naked in high heels

Monday afternoon. He texts me from the airport. He’ll be here soon.

I am eager to be under him again, which I mean in status as his slave girl, not in physical position on a bed. Although that would be nice too.

I have just written a blog post about things I miss from vanilla life. But also, in my slavery, I miss him when I’m under her for a while, and vice-versa. So it goes, the yin-yang of my life cycle.

I have been about a month away from him, and my usual longings for the man have re-emerged. His delayed return because of a canceled flight has intensified my eager wait, and I am this afternoon like a bitch straining at her leash to be with my Master again.

I think about what I should wear for him. Not too formal, but also not this fraying denim skirt and casual top. I want my hair to look good, and maybe a touch of makeup wouldn’t be a bad idea. I have about an hour, and I head to my upstairs bedroom to make myself look like a dignified woman, one worthy of a man of means and mansion.

What I yearn for with him is not the obvious thing you might think. Well, yes, it is, but mostly it’s something else. When I am in his presence, I feel his hands on me. I don’t mean literally, but spiritually. Just being in the same massive building, even if we are rooms apart, I feel his exquisite control, as if his hands are holding me. Those hands, like a spotter’s hands around the waist of a gymnast, give me a sense of safety as well as a thrill of being launched into experiences beyond.

It’s still the middle of a working day, and I decide to wear a business suit — modest cream-colored skirt, cream linen blazer, matching high heels. The lighter color is less uniform-y than navy, dignified but a touch more sensual, and besides, I know it looks damn good on me. No blouse underneath, as that would displease him. But still an outfit of some presence and dignity.

I realize I’m primping myself as if I’m going on a date. I smile at myself in the thought. No, it isn’t romantic, not in that sense. A submissive is drawn to her Master in a different way, and it’s a different category of infatuation. But it’s an ambiguous difference, and somehow I sit here at my vanity applying a touch of mascara to my lashes. I remind myself I’m not a college girl anymore and this isn’t some hot date night. Sheesh. I quickly finish.

Soon I stand in the atrium entryway, cream-suited, my blazer buttoned into some respectability. I wait for him.

My phone buzzes. A text from Master M: “You, front steps outside, naked in heels, when I arrive.”

So much for dignity and romance.

---

Master M used to have a driver, a guy he employed part time to drive him around. This was years ago, during a period Master M went through, by his own admission, when he indulged himself with the trappings of wealth. He could easily afford to employ a driver, so he did. Over time, Master recanted those ideas of self-indulgence, at least some of them, and became more “sensible.”

In fact, he really didn’t use a driver much, as he mostly stays in the mansion. Besides, he realized, he likes driving himself when he does go out. The main reason for having transportation was his business travel — trips to and from the airport. Then he got me, and I introduced him to Uber.

So now when he texts me, I know he’s arriving in an Uber. It echoes for me an experience I had coming to the mansion from the airport, and I know Master M is thinking of that same experience in which he was texting me during my Uber trip from DIA. Now our roles are reversed, although somehow, in this repeating saga, I’m always the one who winds up naked.

Since it’s a weekday, the staff people are around. Of course, Maria is not here, still with her family. Katya is upstairs, as always, but she comes and goes through the front door. Mr. Jeffers is on the premises, though likely in one of his garden sheds or the garages. Ms. Yuan is in the kitchen. Not that it matters for them to see me undressed, for they have seen all of me many times now. Still, it feels to me like the first time whenever they do.

Of course, the Uber driver will see me undressed and bared, which is Master’s intention, and I can’t do anything about that. What will be will be.

For a moment, I have the idea of standing outside with my clothes draped across the front steps, as if I just disrobed, the evidence of my “stripping” publicly evident. Master M would appreciate the look, but I fear to a stranger that might make me appear as the proverbial forlorn wife, desperate for her husband’s attentions. I go into the Great Room, undress, and lay my clothes neatly atop the four-poster bed. I also retrieve my heaviest and widest titanium collar and put that on, with a half-chain leash dangling between my breasts. I also put myself in metal wrist cuffs. Surely, there will be no mistaking me for any forlorn wife.

I assume my position outside on the top steps of the mansion entrance, wearing only in high heels and a few shiny pounds of metal. There is still at least a half hour before the Uber arrives, but Master will ask later how long I waited here nude, and I will get extra slave points for longer time.

---

I stand nude in the shade of the mansion eaves at first, for it is ungodly hot here. I will reposition myself to the front of the top step when the Uber is in sight.

I am so very eager to see him again that my anticipation overcomes my self-conscious sense of naked vulnerability. I hear Mr. Jeffers over on the west slope powering a hedge trimmer, and I hope he doesn’t swerve farther south where he can glimpse me. My body is familiar territory to him, another part of his landscape, but I don’t need him to see me now, come up the steps, and ogle my glistening pussy. Mostly I just don’t want him to distract me from being a proper homecoming for Master McKenna.

But Mr. Jeffers doesn’t swing around, and in fact the hedge-trimmer buzz seems to grow fainter, heading to a farther section of the grounds.

It is close to being arrival time, so my inner clock tells me, and I step out into the hot sun. I assume the Gorean “Wait” position — recency bias, for it was the position Mistress put me in at one point of the car wash. It seems appropriate, how he would want me.

I pull my hands behind my back, lifting them high up, thrusting out my bare breasts. I debate whether to have my legs a stride apart — the true Wait position — or keep them together. I hear in my head the voices of virtual dominants saying, “A slave girl must always keep her legs apart.” Yet I know also there’s a smidgeon of decorum Master M likes — or maybe it’s just that he likes my futile effort in trying to maintain dignity.

I shake my head, realizing the ridiculousness of it — how I possibly am debating, while naked in public, boobs bared, about whether having my legs together is better than having them apart. “Together” seems more chaste, but I try sometimes to create modesty where there is none. And, for god’s sake, how is there really any meaningful difference?

But your submission drives you into such foolishness, all in service of your dominant. Your submission to him reduces you to puddles of superficial obsessions, so you find yourself secretly applying lotion to your breasts at night to make them softer or wearing clover clamps on your pussy lips to make them longer or doing glute exercises to make your ass cheeks fuller — all trivial pursuits for the purpose of pleasing him.

I see in the distance, at the far reaches of the mile-long winding drive, the Uber, a black SUV. I take a deep breath in anticipation of being seen naked by a stranger. But it’s really my excitement for Master that makes my breasts flushed and my nipples perky.

I keep my legs together, as if that makes me look less like a total whore.

---

The Uber pulls up, and I can see a surprised driver gawking at me through the windshield. Master M climbs out of the back seat, looks at me with a wide smile. Embarrassed though I am, there is a deep satisfaction — I think his seeing me must be the highlight of Master’s past twenty-four hours. I stand fresh and fulgent as Master gazes at me. Across the distance it’s as if I feel his hands around my waist.

The Uber driver gets out, glancing at me as he walks around, pops the trunk, and lifts the suitcase onto the ground. Master raises his hand to me and beckons me with his finger. I was afraid of this.

I start to descend the entranceway stairs — a dozen or more, I’ve never counted. I keep my arms wrapped high across my back and try to maintain some elegance as I walk down. My breasts shake as my heels hit each step. I look forward not down. I take it slow, not for effect, but for safety. In fact, I have practiced this, not while nude or with others around, but because these steps are part of my life here, and I have to navigate them in different ways at different times.

I see and feel the Uber driver’s eyes on me. He’s thirty-something, my age perhaps, with long hair that’s blade-cut below the ears. I realize there’s nothing I can do but be consumed by his attentions. Besides, this is what Master wants.

My tits wobbling, I reach the base of the steps and walk over to the Uber, my arms still folded submissively in back.

Master baldly says to the Uber driver, “This is my sex slave, Shae.”

I blush. My pussy feels wet, and I fear my thighs are shiny. But you do this, you submit to this, you endure this. You want to please your Master, no matter what it costs you in self-respect — maybe because of what it costs you. For in a way, you are aware the degree of your humiliation is a deeper fulfillment of his pleasure. You will debase yourself more for his satisfaction. And so you stand relinquished and docile in front of an Uber stranger.

Uber man says, “Wow, ah. Good to see you.” He adds a moment later, as if a correction, “To meet you.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I reply, my voice hushed with a slight tremble. I say it all proper-like, though I am so improper in my appearance. Master loves watching me try to claw back some measure of dignity in these situations.

“Shae, this is Calvin,” Master says. “He’s studying for his MBA.” He says it proudly, as if Calvin is his son.

Calvin, at first clearly uncomfortable, gradually seems to cross some threshold. He settles in, sensing his permission, and gazes at my breasts with freer abandon.

Master goes on a bit about Calvin’s career ambitions, his doing odd jobs to earn money for grad school, all of this spilled out in a car during a short trip from the airport. I know Master is intentionally extending my naked discomfort in front of a stranger. I stand feeling sexually objectified, and I imagine Calvin must be wondering what possesses a woman like me to submit to this. Then again, I always think too hard about that. A stranger seeing me this way is probably not questioning my life choices and motivations. He’s probably wondering how he can buy a woman like me. Or, perhaps he is thinking how he can become a man like McKenna. Perhaps my presence as an owned, naked property will spur Calvin to go home and study further toward that MBA. Or maybe he will go home and… do other things.

Master hands me his briefcase, a soft-sided caramel leather case with a shoulder strap. I sling the strap over my shoulder, making it an unlikely accessory to my “business outfit.”

He checks his phone, the Uber app. He could do this later, inside, but he wants to prolong my nude wait in front of the Uber guy.

I think maybe in another life, I might be Calvin’s classmate, part of his grad school cohort. But I chose differently, and now I’m standing before him, my full bare breasts warm and blushing in the sun.

This is taking forever, and I look over at Master M engrossed in his phone. Is he reading text messages from work?

Uber guy is more composed now, enjoying the time and the view. He asks me, “How long have you lived here?”

I don’t expect a question from him, and I stutter at first, trying to find my answer. Of course, it’s complicated. I have two homes, but to explain that is too involved. My best answer is to say how long I’ve been with Master McKenna, but that requires me to do calendar math: “About three years,” I finally say. Yes, for three years I have been the property of this Master who parades me around sexually naked and fucks me at his pleasure. I don’t say those words, but Uber guy would think that if he could only imagine.

Finally, Master M is putting his phone away, taking the handle of his rollaboard suitcase. But now Uber guy himself creates some prolonging business, saying, “Wait a second,” and crawling back into the front seat of his car.

I sigh. Master has a shit grin on his face.

Uber guy emerges, walks back around the car, and hands Master M his card. “If you ever need a ride, you can call me directly.”

He then walks over to me and hands me a card as well. It might be deemed a gesture of respect, including me in some future decision to call for a ride, but I know better. He just wants a closer look. I take the card, say thank you, and, as he looks down on me and my smooth pussy, he makes me into a pregnant moment.

---

A minute later, Master and I are at the top of the steps. He tells me to turn around. The Uber has made its way around the circle and is very slowly exiting the long drive. I stand facing out, my pink flesh becoming a sexual memory in a rearview mirror.

It dawns on me that this will be more of the common practice going forward. He and Mistress A have cultivated me into accepting their public exposures of me. It was always Mistress’s thing, not so much Master’s. But now he seems to be enjoying my public nudity as well, baring me before strangers, making me an object of random mental fucking.

---

Inside the mansion, Master says to me that he is tired, didn’t sleep much last night, so he will take a nap. He will join me for happy hour. “And I want you to make your mouth ready.”

I look at him with a puzzled look. I’ve never heard him to say that before, not that way. “I don’t even know what that means,” I reply with a hint of sass.

He smirks at me: “You know very well what that means.”

“Well, that. Sure, I know. But ‘make my mouth ready’?”

Master grins. “Whatever that takes.”

I have thoughts of brushing my teeth, rinsing with mouthwash, and whatever other minty lozenge I might be able to take. But I just shake my head at him.

“Sir,” I reply coyly, “I would hope you know by now that my mouth is always ready for you.”

He laughs.