another update

I trust everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving Day, hopefully with family, friends, and maybe with your submissive or dominant Others.


I hate to belabor my medical condition, but just to report that I am doing better, thank god, having to sleep less and finding myself with more stamina. I’m still far from normal — “normal” being a word not usually applied to me anyway — but in any case, I have a ways to go in my recovery.


Amanda has been taking me on walks again. This is part of the fall-winter season when we have cold days alternating with spring-like days in the sixties. She doesn’t take me out in the cold, but she’ll walk me on the leash along the front road on the days that are more warmish.

For now, there’s no toplessness even on the warmer days, even though Amanda has determined the neighbors will deal with it without protest and with pleasure. For now, they seem to like seeing me on a leash, and come out to chat when we’re walking around. We’ll see how friendly they are when I’m topless.


It’s still hard for me to muster energy for writing, so my posts are slowed down. My apologies.


When I was first diagnosed with mono, Amanda advised me that the hard part for me will come after the first month when I start to emerge from it, yet am not well yet. “With that,” she said, “will come your sexual drive, but not yet with the energy to do anything sexual.” (I don’t assume Amanda knows this herself but got it from the doctor.)

Well, I am in that moment right now. My desire is roaring back, I have fantasies galore, and am eagerly willing to be anyone’s slut-fuck. But I don’t have the stamina to do any of that. Apparently, even submissive sex takes a lot of energy.

Amanda is debating whether to give me a special dispensation to masturbate.


There’s also the matter of my being contagious. Mono is a virus spread through body fluids, which includes sexual transmission. It’s the Epstein-Barr virus. (I’ve learned that actually a lot of people have this virus in them but it never activates nor presents symptoms.)

The point is that the activated virus remains contagious for a long time, though it is believed to be mostly diminished after three months from inception. The thought is that I contracted it about a month before it was diagnosed, and so by January, I should be “safe” for others again.


Tomorrow, Blake is coming over to install the dog run and the slate pathway.

Always something to look forward to…

days of whine and dozes

The thing about mono is that you have to simply stop doing life for a month or so.

I imagine this is a problem for everyone who gets it, but I’m finding it very difficult because for me “not doing life” is for me the same as “not doing slavery.”

Who knew that passive submissiveness was so very active?

Amanda makes it clear that my status is “slave” even when I’m in this kind of off mode. Even when resting and doing nothing, I am her property and owned submissive. Still, I feel useless. My sense of worth, ironically, comes from my doing “worthless” things submissively.

These days I can’t do them.


Mono is contagious but not air-born. It’s transmitted through body fluids, primarily through sexual contact.

Amanda herself is uninfected, thank god. But to keep it that way, it seems there will be no kissing for quite a while.

She has canceled my visits with Master McKenna and Kevin through the end of the year. I am distraught over this. I feel like I’ve failed them. And such bad timing — I am just now getting into the rhythm of Master McKenna’s dominance, and we had just re-jiggered the schedule with Kevin to a quarterly arrangement.

In between my whining, I’m dozing a lot, and in such a state, I know it’s impossible for me actually to go to McKenna or Kevin. I would get exhausted from just getting there. Yet, it feels like a big loss to me, and contributes to my sense of malaise.

Amanda says everything will likely start up again in January. Both men were understanding, she said, and thankful, perhaps, for being spared exposure to me.

I am untouchable.


This weekend I actually asked her to put me in the bay window. “I can sit there without any exertion, just as well as I can sit on the couch.” Essentially I begged to be humiliated. (It has come to this.)

She said a simple no. She gave no explanation, but I’m guessing there isn’t much thrill for her (or others) watching a pale, over-fatigued girl spread her legs to the world. No one wants to even think of fucking me when I’m unwell.

Difficult words for a sex slave to hear.


Amanda is actually not the “caretaker” type. She’s tending me perfectly well, indulging me with ice cream, but she doesn’t put up much with my self-pity and whining. (Which is why that’s coming out here.)

She has told me to think about what I can learn from my circumstance. And, when I have the energy, to write about it.

Which I will. But for now, I need to take a nap.

words about myself: dignity

I am spending some time trying to write each day despite my general fatigue. I want to write, but I don’t have the stamina to do it for very long. Consequently a blog post that used to take me an hour now takes several hours spread over a couple days. Part of this is a mental fogginess, and I’m aware my writing is just not very sharp. I pray my words make some sense anyway. Bear with me…


I was early into my slavery to Master Michael. He seemed bothered about me in some unspoken way. Normally, he was forthright about such things but this time wasn’t. Something was niggling at him.

I would learn later he had been bothered by something he detected from me, in me, something subtle and vague, yet something he couldn’t articulate.

He finally figured it out: “You struggle for dignity, Shae, which I understand. It’s the challenge of all submissives. But the dignity you come to seems to be in spite of your slavery, when it should be because of it.”

His comment has remained with me. It seems I always need to learn this lesson.


He was saying that what I projected to others was something like, “Yes, I do this submissive thing with this man, but I’m an intelligent, respectable woman anyway.” I was, in my own subtle way, sidelining and diminishing the D/s life I was in, somehow suggesting I just did it “on the side for fun” but otherwise I was a “proper woman, you know…”


I still wrestle with this.

Amanda noticed something like this after my first exposure in the bay window when Patricia and John watched. The next day, in the course of a clothed, normal interaction with them, I acted as if that had been a performance of a kind, something acted, and now I was normal again and proper.

It was folly for me to project that, as Patricia and John are intimately aware of my submission and slavery, and yet with them I copped an air of being above the shame of the bay window experience the night before.

It’s hard to look someone in the eye when they are remembering your naked sexual disgrace. It’s hard to embrace that and be dignified in it, not in spite of it.

This again goes to my common struggle between living out my slavery in front of “lifestyle” versus “vanilla” people. I won’t belabor that discussion yet again. Just allow me to say that, in the lifestyle company of Amanda and Master McKenna, I manage to project dignity because of my slavery. But in the company of vanilla neighbors, it seems I still try to project a dignity in spite of what I am.


I have spent most of my slave years coming to an acceptance of myself as a submissive, as property, as a sex slave kept and used. Self-acceptance is hard to get to, but I have over time come to that understanding of me. I am a deep submissive and need to live as slave property to another.

But the further lesson is acceptance of what I am in front of others. It is the wish of my dominants that I stand publicly in my humiliations, proud and dignified for being a slave. This is what I continue to work on: dignity in front of the vanilla world for being what I am.

Submissive training never ends.

update

So I’ve been dealing with a health issue for a couple of weeks that’s left me fatigued and mentally foggy. It’s also made me disinclined to write.

I’m under doctor’s care now, and it’s nothing serious, manageable with a medication and a vitamin. Am feeling marginally better now, although it will take some time.

I laughed inside when the doctor talked about it being weeks yet before I get back to normal. “Normal” isn’t a word used of me very often.


This experience has made me aware of something: it seems I have both a sex drive and a “submissive drive.”

During this down time, my malaise has rendered me without much energy or desire sexually, but my submissive drive, so to speak, has been just as strong. Admittedly, I haven’t had the energy to perform submissive service either, but I’ve had the desire for it.

I’m not sure how to understand this, or whether it even matters.


I write this humbly, knowing that many reading this have dealt with far more serious health issues. Here I don’t mean to solicit undue sympathy, just to report why these days I’m not writing as much as usual.

on McKenna time, 5

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

on McKenna time, 2

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

“And what are those purposes?”

“Your humiliation and my pleasure.”


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

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

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

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

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

“Stop dancing around. Stay in one place.”

“Oh.”

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

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

And he knows how to do it.


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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?”

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…

a note on phantom canyon

In answer to some questions on my fiction post:

Yes, there is a real Phantom Canyon. It’s in the area of Canon City, Colorado. I have been there, and it’s beautiful, as I’ve described it. I sometimes go there to think about things, work on fiction ideas, and to be creatively nourished.

I do not know a man named Jameson. “Jameson” is sort of a basic stock character I start with in many stories, developing him differently for each specific narrative. He is always a dominant named after the whiskey, but from there he becomes more specifically characterized in various stories.

Have I been naked in Phantom Canyon? Yes.

I do not know a stranger named George.

In fact, I do not think anyone saw me naked in Phantom Canyon, but I hear a lot of the squirrels are big fans.

phantom canyon: part two (fiction)

We get back to the truck. He wants me again to stand by the sapling at the edge of the pull-off. He says something about wishing I had other shoes. I know he means high heels, so out of place in the forest, but that’s his whole idea.

“You’re not taking pictures anyway,” I call out, “so what’s it matter?” I figure that In the Photoshop of his mind, he can replace my wedge sandals with cherry-red, five-inch heels.

Soon Jameson comes to stand behind me, and for a time we watch together the nature we’re in. A breeze picks up and makes the leaves rustle. The sun’s rays, filtered by the aspen, dance along the ground. He wraps his arm around my bare waist, and I reach my hand up behind his neck, leaning my head back against his chest. This is the moment I have wanted — us both together in nature that we share, his dominant body against my submissive nakedness, our union a communion in a forest of hushed silence.

A car approaches, then passes without slowing, the driver probably not seeing us in the rear view.

Jameson slides his hand up my midriff and cups my right breast, letting it pool in his palm. I close my eyes, swooning in the moment. He slides my nipple between two fingers, and squeezes. As always when I’m aroused, I think of clever things to say, but this time I don’t speak, not wanting to pierce the quiet.

His other hand slides down to my pale and shaved vulva, then between my legs to my pussy. There, he fingers my lips, already extended and hungry, making me need to squirm, but I don’t, instead holding still so his fingers won’t leave me.

I realize I am holding my breath. I exhale slowly, and it tells Jameson, if his fingers hadn’t told him already, how his touching affects me.

His index finger collects some of my wet, and with it slowly paints the outer ridges of my labia. The breezes immediately cool them, and I sigh as the air evaporates my ooze from them, just making me even more puddled in between.

Another car sounds from a distance. It seems to approach from the south. Jameson leaves me, disengaging, walking back to his truck, as I remain in plain view and puffy arousal. I resist the urge to hide and simply stand without covering myself.

Indeed, the car appears, slows. And then it stops.

I catch my breath.

It parks behind Jameson’s truck. A heavy-set man in jeans and a black tee gets out.

“How’s it goin’?” he asks.

“Great day for a photoshoot,” Jameson says.

“Yep, looks like,” the man says. He looks across the pullout to the alcove where I am standing. From that distance, he can see my body, but not my blushing.

“Yes,” Jameson says. “Waiting for the sun to find an angle.”

“You have the model for it,” the man says. “Pretty one.”

“Here,” Jameson tilts his head toward me. “Let me introduce you.”

The men walk my way. There is no way to hide or cover myself. I decide to stand full on and try to maintain my dignity.

“This is Shannon,” Jameson says, like the stranger is a friend of a friend at Thanksgiving.

The stranger says “Good to meet you” — polite but delivered with a shit-faced grin.

I nod to him. I don’t know what to say, sure that Emily Post never had advice for proper etiquette in this situation. I put on a thin smile but say nothing, pretending to be a model.

But a real model would have a robe. There is no robe anywhere in sight, and the stranger, I’m sure, sees through the sham. Why it matters I do not know. Whether nature model or slave girl, I am still nude, all flesh and curves before a stranger’s eyes. He knows this too, seeing me for what I am — a woman naked in the forest for strangers in cars.

Now the stranger’s eyes shift into a different awareness of me, a sensing of my humiliation. I redden, which he also notices with a smirk and which makes me blush more deeply. Humiliation begets more humiliation.

Nothing’s been said, but he knows exactly what I am.

The stranger and Jameson walk back to the truck. I hear patches of their conversation. “Pretty girl,” the stranger says, “nice boobs,” and then he adds with a chuckle, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, here’s the kind of photo I was trying to get…” Jameson says to him, as their voices fade, falling out of hearing range.


The men have pulled a length of chain out of the truck, along with other items. They walk back to me at the edge of the woods.

They have quickly figured out how to work in tandem. Jameson throws the length of heavy chain over a branch of the tree. The stranger holds a pair of cuffs and now wraps them around my wrists. Jameson attaches one end of the chain to my cuffs, so my wrists are linked together. The stranger pulls the other end of the chain until my arms are extended above my head, then wrapping the chain tightly around the tree trunk to secure it.

The two men step back and look at me now chained naked and pale to a tree branch overhead. My head is tilted down and to the side as I look away, flushed in my humiliation.

The men walk back to the camera and tripod, talking about me, about getting the right shot, about whether to take the camera off the tripod and move closer, about how this should or shouldn’t be done — they way men can discuss the theory of something for hours when simply trying it would take just two minutes.

I hear Jameson giving the stranger instructions. “It will be timing,” he says to the man, “you’ll be behind her, touching her, bringing her along… ”

They moved the tripod closer, and Jameson pretended to adjust it, directing the man to step behind me. “Let’s start,” he says.


The man positions himself behind me and inches close, then tight. I feel the buckle of his belt cold and hard against the small of my back.

His hands reach around me and cup my breasts.

I do not resist, but I regret the violation. Not the violation of me but the violation of nature, my worship interrupted. I don’t want this chunky man stranger to be touching me. I want Jameson. With him, it was perfect for a few moments, the two of us in a wedding of nature. Why now this? Why this stranger?

Jameson stands behind the camera that he cannot operate, but he isn’t pretending to, not looking through the viewfinder. He’s just watching the stranger fondle me.

Soon the man slides one hand down, across my waist and below into the paleness of my sex. He cups my vulva, and I catch my breath.

His fingers feel rough as they slide along my labia. I feel myself swelling there, opening, my pussy becoming wide and wet. My earlier distress that it’s a stranger touching me fades away until it no longer matters. The stranger, oddly patient, now nestles his finger length-wise between my lips below, which coat him with my ooze.

In such a short time, I have gone from a wish that this would not happen to a wish that it would, and I am now complicit in the act with a man I don’t know. I writhe in my wrist constraints above my head, but it isn’t any attempt to get away, rather the natural response of my flesh, coiling and uncoiling within the pleasure. Below, my flesh curls around the man’s hand.

He plunges a thick coarse finger into my cunt. I squeal.

It feels scratchy, but not such that it hurts, just making me all the more aware of the foreigner inside my vagina.

His thumb dips into my wet and then graces my clit, and I breathe sharply.

This becomes a rhythm as his finger slides in and out of my pussy and his thumb touches and retouches my clit. His other hand continues its feel of my breast with soft squeezes. He’s a one-man band, creating a kind of forest music without sound — my huffy breaths and occasional sighs the simple percussion.

I close my eyes and lose track of time. It becomes a kind of heaven I didn’t imagine, maybe even a paradise I didn’t want, but now an eden I deeply craved. I want this to be over and yet never end.

He brings my body to an edge, and I feel like I’m at the brim of a cliff and about to fall into the depths of phantom canyon. I open my eyes, but see only a blur as I am dizzy from my swoon.

The stranger steps up his tempo, and I am now breathing faster and faster, uttering a moan once each cycle.

It continues, my moans becoming more frequent and breathier.

Suddenly, his finger slows its pumping in and out of me, his thumb easing its pace but now lingering longer when it slides across my clit — like a lyrical, slow movement of a symphony, an achingly beautiful largo.

And then he stops altogether. It is as if his strumming fingers hand off the melody to my flesh, my spasming curves and folds continuing the tune onward into a musical climax.

I step off the edge and soar into the canyon below. My body shudders visibly, my head falls back.

The stranger quickly steps away. Out of the shot.

Jameson clicks the shutter.


I hang there, my body limp, as Jameson thanks the stranger. They talk in words I hear only as faint murmurs. They say goodbye, and the man drives off, having made himself a memory in me never to be forgotten.

Jameson leaves me there, my body used, as he collects the camera and tripod and other items and stows them in the truck.

In time, he unshackles me, and I, shakily, find my footing. I put on my clothes.

He shows me the image in the viewfinder of the SLR.

The stranger is not in the picture. I am alone in the thick of my orgasm, my head tossed back in the throes of my coming, my pussy catching a ray of sunlight glistening, and parts of my body slightly blurred by my spasms.

And it is more. The blur of my orgasm is pitched against the backdrop of aspen in sharp focus, as if the forest, all of nature, stopped at once for my moment of ecstasy. Finally, after a whole day of yearning, I literally became one with nature

It, somehow, against all odds, is a perfect picture.

I turn to Jameson and say, “You take one picture in your whole damn life, and this is the one?”

He grins.


In the truck on the way home, Jameson says, “The man is named George.” He says it as if I want to know, but I would rather the memory be less specific than that.

We ride in silence.

Jameson says, “George is an old army buddy of mine.”