BBQ party

A dozen people came to the party Saturday night with all of the neighbors (numbering eight) showing up, which pleased Amanda to no end. Additionally Amanda’s lifestyle friend Dayna was there, whom I’ve mentioned in blog posts.

The surprise for me was that Amanda had invited Blake, our twenties-something handyman, the one who retro-fitted the entryway wall and the wet bar for my bondage display. Those experiences of my standing in place for him while he measured my position forged an unlikely intimacy that now surfaced as a kind of friendly connection. His black hair is a bit shaggier now, but he still has that “oh, shucks”-country-boy vibe. He’s still delicious. I sensed he felt a little out of place, so I introduced him to one of the neighbors whom I knew has a carpentry hobby.

I won’t list all of the neighbors by name, but they included our dear friends John and Patricia Miller, of course, and two other couples, along with two single men, one of whom was Mr. Hawkins, the ad exec and erstwhile extreme bicyclist, whom we now see often on our walks.

Amanda had the event catered with a BBQ specialist who went by the nickname “Sweets” and a woman named Maria who prepped side dishes in the kitchen and served from behind the food table.

So there was a crowd, and Amanda had the audience she so delights in.

It being BBQ, people came casual in jeans and tees. Amanda had me a little up-dressy in one of my print midi skirts of summery palm-tree greens and sky-blues, along with a white crop-top. It surprised me she didn’t make more more exposed than that — I expected a shorter skirt and a sheerer top — but she really wanted the evening to be invitingly normal and comfortable to the guests. Besides, that would come later.

She did, of course, have me in a slave collar, one of my heavy metal ones at that, so there was no question about my place and purpose and status.

I served drinks to everyone, taking orders as guests arrived, then refreshing glasses through the evening. Amanda had decided during the day to save the waist tray till later. She also had the sensibility to put me in wedge sandals rather than high heels — as being barmaid required me constantly to walk on patio slate, bare hardwood, and carpet. It may have been a nod to my general klutziness, but I was grateful.

Serving drinks gave me opportunity to talk with everyone, albeit in brief fits and starts. We have had tea times with everyone previously, so in each case there was something known to ask about and talk about.

I was asked several times when there would be a “demonstration,” so apparently Amanda had prepped them about this when she invited them. I simply said, “I don’t know. As you know, I’m not in charge around here,” which elicited chuckles and laughs.

“Sweets” became frustrated that the massive grill he’d brought in was not working right, and he apologized to Amanda for a bit of delay. She didn’t mind, especially as the neighbors seemed to be having a good time talking with each other. Some hadn’t met before.

I won’t belabor the obvious — we had food, which was yummy. In time, the caterers packed their stuff away and left.

One of the neighbors has a birthday Monday, which Amanda had picked up on and planned for. She brought out a cake with candles, and everyone sang happy birthday.

As this was going on, Amanda had me go to my bedroom and change clothes — a skater skirt in wine red and a sleeveless white button-down top.

I have forgotten to mention that Amanda had invited Master McKenna to the party. He politely declined, mentioning a prior engagement. But something Amanda said makes me think the two of them came to a mutual agreement that his presence at the party would be confusing for the guests in their understanding of my D/s slavery.

First things first, I suppose.

Amanda called everyone onto the patio, and I refreshed drinks one more time. With everyone settled, Amanda began to speak.

I wish I had a transcript of what Amanda said. Perhaps I can ask her this week if she can help reconstruct it for me. It was a clear statement of what D/s is and isn’t, and the kind of dominant-slave relationship she and I have. It was “this is who we are” and “this is the life we choose to have” and “we want to be good neighbors” and yet “we want to live our lifestyle openly.” It was awe-inspiring. To me at least.

She said something about “demonstrating some things this evening to give you all an idea.”

Then she ordered me to take off my top.

I obeyed, unbuttoning my white sleeveless blouse, pulling it off, and exposing to all my bare breasts. No one said anything that I recall. Maybe some murmurs, but this was not a catcall crowd.

It is an odd thing to be made topless in front of such a crowd, but Amanda had a way of making it seem natural — “Shae is obedient to me,” she said, “even when doing something like this is embarrassing to her. But she has gorgeous breasts. I like to see them, and I like to show them to others.” So of course, her implication was, this was quite appropriate. She spoke of my exposure as being part of my slavery, and how she wished to share this with the neighborhood, while at the same time not meaning to offend anyone.

I had known for some time this would happen this night, my being made topless in front of everyone, so I had been mentally prepared for it, sort of. It still was what it was, my slave status on display and my breasts unveiled for a crowd of neighbor friends-in-the-making. But for me, the feeling was not a humiliation of shame, as Amanda had put this in the context of our nearly noble relationship. I was proud of what I was.

But while Amanda had created the context for my exposure as being about my obedience, separating it from any sexual act, yet I was still standing there bare-breasted before them. I could imagine the neighbors intellectually accepting Amanda’s words and respecting this simply as part of our lifestyle but still visually looking at me through sexual lenses. I felt both.

This was the point when she fitted me with the slave tray.

Actually, I found her use of this odd because the slave tray has not been part of our life together. But in retrospect I think Amanda was looking for another way to “demonstrate” me without making the evening more explicit. She had decided earlier not to use me on the wet bar or entryway wall — she couldn’t know how neighbors would react to that. For now, the slave tray was another thing to help show me off.

The tray has a belt that tightens around my back and two chains on the front corners of the tray that attach to the O-ring of my collar. I had practiced with the tray the day before, and had found that if my collar was tight around my neck, my head movements would twist the tray. With a looser collar, the tray was more stable.

So Amanda had fitted me with the tray, then shackled my wrists behind my back. She told everyone that we would have “another thing in a while,” but meanwhile I would take drink orders and serve them using the tray. “Both Shae and I are happy to answer your questions,” she said.

Someone called out (I think it was Mr. Hawkins), “Can we touch?” and people laughed.

Amanda said yes.

Because I was now hands-less, Dayna took over serving as bartender, but since she doesn’t know much about making drinks, I had to talk her through it. It took longer, but it seems people didn’t mind watching me walk back and forth balancing cocktail glasses on my tray and trying to keep my breasts from jostling too much. There were a few minor sloshes, but I did OK.

People asked me questions, but mostly about how Amanda and I got together. Some asked about why I do this life of submission, which is a complicated answer that I had to strip down to simply saying it was the way “I have been made,” and that I think of it as “part of my sexual orientation.”

Mr. Hawkins got in his fondling, along with a few others. They were gentlemen about it — if copping feels can possibly be gentlemanly. I’ll just say that experience is very submissive-feeling. There were also comments about my breasts, but generally this crowd was still rather polite, treating me with a kind of curious awe.

Perhaps that’s why I handled it all pretty well. I was blushingly embarrassed, yes, but I also felt esteemed in a certain way. I was living an extreme life that others could not imagine, and in an odd way they respected me for it.

One thing I watched among the neighbors was how the couples, particularly the women, responded to me.

Of course, Patricia and John know me now very well, in every state of being, and they are accepting of how the other enjoys me. There were two other couples, one older and married, the other couple younger, unmarried but living together. The wife of the older couple seemed to engage with everything, and me, rather well. The younger woman seemed a bit more aloof.

Amanda and I have talked about this — not wanting me to be perceived as a threat to existing relationships.

Presently, Amanda announced that everyone would have the chance to “take me on a walk.”

She removed my waist tray, then leashed me, and assembled folks at the edge of the patio, handing my leash to each person, one by one. They each took me out to the back of our yard where it meets with the path up to the ridge. Then back.

They talked with me along the way. More questions about our lifestyle, and how I am “like this.” I didn’t mind.

In a way this was a trivial little activity, and it made me feel a little like the pony in the riding school being walked around by the students.

But in retrospect, I thought it was brilliant of Amanda to do this. In this way, she normalized me with them, making them more used to the idea of me being walked on a leash topless, and maybe planting in them a wish they could be the ones doing it.

For me, the party wasn’t “over-the-top,” and my exposure wasn’t overwhelming. I felt it — blushing embarrassment — but the vibe of the group was one of curiosity and interest rather than judgment. I’m not sure that means in the future they all will approve of me — judgment may still set in — but for this one evening at least, I was accepted with curious interest.

I think Amanda felt the evening was a success, but she had to process a while first. As we fell on the couch after everyone left, she wondered about so-and-so and worried that she’d not said something she wanted to cover.

But the party accomplished her goal of letting the neighborhood know that we may be “weird” but we’re harmless, that we have a lifestyle that’s healthy and loving, and that I may be topless but that doesn’t make me a sex kitten.

As for me, the bar was lower — I was pleased I didn’t trip and spill any drinks.

I will still feel self-conscious when being walked topless by Amanda around the neighborhood. And now people may feel more inclined to come out and greet us along our way, making me feel even more exposed.

So it doesn’t change a whole lot. But maybe now no one will call the cops.

party planning

I had written this yesterday morning and had thought I’d posted it, but apparently not. I send it now anyway, even though the BBQ party already took place last night. I’ll write up a report on the party evening later today…

Today is our neighborhood BBQ party, long awaited not only because it was rescheduled from August, but because this is the fruition of almost two years of a dream Amanda has had.

That dream started with finding this house in this area of the foothills, selected in part because of the types of people living here, people who might hopefully be open-minded about our lifestyle. That dream was interrupted by COVID, limiting Amanda’s contact with people for most of a year. She persevered, and gradually made connections, developed the relationships, and wooed the neighborhood one by one into our world. This evening is the first time the neighbors will be together with Amanda and me, our D/s life on display. This is her dream.

Amanda has decided to have me fully dressed at the beginning and, of course, collared. She wants neighbors to feel comfortable as they walk in, and not awkward about my state of presentation.

She intends later in the evening to have a kind of “demonstration” of me — to call the neighbors around in a circle on the patio, to share more about our daily D/s life, and to answer questions. This will be a time, she tells me, when she partially undresses me in front of them, leashes me, and shackles my wrists behind my back.

I am strangely copacetic about this, for some reason. I suppose that, despite the humiliation this will be, I would rather my submissive nakedness be out in front of them all rather than conducted in furtive walks with Amanda at dusk. This party tonight won’t change my feelings of exposure and humiliation when we encounter a neighbor on such a walk, but it should take away my fears of giving offense.

The other new wrinkle Amanda has in mind to try tonight is having me wear a waist tray. She bought one, and it seems sturdy enough, but she will have me wear it today as practice.

More later… we’ll see how this goes…

notes on a Saturday morning

Been a full week, with another spreadsheet project from Amanda and the work of getting the house and patio ready for the neighborhood BBQ party tonight. Hard to believe it’s Saturday again and we’re deep into September already.

I was a little conflicted about posting “what would you dress Shae in?” I meant it as a snippet of conversation and repartee that I often have with Amanda. But in process I realized the post would prompt people to submit their ideas of how they would dress me. Which is fine and fun, but it wasn’t originally what I was going for. Then I thought, “Well, why not?” and I offered the last sentence as a bit of an invite.

Later I regretted that. While I am looking for ways to make my blog more interactive, it needs to be what it’s supposed to be: my true account of my submissive nature and my slave life day by day. I don’t want it to drift into a series of fantasy exercises.

But I let it sit as I posted it, and actually I’ve found it fun to receive comments and emails about how others would dress me. Now that it’s posted, I welcome anyone to respond. It really is kinda fun…

But I’m just not sure what to do with those responses. Seems I should write and post about those somehow…

A lot of thoughts recently about love and not-love and sex and sexuality. I have come to feel that love can happen in small things, in bits, and little acts, services and sex things, and isn’t always about “I love you” in a “you’re the one for me” way. Service as a slave girl, providing for someone — whether drinks on a tray or a shoulder massage, or little touches of sexual relief — can be a form of love imparted.

This sounds cryptic, perhaps, but I’m not prepared right now to plunge into it. Maybe it will be another post.

This isn’t meant to be a calendar update, but I will say that Amanda has her hands full in scheduling me on an ongoing basis with both Kevin and Master McKenna. She has some decisions to make, but has wanted to get through the BBQ party tonight, before focusing on them.

I’ve been keeping up with my blog writing well enough, but my fiction writing has taken a hit with these added projects from Amanda and my service times with Master M and Kevin.

Amanda is sensitive to this and feels badly about the additional business work she’s had to give me, but it’s been necessary. I don’t mind that work, but I am desiring more fiction writing time. I can write blog posts in between other things, but writing a novel takes concentrated chunks of days.

I’m not sure any of these notes are of interest to anyone, but it helps me process…

what would you dress Shae in?

The other night, over white wine and yummy smoked Gouda, Amanda and I were talking. She mused about other things she might do with me.

Of course, I well know when she says “things to do with me,” she means “things to do to me.” I said I thought she had met her quota for the year and “I’m already a thoroughly dominated girl, if you hadn’t noticed” and, like, it wasn’t really necessary to dream up more stuff for my slave life. “I’m not bored,” I said.

But that didn’t seem to hinder her reach for more dom creativity.

Her latest is this idea of having other people dress me for a day. “We could open this up to the neighbors,” she said. Apparently one of our neighbors had asked what Amanda was going to dress me in for the BBQ party, and Amanda responded to him by asking, “What would you dress Shae in?”

The idea was born.

She went on: “They could specify a particular day, and describe an outfit — skirt, top, or maybe a dress, shoes — what sort of ‘look’ they’d like to see you have. I would buy the clothes to match the look they want, and we would that day go over to their place for a visit. You could model for them.”

I said I didn’t think neighbors would be so inclined to play along. Of course, that was perhaps my own wishful thinking.

“You be surprised,” Amanda said. “At worst, it would be a simple reason for a social getogether. But maybe it would draw them into the fun of our D/s lifestyle.”

She likes a bigger playground. Sigh. I love her to death and will submit myself to her till the end of time, but there are differences in our preferences, and this is one. I would prefer a more private slavery. She wants to share me with the whole world (and maybe some ETs outside our world).

I still wasn’t sure if this was a real thing or a fantasy idea for her. She says things often just to ride me. But this sounded real. There was no question that Amanda, the queen of woo, could get neighbors to play. I just thought that “Dress my girl Shae” was a little lame. But I didn’t say that.

“Maybe,” she said, “we combine this with tea times. Once a month. We schedule the neighbor for tea, and along with that ask them to dress you, so to speak. You’d wear that outfit to teatime. Eventually, the whole neighborhood would have their experience of you.”

“I feel like I’m being crowd-sourced,” I said.

Amanda looked at me with a knowing grin. “You’re just realizing that now?”

I shook my head at her, holding back a smile. “I’m going to shut up for a while.”

“You don’t think it’ll work.”

“Oh, I know it’ll work. You can make anything work. You’ll get people to play along. I have no doubt about that.”


“But, for one thing, most people don’t have the fashion sense that you do. They won’t know what to ask for. It’ll be “a top and a skirt” and “I like blue.”

“I’ll coach them a little to get more specific, to think about your look and the whole outfit. I’ll give them time to decide. I think they’ll have fun with it, once they’re invited to dress you in their fantasy… So you said ‘for one thing.’ What’s the other thing?”

“I imagine some will just say they don’t want me to wear anything.”

“Which would be fine,” Amanda said with a straight face, “but there would still be shoes and accessories for them to choose. Maybe a waist chain with a dangle hanging down to your pussy…”

I opened my eyes wide, then realized, at least in this, she was teasing.

Amanda laughed. “Of course I will have some ground rules. They’ll have to specify a whole outfit.”

So then I was thinking that this is just an extension of her dressing me each and every day. She would just be freelancing this one thing on occasion to others, maybe for teatimes. “What would you dress Shae in?” was maybe no big deal.

Amanda went on to say she thought it would be interesting what outfit people chose. It would, she felt, reveal something about each neighbor — why did they choose this particular outfit for me?

“You’ll be a conversation piece,” she said.

What would you dress Shae in… and why?


It seems to me there are different kinds of arousal.

In physical arousal, you fondle my breasts and finger my labia, making me a puddle of flush and tingle.

In emotional arousal, you stand in the doorway looking like that, and because of feelings you made me have with you before, I am drawn to you and want you to take me.

But there is also submissive arousal. When you wrap a collar around my neck and snap it shut, I feel desire for you. It doesn’t matter if I know you, if you are friend or stranger, the simple act of your dominance arouses me. When you attach a leash to my collar and walk me, you turn me on. When you give me an order to stand or sit or kneel, you trigger in me sexual desire.

Being a deep submissive who lives in constant submission is both a piece of heaven and a touch of hell.

My submissiveness is engaged almost every minute of my life. Even the clothing I wear is an act of submission, a reminder of being dominated. My submission is harnessed and handled every day by the person I love. That is the piece of heaven.

But the simple truth is that I pretty much live in a perpetual state of submissive arousal. It’s a life of foreplay, in a sense, subtle in its drip-drip but at times becoming a tub full of constant craving, a bath of desire that isn’t always unplugged. In fact, not being allowed release and orgasm is part of my life of being dominated. My submissiveness is used to keep me in want and make me wanton. This is the touch of hell.

Though it is a delicious hell.

As I have written before, we submissives need to be protected from ourselves. My submissive arousal makes me a little stupid. Loose in the wild, I would be vulnerable.

I need a keeper and a manager and a protector — a dominant not only to rule me but to keep me from sleeping with the whole world.

This, I think, is sort of the point of D/s slavery. Or at least mine.

brand new emotion

She stands before you naked, nervous and excited and fearful and hopeful and desirous and wanton and vulnerable — all of those at the same time, all boiling together in a chemistry of a new emotion, a submissive feeling too complex to be reduced to a simple name.

The emotion fills her eyes, which glisten with inexpressible joy to be in the slave place you’ve put her. The emotion sits behind an ambiguous Mona Lisa smile that flickers with excited apprehension about what you will do to her. The emotion fills her breasts and floods her nipples in trembling preparation to receive your touch, whether a gentle fondle or cracking slap.

The emotion fears that which might happen as much as it fears that it won’t happen. The emotion ebbs and flows, recedes and advances, receives and gives all at the same time. The emotion makes her quiet and passive in her submissiveness, yet eager behind that surface, silently begging.

As you take her, as you command her, as you do her, as you disgrace her, and as you defile her, you will bring her to tears — not of brokenness but pouring from this impossible emotion — tears of feeling everything in one brilliant, overwhelming moment in time…

As she is flooded by you.

conversation in the park

Amanda and I are out and about, Sunday and sunny again following the stormy weather that swept through me earlier in the weekend. We are shopping, walking, talking, and at the moment sitting in the park at the edge of downtown.

We both have pulled books out of our purses, and Amanda has her reading glasses on. She scans the park lawn in front of us, surprisingly green during a hot summer.

She points to a guy sprawled on the grass on the other side of the path. “You would be good with him,” she says.

Here we go again.

“He’s a teenager,” I say.

“He’s older than that. Maybe mid-twenties. I think you’d be good with a younger man.”

“I’m better with older men —you told me yourself.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean there couldn’t be others.”

“Currently I am rather booked up, don’t you think?”

“You have a lot of hours in your day.”

I don’t know what that even is supposed to mean. “I’m telling you, he’s a teenager, maybe twenty at most.”

“He looks mature, though,” Amanda says.

She has no way of knowing this. “He’s young enough to be my son,” I say.

“You need practice with younger men.”

“Practice? Really?”

“I’m not suggesting that you marry him, Shae. I just think you would be good with him. Younger guys could be your new demographic.”

“I have demographics? Fifty-five year-olds and what, now twenty-year-olds?”


I know I shouldn’t ask, but I do anyway: “Okay, how exactly do you imagine me being good with him?”

“I think he looks like he needs a blow job,” she says.

“Amanda, all twenty-year-olds need a blow job.” I shake my head in exasperation. I say nothing, hoping to drop the subject.

The young man is reading a book. I like that. He has long black hair, pulled back and tied into a ponytail. He is slender, but has thick forearms. Appealing, I must admit.

I look away, but Amanda has been watching me watching. “Kind of cute, isn’t he.”

“Sure, maybe he’ll take me to the prom.”

Amanda laughs. “I’d like to see that. You walking into the gym on his arm.”

I say nothing. This has gotten squirrelly.

I sense she is thinking about it. I mean really doing it. Eventually I ask her, “So what are you proposing, that you go up to him and say, ‘My friend here wants to give you a blow job?’”

“Yes. That. Exactly that.”

I know very well she will do it too. She has no compunction about making such things happen. “Maybe he won’t want me,” I protest.

Amanda looks over, tilting her head down, glaring at me above her glass frames. “You are kidding, right?”

I ignore her and pretend to read. But something prompts me to call her bluff, which I regret as soon as I say it: “If you really thought of me as, say, servicing this demographic, as you put it, you would have long ago paired me with handyman Blake instead.” I cringe at myself even before I finish speaking. I want to take it back.

Amanda laughs. She is prepared, somehow, and jumps on my comment: “Well, (a) you say it as if it’s an either/or… Then (b) now that you mention it, Blake is an interesting possibility… And (c) sounds like you might like it with Blake, yes?…”

I say nothing. Not like she hadn’t thought of Blake before.

Amanda stands. I close my eyes. She is preparing to approach the young man in the grass. I brace myself. Here we go.

But just as she places her purse on the bench beside me for safe keeping, the young man stands. He walks away.

“A pity,” Amanda says, sitting back down.

It is one of those ‘road less traveled” or “sliding doors” moments prompting “what if” thoughts and imaginings of life that might have detoured, for a wrinkle in time, behind an oak tree. She would have, and he likely would have, and then I would have. But sometimes slave life is living in possibilities that never happen.

“You wanted to,” she says.

I say nothing.

Amanda picks up her book, but first scans the park once again. She’s looking for other candidates.

“I think you should just read your book now,” I say.

musing in a park

I have come to accept that the sex I provide, even to strangers in the most random situations, is a kind of loving.

The young man in the park that Amanda points out, is not someone I love or need to love — he is a total stranger to me. But if I were to service his cock anyway, as Amanda would have me do, to give my mouth and hands to his manhood, the pleasure I provide would be an impartation of loving.

This is certainly a micro-act, a mere electron in the universe of people and life. But it seems to contribute something positive rather than something neutral or negative. I help in a smallish way to improve the state of someone’s life. So I tell myself.

If Amanda had made it happen, this frat-boy stranger would be standing, gazing down at me on my knees, watching his expanding cock bathe in the juices of my mouth. In time, he would tense and empty his cream onto my tongue. He would walk away from behind the tree, leaving me in the dirt, and later he would wonder how he got so loved.

The voices from the past would say that’s not real love. And of course it’s not — I am not claiming that, nor am I expecting that. But even so, is it not a kind of loving? Is this not an act of making love, even if just to one part of this stranger in the grass? Is it possibly a true moment of loving that improves this man’s day and helps him later to choose to do a better thing for someone else?

We are all strangers in a park.

bag clips

The day started well enough, but sometime during this morning, I fell into a bad mood, one of my mini-rebellions.

I got snappy with Amanda, and she didn’t take kindly to that, so she has put bag clips on my lips. These are the plastic spring clips that clamp shut bags of potato chips. They don’t hurt much, although I feel their squeeze, and over time they will make my lips numb.

One on my upper lip and one on my lower, for now, they restrict my speech — while I can try to talk, the clips give me a kind of lisp. Mostly, they just look ridiculous.

This falls into the category of admonition not punishment. Whereas other doms — Master M notably — would use my little hissy-fit as an opportunity for punishment, Amanda doesn’t like to go there. From her, this is an admonition, a tweak. Master M would have hauled out his floggers and whips and given me a memorable beating.

Amanda knows that these silly, annoying bag clips, while mild, are yet enough of a deterrent for me. She also knows that a female slave goes through times and moods, and no matter how submissive I am, there are periods when the idea of being someone’s slave feels so unfair.

Meanwhile she is enjoying this, laughing and having her fun.

(So, Mistress, I have reported this to all, as instructed.)

a brief history of my clothing and not wearing it

I remember when I entered slave life six years ago, on one of our very first days together, Master Michael had me show him my wardrobe. I had not yet fully unpacked from my move into Skyway House, and so it seemed to me to be a timely exercise for me to show him my clothes while unpacking, a way ultimately of organizing my closets. This became a little fashion show, as I would hold up an outfit on a hanger, and sometimes he would say he wanted to see me in it. I would put it on and model for him. Fun.

But this became one of my “we’re not in Kansas anymore” moments in my new and still naïve slavery — as the realization grew that Master Michael was reviewing my wardrobe for the ultimate purpose of imposing his dominant fashion preferences upon me. This was a scary thing.

As we all know, what we women wear is intensely personal. Our wardrobe choices of styles and colors and textures are extensions of how we feel about ourselves and how we want to be known in public. Subconsciously we dress to be specifically attractive to men — or to women, as the case may be. We develop preferences and dislikes based on these very personal sensibilities.

Given my red hair, I never felt I looked good in pastels and particularly detested the color pink. I was better in rich jewel tones, darker oranges and wine reds, royal blues. I didn’t think “frilly” looked good on me. I preferred looser skirts because tighter skirts slimmed down my hips and ass when I wanted them to appear somewhat fuller, balancing out the top half of my body. The point is that we know these things about ourselves.

Our closets are private histories of our personal choices. For someone to peer into them is a kind of intimacy.

At the time Master Michael took me, I had just stepped out of my career as a real estate agent, so a goodly portion of my wardrobe consisted of suits — skirts or slacks with matching blazer, accented by a bright button-down blouse underneath. It was a professional look, neatly crisp and bright, conveying positivity and competence.

I wore bras back then in my vanilla life, but chose minimizer bras for my professional work — clients needed to be staring at the house not at my boobs.

My casual outfits were what normal people wore — jeans, t-tops, occasionally a cute skirt, sometimes a dress. I was never one to dress provocatively, yet neither was I particularly conservative.

So as I entered slavery, these were my closets, what Master Michael peered into.

It was an early moment of slave truth for me. He told me I couldn’t wear bras or panties anymore. Losing my real estate suits were no great loss, but his general ban on pants and jeans was. I would now just wear skirts. I would now dress to Master’s preferences.

This was about relinquishing myself to a man’s preferences. I gulped hard, sucked it up, and obeyed the man who owned me.

I don’t think I was so terribly naïve at the beginning of my slavery as to assume I would always be kept fully dressed, but maybe I was. Master Michael enjoyed my body in his more private times with me, and had me partially undressed at times, one time notably at a party with friends of his and sometimes on walks to the construction area behind the Skyway House. But even then I somehow experienced it as Michael’s personal play with me as Shae and not so much as “slave Shae.”

It was when I was taken by Amanda that I experienced “undress” as a strategy of dominance. To her, partial nudity isn’t a striptease, but the intricate shaping of a slave’s heart and mind into a deeper dependence.

When she makes me bare-breasted in front of a stranger, I must stand within his gaze without any other presumption: I am not familiar with him, I am not seducing him, I am not preparing for his bedding me. I am simply standing, tits out, for his visual consumption. For me, it is humiliating, arousing, and deeply submissive. I endure and savor it, afterward sink more deeply into Amanda’s dominance.

Amanda also knows that constant nudity eventually becomes ordinary and common and boring. Wearing something is more powerful to my slave experience than wearing nothing. For her, “undress” in various forms is on the hangars of my closet right beside my skirts and dresses. She believes that part of the effect upon a slave is not just in being exposed, but in the very act of undressing, that in having me change into multiple outfits in a day and partially undressing from them in a variety of ways, she controls my and my sense of my body before her and others.

Amanda knows this psychology of a slave so damnably well, and she directs this symphony with the art of a maestro.

Amanda has a rather keen fashion sense, and while her stipulations on what I wear are similar to Master Michael’s, they are more deeply informed.

As everyone knows, she dresses me each and every day, laying out the outfit she’s selected for me on the bed bench. If she lays out just a skirt, then I am to go topless that day. If there is nothing laid out — a rare occurrence — then I am to choose my outfit myself, although I am still to dress according to what I know are her preferences.

While it is a loss never again to have the freedom to dress myself, I have settled into a trust in Amanda about my clothes and “not clothes.” This is one of our rituals, and it grounds me in my life with her, my every day starting with the wardrobe prescription from her.

Whereas Master Michael influenced my wardrobe according to his personal pleasures, Amanda dresses me for how she wants me to be seen by others — which is a reflection of her ownership and dominance of me. Yes, she herself likes seeing me in a cute skirt, tight top, and slave collar — she can be as robustly leering and lustful, believe me, the most alpha of men — but she really dresses me that way so I might be enjoyed by others. Through others’ eyes viewing me, Amanda derives her deepest pleasure.

Amanda also dresses me to make me feel vulnerable to others seeing me. While Master Michael kept me braless so he could enjoy seeing my breasts jiggle under a loose top, Amanda keeps me braless so that I feel myself to be more openly sexual in front of strangers.

She has logic and reasoning for my not wearing underwear: “Shae, by not wearing panties, you should feel more potentially accessible to others sexually. Panty-less, you become easier for them.” This has become an awareness I live with, especially in public. Amanda knows this is a constant unsettling of me, that it makes me always feel slightly in sexual danger. She understands even though strangers are unaware I’m not wearing panties, I am so aware, the fact of which makes me act more submissive in their presence.

She also has a visual sense of irony. Sometimes she puts me in a maxi skirt — covering me fully from waist to ankle — while keeping me topless and bare-breasted. She makes me a chaste woman and elegant slut at the same time.

Amanda keeps me in skirts a lot of the time, but she also has a wider assortment of choices for me, especially in dresses. We are both fond of the retro look — vintage clothing, usually shirt dresses. She looks stunning in them, while somehow I look submissive in them, like a fifties housewife serving a husband — and all of his friends. Whether others deduce these references doesn’t matter. I get them, as I am all retro and housewife-y and kneeling on the floor before men, and as Amanda well knows and intends.

Amanda is the mistress of this inside psychology of submission, manipulating what I wear and not wear with great skill. My closet is her orchestra, and my dress and undress the undulating sounds of the symphony — all of it the musical background of my life.

Master McKenna, up to now, has worked with Amanda to determine my wardrobe for him. I think he has appreciated Amanda’s fashion sense and has tapped into it. He is much like Master Michael was — not dictating what I wear each day, but giving me general guidelines that I follow. In this, Amanda preps me for him, just like a madam preening her whore.

As I’ve reported, Master McKenna prefers me in much shorter skirts, and Amanda has bought those for me (for him), along with tighter and sheerer tops.

He also has me change into several different outfits in a given day, a tip I imagine he picked up from Amanda. In the psychology of this (again, I think, a gift to him from Amanda), it makes me feel that he gets tired of me every four hours. I also feel my value is reduced simply to the way I look. This is intentional, and I am just a fashion show to him.

The other use he has for me is in professional settings, board meetings and retreats where I perform as his aide-assistant. For those occasions, he needs me to be respectable — albeit on the suggestive side of respectable. So I will be back to my real estate business suit, apparently. (As I’ve written, Amanda also has been having me wear a business suit again for her — loose skirt and blazer. Only she doesn’t have me wear a top underneath the blazer. We’ll see if Master McKenna goes there.)

I think Master McKenna is still developing his look for me, but maybe it’s this: when I’m with him, I feel I’m in a James Bond movie as his female sex object, scantily dressed and obviously objectified, his Pussy Galore.

I have not yet mentioned Kevin.

When I was with both Amanda and Kevin together, she dressed/undressed me each day, and he was fine with it, whatever that turned out to be. I think then, and now, he doesn’t care much about any outfit I wear other than to think how he can get me out of it.

Now, as his escort girl, I dress as I wish to, although my choices are mostly what he likes to see me in. He seems to enjoy me at times in dresses and heels, especially when we are out and meet up with friends or visit his construction sites. He seems to like me elegant in the presence of dust, like the leading lady in an old Western.

The other thing he’s requested is having me in lingerie, much more than I wear around Amanda at home. It’s come to the point that when I’m at his house during the days, I am to wear night wear and lounge wear, usually chemises and baby dolls and high heels. He has taken to stealing away from work at lunchtime, liking to find me at home dressed ready for bed at high noon.

Amanda is again the maven in the background, again my madam, and has helped me shop for clothes for him, especially lingerie.

I go back to those first days with Master Michael, his “peering into my closet” and the novel notion to me then that as a slave I would lose my right to dress myself.

As a slave, you give up so much — your independence, your autonomy, your dignity, your sex — all these massively huge relinquishments that you cede in the course of becoming property and being owned.

But somehow, having let go of all that, for me the hardest thing of all was not being allowed to wear a pair of jeans.