elephant gift: car wash: 2

By 2:00, the crowd had become larger. In attendance were Justin Farris, of course, Robert Diaz and Stacy Knox, Christopher Hawkins, Theresa and Roald Linden, Scott and Cecilia Kemp, and Darnell Tribodeaux. (I think I remembered everybody.) Darnell’s partner, Jacie, showed up later, due to a previous commitment. With Mistress Amanda, Maria, and I, there were about a dozen.

Sometime in the afternoon, the group decided that each car I washed needed to be “blessed” by me in a certain way: for me to “scrub” a part of the car directly with my breasts. It was totally made up, an obviously prurient idea, and I stood in the driveway, my hands on my hips and said, “Really!?”

They answered, “Really.”

Interestingly, some of the woman expressed concern that I would scrape or scratch my boobs against a rough edge of the vehicle. I found it notable that in their collective objectification of me, they were also protecting me, perhaps as their community property. This with the women neighbors is part of, I think, a tension in my relationship to the women of the neighborhood. More on this in a moment…

So, this “car blessing” was designated for a section of the hood of the car, which was smooth. I would lean over the tire well and press my tits down on the soapy surface, rolling my torso around as my breasts circled and “scrubbed.” It was utterly demeaning, obviously sexually debasing in its purpose. I did it once with each car, taking about fifteen seconds with each “blessing.” If I didn’t do it well enough, long enough, someone would say, “You haven’t really kissed it,” and I would flatten my breasts against the hood a second time. (I was told later that this posture of leaning over the car hood created an added “benefit” for those watching — my suds-soaked skirt rode up in back as I leaned over.)

There was another development after my T-shirt was off. People now were “concerned” that I would get sun-burned and needed to periodically have suntan lotion applied to my body. Of course, this needed to be done frequently, so they claimed, for each car washing rinsed the lotion off my skin. Of course, no one felt I should do it myself. This led to a lottery system Amanda devised on the fly, involving a pair of dice.

So it happened: after I finished every car, someone sprayed me down with the hose, Maria dried me off, and the lottery-dice winner applied lotion all over my body. There was particular concern that my breasts didn’t burn in the sun, so they got extra slathering.

As a side note, Mistress A included Maria in the lottery, and one time she won the chance to put suntan lotion on me. Neighbors seemed in rapt attention as she massaged lotion into my breasts and all over my flesh. People are curious about her relationship with me.

---

More cars appeared in the queue down the driveway, and I soon knew I wouldn’t finish by 3:30. That goal, I believe, was intentionally stacked against me, though Amanda later said she didn’t do anything to rig it. Neighbors just kept bringing more cars to the queue. Someone joked that there was a semi-trailer truck at the end. I just shook my head, rolled my eyes, and offered an exasperated smile.

Even though it was hopeless to finish by 3:30, I did my best. Someone blew a whistle at the deadline, and there was at least one more car to do. I finished the one I was in the middle of. But I had failed to meet the requirement — to everyone’s eager delight.

I stood in the driveway after finishing the last car, drenched and dirty, my nude breasts full and lathered and streaked by sunlight filtering through the trees. The group offered up a round of applause, whether for my labors or for the stage show of my making love half-naked to their cars.

It is an odd thing, this social and carnal objectification of me in front of the neighborhood, the looks and leers of friends who protect and pity and play with me. In my sodden tiredness, I felt the strangeness of it, how something can be humiliating and joyful at the same time.

---

The consequence was what I thought it would be: a spanking.

After announcing it, Mistress whispered to me that this was not a punishment. I nodded in docile silence. I knew it was set up to be a winner-loser outcome, and this was all along what she wanted to do to me in front of everyone. I had lost, but I had not done wrong. That’s a world of difference to my submissive soul, which is why she said that to me.

I stood dripping wet. My hair, once tied in a ponytail, was now undone, loose and stringy, drenched with water and residual suds. My skirt was wet and clingy, and my breasts were naked and pinkish, bearing some ungodly sheen of suntan lotion and shampoo.

Mr. Farris retrieved a straight-back chair from the house, and the neighbors assembled in a semi-circle. Maria toweled me down, making me drier, although my skirt was still damp and clingy.

Mistress Amanda sat down and nodded to me. I faced her from the side, docile, lamb-like, submissive. I leaned over and balanced myself on the chair seat on the opposite side, just as I was taught by Master M some years ago. I lowered myself slowly onto Amanda’s lap. My breasts fell down the other side in a wobble, and tips of my high heels dug into the asphalt behind me. I settled across her lap gracefully, as I’ve been taught.

I lifted my arms behind my head and clasped my hands, presenting myself as ready for my spanking and, as I’m trained to do, providing our friends a clear view of my breasts during my ordeal.

---

Being spanked in public is a deeply complex humiliation for me. Mistress knows this. She loves spanking me, and so, of course, wishes to do it to me more often. Truth is, I’m not often one who misbehaves and suffers punishment, so she has realized she has to scheme other ways to subject me to spankings. This has been an evolution in her dominance of me. Spankings are rare still, but what was once purely the act of punishment is gradually becoming an act of entertainment as well. I’m not sure how I feel about this.

That Saturday was an example of this broadened application of having me spanked. Here, I well knew, she was contriving a justification (the “consequence”) for spanking me at the car wash, one which wasn’t based on any unsubmissiveness. She just wanted to throw me into the humiliation of a spanking while also providing an added bonus for neighborhood spectators.

It is different for me when it’s an actual punishment. Then, I feel both the shame of being an adult woman spanked in front of watchers as well as the shame of doing wrong and having to pay dearly for it. And so, the times I’ve been punished by public spanking have lodged in my bones as unforgettable memories. I won’t say they are traumatic, but they are intense and indelible. I will never forget being spanked in the bar-restaurant in front of Blake’s buddies. Punishment-spankings are deep and overwhelming to me, especially in front of an audience.

This spanking experience at the car wash was for me less guilt-sodden (I knew I hadn’t done wrong and had not failed Mistress) but more personally erotic — and thus, humiliating in another way. I suppose, to be honest, all spankings bring me into some sexual arousal, but in punishment-spankings I am more distraught about other things, distracted by my transgressions. Here, in this contrived situation, while I experienced the usual shame of an adult woman who allows herself to be spanked, I was more focused on my sexual response. I felt the crowd waiting to see my naked sex aroused, and I cringed inside myself to think they would see up close my sexual desire.

Mistress Amanda lifted my wet skirt, peeling it from my legs and pulling it over my rear flesh. As my cheeks were exposed, there were comments. The neighbors, since the NYE party, have felt freer to say things, to blurt out labels, to objectify me, as they did that night. They know this is part of the program Mistress wishes me to experience. They know I know this, that I will absorb and endure the verbal abuse.

“I think she’s liking this,” Mr. Hawkins quipped, prompting random laughs. Another boomed, “And she claims she’s not a slut…” There were more catcalls which I cannot specifically remember, but which in the experience of them reminded me of words being written on my body at the NYE party.

As Amanda prepared to administer my spanking, one of the men, Scott Kemp, joked, “I think we should bring back the practice of spanking as a domestic discipline.” His wife, Cecilia, quickly responded, “I agree, which means your sorry ass is going to get a whoopin’.” Everyone roared. Even I had to smile.

Amanda pulled from her purse a travel-sized bottle of skin lotion and made to apply it to my ass cheeks. This was not usual in the spankings I’ve been given, and I took this to be a caring touch, if you can call it that, maybe to re-emphasize this was not a punishment, that she was doing this as a different kind of play. It’s an oddly tender gesture before the violence of a spanking. Of course, my ordeal in being spanked is not so much the physical abuse of my rear flesh anyway, but in the psychological humiliation of it. Nonetheless, I appreciated her touch of loving care.

Mr. Linden said drolly, “Amanda, you have your hands full. Why don’t I apply the lotion?” People tittered. Someone said, “Roald, you’ve already had her. Let someone else have a go.”

Amanda replied, “Good idea, but Cecilia, why don’t you do the honors?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Cecilia said, taking the bottle. Soon I felt her smoothing lotion on my butt cheeks. She took her time, and one of the neighbors commented, and Cecilia retorted with a laugh, “I’ll do this all day if I can.” But soon she finished, planting a kiss in the middle of my back as she stepped away.

Mistress, with the drama of a soundless drum roll, said it was time. I sensed her lifting her open hand high and felt it smack me hard across my bottom. My body jerked in place, my hanging breasts jiggled, and I clasped my hands tighter behind my head.

“That’s right,” someone said, “our slave needs to be put in her place.”

---

I remembered that comment and would later think on it. I can’t recall who said it, but that doesn’t matter. It suggests to me a number of things. In general, you might say, the neighbors have observed my slavery but haven’t participated in it. They’ve participated with me sexually, of course, but my slavery has been a separate, and mostly for them, visual, experience.

But this collective reference to me as “our slave” suggested more, reflecting a kind of group ownership of me by the neighborhood. The idea that I needed to be “put in my place” inferred that the neighbors have an assumed hierarchy for me in their social structure. There’s been evidence of this before — again the NYE party, which invited them into my slavery individually— but this comment said to me they are now participating in my slavery as a collective. In a few moments Mistress Amanda would double-down on this.

Becoming community property is a daunting concept for me, but in a way I welcome it. I always wrestle with ambiguity, and my dual life in the neighborhood as an escort-companion to couples but otherwise as Mistress Amanda’s sex slave has been confusing to me. Some have taken me to bed as their equal, yet I am viewed in other contexts as the lowly slave that I am.

“Our slave needs to be put in her place” brings some clarity, perhaps, a merging of my two identities around them. Must think about this more.

Another subtle vibe in all this, as I mentioned, has to do with how the women of the neighborhood see me. While on the surface, the women have been civil to me, and indeed I’ve had intimate times with Stacy and Theresa, there is understandable concern by wives and female partners about me as a very sexual woman bouncing around the neighborhood in front of their men. Angelica Martin has been mean to me, yet in a way she has a point, and she embodies some of the inherent concerns that other women must feel.

So, when I am the lass-next-door toplessly washing cars, I’m sure the women are watching their husbands watching me. Hopefully, they don’t see me as a sexual predator, as Angelica does, but they have reason to be defensive, protective of their marriages. But this spanking “puts me in my place,” reducing me to a humiliated state in the eyes of husbands and making me, perhaps, less of a threat in the eyes of wives. I’m sure Amanda is well aware of these dynamics and contrived this in part for this reason. By this spanking, I was presented as a slave not a seductress.

---

Mistress Amanda spanked me again and again. She didn’t hit me unusually hard, though it hurt. Each spank sent a spasm through my body, jerking my flesh and wobbling my breasts hanging down. More telling: this “non-punishment” spanking in this kind of social spectacle made me deeply aroused. I felt tingly and flushed, my nipples swelled in the warm air, and my pussy became drippy. I was embarrassed by the indignity of being spanked yet sexually excited by it at the same time. I didn’t want the others to see this.

Amanda stopped, suddenly announcing to the crowd that she would provide everyone a chance to spank me themselves. I didn’t expect this. “I’ll keep her on my lap,” she said, “but form a line, and I’ll give each of you five seconds with her.” There were comments around, chatter, quips, and again slurs.

And so it was: each person walked by me, some kneeling down as they applied their own spanks and whacks to my flesh. Despite the deeper indignity of this, it made me hotter, I felt myself creaming between my legs, and I prayed no one would notice.

Some fondled my ass cheeks first, before giving me a sharp thwack. Others spanked me and leaned beside my ear with a whispered comment. I became a ritual act, a neighborhood rite. I think it was Jacie, who’d arrived later, after giving me a five-second spanking, whispered to me, “You may be a whore, honey, but you’re our whore.” It reflected, again, a kind of collective ownership of me as community property.

I remember someone saying to Amanda, “You should turn her over and let us spank her tits.”

“Well, we’re not going to do that,” Amanda replied.

Another admonished, “Can’t spank her tits — they’re a neighborhood treasure.” People chuckled.

In time, everyone had had their go at me and my spanking ordeal was over. Well, almost.

I got up from Mistress Amanda’s lap, glad for my skirt to fall back over me. Mistress also stood and said to the group, “That was a good spank.” Turning to me, she ordered, “Take off your skirt.”

It wasn’t that they all hadn’t seen all of me before, witnessed my sex and even touched it. It was the context, the exposure of my arousal in the open air following the aftermath of a spanking. Even a sex slave desires some privacy for certain parts of her sexuality.

I looked at Mistress with pleading eyes. I paused longer than I should have. I mouthed the word “Please” to her in a half-whisper. She said nothing, glaring at me with dominant force, and I knew I had to.

I slipped my skirt down to my ankles and stepped out of it, standing now in nothing but my white high heels.

Mistress said to me, “Wait.”

I recognized this was not a command to pause but a position I was to assume. I obediently assembled myself in the Gorean “Wait” stance: I was perched naked atop my white high heels, my arms folded high behind my back, thrusting out my breasts, and my legs spread a stride apart, showing and opening my bare shaved pussy.

There in the sun, all could see my flushed breasts and yearning nipples, and could gaze at my now-glistening pussy, knowing its glitter was not suntan oil or shampoo but the sparkle of my own sexual desire.

Mr. Hawkins had the last word: “Like I said. She likes it. She really likes it.”

He had good intentions, but his words were, as I feared, the ultimate reduction of me. I do like it, but I don’t. It shames me as it thrills me. It objectifies me into a piece of property which humiliates me — yet submissively I suckle that with a kind of eager pleasure. I’ve spent more than 5,000 words trying to describe how complex an experience this is for me.

Such is the reality of being a submissive in the life.