Saturday morning. The landscaping crew arrived at 9:30. They’re scheduled for 10:00, but got here early. It was the four men from before and a new addition, a fifth man, Marco.
Amanda kept me in the house until just before 11:00. She had me prepare a pitcher of iced lemonade on a tray with tumblers.
In another kind of preparation, Amanda had applied suntan lotion to my breasts. It had some gloss to it and gave them a bit of shine, which I’m sure was intentional on her part. She debated putting the silicone O-rings on my nipples, but decided not to. As the day started, she’d had me in my red skater skirt, but I reminded her that was what I wore the last time the landscapers were here. “They’re not going to be looking at your skirt,” she said, but then thought again, deciding to have me change into my orange linen skirt instead. She also had me wearing tall heels and the copper slave collar.
Amanda then had me set out the lemonade on the the patio serving bar.
The men are re-doing our brick pathway, so they were in the back not front yard, although maybe fifty yards up the hill beyond the patio. Still, when they heard the lemonade glasses clinking, they saw us, and some of them stopped, squinted against the sun, and looked.
Amanda called them to take a break and waved them back to join us on the patio.
Amanda had been precise in her instructions for me. She wanted me to stand apart from her on the patio, beside, not in back of, the serving bar. She herself stood close to the sliding glass doors to the house.
I swear she scripts these things in her head. As the men rambled in from the yard, they glanced at her, but gazed at me. They couldn’t look at both of us side by side at the same time. Now I knew why she had us apart. Without Amanda next to me, it was only me they were looking at, and I felt the full heat of their eyes on my naked breasts. Landscape workers have no compunction about staring.
That’s what Amanda wanted me to experience.
My every instinct, of course, was to cover up. But there was no option for that. I had to stand in my embarrassment. This was what I was there for. I blushed. My nipples grew perky — O-rings not needed.
As they sifted onto the patio, two of the guys had smirky smiles on their faces. One mouthed to another a silent “Wow.” They seemed to glance at Amanda repeatedly to check to see if this was really OK, them looking at me. She stood with a smile, remaining close to the house, watching the scene before her. One of the men said something I couldn’t hear, and another laughed at what was said. Seth, the head of the crew, was on the phone and was the last to get to the patio. He ended his call, turned, and seeing me, opened his eyes wide.
Amanda invited them to have something to drink. “By the way, you remember my slave girl from last time you were here. Her name is Shae. She’ll pour your drink. We have ice water and lemonade.”
It felt like what it felt like, and I’ll talk about that in a moment, but unlike the pizza night before, I was not outside the experience looking in. For whatever reason, this time I stayed in the moment. I felt objectified and sexualized, but that was the purpose, and I stayed in the moment.
It was in Amanda’s script not to have the drinks already poured for the taking. She wanted me to pour one by one, and for each of the guys to walk up to me to receive it from me. She wanted them to have close-ups.
As I poured each glass, I managed to address the men by name. I’d remembered them all, though I had to think a moment to recall Colin’s name. The new crew guy, Marco, introduced himself and shook my hand. Seth politely said, “Good to see you again.”
So Amanda by then had walked into the middle of the patio and was in conversation with some of them. When I finished pouring drinks, she called to me loudly: “Shae, I forgot the cookies. Would you bring the cookies out?”
Of course, she didn’t actually forget the cookies. She wanted me to walk in and out of the patio in my high heels, making my breasts ripple and bounce in front of this audience. This is where the night before I had been snarky and pissive-aggressive.
Instead I said, “Yes, mistress,” and I headed in to the kitchen, my breasts dancing with each step.
In the kitchen, I took a deep breath. I would get through this. Actually, it wasn’t like this was a terrible ordeal, but it was intense.
I was being objectified and sexualized, which was Amanda’s intent and pleasure. Because it pleased her, the humiliation I felt had a purpose, which was satisfying to me. I felt I was doing well, standing there in their lust. In that I was glad to please her.
But also, in full honesty, by arousing them, I was arousing myself. I was turned on by their lust. What does that make me?
Humiliation circles in on itself, becomes another thing.
I’m told a crew break is usually fifteen minutes. Seth let this one be thirty. I don’t think it was because of the cookies.
I set the cookie plate on the serving bar, and again stood to the side. The men again came up to help themselves, getting another opportunity to ogle me, and this time more of them said things to me.
I think it takes a while for people, those outside the D/s world, to know what a slave girl in their midst really is, how they can act and speak to her. A slave like me is an oddity really. No one does this. To them, it’s strange for me, a slave girl, even to be standing there, stranger still for me to be topless, my breasts all fleshed out. They have no context for that and little for them to say.
At least at first.
But by now they were figuring me out, learning they had a kind of permission to be themselves, understanding that in my undress and exposure, I am obeying because I have to.
Marco announced, “My first week on crew. And look at this! I’m really lovin’ this job!” Laughter all around.
Jeff came up to me. He spoke loudly so all could hear: “We all voted and decided you have a great pair of tits.”
Everyone howled. How can you respond to that? “Well, thank you,” I just said, blushing.
Seth called their break to an end. They rambled back to work.
Colin, walking by me, said, “You’re really hot.” Again, I didn’t know what to say to that. It was sweet but sexual. I thanked him.
As they walked away from the patio, I heard someone mutter, “Wished we got to play with those jugs.”
Later next week I will think and write more about the strange submissive pleasure I felt in being sexualized and objectified Saturday morning. The point is these feelings are complicated and intense and contradictory, humiliations that debase me even as they celebrate me.
Afterward, Amanda reported to me — only because she delights in doing so — other things she overheard the men saying as they returned to work. Two of the choice ones were “I wanna piece of that pussy” and “God, I’d fuck the living shit out of that girl.”
“I don’t even know how to think about comments like that,” I said to her.
“In a way,” Amanda said, “they’re compliments. It means you made a good impression.”
I looked at her and said, “Amanda, a good impression is when a guy introduces you to his parents and it goes well. ‘I wanna piece of your pussy’ sounds to me like a pretty different thing.”
Amanda laughed. “Well, they were going crazy seeing you like that. They were fawning over you.”
Being an object of sexualization seems sometimes close to being an object of worship. That’s the experience, both confounding and exhilarating.
The other thing I must mention is that Amanda was thrilled by all of it. She was very pleased.