Late yesterday afternoon, Mistress A had me undress. She called me to join her in the dining room. There, she put wrist cuffs on me.
“Climb into the bay window,” she ordered, “facing out.”
I looked at her for probably a little too long, a hesitation that I know annoys her, yet I was not really understanding. I finally obeyed, sliding into the window area on my knees.
She noticed my slight delay in responding: “You have to work on that girl.”
“I want you squatting, not kneeling… your thighs opened.”
I balanced myself so and spread my thighs.
Mistress left for a moment, returning with a step-stool from the laundry room. Climbing up a couple of rungs, she attached my right wrist to an eyebolt in the top corner of the bay. She repeated the process with my other wrist on the other side.
All of this was a surprise to me, her using the window this way with me. And, how did the eye bolts get there?
The bay is about five feet wide and six feet tall from ceiling to the bottom bed. It has a a triptych of panes — the wide center pane facing out and two narrow panes on either side at forty-five degree angles.
It juts out, overlooking our back yard — the small hill on one side and the ridge farther back and curving around the mountain. In any other situation, I’d consider it a lovely view and would suppose it to be a bit of a shame we had blocked it off for so long with office files and household fodder. But in this moment, I wasn’t so focused on the aesthetics of architectural features.
I was, however, beginning to be grateful for little things: it faces our back yard not our front and is therefore private.
Mistress opened the two side windows. “I think you’ll need some air in there,” she said.
“Are you planning this to be my permanent keeping place?” I asked with a touch of snark, trying to make light of my windowed nudity.
She said nothing, but left to fetch something, which turned out to be a ballgag that she installed deep in my mouth. “You’re too jabbery this morning,” she said.
So much for snarky retorts.
Mistress went outside, walking around the patio to stand in the grass some twenty yards out to observe her artwork. She perched at different spots, on either side and close and far.
This now felt different with her watching, with me in the bay facing out, with a window framing and revealing me. I felt kept and presented at the same time — merchandise shown to the public. I was like a mannequin in a department store window.
Suddenly she was no where in sight. At first that seemed to matter, but then not so much. I was left in my thoughts.
I wondered if Amanda had this idea even before we cleaned out the dining room. Was this her intention all along? Or was this a discovery that came to her as I myself was unburdening the bay from its junk?
My ballgag was getting wet with my saliva, and some collected at the corner of my mouth. It dripped down onto my left breast, sliding toward my nipple. I realized that, by pulling myself up slightly, my chained arms could take some weight off my spread thighs.
I wondered if Amanda installed the eyebolts herself, or if somehow she had Blake come in to install them. Yes, he probably did this,while I was in Pennsylvania, equipping yet another part of the house for my humiliation.
She wanted this to be a secret. She wanted to surprise me with it.
Amanda returned in about fifteen minutes, appearing again in the back yard..
With her were John and Patricia Miller. I could hear them as they talked. Amanda led them from the patio into the grass. She turned them toward the bay window.
“Oh, my,” Patricia said.
There they observed me naked, my arms chained to the ceiling, my thighs spread, and my pussy, shaven and bared. My labia were wet and glistening in the golden light of the setting sun.
I turned my head to the side, looking down.
John said, “Well done, Amanda.”