A roman à clef is defined as “a novel that represents historical events and characters under the guise of fiction.” This miniseries is sort of the flip version of that — a “reported account” that represents fictional events and characters under the guise of non-fiction.
He has kept me nude all day.
This morning, once I finished skimming the pool, he has me go to my bedroom, take off my teal blue business suit, and change into a different set of heels. I am to wear nothing else. These shoes are taller with a narrower, more pointed heel. I reemerge onto the deck where he sits, the flesh of my thighs and shaved pubis a pale shade of winter.
He enjoys watching me navigate the deck with its floorboard slats. Mostly they are tightly wedged together, but in a few places there are wider cracks where my heel could fall through. He likes watching me stutter my steps as I avoid those slits, as it puts my body parts in motion.
I stop six feet from him and stand with my hands to my side. I say nothing, waiting, as a slave should, and feeling very much like a woman owned. He drinks in my nudity, likewise saying nothing, his gazes possessive not comparative. You just know when a man is comparing you to the memory of others, and in this moment he is not. I like this, when it’s just him and me in his mind, and we’re not joined by a cloud of former angels.
I expect to perform what has become our daily ritual, a cocksucking, like a morning latte. It’s strange to speak of rituals in a slavery that is only days old, but already with him there are such things which emerge as regular as morning dew.
This is one: he tells me to fetch him a tonic water. So it’s been every morning. Tonic water with lime. “Certainly, sir,” I say, turning and clacking my heels across the deck as I go back into the house.
His is a massive kitchen of stainless appliances and white marble countertop. In the center is an island about three feet wide and six long, likewise in alabaster. As I slice a lime, I feel small in the space, naked flesh inside the hard coldness of marble and squared steel. It’s too much kitchen for a single man, but it matches the size and bearing of his presence, so it dominates me, as he does.
Returning, I hand him his lime tonic and stand before him once again. I expect him to say, “On your knees,” but he doesn’t.
Instead he says, “My brother is coming over.”
I am not afraid of the brother in any sort of physical or sexual way. Amanda’s set of liberties and restrictions for a dom-stranger includes a prohibition of subsequent sharing. Those she shares me with cannot themselves “sub-let” me to another.
Of course, in any particular case you might think this could be a regulation easily violated, especially as the testosterone of additional men accumulates in a room featuring a naked and submissive woman. But Amanda works with good, responsible doms, men who “manage a slavery” and not who simply have a free shot at fucking a vulnerable girl like moi.
Further, she holds as leverage the possibility of a dom being awarded me in future times, perhaps a regular arrangement over some months. If a dom violates the rules, he knows she will not place me with him again.
This was the case with Master McKenna, specifically the dom retreat he held, in which I was in the room in various stages of undress with five doms-in-training. While she had these rules in place for Master M, he probably didn’t need them — he’s responsible enough on his own to protect me from such things.
Amanda talks with me every day by phone. It’s usually a short check-in and not touchy-feely — she doesn’t intend to comfort me in my enslavement — but if anything is amiss, she will know it. The dom-stranger knows this.
So, no, I am not afraid of Brother Johnson, but hands-off does not mean eyes off, and I expect he will be given his visual pleasures of me, perhaps as I am employed in some act of sexual service.
Master Z has me sit in a deck chair to his side. I manage my posture etiquette, trained into me by Master McKenna and others before, what has become second nature, though now conscious as I am being slave-observed.
I sit in one fluid motion, not using the arms of the chair, letting my thighs lower me. I sit first on the front of the seat, then in a second motion raise myself an inch and settle farther back. My legs are together, and I angle them to the left properly. My pussy is framed by the V of my thighs, a crack of shadow in a swath of shaven, baby-smooth, pale flesh.
He scans me. He says nothing. He reads his newspaper.
I say nothing.
When you’re shared with a dom-stranger, you have to accept, of course, the personality he is. You don’t get to “not like” how he comes across. You cannot choose or not choose. You have to make peace with what and who he is. The sooner you learn this, the sooner you’ll find yourself copacetic with any of many different personality types.
For me, what makes it easier is if the man “gets me,” which specifically is about my way with words and my sometimes ironic sense of humor. He doesn’t have to laugh or make a big deal of it, but some sort of accepting response settles me. Sometimes what I say comes across as sass when I mean only to be clever. If the man somehow puts up with me in that, then I feel I can make my way through my submission to him.
Master Z has engaged with me in repartee, thank god, although in many other ways he is not a warm person. He’s not cold or stern either, simply inexpressive and in some way rigid. Again, a military bearing perhaps.
My first dominant, Master Michael, was cool in style but warmish interpersonally. Master K, Kevin, was aloof and cool toward me as his slave, though later in my escorting with him he became more open and personal. Master McKenna is professional in manner yet generally warm to me. And now, Master Z is somewhat engaging of me in word-play, but rather cold and dismissive otherwise.
I am trying to describe subtle intangibles. Being warm isn’t the same as being soft with me. Being cold, like Master Z, doesn’t mean cruelty. All of these men who’ve had me have been capable of humiliating me, debasing me, and using me in impersonal sexual ways. And all have been responsible with me, caretaking of me in a way, protective.
These descriptions are more about how a man interacts with me. With some, as I’ve written, I am made to feel like a partner in executing my slavery (Master McKenna, most notably). With others, I am more excluded, left on the outside, and coldly used as an object and property.
This is Master Z, it would seem. He’s not an easy man to connect with.
Brother Johnson ambles in, wearing faded jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. He stops when his eyes find me naked in the chair.
Upon seeing him, I stand. Protocol.
He views me, says only, “Ah.”
“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” I say.
He sits and starts talking to his brother.
Master Z makes a hand motion to me, a downward wave that is at once dismissive and directional. I sit once again.
They talk for some time about an issue with one of the veteran’s groups. I try to follow, though it’s technical stuff. One thing I’ve realized is that my exposure to dominant men is also exposure to men who are accomplished and knowledgeable in certain fields. I can learn from them, even as I sit in the nude, my breasts bared and my pussy peeking our between my thighs.
But their conversation escapes me, too much “inside baseball,” as they say.
I keep my attentions on Master Z, but I can see through the corner of my eye Mr. Johnson stealing stares of me. Actually he is not furtive at all, but shamelessly camping visually on my breasts and pussy.
They come to a pause in their conversation, and Master Z tells me to stand.
I obey, hands to my side.
He mentions the interchange we had earlier by the pool. “You were inadequate. Do you recall?”
“Yes, I do, and I am sorry for that, sir.”
“I want you to tell my brother what you did wrong.”
I am not expecting this and am slow to respond. I turn to Brother Johnson. “So, Master told me to take off my clothes,” I say. “I confess I was not paying attention.”
I stop there, and Master Z has to prompt me to go on. I know my reluctance is annoying him in the moment.
“Well,” I finally say, “I took off my top, my blazer, but not my skirt. My obedience was only partial,” I say.
The brother looks at me with a crooked grin. I am now blushing in the humiliation, a grown woman naked, confessing her sin in front of two older men.
I think doms look for opportunities to discipline a submissive. They can apply the whip or bondage at any time, but the experience of a true punishment is different and more devastating to a submissive. I would argue that punishment is not needed for a submissive to feel most deeply dominated, but I have to admit that it’s a profound experience to feel the wrath of a displeased dom.
Good doms don’t artificially contrive such events; good submissives don’t intentionally err in order to trigger anything. But a dom looks for natural reasons to exert controlling and disciplining power over his slave. And a slave inevitably makes mistakes.
Such punishment is particularly difficult for me. I am wired to seek straight A’s in everything, always the girl in school who did the extra credit. To fail even in a little thing affects me deeply. Men who are experienced with me know this. And dom-strangers, like Master Z, may be coached in this by Amanda ahead of time.
Master Z does not like my answer. He admonishes me: “Partial obedience is not obedience. It’s partial defiance.”
He is right. I know I was spinning my words to lessen the transgression. Truth is, I wasn’t actually defying him. I was just failing because I hadn’t paid attention. But this was not the time to argue the nuances. “Yes, sir,” I say.
“Summarize your errors.”
Looking at him, I nod. “I was not—“
“Confess it to my brother.”
I turn to Mr. Johnson, who is still bearing a lustful grin. “I was not paying attention to Master Z. I didn’t hear all of what he said. I assumed only so much, and it was more. And I then didn’t obey him in all of what he’d ordered me to do.”
“So you’ve been bad,” Brother Johnson says. “all you have to do is serve and obey, and you botched it.”
I hesitate slightly, not so willing to accept this condemnation from a layman, so to speak. But I suck it up and say, “Yes, sir. I was wrong.”
Mr. Johnson looks me in the eyes and says, directly to his brother, “It seems to me this deserves a punishment.”
I had wondered yesterday, but now I know: the two brothers have played this act before. Their dialogue with me on this is a script they’re used to, one cueing the other and the other prompting an outcome.
Master Z tells me to come to his side and face him. He takes my hand and pulls me down, across his lap, positioning me in an arc, the toes of my high heels gracing the deck on one side and my hair flowing down over my head and face on the other. At the top of my body arc are my pale ass cheeks trembling up to heaven.
Without fanfare, Master Z brings his hand down hard. Open handed, he slaps me, but his palm also thuds into my flesh with force.
I scream. My eyes water.
My spanking is one part physical pain, another part emotional hurt, and yet another part deep humiliation. Some other morning, apart from a transgression, he could whip me with a cat-o-nines, and it would feel completely different. This is punishment for my sin, and now makes me cry.
There is no count. He has not prescribed a certain number of strokes. There are just spanks, one after another, four or five seconds between, sometimes longer, irregularly applied to keep me off-kilter.
I feel another thwack, and I scream again, my tears erupting into sobs, jerking my body.
It feels endless. My ass burns, and each of his strokes adds fire. But it’s not the sting that makes me cry. It’s the deep disappointment of my failing, my awareness of falling short, my knowing that in that one moment I was not acceptable as a slave to him.
In what feels like alternate time, he goes on and on. The brother yells “Yes!” and I fear for a moment that Master Z will be egged on beyond what is imaginable.
But in time he stops and pulls me up from his lap. I am like rubber, weak-kneed, but I find my footing back on my heels. My mascara, the little I use, is running below my eyes, which now are bloodshot. I’m black and blue and red all over, a naked mess, all flesh and breasts and pounded ass cheeks.
I glance over at the brother, who sports a wide grin, and my humiliation is now full and deep and cringing.
Master Z invites me to sit.
I smother one last sob, and ask in a trembly voice, “Would it be okay, sir, if I stand?”
Master Z nods, and the two men erupt in laughter.
One thought on “the experience of strangers, 13: humiliation”
I don’t recall when you’ve posted such a detailed account of a punishment. Very nice.