elephant gift: car wash: 1

This happened last Saturday, and I’ve been slow in reporting it. Not that I am avoiding it, but I’m not sure there is much to report, not that much new. My humiliations have become routine, it seems. Still, there were a few new wrinkles…

It was neighbor Justin Farris who won me as an elephant gift at the New Year’s Eve party — the gift of my washing his car. Mr. Farris is a single man in his forties who looks younger, slight of build with black hair and a tightly trimmed beard. He has always seemed to keep to himself, and therefore is a bit inscrutable. He recently changed jobs, and I confess I don’t know what his work is now, other than it requires a lot of travel. He often isn’t around. Yet he has participated in the events of my slavery among the neighbors.

I well remember his comment to me in the days following the New Year’s Eve party. That night, I had been subject to body-writing from the entire group, and it took most of a week for it to fade from my flesh — and my thoughts. I forget the exact context of his comment, but I suppose it was a response to my resisting some of the words I’d been labeled with. Mr. Farris said to me, “The fact you have ‘slut’ written all over your body pretty much makes you a slut.” It was said in a soft-spoken manner, which is how he is, and he didn’t mean it as a dig, but it was sharp in its truth. I actually appreciated it.

When the car wash got scheduled, Mr. Farris, with Amanda’s permission, sent out an invite to the entire neighborhood. This car washing, along with the lawn mowing previously, evolved into gifts not just for one person but for the whole community. Likewise will be the “field trip” to Master McKenna’s mansion. While I’m the subject of humiliation in all of these, it gives me satisfaction that these mini-events bring together our neighborhood.

Mr. Farris was ready at 1:00 Saturday afternoon with a hose and buckets and rags. A few neighbors were already there when we arrived; others would show up later through the afternoon.

---

I knew the humiliation I was walking into, but I had prepared myself to be positive about the experience. Of all the elephant gifts, this seemed more suited to being a community fun time, and even though I was to be the sexual object at the center of the festivities, I thought it could/should be fun. Besides, I was/am aware that my attitude during these events influences others’ experiences. But more on this in a bit…

Mistress dressed Maria in a sensible knee-length belted denim skirt and a simple T-shirt. To Maria’s chagrin, she was not permitted a bra underneath. Like before, Maria was fitted with rags and brushes from her belt, and spray bottles of Mr. Clean and Windex from her wrist cuffs. She carried an armload of old bath towels.

Meanwhile, Mistress put me in a short flared skater skirt, white with wide pleats, matched with white high heels. Certainly not the ideal outfit for washing cars. And on top, to my chagrin, she had me wear my new graphic tee, the one I wrote about before, which bears the definition:

cumslut
/kuhm.sluht/
a woman with exceptional appetite and fascination for sperm

I begged Mistress not to make me wear it, and she replied, “It’s not a secret, Shae,” as if that was the obvious justification for advertising my addiction.

Dressed as such, Maria and I were walked on leashes up the driveway to Mr. Fariss’s house.

---

There were six people awaiting our “entrance.” More would arrive later. We got a smattering of faux applause as we arrived. Someone had brought lemonade and plastic cups. A Nissan small SUV sat in the drive. Behind it was a Toyota Corolla. And behind that was another car, a Ford SUV, I think.

At the start, Mistress made a few comments and gave an instruction or two. I was not going to be cleaning the insides of the cars, she told people, just the exteriors. She didn’t say why, but I’m sure the reason behind it was that my being inside the cars would not be the “show” that people came to see.

She added that she was going to reward me if I finished all the cars in the cue, my incentive to work diligently, but if I failed to finish them all by 3:30, there would be a “consequence” for all to see. Personally, I didn’t need any reward, for I aim to do every task in my slavery with my best effort to finish and do the job well. There’s no point in my slavery duties to do anything half-assed. But here, the threat of a public “consequence” was a surprise to me, a new wrinkle I hadn’t expected, and an impetus to work more quickly.

Immediately there was a problem. No one had thought to bring “car soap” for sudsing the cars. No one seemed to have any back home. There was a general discussion about what to use instead, and someone mentioned laundry detergent. Ever-quiet Maria spoke up: laundry detergent is abrasive, she told everyone, and we shouldn’t use that. What to use instead? Maria, of course, the source of practical life-hack information, said, “Shampoo.” Of all things.

Mr. Farris had just a little shampoo left, he said, but Stacy volunteered her new bottle of Suave, and she ran home to fetch it.

---

My exposures in the neighborhood are common now, but I have not yet become inured to them. They still feel sexual to me, not in a bad way necessarily, for I personally know the people witnessing me and even have been intimate with a few on occasional lovely nights. But in front of a crowd, my sexuality is displayed in a ways that aren’t intimate or personal. I am objectified, reduced to a sexual image shared by the group. For all my many slave experiences, this is still embarrassing to me — even while it’s something that excites my submissive longing.

I took the hose, adjusted the sprayer, and dutifully wetted down the first car, the blue Nissan. Maria had poured some shampoo into a pail, filled it with water, and sudsed it up.

It became clear that people’s interests were not fulfilled just by my pointing the hose at the car, that they wanted water and suds on me. Of course — that was the whole point of the elephant gift. Mr. Darnell quickly volunteered to man the hose (which is not a euphemism for anything… or maybe it is), and soon was drenching me in a stream of cold water.

Upon first splash, the water felt really cold, and I shrieked, then laughed. It was an incredibly hot, sunny day here, and once I got accustomed to it, the water felt good on me. Of course, my areolae showed through my wet T-shirt, and the cold pricked my nipples into perkiness. This was the beginning of the show they’d all come to see.

Now, I am aware that the neighbors don’t come to these things for a peep show. They can find and watch that anywhere. Nor are they sex-deprived and need the titillation of some “girl-gone-wild” Showtime special. Their interest in me is something more and other.

One of the dynamics of “me and the neighbors” is that I am younger than all of them. Amanda sometimes says I “have that fresh-scrubbed-Irish-lass-next-door look,” and that adds to my youthful image in the neighborhood. At the same time I am not “young-young,” for I am in my thirties, a fully developed adult woman, and a reasonably intelligent one at that. So, there is intrigue in seeing me — both youthful and mature, innocent yet intelligently aware — as I enter into events of my own sexualization.

Their other fascination, so I’m told, is my submissiveness to the dominance Mistress Amanda subjects me to. They find it fun and erotic, quite frankly, to watch my degradation. In some cases, perhaps it awakens them to their own innate dominance and submissiveness. Certainly, they find intrigue in the combination of “lass-next-door” and this version of “Fifty Shades” being played out before them in a driveway with a hose on a summer day.

---

Someone took Maria’s bucket of suds and made to toss it over the hood of the car, but intentionally mis-aimed and splashed it almost entirely on me. I shrieked again, and became coated in mounds of white suds. The words of my T-shirt peered through the white creamy froth, and someone joked, “‘Cumslut’ seems so much more meaningful now.”

I blushed and reached for another bucket of suds, splashing it on the Nissan. I started wiping down the hood with a rag from Maria’s belt. I felt that, somehow, through all this, cars needed to get washed. This became the gentle tension of the afternoon — my endeavor to complete the real work of car-washing before my deadline, avoiding “the consequence,” while neighbors tried to thwart my efforts by soaking me and making my clothes transparent and clingy. This tension kept the afternoon, sort of, from being a simple wet T-shirt contest.

I wasn’t the only one who got soaked. Someone sprayed Maria, to her shocked chagrin, and her tee clung to her pretty breasts and showed their cute grapefruit shapes and dark areolae through the cotton. Of course, this was Mistress Amanda’s intention all along. Later, Stacy got sprayed, as well as Cecilia, and some of the men as well.

---

Against all odds, I finished washing the Nissan, with Maria handing me a big bath towel to dry it off. The neighbors kept pointing out spots I’d presumably missed, clearly wanting to slow me down and sabotage my progress. But the Nissan was driven off, and soon enough I got working on the Corolla.

I was soaked head to foot, my skirt and heels drenched along with my T-shirt. The driveway area was flat, thankfully, and people frequently used the hose to wash away suds so I wouldn’t slip as I tottered around the car in my heels. My wet skirt was clinging to my thighs, and at times the thin, transparent tricot stuck to my vulva, outlining my labia. I tried at times to readjust it and pull the skirt fabric from my skin, but that was only slowing me down. At a point I gave up, thinking it would have to show what it would show.

Of course, inevitably there were calls for me to take off my T-shirt entirely. I expected this, but waited to hear Mistress Amanda’s order, which came in due time. I reached for the bottom of the tee and squirreled it over my boobs and above my head. My breasts lifted and fell as I took it off, and people hooted.

---

I think my “place” in the mind and experience of the neighbors was figured out at the New Year’s Eve party. Before that, I was a visual curiosity seen from afar — along the frontage road and in a bay window. People considered me an oddity; people were intrigued to watch, but it was mostly hand’s off, and people didn’t quite know how to approach me. The NYE party changed that, designed by Mistress to be neighbors’ hand’s-on experience of me. There, they had the chance to touch and fondle me, write on my body, and even spank me, among other things.

Even more important, that night they came into a deeper understanding of my submissive acquiescence to the humiliations I was subjected to. They saw that their abuse of me was something which I absorbed and felt in sexual ways. While my ordeal was significant that night, I remained engaged with what they were doing to me, submitting to them with comments and sass, and often with smiles. They could rest easy in seeing I was fulfilled in it somehow.

I have since been aware that in these neighborhood events, it’s important for me to let show my submissive need being satisfied — I need to appear engaged and engaging. If I were to seem depressed and reduced to tears, there would be no pleasure in it for others.

When Mistress has me alone and brings me to tears, she won’t cater to that — she’ll push through, knowing her dominance is what I actually need. Neighbors don’t know that, they can’t read my submissiveness like she does. So, they need to see that my experience isn’t totally painful and hurtful but in some way satisfying.

For me, this isn’t an act I’m putting on. It’s simply about letting my submissive satisfactions show through. Neighbors need to see that I feel their humiliations of me but also that I am resilient in absorbing them and am actually fulfilled submissively in the experience.

And so, even as I am exposed with my breasts naked and jiggling in the summer breeze, even as I feel the humiliation that any woman might feel in public exposure, I find moments to enter into their pleasure with a laugh, a giggle, and maybe an occasional touch of sass.