I remember when I entered slave life six years ago, on one of our very first days together, Master Michael had me show him my wardrobe. I had not yet fully unpacked from my move into Skyway House, and so it seemed to me to be a timely exercise for me to show him my clothes while unpacking, a way ultimately of organizing my closets. This became a little fashion show, as I would hold up an outfit on a hanger, and sometimes he would say he wanted to see me in it. I would put it on and model for him. Fun.
But this became one of my “we’re not in Kansas anymore” moments in my new and still naïve slavery — as the realization grew that Master Michael was reviewing my wardrobe for the ultimate purpose of imposing his dominant fashion preferences upon me. This was a scary thing.
As we all know, what we women wear is intensely personal. Our wardrobe choices of styles and colors and textures are extensions of how we feel about ourselves and how we want to be known in public. Subconsciously we dress to be specifically attractive to men — or to women, as the case may be. We develop preferences and dislikes based on these very personal sensibilities.
Given my red hair, I never felt I looked good in pastels and particularly detested the color pink. I was better in rich jewel tones, darker oranges and wine reds, royal blues. I didn’t think “frilly” looked good on me. I preferred looser skirts because tighter skirts slimmed down my hips and ass when I wanted them to appear somewhat fuller, balancing out the top half of my body. The point is that we know these things about ourselves.
Our closets are private histories of our personal choices. For someone to peer into them is a kind of intimacy.
At the time Master Michael took me, I had just stepped out of my career as a real estate agent, so a goodly portion of my wardrobe consisted of suits — skirts or slacks with matching blazer, accented by a bright button-down blouse underneath. It was a professional look, neatly crisp and bright, conveying positivity and competence.
I wore bras back then in my vanilla life, but chose minimizer bras for my professional work — clients needed to be staring at the house not at my boobs.
My casual outfits were what normal people wore — jeans, t-tops, occasionally a cute skirt, sometimes a dress. I was never one to dress provocatively, yet neither was I particularly conservative.
So as I entered slavery, these were my closets, what Master Michael peered into.
It was an early moment of slave truth for me. He told me I couldn’t wear bras or panties anymore. Losing my real estate suits were no great loss, but his general ban on pants and jeans was. I would now just wear skirts. I would now dress to Master’s preferences.
This was about relinquishing myself to a man’s preferences. I gulped hard, sucked it up, and obeyed the man who owned me.
I don’t think I was so terribly naïve at the beginning of my slavery as to assume I would always be kept fully dressed, but maybe I was. Master Michael enjoyed my body in his more private times with me, and had me partially undressed at times, one time notably at a party with friends of his and sometimes on walks to the construction area behind the Skyway House. But even then I somehow experienced it as Michael’s personal play with me as Shae and not so much as “slave Shae.”
It was when I was taken by Amanda that I experienced “undress” as a strategy of dominance. To her, partial nudity isn’t a striptease, but the intricate shaping of a slave’s heart and mind into a deeper dependence.
When she makes me bare-breasted in front of a stranger, I must stand within his gaze without any other presumption: I am not familiar with him, I am not seducing him, I am not preparing for his bedding me. I am simply standing, tits out, for his visual consumption. For me, it is humiliating, arousing, and deeply submissive. I endure and savor it, afterward sink more deeply into Amanda’s dominance.
Amanda also knows that constant nudity eventually becomes ordinary and common and boring. Wearing something is more powerful to my slave experience than wearing nothing. For her, “undress” in various forms is on the hangars of my closet right beside my skirts and dresses. She believes that part of the effect upon a slave is not just in being exposed, but in the very act of undressing, that in having me change into multiple outfits in a day and partially undressing from them in a variety of ways, she controls my and my sense of my body before her and others.
Amanda knows this psychology of a slave so damnably well, and she directs this symphony with the art of a maestro.
Amanda has a rather keen fashion sense, and while her stipulations on what I wear are similar to Master Michael’s, they are more deeply informed.
As everyone knows, she dresses me each and every day, laying out the outfit she’s selected for me on the bed bench. If she lays out just a skirt, then I am to go topless that day. If there is nothing laid out — a rare occurrence — then I am to choose my outfit myself, although I am still to dress according to what I know are her preferences.
While it is a loss never again to have the freedom to dress myself, I have settled into a trust in Amanda about my clothes and “not clothes.” This is one of our rituals, and it grounds me in my life with her, my every day starting with the wardrobe prescription from her.
Whereas Master Michael influenced my wardrobe according to his personal pleasures, Amanda dresses me for how she wants me to be seen by others — which is a reflection of her ownership and dominance of me. Yes, she herself likes seeing me in a cute skirt, tight top, and slave collar — she can be as robustly leering and lustful, believe me, the most alpha of men — but she really dresses me that way so I might be enjoyed by others. Through others’ eyes viewing me, Amanda derives her deepest pleasure.
Amanda also dresses me to make me feel vulnerable to others seeing me. While Master Michael kept me braless so he could enjoy seeing my breasts jiggle under a loose top, Amanda keeps me braless so that I feel myself to be more openly sexual in front of strangers.
She has logic and reasoning for my not wearing underwear: “Shae, by not wearing panties, you should feel more potentially accessible to others sexually. Panty-less, you become easier for them.” This has become an awareness I live with, especially in public. Amanda knows this is a constant unsettling of me, that it makes me always feel slightly in sexual danger. She understands even though strangers are unaware I’m not wearing panties, I am so aware, the fact of which makes me act more submissive in their presence.
She also has a visual sense of irony. Sometimes she puts me in a maxi skirt — covering me fully from waist to ankle — while keeping me topless and bare-breasted. She makes me a chaste woman and elegant slut at the same time.
Amanda keeps me in skirts a lot of the time, but she also has a wider assortment of choices for me, especially in dresses. We are both fond of the retro look — vintage clothing, usually shirt dresses. She looks stunning in them, while somehow I look submissive in them, like a fifties housewife serving a husband — and all of his friends. Whether others deduce these references doesn’t matter. I get them, as I am all retro and housewife-y and kneeling on the floor before men, and as Amanda well knows and intends.
Amanda is the mistress of this inside psychology of submission, manipulating what I wear and not wear with great skill. My closet is her orchestra, and my dress and undress the undulating sounds of the symphony — all of it the musical background of my life.
Master McKenna, up to now, has worked with Amanda to determine my wardrobe for him. I think he has appreciated Amanda’s fashion sense and has tapped into it. He is much like Master Michael was — not dictating what I wear each day, but giving me general guidelines that I follow. In this, Amanda preps me for him, just like a madam preening her whore.
As I’ve reported, Master McKenna prefers me in much shorter skirts, and Amanda has bought those for me (for him), along with tighter and sheerer tops.
He also has me change into several different outfits in a given day, a tip I imagine he picked up from Amanda. In the psychology of this (again, I think, a gift to him from Amanda), it makes me feel that he gets tired of me every four hours. I also feel my value is reduced simply to the way I look. This is intentional, and I am just a fashion show to him.
The other use he has for me is in professional settings, board meetings and retreats where I perform as his aide-assistant. For those occasions, he needs me to be respectable — albeit on the suggestive side of respectable. So I will be back to my real estate business suit, apparently. (As I’ve written, Amanda also has been having me wear a business suit again for her — loose skirt and blazer. Only she doesn’t have me wear a top underneath the blazer. We’ll see if Master McKenna goes there.)
I think Master McKenna is still developing his look for me, but maybe it’s this: when I’m with him, I feel I’m in a James Bond movie as his female sex object, scantily dressed and obviously objectified, his Pussy Galore.
I have not yet mentioned Kevin.
When I was with both Amanda and Kevin together, she dressed/undressed me each day, and he was fine with it, whatever that turned out to be. I think then, and now, he doesn’t care much about any outfit I wear other than to think how he can get me out of it.
Now, as his escort girl, I dress as I wish to, although my choices are mostly what he likes to see me in. He seems to enjoy me at times in dresses and heels, especially when we are out and meet up with friends or visit his construction sites. He seems to like me elegant in the presence of dust, like the leading lady in an old Western.
The other thing he’s requested is having me in lingerie, much more than I wear around Amanda at home. It’s come to the point that when I’m at his house during the days, I am to wear night wear and lounge wear, usually chemises and baby dolls and high heels. He has taken to stealing away from work at lunchtime, liking to find me at home dressed ready for bed at high noon.
Amanda is again the maven in the background, again my madam, and has helped me shop for clothes for him, especially lingerie.
I go back to those first days with Master Michael, his “peering into my closet” and the novel notion to me then that as a slave I would lose my right to dress myself.
As a slave, you give up so much — your independence, your autonomy, your dignity, your sex — all these massively huge relinquishments that you cede in the course of becoming property and being owned.
But somehow, having let go of all that, for me the hardest thing of all was not being allowed to wear a pair of jeans.