on McKenna time, 7, final day with Master M

Monday morning, and Master McKenna was reviewing with me a few changes to a particular report he will present on his trip later this week.

Mr. Galli arrived at ten, his usual time. I was then part of a meeting with him and Master McKenna in the Great Room. Even though I finished the reports last Friday and there was nothing on my plate for the coming week, they included me. I expect this will be the routine every time I visit. I like the real work and the professional connection.

I was still mini-skirted in heels, as Master M likes me, although he specified a skirt that morning not quite so “mini” as usual. I could maybe get away with it in some offices. I was glad for this, given Mr. Galli’s presence.

Mr. Galli needed a copy of something, and I took it from him, and click-clacked in my heels to the copier in the other room.

They were talking about their trip, reviewing details. I take it they enjoy traveling together. They have a shorthand of communication developed over some years of travel time.

I returned with the copy, handed it to Galli, and sat once again. Master McKenna got a call on his cell and took it from his chair. Mr. Galli rooted through his briefcase for an itinerary.

It was a normal business morning. A relaxed and routine, but necessary, meeting.

Master McKenna finished his call. He told me to get him a refill of coffee. I asked Mr. Galli if he’d like some too. He said yes. I left, then returned with two steaming mugs.

The two of them agreed to meet at the airport for their flight Wednesday morning. They talked about a restaurant in Chicago they might try that night. Master M leaned back in his chair, and asked Galli, “Do I have the itinerary?”

Mr. Galli nodded and said, “I sent it to you, but I’ve made a few changes already this morning. Shae could make you a copy of my changes.”

I stood to do so.

I didn’t notice at first — I was watching Mr. Galli. But he was looking at McKenna, puzzled. My eyes followed his gaze. Maser McKenna was slapping the top of his left wrist. I was blank on it for a second, but then it registered. It was the signal.

It took me a moment to process, a brief hesitation. Maybe Master by accident started to slap his wrist? But no, it was too uncommon a gesture to be a mistake. My heart raced. This was really going to happen? Now and here?

I was in a bit of a daze, but I dutifully followed my new training. I walked over to Master’s easy chair, and stood facing him from the left side..

He looked up at me and smiled.

Yes, this was for real.

He gestured with both index fingers sliding upward. We didn’t rehearse this, but there was no mistaking. I reached to the bottom of my top and peeled it upward, over my head, and off. My breasts out and naked, I could not bear to look sideways at Mr. Galli.

Master sat in the same chair we practiced yesterday, which made this easier. (I had also practiced some more later in the day.)

I squatted to a near -90-degree angle, leaned forward, and reached across his lap. I balanced my weight with my hands on the opposite arm, and let myself down. It wasn’t quite perfect — I had to adjust once — but I got my breasts to clear the the opposite side, where they hung down. I reached and grabbed the right-side legs of the chair.

I remembered to spread my legs behind me, bracing them in the carpet.

I realize now in re-living Monday morning, that the attention to form — the specifics of the process and the precision that Master requires — became a distraction from the humiliation I was going through. It had built up in me such a desire to “do the movements” effectively, to earn a good grade, so to speak, that I got into the experience automatically, by routine.

Once there across his lap, the awareness of my degradation more fully set in: I was going to be spanked in front of Mr. Galli.

With two hands, Master M pulled my skirt up from behind, and I could feel him pull it evenly and neatly to the mid-point of my back. Even in spanking, Master himself follows a precise form.

I could not see, of course, but I could not help but imagine Mr. Galli’s eyes scanning my legs and my pale ass cheeks and my bare-shaved labia cracked open between my spread legs.

Master M rubbed my cheeks first, then squeezed them, then squeezed them harder. His hand came down and hit me with a stinging but mild slap. The second was harder. But I will say that those that followed were the same intensity — hard and stinging but absorbable. I think he gave me a dozen spanks.

It went quickly. The pain was in the sting, not the heaviness of the blows. Still it hurt. I tried not to moan loudly, but I couldn’t help repress a few soft yelps. My eyes watered, though I’m not sure as much about pain as shame.

Master finished, rubbed my ass cheeks once, pulled my skirt back down, and said “Good.”

I brought my legs together, re-anchored them into the carpet, and pushed myself up from the chair arm. It was not as smooth a “dismount” as desired, but I managed to make my way back to my feet.

I picked up my top and put it back on. I’m not sure now I was supposed to do so, but I did.

The whole thing took maybe three minutes. It felt like an hour.

As I recall it, there was silence. A few moments. I guess even for the men there wasn’t any kind of etiquette for conversation following a live girl-spanking. I somehow felt it was on me in some way to say something.

“I’ll make that copy for you now, Mr. Galli,” I said. I walked to him, not able to look him in the eyes, and he handed the itinerary to me. I left to make the copy. I just wanted to get out of the room.

As I walked out, I heard the men chuckle and say some things I couldn’t decipher.

In retrospect, my humiliation Monday morning was deepened because of the business-meeting context, in which I had a part, albeit a clerical part. That “legitimized” me in advance, which made my actual spanking all the more debasing.

You often know when another knows what you are and can imagine what is done to you — in this case, Mr. Galli. In their presence you always feel a faint veneer of “being known,” but it’s at a distance, filtered through imagination.

With Mr. Galli it was now real, first-hand, visceral. He had seen my submissive shame first-hand. Now when we work together, when I click-clack off to make copies, he will always see me like this, spread and spanked.

In retrospect, I wonder if Master’s intent from the beginning of the week was always to reach this finale on Monday morning.


on McKenna time, 6, spanking

At the time of posting this, my visit with Master M has finished, and I am home again. What follows are some of my notes and recollections that I didn’t have time to post while I was there.

Sorry that what I post here is a mess — my raw notes, half-edited but not really, and not in my usual narrative. It’s a jumble, but if I wait to write it out more polished, it won’t get posted for a long time.

“At times I will spank you.”

“No, really, sir, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine without.” [Said with a touch of “ham-on-wry.”]

He smiles, but forges on: “When I spank you, what’s the purpose?” [His Socratic mode.]

“For your pleasure. And my humiliation.”

“Yes.” He seems pleased I have grasped and remembered the mantra for the week. “In our lifestyle,” he says, “spanking gets confused with punishment. I don’t use it that way.”

He establishes with me a signal for spanking time.

He lightly slaps the back of his left hand with his right. He says that in the company of others, it will be practically unnoticeable, but it will be, now, understandable to me. He will call my name, slap the back of his hand, and I will come to him, standing by his side, facing him.

He asked me about my childhood associations with being spanked.

Yes, I was spanked. No, it wasn’t especially traumatic. Yes, as an adult now, I still associate it with childhood punishment.

Picture: Me sitting at his feet, one arm supporting me on the area rug, my legs curled to the side, my miniskirt barely covering me — this week I have long stopped caring about what shows or doesn’t show.

“Were you ever spanked in front of others?”

“I don’t remember if I was, sir.”

“If I were to spank you in front of a crowd of other adults, how would you feel?”

“Do you have an audience waiting in the atrium ready to come in and watch me being spanked?” [He seems to let me be wry and sarcastic, but how far does this go? Does he know this is my natural nervous response? I’ll need to find out somehow.]

He smiled and chuckled [good sign]. “I’ll see if I can arrange that,” he said. [He actually played along.]

“Yes, it would humiliate me to be seen being spanked by others. Of course.”

“It would humiliate you, but not traumatize you?”


Maybe Thursday?

He is prowling through my mind on the subject of spanking. I admit to him that public spanking is an erotic fantasy of mine, but not something I necessarily desire in person. “It’s a submissive response,” I say. “Love-hate. It’s thrilling in a fantasy story, but something else in person. I might desire it for real, but in a different way. I don’t know.”

I know full well his intention is to spank me sometimes in public. It’s no longer an “if.” I know that whether I like it or not matters not to Master McKenna. He wants to know what my submissive feeling will be when he does me across his lap — just so he can enjoy it. He wants to enjoy my debasement as he is slapping me.

It’s important that I come to his left side. I have to remember this. Left side. He is left-handed and wants his spanks to come at me from that side.

Another conversation about spanking. He is crawling through my mind on this.

I am sharing with him, willingly telling him my secrets. [This is the strange, unique partnership of dom and sub, with me the slave supplying fuel to him the dom for his deeper humiliation of me. As we slave girls share more of ourselves, we are all the while abetting our own submissive humiliation.]

He and I talk about the experience of being an adult taken across another’s lap and hit by hand. He is not one for pet play, or for making his slave a little girl. The outrage of a spanking for him (and me) is based on the fact that I am an adult, a fully grown-up woman, yet being spanked across his lap. Who does that?

He asks how I’d feel if spanked by someone younger. “It would be more debasing,” I admit. How would I be as a submissive woman, slave, to a younger person has come up before and makes me feel something different? I don’t know. [I need to explore this more myself.]

Another talk-time about spanking:

He asks if I have written spanking fiction. Yes, I have, and I mention one post. [Note: forward it to him.] This is the public aspect of the act, the special shame of being spanked in front of witnesses. I tell him I will feel a deep disgrace to be spanked in front of strangers. Like, in front of the staff, god forbid.

It feels I am talking too much to him, revealing more than I should, perhaps, although these are the territory rights of a master.

He wants to know how my being spanked fucks with my mind.

He mentioned the general outrage of gender in spanking — a man striking me, a woman, so regular a part of the D/s life yet so inappropriate in the vanilla world. An added insight for me: I will walk away from being spanked by this man, knowing I have allowed myself, a woman, to be done in such a way by him, a man, and already hearing the jeers of judgment, already my face blushing from the shame of it. [Blushing the same color as my ass.]

We actually practice this.

Left side. I will stand facing him.

He then will nod, and I am to squat beside him — not a full squat, but with my knees bending and my thighs coming to a 90-degree angle, as if I’m sitting on a chair, without the actual chair. (Must keep my back straight.) A difficult position to get to and more to maintain, but thankfully it’s just for a moment.

I am then to reach across his body for the opposite side of his chair. If he’s in an easy chair, this will be the arms of the chair on the opposite side. If he’s in a straight-back chair, it will be the edge of the seat itself.

My arms support me there for a moment, and I let myself down, gradually, until I am spread across his lap.

Even in such a thing as spanking, he prefers economy in movement, precision in my body posture and control. [Is precision his personality or obsession or fetish?]

To him — this is his pleasure really — all of my body posture-and-movement training tells others I have been trained this way. It shows others that Master has control of me even at the muscular level. He wants that. But for a body to be draped across a man’s lap is a particularly awkward movement. Even this he doesn’t want to be fumbling and fussy.

We practice this part of it a few times. My thighs start to hurt, but I push on. I am getting into a flow of movement, and at times I actually can be graceful.

“Take off your top.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I say, all sassy.

He shakes his head, grins. “We have to practice breast placement,” he says.

My top comes off. “I think, sir, they’re already in the only place they can be.” More sass from me, but my breasts bounce out, my nipples are perky, and he doesn’t seem to care.

“You have a lot to place.”

“Nice,” I reply.

[He seems to accept my sass when it’s self-deprecating, coming out of my acknowledgement of my subservience to him.]

So it turns out, “breast placement” is a thing. In the straight-back chair without arms, he instructs me to extend my torso across his lap so my breasts hang on the other side. In the easy chair with padded armrests, though, my breasts rest partially on the rest, pushing that end of me up and making for him a slanted, more difficult body arrangement for my spanking.

“You have to eyeball it and adjust yourself as you stretch across. Your tits can wedge against the far side of the armrest but not lie on top of it.”

I try, rather awkwardly, and with some adjustments, get to the desired position, my breasts clearing the opposite arm. [Tab A fits into slot B.]

He doesn’t like adjustments. “Too fidgety,” he says.

I try it again several times, eventually doing it in one fluid motion.

“Good.” he says.

“But,” I say as I push myself up from him, “that’s this chair. What if you’re sitting in a different chair?”

“You’ll have to practice with different chairs. Learn to eyeball them.”

“So, in every chair you ever sit in, I must anticipate the possibility that you might decide to spank me, and I’ll have to estimate how far I stretch myself across my lap?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s the sort of thing your mind should be focused on.”

“I think it would be easier if you just grab me, yank me across your lap, and whack mercilessly on my ass cheeks.”

He says something like: “One: I don’t care what you think. Two: I will just grab you and spank you sometimes. Three: Other times I want others to see you submit automatically — and gracefully — to being spanked.”

[My thoughts: He’s so appealing when he gets into this bemused, half-joking-yet-serious dominant thing… Spanking for him is really a public deal… He actually does care what I think, but enjoys telling me he doesn’t.]

“It sounds like a lot of spanking times.”

“Maybe. That’s for me to decide.”

OK, then.

He has a phone call. Then another conversation with someone else by phone. He leaves.

We return to practice an hour later. [Write this as one continuous practice session?]

Once I (gracefully) assume the position across his lap, I am to grasp the right legs of the chair with my hands, so to steady myself.

“Now spread your legs so your feet are approximately parallel to the chair legs.”

I do. I dare to ask why.

“It opens your pussy from behind, which people want to see.”

“Well, good,” I say. “I was worried this would be less than ladylike.”

He laughs at that. [Good.]

My spread legs also steady me on that side, my heels angling into the carpet like anchors. I don’t know what they’ll do on bare floors.

The word “steady” is part of Master’s design. “As I spank you, you must not wriggle or twist or struggle. You are here in this position to receive the spanking. You must give yourself to it.”

He lifts my skirt, and I feel air on my cheek flesh. He slaps my ass twice , but rather lightly. Anticipating the third slap, I raise my rear toward him, and he reprimands me: “No, you may not reach for it. You just take it, absorb it. Don’t anticipate me. But when I do this for real, I’m quite sure you won’t want to be ass up.”

We also practice the aftermath, my pushing myself back up and out of the position after I am spanked — something like how a gymnast dismounts. This is hard for me, not pretty. I will have to practice.

We go through the sequence more times, and I’m finally remembering each step, but still needing work on my technique. I also know it will be harder when he spanks me for real.

I fear that Master is disappointed with me. “I’ll do better,” I promise him.

He calls it a day, or at least a morning. “Final thoughts?” he asks me.

“I think you’ve done this before, sir.”

Again, I’m sorry for the mess of my notes above. I’m sure it’s not easy reading.

So, all of that happened before Monday morning.

Then, Monday morning Master McKenna spanked me for real. I will post this later today or tomorrow. I don’t mean that as a tease, but simply because I’m still processing that in my thoughts and feelings.

on McKenna time, 5

A few miscellaneous things, while I’m still here…

I apologize for not writing more often this week. And also for not responding to your comments. Again, I have been given time to write, but my mind is mush a lot of the time in that early afternoon period I’m allotted.

I’ve taken to getting up earlier in the morning to write what I have posted. And some more this weekend.

I promise to get to the comments when I return home. But I have read them, and I thank you for your compliments and encouragements.

By the way, I intend to do another Q&A post when I return next week. Feel free to drop questions into my email or in comments.

Yesterday (Saturday) morning Master M hung out with his buddies, golfing.

It seems I am frequently in the service of dominant men who have golf as a hobby. (On the one hand, it seems such a genteel sport. On the other hand, it is, after all, about strokes and balls.)

I don’t know if at some point he will introduce me to his friends, or even take me along. I know very little about golf. But I imagine he will say that doesn’t matter, that I would look good in a golf skirt. Of course, he likes me in any skirt, as long as it’s short. The other day I wore a plaid miniskirt, and he said, “You look ‘serviceably fuckable’ in that.” Perhaps it’s notable that I didn’t felt demeaned by being called “fuckable” — more that he called me “serviceable.” That makes it sound like I’ll be just OK, that I’ll do in a pinch.)

Anyway… as a result of his golf outing, I had more clearheaded time to write yesterday. I started a few posts, and perhaps now will finish them for posting more while I am still here.

It is Sunday morning as I write this, and I will be returning to Amanda Monday evening.

This visit will end up at an eight-day duration, by design. Master M wanted a long stint with me this time, perhaps to habituate me to the rhythm of his life. Which it has.

My future monthly visits will be five or six days, with me usually coming in on a Sunday and leaving late the following Friday. Since Master has incorporated me into his work as a kind of assistant, he wants me Monday through Friday. And since he goes golfing with buddies on Saturday and likes to do other things on the weekend, this schedule makes sense.

I did not want to impose on readers too many descriptions of the people who populate Master’s life, and mine. I know that all these people are of more significance to me than to you. So I held back on one of them in my previous post. But he’s worth mentioning here.

David Galli is McKenna’s business manager. Master McKenna runs three separate businesses. Galli coordinates the logistics of meetings and travel for McKenna in all three enterprises. There are a lot of trips to Chicago, some to LA, occasionally NY.

Mr. Galli is at the mansion on Monday mornings to review what documents will be needed for trips and to plot out travel plans. He returns Friday mornings briefly to review with McKenna the travel arrangements made during the week. Often they travel together.

He is maybe seven or so years younger than me, mid-twenties, which makes for an interesting dynamic with me. He is well aware of Master M’s dominant lifestyle. Also, Mr. Galli knows what I am, submissive and slave. But he knows also I serve Master M as a real business assistant.

This week — Monday, then Friday — there have been brief sessions with me, Master McKenna, and Mr. Galli together. Master will be traveling later next week and needs board reports for those meetings. On Monday, we discussed what was needed. Through the week I did the reports. On Friday, I handed the finished reports in folders to Mr. Galli, who will box them and take them on their trip.

I don’t know really how Mr. Galli relates to Master lifestyle, but he seems open to it, seems to accommodate it without question, and perhaps even enjoys being a spectator. He seems to have a protege-mentor relationship with Master M, but I don’t know if that extends from business into the D/s lifestyle as well.

I don’t know if Master M will at some point give any of the staff front-row seats to the execution of my slavery. Probably not Ms. Phyllis. Jeffers seems to find his views anyway. Possibly, Maria, because she is curious, although I don’t know Master knows that. (Perhaps I should let him know about Maria?) Maybe it will be Mr. Galli who will become a witness to my slavery.

I will have to handle my exposures to others when they happen. In a way, Amanda has trained me well to accept my states of undress before strangers, as well, sometimes as my slave services.

In another way, you never get used to it — and every stranger becomes a new humiliation.

on McKenna time, 4

I fold into him now, at this stage of my submissive existence with him. By “fold” I mean that I curl into his dominant intentions naturally and intuitively.

It isn’t a romantic relationship, not even like the dom-sub romantic comedy I live out with Amanda. He is not in love with me, nor I him, and the very way it is not romantically needy and clingy enhances everything. He has in me a woman who will do anything he asks and not require anything in return — especially not any sort of romantic expectation. It seems we both trust the other in that now.

It would be a good test of me for him to bring in another woman, a vanilla companion, a love-interest girlfriend, and see how I would respond. You never know, but I honestly don’t think it would matter to me so much.

I don’t think he has a significant other, not because of me, but because I’m not sure he has the time. Nor would he wish to go through the process: How does a dominant answer the girlfriend’s question, “Honey, why is a naked girl suspended by cables in the Great Room?”

Ha, ha. But the greater test would be for him to get a second slave girl. Then I don’t know if I could be so laissez-faire. I could imagine then I become Ms. Phyllis — cold and hissy toward my doppelganger, jealous of the carpet space we now share at his feet. But it still wouldn’t be in the sense that I have glommed on to Master M with a kind of romantic possession. It would be more that there would be two of us girl slaves and only one cock. (Which I mean in a metaphorical sense… of course.)

Sex with him, too, is interesting. It isn’t the point of anything he intends with me. It’s part of the fabric of his domination of me. In other, cruder words, he doesn’t use me sexually to get himself off. He uses sex to deepen my submissive state. He is fulfilled, it seems, by pushing me down into a deeper helplessness and craving and desire.

Which is gaspingly lovely but very different. Somehow it compels me to fold into him in the way I do. When he comes in me, it’s not about his orgasm or mine. but about my flesh folding around his cock — just as I fold my presence around him in the intercourse of our daily lives.

on McKenna time, 3

One experience of my slavery here is the random presence of other people in the mansion. Mostly these are service people that Master M employs to manage his mini-mansion and grounds. The part-time nature of their work at the mansion means they are coming and going at all hours, irregularly and unexpectedly. It’s a bit of an open-house house.

This is the longest I’ve been with Master for a stretch of time, and so I’ve gotten a view of the cycle of work done around the mansion during the days of the week. As it happens, they’ve had their own view of me. In more ways than one.

Most notable, perhaps is Phyllis De Vries, the caterer. She is fifty-ish, short and plump with graying hair. She’s a terrific cook. She is a catering service of one, and I believe she provides meals and groceries to several estate-homes in the area. By nature she has a stern demeanor. Master M has told me not to be afraid of her, but I am. She seems cold, especially toward me. Phyllis is very protective of him and thinks of me as “not good for him,” which she has said to my face in her slightly Dutch accent.

The landscaper goes by just his last name, Jeffers. He’s working around the house and grounds every weekday morning till about lunchtime. He’s in his forties, I guess, nicely muscled, and has a habit of peering through windows as he’s working the gardens. The mansion has a lot of windows.

Maria is the woman who basically cleans the mansion inside. She’s there four days a week, perhaps six hours each day. Maria’s about my age, and she and I have hit it off in a way. Maria also does Master’s bed linens and towels.

It seems all of them are well aware of Master M’s lifestyle. It would be hard not to be — as he lives his dominance quite openly. And while they don’t know me well as yet, they certainly know what I am. And what I am to him.

This is interesting to me in the sense of a kind of old-world hierarchy. Now Master M is certainly not “old-world” nor does he run his life or his businesses with any privilege or sense of social strata. But these who work for him know he is the wealthy “landowner” upon which their income (at least partially) depends. They are protective of their place in the hierarchy with him.

So they are wary of me, the new girl, offended by what I do for him, defensive about my possibly taking over some part of their employment. They each, in their way, find it necessary to put me in my place. They do real work, the suggestion is, and I am simply a toy. I don’t argue with that. I know they have reasons to keep me “under” them.

Again, Phyllis is of note here: quite simply, she despises me. She refers to me in front of the others, so I’ve been told, as a “whore.” Despite what Master says, I am literally afraid to go into her kitchen. Even when Phyllis — or I should properly say, Ms. De Vries — isn’t there, I’m afraid she’ll detect later that I’ve moved something out of order as I’m reaching for a bottle of water.

So the whore stays out of her kitchen, even when I’m hungry.

Not so severely, but Mr. Jeffers distrusts me as well. I have enjoyed walking outside at times (until yesterday when it got cold). Tuesday I did so, and at one point I knelt down to look at one of the mum plants in front of the Great Room windows. Jeffers came up to me and said, “Don’t water them.” I had my bottle of water in my hand and perhaps he thought I was doing so. “No,” I said, “I wasn’t… I won’t.” Then I added, trying to thaw the moment, “I have no skill in gardening, and I admire how beautiful your work is.” He nodded but stood there until I moved away.

It’s Maria who is more open to me. I help her fold towels and sheets, and we get to talking. She’s been curious about my lifestyle. “People choose different things,” she says casually. “Who am I to judge?” I think she’s more open to me because she’s younger. She may be curious about my lifestyle herself. She is nice, in any case, and nice to me. She’s the one who tells me what the others are saying about me..

There are others too — one man in particular, whom I’ll mention in a future post. Also: delivery people, a fix-it handyman, a computer whiz kid from down the street. People are always dropping in.

It feels like an open-house house.

Somehow, Master McKenna executes my slavery in the midst of all this flurry.

There is no real privacy. Yes, in general, when he makes me nude, he keeps me behind closed doors, isolated from the service people. But also in general, he could care less if I am seen naked by them. He’s not at all concerned about my experience of being seen, just mindful of their experience, and possible offense, at seeing me in such states.

Most everything he does with me is in the Great Room. I’ve described it before: it is massive, the center-space of retreats and board meetings. It is his home office, conversation pit, wet bar — and his place for slave training. It’s so spacious it bears a slight echo. To me, it feels like he is doing me in the middle of a hotel ballroom on the mezzanine level of the Hilton.

The Great Room is also “porous” in the sense of having multiple entrances. They all have doors, but Master M never keeps them locked, and there are interruptions — knockings and bargings-in. Master may intend to protect their innocent eyes from my naked flesh, but they, curious, seem to find ways of glimpsing.

Ms. Phyllis hardly ever leaves the kitchen, but somehow has an urgent question for McKenna in the Great Room when he is administering corporal humiliation to my flesh. I don’t for a moment imagine her pleasure is in seeing my female flesh but in seeing my female flesh flogged and whipped. Indeed, I think she dreams of having the whip in her own hand some day.

And I’m sure I caught sight of Mr. Jeffers outside the Great Room windows watching the proceedings of my flogging. I couldn’t fail to note the irony that he stood at roughly the same place I had stood when admiring his mum plants.

But I said nothing to Master McKenna about peeping Jeffers.

Seems that mum’s the word for the slave girl finding her place in the hierarchy.

on McKenna time, 2

I apologize for not writing more this week. While I’ve been given time and permission each day, I haven’t always mustered the energy my mind needs to string words together.

So… let’s just say it’s been a “heavy” time with him this week — physical in bodily ways and an extended lesson in corporal discipline.

Yesterday he had me change clothes four times. He likes my various outfits but likes even more making me get out of them. There’s a pattern — I dress, model for him, we talk, and then he has me strip naked.

In the Great Room, there are cables that mechanically drop down from the vault ceiling. These are usually used to hang a video screen on which to project Powerpoint presentations at board meetings. Apparently they have an alternative use: to shackle my wrists above my head.

In such a way, I am strung up, in high heels and a slave collar, standing naked in the middle of this immense and empty room. He leaves me there as he goes elsewhere in the house. I hear him talk to the caterer in the kitchen. He re-enters the Great Room, but now is on the phone with a business partner. He wears a bluetooth ear piece to keep his hands free.

Master M continues to have his phone conversation as he begins to flog my flesh.

Earlier he has talked with me. He has coined the term “corporal humiliation.” Not corporal punishment or corporal discipline. He redefines common understandings.

“True punishment,” he says, “has to be based on an aversion a submissive has — if she enjoys being whipped, then it won’t work as a deterrent to an unwanted behavior.” Master M, I am convinced, could have been a teacher in another life. He often speaks in logic and definitions. “Whippings can be useful as a punishment if the girl hates the experience, but generally a submissive likes it in some way, and so corporal treatments are not real punishment.”

“True physical discipline,” he goes on in his professorial tone, “is the training of a girl to physically behave as the dom wants her to. I have already applied to you, slave Shae, corporal discipline by training you how to sit, stand, and walk. That’s the true meaning of corporal discipline. For me to whip you doesn’t actually ‘discipline’ you to do or not do anything.”

He sits in the leather easy chair, and takes a drag from his cigar. I sit at his feet. I spend a lot of my time at his feet.

“I prefer the term ‘corporal humiliation,’ he says. “Which is the same act of hitting your flesh, but for different purposes.”

“And what are those purposes?”

“Your humiliation and my pleasure.”

The humiliation of being hit is complex, I am finding. D/s brought to public awareness is always humiliating in its way, But there’s the matter of a man hitting a woman — especially in this day and age — its sheer social impropriety that looks to others to be outrageous. Somehow I imagine I may have to confess this in some vanilla conversation someday.

But the deeper shame lies in my allowing him to hit me. The cables holding up my wrists are not restraints, actually. They are simply to pull my hands out of the way. I am not “in capture.” Any onlooker could figure out that I am able to stretch the cables together so to undo my wrist cuffs. I could get away. I could walk out of the house. But I don’t. I stay. I submit. I give my body to the ignominy of being flogged by a man — which becomes my humiliation.

Each stroke of the flogger lands heavily and jolts my body. Hit this way, I cannot help that my flesh recoils into ripples and jiggles. My breasts judder, and my ass cheeks bounce after every hit.

“Stop squirreling around,” he commands, interrupting his call. I don’t know what “squirreling around” means, and at the same time I realize the client on the other end of the call must hear this and knows.

“I’m not squirreling,” I protest faintly.

“Stop dancing around. Stay in one place.”


He flogs me again, and this time I don’t shuffle in my high heels. It’s instinct to try to avoid the lashes, which was what I was doing. Staying put is harder, mind over reflex, but I do it.

The pain of it is not the main thing. Each stroke hurts some, but is absorbable. The pain comes later in the accumulation of the blows, and then after, when the sting rises to the surface.

And he knows how to do it.

For him it is a kind of art, a form of human painting. Instead of body paints, he uses implements that bring out the reds in my skin, and there are degrees of the color — from pink to rose to cherry to crimson to Cabernet — that become his palette.

Monday, he painted my ass. He flogged my ass cheeks into a “deep rose” — and I dared not think about what Cabernet would feel like. I could not sit down at dinner. He said it was just like my doing makeup in the morning — layering my face with colored foundation, concealer, blush, and eyeshadow. I guess for him it’s likewise about bringing out “colors in my skin,” but I told him I failed to see the analogy, and he laughed.

I’ve been whipped before, of course, but, in the way he does me, it is a new kind of humiliation. It’s not a sexual event, cum and done, as it is with Kevin, but kind of a way of life.

So, as he said, it’s not a punishment at all, nor even any kind of training, but simply an action done by him because he just damn well feels like hitting me with the ends of things called floggers and whips and cat-o-nines. It’s simply his pleasure. And my humiliation — that I have submitted myself, my body to him, for these, his heavy paintbrushes.

This is just a quick fly-by report of this part of my week with Master M. I have much more to tell and write.

The “professor” has also taken me through a whole unit on spanking. And I have some experiences to report out on that, one particularly notable.

And there was an interesting instruction (in the category of “manhandling”) on “how to be thrown against a wall.”

I am okay, I should mention, well and happy, albeit rather sore in certain places. I’m not concerned about my treatment at his hand. Yes, it’s intense, even severe at times, but he made a rather beautiful statement ahead of time that there is no room for violence in the D/s lifestyle. Violence, he says, is reckless anger wielded against a woman’s body. The art of corporal discipline, he says, is actually in its restraint — knowing the precise boundary between hurt that will heal and injury that won’t.

Just when you think you’ve experienced everything in the slave life, you find out there’s more.

on McKenna time, 1

Master McKenna has given me a window of time each day to write my blog, usually right after lunch when he schedules Zoom calls on both east and west coast. My problem is that when I have this time I am not in my best writing mind. Such as now, after a full morning of my slavery to him: I am exhausted in a certain way, am disinclined to replay my morning enslavements all over again in writing, and simply wish to take a nap.

This visit is I expect more normative to the way Master M will have me. It is less teaching and training (with one exception), and more doing, my work being somewhat clerical and organizational, albeit while wearing outfits that would get me thrown out of any actual business office. This is not unlike the work Amanda has me do for her business (less so lately), though it is more about preparing board reports and learning his style of presentation. Interspersed are moments of his dominance of me — much less about teaching me anything and more about the fact he just feels the hell like it.

At a point you are just the object of a man’s libido.

Meanwhile my style of “presentation” is high heels and metal collars, short skirts and sheer tops — slave shae as the living fantasy of Master McKenna. That is when I’m wearing an outfit. When I came to him Sunday night, before any exchange of words, he had me undress on the front porch, a somewhat literal rendition of “he had me at hello.” Since then, there have been stretches of rampant nudity occurring in the haze of his cigar smoke.

The one training exception is all about discipline and punishment. Sort of like classroom teaching with a “lab” component. He has a philosophy of this, and I’ll devote a separate blog to that, maybe tomorrow. For now, I will just say it reveals Master M to be a more physical dominant than I have experienced him to be earlier. And also that there are times when sitting is a bit of an ordeal.

More tomorrow.

the quality of her presence

I saw a video not long ago that featured a submissive woman and her dominatrix. I was struck by the submissive’s simple way of being with her owner.

Just standing there she had a kind of presence, an elusive something, which fascinated me. Our shorthand for such a thing is “submissiveness,” which it was in her, but that’s often just a generic term, like calling a Rembrandt a “pretty drawing.” All of her was submissive, for sure, but there were qualities within that which I felt compelling and beautiful.

As she stood naked before her owner, delicate and lithe with small yearning breasts, she was quiet but not timid, speaking only when spoken to but answering her mistress’s questions readily. She seemed to anticipate what would be done to her yet was not assuming anything specific. She did not know when her next hours would require, yet she stood in brimming expectation of the adventure.

I think of the term “recessive gene,” the biological element that sits behind the dominant gene. Likewise, this submissive woman was recessive, standing to the side of her domme, slightly back, almost like her owner’s shadow. This slave seemed to exist between the world and her domme — sort of like those optical illusions where you look at a picture and another image lies within it if you look hard enough. Perhaps she feels this literally, her presence between the radical life her mistress draws her into and the world out there that judges her naked submission.

We all feel that.

Oddly, perhaps, the woman’s manner of presence brought to my mind the word “absorbent.”

She tacitly stood, receptive to all that would be done to her, whatever would be applied to her flesh. She would absorb it all, from floggers to semen, and more than take it on her, she’d receive it into her like a foam sponge. It all would seep in, would ooze into her flesh and mind, and would be transformed. In a kind of submissive alchemy, the thudding pain of the flogger converted into gratitude, the demeaning stripes of violent cum transformed into her own submissive and nurturing estrogen.

As she stands so receptive and absorbent, a quiet catalyst for changing her world, she is breathtaking.

It was a quality of presence. The woman did very little, but just was, standing submissively, not performing but just being — being submissive and recessive and absorbent.

She mesmerized me.

I wondered if I needed to find that quality of presence for myself, if this is who I need to be for Master McKenna. Maybe this is what he is training me to be.

This woman was authentic, just being herself. I know I must likewise be myself in my submission. I cannot be exactly like her. But what is my best version of the quality of submissive presence she had?

I am generally appreciated for my words, sometimes my wit and humor. But if I am standing silently, submissive and recessive and absorbent, how can these be expressed? I don’t know. My owners have said of me in various ways that I convey a sense of knowing fully what is being done to me, that I am aware of my own sacrifice in submitting to dominance. Perhaps that’s something. I don’t know.

As I am with Master McKenna this week, standing submissively before him, I will remember this woman, her beautiful, recessive being, and the quality of her submissive presence.

feelings on the eve

I was asked, when I go to be with Master McKenna or Kevin for a visit, whether I look forward to the trip or get nervous about it or even dread it in certain ways. And do I become aroused by thinking about it?

Well, yes, I have a lot of feelings.

To be clear, I never dread being with either of the men, even though they are strong dominant alphas who sometimes handle me roughly. They each are responsible and self-controlled. They respect Amanda and her gift of me, so they would never permanently damage her sex toy loaned out to them. I don’t worry about that.

If I am busy right before a visit to either of them — for a recent example, say, having just traveled to visit my mother in Pennsylvania — I am not so ready to turn around immediately and go to visit either of the men. I need the down time in between and have to get grounded again. Amanda knows this and has scheduled me with buffer zones between events. Otherwise, I would be more reluctant to think about another trip/visit coming up.

But in this case, I’ve had two weeks since my trip to PA, and Amanda has kept me “in idle” for the past week. I’m ready to go to Master M tomorrow night.

“Nervous” isn’t quite the right word, but I do always feel a slight case of the jitters before I go to Master M. I think this is because it’s still partly a performance with him, my training being always observed and tested. This is mostly, I assume, a function of my relative newness with him. I am still learning how to please him. Which is exciting even as it makes me jittery.

“Place” is important to me as well — knowing the house and space I am being dominated in. Kevin’s house, of course, is the same home Amanda and I used to live in, so it’s comfortable to me. Master M’s mansion is becoming more of a familiar “home” to me, although there are still some sections of it I’ve never been in. The Great Room, where has has me most often, is massive and open, which I’m still getting used to. And I am still becoming known to his service people, who seem to come in randomly through the week and appear out of the blue, though they must be on some schedule… So in going to Master M, yes, I do feel some jitters, though not in any sense do I worry about the man himself.

I was asked further whether it excites me sexually to go to Master M and Kevin.


But I feel a sexual anticipation with both, although differently. As other submissives will understand, there is a difference between vanilla and submissive sex/sexuality.

As I have been with Kevin, escort-like and all that, my visits have been about vanilla sex and not dom-sub sex. While being his courtesan requires me to service him fully and constantly, which is exhausting with him, it also is, of course, a hell of a lot of wonderful sex for me.😉 So, certainly, when I visit him, I get aroused in the anticipation, which Amanda will readily attest to.

Master M’s sexual exploration of me is still developing, still is new, and it’s also my submissive sexuality he is tapping into. What I mean is that, for me as a submissive, everything I am ordered to do, even non-sexual, feels sexually arousing. Master M may have me copy a set of documents, say, while wearing a spreader bar, and even though that task is merely functional, it excites me sexually. And so with Master M, my whole visit with him can feel sexual, even if there’s no actual sex. However, now there is actual sex with Master M too, though in the context of my submissive to his dominant.

Just to make the point: yes, I am sexually excited to be visiting Master M again, although my arousal is different for him than it would be for Kevin.

So, when Amanda sends me off tomorrow night to serve Master M, I will be a bit antsy, but also looking forward to it, excited about being with him again.

nearly normal

It has been a fairly quiet and ordinary week by most D/s standards. Mistress Amanda, aka “Goddess, Ruler of My Life,” has kept me clothed for most of it, with the exception of occasional modeling sessions she’s had me do in the bay window. These have been private between her and me, although we both know she’s staging me for some future “opening,” when she invites more folks over for window shopping.

I have realized that the window provides Amanda (who enjoys decorating the house and grounds in her own D/s version of feng shui) an opportunity to decorate me as well, using my body in a space to create her own kind of performance art. For her it’s an aesthetic. For me, it’s being spread-eagle in a window.

Other than that, it’s been a quiet, tame week. And I’ve been a good girl, staying within myself. You need weeks like this sometimes. And Amanda knows I go to Master McKenna on Sunday night, so she is giving me more inner time to get centered for him.

Yes, we had the afternoon tea yesterday, but it was strangely normal. Amanda kept me dressed this time, all retro and fifties in floral shirt dress, heels, and pearls. Tea is now open to everyone in the neighborhood — “join us if you’re able” — and several of the neighbors showed up at our front door. It was pleasant and lovely. I served tea and finger sandwiches, but otherwise sat at the table like a grown-up, actually dressed and engaging in conversation about universities and COVID. Yes, I was aware that not so long ago, I served drinks while topless at the BBQ party, but the probability that I occupy that space in their minds was not anything that I focused on, and the afternoon was pleasant and delightfully ordinary.

In fact, I think Amanda wants to paint for them a picture of the D/s life as both these images — BBQ party with neighbors walking me topless on a leash and tea party with me all buttoned up like Donna Reed.

Tomorrow, Amanda takes me shopping. Since we are buying clothes for me to wear when I’m with Master M, it will be serious shopping, and I doubt Amanda has any intention of playing with me in the park. Though I’m always the last to know.