the “Ma’am” experiment

It lasted one day.

To be clear, my point was a specific situation in the vanilla public, one that happens all the time. In many public instances it becomes awkward for my dominant to be addressed by me as “Master” or “Mistress.” People don’t know what to do with it.

In those contexts Master McKenna wishes me to address him as “Sir” instead. It’s an accepted term in the vanilla business world from an assistant to her boss, yet serves the dual purpose of also being my submissive acknowledgment of his dominance over me. This is true in some of his board meetings — indeed at the retreat with the “nonprofit” group — where my reference to him as “Master” would be jarring and awkward in front of people who don’t know. “Sir” is a more agile term.

Likewise with Amanda, so I thought, in business meetings with her vanilla clients. If I were to address her then as “Mistress,” it would be confusing to people, perhaps bringing our personal life into the air in ways that are off-putting. So, my equivalent solution, what I proposed, was to address her as “Ma’am.”

Well, many of you have pointed out that “Sir” and “Ma’am” are not equivalent terms — that “Ma’am” has the connotation of an older woman. I know the connotation is there. Indeed this has been a discussion for me and Amanda before. This is not our first rodeo to lasso this term.

This morning as I held the coffee tray, Amanda poured her dollop of milk into her mug, looked at me, and said, “Let’s not do the “ma’am” thing, after all. I changed my mind.”

I nodded.

“Your thoughts?”

I explained my rationale as I just did above. “But I understand. Others agree with you. But in those vanilla situations, then what should I call you?”

“‘Goddess, ruler of my life’ should do it,” she joked.

I shook my head at her. “Seriously.”

“‘Amanda’ works just fine.”

Experiment ended.

short shorts

I think I will do another q & a post soon. If you have questions about my life, send them to me by email (shaemadigan@comcast.net) or by comment below…


Last weekend for me was quite bottomless, and by that I don’t mean an endless supply of alcohol, although a drink or two would have helped me through my exposures.


I think I prefer being topless than being bottomless. Why, I don’t know.


Amanda is continuing our tea parties once a month for anyone in the neighborhood to attend. Next one is tomorrow afternoon.


It’s a variation of my vertical cage fantasy, I know, but of late, I have had images in my mind of being hung in a closet. Strange, but I think it’s something of the same idea — that I am “stored” somewhere, and in that place I have no responsibility and there’s nothing for me to do.


Now that I am scheduled on a regular basis and the calendar is set, I find I am thinking more about Master McKenna — I go to him on Sunday night. I’m not nervous about being with him again, but I do get a little fluttery about it. Like going on a date. A week-long bondage-and-slavery date.


I asked Amanda if I could address her as “ma’am” again. She has felt it suggests age and hasn’t liked me to call her that.

I offered, “But it’s the only good feminine counterpart to ‘sir.’ I address all dominant men as ‘sir,’ even if they are younger than me.”

She finally said, “Okay.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”


Amanda had said she has another secret bondage “staging” in mind (beyond the quartet that I blogged about). I have made myself a little crazy thinking about what that might be.


Last evening, I offered to lick her pussy.

She said, “You mean with your hands tied behind your back so your face gets all wet and shiny the way like it?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t want you right now,” she said.

Okay then.

new schedule and thoughts

Amanda has had a couple of conversations with Master McKenna and a lot of back-and-forth with Kevin about my availability and future schedule with each of them.

Seems that Master McKenna will have me for a week each month.

Kevin will now take me on a quarterly basis, though now eight days each time instead of five. Additionally, Kevin is being given “dominant rights” to me for some of these quarterly visits each year. (I am so excited about this!)

Amanda says that the conversation with Kevin went better than expected. Apparently his work-life schedule has made it more difficult for him to take me so often. He wants, of course, to take time off from work when I’m there, but he can’t afford so much absence from his business. As it has been, his frequency with me — due to his own schedule, not mine — had become once every two months anyway. So this idea of having me every three months for a longer period each time was not so much of a concession and works better for him actually. It certainly will ease how hectic my life has become with frequent six-hour drives to visit him.

As for Master McKenna, it was his and Amanda’s plan all along for him to have me on a more regular basis. He wishes me to be his business assistant — still in the context of his dominance of me, but including real office work that he needs to be done. I may be his secretary in a spreader bar but will be doing, somehow, actual business work.

Amanda, the queen of woo, pulled this off without shedding blood. Nice.


Amanda told me her intention for me with Kevin had been to give me the experience of being provided for sex to someone apart from a dominant relationship. She wanted me to experience being an escort-courtesan, a sexual gift from her to another. “There are others I will want to gift you to,” she said. “I wanted you to experience being sexual with someone, Kevin, in a non-dominated relationship. I needed to know how you would handle it.” This was why she had resisted our requests for bondage room events.

But, she said, by now I had proven I can do the vanilla escort arrangement. (I feel this may be a dubious achievement, perhaps, for it simply gives her the confidence she can whore me out to others. But so be it.) And even now, with Kevin, she would like some of our visits to be of the vanilla-escort variety. But she told me she had come to realize that Kevin and I have a particular chemistry together, present in my escort presence with him, but especially activated when we are D/s together. She has realized that Kevin’s dominance of me is not about any formal training of me, but just about his use of me, his consumption of me. So this doesn’t compete, she now believes, with Master McKenna.

McKenna, she says, is about my formal training in a more standard slavery than she is able to provide me. (This goes to my theory that Amanda is making herself more of my manager than my primary dominant. She will always keep me as her slave, but our relationship is so “multi-plex” that it will never be the more proper, disciplined slavery she feels I need to have. She is becoming my madam.)


In the final tally of the calendars, I will be going to Master McKenna right away—well, next week, starting this Sunday night.

I will be with Master Kevin the first week of December.

Amanda has plotted out everything for the next four months — a major accomplishment, as she has had to juggle the holidays, another trip of two for me to visit my mother, her own needs for me, and other things (including my periods). Not an easy scheduling task, but she’s done it.

Even though I don’t control my schedule, it’s nice to know what it is.


I am happy about these arrangements with both of the men.

I like submitting to Master McKenna, quite a lot, but my times with him have never been regular or particularly steady. My early training under him led into the retreat, which was unusual. He felt I did well, and perhaps that was a threshold for him in his keeping of me. But since then my times with him have been irregular in timing. Now, I will have predictable and longer times with Master McKenna each month. This will get me into a rhythm with him. This is good.

Of course, I’m really excited about being with Kevin in slavery once again. There will be much to say about that when the time comes, but Amanda is right — he and I have a kind of chemistry when we are dom and sub together. I “fit” him, and it feels so good with him.

As for Amanda, she will now have me about the same amount of time as she did before — thanks to the adjustment in my Kevin schedule. Also, she is at a tipping point in her work, so she is able now to relax a bit and take some more time with me.

Of course, “more time with me” simply means she has more time to dream up decor-friendly bondage devices.

quartet

Miz A now has four locations within the house in which to stage my humiliations. She is making her funhouse. She’s quite pleased with herself.

There’s the entryway wall to which I can be shackled and affixed.

There’s the wet bar, to which I can be spread atop of and hooked into.

There’s the easy chair. which has short chains underneath that can be used to put me in a sitting bondage.

And now there’s the bay window.

Amanda’s desire is to have bondage devices in the house to use on me without anything looking like it’s a bondage device. These all are part of the decor, the bondage attachments hidden or camouflaged to be undetectable.

She has been very clever.


Among the four, the easy chair is the one that seems to have the least purpose. Amanda doesn’t it use it that much. The main point of it, I suppose, is to arrange me spread-eagle so that my pussy is open and gaping. However, the chair is too low for it to position me at a good level for anyone else, say, of the male persuasion to do things to me. It is more of a “lesbian chair,” so to speak, but Amanda will never kneel before me to service me that way.

She has tried to reverse me in the chair — that is, have me facing into the chair, my ankles parallel to and atop the chair arms, my breasts flattened against the back of the chair. This makes my ass face out rearward, which in itself is the kind of humiliation Amanda desires for me. The bonus for her is that it places my head atop the back of the chair facing out — which gives it a rather diabolical usage-opportunity for people using my mouth for “various things.”

To be clear, so far the chair hasn’t been used that way on me.

The chair’s installed chains can be used to bind me into the chair this backward way — they do work, sort of. However, my ankles resting on the chair arms are a bit unstable. The arms are a bit too narrow and rounded, making my shins slide off. It’s doable, but not the rock solid bondage Amanda wishes.

Amanda is considering another chair that sits higher and has flatter, broader arms.


Amanda installs me into the wet bar about once a week or so. The entryway wall, the first of the devices to be created, is used less often, but sometimes. That has yet to be used for a party, but it will be. And like I say, the easy chair is hardly used at all.

Her current toy is the bay window. Amanda has perched me there now twice since Saturday night.

She told me she wants to get a mini-easel for the corner of the bay window and put on it a placard that reads “Slave Girl. $24.99. Marked down to $18.88.”

“Ha, ha,” I replied.

She will do it too.


Miz A says she has another idea in the works. At the conceptual stage.

I told her, “You should stop now. There are enough rides in this Disneyland.”

She didn’t reply but simply flashed her wicked little smile.

bay window, Saturday

Late yesterday afternoon, Mistress A had me undress. She called me to join her in the dining room. There, she put wrist cuffs on me.

“Climb into the bay window,” she ordered, “facing out.”

I looked at her for probably a little too long, a hesitation that I know annoys her, yet I was not really understanding. I finally obeyed, sliding into the window area on my knees.

She noticed my slight delay in responding: “You have to work on that girl.”

“Yes, Miz-A.”

“I want you squatting, not kneeling… your thighs opened.”

I balanced myself so and spread my thighs.

Mistress left for a moment, returning with a step-stool from the laundry room. Climbing up a couple of rungs, she attached my right wrist to an eyebolt in the top corner of the bay. She repeated the process with my other wrist on the other side.

All of this was a surprise to me, her using the window this way with me. And, how did the eye bolts get there?


The bay is about five feet wide and six feet tall from ceiling to the bottom bed. It has a a triptych of panes — the wide center pane facing out and two narrow panes on either side at forty-five degree angles.

It juts out, overlooking our back yard — the small hill on one side and the ridge farther back and curving around the mountain. In any other situation, I’d consider it a lovely view and would suppose it to be a bit of a shame we had blocked it off for so long with office files and household fodder. But in this moment, I wasn’t so focused on the aesthetics of architectural features.

I was, however, beginning to be grateful for little things: it faces our back yard not our front and is therefore private.


Mistress opened the two side windows. “I think you’ll need some air in there,” she said.

“Are you planning this to be my permanent keeping place?” I asked with a touch of snark, trying to make light of my windowed nudity.

She said nothing, but left to fetch something, which turned out to be a ballgag that she installed deep in my mouth. “You’re too jabbery this morning,” she said.

So much for snarky retorts.

Mistress went outside, walking around the patio to stand in the grass some twenty yards out to observe her artwork. She perched at different spots, on either side and close and far.

This now felt different with her watching, with me in the bay facing out, with a window framing and revealing me. I felt kept and presented at the same time — merchandise shown to the public. I was like a mannequin in a department store window.


Suddenly she was no where in sight. At first that seemed to matter, but then not so much. I was left in my thoughts.

I wondered if Amanda had this idea even before we cleaned out the dining room. Was this her intention all along? Or was this a discovery that came to her as I myself was unburdening the bay from its junk?

My ballgag was getting wet with my saliva, and some collected at the corner of my mouth. It dripped down onto my left breast, sliding toward my nipple. I realized that, by pulling myself up slightly, my chained arms could take some weight off my spread thighs.

I wondered if Amanda installed the eyebolts herself, or if somehow she had Blake come in to install them. Yes, he probably did this,while I was in Pennsylvania, equipping yet another part of the house for my humiliation.

She wanted this to be a secret. She wanted to surprise me with it.


Amanda returned in about fifteen minutes, appearing again in the back yard..

With her were John and Patricia Miller. I could hear them as they talked. Amanda led them from the patio into the grass. She turned them toward the bay window.

“Oh, my,” Patricia said.

There they observed me naked, my arms chained to the ceiling, my thighs spread, and my pussy, shaven and bared. My labia were wet and glistening in the golden light of the setting sun.

I turned my head to the side, looking down.

John said, “Well done, Amanda.”

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…

home is where…

I was in bed with Amanda that first night upon my return, and I whispered to her, after a time of suckling, that it was “good to be home.”

I realized as I spoke those words that “home” means many different things.

It refers to my childhood home as well as my adult home. This is about physical houses — my Pennsylvania house when I was a girl and this Denver house now. Physical houses carry memories of who you were at a time, and when, and now. And they have their character — my Pennsylvania house was an old split-level, hidden and private, with small rooms on different levels, and (notably) lots of closets. This Denver house is a rancher, fully open and spread (as Amanda often makes me when she plays with me).

“Home” for me it is also a designation of “place” in a broader sense — that there was a place (Pennsylvania) for my growing up and this (Colorado) is now a place/environment for my being an adult. These are also two very different ways of thinking and believing — my religious narrowness growing up and my more open acceptance of people and ideas now. In my former home, relationships were categorized and boxed. Here and now they are open and free and poly.

“Home” now is very much for me a matter of my life and how I live it. Pennsylvania represents my vanilla life as a young woman searching, while Colorado represents my submissive life as an adult woman, having found what she is. “Coming home” to this place is about my coming of age, my coming into my slavery, and Lord knows, my coming, period.

And finally, “home” also refers to people. When I told Amanda, it was “good to be home,” my face was nestled between her ample breasts. She may have fallen asleep to the rhythm of my lips and touches, the slow fondling of my attentions, and may not have heard me. Yet I’m sure she would agree that one’s best home is where you are understood and accepted and made more fully into what you are.

While the one-time meanings of my childhood home have been left behind, that place still holds me in one respect — my mother, who has amazingly accepted me in this bi and sub life of mine and opened her mind and heart to what was unthinkable in the old homestead.

Indeed, it comes full circle: she is the one who once nursed me at her breast.

mother and me

Last week Mother asked me more about my D/s life and some of the specific things I am, uh, “made to do.”

For those new to my life, two years ago I came out to her, first about my bisexuality and my lesbian relationship with Amanda, then about my submissiveness and D/s lifestyle. It was admittedly an unusual seasonal cocktail — my first confession at Thanksgiving, my second at Christmas — a holiday one-two punch. Amanda, proof of the first part, was there for the second part, and wooed my mother into surprising acceptance of everything.

I think that in the years following my father’s death, my mother, although feeling deep loss, has also come to a new freedom. I don’t know what all that entails, nor do I need to know, but I believe Mom’s acceptance of me (of me and Amanda, and of me under Amanda) has much to do with her awareness that the man she was married to was quite restrictive morality and especially narrow in the area of sexuality. She herself wanted more and “other” — or so I surmise. I don’t know that she has anyone in her life now, much less her own Christian Grey, but at the very least, she seems to have curiosities about my alternative life and to a degree lives vicariously through me.

And so she asks me, “How does Amanda tie you up? You know, take control of you?”

This would be humorous if it were someone else and someone else’s mother, and if I weren’t in the squeamish position of deciding how much to tell her about the heated intimacies of my slave life. Telling her “Amanda makes me go topless and has me wear jingle bells from my pierced nipples” is one thing. Telling her that Amanda shares me with two other men is quite another.

I think mother probably still holds to a morality of monogamy, accepting the lesbian and D/s elements of my life because I am the “wife,” in her sensibility, of “husband” Amanda. To her, per the Bible, a husband should have one wife, and vice versa. Given that’s how Mother imagines Amanda and me, it’s really okay in “Mom-theology” for Amanda to do whatever she darn well pleases to me. (I’m not sure what Mom does with the so-called biblical teachings against homosexuality that Father frequented spouted, but she never really was much on board with those sermons, as I recall.)

In any case, I’m guessing that, for my mother, monogamy is still a pillar of civilization, so I avoid mention of the fact that I am on a regular basis servicing two men about once a month. That might not fly, I’m guessing. Amanda, the Woo queen might be able to sell it to her someday — Mom thinks Amanda is wonderful — but if I mentioned it, I’m sure mother would disapprove. To her, thinking of me as a lesbian submissive to Amanda is thrilling but to think of me as a promiscuous slut would be deplorable.

Another area I avoided in conversation with her was corporal punishment. For me it conjures recollections of being spanked as a girl, not frequently but, let’s just say, memorably. And it reminds me that as an adult woman I was spanked not so many weeks ago by Master McKenna. Actually Mother would like the spanking part, one of the fifty shades perhaps, and maybe even the idea of a debonair man pulling me across his lap, but then not so much the idea that I am a slave to more than one person which, again, makes me a slut. This gets so convoluted…

So, pressed by her, I manage to sort through this and volunteer a few things. Amanda really isn’t so much about bondage, which mother actually gets into. Mistress A is far more about public display, which I think would be troubling to mother. So, I avoid the BBQ party and being made bare-breasted in front of trash men. How do you explain that? Again — conversations you should never have to have with one’s mother. But I have to tell her something…

Not sure it was a wise choice, but I tell her about the wet bar.

“So,” mother says, reprising my explanation, “you’re stretched over the bar and your breasts are hanging on the other side, and she sits there and places her wine glass on your bare back? Doesn’t it topple over and make a mess?”

Somehow in my naked bondage mother finds tidiness important.

“Yes, my back is the surface,” I say. “It’s up to me not to move or breathe too deeply so there is no spillage.” (Yes, I used the word “spillage.”)

She wants to know how my ankles are secured to the wet bar and I tell her about the eye bolts and shackles. “And your arms, where do they go?” I tell her they are stretched to either side of me and bolted to the wet bar as well. I watch her face as the mental picture of me forms in her mind, which gives me a little twinge of horror, and, yes, somehow she makes the observation that my body then bears the image of a cross.

I certainly don’t want to go to unholy images of me as a crucifix, so I try to change the subject. “Amanda also makes me scrub the kitchen floor,” I say, “while I’m naked. Well, sometimes with a short skirt on.”

“So she uses you for cleaning. That’s good.”

Somehow, as we’re talking about my utter debasement and sexual disgrace, my mother finds virtue in keeping a spotless floor. Through her eyes, my whole life is summed up by a sudsy, slippery roll on the slick kitchen floor and a bright yellow bottle of Mr. Clean.

For a hot funny minute I imagine my mother as a D/s slave. She would drive Christian Grey nuts. He’d tie her to a bed and she’d make a comment about dust collecting in the corner of the ceiling.

I think she’d have to be a service slave.

The Party (Fiction)

Note: This is flash fiction, which is generally defined as a really short, short story. One rule of thumb is that it is to be about 500 words in length, although some allow more words. This comes in at 500. I find flash fiction is a good exercise in economical writing. It forces you not only to eliminate any unnecessary words, but find other words that do more “work.” It’s not the only kind of writing you want to do, of course, but it’s a good discipline. Here I’m trying to adapt erotica into this flash fiction format.


He warned if I toppled any glass I would be given lashes in front of the crowd.


The problem with the waist tray was that my breasts, which would be made bare for the event, jutted into the space above the tray. This was fine for stemless wine and cocktail barware, which sat comfortably under, but made tall champagne flutes and highball glasses precarious. My breasts swayed slightly when I walked, tending to jostle any glasses that tall.

“I can’t help it,” I apologized, “they just move.”

Master Jack grunted but would hardly complain, for he valued my assets. Indeed, the whole point of the waist tray was to frame my tits above the tray for all to see.

He put me in a black miniskirt and strappy heels and my titanium collar with a Yale lock in front. He shackled my wrists behind my back and filled my mouth with a ballgag.

The tray belted around my waist, with chains holding up its front corners. The question was whether to attach the chain ends to the piercings in my nipples or the O-ring of my slave collar. Master tried to attach the tray to my nipples, and it worked sort of, but my nipples elongated like springs when the tray was filled with drinks, making everything unstable.

The O-ring it was.


People arrived around seven, some thirty of them, men and women, strangers offering leering smiles when they saw me.

Master announced at the beginning — “My slave cannot serve drinks in tall glasses… for her tits are too big.” Everyone looked at me and I was obvious and people laughed.

All evening I walked around in a random pattern from bartender to party guests, my breasts jiggling, framed between the chains.


Later I became weary from being in my heels all evening. My shoe caught on the edge of the Oriental rug. It was a minor stumble, nothing really, but two empty glasses toppled over on my tray.

Immediately Master Jack led me to the wall. He beckoned the crowd to watch. He made me bend over at my waist and grab my ankles. He lifted my skirt from behind, revealing my cheeks. I felt the air, circulated by the overhead fans, waft over my shaved pussy.

He announced my stumble, that there were to be two strokes. He handed a whip to one of the guests. “Have at her,” he said, and everyone laughed.

I heard the whip being raised. It whistled through the air, landing flat against my flesh.

I screamed, trembling.

“Harder!” someone said.

The second stroke landed. I yelled again, gasping from the slice.

People clapped, laughing.

I felt blood trickle from the stripes I’d been given.

Master straightened me, facing the guests. My tears made my mascara run. He left the back hem of my skirt tucked into my waistband: my welts were visible to everyone.

I continued serving drinks on my tray.

Someone asked Master Jack, “Where do I get one of her?”

blindfold

This is Sunday evening right before dusk. We are on the front road, and I am collared and leashed. She has me in a red skater skirt and a white pullover top and, unusually, tennis shoes.

“This will be an exercise in trust,” she says.

“I already trust you.”

She doesn’t reply but pulls something from her shoulder bag, wrapping it around my head.

It’s a blindfold.

“Can you see anything?” she asks after fitting it over my eyes.

“No.”

“Good. You will walk behind me. Listen for my steps. When I stop walking, you must stop as well.”

“Okay.”

“If I tell you to step to the right or left, it will be to steer you around something in the road. You must follow my instructions or you will stumble.”

I realize now this is why she has me in tennis shoes and not high heels — stability and safety.

And so we walk. It isn’t so hard if Amanda keeps a steady pace. It’s when she slows or stops that I have trouble.

I nearly bump into her.

“You must,” she repeats, “listen for my steps.”

So I do, or try to, listen to her shoes clacking softly on the road. It means I cannot talk, or at least not until I get the hang of it.

I walk behind her successfully for a time, but my mind soon wanders and I lose the sound of her shoes on the road and once again I bump into her.

“Shae!” Amanda says.

“Sorry. My mind got distracted.”

“Pay attention.”

“Yes, Miz-A.” Apparently this exercise is more demanding than I thought. I not only have to listen, but I am forced to focus my mind on her steps. In a way, I am not supposed to think. Just be.

We continue, and I do pretty well for a long stretch. Amanda throws in some other directions along the way — “step right,” “step left” — and I navigate that successfully, although I don’t imagine there were really any potholes or snakes or boulders in the road.

The experience becomes one of dependency, which I suspect is the ultimate point. Amanda and I lead somewhat independent lives —she has her work and I have my writing. She does not micromanage me, and I have a fair amount of autonomy in my daily patterns. Still, every minute of my life is lived in the awareness of my subservience to her and her ownership of me as her property. Yet within the house on a daily basis we run in our own circles. She keeps me as her slave, but in an unstructured way. Perhaps this blindfold walk is a little piece of structure designed to focus me on her in a very specific way.

She stops, and this time I am paying attention and stop as well.

“We’ve come full circle around the block,” Amanda tells me. “But we’re going around again.”

“Okay,” I say, “and this time, let me guess, you want me to juggle tennis balls as we walk, just to make it a little harder.”

I listen for her laugh but don’t hear it. I realize how much I depend on seeing her face for feedback. She has a lot of subtle facial expressions that say so much (one reason she is hard to write about). In this moment, I can’t see her face, so I can’t read her mood.

“Well,” she finally says, maybe with a tremor of a chuckle in her voice, “not tennis balls per se, but more like melons.”

I am now at a loss until she tells me to take off my top. I do, handing my tee to her, and now my bared melons are bathed in the cooling night air.

We walk once again, but this time it is harder because I am preoccupied with being topless in public. Who is out there? Who is standing at the side of the road? Who is looking from house windows?

I bump into her again.

“Shae!” she says.

“Sorry. Being like this is distracting. I don’t know who is looking.”

I feel her come close and her fingers take each of my nipples into a soft squeeze. “You should assume that everyone is looking, and accept it.”

“So I shouldn’t focus on the humiliation of being naked in public.”

“To the contrary, I want you to feel every ounce of humiliation from being exposed. But I don’t want you mentally wrestling with who is seeing you and how you can justify in your own mind how you are in front of them. That’s what you do. You think about it too much.”

I nod. It’s true.

She continues: “You need to let yourself be in the moment. Give yourself to the experience, just as you’re giving yourself to me in the walking right now… You need to assume that everyone in the neighborhood is viewing you topless, and you need to simply accept it. You should assume that everyone in the neighborhood wants to fuck you, and you should accept it.”

I take this in. “I’m not sure I have the energy for that right now,” I finally say.

Amanda laughs.

We walk some more.

I try to focus on her steps and not on my now-erect nipples in the cool night air.

We make the full circle a second time. I sense Amanda is disappointed that no one came out to talk with us. She wanted me to experience that — being viewed while I’m topless and blindfolded.

I’m guessing there will be another time.