It’s day two under Master Z.
There’s something about waking up into slavery — a dawning consciousness that this bed is a different than you’re used to, and, oh yes, a new dom-stranger is the one who owns you now, and wow, there’s this and that you will be doing today in service and obedience to him.
I sometimes think this is the best test of whether you are suited to a 24/7 life in slavery: if in waking up into it, you feel a kind of dread, like having to go to work at a bad job, or if you feel a kind of peaceful content, tinged with wonder and anticipation for what’s to come.
For me, this morning is a mix of plus and minus. New adventures to come — but I have to clean toilets. I did OK my first day with him — but I haven’t yet figured him out. I like him as a dom — but I’m not sure if he likes me. (More on that later…)
He did not sleep with me last night. There is a slight relief in that: even in D/s with strangers, sleeping with someone through the night is a certain kind of intimacy, one I wasn’t perhaps ready for. Being a sex slave makes you available for most anything anytime, and yet you feel moments of “not yet.” D/s slavery is sometimes not personal, and sexual service can be utilitarian, yet you want to be “into him” to some degree, and that takes time. With him last night, I would have, but he didn’t, and I am relieved.
And by the way, well rested. That may be the best argument against sleeping together: a slave girl needs rest and replenishment to endure the things she must endure.
After the morning on the deck, he didn’t have any sex at all with me later. I realize that might be a matter of his readiness after emptying himself into my mouth, and imagine perhaps he needs time to recycle. But I also am thinking that maybe he’s not so attracted to me for some reason. He seems to like big boobs but maybe not red hair. It’s silly, but your mind goes there, and you doubt your looks and appeal, which you know isn’t what anything is about, yet your mind twists it that way.
Then again, his hand’s-off approach with me yesterday could suggest his dominant restraint. Perhaps it’s part of a strategy he has for making me wonder these very things, making me doubt my appeal to him, making me in other ways to try harder to please him. My mind is again circling like a baby tornado. I’m quite vulnerable that way, easy prey mentally for a dominant man to toy with.
I shower and prep, do my makeup and hair, seeing myself with a loud “Z” on my forehead. I wear his mark now. He’s told me it will last for two weeks naturally, then fade away. I realize I will then be “wearing him” for some time when I return to Amanda. She will get a kick out of that. More than I do now.
I climb into another business outfit Amanda has stocked me with while I’m here: a royal blue pleated skirt, short, with a cream-colored blazer. I forego a blouse, as he’s just going to get me out of it anyway. One lower button on the blazer, as he had me do yesterday. Wedge sandal heels complete the look.
I remember to put on the ratty, frayed collar he has anointed me with.
At precisely 0700 hours, military time, I enter the living room. Master Z is sitting there.
Across from him is another man.
I’m introduced to his brother, whom I am to call “Mr. Johnson.” I do not know if this is the family name or a pseudonym just for my use, or perhaps a euphemism for a part of his body. In any case, he is younger than Master Z by maybe three or four years, with a rounder face and a buzz cut. I’m guessing he’s former military as well.
I am immediately self-conscious sans a blouse with my my cream blazer acting as a picture window for the landscape of my breasts. I manage to keep my hands from trying to button the top button for cover.
I am invited to sit with them, and there are introductions, though Mr. Johnson seems to already know about me and what I am. “Has she been a good one?” he asks his brother in front of me.
“So far, acceptable,” Master Z says.
I know this dialogue sounds unnatural and kind of “arch,” but it’s actually quite realistic to much of my experience. Lifestyle people, dominants, often talk about me in the third person in front of me. It’s sort of the point, intentional in its way of diminishing me, the slave. That the brother has initiated the discussion this way, in third person, suggests to me he has some experience in the lifestyle himself, or at least has watched his sibling do it often before.
I have interrupted their conversation, and now they return to it, something about a new truck Mr. Johnson intends to buy and discussion about the model and its features. I sit in an occasional chair to the side of Master Z, my legs primly angled and together as I’ve been trained.
In time, Master Z asks me what my primary chore is today. It’s a prompt to engage me in front of his brother, but he also wants to check if I remember.
“Today, I clean the toilets,” I say.
“There are a lot of them in this house,” Mr. Johnson observes.
“Yes, sir. I’m up to the task, I’m sure.”
He nods, turns to his brother and asks, “Do you have her clean toilets while she’s wearing that?”
Master Z says yes.
“Good,” the brother says, in a way that assumes a kind of authority and reveals his vision of me in a business suit on the floor next to a white porcelain commode with a toilet brush.
Master Z tells me to stand, and I do. He tells me to slowly turn around. I obey. He is having me model for his brother. It feels objectifying, which is the intention.
Facing them again, I remain hands to my sides. Unfussy.
Master Z tells me to unbutton my blazer.
When you are shared like this, you are entering the dom-stranger’s social life. If you are taken by him for a few hours or an afternoon, perhaps he cordons off that period to be private between him and you. But when you are given to him for his use over a week, you are likely to encounter others. He has friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances who come and go.
Of course, for some dominants the lifestyle is still private, and so they may pass you off as a girlfriend around others. But my experience has only been with doms who are open and public. Any time other people show up, I am usually represented for what I am, a submissive in service to him. Of course, Amanda has trained me this way, to be a public slave.
At this level of being shared, of being inserted into another’s world for a time, your slavery is more likely to be open, “public,” at least to some degree. So it’s best to assume that going in, expecting that you will be meeting others who will know the slave you are.
You follow your dominant’s lead in how much he reveals about who you are and how you are with him. He may be open about the D/s nature of things, but not providing detail as to how he does things with you, what he requires, what degree of domination he applies to you. He may express more to some than others. You respond to others as your dominant leads you. With his brother, Master Z is completely open.
Yes, Amanda has trained me to be public, but that doesn’t make it easier for me as I unbutton my blazer for Mr. Johnson’s benefit.
“Good tits,” he says. His leering comment is said to his brother, as if he selected the Ford truck with the best tires.
Master Z has me sit down again. I know enough (good slave training!) not to fuss with my blazer lapels, not to straighten or tug or, god forbid, draw it closed. No, it must hang and drape and fall where it chooses to. As a slave you are subject to the whims of inanimate things, even the clothes you wear: the breezes that billow up your skirt or the gravity that pulls this blazer down and open.
“I’m also considering the RAM 1500,” Mr. Johnson says, picking up their previous conversation.
“My friend, Jakes, has one,” Master Z affirms. “Likes it.” They go into it again, and much as I gleaned an modest education in trucks from Kevin in a previous time, most of this goes over my head. They go on for another fifteen minutes. I sit trying to look attentive, but my mind wanders. And I’m still self-conscious: they talk about torque, but I’m wondering if my nipples are showing.
And so it’s a bit of a head swivel surprise when Master Z turns to me and says, “I’m wondering about that report I asked you to do.”