I get quiet.
This is something a dom-stranger has to figure out about me, though maybe he’s had the same experience with other submissives. The servicing of his cock is humiliating and extraordinary, shaming and delicious, putting me in subspace and stillness. This is the contentment of being subjugated. You feel it’s your perfect place to be in. It’s just right.
I sit within it, remaining on the deck cushion, kneeling in topless repose, his cum marking my face and still thick on my tongue. It shames me and makes me thrilled at the same time.
He leans forward and squeezes my left breast, taking it between his thumb and forefingers, a soft press, and I close my eyes. It’s the first he’s touched them. He says nothing.
I ask, “May I clean myself for you?”
And so I wear his cum for a while.
There are a few limits Amanda places upon the doms who have me. I am aware of some, not others. Mostly these have to do with the care and feeding and protection of my body.
Doing this with dom-strangers is a dangerous practice, and Amanda is meticulous in vetting the men whom she lends me to. Mostly they are men she knows and trusts in the lifestyle, though they are strangers to me. What precedes my arrival on the dom-stranger’s doorstep are conversations between them about permissions and proscriptions — what the dominant can and cannot do with my body.
Amanda, being profoundly dominant herself, understands the importance of giving a dom a free hand with me, so to speak, so this advisory from her is a short list. Mostly they can do with me anything they want. I am never privy to this discussion between them, but some of it, I think, is simply about “maintenance” — for example, how I need to stay hydrated, and so it’s advised the dom keep a ready supply of bottled water. There seems also to be some inside info from Amanda as to my moods and subspace behaviors. It’s common sense, but she prohibits a temporary dom from doing anything to my body that would be a permanent marking — piercings, tattoos, of course, but also whippings that might leave scars. (Though, otherwise, I expect whippings are encouraged.) Sexually, Amanda gives the dom full access to me, although she may make anal sex off limits for a first visit.
What I am not representing in this imagined time with the proverbial Master Z is how Amanda would show up at certain times during my sojourn with him. She would likely not come the first day, but maybe the second, and then again later in the week. This is not so much to check up on me and his handling of me, though it serves that purpose, but mostly because Amanda’s pleasure in loaning me out is to see me dominated by another. It may be that her early negotiation with him also includes the possibility of her watching him sexually with me.
I have not brought her into this “re-enactment,” simply for writing time considerations, but you all should know that, as Amanda does more of this for real, she will like be in the room sometimes.
Master Z leaves the deck to fetch himself another tonic water. He wants me to stay kneeling, marked as his territory with the cream of the cock.
I remain in my quiet, the sun warming my painted face.
This visual marking of me is only temporary. It will wash away. He returns carrying a more permanent marking.
Only this is not the sort of burnished metal collar I am used to. Nor even the fabric collars I sometimes wear as chokers.
This is white, made of tightly woven strands of polyester, and appears to be frayed and stained. It’s been used before by other slaves or perhaps a dog. The front is a splotchy off-white, and I can only imagine it carries the DNA stains of one Master Z.
The symbolism is that of being used and dirty.
He wraps it around my neck and clasps it behind, under my hair.
I have worn a slave collar for more than six years now, pretty much non-stop. I sleep in a collar. Wake up in one. Go to the store wearing one. And, I have many collars, as readers know, so there’s not just one “Amanda collar,” but they all carry her authority and symbolize her possession of me.
As much as I am used to wearing a collar — indeed, not wearing one would feel strange — it’s not something I take for granted. I am aware of it most of the time, and feel its weight and texture as memorabilia of my submission.
I know that for a dom-stranger to collar me it will be temporary for the time he has me, and yet it too carries the weight and texture of his possession. In some cases, the collar he chooses to encase me in is one of some significance to him, either because of words it bears or something dangling from it, like an icon hanging from a charm bracelet.
In this case, there are no words written on it, but the collar’s worn raggedness tells the story: I am just one of others Master Z has used, and this is the collar they all have worn.
Master Z now pulls out of a zip -lock package a flat, rectangular item the size of a large address label.
He orders me to sit forward. I rise up on my knees. I close my eyes on his command.
I hear him play with the item he has in his hand. He tilts my head back, toward the sun. He places something flat on my forehead. It sticks there, and he pulls part of it off again.
“You may sit back and open your eyes,” he says.
I do, puzzled. “What was that about?”
“You’ll see,” he says cryptically.
He makes a few phone calls, and gets into a long discussion in one of them. I follow the conversation, becoming interested in the kind of work he does, which in part seems to be as a liaison between private non-profits and government agencies. He’s broadly knowledgeable about the military and business and government, and it impresses me. I marvel at how I came to be here in the presence of this learned and powerful man, my naked breasts becoming sunburned and his ratty collar hugging my neck. Hours ago we were strangers.
He finishes his calls, looks at me, and tells me I can now clean up and change into something cooler and more casual.
In my bedroom without the door, I take off my skirt and go into the bathroom for a shower. I see my face in the mirror, the cum now dried and crusted.
Then I see my forehead and what he has done to me.
Perfectly placed in the center of my forehead — in what must be a 72-point, dark blue, Arial font — is the letter “Z.”
4 thoughts on “the experience of strangers, 9: marked”
Excellent, slave shae. What a titillating image you paint with your delicious mind and your keyboard brush.
A slavegirl kneels at her master’s feet, the taste of his semen still thick in her mouth, and drops of it drying on her face. She is bare breasted, and has already been informed that, as a general restriction, she is prohibited from covering her succulent flesh should someone unexpectedly drop by to visit.
She is adorned with a ragged, discolored, and used collar, putting the slavegirl in her place among a line of previous thralls, not even afforded a collar of her own, much less a new one. The ratty collar tells her that she has nothing, not a single possession, not a privacy, not even the right of refusal regarding the use of the exquisite body that she is permitted to inhabit.
After her master is finished toying with her and casually fondling her breasts, she is instructed to clean up and change clothes. In the non-privacy of her doorless quarters, she inspects her master’s issue, dried on her face. It is surprising that she is not required to peel it from her freckles and swallow it, her master’s semen being a slavegirl’s holy water. Spilling a drop is a punishable offense.
And then, there is the topical inked tattoo, prominently placed on her forehead, not to be hidden by any garment, up front, immediately proclaiming to all she encounters that she is chattel. It will pique the imagination of all who see her, man or woman, as to how she is used, what indignities and humiliations she must endure, what tortures she is required to suffer, and what services such a slut is expected to provide.
One such as myself who sees her will marvel at the mind and soul of such a woman, who chooses that station, without so much as a single permission to withhold from those who would use her mind, emotions, and body to fulfill their most base desires and fantasies. She is beyond beauty, beyond selfless, beyond desirable, beyond sexy, beyond humanity, because she has a heart that can only be found in another true consensual slave.
I believe that, were she mine, she should perhaps be impregnated. What resides inside this remarkable woman is an all too rare and exquisite strand of DNA to simply end with her. That would be humanity’s loss.
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Sir, thank you for this re-enactment. I am so glad you are approving of my scenario. I already know how you approve of me, but I am flattered here, nonetheless. I cannot do justice in this moment to the lengthy recounting of your comment, but it’s rich and lovely as I play it back, and yes, excites me, especially coming from you. It’s been so long since I’ve been with you, my deep regret, but I promise to write you separately sometime today or in the next day or so.
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Dearest Slave Shae — Wow! What an image of you seeing yourself in the bathroom mirror with the ragged collar and the prominent Z on your forehead. I will be haunted (in the best possible sense) by that image for days and weeks to come. Also, I love your exchange (above) with “silkenlash”…and your deference to him. I don’t know who he is (yet), but as I continue to read blog articles, which I am slowly but surely doing, perhaps I’ll figure it out. I am so enjoying your story! 🙂
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thank you, Gary… while this is a kind of fiction, it’s based on my real-life experiences. I’ve had a lot of mirror moments. 👩🦰