the experience of strangers, 5: getting to know you

In this my “reenactment of an imagined experience,” there are some things that have been done in the background that I am not reporting here, though maybe I will say more in future posts. These are things Amanda discusses with the dom-stranger ahead of time.

One is the matter of my wardrobe. With Master McKenna, Amanda has worked out with him over time a standing wardrobe kept for me in his mansion. When I go to him, I bring very little with me — my clothing and shoes await me there. Here, in this imagining of my service to Master Z, I make the assumption that he and Amanda had previously discussed outfits he wished to see me in, and that wardrobe is already there at his estate.

Another discussion she has with a prospective has to do with my diet. She will tell him that I don’t eat much, but it’s important that I eat something three times a day. She’ll inform him that I never need a sit-down meal and no one needs to cook for me, but I should be provided time to nosh intelligently on my own throughout the day. This is all the more essential given the probable demands of my slave life with him, which consumes not only a lot of physical energy but emotional energy as well. I also need to drink water pretty often throughout the day. The upshot of her guidance to the dom-stranger is simply the direction to keep a few things in the kitchen and fridge in good supply.


I sometimes imagine myself with different types of dominants, men of other bearings and styles than I am used to.

One such “type” is an academic, some man with a PhD in something, bookish, erudite. I wonder how a scholar would dominate me. You can easily come up with jokes about that stereotype, but it might be that he would zig another way — that perhaps he takes time off from his intellectual pursuits and becomes intensely carnal and physical with me.

I also am intrigued by a type that would be more blue-collar — say, a factory-worker. Master Kevin was almost that: now the head of his own construction company, he started as a laborer in construction work and still has some of that vibe, and, may I say, the very memorable hands of a carpenter.

Another is the creative artist, the brooding artisan with dark eyes and a darker soul, usually with shaggy long hair and a stubble beard. I’m very specific about that because this type, before my entry into the D/s life, got me into romantic trouble. I fall for them for some reason, and not sure if a D/s arrangement with a future van Gogh would be wonderful or weird.

I also sometimes imagine myself with a regimented “type,” someone with a background in the military, conditioned as a recruit and trained into leadership. How would a trained military man handle me as a submissive woman?

And so I am conjuring up this person of Master Z…


With Master Z, I have been noting his language, how it’s tinged with military vocabulary. I ask him about it. He served in the army for some time, then transferred into military intelligence. Currently he supervises certain operations of the state Veteran’s Administration. I think he is pleased I am showing interest. He says that some things he isn’t permitted to talk about — top secret, I presume, even years later — yet he will answer what he can.

I think it’s important for a submissive to know some things about the life of the man who is dominating her. He has every right not to tell her everything, of course, but I find that learning the work and careers of the men who have had me has increased my D/s experience with them.

Master Z observes I am curious about his work. Perhaps his previous slaves have not be so intrigued. I tell him that I just like to learn new things from people around me. “You are an interesting man,” I say. “I want to absorb what I can from you.” It’s true.

He nods, seeming flattered.

“Also,” I add, “I think it would be a helpful thing to know if my dom has spent time interrogating prisoners at Guantanamo.”

“No,” he answers with a smile, “but I think I could make you think so.”

“I have no doubt.”


I have long been referred to as a “sex slave” by Amanda, not just as a playful term of humiliation but as my true identity. I accept this from her, though cringe sometimes when she unabashedly presents me as such to others who are to me unknown.

Of course, in offering me to strangers, Amanda includes this in her verbal “resume” of me. I am, as she pitches me, an “experienced sex slave,” “deeply submissive,” offered for live-in domination, “corporal humiliation” (she borrows this term from Master McKenna), and “sexual servitude.” This is my CV, and I’m pretty sure it would violate the standards of a LinkedIn profile.

I realize that many D/s arrangements are not actually sexual, and likely the majority of them are not live-in. But Amanda’s penchant is to share me out for periods of multiple days up to a week at a time and to provide me to others as a “full-service sex slave.” This will be the arrangement, the de-facto understanding, with a future Master Z.

When you’re pitched to someone as a “sex slave,” it affects everything. That is, the simplest order I am given becomes tinged with sexual possibility. Fetching him a drink can become erotic, not because I do it seductively (I don’t), but because he knows this woman serving him can and will serve him in other ways as well. My “house missions” will no doubt become sexualized: I don’t know yet how he will have me skim the pool or clean toilets, but we know how my scrubbing the floors while topless makes a slippery slide of a scene.

I do not yet know how he will reveal my body, objectify my womanhood, and sexualize my daily life, but he will. It is his understanding and mine of what we are to be engaged in. He has been given this permission to use me sexually.

Part of the experience with a stranger is the suspense of discovering how. And it’s what he is getting into with me in this very moment.


We sit opposite each other in the living room. I am in my linen suit.

He tells me to stand. “Take off your coat,” he orders.

I pull my jacket off my shoulders, hang it off the back of an occasional chair, and stand properly once again across from him, my heels together.

“Now,” he says, “unbutton your blouse.”

I look him in the eyes, and without hesitation, pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. I start at the top buttons.

There is sometimes a question of whether a dom wants you looking at him or looking away. I suppose that averting one’s eyes, looking down, is deemed a sign of servitude. It may show humiliation. It also may be that a dom doesn’t give a slave permission to look directly at him, a sign of her lower status and his higher stature.

I don’t know what Master Z’s preference is, but my training is to look at my dom directly. This is harder, especially in times like this, for my eyes reveal to him my feelings of exposure and my humiliation. He can see into me, and I just met this stranger for the first time a few hours ago.

I am unbuttoned to the middle of my chest, and my blouse is falling open to reveal the inner mounds of my breasts.

Readers know that Amanda keeps me topless through much of my daily life with her, but undressing for someone else, a stranger, is still intense for me, new every time, and makes me shy in the doing. I fulfill Master Z’s order nonetheless, because I am, after all, an obedient slut, desperate for his domination. But one can be a slut and shy at the same time. The further embarrassment is that he knows that too. He can see it in my eyes.

Unbuttoned, my blouse hangs from my shoulders, its panels draping my curves.

“Take it off,” he commands.

This is when my submissive vulnerability transforms my thoughts into sarcasm. Its a defense mechanism, I know, my frailty in the presence of dominance needing to be protected, I suppose. Words become my arrows. Spoken, these get me in a lot of trouble. Here I am a bit overcome by his military bearing, his “take it off” sounding like the barking of a drill sergeant. I want to blurt out with a giggle, “I bet you say that to all the recruits.” Fortunately, I bite my tongue and refrain. If I didn’t, I’d learn sooner than expected his philosophy of punishment for insubordination.

A submissive thinks of so many things. At least I do. It’s sometimes a curse.

I slip my blouse over my shoulders, and my breasts jiggle as I walk across to the occasional chair, hanging it off its upholstered arm. I resume my standing position across from him, my heels together, my breasts now open and bare.

I continue to engage with his eyes as he gazes at my tits. He says nothing, and I know he expects me to remain silent. After a minute of silence, I realize this is a test — will I allow him to objectify me in these moments without becoming wriggly and antsy; will I tolerate his long gaze for minutes on end. I submit to the test and continue to watch him watch me.

Again, my inner wag wants to say, impatiently, “Well, do you like them or not? If not, I’ll send them back and exchange them for another pair.” Again, I choose the better part of valor, as the saying goes, opting for discretion. I also know I am often funnier in my imagination than I am in real life.


There is something to be said about an experienced slave like me being with an experienced dom like Master Z.

We both know what the “game” is, what cards have been dealt, and that the outcome is predetermined: he will win. And we both want him to. Yet I do not automatically fold my hand. And he doesn’t expect me to fold. We are to play it out. He must follow through and win the hand. (He has to win me.) OK, it’s a strange game.

This does not suggest any resistance on my part to his dominance. Maybe with a newbie slave, he would have to overcome her inner struggle about doing this. I was once that inexperience slave girl needing to be broken and tamed.

But no longer. I have come to him, a submissive woman experienced in being enslaved, ready to be taken. He knows I’ve done this before. The question, as I stand there before him, is not whether I will allow myself to be possessed but how he, specifically, will possess me.

By the end of this week, there is no doubt I will do everything he asks. And all of that will provide him a certain pleasure, of course. But an experienced dominant, such as he is, knows there’s an inner strategy, one in which he gets inside me and possesses me in such a way that I will not just do his bidding but long for him as a man. Again, he has to win me. And that is the real game.

Sometimes this happens, a dom gets there within me. Sometimes not.

As for Master Z, for now he slow-plays his hand, taking his time…


We are in a D/s version of a staring contest. It’s not a battle, of course, but his slow and steady process of possessing me. “Shae Topless, Breasts Plump” is the title of a picture being imprinted into his mind, an image he will forever remember. He takes his time with the 3-D scan.

By the way, note to submissives, in moments like these there’s often confusion about where to place your hands. Of course, you dare not cup your breasts — that could be seen as seductive or otherwise shielding his visual access. Putting your hands behind your back is what you want to do, and yet is more of a casual pose — unless he’s cuffed your wrists there. Hands together at your waist is seen as demure perhaps, but tends to look fidgety. Hands at your sides, unmoving, is the way to go. (Another lifestyle tip from Submissives-R-Us.)

Master Z has now picked up his phone and is checking emails. I continue standing, hands to my side, heels together. It’s a symbol, signal, that I am unimportant to him. We both know this is what he’s doing, that this is a total mind-fuck. Yet it’s effective.

My breasts have blushed, my chest is splotchy, and my nipples have elongated. Of course. I hate it that my body is so tell-tale, but I can do nothing to moderate my responses.

He finally speaks. “Put your coat back on.”

It’s a jacket or blazer not a coat, but I bite my tongue about that, and I retrieve it. Blouseless, I slip it back on. It hangs over my breasts loosely, faintly scratching my nipples. I button the top button, which sits at the middle of my bosom, but he tells me to button the lower one instead. I do so, and this leaves the blazer gaping wide open atop, showing my cleavage and the inner two-thirds of my breasts in all their glory.

I resume my stance, and he eyes me again. “With you dressed like this,” he says with a broad smile, “a lot of men would buy a house from you.”

“Wish I had known that ten years ago,” I say.

14 thoughts on “the experience of strangers, 5: getting to know you

    1. thanks, john… the thing is that my mind is very active during such experiences, but I don’t always have permission or opportunity to express myself. in this imagining, I’m allowing myself a bit more freedom. glad you’re enjoying it.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Shae, you know that you and I take a most interest in one a other’s dynamics, and indeed they are both as fascinating as they are different. Normally I opt for a policy of non-interference, however, I felt compelled to speak up on your desire to find yourself serving a military man.

    Like you, I thought that they would be wonderful, honourable, kind, respectful and ordered. I imagined a life of serving one that I could look up to, and I was honoured to serve my country, by proxy and in the most delicious way. That always brought a smile to my face – as a former Girl Guide then I’d pledged to serve my country, I just didn’t know quite how that would be.

    In the first few weeks, W was great. He was funny, attentive, caring, playful, strict. Sometimes he told me random jokes or encouraged me in various ways, we also wrote more deeply and he opened up about being insecure. I was proud of him, and proud to serve him. I was also proud of his work in the Navy. He even bought me a bracelet, which I wore as a mark of my service to him. I didn’t care about his flaws, I saw him, a flawed, loving, loveable human. I was naive.

    Some of the things he wrote for me concerned me, and he talked regularly about a need to control another because he wasn’t in control of his own life (with deployment). The not knowing some things ate away at me too. In a dynamic where communication matters, I felt a bit out of the loop after a while, and not in a fun, consensual way. He acted as though having secrets made him above me, as though I was merely a lowly civvie.

    Before long that kindness was replaced by outright criticism, belittling comments, unkind pet names and angry journal entries. He’d fly off over the smallest thing and refuse to talk to me for days, even when I apologised. In the end, I walked out of his life because I couldn’t serve someone who blatantly didn’t respect me. I liked playing rough, but it’s not fun when you know it’s no longer play.

    I want to be honest you because I want you, and Amanda, to be at least aware of some of the people in the military. I’m not saying that every serviceperson is bad, and I’m not saying that the army makes people abusive. Quite the opposite, I believe that the army defines the person. An honourable person in the army is now an honourable person who has served the country, and an abusive person who has been in the army is still an abusive person with years of service behind them. Not every soldier is the same, be on your guard and look for the good ones.

    That being said, I do love that you too are feisty. I spent so long being told and believing that a submissive shouldn’t have attitude, so it’s nice to know that there are plenty out there who desire us. Keep strong, keep smart and have fun.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. John, I completely agree, I only wish I knew sooner. Also, in relation to what you say about women who exhibit these behaviours, I also find that very interesting. I was a witness in a female-led (neighbour’s girlfriend) domestic violence case about five years ago and I can remember so well the first time that I met her – she didn’t give me a warm, genuine smile, it was cold and manipulative, observant and judging at the same time, I just knew that I didn’t like something about her. A few months later and she beat him up one Saturday morning. I remember my neighbour screaming at her to get out and she refused, then had the audacity to tell the police that he was trapping her in his home. They are experts at their own game who, as you quite rightly say, will lead you to question your own judgement, your own sanity, your own worth. As horrid as it is to experience these toxic relationships, I’m glad that we have now so that we will be better prepared in future. I hope that your next one will be kind and proper to you, if indeed you haven’t already found her.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. thank you for this, Helen. Amanda usually reads the comments, but it takes her some time to get to them, so I’ll send this to her separately right now. it’s good cautionary advice… You say it well — there are good and honorable military people yet others who can be abusive. It’s at least a microcosm of society, but maybe more — we know that especially those who’ve served in the field, perhaps in battle, can be deeply affected psychologically. Not all, of course, and I wouldn’t want to make sweeping generalizations, nor are you here. But it’s a good thing for you to caution me about this. It’s more involved than my simple “D’s type.” Thank you…

      You and I exchanged comments some months ago (last year) about “being feisty in submission.” You shared some of your past experience in being stifled in this way. I have not forgotten that. I am, it seems, naturally ironical and smart-alecky — its about words and associations and how my mind works — and I am blessed with a mistress who enjoys it. Not all my doms do so much: Kevin just doesn’t think that way usually and it takes him time to get into my “attitude.” Master McKenna doesn’t squelch me, and enjoys my wit sometimes, but it’s clear there are times with him it’s not appropriate. In this “imagining,” I’m allowing myself somewhat more sass and ‘tude. Again, thanks…

      Liked by 2 people

      1. Shae, it’s not a problem at all and really I’m glad to help. Certainly there are good and bad and both my uncle and my grandfather (father and son) were military personnel. You could not meet two more different people and really it caused a lot of issues. My grandfather was kind, humble, supportive, proud. He served in the Malayan Emergency and was terrified that he wouldn’t go to heaven because he had shot and killed a young suicide bomber to save a group of villagers. That’s just the sort of person he was.
        By contrast my uncle, his son, was very much a “Jack the lad” type. A short man, covered all over in tattoos and constantly sizing up the competition, perhaps most likely because he felt disproportionate and insecure. This is, unfortunately, what I believe it all boils down to: Those who bully are insecure, and they need to pull others down to make themselves feel better. What people (and more specifically here, submissives) like you and I need is someone who can lead, support and encourage from a place of confidence and strength. I do not say that they don’t exist, but it would be wrong of me to to let you believe that they exist entirely without warning you of the wolves that lurk in between.

        I’m certainly lucky now, but yes, I have overheard those who find our behaviour undesirable, or a possession of an untrained submissive. Certainly Bill and Matt love my my playful, headstrong nature and they see that as a challenge. Red, my metamour, is also very strong-willed, so we definitely give the pair of them a run for their money. Having a dom who embraces it certainly is a tremendous feeling and, I, deepens the connection. It can make you feel accepted wholly in who you are and thus, deeper in your submission. You would agree?

        I must go, I’m being barked at for falling behind on errands 😉

        Liked by 2 people

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