I was obediently speechless for twenty-four hours.
This morning, once again permitted to speak, I said, “Good morning, Mistress,” but I have remained subdued since. It’s not like hordes of words piled up at the prison gate waiting to be allowed their freedom.
Nothing much happened all day. Amanda kept me in proximity to her — in the living room, on the patio, in the kitchen. I was permitted to write, which I did at times, but it was always me and my laptop in the space where Amanda was, not in my writing room. Patricia came over in the afternoon, was briefed on my imposed condition, and observed the exercise. She and Amanda had a long conversation with me in the background. In the evening, Amanda said she wanted a white wine, and I poured it for her and served it, assuming my place on the sofa opposite her — our usual conversation pit. Except this time there was no conversation. Amanda read her book, sipped iced tea, and didn’t talk to me.
She had made it clear this wasn’t a punishment, but after the first hour or so I couldn’t help but lean into the idea that it was. I wondered if I had gotten too talkative with her in previous days and she was muting me as a punishment-plus-training. Perhaps I had said something this past week that had offended her, and now she was cutting off the part of me that had committed the sin.
Of course, it was nothing of the sort. My muting had allowed my mind to push into crazy places. On reflection (which I had a lot of time for), I knew that my scenarios of this as punishment would require Mistress to be colossally passive-aggressive, which she is decidedly not. She had explicitly stated it was not a punishment, and I needed to take her at her word.
Still, in those first hours yesterday my mind wrestled with the exercise, like a submissive straining at the rope ties that bind her. Soon the question about the exercise was not so much “what?” as “why?”
Amanda settled on the patio mid-morning, telling me to stand over by the Celosia plants to her right and slightly behind her. I felt set aside, present but out of view, in such a way it was easier for her to ignore me. She did this several times during the day — putting me in an unobtrusive place close to her but apart.
When Patricia dropped in, I was kept in the breakfast nook with them, but placed in a chair in the corner.
I was there, but not there. Maybe that was the point.
Mistress kept me fully clothed yesterday. It was a cooler day in the seventies not the mid-nineties, so being made partially undressed wasn’t so necessary — although necessity has never been the mother of toplessness.
Still, my body was covered all day. It occurred to me that my words and my sex are my primary assets in my slave life, and here they’d been diminished or subdued. Without spoken words and without my body being partially revealed, I have little other value.
Maybe this was an exercise in returning me to my status and place as property.
It occurred to me that in the rhythm of my daily slave life with Mistress Amanda, there is much of my slavery that is routine. I serve, do my few chores, am respectful, but over time these things lose the original distinctiveness of Amanda’s control of me, becoming ordinary and assumed.
Maybe this was a day in which she just wanted to actively control me, to allow herself to feel dominance over me by muting me and repeatedly putting me on the pantry shelf.
I sometimes forget this isn’t about me, but about her. Maybe she just wanted to. Maybe she needed to be reminded she can do anything she wants with me.
Maybe she needed to remind me she can do anything she wants with me.
This morning, Mistress said nothing more about the exercise, the “why” or purpose or pleasure of it for her.
I think we submissives assume our doms always have a reason or strategy. But sometimes they don’t, they’re just trying something, casually experimenting, amusing themselves.
I don’t know that Mistress will ever tell me what this was about. And I probably won’t ask.