conversation in the park

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

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

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

Here we go again.

“He’s a teenager,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He looks mature, though,” Amanda says.

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

“You need practice with younger men.”

“Practice? Really?”

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I say nothing. This has gotten squirrelly.

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

“Yes. That. Exactly that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanted to,” she says.

I say nothing.

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

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

musing in a park

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

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

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

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

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

We are all strangers in a park.

bag clips

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a brief history of my clothing and not wearing it

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


I have not yet mentioned Kevin.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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.”

phantom canyon: part one (fiction)

This is the first part of two. A fiction piece I’ve been working on lately, but haven’t been able to finish. Maybe posting this part will help me stick the landing…


It’s a dense woods on the side of a mountain, blanketed in aspen, sloping down to a canyon below. A road runs through it, dirt packed into bumps and ripples, a public route, though only occasionally traveled.

Jameson drives us far along this canyon road, well up the mountain. At a pull-off he parks the truck. The road is some forty miles up one side and down the other. We aren’t yet at the crest, but near to it.

He leads me by my leash to a massive boulder with a flat-angled facing, which he has me lean against. He drops the leash, it clinks against the rock, and Jameson returns to the truck.

This forest is stunning, the white tree trunks rising up to heaven. The rustle of leaves seems a new kind of quiet, a soft noise that becomes a hush.

Jameson has fetched a camera and a tripod. He sets up the tripod about twenty feet from me, and mounts the camera.

I can’t help but laugh because he has confessed before that he doesn’t know much about cameras, maybe the one mechanical thing in the world he isn’t good at. I even doubt that the camera works, but for his purposes that doesn’t matter.

He hears my laugh, grins at me, and says, “You’ll pay for that.”

“I know.”

He walks to my side, and leans against the boulder. His arm comes around me in back, and his hand rises up behind to span my neck and collar. It seems symbolic of things between us, a gesture both protective and possessive at the same time.

He checks the solid hold of the spring clasp connecting my chain leash to my collar.

“Afraid I’ll get away?” I tease.

He chuckles, says nothing, and tinkers some more. It’s just what he does — he plays with hardware and the flesh of this girl, hard and soft together.

He’s up again, now rummaging through a steel tool chest in the back bed on the truck. I wish he would sit still, allow himself to breathe in the crisp mountain air, watch the sun filter through the aspen in slats and beams.

Returning, he produces a huge Yale lock the size of Montana. He hangs it off of my O-ring in front and locks it. I feel the weight of it tug my neck forward and feel like I have to fight its pull.

A car drives by, reminding that this place may be remote but it’s still public. The road itself makes it hard for a car to do more than thirty-five, and often you have to take it much slower. This car, a middle-age couple in an SUV, slows even more while passing us, looking at me, looking at Jameson’s camera and tripod. They drive on.

He reels in my leash and takes the other end as his eyes scan our landscape. He wants to attach me to something. I think he wishes there was a large eye bolt screwed into the side of the boulder, something he could chain me to.

“Take off your dress,” he says.

I figured it was coming to this, and it doesn’t surprise me. I look into his eyes as I reach for the top button of my shirt dress. For better or worse, it’s my nature to passively submit, but I know as well this is how he likes me — quietly obedient. And maybe it’s why he likes me. My hushed acquiescence without protest is peaceful to him, relaxes him. It occurs to me that while I find peace being in the calming nature of the wilderness, he finds peace in the calming nature of me.

My buttons are undone and I continue to look into his eyes as I pull the bodice open, and loop the dress over one shoulder then the other. I slide it over my breasts and to my waist.

Early on, when I knew I would be this way with him and it would be like this, he had me look into his eyes during such things. That way, he said, I would not be distracted by what or who was around me, focused not on my shame and only on my obedience. It was later that this became unnecessary — while I still felt the shame, I endured it, and in a way it no longer mattered. Yet I still looked into his eyes, as I do now, perhaps from habit, more likely to watch his glistening lust for me.

From ten feet away, he eyes my breasts, my orbs of pale flesh striped by shards of sunlight.

I push my dress over my hips and down my legs. I lean over to gather the dress before hit hits the ground, stepping out of it and draping it over my arm in one fluid motion, as if undressing in the forest was something I did every day.

Now I am wearing only my metal slave collar and my wedge sandals. I breathe in as Jameson absorbs my femininity — my naked teats and my soft folds below — now suddenly presented in a landscape of rough tree bark and hard boulders.

He has his visual moment with me, his eyes lingering, fucking me.

He takes my dress from my arm and lays it on the passenger seat of the truck, leaving the door open and my dress draping down, empty of me.

Jameson takes my leash and walks me to the edge of the pull-off where a wedge of forest begins again. He loops my leash around the trunk of an aspen, fastens it, chaining me there. The leash chain hangs from my collar to the tree in a “U” that doesn’t quite touch the ground.

All day he has been attaching me to things. It seems an obsession for him, something deep within him tinkering and playing.

Being leashed and chained, of course, often makes me feel like a dog, a pet cared for, yet kept tamed and chained. However, I often feel that my leashed identity is actually less animate, that I am more of a thing, an object, than a creature. My leash chain is a holder. My attachment is simply a place he stores me for a while.

I am important to him, but only when I am important to him. Like a set of car keys placed on the kitchen hook. Like a mechanic’s tool he won’t use till next time. At times he sets me aside. At times he attaches me to a tree.

Jameson leaves me, walking down the road. He rounds the bend, and I can no longer see him. I feel alone, set aside.

I hear a car approaching from the north, its tires crunching the gravelly road.

I stand naked and still, my pale flesh like the bark of an aspen sapling exposed at the edge of the woods. My hands are free, and if I wished, I could unhook my chain from the tree and hide. He doesn’t want me to do so, of course.

He has made like he’s gone for a hike, but I wonder if he’s circled around and is watching me from some stand in the deeper forest.

The car rolls through. It slows but passes. If it had come from the south, the driver would surely have seen me. But this forest edge is an alcove of sorts, an inset shielded from cars coming from the north, like this car. The driver could have spotted me through the rear-view mirror, perhaps why it slowed. Maybe.

In time, I hear Jameson’s heavy boots trudge up from the road. He says something about the creek below. He wants to walk me there.

He removes my leash, taking me by hand across the road through the aspen on the other side. Slender twigs hang down and slide across my naked breasts; crisp leaves on the forest bed crunch under my sandals and sometimes prickle the open tops of my feet. It is as if the forest is reaching out, touching me, trying to make sense of my presence, so soft and round and warm, in its crackly midst.

It isn’t far, the only challenge being a steep section from the forest edge down to the creek. He has me jump to him those few feet, and he catches me in his arms.

It is a narrow creek but with a strong flow of water, and it sings a melody of rushes and ripples. To the north, the creek widens and the trees fade back, allowing the sun to shine fully on my bare flesh, its rays warming my breasts and my thighs. Jameson walks along the creek bed, as if he is exploring, but I know better. Sure enough, he stops fifty yards upstream and turns to look back. I grant him his gaze, remaining still. It’s a full minute, maybe more, a moment for him to take in my feminine nature framed by mother nature.

I dare to step into the water, letting it cascade over my sandaled feet, but it’s freezing, and I shriek, jumping back, my breasts jiggling as I stumble a bit, but somehow I regain my footing. I laugh, exclaiming, “Oh my god!”

I hear Jameson laugh too, like an echo.

The point of all this, it eventually becomes clear to me, is that there is no point. Which is lovely.


More to come…

the sound of silence: after thoughts

I was obediently speechless for twenty-four hours.

This morning, once again permitted to speak, I said, “Good morning, Mistress,” but I have remained subdued since. It’s not like hordes of words piled up at the prison gate waiting to be allowed their freedom.

Nothing much happened all day. Amanda kept me in proximity to her — in the living room, on the patio, in the kitchen. I was permitted to write, which I did at times, but it was always me and my laptop in the space where Amanda was, not in my writing room. Patricia came over in the afternoon, was briefed on my imposed condition, and observed the exercise. She and Amanda had a long conversation with me in the background. In the evening, Amanda said she wanted a white wine, and I poured it for her and served it, assuming my place on the sofa opposite her — our usual conversation pit. Except this time there was no conversation. Amanda read her book, sipped iced tea, and didn’t talk to me.


She had made it clear this wasn’t a punishment, but after the first hour or so I couldn’t help but lean into the idea that it was. I wondered if I had gotten too talkative with her in previous days and she was muting me as a punishment-plus-training. Perhaps I had said something this past week that had offended her, and now she was cutting off the part of me that had committed the sin.

Of course, it was nothing of the sort. My muting had allowed my mind to push into crazy places. On reflection (which I had a lot of time for), I knew that my scenarios of this as punishment would require Mistress to be colossally passive-aggressive, which she is decidedly not. She had explicitly stated it was not a punishment, and I needed to take her at her word.

Still, in those first hours yesterday my mind wrestled with the exercise, like a submissive straining at the rope ties that bind her. Soon the question about the exercise was not so much “what?” as “why?”


Amanda settled on the patio mid-morning, telling me to stand over by the Celosia plants to her right and slightly behind her. I felt set aside, present but out of view, in such a way it was easier for her to ignore me. She did this several times during the day — putting me in an unobtrusive place close to her but apart.

When Patricia dropped in, I was kept in the breakfast nook with them, but placed in a chair in the corner.

I was there, but not there. Maybe that was the point.


Mistress kept me fully clothed yesterday. It was a cooler day in the seventies not the mid-nineties, so being made partially undressed wasn’t so necessary — although necessity has never been the mother of toplessness.

Still, my body was covered all day. It occurred to me that my words and my sex are my primary assets in my slave life, and here they’d been diminished or subdued. Without spoken words and without my body being partially revealed, I have little other value.

Maybe this was an exercise in returning me to my status and place as property.


It occurred to me that in the rhythm of my daily slave life with Mistress Amanda, there is much of my slavery that is routine. I serve, do my few chores, am respectful, but over time these things lose the original distinctiveness of Amanda’s control of me, becoming ordinary and assumed.

Maybe this was a day in which she just wanted to actively control me, to allow herself to feel dominance over me by muting me and repeatedly putting me on the pantry shelf.

I sometimes forget this isn’t about me, but about her. Maybe she just wanted to. Maybe she needed to be reminded she can do anything she wants with me.

Maybe she needed to remind me she can do anything she wants with me.


This morning, Mistress said nothing more about the exercise, the “why” or purpose or pleasure of it for her.

I think we submissives assume our doms always have a reason or strategy. But sometimes they don’t, they’re just trying something, casually experimenting, amusing themselves.

I don’t know that Mistress will ever tell me what this was about. And I probably won’t ask.

the sound of silence

The last thing Amanda had said to me last night was, “When you wake in the morning, I don’t want you to speak a word. No ‘hello’ or ‘good morning.’ Nothing. No words. I will explain then.”


This morning I stood with coffee on a tray for Amanda at 7:15 outside the kitchen and breakfast nook, as I always do, as is our ritual. As she came out from her bedroom looking luscious in her royal blue chemise and matching silk robe, she held a finger to her lips, indicating silence.

“Today,” she said, “I am ordering you not to speak.”

She paused rather dramatically, slowly sipping her coffee.

“You may make sounds, but not as efforts for communication, just as involuntary responses as they happen. You may write today, but I don’t want you writing messages on paper to me to try to bypass your ban on using words.”

I nodded.

“I think Patricia will come over this afternoon, and I will explain to her. You will remain silent through the time she is here.”

I almost say, “Yes, Mistress,” but stop myself in time. I nod again.

“Today, I want you to be an object in the house, around me, in my presence, but silent all day. You may speak again tomorrow morning at this same time when you serve me coffee. If you disobey, or if you mistakenly say a word, I will put a binder clip on your lips.”

I bite my lip to remind myself not to respond in words.

Instead, I nod once again.


This will be interesting.