room.

Amanda and Blake talk more. About this and other things, other projects. I remain in bar bondage, all bare flesh being ingloriously viewed as they talk.

But if I have been skeptical about each of these projects, the preposterous and audacious concepts that they are, I now, locked in, feel strangely comforted. I can do nothing else. I have no obligations, no means with which to perform, no expectations I can possibly fulfill.

All that can happen is what would be done to me, what way in which I might be used, what method by which I would be enjoyed.

Submissive pleasure flows in this.