He is teaching me how to skim the pool.
Interestingly, I’ve never lived in a house with a pool, never had the experience of maintaining and cleaning one. It’s not a complicated task, though a bit strenuous, involving a net attached to a telescoping pole. Extending the pole across to the middle takes some strength, and doing the whole pool is a bit of a workout.
But the real challenge is in how Master Z keeps me while doing it — I am still wearing my cream linen business suit, without a blouse.
Thankfully he has set out a pair of white boat shoe loafers at the edge of the patio for me to slip into, so I’m not dangerously navigating the pool edges in high heels. The boat shoes are men’s and a size too big, but for now they’ll do.
Of course, as I stretch the net over the water, I have to lean over. As I do, my breasts promptly bound out from the panels of my suit jacket like melons rolling off the fruit stand. I skim the surface, straighten up, pulling my jacket lapel panels to cover me again, inadequately, as it is still loose and open. I skim another patch of water, leaning over, and once again, my boobs fall bouncing out.
Master Z sits in a patio chair my an umbrella table and watches my distress with a certain kind of pleasure. I expect him to say, “Leave them out,” but he doesn’t, apparently enjoying my repeated struggle for propriety in the midst of absurdity.
I pause my skimming, turn to him, my breasts momentarily tucked back into bed, and ask, “How long did it take you to dream this up?”
My question is as much rhetorical as it is sardonic — as it is testing. Will he allow me a touch of sarcastic sass?
He offers me no answer, just a dominant smile. He’ll give me a little rope, it seems. I expect there will be a limit to that.
Finishing my work on the pool should be an accomplishment. In fact, the pool was pristine before I started. Not a leaf or dead mosquito to be found. The task, I realize, was designed intentionally designed to be futile. At least for today. Perhaps in coming days my pool-skimming will have more real need.
Daily tasks can be a form of debasement. By being made to do things that are unnecessary, I am subtly conditioned to think I am unnecessary; by performing tasks that have no real value, I identify myself as having no value. I don’t know if this is what Master Z intends for all my chores, but maybe.
This is a particular awareness in these short-term arrangements: Master Z, last week, didn’t have anyone to perform these tasks, and he apparently survived just fine. I am not necessary to his life.
It’s my nature constantly to try to decipher what a man is doing with me, what his strategy is, what’s the pattern he is pursuing. Maybe some submissives simply march in step, obey each new task or service, and leave it at that. I need to know what and why.
With Master Z, I am wondering if his supervising me cleaning the pool is his usual practice — if he will be present as I clean toilets, scrub the kitchen floor, and type up notes. I also wonder if today is simply a run-through of all of it, a training “sampler,” each task to be done individually on subsequent days. He doesn’t tell me so, and I don’t ask.
I further wonder if none of these tasks actually need to be done, if, like skimming the crystal waters of the pool, they are just futile efforts to take something already done and do them again.
I think of these things.
What I’ve learned, somewhat painfully, is that while I may secretly indulge my need to know and understand, I cannot afford to hesitate when he gives me an order. I must not pause to think through his private intentions in any particular instruction before responding to him.
A dom likes to know he commands you, and any hesitation on your part is seen as a decision within you whether to obey him or not. A pause is considered defiance, and that’s likely to end up in pain and suffering. And so I’ve adopted the mantra: “Obey now, think later.” I still ponder and wonder and think — but I channel that into other times of reflection.
Even so, there always seems to be an inevitable moment of challenge. I am an experienced submissive, have done this before, have been trained and tamed multiple times, and yet there’s a point with any new dominant where something rises up within me and protests. For me, it’s subconscious, unintentional, but still very present. It’s a moment when I, through some resistance of my body and spirit, say “no” to the dom, “you can’t have me.” It has nothing to do with whether I like him or not, whether I am willing in concept to be in slavery to him. I suppose its human nature.
But it just happens, a volcano moment erupting.
Master Z, poolside, tells me to bring him a a water with ice. “Tonic water,” he says, “with a slice of lime.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. This is not a volcano moment. Not yet. Without a moment of pause, I leave for the house.
He calls after me: “And put on your heels again.”
Randomly it occurs to me there’s a moral conundrum I hadn’t thought of before. Maybe its his intention to always have me in a professional business outfit every time I skim the pool, but will there be other pool times and what do I wear then?
Mistress Amanda, of course, forbids me from underwear. No exceptions. But does a bikini top and bottom count as a bra and panty?
Oddly, I don’t recall this ever coming up. Maybe it did, but I forget. We have no pool in Colorado, and our activities haven’t included a lake front or beach or oceanside. I sunbathe on our back patio, of course, but Amanda has me do so nude. Otherwise, to keep cool, I wear a short, loose sun dress.
So are a bikini top and bottom considered bra and panty? Are they allowed or forbidden?
I find limes in the kitchen, make slices, fill an ice bucket with cubes, and bring it all to the wet bar in his den. His den is a collection of memorabilia, pictures of family once upon a time, and books of several persuasions — psychology, military history, and corporate management. The room is wood-paneled and carpeted with oriental area rugs, making it feel cozy. This is his inner sanctum, for sure, and for a moment here, I feel inside him, even though he remains, for the most part, a stranger.
He has relocated to the middle level of the deck and sits at a table under a patio umbrella, in a deck chair.
My heels clack across the deck as I serve him his tonic-and-lime on a silver tray. He takes it, and I stand back, putting the tray on the table, hands to my side as I await my next instruction.
“I want you, Shae,” he says, “to suck my cock.”
8 thoughts on “the experience of strangers, 6: the beginnings of obedience”
Shae, one of the things that you mentioned in your last post, and that I remembered while reading your post today, is the need to know one’s Dominant. To be knowledgeable of their life and their work in some way. I too find that to be of great importance to me.
Matt works in buildings management, and it gives me great pleasure now to understand some of the codes he uses, or to be able to assist him in some way. He has tested training programs on me in the past and talks about complicated jobs with me, which he is struggling to resolve. It is a pleasure to act like a volunteer advisor- a sort of other, unofficial part of my submission, if you will. All because I admitted to seeing him as my higher-up when we worked together all of those years ago.
That being said, I also remember other core components of my submission, including getting along with his friends and a need to like English football. I learned to serve pizza and beer during the World Cup and to be generally hospitable, all whilst not rousing suspicion. I became defensive of football, as it’s role as another part of us.
I also fondly recall now the way we used to go out to socialise and he would never let me leave without his scent on me in some way. He took great pleasure in making me smell like a slut, not least because that’s exactly what I was. My perfect hair and make-up would be ruined once I arrived, and I’d be nothing short of a hot mess by the time we got into town. Ahh yes, I miss the good old days.
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Helen, I find that my submissiveness at certain times desires greater and greater connection with a dom, and yet at other times utter disconnection with someone else dominant. With an imagined dom-stranger like Master Z, it is exciting to me that I don’t know him at all, but it becomes my constant effort through the week to get to know him well — things about him, his core of interest and passion, etc. — by the end of my week. It’s almost as if I have to “justify” being used sexually by a dominant by being able to say “he and I know each other well.” Of course, that’s not at all the case, but seems to be a dynamic within me. On the other hand, I also very much long for the experience of the totally random anonymous dominant stranger — going to him, submitting to his sexual uses, then leaving without so much as knowing his name. I suppose this is the deeper “slut” in me, what you and I both know ourselves to be, but I, for one, keep trying to avoid being seen as… love your thoughts… as you said in another comment, we are different in many ways, our relationships are different, yet we are much alike in other ways…
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Shae, that’s a quality that you fully perform, that should have been on your CV. There are some experiences that can be very good to master, this will not fit into the LinkedIn profile either. It’s that you worship and treat cock and balls with enthusiasm and devotion. MZ has been told this I presume, although Z is an imaginary figure. Which now seeks confirmation.
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thank you, nudo.
Shae, does it turn you on to be required to do tasks that are unnecessary and to be made to feel to have no value?
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gary, that’s a great question, one I haven’t gone into on my blog. the answer is yes, that a trivial or unnecessary task is somehow more debasing and contributes to my experience of being reduced submissively. and so, scrubbing a floor that’s already spotless or dusting a room that has no dust are tasks that have no effect, no purpose, and therefore render me of no value, so to speak… I have also had the experience of someone “trashing” the task I’ve just done — the floor I just scrubbed clean being intentionally spilled on with vegetable oil (which was done to me once). that becomes devastating, almost cruel, and more like a punishment to me than just a task of low submissive value… thanks for the great question!
…and thank you for your usual high level reply. I ask because I am also submissive — but I am male, and, at this point in time, I’m interested in being a submissive sissy to a another man, which isn’t exactly directly related to my question. Through the years, even though I have not had the opportunity to fully live the submissive lifestyle (but only enjoyed it in dribs and drabs), I have nonetheless come to feel very turned on by being objectified and/or made to feel insignificant in any way. In general, double standards really excite me. It makes me think there is an emotional masochism that is hard-wired into the brain of the submissive personality — or at least into my brain. Do you agree?
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gary, I agree to an extent about emotional masochism. good thoughts… I also have a question or two for you. maybe better said in email? if you’re open to doing so, email me at email@example.com. if not we can chat here….