uber to the mansion

I flew back yesterday to Denver, leaving Mother and Lucille after a good visit. Of course, Mistress Amanda is traveling for business, and the plan all along was for me to go from the airport directly to Master McKenna’s mansion. I got my roll-aboard from baggage claim and booked an Uber. As we drove away from the airport, I texted Master M, letting him know I was on my way.

Though I had seen Master M at the NYE party, it had actually been around Thanksgiving since I was last wearing his chains. I have missed his dominance and now was looking forward to being under him again. As I just posted, I had intentions of a more “absorbent” submission to him, something less internally fraught and more receptive. I wanted to come to him a blank slate upon which he could write himself.

Sitting in the back seat of the Uber, I tried to focus on mentally preparing myself for this, and for my return into Master’s world. But the Uber driver was talkative. He was in his late twenties, wore a black jacket and jeans, and sported a light blond beard. I made nice and chatted with him awhile. He was saving money for grad school, he said.

The driver asked me what I did for a living, which is always an interesting question for me to answer. I said I was a personal assistant to a businessman, which is one of the prescribed answers I am allowed to provide. He probed more, and I replied that I provided data analysis as well as “personal services” to a man who managed a number of businesses. “Personal services” is also one of my prescribed responses, and is variably interpreted, of course, sometimes prompting embarrassing additional queries.

But in this case, Uber guy didn’t bite, taking it simply as a cue to tell me about a job he had once as a “gofer” for a guy in Canada.

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The drive to the mansion is about an hour. After some twenty minutes, the driver stopped talking, and I was able to settle into a bit more of a meditative preparation, finding my Zen, imagining my submission in my first hours at the mansion.

But I was interrupted again, this time by a text from Master M: “Upon arrival, take off your top. Make sure the driver gets a good eyeful.”

I had to smile at the presumption of Master M that he could reach into my life even before I showed up and, from afar, sexualize me in front of a stranger. As outrageous as it was, it also warmed me to know that Master was thinking of me before I arrived, that he had had this idea earlier and had planned it for my trip there.

A slave girl wonders sometimes if she is forgotten when she is not there. It’s an irrational thought, I know, but a little more valid perhaps when I know my master has Maria to attend to him. This was a reassurance that he had me “present of mind,” even as it required my humiliation in front of an Uber driver.

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I texted Master M back when we exited from the interstate. He could calculate our arrival from that.

So my submission to him would start before it started. I imagined now that Master owned me, not just within the walls of the mansion and the perimeter of the grounds of the estate, but in my mere proximity, like the circle of a radar zone some five miles around. I had just gotten into a peaceful subspace, and now I was nervous about doing this.

The driver got a call on his phone and, while he was distracted with that that, I started unbuttoning my blouse but keeping its panels closed and myself covered. I would need, upon getting out of the car, for my blouse to come off quickly. I couldn’t take time then with buttons. I would do this thing, obey my order, let him have his eyeful of my tits, but I wasn’t going to do a slow striptease for the man. (Funny how we try to establish a boundary in a circumstance where there is none, and find some some desperate dignity as we are forced into our own debasement.)

He seemed not to notice, carefully attending to the GPS directions to the mansion. I told him that GPS often didn’t work closer to my destination, that I would direct him from a certain road. He nodded.

Doing something like this is not a trivial act for me, even now in my years of experience as a slave often subjected to public exposure. I think I will always feel the humiliation of being exposed. And yet, it’s interesting to me in retrospect how I mentally took myself back to the NYE party, what I endured there, and my public display in front of strangers.

I did that… so I can do this.

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We got to the long approach drive leading into the mansion. The driver whistled at seeing the expanse of the estate. “Must be nice,” he said.

“You have no idea,” I replied.

He drove around the large circle and pulled up to the entrance steps.

I asked the driver if he could get my suitcase from the trunk, and as he climbed out to do so, while still in the back seat, I quickly slipped out of my blouse, pulling it from my shoulders, exposing my breasts, and stuffing it into my large handbag. I stepped out of the Uber.

When the driver shut the trunk, he saw me standing completely topless, my breasts full and pale in the cool air. He uttered a sharp “Oh!” of surprise, looked down, and didn’t know what to do.

I knew that Master M, perhaps Maria too, were watching, and indeed I heard the big mansion doors click open behind me. I felt myself blushing, my upper chest no doubt becoming a blotchy rose. My nipples felt a slight breeze.

The driver still stood behind the trunk of the car, but now was staring at me — or gazing, if there’s a difference. I remained my the side of the car, the passenger door still open. I chose for a long moment not to fetch my suitcase from him, to prolong the moment despite my humiliation. I had reason, supposedly, to delay — Uber payment. I looked down at my phone, taking my time to open the Uber app, making sure my arms didn’t block the driver’s view of my breasts. I clicked on the tip button, thinking for a moment that Uber guy should be giving me a tip.

I thought for a brief moment whether or not to say something to him about my undress, to say I hope I didn’t offend him, to maybe explain about the text order and everything. But anything seemed impossible to explain, so I didn’t. Instead I finally walked to him, my heels crunching the gravel and my steps jiggling the flesh of my breasts. “Thank you,” I said, acting as if my toplessness was perfectly normal. Which, at the mansion, it actually is.

Later, I would think of something I should have said. I sometimes, after the fact, dream up “movie lines,” clever dialogue I wish I’d used. But these quips never seem to come to mind in the moment. That evening, I imagined myself stepping close to the Uber guy, winking and saying in a knowing voice, “Personal Services.”

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I confess that, despite my embarrassment in standing breasts out in front of Uber guy, I milked the moment somewhat because I knew Master M was observing me. I wanted to please him, even at the expanse of my humiliation. Or maybe with my humiliation. Self-inflicted, humiliation can be a form of masochism.

I took the handle of my suitcase and started walking up the entrance steps, though I did it kind of sideways, so the man could see my breasts bouncing as I ascended. I waved back at him as he — very reluctantly — climbed into the Uber.

Master M emerged from the doorway, Maria following. She and I hugged. Master said, “well done.”

Uber driver still had not circled the driveway, and I saw him looking back as Master cupped my breast.

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I arrived in time for happy hour, and it felt good to be sitting with both of them again, sipping wine in the relaxation of the Great Room.

I had to explain to Master M how Uber worked. He has people to drive him anywhere, has never used an Uber and never will. He knows about it in principle, but I had to explain how it includes a rating system, and I could give Uber guy one to five stars. “The driver also,” I explained, “can rate the passenger. ”

“Can he leave comments?” Master M asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I wonder how he rated you,” Master said.

“I don’t dare look. I’m probably banned for life.”

“Actually,” Marie said with a grin, “I’m thinking it’ll make you very popular.”

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Sometime later, Maria went to the kitchen for something, and I was alone with Master. I sat on the floor in my little skirt.

“I hope you’re not getting ideas about this texting thing,” I said with a sigh.