I stand before him, hands to my side. I’m in a short teal-print dress, kitten heels.
He holds a nylon tether in his hand. It also is teal, matching my dress. He thinks of these things.
He attaches the clip to the O-ring of my collar.
For the first time, I’m a girl on a leash.
In slavery, the simplest, everyday things compel responses. We are slaves to things, often. As the leash clips on, a feeling washes over me — the sense of being possessed by another. It is a good feeling, satisfying my submissive need, full and fizzy. It is deeper than other experiences so far, more than obeying an order from him or being collared. Each such act carries its own unique subjugation, each swirling me a bit more into submissive vortex. Now being on a leash spirals me further into subspace. In this moment I feel like I might lose myself. It pokes me with fear even as it touches me with desire, my pussy pulsing and wetting.
All this at the click of a clip on my O-ring in the living room.
His preference is to have me in tall heels, but he is tolerating kitten heels for now, for my safety. He apparently knows it takes time to learn this new skill. Though more likely he is well aware of my innate klutziness. (I think one rule of the universe must be that whatever one is endowed with is coupled with an equal and opposite endowment.)
He starts walking me through the living room into the great room. He stops there, turns, and gives me instruction: “As you are walked, you must keep your eyes fixed on what your master is doing. If you don’t, you’ll run into him when he stops, or get yanked when he starts.”
It is practical advice, but I am compelled by the life lesson in it: slave Shae must keep her focus on her master at all times. Why not? I live for him. And now even his walking, his stops and starts, become my purpose. This is about being tethered, physically and sexually, to another. Suddenly this is less about a walk in the house and more about the journey of my slave life and submissive being.
I remember him leading me around the house, round and round, over and over. Only a couple of times did the leash yank on my collar, but I was concentrating on keeping up, I really was, and I wondered if he pulled up the slack on purpose, if he liked the feeling of the taut tether and the control the yank of me provided him.
In fact, I liked it myself — a soft rush from the slightly more forceful, physical experience of being dominated. Like so many things in slavery, emotion comes from how violent something could be but isn’t.
He walks me out to the patio. It’s two-level, a large expanse on both levels. He practices me walking up and down the single step between the levels. I have to navigate the brick floors of the patio, slightly uneven like cobblestone, but I do so without stumbling.
He also shows me how to follow when he is walking beside me. Yet another metaphor for the slave life and another set of sensations. A partnership that isn’t really. I am a subservient step behind and to his side; he holds the end of the leash with his far hand and the slack with the other. There is something more intimate in this, despite that, well, I’m a girl on a leash.
He leads me now onto the brick path that extends to the woods. While this is not by any means open to very many, there could be some with a view, and it is no longer private.
If I had thought a girl on a leash was merely a dominant’s wet dream and a submissive’s dutiful obedience, I was wrong. Well, it may be all that, sure, but being walked on a leash was my slavery in microcosm — a short one-act play demonstrating my life as a slave in living color. In front of an audience.
And now I suddenly become aware of how I am seen.
I am like a dog.
The caption on the snapshot is obvious: Man walking his bitch.
I imagine neighbors in three nearby houses watching through binoculars. Likely they’re not yet I believe they are, which is the reality I live in. I play with my own image like it’s emotional Photoshop, adding the “pet” filter which makes me feel cute and this walk on a leash fun and playful. The other filter, however, applies color balance, lending reality to the picture, rendering me as I am — a slave girl being led on a leash like a dog.
I blush with a certain kind of shame. We slaves love our own humiliation. Yet it’s still humiliation.
We walk back, back into the house, back into privacy. He unclips my leash. (I am aware I already think of it as my leash.)
I am relieved, yet I am sad it is taken off.
I am throbbing with desire for him.
I want him to fuck me.
All evening my body thrums in the memory.