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.