tea and strumpets

We held a neighborhood tea time on Friday, and for once I kept my clothes on. Mistress felt that because the next day I would be fulfilling the elephant gift of car-washing and would be amply displayed, there was no need to over-expose me for the tea as well.

Nonetheless, Mistress dressed me in the shortest of skirts. On top, she had me in a thin camisole with spaghetti straps that allowed a lot of freedom for my breasts to ripple and roam. Meanwhile, Maria wore a modest sundress, the pretty blue one I like on her so well, as well as a white apron.

The day had been unbearably hot here, but the sun fell behind the ridge at about 4:30, and the patio become pleasant enough for everyone. Summer teas are always iced tea, along with chilled white wine and scones. Theresa brought a charcuterie board with olives, dates, cheeses, and sliced Italian meats.

Notable to me these days is how Mistress differentiates Maria and me. Maria, the service slave, was made the waitress, pouring tea and serving trays of food, fetching whatever people needed. She was ever busy, flitting about, and very much in her happy place. That is what I used to do at these things.

It’s a little more challenging for Mistress to know how to use me, the sex slave, in some way appropriate to a neighborhood tea. Well, she always manages. Here, she had me pour the white wine, though that clearly wasn’t the point. I stood to the side in my five-inch heels and my too-short skirt, holding a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, showing lots of thigh, and ever ready to serve anyone who nodded for a refill. As most of them were seated, I had to lean over to pour them a glass, and my boobs would roll forward, nearly falling out of my cami top.

One neighbor feigned concern that I was unsteady in my heels on the tiled patio ( I wasn’t); he “helped” by holding the back of my thigh under my short skirt. “Thank you, sir,” I said. This then became the play of others as well. And it wasn’t just the men who were handsy with me — Stacy’s fingers found places higher up my thighs, and under my skirt she secretly fingered my delta, the scene of our past pleasures.

In all of it, I received the fondling with, well, passive submissiveness, saying thank you, and realizing once again how my body has somehow become the happy playground of our entire neighborhood.

---

Not at the tea itself, but in recent and random conversations, questions have come up regarding the matter of my sexual objectification.

The most common question is whether I ever “get tired of” being sexually objectified. This always feels to me like a trick question. The implication of “get tired” is that my objectified treatment by others is an inappropriateness that no woman should not have to endure; even as a sex slave, I must have a limit to how much I can take.

The alternative answer— no, I never get tired of it — suggests that I love the experience of being handled and fondled, sexually objectified, which paints me as a strumpet, a craven nymphomaniac. Well, while despite my protests I may be those things, that’s not connected in any way to my actual answer to the question nor the truth of the matter.

I don’t get tired of being sexually objectified, and yet I don’t love it. It is something that I have to endure, yet it’s something I somehow find satisfying. That sounds like a set of conflicting statements, but they make sense in one particular way.

The nexus is, of course, my submissiveness. Being sexually objectified makes me feel my submissiveness more deeply. No, it is not appropriate for a woman to be sexually displayed and fondled, but that is my place and purpose as a submissive — and I am fulfilled by submitting to that. Yes, it is something I endure, but in the requirement of enduring it, I am obedient and, again, feel my submissive need fulfilled.

To ask me if I “ever get tired of it” just isn’t the right question. As a sexual submissive, my being used and objectified sexually is a real need within me. For me to be walked topless on the frontage road fulfills that need even though it is a humiliation I must endure. To be lusted for and fondled on the patio at teatime is oddly satisfying, even as it feels degrading. Or maybe it’s better to say that because it is degrading, it is satisfying — it touches my submissive core.

So, does it excite me sexually to be treated as a sexual object? Yes, but that’s not really the same as loving it or craving it. What people don’t really understand when they ask these questions is how intricately woven my submissiveness is with my sexuality. When Stacy fondles my pussy, of course I am excited, but perhaps just as arousing to me is that I can’t help but yield myself submissively, accept my place, and cede my body at the party to be fondled as such. In a way, I am titillated by my own submission to being played with.

---

After a while at the patio tea, people have had their touches of my flesh and eyefuls of my breasts rolling under my cami like the tides. They get to talking, and need no more wine poured. I stand to the side in silence, feeling they have forgotten about me. This too is a turn-on submissively: the debasement of my body having been seen and lusted for, my flesh being felt and handled — now resolving into the humiliation of an absence of interest.

Later Mistress will remind me that during this tea time, the neighbors have refreshed their images of me and will harbor them in their minds after they leave. They will recall them in the crevices of time in coming days and nights. They will possess me virtually and do with me what they will.

And no, God help my submissive soul, I never get tired of that.