the weekend with Master McKenna: 3

Friday was, I thought, reasonable successful, though I was too self-conscious several times and committed one faux pas, albeit mild.

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Master McKenna’s primary goal for me with the non-profit group is to be a clerical facilitator of the meetings — providing the proper discussion points as handouts and in folders, handling copying and distribution needs, and taking adequate notes for writeup at night and for review the next day.

I think I did that well enough throughout the day.

With this crowd, my status with him is in the background, yet vaguely known. He introduced me as “his assistant, Shae Madigan,” and folks nodded and seemed pleasant in accepting me, although it all is just simple nicety, I know, and I am not important in their larger scheme of things. But some people know more of my status with him and others don’t seem to, which is just a little bit confusing.

My last training session with Master McKenna covered what I am to reveal to people at various levels of knowledge of his lifestyle. These are his version of “protocols,” which come into play this weekend. This non-profit group is a “level three,” meaning that Master’s lifestyle is somewhat known to them but isn’t for them an matter of interest or focus. So I am to be, to them, a professional person, truly his personal assistant, and my bearing with them is to reflect that.

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Strangely, I am overdressed even though my skirt’s shorter than professionally acceptable.

Everyone here is dress casual — men in khakis or chinos and short-sleeved shirts or Polo’s, women in slacks and sleeveless tops and flats. I am the one in the business suit — a teal blazer and white blouse with the matching teal skirt. This is how Master McKenna wants me. (I believe he worked with Amanda on my outfits for this weekend.)

I don’t mean to suggest that the skirt is frightfully short. It’s a miniskirt essentially, not a micro-mini, yet still quite noticeable in how much of my legs it doesn’t cover. Also, the skirt is pleated and tailored with a slight flare — stylish, I like it, but too flirty for the office and very open.

There are tables set up with coffee and drinks and snacks, and my duties require me to restock the refreshments. These extra supplies are stored under the tables, and so I have to kneel to pull out boxes of snacks and napkins and plates. When I kneel, my skirt falls to either side and pulls higher up on my thighs.

It may be my imagination, but it just seems some of the board members like to strike up conversations with me at precisely the time I am restocking the refreshment tables and kneeling down.

If only they knew I am not allowed to wear panties. Would give “getting to know you” a whole new meaning.

So I am self-conscious in this skirt and have to be careful at times.

Which is exactly what Master McKenna intends.

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I think I said before there were seven in this non-profit board group. Actually, there are eight, as one who wasn’t coming was able to attend anyway. During the day, during breaks, I had side conversations with most of them — nothing of great substance, but pleasantries were exchanged.

One of the women is not a fan of me — I expect she knows but doesn’t approve. Two others are pleasant, but seem clueless about what I am.

One of the men engaged me in conversation during a break, and I found myself telling him about my writing career. We had a nice discussion. At the end he said, “You are McKenna’s… girl?” It was a question said as a statement.

It took me a moment to know what he was referring to and eliminate the notion of “girlfriend” or “staff help.” He didn’t mean “assistant” either. He meant that I was McKenna’s submissive, to whatever extent he understood that.

I looked at him, smiled, and said, “Yes, I am.”

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My faux pas in the morning was a slip of the tongue.

It was the later morning session. The board members had taken a break. Some started assembling back at the meeting table. I was at the table distributing folders to each chair.

Someone asked me a question about the timetable for the day.

I replied, “I don’t know, but I’ll ask Master McKenna.”

In this crowd, in this protocol, I am to address him as “Mr. McKenna.” I had done so all morning. But this time it slipped out as “Master McKenna.” This was out of protocol.

Several people heard. One looked up at me and smiled. I blushed.

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Early afternoon, I told him about it, confessing my error. “I’m really sorry, sir,” I said.

He was actually amused. “Most of them know,” he said, “but we play this game as if it’s a secret. It’s rather silly, actually.”

He and I were standing at the corner of the Great Room watching the group mill about after lunch. It was a rare moment when he was not preoccupied with other people. I stood beside him, a stack of folders clutched to my chest.

“Stick to the protocol, Shae,” he said. “Do better. It’s good for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But no harm done. Everyone could stand to be more open about this, I would think.”

His hand reached behind me and slid under my skirt. He cupped my bare ass cheek as we continue to look out over the room. I didn’t move or flinch, giving myself passively to his roaming hand.

I expected maybe a pinch or hard squeeze inflicting pain, a minor punishment for my faux pas. But no. That never came. Instead he just caressed my ass for a minute. I knew it was his way of taking dominant possession of me in the midst of a vanilla crowd of people.

His hand slid back away, and I wanted to say, “You know, you could keep doing that.”

But I didn’t. I’m not sure I can have that voice with him yet.

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In the evening the board went out to a restaurant for dinner.

Originally I was not to attend and was instead to stay at the mansion. But Master McKenna in the late afternoon said I should go to dinner with them after all. “I want you to be there,” he said. “And wear your metal slave collar.”

So I did.

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