A dozen people came to the party Saturday night with all of the neighbors (numbering eight) showing up, which pleased Amanda to no end. Additionally Amanda’s lifestyle friend Dayna was there, whom I’ve mentioned in blog posts.
The surprise for me was that Amanda had invited Blake, our twenties-something handyman, the one who retro-fitted the entryway wall and the wet bar for my bondage display. Those experiences of my standing in place for him while he measured my position forged an unlikely intimacy that now surfaced as a kind of friendly connection. His black hair is a bit shaggier now, but he still has that “oh, shucks”-country-boy vibe. He’s still delicious. I sensed he felt a little out of place, so I introduced him to one of the neighbors whom I knew has a carpentry hobby.
I won’t list all of the neighbors by name, but they included our dear friends John and Patricia Miller, of course, and two other couples, along with two single men, one of whom was Mr. Hawkins, the ad exec and erstwhile extreme bicyclist, whom we now see often on our walks.
Amanda had the event catered with a BBQ specialist who went by the nickname “Sweets” and a woman named Maria who prepped side dishes in the kitchen and served from behind the food table.
So there was a crowd, and Amanda had the audience she so delights in.
It being BBQ, people came casual in jeans and tees. Amanda had me a little up-dressy in one of my print midi skirts of summery palm-tree greens and sky-blues, along with a white crop-top. It surprised me she didn’t make more more exposed than that — I expected a shorter skirt and a sheerer top — but she really wanted the evening to be invitingly normal and comfortable to the guests. Besides, that would come later.
She did, of course, have me in a slave collar, one of my heavy metal ones at that, so there was no question about my place and purpose and status.
I served drinks to everyone, taking orders as guests arrived, then refreshing glasses through the evening. Amanda had decided during the day to save the waist tray till later. She also had the sensibility to put me in wedge sandals rather than high heels — as being barmaid required me constantly to walk on patio slate, bare hardwood, and carpet. It may have been a nod to my general klutziness, but I was grateful.
Serving drinks gave me opportunity to talk with everyone, albeit in brief fits and starts. We have had tea times with everyone previously, so in each case there was something known to ask about and talk about.
I was asked several times when there would be a “demonstration,” so apparently Amanda had prepped them about this when she invited them. I simply said, “I don’t know. As you know, I’m not in charge around here,” which elicited chuckles and laughs.
“Sweets” became frustrated that the massive grill he’d brought in was not working right, and he apologized to Amanda for a bit of delay. She didn’t mind, especially as the neighbors seemed to be having a good time talking with each other. Some hadn’t met before.
I won’t belabor the obvious — we had food, which was yummy. In time, the caterers packed their stuff away and left.
One of the neighbors has a birthday Monday, which Amanda had picked up on and planned for. She brought out a cake with candles, and everyone sang happy birthday.
As this was going on, Amanda had me go to my bedroom and change clothes — a skater skirt in wine red and a sleeveless white button-down top.
I have forgotten to mention that Amanda had invited Master McKenna to the party. He politely declined, mentioning a prior engagement. But something Amanda said makes me think the two of them came to a mutual agreement that his presence at the party would be confusing for the guests in their understanding of my D/s slavery.
First things first, I suppose.
Amanda called everyone onto the patio, and I refreshed drinks one more time. With everyone settled, Amanda began to speak.
I wish I had a transcript of what Amanda said. Perhaps I can ask her this week if she can help reconstruct it for me. It was a clear statement of what D/s is and isn’t, and the kind of dominant-slave relationship she and I have. It was “this is who we are” and “this is the life we choose to have” and “we want to be good neighbors” and yet “we want to live our lifestyle openly.” It was awe-inspiring. To me at least.
She said something about “demonstrating some things this evening to give you all an idea.”
Then she ordered me to take off my top.
I obeyed, unbuttoning my white sleeveless blouse, pulling it off, and exposing to all my bare breasts. No one said anything that I recall. Maybe some murmurs, but this was not a catcall crowd.
It is an odd thing to be made topless in front of such a crowd, but Amanda had a way of making it seem natural — “Shae is obedient to me,” she said, “even when doing something like this is embarrassing to her. But she has gorgeous breasts. I like to see them, and I like to show them to others.” So of course, her implication was, this was quite appropriate. She spoke of my exposure as being part of my slavery, and how she wished to share this with the neighborhood, while at the same time not meaning to offend anyone.
I had known for some time this would happen this night, my being made topless in front of everyone, so I had been mentally prepared for it, sort of. It still was what it was, my slave status on display and my breasts unveiled for a crowd of neighbor friends-in-the-making. But for me, the feeling was not a humiliation of shame, as Amanda had put this in the context of our nearly noble relationship. I was proud of what I was.
But while Amanda had created the context for my exposure as being about my obedience, separating it from any sexual act, yet I was still standing there bare-breasted before them. I could imagine the neighbors intellectually accepting Amanda’s words and respecting this simply as part of our lifestyle but still visually looking at me through sexual lenses. I felt both.
This was the point when she fitted me with the slave tray.
Actually, I found her use of this odd because the slave tray has not been part of our life together. But in retrospect I think Amanda was looking for another way to “demonstrate” me without making the evening more explicit. She had decided earlier not to use me on the wet bar or entryway wall — she couldn’t know how neighbors would react to that. For now, the slave tray was another thing to help show me off.
The tray has a belt that tightens around my back and two chains on the front corners of the tray that attach to the O-ring of my collar. I had practiced with the tray the day before, and had found that if my collar was tight around my neck, my head movements would twist the tray. With a looser collar, the tray was more stable.
So Amanda had fitted me with the tray, then shackled my wrists behind my back. She told everyone that we would have “another thing in a while,” but meanwhile I would take drink orders and serve them using the tray. “Both Shae and I are happy to answer your questions,” she said.
Someone called out (I think it was Mr. Hawkins), “Can we touch?” and people laughed.
Amanda said yes.
Because I was now hands-less, Dayna took over serving as bartender, but since she doesn’t know much about making drinks, I had to talk her through it. It took longer, but it seems people didn’t mind watching me walk back and forth balancing cocktail glasses on my tray and trying to keep my breasts from jostling too much. There were a few minor sloshes, but I did OK.
People asked me questions, but mostly about how Amanda and I got together. Some asked about why I do this life of submission, which is a complicated answer that I had to strip down to simply saying it was the way “I have been made,” and that I think of it as “part of my sexual orientation.”
Mr. Hawkins got in his fondling, along with a few others. They were gentlemen about it — if copping feels can possibly be gentlemanly. I’ll just say that experience is very submissive-feeling. There were also comments about my breasts, but generally this crowd was still rather polite, treating me with a kind of curious awe.
Perhaps that’s why I handled it all pretty well. I was blushingly embarrassed, yes, but I also felt esteemed in a certain way. I was living an extreme life that others could not imagine, and in an odd way they respected me for it.
One thing I watched among the neighbors was how the couples, particularly the women, responded to me.
Of course, Patricia and John know me now very well, in every state of being, and they are accepting of how the other enjoys me. There were two other couples, one older and married, the other couple younger, unmarried but living together. The wife of the older couple seemed to engage with everything, and me, rather well. The younger woman seemed a bit more aloof.
Amanda and I have talked about this — not wanting me to be perceived as a threat to existing relationships.
Presently, Amanda announced that everyone would have the chance to “take me on a walk.”
She removed my waist tray, then leashed me, and assembled folks at the edge of the patio, handing my leash to each person, one by one. They each took me out to the back of our yard where it meets with the path up to the ridge. Then back.
They talked with me along the way. More questions about our lifestyle, and how I am “like this.” I didn’t mind.
In a way this was a trivial little activity, and it made me feel a little like the pony in the riding school being walked around by the students.
But in retrospect, I thought it was brilliant of Amanda to do this. In this way, she normalized me with them, making them more used to the idea of me being walked on a leash topless, and maybe planting in them a wish they could be the ones doing it.
For me, the party wasn’t “over-the-top,” and my exposure wasn’t overwhelming. I felt it — blushing embarrassment — but the vibe of the group was one of curiosity and interest rather than judgment. I’m not sure that means in the future they all will approve of me — judgment may still set in — but for this one evening at least, I was accepted with curious interest.
I think Amanda felt the evening was a success, but she had to process a while first. As we fell on the couch after everyone left, she wondered about so-and-so and worried that she’d not said something she wanted to cover.
But the party accomplished her goal of letting the neighborhood know that we may be “weird” but we’re harmless, that we have a lifestyle that’s healthy and loving, and that I may be topless but that doesn’t make me a sex kitten.
As for me, the bar was lower — I was pleased I didn’t trip and spill any drinks.
I will still feel self-conscious when being walked topless by Amanda around the neighborhood. And now people may feel more inclined to come out and greet us along our way, making me feel even more exposed.
So it doesn’t change a whole lot. But maybe now no one will call the cops.