the experience of strangers, 18: cleanliness

A reminder to those following this series: this is a blend of fact and fiction. Master Z is not real, but I have had similar experiences with real dom-strangers. The events of this serial post are made up, but based on my own very real history and referring to my real-life slavery under Amanda.


The doorbell rings.

As I quickly wipe down his cock and tuck him back into his pants, Master Z tells me to put on lipstick. “The bright red shiny,” he says in his only vocabulary for it, sending me off upstairs.

I quickly attempt the Taylor Swift look, which I think is what he wants, although he probably doesn’t know who she is. I look at myself in the mirror: orange skirt (ugh), white heels, cherry-gloss lipstick — and bare pale breasts, “melons,” as he’s already called them once. I consider whether he intends for me to cover up in returning downstairs, or not. I remember his words, “You will conduct yourself in front of them all as you would if they were not here. In whatever state I have you…” I decide to take that literally and breathe in deeply.

I return to the living room. I hear Master Z talking to people in another room. I hope this is where he wants me.


For me, exposure to strangers has become de rigeur in Amanda’s world, but for me it’s never easy. I never get used to my private flesh being seen by people in a public way. For that matter, even simply undressing for my dominant-master still makes me shyly reluctant, and certainly being nakedly viewed by strangers is for me usually majorly a thing.

I realize that many D/s slaveries are not so exposed and other slaves are not kept as I am. I don’t know why, but my owners and masters all have liked keeping me in some state of undress. They like seeing me topless a lot of the time, and sometimes keep me fully nude — simply having me around undressed.

Master Z is, I suppose, like my other dominants in that keeping me exposed is a demonstration of their control of me. I am, and come across as, a woman who is inclined toward elegance and propriety (so I’ve been told and also what I strive for). And I’m not myself an exhibitionist, still shy about being seen this way. So when I am made to be around and about with my breasts made bare for others to see, it is interpreted as an act of obedience — “she wouldn’t choose that for herself,” so it goes — that I am exposed against my will but according to his will. I am a walking image of a dominant’s power over me.

My owners display me also to provide others an erotic experience. At the very least, they want to prompt people to see me sexually, and part of that is for them to take home memories.

It’s like I become entered into some stranger’s photo album for all time.


I wait in the living room as Master Z finishes his tour with the guests. I hear two voices, then a third. They’re talking about the house, and I guess it’s the cleaning service.

They turn the corner from the hallway into the living room. There are two men and one woman. They see me standing, topless.

One of the men, seeing me, utters loudly, “Oh!”

I blush, saying nothing.

Master Z makes the introduction: “This is Shae, whom I told you about.” He offers nothing more, and I have to assume he has previously discussed with them my presence as well as my appearance.

A tall man with black hair looks at me then away. The other man, shorter and stockier with thick arms, stares at me, expressionless. It is the woman who looks at me and smiles.

Master Z has them provide me with their last names. “Shae will be around if you have any questions,” he says. “She can tell you where things are.”

This is news to me. I barely know the house myself, having been here just four days. And I was never told I would have responsibilities with the crew.

“Shae will make herself available,” Master Z says, “and she’ll go back and forth among you as you work. If you need a hand, she can help.”

So, I get my marching orders as he tells them what I will be doing.

“I’ll be on the back patio,” he adds.

This reassures me. I wouldn’t want to be alone on the property like this. Even so, I stand in front of them uncomfortably. These people are not in this lifestyle, have no particular understanding of what I am apart from how Master Z prepped them for me. They don’t know what to say. I am there, breasts out, with no real purpose for being so. I feel an awkward humiliation, as the tall man steals glances and keeps looking away.


Amanda has her own “rules” for my public presentation. She believes that people in the vanilla public deserve some forewarning about me before I’m displayed for them.

One example of this is how, back in Colorado, Amanda spent time with neighbors explaining our lifestyle and getting their permission for us to be open about our D/s practices. This has included their approval for me to be displayed undressed outside. She did not want to impose me on them. Besides wanting to avoid cops being sicced on us, she thinks people have a right not to be assaulted by my slavery and views of my naked body.

I think back to my experience of being topless in front of the maintenance crew (here) and also earlier in serving lemonade while topless to the landscaping crew in the back yard (here). I really don’t know if Amanda gave them notice beforehand, and she doesn’t tell me if she did because she wants me not to know. But I’m guessing she did.

The point is that there’s a responsibility a dom has in the display of a slave. It takes work to constantly “set stages” for others in vanilla life encountering me for the first time.

I have to think Amanda, when sharing me with a new dom, has this discussion with him sometime, among others about how he will conduct my slavery.

Still, while I have this general awareness that she is careful and responsible in such things, I never know how a dom-stranger preps others for me — what has been told them, if they will receive me well, and how they will think of me.


I will assume Master Z has told the cleaning people about me beforehand. I expect he has bluntly has defined me to them as his “sex slave.” I don’t see him as a man to mince words about that.

So, I have to spend the morning flitting back and forth among them with some undefined purpose, all while they are thinking of me that way, with perhaps three very different levels of judgment. So there’s that.

My sense is that the tall dark-haired man, Mr. Givens, might be the one with most resistance to my presence. I start with him. He has kitchen duty, and I find him there, already wiping down cabinets and cleaning the stainless appliances.

I stop in the doorway, crossing my arms over my breasts. “Mr. Givens, I don’t wish to offend you.” I say right out. “He has me be this way.”

His back is to me as he reaches up to wipe the upper cabinets. “You don’t,” he says, “and I know.”

I stand silent, despite his curtness hoping he might continue the conversation. He doesn’t. “Well, I say, “if you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll try not to bother you. And I’ll cover myself when I stop in again.”

“You don’t need to.” He turns around, looks at me, my forearms barely covering my boobs. “It’s not that you’re half-naked. I just don’t approve of what you do.”

“Oh,” I say. “OK.” I now feel exposed to him in a different way. “Perhaps I might explain things in a way that would help.”

“No need to. I’m fine. I have to get my work done.” He turns away and continues wiping down cabinets.

I walk away. I realize that normally I live in a bubble, where the people around me are part of or complicit in my D/s lifestyle. I rarely experience direct disapproval. Now I do.


I really don’t know how this is supposed to work, my roaming from one cleaning worker to another. In all of ten minutes I will have visited the three of them, and each will likely say they don’t need anything. Then what?

I find the other man, Mr. Jakes, in one of the bedrooms, stripping sheets off the bed. He seems to be about twenty-five and has a thick, muscled body. I stand in the doorway and ask if he needs anything.

“You can point me to the laundry room,” he says, looking toward me but not seeing my eyes. He makes no excuse for staring at my breasts.

“I’ll show you,” and I lead him through the back atrium, my parts jiggling as I navigate in high heels. We go down a side hallway into a large utility room beside the garage, which houses the washer and dryer.

He thanks me, and starts to load sheets in the washer.

It occurs to me to ask him what sort of system they have for cleaning a house.

“Cath, she does dusting and surface cleaning of all rooms. I start with laundry and linens. When she finishes a room, I’ll do the floors, either wash tile or vacuum carpets. Jess, he works the kitchen and bathrooms. We sync to each other. Like it’s pretty efficient, really.” Mr. Jakes takes a breath, then asks, “How long have you been doing this?”

I have to decide how much to tell him. My being shared with Master Z for just one week is not easy to explain. I just say that I’ve been in this life for seven years now, but I’m new to him and this house.

“That’s cool,” he says.

“Well, your colleague doesn’t think so. Mr. Givens doesn’t approve of me.”

“He’s like that. Jess, he’s judgey about a lot of things… Say, follow me around. How many bedrooms are there?”

I’m really not sure. “Five, I think.”

“Maybe three more laundry loads.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure. I have to collect bath towels too. What takes the time are the wash cycles. But if you help me strip beds, I can get to following Cath and start doing floors.”

So, unlikely as it might be, I am, alongside Mr. Jakes, pulling sheets from beds while short-skirted, high-heeled, and bare-breasted. In the kitchen I was judged, but here I am welcomed, if mostly for two obvious reasons.

His lustful gazes notwithstanding, Mr. Jakes is pleasant and conversational. He’s curious about my life, and doesn’t hesitate to ask me questions. He asks me if I am often dressed like this.

“Most of the time.”

“I spose he likes keeping you like this.”

“Yes, he does. Like this… or more.”

Mr. Jakes raises his eyebrows and grins, imagining me in terms of the “or more.”

I change the subject: “Seems to me,” I say, “you must work out.”

“Yeah. Boxing. I like working the bag at a gym. Good workout. I sometimes spar with someone. It’s fun.”

“Wow. You do this physical work all day and then go to the gym to workout afterward?”

“Yep, pretty much.”

And with that, we have talked about each other’s bodies.


Ms. Eleniak, whom Mr. Jakes calls, Cath, has nearly finished the main floor rooms, dusting and surface cleaning. I catch her in the living room, where we first met. She is in her twenties, brown-haired, about my height, slender with brown hair and a pretty face.

“Can I help?” I ask.

“Hey,” she says. “No, see, I have a system. But you can talk at me while I work.”

“Don’t mean to slow you down.”

“You won’t,” she says, “I enjoy the company.”

“Mr. Jakes told me about your system. Interesting how you work.”

“It’s kinda clockwork. We dovetail our core tasks then circle around to whatever someone else has left to do.”

“Impressive… This is a big house.”

“Yes,” she says, “but more space inside doesn’t necessarily mean more work. We have a another job which is a fairly small home but the owner is a pack rat. Collects everything, plates and dolls and porcelain figurines, all of it on tables and open shelves. Dusting it all takes forever.” She speaks with a slight accent, Slavic, it seems, which would seem to be the derivation of her last name.

“Wondering,” I say, “what nationality you come from. Your name.”

“My name is of Russian origin, but I grew up in Canada. There are some Russian communities there. I grew up in one.”

“Do you speak Russian?”

“A little. Since leaving, I lost most of it.” She finishes dusting a cabinet, then pauses. “You know, I have a friend who’s like you.”

“How do you mean?”

“The submissive thing. In your kind of life. I’m not sure it’s quite like what you’re in here, though. She’s not a sex slave. But something like you.”

“There are a lot of variations and flavors of this.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, though that’s a complicated question to answer. We like what we don’t like. Hurts-so-good sort of thing… So… you smiled at me when you first saw me.”

“You’re beautiful, you know,” she says. “I mean like this.”

“I look like a creamsicle.”

“Yeah, kinda,” she says. We both laugh.

“Does it embarrass you?” she asks.

“Yes, although that’s part of the experience. Humiliation.”

“Hate it but like it.”

“Yes.”

“I get that.”

I decide to press her again. “But your reaction was about something else, I think. Yes?”

She looks me in they eyes with a coy smile. “It might have been.”


I decide to check on Master Z. I trot out to the back deck, careful not to lodge my heels in any floorboard cracks. “May I get you something, sir?”

“The usual,” he says.

“With gin or just the tonic?”

“With gin.”

I toddle off to the wet bar, soon returning with his drink.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“The most wonderful time of my year,” I say sarcastically. As soon as I say it, I know I’m being flippant, and he has not always been so warm to my words this way, my flippancy being often seen as insubordination. But, I think, his question itself was kind of flippant. So I hope.

I detect a glimmer of a grin on his lips, and I relax. This time I got away with it. But I don’t know if I ever can figure out this man, when he tolerates me this way and when he doesn’t. Like just give me a rule about it.

“More to the point,” he says, “I imagine they’re very much enjoying you.”

“Well, the one man doesn’t approve of me,” I say. “One of the others wants to fuck me.” I pause. “And it’s not the one you think.”


I make my way back to the kitchen where Mr. Givens is finishing up on the kitchen surfaces. I simply cannot bear someone disapproving of me.

Entering, I cover up with my crossed arms.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says. “I’m not offended.”

“You just don’t approve,” I say, uncrossing my arms and let my breasts jut out openly.

“Right,” he says. He now stares at my boobs.

Men are sometimes difficult. He disapproves yet partakes.

“You could do something with your life,” he says.

“I am.”

“Well, then we agree to disagree.” Mr. Givens is wiping down the kitchen island, the final station in his cleaning routine of the kitchen.

I can’ help but remember how just the other day Master Z had me naked, splatted face-down on that same marble, my breasts flattened into rounds, my pale thighs spread wide, my heels hooked around the corners of the island. I see myself still there even now, superimposed upon Mr. Givens’s circular wipes, my flesh splayed out and my pussy dribbling cum, my sex marring the surface he is trying to clean.

To someone like him, I will always be dirty. I never will be clean enough for a Mr. Givens.

4 thoughts on “the experience of strangers, 18: cleanliness

  1. Excellent piece. I like the way you address them all as “Mr.” and “Ms.”
    Intriguing, that the one who disapproves, disapproves because you aren’t “doing something with your life”. As if you’d be happier, or somehow preferable, working a traditional job.

    Like

  2. Oh you lovely female Picasso, swing your brush so that I feel like an observer, which I am, assessing your artwork, consuming it and thank you for another lovely, lovely read.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Nudo4 is correct. I also am transformed into an observer. Simultaneously, I can see the light reflecting off the countertop and you straddling it, as the semen pools below your sex. I believe that I have previously said something about you wielding the keyboard like a paintbrush.
    “We like what we don’t like. Hurts-so-good sort of thing.”
    Perfect, at least as best that it can be comprehended by a dominant.
    Good work, shae.

    Liked by 1 person

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