schedule musings

My visit to my mom in Pennsylvania threw off the fall schedules — my planned times with Master McKenna and Kevin through the end of the year. Amanda is busy trying to reschedule me with each of them.

This is complicated because it’s not so easy as dropping me into their worlds when I am available. They have schedules too, personal commitments and work duties that must be worked around. This has become especially true for Kevin, who for work reasons has had to reschedule me many times. With Master McKenna it isn’t so much an issue — his intention has always been to incorporate me into his work life as an assistant, albeit a slave assistant “with benefits.”

Amanda has been facing the challenge of changing my “terms of service,” so to speak, with each of the men. Master M wants more of me, and Amanda has determined that Kevin should get less of me. My mother’s condition, while normal for now, may require more of my attention and additional trips east.

Amanda is now saying my quick trip to PA was a blessing in disguise. She is now able to tell the men that my current scheduling pattern has become unworkable and changes need to be made.

As I think I’ve reported before, Amanda was thinking of terminating my visits to Kevin entirely. That’s a longer discussion, which I think I’ve gotten into before on my blog.

I told her I would regret not being with him any more. I have become comfortable in my place in his life as courtesan-escort, and serving him personally and sexually. I like him a lot. I have reiterated to her the additional regret that she does not permit Kevin to dominate me. But at the same time, I’ve said the nearly six- hour drive to visit him is tedious.

Amanda is thinking all this through. She says she’ll have her plan for me in all this in the next day or so…

I kind of think the advances Amanda has made with the neighbors, as well as the successful BBQ party and my coming out to them, so to speak, has given Amanda a fresh way of conducting my slavery herself here at home.

Her work is still demanding of her time, but “fun with the neighbors” is a new dimension of her with me, and I think she now is wanting more time with me herself. Adding into that my possible PA trips going forward, Amanda is all the more reluctant to give me to Kevin nearly five days a month.

As for Master McKenna, I feel like it’s been a light-year since I was with him.

My training under him started by conditioning my mental subservience to him (the physical etiquette practices, I know now, were really a means of controlling my mind and will). It then became more sexual with him (I wrote two parts of that, but there’s a third). And most recently it started to become more physical, with constraint and bondage and the introduction of punishments.

I mention this because I am aware I very much need this physical dimension of being enslaved, the experience of being mastered bodily. Amanda by her own admission does not have the will for that. Kevin is great with me in the bondage room but is not permitted to have my body that way. So, I wonder to what degree Master McKenna will take me into this area of “heavy lifting” and the manhandling of me…

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.


Follower and friend, girlieboy69, has led me into some lovely ponderings about the subject of compartmentalization in the life of submission. I used the term “compartmentalize” in my post “Spatula in the Pantry” — which perhaps should also bear the subtitle “Writing about McKenna on Kevin Time.”

(By the way, girlieboy’s blog shares ideas and research on a number of interesting topics. The post about female libido being inherently polyamorous is fascinating. Worth checking out.)

In D/s life, one understanding of compartmentalization is that we submissives are to focus entirely on the one who owns us, to shut out all other thoughts and distractions, building a kind of mental box (compartment) around us and the one we serve. At times this is talked about as a kind of worship, being fully present spiritually in the company of one who rules us — the compartment as cathedral. This is how I am to be with Amanda, of course, and also now with Master McKenna, and I am able to be deep focused with each of them in a fairly disciplined way. (My presence with Kevin is a different thing, I am realizing, which may be the source of my current little mess.)

But there is another way of seeing compartmentalization (which is what girlieboy mentioned in a comment). This is with the sense that for some of us, all of life is always present in our minds and hearts. There are no boxes possible. We are a swirl of influences, people, and experiences, and we bring all of that into every submissive situation we find ourselves in. We cannot really block some things out and create separate boxes. And in fact, to some degree we depend on our dominant to do this, to discipline and shape us into their compartment.

It occurs to me there is yet a third way of thinking about compartmentalization. Some submissives might enter into a lifestyle experience and consider it one compartment separate from all other, perhaps vanilla, compartments of life. This is likely more the case in part-time D/s and in role play BDSM. It’s a way of us telling ourselves and others, “This (D/s) is not who I am but a compartment I play in from time to time.” This is fine, unless you are a full-time submissive, in which case your owner wants all of you in just one compartment focused on him/her.

My point is that I wrote what I did thinking of compartmentalization in one way. But there are these other ways to think about it as well.

Well, all these are just ponderings and musings.

In my life now, it seems I have three compartments — Amanda, Master McKenna, and Kevin. But in fact this isn’t as complex for me to handle as it might appear.

I see really just one compartment, which is Amanda. She has given permission to Master McKenna to co-master me, but that is (to my mind) still part of her “compartment.” He has me by proxy of her, and even though he takes me separate from her in location and time, it is as if the two of them are mastering me in the same room at once. And I feel no confusion as to who takes priority — Amanda, of course. She knows this about me, and I’m sure it’s the only reason she considered letting Master McKenna have me — she knew I could handle being mastered by another as well.

As for Kevin, he isn’t really a separate compartment as such. (I see now why Amanda has been reluctant to give permission to having me as his slave too. He would then truly be another compartment, and that would get really complex.) Not to diminish him in any way, but in the logic of this, Kevin is for me kind of an obedience, an order I am to fulfill, dictated by Amanda. One of my more pleasurable tasks, to be sure, but an obedience nonetheless.

Well, I realize all this talk about my compartments may not matter to others much, but it sheds some light for me on my current life.

And to be clear, this is not to assuage my guilt in the matter at hand, which I will post about separately…

home again

I drove home from Kevin’s Sunday afternoon fully dressed but apparently with his cum still in my hair (somehow), which Amanda spotted and found disgusting. “Well you sent me to him!” I protested, and she slapped me, and I got quiet.

I showered, literally “washing that man right out of my hair,” put on the little skirt she’d laid out for me, collared myself in the titanium wide-body, attached the short leash, and walked back out to her on the couch.

I knelt in front of her, said, “I’m sorry, Mistress,” and handed her the half leash. She kissed me, said she was glad I was back. I served her and me wine, we talked on the couch, and the world was right again.

Normally I return home eager to slip back into my life of slavery under Amanda, actually craving to be made submissive again. It is my natural state, my comfort zone, and having been out of it for a number of days makes me long for submission and containment. (These are some of the times I wish to be literally caged.)

Yet there is a kind of difference in my days of being vanilla-escort to Kevin that lingers in my first hour back home. It’s not a forgetting of what I am and my slaveness, but an overlap of transition from one context into another.

In this case, Amanda’s slap across my face jolted me back into her world. With that, I knew I wasn’t in Kevin Kansas anymore, but back in the slave wonderland of Amanda’s Oz.

On the drive home I was haunted by my choice to write about Master McKenna while in my Kevin time.

I shared this with Amanda on the couch, knowing it could result in a punishment but also knowing she’d already read about it in my blog post anyway. Nonetheless she seemed pleased for me to confess this to her.

Her spin on it was slightly different from what I’d thought of: “Slave girl,” she said, “any man or woman I give you to wants to believe that you are completely devoted to them.”

That was all she said.

Later I told her I felt I should confess this to Kevin.

“Be careful with that,” she replied. “It will complicate everything for him with you. Some things it’s better they don’t know.”

I told her it would be easier if she just punished me. “Tie me up and whip the hell out of me, and I would actually feel better. I would then be paying the price.”

“That’s too easy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but this just gnaws at me now.”

“Then that is your punishment.”

spatula in the pantry

I could say I haven’t had much time to write while I’ve been here with Kevin, and I could cite the obvious reason, but it’s also been other things (with my clothes on), including a special project of reorganizing his kitchen. I’m not sure he really was desperate to have this done, but it was at least something to preoccupy me while he was working at the office this past week.

In fact, I have had some time to write, and the scandal is that, while in the service of Kevin, I’ve been writing about Master McKenna.

Yes. I know. It seems like infidelity. I feel wrong about it. But for some reason I’ve felt compelled in my writing time this week to express things about Master McKenna, things I haven’t written before — my undress in front of him, his electric touches, and his sexual dominance of me. I can blame it on the “writing muse,” but in truth it’s been my own compulsion. I don’t know why.

This isn’t due to any boredom or discontent I feel in my life with Kevin. God, no. He fills me time and again with his elixir of the gods, which he never seems to run out of, leaving me, literally, gasping and dripping. As his body presses into mine, either lying down or standing up, I do not think of anyone else but Kevin. He, of smart mind and thick cock, is a compulsion too. True that.

But the fact is both men are inside me all the time. Read this as you wish to, but they both occupy all my spaces. They may not appreciate this metaphorical cohabitation, which is why I won’t tell Kevin about this. I think I have been trying to compartmentalize, but that’s not so natural really. They are very different men at different times, but I am just one girl, and they co-mingle in my mind and heart and elsewhere like vodka and tequila in a cocktail.

The thing is, to each of them I am available, easy, and unencumbered of responsibility. I am a gift of a timeshare. They get to inhabit me without fuss or obligation or monthly installment payments. I can’t see they have much reason to complain.

Anyway… Kevin giving me the kitchen project… back to that. It felt a little like he wondered what a girl like me could possibly do other than being a sex toy. What else can she do? Yes, of course, he appreciates that I’m intelligent and have other interests. He respects that I’m a writer, but writing is not on his list of understandable skills — it doesn’t fix something with a wrench or hammer. So when it comes to figuring out what Shae should do on his workdays, he might be at a loss.

I imagine he remembered the days when I was living with him and Amanda and how he lusted watching me scrub the kitchen floor. (I posted about this once, but can’t find it. Here’s another post with Amanda as the voyeur.) So to him maybe Shae equals kitchen, as odd as that sounds because I can’t cook and I don’t look like Mrs. Cleaver.

It wasn’t just make-work though. His kitchen was an organizational mess: he had a sack of flour in with the pots and pans, and a spatula in the pantry. His coffeemaker was in one corner and the coffee in another. So I spent time this week cleaning his kitchen and reorganizing his cupboards — in short, compartmentalizing a part of his life.

Which is something it seems I can’t quite do in my own.

a tale of two men

A hot drive to Kevin’s house Sunday, not because I was looking all Victoria’s Secret at the truck stop, but because it was a frickin’ ninety-five degrees here. Amanda’s better angels dialed me down this time into a simple denim skirt and a gingham top — which was wiser and safer and made me very “country girl,” although at times I was so heated up I wished I were wearing the sateen chemise instead.

I made it here just fine, and Kevin is wonderfully Kevin — quiet and slightly brooding, thickly masculine, and juicely happy to see me.

Coming here Sunday, I thought about the strangeness of driving to Kevin and driving to Master McKenna for the purpose of them consuming me. I go to men, sort of “on call,” a traveling toy, used by each of them differently, but thoroughly used all the same, equally consumed.

Kevin is carnal and fleshly and sheaths himself inside my body before he gets into my head.

McKenna is cerebral and conceptual and fucks me mentally long before he takes residence in my vagina.

The irony of Kevin and me is that often I am jelly breasts cradling his cock flesh, yet at other times I sit in his garage like a soul in a cathedral while he administers holy oil and the incense of gasoline — somehow our fornication becomes spiritual.

The irony of McKenna and me is that he can be celibate like a priest for the longest times, finding his arousal in the formalities of making me sit, stand, and kneel like an obedient communicant, his will to abstinence eventually teasing me to want him to take me, lay me bare on the floor of his cathedral, and make me inappropriate.

Kevin is the carnal leading me into the spiritual. McKenna is the spiritual leading me into the carnal.

I sometimes wish Kevin could possess me and make me properly owned, requiring me to stand and kneel obediently at his command — as McKenna does.

I sometimes wish I could just sit casually on McKenna’s lap, straddling him in my denim skirt like a country girl with a ponytail, my gingham blouse open, baring to him my jelly breasts.

the week to come: fragment 4

As I leave to go to Kevin in another hour, I am thinking about my role of escort with him and how it is proving to be an effective thing in a certain way.

As I’ve written before, I am to him sometimes a “friend with benefits,” but there is also between us an awareness that I am his regular escort, a role defined for me in this from the beginning. We flip back and forth between these types of relationships, but there are differences, and being an escort to him creates some boundaries that are useful.

Escorts have their regulars, of course — repeating customers that become casual friendships of a sort. And there are high-end escorts with wealthy clients who take them on week-long, even month-long, excursions.

I am an escort in both those ways to Kevin — to him a recurring as well as a longer-term sex-companion experience.

I assume that level of professional sex — repeated arrangements, longer gigs — involves a lot of relational “work” for an escort quite apart from the sexual center. Most long-term time is not spent in sexual play. Accordingly, an escort must be interested and interesting, entertaining her client-partner with grace and passion even when not in bed.

Likewise, I serve Kevin with my personality as well as my body. While Kevin may at times be quiet and inscrutable, he is an intelligent man with varied interests and pursuits. He finds me compelling enough even with my clothes on. So this is good. Even if he is not so immersed in the world of words as I am, we are able to have good conversations. I don’t think of this as “work” for me, but it is akin to what an escort does in such situations.

I sometimes think a test of the best relationship is when two people can be comfortably silent together, when the absence of talk is easy and natural. Again, Kevin is prone to silence, but in the past that hasn’t always been “comfortable.” Yet these days, he has opened up to me more, and I’ve learned some of his rhythms. We can talk for a time, but then fall into a silence — albeit now a silence that is warm and accepting. This, it seems to me, is the character of a friendship, even one with benefits. We don’t have to entertain each other. (As I’ve posted before, I think Kevin had not early on realized this, but I’m hopeful this time he will settle into this comfort zone of us as friends being around each other but not necessarily doing something together.)

On the other hand, there are different advantages with my being Kevin’s escort.

As friends, even as we assume the benefits, there is the obligation for sex to be mutual and timely — that is, “Do you feel like doing something later?” and “What would you like?” — the usual negotiation of sex between two people. But as Kevin’s escort, the assumption is that I have an obligation to service him. He can (and does) then say, “I want to spread you on the table” or “I want you to give me a blow job.” It can be sudden, opportunistic, demanding — and still appropriate in the context of my being his escort. As the “client,” he has every right.

Of course there is a kind of subservience in this, my bending to his desire, that suits the submissive me so very well even though this isn’t D/s. And, though I demur at Amanda’s oft-used comment about “my capacity for sex,” it is a rare time that, well, I ever “don’t feel like it.”

As an escort to him there is also a built-in emotional boundary. Sometimes the sex is more of the “tender is the night” sort that feels, delightfully, like actual love-making, and teeters on the precipice of relinquishing hearts. But even then in the afterglow of kisses, we both know this is not about falling in love, for I am his escort, not the girl next door.

It is true that in some sense I always fall a little in love with the one I’m with, but that’s a different thing, subject for another post…

It’s also true that this boundary between love-making and actual love is freeing to Kevin, allowing him to not worry about attachment and complication. The day after he makes sweet love to me in the bedroom at twilight, he will at lunchtime push me forcefully against the living room wall and fuck me standing up, using my body without explanation or gentility.

It’s as if the physical drywall between living room and bedroom is a virtual boundary defining what we are and what we are not supposed to be.

(And there I made a drywall analogy, which Kevin would appreciate so very much.)

the week to come: fragment 3

This was last Thursday.

I say to Amanda that since my Kevin visit was to be totally vanilla, I should be able to go to him in “vanilla mode,” so to speak.

“What do you mean?”

“I should be able to wear a bra and panties,” I suggest. I make this petition to her every month or so, using different arguments, always with the same outcome.

“Why should I allow you such treats?”

“Because I’ve been such a good slave to you.”

“Good, perhaps, but apparently not so humble. I think we need to work on that.”

“Mistress, I think I already have a virtual doctorate in humiliation. Hard not to be humble when I’m bent over at the wet bar.”

“It’s one of your better looks.”

“Right…” I realize I’ve lost the thread of my argument.

She likes me begging in this way. She dislikes the whiny, imploring request “Please?” over and over. She prefers me to “make a case,” argue it, and show my desire and desperation through spoken logic. I once petitioned her, again to let me wear a bra and panties, insisting that when I put them on the luxurious feel of cotton hugging my breasts and nipples and pussy lips would elicit my standing orgasm. (OK, some hyperbole in that…) “Wouldn’t you love to watch that, Mistress?” I said. “Observe me shudder and melt?”

Though she admitted later this argument was clever, Mistress simply said “No.”

This time, I play the Kevin card in the prosecution of my case: “I’m just presenting the facts,” I tell her. “I’m in a vanilla week with him. I should be able to go to him like a normal woman for a change…. Besides, Kevin would really enjoy it if he could take off my bra.”

With that, I the Prosecution rest my case.

Amanda, speaking for the Defense, says, “One, you are not a normal woman. Where did you get that idea? Two, Kevin gets to fuck the holy bejeezus out of you for nine days. I don’t think we need to be enhancing his pleasure any more…”

And with that, Amanda the Defense rests.

But somehow in this court of law the defense attorney and the judge are the same person. Mistress A, Judge and Jury, simply says, “No.”

Seems I will live another portion of my life without the pleasures of being cotton-clad in all the right places.

the week to come: fragment 2

Amanda, countering her previous intentions, decided I should be well dressed on my drive to Kevin’s house this time.

Before, she has been keen on putting me in heels and a short thin chemise — a lingerie mini-dress — so I would draw stares when I stopped along the Interstate to fuel up and step into the convenience store for coffee.

Partly this has been for my objectification in public. Partly it is so I will arrive at Kevin’s already dressed for bed and sex — Amanda’s little visual joke-yet-intention.

But also partly, even mostly, she wishes to watch me enter the convenience store as if dressed for bed and sex. She — my Mistress, Lover, and erstwhile Voyeur — wishes to watch me being ogled and lusted for by others, strangers all. That excites her to no end.

Maybe it’s that she is not with me on this trip which has dampened her interest in this. She will, she says, accompany me on one of these trips. That will be interesting.

But for now she says she’s not comfortable with my safety driving alone and “walking into a rest stop store looking perfectly fuckable.”

Instead today I’m in a denim skirt, a sensibly loose button-down top, and flats.

Trying now to look unfuckable.

This life is so confusing.

the week to come: fragment 1

I’m a few hours away from hopping in the car for my next Kevin visit.

We have gotten into a comfort zone, Kevin and I, my visits not such heightened events anymore, our relationship more casual. He will not be home when I arrive, as he will be attending a patio party with friends, and the very fact neither of us feels he needs to stage a welcome for me on his front porch is some measure of our growing ease. I’m glad there is no fanfare these times now, glad not to be a headline in his life, glad to be just a mention in his bio copy in paragraph four.

In due time this evening he will slip away from his party, slip into wine-dappled conversation, and soon enough slip into me.