This week I am prepping myself for my time with Master M, scheduled to start on Sunday evening. This is both physical and mental preparation.

Physically, I have resumed the posture training he taught me: straight back, fluid and economical motion, clean lines. It isn’t hard now because I know what he is looking for, and I mastered it once. I fell out of practice during my hiatus, but my body remembers, and it’s come back easily. Yet there’s a precision he expects, and I’m working on that aspect this week.

There’s also some physical preparation for, frankly, his anal uses of me. This involves “progressive stretching,” so to speak, and the strategic use of lube. Anal isn’t his main thing with me, but he expects it to be one of his options.

There’s also some conditioning regarding my daily energy levels and stamina. Over these past three months of mono, I’ve slept a lot, which has condensed into a nap every afternoon. Normally with Master M there would be no break for that during the day, and I have said I don’t want one when I’m with him, so the question is if I can function without. So I am nap-less this week, and we’ll see.

Mental preparation is a matter of simulating a certain kind of subspace I need to be in when I’m with him, getting my head into his rhythm and uses of me. Amanda had the idea of my writing commands and orders on pieces of paper place in a bowl next to me. Every hour I pull one out of the bowl and read it and pantomime it for a few minutes. Then I go back to what I was doing. These written notes are things like “Kneel beside me,” “Fetch me a whiskey,” “Present yourself to be tied and whipped,” “Bend over and grab your ankles,” “Stand against the wall.”

So, I have been doing this. This conditions me to be ready to pop up at any moment to fulfill his wishes. It is a mental switch that needs to be flipped: from the mindset that, say, my reading a book is my norm and his command is the interruption, to thinking that his command is the norm and reading my book is the momentary luxury that interrupts his dominance. It’s a simple thing but means everything in terms of my mood and attitude during.

I’m also doing some visualization. What-if he does this with me or that? What will it be like to see, once again after all this time, the others who work at the mansion? What if my presentation to some of them becomes more explicit? What do these possible scenarios look like and how will I respond?

This isn’t really about my going above and beyond to be the star pupil in the class, though I’m prone to do that. I am longing for submissive immersion, as I’ve written, and I want to be back in the strict hands of a dominant man. I am eager, and while all this preparation will help me when I’m with him next week, it also quenches my thirst a bit beforehand.

Kevin: 4-2: bondage room

Part two of two.

For a submissive, one of the things about a bondage experience is that you have a lot of time to think. The dom toys with you slowly. He takes his time. He has no obligation to live in your time, and you may be there for hours.

You’re tied, bound in some diabolical formation, and you can do nothing. Minutes are lethargic, during which you’re left only with thoughts and feelings of the humiliation you’re strapped into. This warp of space-time, this D/s time, is subspace, something in between reality and fantasy, a kind of dream state.

Kevin has left the room for a drink. It’s a little thing, him leaving, but it does something to me. My mind races to wild places:

The experience of him leaving whispers to me that he has other, better things to do. That he is tired of me. I no longer fascinate him. He’s decided to work on his truck instead.

I imagine this might be my permanent life now, a life in bondage in this bondage room, a life in which Kevin comes and goes to entertain himself with me randomly. A life in which I become his hobby, his pastime.

I wonder again about the seven construction workers. For a hot second I think that he’s orchestrated this, that now is the time Kevin will usher them in, showing them the glory of my ass, oiled and plugged. If there were an ultimate humiliation, that would be it — my being ceremoniously unplugged and seven men peering into my gaping asshole — with an excursion the next day to the construction site where I’d have to greet once again those same seven men.

Another random, racing thought: Kevin, I recall, has scheduled for us tomorrow night dinner with one of the company executives and his wife. At some restaurant, we will be sitting across from Mr. and Mrs. Holman making pleasant conversation. In their presence, I will remember this moment in which I am ass-naked, bound, and oiled like a slick pig. In my imagined fear, I think that somehow they will know, that they will sense this about me, that they will visualize me just like this, my ass up and out and spread.

I hear Kevin coming back, and I am grateful. I need to be freed from crazy imaginings. Now I just want him to do things to me, to distract me from this mind-space, to make my flesh my only focus.

He walks in with a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in another. He sits in the chair to the side of me. He crosses his legs. He is so very male-alpha-dom.

It is happy hour. And I think Kevin is very, very happy.

So far, my forecasts of the evening have been way off, and Kevin has kept me off-balance, so I don’t know why I dare at this point to predict in my mind how he will do me through the rest of the evening. But like I say, there is nothing but time in bondage sub-space, and thinking about Kevin’s possible violations of me is a place for my mind to go.

I am thinking that, in Kevin’s fucking strategy, the butt plug is a substitute for him in my ass. He won’t do me there, so my logic goes. Although that might be wishful thinking. Not that I dread him ass-fucking me, but well, you know, that’s a complicated feeling, both physically and emotionally, especially in bondage. Even so, I think he’s not going to go there. Literally.

My sense of things also is that he will play with my pussy — slide objects into me, like pistons — but not enter me himself. Straight intercourse is too conventional. In a way, that’s our normal life now. So he won’t finish there.

Yet, even as I plot this, I realize it my scenario would mean he never would actually be inside me — and that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know.

But I do believe he will save himself for my hands and mouth. He will finish me by putting me on the floor kneeling, and have me cock-suck him for the grand finale. This is “our thing” in a way. He will enjoy spraying himself all over my face. He’ll leave me there, letting his manhood drip from my eyes and lips onto my breasts. He’ll walk out of the room, maybe even shower, eventually to return to look at me, his handiwork, in gooey humiliation.

This is his fucking strategy, but it’s a guess, and at this point I’m not sure of anything.

Kevin begins to flog me.

In my foregoing analysis, I have completely forgotten about floggers and whips. This is going to be a long night…

He starts lightly, warming my ass and the backs of my thighs. He has a rhythm — one, two, three, and then a pause. Like a waltz, it is his own dance of leathers upon my backside, a movement in three that I cannot see.

In time, he increases his weight behind the flogger and it lands more heavily. But even now it does not hurt so much as burn, the warming of my initial flogging becoming hotter, my cheeks awakening, reddening.

For me, none of this is about punishment, and it doesn’t carry the onus of guilt or remorse. It’s a different kind of debasement, and each swat of the flogger deepens my imagined public shame, my having to answer someone’s curious question with the answer, “Yes he sometimes gives me beatings.”

I now breathe in sync with his hits, inhaling right before “one” and exhaling right after “three.” As he flogs me harder, sometimes my breaths carry sound, soft moans and rough grunts. My vocals sing in concert with his symphonic waltz, and we are together in this thing we are doing.

He beats me like this because he can. He can because I am so hopelessly submissive that I have to — have to give myself to be arranged ass-up and tied down, have to allow myself to become a target for this man’s dominance.

Kevin stops for a moment, walks close to me from behind. I feel his hand come between my legs and up to my pussy. I have become wet. His finger the dipstick, it feels like he’s checking the oil on his Ford.

He soon resumes his flogging, but now on every third stanza instead of the flogger I feel the whip. He lands it softly but it stings. In time he wields it more harshly, and now I yelp each time it hits.

It occurs to me then that Kevin might use the crop or the signal whip on me, something more sharp and biting, to leave marks, to stripe me.

Such that Master McKenna would see.

One moment stands out.

I am still ass up, stretched forward, my wrists shacked to the end of the bondage table. My head is tilted to one side as he pleasures himself with me.

Kevin comes alongside, kneels down to look at my face and look into my eyes. He says nothing.

He stands again and rests his cock, semi-erect, on the table inches from my mouth. There are no words. He doesn’t have to tell me what to do. He knows I want it.

It lays out like it’s pointing at me, its girth thick, its flesh taut and purple-veined, its head bulbous and pink and smooth.

As it rests on the leather surface, I lean toward it, stretching my neck to get to it. But because my arms are tied above me, my range of movement is restricted. I get close to it, but not close enough to take it between my lips. He planned it this way. It’s his tease.

I extend my tongue and am able to lick the tip of Kevin’s cock. I do so again, then again, lapping with shameless need, like a kitten licking its paws.

Kevin watches as I reach my tongue for his succulent dick.

He laughs, then walks away.

He rearranges me on the bondage table, now on my back. He uses leather straps to bind my forearms to my ankles, making my legs raise up in the air and spread wide. I can force my legs closed, but it’s not a position I can hold. My legs angle out, and my pussy spreads open.

He slides me to the end of the table and adjusts the table’s height.

Again, he leaves. He wants another bourbon, I know, and also wants the experience of walking back in to see from the vista of the doorway my splayed-open pussy, the focus of a landscape panorama.

Bound there, I wait for my further defilement for what seems like an hour. It deepens my sensation of being an object, wet and waiting, always there for when he decides to use me.

My breasts ache now from their constriction. I feel the air, cool, on my bared pussy. I am thirsty, but not for water.

In some measure of time, he enters the room.

And straightaway enters me.

The experience of being penetrated while I’m tied down affects me in a different way than other sex. It’s profound and dramatic. It’s also violating.

To be clear, it’s consensual, and no has one forced me to be where I am, to submit to him now. I have a safe word, a “no,” that I can use at any time, though I have never used it and won’t now. But tacit consent doesn’t mean — as Kevin’s cock poises at the entrance of my womanhood — that right now I really want this. I do, but I don’t, or better to say, I want this, but on my own terms.

This is a moment that smacks you like a horsewhip and reminds you of the Choice you once made to relinquish all choice thereafter. The point is, as a sex slave bound and spread, I don’t have the right to any of “my own terms.”

This moment is the crux of what bondage means: I am physically bound to reflect how I am submissively bound, and being violated by him now is one of those choices I relinquished.

Kevin pushes into me and triggers my moment.

He enters my vagina, and while it seems so wrong, it feels good, its very illicitness so sweetly erotic. Indeed, Kevin slides in too easily, my body conspiring against me to give permission. Truth is, my pussy has been wet from the beginning — he had it at hello — and my flesh is inviting him in (it would invite everyone if it could). My mind is still coping with my violation, surprisingly bewildered at how this man’s cock is having its way with me.

His very fucking of me — the one-two rhythm of him pushing in then sliding out — prompts me to silently protest on “one” then beg please don’t go on “two.” In that moment between, the pause between beats, he fills me and swells inside me and makes me want.

He stands at my entrance and pumps me, his cock growing more steely with every thrust, his thrusts hard enough to bounce my breasts now so engorged.

To my submissive shame, being violated electrifies me, and the jolts trigger me. It is too soon — I feel on the edge already. Oh, please, not yet.

Despite my inner protest, my climax rises up and rolls through me.

Kevin slows.

He watches my orgasm take me over in shudders.

I shake as it rolls through me.

He leaves the room again, perhaps allowing me time to recover.

I think I hear him on the phone talking to someone, but maybe not. It is distant, and I am in never-neverland, so I may have imagined it. But it occurs to me that it would be the ultimate in alpha-male hubris to be in the middle of a bondage session with slave girl Shae when he makes a call to girlfriend Miranda.

What we imagine. I don’t believe he did make any call. But I don’t know.

If there’s any need to reinforce the notion that in bondage you exist only for the pleasure of another, it’s when your climax is not the climax of the evening. I come, and Kevin watches, but that is incidental to his purpose.

He unbinds me, and now shackles me standing, attaching me again to the ceiling bar. He has his playtime with me there awhile. My breasts, still rubber-banded, are now pinkish-purple and aching. He fondles them and squeezes them, and I bite my tongue trying not to yelp from this combination of pleasure and pain.

Kevin flogs me more across my ass, then whips me with the signal whip. He seems to aim in a certain way, twice, and the crack of the whip is hard and sharp, and I scream.

I will see later that he has indeed left his marks, two of them, for me to take home.

He teases me with his cock, making me tell him how much I want it.

I believed this would be the endgame, according to my estimate of his strategy in doing me — finishing me with a juicy cocksucking.

He surprises me.

Again he leaves the room. I realized later this has been intentional on his part, changing the routine, making it a different experience. Each time he exits, I descend into in different thoughts and anticipations.

This time I wonder what if he didn’t return. What if I’m left there for hours. Overnight. For a day.

How I would be found.

I expect him to put me on my knees, my mouth open. What can I say? I want his cock in my mouth.

Instead, he arranges me again on the bondage table ass up and facing back, as he had had me before. This wasn’t according to my predicted plan for his use of me. It was repetitive, not efficient. His strategy is proving too random for me to make sense of. And that, I realize, is his real strategy.

Kevin wriggles the butt plug out of my ass.

He replaces it with himself. He is, thankfully, oiled, lubed with something, and as he pushes, I moan, feeling his unique girth squeeze into me, but he doesn’t hurt.

He penetrates me deeper than the plug, and I am tight for him, but with each back and forth, I open up more.

My face is pressed flush against the padded table, turned sideways, and my swollen tits crush against the leather, aching hard as they are rolled back and forth in rhythm to Kevin’s pumping of me.

It becomes a feeling of debased use. I remember my first time with Kevin, how he then “claimed” me, as he put it, and how I learned about being claimed by a man — the experience of my mind and flesh being imprinted in a certain way by a specific manhood. This is now all of that once again, bypassing rational thought, and somehow intensified by him now violating me in anal sex.

Time passes — is he doing me like this for five minutes or an hour? Kevin has remarkable stamina. He sometimes slows, then quickens. But in some frame of bondage time, whatever it is, Kevin finishes himself in me.

He comes in loud grunts and sighs, a final thrust pushing himself far in and holding himself there, his balls gracing my pussy underneath.

His cum, warm and thick, fills me deep.

There is a slow rhythm to the aftermath. It’s an adagio.

Kevin pulls himself out of me — and pushes the butt plug back in.

He stands for a moment, gathering himself, looking at me, his conquest, my striped and filled ass. He has claimed and marked his territory.

In a while he puts his flogger and whip away.

He unbinds me, turns me over, and removes the rubber bands from my breasts. Tears come to my eyes as he does.

He fetches the oil and lube he used, and stores them away in their places in the corner.

I remain on the bondage table, curling up into myself, coming down from my claiming.

He takes a towel and wipes down some wetted surfaces.

My eyes close. I will stay here, just this way, for quite a while, lost in my subspace.

Kevin comes beside me, reaches for my hand, squeezes it.

I squeeze back.

Later, I take a quick shower and slip into a white chemise. I pour myself a glass of wine, and return to the living room.

Kevin is there, sitting at one end of the couch, dressed now in sweat pants and a T-shirt, his head back and eyes closed. He has music on in the background.

I sit adjacent to him on the couch, folding my legs under me, leaning back. “Thank you,” I say.

He makes a sound in response but says nothing. His eyes remain closed.

I smile.

A minute later, he asks, “Still wearing the butt plug?”

I pause, close my eyes and lean my head on the top of the couch. “Yes, I am,” I finally say, his precious juice held and cherished deep inside me.

Kevin: 4-1: bondage room

Part one of two. This took place during my last visit with Kevin, on the evening of March 26, a Friday night. For those new to my blog, I am provided to Kevin every six weeks as a kind of companion-escort, but special permission has been granted him to take me dominantly one night per visit.

He has me in the bondage room tonight. My wrists are chained to an overhead bar, and I stand naked in heels.

His dominance of me started at dawn. This was not the Amanda- approved plan, but he did it anyway. I submitted to it.

He collared me at 7:00 a.m. and leashed me on the floor, attaching me to the breakfast table while he read the newspaper and had his coffee.

He spoke my middle name, “Maura,” which was from way back our code word for sucking his cock. I slid under the table, my chains dragging across the floor, and positioned myself between his legs. He said, “No, I’ve changed my mind.” After a minute under the table, I begged, “Please.” Silence. He got up and left me chained on the floor for another half hour, as if I didn’t matter.

He had me attached to things all day. Later he attached me to a tree in the side yard, and another time to his front door. In the afternoon he chained me to the tow bar of his Ford truck.

He took me on some errands, including a stop at one of his construction sites. I wore a collar, though I was not leashed.

I knew what he is doing — putting me in a sub space in prep for the bondage room later — but even though I knew his method, it was effective. It submerged me.

He stares at me naked, chained. I know my body looks different to him now than in my normal life with him as an escort. I am the same flesh and curves, but now his eyes scan me with a gaze of possession. It’s what always happens when a man knows he can do anything he wants with you.

He is figuring how he will do me, and in what order. This is also a calculation of his own biology, for he would love to come in me in several places over several hours, not to mention ultimately shooting his cream on my breasts and face. But he knows, practically speaking, he has just one good shot. How shall he get there, and where will that be?

I know enough not to speak. He is developing in his mind his fucking strategy, and interruptions from me will frustrate him and make for a bad vibe. Better for me not to know anyway.

His demeanor is different, and I stand feeling deeply objectified in his view. I imagine he sees my body as a map: he has several possible destinations and is drawing his itinerary from here to there. I almost expect him to take a magic marker and draw arrows on my skin.

In time, he speaks. “You love sucking cock.” Even his voice is different, now thick and growly. It’s not a question but a statement, the truth of it he well knows. As his courtesan girl in softer situations, I have admitted my cravings, and we have taken to playfully calling it my “so-called addiction.” These are things he knows full well. Of course, the point here in the bondage room is not information but humiliation. He wants to use this in a different way.

I know he wants a response, but I say nothing. I find that in certain slave times resistance naturally forms inside me. Submissive though I am, I don’t wish to give him everything. Here, it’s ridiculous, of course: I am undressed, shackled to the ceiling in a bondage room, a self-confessed sex slave conceding myself into the usage of a profoundly dominant man — and yet something in me wants to withhold my response, as if my refusal to answer this sex question is any proof of my virtue.

My words are all I can keep from him. Stepping into the bondage room, I am already giving him my flesh. I do not separate my feelings from my body, so he has me that way too. He can do what he wishes with me, physically and sexually, and it will command me as well emotionally.. All I can possibly hold on to is language — my words. And even that is about to give forth.

Tolerating my pause for now, he says it again, “You love sucking cock. Don’t you.” He frames it now as a question, but it comes out as a statement, one he wants me to affirm.

Kevin walks to the corner of the bondage room where he keeps his implements. He takes a whip in hand, a single-tail whip designed for enhanced sting and welt.

I finally respond: “You know I do.”

“You do what?”

He wants to hear me say it. Still I pause, though I eventually relent: “Yes, I do love,” I say, “I love sucking cock.”

“Any man’s cock,” he asks, “or just mine?”

This throws me off. Again he has changed his routine of predictable prompts. This seems like a trick question. One answer denies my general craving, the other diminishes him. The truth is both: “You know that I enjoy your cock more than any, ” I say. “And as you know, yes, I desire others’ as well.”

“What does that make you?” Again he wants me to say the very words.

And again I am slow to speak. He hasn’t disciplined me for my hesitancy, and maybe I can get away with it longer. I figure he wants to see how it is difficult for me to acknowledge these things before him.

I push pause as long as I think I can. Finally, I give in and speak it: “I am a cocksucker.”

He lets my words hang in the air.

If this were the forced script of a role play, it would be meaningless and trivial. Yet this is not fiction but fact, and it stings because it has the ring of truth. I have said so to him more euphemistically in other ways. Now I have said it, relinquished it, to him. Kevin has deftly taken a privacy shared and tugged it out, undressed it, and pushed it into its basest conclusion, bringing me to state for the record what I am — a cocksucker.

He continues to circle me, his whip in hand. “Some of my men [at the construction site],” he says, “would like for that to happen.”

I don’t get his meaning at first. “Would like what to happen?”

“Cocksucking. By you.”

I didn’t expect this. Our time at the construction site today was brief, uneventful. I had worn a metal collar, got the usual looks. But I could not imagine in those moments any of his men would come out and say such things to him. Kevin is baiting me.

But he’s a step ahead: “Logan and I talked later. The men were talking about you after we left.”

I’m speechless. I remember he did get a call from Logan Gattis later in the afternoon.

“I thought it would be interesting to invite them all here.” Kevin stands back, in front of me, watching, waiting for his words to sink in.

For a moment I panic. Is this for real? Are those men standing outside the bondage room waiting to come in?

“I’d like to have them,” he says, “come in here, line up, and drop trou. You’d be on your knees, sucking cocks, one after another.”

No, they are not actually here, I say to myself. They can’t be. I take a deep breath.

“I assume you will be a good girl about that.”

My mind is reeling. He said will be a good girl. Not would. To him it’s not hypothetical. It’s a real question to him. Kevin could very well arrange something like this. Would he possibly get Amanda to agree? Did he already? Would he even ask her? What would she say?

Kevin continues: “There will be seven of them. They will come in your mouth or on your face. Their choice.” He pauses. He wants to see my humiliation imagining this possibility. It’s working, mostly because he’s made me believe it could really happen. “Again,” he says, “I need to know you will be a good girl about this. I can’t have you make a scene.”

I say nothing, but now not because I’m resisting him. I am preoccupied with getting my head around whether this is real or not.

Kevin’s patience with me has worn thin. His whip comes cracking across my bare ass. I shriek, stumble forward, my breasts bouncing.

“Yes, yes,” I quickly relent, “I would be a good girl.”

“I want to hear what that means in terms of what you will do.”

“Yes, I would suck their cocks.” I say. “Seven of them, until they come in my mouth or on my face.”

Kevin steps in front of me, smiling. We both know he will use my words later, after tonight, maybe tomorrow and sometime next month when I am back. Coerced or not, my words are true, and we both know that. “Seven,” he will then say, teasingly speaking just that single number, which will put into my mind this scenario, this image of seven men, and my agreement to it. My concession isn’t feigned — he knows I assumed it might actually happen, that I said yes, that I would give blowjobs to seven men standing in a line. “We know what you have agreed to,” he will remind me, “and what you are capable of.”

He watches my face fill with blush and my nipples harden and my chest become splotchy with shame. He smiles at my humiliation. He has me where he wants me — surprised and off-balance, reeling.

He has been planning this for some time.

This was our second recent bondage room experience — that is, of this “modern era.” The first had to be aborted.

I had written not many posts ago about that February bondage-room experience with Kevin, and how it was interrupted by a phone call he received. It was something he had to respond to quickly. One of his crew managers was dealing suddenly with a health crisis, and Kevin had to rush out to help.

Bondage interruptus.

He was out till midnight unfortunately, and I had to return to Amanda the next morning. Not his fault, of course, and it is testimony to his virtue as a leader that he is so close to his employees, his crews, that he comes to their side when something like this becomes critical. But for us both, it was disappointing.

Our long-awaited return to bondage had to be postponed.

But there was something else disappointing in it. As we had started our bondage room experience that first time, I sensed something was off. It just was not working. It felt out-of-sync.

It seemed we were trying to recreate what we had before. In that, we were simply copying old patterns, and nothing was particularly fresh or genuine or surprising.

This second time is different. It seems Kevin has made some adjustments.

Kevin is done with words, and he sets about doing me in the same meticulous and silent manner as he services his truck.

He stretches rubber belts around my breasts. These look to me like fan belts from an old car. I wouldn’t put it past Kevin, car enthusiast, to use car parts and auto tools on me, but maybe not. These are more elastic. He stretches these black rubber belts to slide over the full orbs of my breasts, onto their base close to my chest wall, where he eases his hands out and the belts return to their tight, unstretched form.

These don’t hurt but constrict my breasts tautly, and over time this night they will cause my breasts to ache fiercely.

Kevin takes some oil and coats my boobs with it. In the moment, I wonder if this is actual motor oil, but it is thinner than I imagine that to be. It is an oil not a lotion, and leaves my breasts shiny and slick.

He unshackles me from the ceiling bar and has me climb up onto the bondage table, positioning me on my hands and knees. I lean forward and down so my breasts are just kissing the padded leather surface. Stretching my arms forward, he shackles my wrists to the far end of the table.

He spreads my legs, shackling my ankles to the table rings on the side. As such, my ass is positioned high and opens up into the air as my legs are pulled wide. I recognize this as something close to the slave position in Gorean tradition known as the “she-sleen.” I don’t think Kevin knows Gorean, but his purpose is the same — to display me anally and provide him ready access.

Kevin takes some of the same oil and lubes a butt plug. He pushes it against my asshole. There is pressure, and as I’m not used to anal play of late, it hurts as the widening girth of the plug forces me open. I wince at the pain and moan. The plug eventually overcomes my resistance and pops forward, and I take it in. The initial pain gives way to a feeling of fullness. The violation of it is temporary, I know, just until Kevin replaces it with himself.

In all this Kevin is tinkering, just as he does in the garage with his truck. He adjusts the height of the bondage table several times, which is electronically motorized like a dentist’s chair.. I know it gives him special satisfaction to manipulate me by simply pressing a button. He monitors my positioning on the table and shifts me by just an inch this way or that way. He checks my wrist shackles over and over. He is tinkering, tweaking the settings. Making sure he’s going to get maximum RPM.

All this is new to me — Kevin applying to my degradation his mechanic’s deliberate manner and precision. Of course, this is who and how he is, a master of steel truck parts and large forged tools. But this time, he’s brought his hobbyist’s focus into bondage time, and it is as if I am in his garage and I am the object of his mechanical obsession. Whether he is intentionally addressing me this way, with this kind of technical cool, this affects me. This is different from before. My feelings of objectification are over the top. I am splayed open as if on a lift, with my bottom chassis bared for all to see.

Kevin walks around the table, looking at me from every angle.

He leaves the room to pour himself a drink.


He is physical and energetic always, I assume with anyone, but maybe more with me because I am a submissive girl and he just can, that is do anything with me, to me, whatever he wants. And so he does.

I wonder if that is for a man dom what it is for a woman domme — the unique pleasure of owning a girl and using her as he wishes anytime, any way. I think it is different but the same, somehow.

Men are different at different times, which is a beautiful grace of sorts, but last night it was a kind of manhandling, as it is sometimes — strong and heavy though not brutal, but a pushing and pulling of me into the positions he wants, grabbing my thighs and ass cheeks and breasts, handfuls of my flesh leaving aches and red splotches, so that he can penetrate me in exactly the way, angle, and depth, whatever gives him deepest pleasure.

I’m not complaining — believe me, I’m not — just describing.

But I could be had by three men in one evening and not be left feeling as Kevin leaves me on nights like this. He does not read this blog, which is a pity, for he would then know he is a horse that fucks me with the force of three men. His male ego would be proud and self-satisfied. But Amanda, who does read this, will tell him. He will then know, yet say nothing. And she will say, “See, you are a man-slut.”

So be it.

I actually don’t do much of anything — he does the heavy lifting, literally — so it’s a mystery in a way why he leaves me so exhausted. But he plunges into me in three different places, an overload of stimuli, yet leaving me wishing I had more channels and holes and, well, vaginas with which to experience him. Sometimes one never has enough nerve endings. For him, it’s round-robin. My mouth, then my ass, then my mouth again, then my cunt, then…. As he transitions, my hands reach for him, and he laughs at my wanton need, pausing with pity to let my hand in on the stimulation orgy too.

It’s a 360-degree fucking. Everything is aroused. And that’s what exhausts me.

He edges, at precise times, always pulling back and out, then grabbing me, slapping me, until he approaches another entry point into my fizzy, sex-tired body. This is how he manages his stamina, carefully orchestrated. For me, it’s a cruel tease. For him, it’s a symphony.

On nights like this, I sacrifice any hope for my own orgasm. He is in pursuit of his own coming. And so I beg him to fill my mouth, where I can taste him, feel his viscous ooze coating my mouth, and have it spread across my lips and face. He grunts a raspy laugh, which means he will not. Using my mouth is a casual, common practice for him. He does that while reading the newspaper. This is more for him, the drama of trumpets at the end of the fourth movement.

Maybe ironically, in my exhaustion I wish for the next time to be with him in bed, soft and slow and sweet. With kissing and caressing. I think he would enjoy me as a lover.

That’s not to say I don’t like him fucking the hell out of me. Just sometimes. With other times about my sleeping with him. And yet other times giving him a blow job while he reads the newspaper.

But this is what it is. And I am so sexed by him right now, I am in an altered state, tired.

I feel warmth in my ass.

I hear him leave.

I fall asleep where he’s left me.

Later I awake and go to my bedroom, my bed.

In the morning, I shower, dress, and go to the cafe with Amanda.

q and a: sex with me, p3, orgasm edition

These are questions about my orgasms. And about the metrics of my sex life. Heaven help me.

Shae, how often do people have sex with you? In a week, say. What’s the frequency?

First, I feel I need to say that the sub-slave life is very sexual but it isn’t always about having sex. I am kept by my Master and Mistress in a sexual way, exposed and sexualized quite constantly, but there are many days when no actual sex really happens. Being submissive to someone is a powerful experience because sex is one of the possibilities at any time, but it doesn’t mean it happens every time.

Second, your question says “people,” suggesting there are many who have sex with me, which is not so. I understand the impression that there may be toward that, but, in fact, only on very rare occasions am I shared with someone other that Master or Mistress. I answered a question specific to that in my previous post, so, yes, sharing does happen, but not often. It is true that I could be given by Master or Mistress to anyone for sex, and I live in that understanding and possibility and expectation. It is also true that there are social events in which I am, let’s say, “enjoyed” by guests, by which I mean touched and fondled and played with, but never to the point of actual sex. I know my lifestyle is, in most people’s eyes, far beyond promiscuous, and I’m OK with that perception, even though I am less promiscuous now than many girlfriends I used to know in my vanilla life…. Not meaning to be defensive here, just accurate. The sex I have is primarily with Master and Mistress, not with “lots of people.” (You may not have meant that, but it seemed implied.)

So back to the metrics. There’s a lot of sexual play between Mistress and me that doesn’t involve sleeping together or actual sex. Meanwhile, Master K doesn’t really think of fellatio as sex — but I do, and I assume you want me to include that in my answer to you here. I don’t include masturbation, as I am not allowed to do that anyway.

So with Master and Mistress, I guess I am used by them for sex some seven or eight times in an average week. Some weeks it could be ten; other weeks maybe not at all. I spend more time with Mistress, but Master has me more times — if you understand my meaning.

How often does your Master have you give him a blowjob?

OK, so you want me to do the precise math. Lately, because of my broken wrist, Master K has more often used me for oral sex — maybe five times a week. More normally, it is two or three. But then he will have me for other sex.

Do you prefer vaginal or anal, Shae…or should I ask…which does Mr K prefer? Is it a dominant choice?

I’ve never asked him, but I’m quite sure Master K prefers having me anally. It is, of course, his dominant choice, never mine — he tells me when and where (almost always the bondage room), and he decides how wishes to use me, which I never know until he does me.

With my broken wrist, his use of me has been restricted, especially because his preferences for me are tight bondages and suspensions, heavy physical play, and more often than not, anal sex.

I don’t know this for sure, but it has occurred to me that traditional (vaginal) intercourse might be less preferred by some dominants because it feels to them too traditional, like love-making. Anal sex feels, to them and me, much more dominating. Maybe other doms reading this can tell me if that’s a fair assumption?

As for me, I have learned to enjoy anal sex. It was never a problem for me in terms of any aversion to it or thoughts about it, but to me it’s a very different sexual thing than traditional intercourse, and it took some time for me to embrace that kind of experience. I mean, when you enter 24/7 submissive life, you accept that just about anything and everything will be done to you sexually, and so your only choice is how you embrace and experience those things. So, within my first few months of slavery, several years ago now, I developed an enjoyment of anal sex.

To me it’s a matter of context. Anal sex is most powerful for me in the context of bondage and being physically dominated. Straight intercourse is what I prefer when it’s not bondage sex, like when I’m taken into bed with someone .

Are you able to orgasm with anal penetration or is it purely for him?

Yes, I have had orgasms during anal sex. Not very often, though. When it happens, I think sometimes it has to do with the angle of being penetrated or the weight and girth of what’s inside me — physically what is pressing against what. Other times, though, it has nothing to do with any physical sensation and much more to do with the how the act of anal sex overpowers me emotionally and submissively. That can trigger me too.

(BTW, in general, I think orgasms are over-emphasized. Sex can be extremely pleasurable for me even without an orgasm. I know that for men to see me in the throes of a strong, shuddering orgasm is to them a visual measure of what they have done to me, but please know that what you do to me should be pretty obvious even without it.)

But back to your question about whether I feel pleasure from anal sex or if it’s just for his pleasure. Yes, it can be intensely pleasurable for me too. It’s, again, a very different experience for me from other kinds of sex, especially when it’s in the context of restraint and bondage. There is a power in it, a forceful physicality, that can be beautifully overwhelming.

Do you ever fake orgasms?

No. Not that I didn’t in my previous life. But not as a slave. In slavery, authenticity and honesty are considered paramount. There’s no need or purpose to faking an orgasm. Master K tends to do me and leave me, he could care less. Amanda would know if I’m faking.

Besides it just means a lot more when it’s real.

Do you orgasm when you’re whipped or spanked?

Another orgasm question…

I am usually flogged, not often whipped, though sometimes. As for spanking. my dominants know it is a complicated thing for me (another post sometime). I have been spanked, but it is more a threat than a reality. I hope to write about that specifically sometime soon.

Anyway, yes, I have had an orgasm when flogged, but it’s been maybe just twice in my lifetime of slavery and there was other stimulation gong on at the time. I’m sure it’s quite the thing for a dominant to whip his slave to an orgasm, but for me it happens very rarely.

How often do you experience orgasms?

So, an orgasm question and a metrics question!

Jeez, I don’t know. Maybe once or twice a week. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes more. It’s a lot less important than people think.

straight on

Mid-evening he ordered me to the bondage room and claimed my ass.

It is always direct with him. Straight on, forceful, and in. He opens me like a gas tank and inserts nozzle.

With Amanda it is frequently side-by-side, our curves finding recesses in the other and fingers playing in crevices. Not just sex but domination too, and relationship. “Alongside,” in this case, does not denote equality, for she can dominate the hell out of me sitting beside me in a cafe on a Saturday morning, as we know. But also even just planning a party, we sit side-by-side at the kitchen table with notebooks and phone numbers and checklists. Or when she walks me on a leash, often she prefers me to walk beside her so she can talk to me and I can make her laugh.

I think it’s probably a mistaken stereotype that most men are forceful and physical and brutish. I even think many male dominants are less like that than we imagine. But the stereotype is so utterly true of Master K. I say that without judgment or complaint, for the experience of being demanded, of brute power, and of direct physical inhabitation of my body has it’s own ecstasy, which is deeply felt and remembered long after. Straight on has its secret pleasures.

He had me bent over at the waist, my breasts flattened against the plastic of the medical chair, which was set horizontally to become a medical table. He spread my cheeks, applied some lube, and pushed his cock into me.

Later I would wonder at the thought he put into this, perhaps a measure of care for me, perhaps evidence of a mechanically creative man solving the inconvenient problem I have become with a broken wrist. By offsetting my body more to one side of the medical table, my arm cast could dangle off in space on the right. By chaining my ankles to the base of the medical table, he has made me into a cantilever, with my naked torso the perpendicular element. I wonder if he thinks of my body as such, in terms of mechanical physics, when he isn’t thinking of my physique as flesh to be fucked.

He has, during this whole broken-wrist period, treated me as being fragile, which itself is endearing in its way, coming from a man who likes to do me hard. But gradually, whether because of his man need or because he has been problem-solving, he has invented methods to have me, safely.

He filled and stretched me, like a balloon in a balloon. He pumped me for quite a long time, slow but deep, his balls slapping me below. It was his plan all along to enjoy me, being in me, savoring the experience slowly like a generous pour of bourbon. I imagined him impaling me there, with his one hand on my hip and his other hand in the air holding a glencairn, though he’s never done that for real. He usually is not about looks and airs and masters’ swagger. Just the no-nonsense, physical domination of a woman.

He finished without fanfare. I felt his warmth and goo. He unshackled me and had me turn, facing him. Straight on.

He came closer to me, his cock still hard and now slick. It is our shorthand.

I knelt before him. I took his cock between my lips. I cleaned him with my mouth so he didn’t have to go through all the messy trouble of doing so manually.

human carafe

There is no way in which I can contain him, yet I am a container for him. He deposits himself in various ways inside my body.

You can call me his garbage can. Or his specimen jar. Or his toilet. But I know he doesn’t think of me in those ways, and I don’t feel that sort of degradation from him. He humiliates me in other ways as he wishes, for sure, but those specifically aren’t his intentions in his sex with me.

To him I am more, I think, a carafe into which he pours his manhood.

Of my three holes, he enjoys, it seems, two of them the most.

Most rarely does he come in my vagina. When he does, I think of it as more of a token symbol rather than his preference of lust for doing me. It isn’t his first choice with my body, for whatever reason. I have a perfectly fine vagina, I think, but it’s not his joy. When on rare occasions he has intercourse with me, I think it is just a reminder to me that the only control I have over my life is birth control. So when I feel his hot semen spurting into my cunt, I am aware that in some possible alt-scenario he could very well impregnate me, which would be the ultimate in his power over my womanhood.

He loves depositing his liquid in the carafe that is my ass. The frequency and force of this is entirely new to my experience. I am more used to it now, though less so his creativity in positioning my body for the sodomy. Most recently it was me bent over, my head between my legs, my wrists and ankles tied together, my doubled-over back pushed against a wall. He loves driving his cock into my anus from on top. It used to hurt, meaning I used to be too small and tight for him, but he’s stretched me. I’m a very flexible girl for men who dominate me. And now it feels good. Real good, actually. After, he has me stand, then walk around as his cream oozes out of me down my legs. He loves that, even though it means I’m a leaky carafe.

Actually, though, I feel there is a kind of special purpose he has for me that has to do with storing his juices. Of course I cannot store them in some long-term way that can produce them back, as a carafe holds coffee and pours out steaming cups of java. I think he wishes I could do that a day later, drizzle out of my ass his special latte into a cup for me to sip slowly in the early morning. But no, I may be a remarkable slave (!), but I don’t have that ability.

Instead I absorb him. His dominance, deposited in the carafe of my body, seeps below my membranes and tissues and controls me from within.

His favorite carafe, of course is my mouth. Whether me squatting before him in his study, or me bending sideways in the front seat of his truck, or me on my knees underneath the breakfast table, my mouth is his home. I do not have any ambition for love from him for me, but I dare say he is enamored with his penis in my mouth. And I have to say there is from me a touch of infatuation with his cock between my lips. I savor that. I long for that.

How did he make me this way?

So he comes in my mouth and it pools on my tongue and then it slides down my throat. And I later know it’s in my tummy.

And later in such a day, I will wear a print skirt and a pretty top and go into town for lunch.

There is no way in which I can contain him, yet I am a container for him.

q&a & sex & shae

Responding to questions asked of me about my sexuality and sex…

You said your submissiveness is your sexual orientation, like do you mean your straight or gay depending on the submissive situation? Does that mean your bisexual? Can you say anything more about that? And did you have any lesbian relationships or attractions before you were a slave? Trying to understand.

Well, thank you for trying to understand me. That’s actually a high compliment in itself. Appreciated.

Yes, I believe my submissive nature = my sexual nature. The primary way I respond sexually is through submissive connections to dominance. And that is sometimes at the hand of a man or other times the hand of a woman. I respond to each equally and enjoy each equally, but always through my submissive nature.

I think it’s probably easiest for others to understand me if I simply say I’m bisexual.
And that’s fine. But I don’t consider it technically accurate. I am “sub-sexual,” if you will, and gender isn’t a preference for me. So it’s not quite the same as being bisexual. But often it’s easier for me just to cop to that label. I’m fine with being considered bisexual.

As for other experiences with women before I became a slave, there were two. I did have a girl crush in high school. It lasted a summer, and she was a close girlfriend, older, who became for a time the love of my life. We never had sex per se, but we kissed and sort of made out a few times. I think that sort of thing is common for girls of a certain age. In my mid-twenties I had a relationship with an older woman in another real estate agency. It was for me experimental, it didn’t last long, and we kept it quiet. But we did have, and enjoyed, sex together.

Both of those were before I was in slavery, which is what you asked about. But the thing is, even back in high school I was submissive, though didn’t know it yet, not really. That was with a girl who was older than me who in a kind of way controlled me. I let her. I liked it. The later relationship was when I was just beginning to understand my submissive nature. And it was again with a woman who was older, and dominant in a way. I’m sure I was attracted to them for that.

Do you know any trans persons? How do you feel about trans persons?

Yes. One of my good friends is a trans woman in the Springs. We have kept in touch since I moved, but I’m hoping I’ll have a chance to go back and visit her this summer. I have also met some of her friends, and one of them is also trans.

I feel she and I have something in common, that we were made a certain way that is at odds with the society around us. We are each making (or finding) a life that works for us. I also think sub and trans people like us tend to wrestle with emotional swings and depression. She and I always have a lot to talk about.

But then too, I think the trans journey is much harder than my own. It’s not only about being understood in the culture, but a literal metamorphosis of one’s body and sex. I have great respect for that.

Do you masturbate? How often?

No I don’t. I’m not permitted to masturbate. My satisfaction must come from my dominants or others they share me with.

It is actually a powerful thing to be forbidden to touch your own body sexually. It is a literal submission of your body and sexuality to another. It binds me to them, primarily to Mistress, as she is the one who manages me at that level. And in itself, it’s a very intimate experience. She feels that too with me.

But even prohibited from satisfying myself, my life and body are filled sexually so much of the time, I don’t feel I need it very often.

Sometimes I’m forced to masturbate. And that might include orgasm control — a prohibition from climaxing. Those are experiences I will write about separately sometime. I think they are different from simple masturbation, as they are done in front of others. It’s a different experience.

I have to say though, that I am sometimes nostalgic for the simple, private experience of having sex with myself.

Do you use toys?

Again, I don’t, as I’m not permitted to use them on myself.

It’s funny to me that there are, to my knowledge, precious few sex toys in the house here. Mistress has a couple of toys she uses on me on occasion. Master has the bondage room, which is its own kind of massive sex toy. But there’s not a lot of smaller sex paraphernalia used here.

Master and Mistress are more about direct contact with me. As I’ve written before, Master is really about pure, immediate physical sex with me, while Mistress is more about sensual sex with me. Toys seem to be peripheral, at best.

Is there a form of sex (oral, anal, intercourse, etc.) you prefer?

For me, even when the sex is submissive, it is still relational. It is always personal to me. Even when it is bondage sex or on-demand sex, my instinct is to personally engage with him or her, and while it is as a slave, engage nonetheless. Even when I am treated as an object, there is still a person and personality who does me, understanding me and my body in a certain way.

I somehow realized early on that this life would kill me if I just numbly submitted to sex. It’s important for my own well-being to be present and personal in the sex.

With Master and Mistress, it has become deeply intimate and personal. As I’ve said, the nature of submitting your body to being used in dominant ways is perhaps more deeply intimate than many other kinds of relationships.

All to say my sexual preferences are not really about the various forms of sex done to me, but very much entwined with those relational feelings and specific experiences.

No, I don’t have a preference. But I don’t want to dodge a fair question. So I will talk a bit about fellatio, vaginal intercourse, anal sex, and then lesbian sex. But maybe I can approach this in a different way.

Fellatio, intercourse, and anal sex are my experiences with men. I feel them all as invasive, which I don’t mean in a bad way, just that they are about a man literally being inside my body. All three, literally, fill me with a man’s essence, his body inside me, and his semen. And they each leave a physical remnant, a kind of body memory, that persists for a time. I don’t know if other women sense this, but several days after a man has fucked me, when I see him again, say, in a social situation, I can feel his presence of when he did me.

I feel sex with women in a very different way. While, with a man, I am physically “inhabited,” with a woman I am emotionally and psychologically “inhabited.” It often is about touch and skin and sensation, emotional desires that translate into sexual feelings and then caresses and fondles and kisses. Yes, it can be forceful too, but even then it’s the playing out of an inner psychological relationship.

Mistress Amanda sometimes comes home and casually says, “I’ve been fucking you all day.”

I sometimes reply, “Did I enjoy it?”

She answers jokingly, “You passed out. The pleasure was so intense.”

And we go on like this. Amanda isn’t saying she had dreamy fantasies about me all day, but that emotionally she’s been entwined with me all day, and that has become a sensual experience for her. She has felt me in her day and her work.

I’ve had the parallel experience when Amanda chains my wrists. I am reminded of her all day every time my hand wants to do something off to the side and it pulls the other hand. A physical sensation that puts me in mind of Amanda and her touch, her sensuality.

How do you define your relationship with Amanda?

Thank you for the question, and I know people are curious. But I don’t try to define it. I know I tried to before, but I don’t anymore. I will describe my experiences with her as it comes naturally for me to write in my blog. I just don’t want to reduce it to a definition in words.


They each turn my life upside -down, just in different ways.

This was last night: Master, walks in the front door, immediately making way through the house to the sun room where I am reading. His eyes laser onto mine. He intends to use me. “Bondage room,” he orders.

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, immediately standing. This is the second time this week. Twice two weeks ago. He took a break last week because of my punishment.

He disappears to his side of the house into his bedroom. I disappear into my bedroom. I take off my dress and put on a tall pair of white heels. It’s what he likes. I then walk across the house to the bondage room.

When he enters, I stand naked, my hands behind my back. My breasts are flushed, my nipples perky. He can see my anticipation. He doesn’t care if I like it, but he can see I want it.

He wears a T-shirt, nothing else, erect, greased, ready to fuck me. It is always this with him, pure flesh-fucking. I am a body, flesh to him. It is utterly objectifying, and utterly wonderful.

He puts me in the swing. The nylon straps spread my thighs extra wide. He lowers my head, shoulders, upper body lower, my long hair dragging the floor, literally angling me upside-down.  An apt metaphor for how he affects me, yet this is no artsy play on words for him — it is his oh-so-very literal flesh-fucking purpose of making my pale ass more available to his urgent male need.

He takes some kind of lube and pushes it with his thumb and finger around my asshole, then inside me. I catch my breath as he does. This is his only grace with me, though far from tender — let’s just say he’s greased the gasket of a car before.

Without another beat, he roughly grabs my waist to hold me in place for his thrust, his thumbs digging into my hips. He pushes his cock past my tight anus. sliding into me. I moan, not from the considerable pain but from the exquisite feeling of being filled by a man. He then slowly pulls out, just enough, then begins his slow pumping.

It is, for me, the ecstasy of being filled, alternating with the despair of feeling vacant and empty of heart.

It is, for him, his piston in my cylinder.

As always, his cock grows wider as he sexes me, my hole stretching painfully in mild protest, but my submissive rectum sucking and milking him inside.

It doesn’t last long — not a critique of his stamina, which has awed me before. I know what he can do. He doesn’t need to impress me anyway, and cares nothing about my opinion. He was primed when he walked in the door.

He comes. His ejaculate, which I’ve enjoyed in my mouth other times, floods my ass, claiming me once again. He thrusts a couple more pumps into me, finishing. Then he walks out, having effectively and literally turned my life upside-down.

I am light-headed from blood rushing, well, everywhere. I struggle with the nylon straps but pull myself up. I get my bearings, disentangle myself, and walk across the house to the east wing, toward my bedroom.

But Amanda calls from the sun room. I go to her there. She looks up from her book, sees me standing naked and used. My pussy is pale, tight, untouched, and she knows he did me in the ass. She grabs a Kleenex from the box on the end table, waving me over. “Lay face down across my lap.”

“You’re not going to spank me, are you?” I say, trying, kind of, to be cute.

She suppresses a grin, maybe because I am cute to her right now. “No. Just come here, Shae.”

I lie across her lap face down. She takes the Kleenex and spreads my ass cheeks and wipes my asshole where Master’s cum is oozing out. She puts that wad of tissue on the end table and grabs for more. She wipes me again.

“Turn over,” she says.

I wriggle myself around so I’m face up on her lap. I curl my body close to hers. She cups my breast, fondling me, circling her finger around my areola. She smiles down at my face. I smile back. She leans down and kisses me, soft, tenderly — turning my life upside-down once again.

the claiming of Shae

This account is not normally the kind of personally explicit thing I like to write on my blog, but, as you’ll read, I was ordered to. It is not that I avoid writing about the sex others have with me, but that I want my blog to be more about my submissiveness and the dynamics of life in subjugation — the feelings and meanings and relationships within my slavery. But I am in a new situation, as my readers know, and this is germaine to my new obediences to Master and Mistress.


So he tells me to write about this night to come, this night of my claiming. He says, “Tonight I will fill all your holes.” He wants this to be known. Perhaps this is what I am to him, his slave, a girl with holes for him to fill.


Mistress Amanda had told me earlier about this ritual. The claiming of a slave. It was new to my understanding, nothing Master Michael had observed with me. “A dominant has a sex night with his slave,” Mistress had said. “It’s all night, sex with the slave in bondage. Non-stop, an ordeal. It is a kind of initiation. In doing this, he will claim you as his own.”

“What will he do to me?”

“He makes it up as he goes. I expect he’ll fuck you silly. But I don’t know. He’s really into your body, Shae. Somehow he’ll leave his imprint on you. Physically and emotionally. He will tame you. Or, I should say, if you’re smart, you’ll let him tame you.”

“I see.” I paused, then I’d said, ““How about you? Will you claim me too?”

She had looked at me with a look of disbelief. “Shae, I thought already had.” And, of course, two nights earlier she had taken me into her bed. (I haven’t written about that yet.) She added, “But perhaps I need to do it the old-fashioned way, in the bondage room with whips and ropes and the St. Andrews.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, now you’ve earned it.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I just meant that if claiming me required…”

She interrupted. “You’re so damn cute.” She swept my hair back from my eyes, pulling it back behind my shoulder. “You want to be claimed by me.”

I nod. I didn’t go on to say that she has already claimed my heart. I didn’t say other things too, things I want to say but don’t know if I can say. This is so confusing, being a lover to one and a slave to two.


He starts with me late in the evening. Maybe it’s eleven.

Master K takes me into the bondage room and shackles my wrists to a drop-down ceiling bar that he lowers by means of a remote control. This room is heavy hardware and bondage furniture with movable parts, all with ways and means for a girl to be attached to anything in any way, and managed by remote controls. A dominant’s wet dream.

This is clearly his domain, designed by him, harboring methods of domination I would never have imagined.

I stand in my high heels, wearing a slight blue dress and nothing else, and my arms stretch into the air, attached to the ceiling bar. Master K leaves to shower and prepare himself, I guess. But I suspect he has planned it that way. He wants me to wait.

So much of slavery is waiting for the inevitable.

When he returns, he is naked. A leather strap constricts his cock and balls, making them engorged and seemingly super-sized, taking my breath away. I have written before how Master K is imposing in stature, tall and thick and physically coarse, and now I am aware he is all the more commanding nude than in a business suit.

He is not a man of small talk or pleasantries. There are few words, and what words he does use are orders. There is no foreplay, verbal or physical. He is not there for me, but I am there for him, and this is about him making me his pleasure, his satisfaction. And it’s about even more than that, I know. He is there to conquer me, mind, body, and perhaps soul.

Master stands close. He unclasps the ring at the back of my neck, and my little blue dress slides down my body, over my hips, and to the floor. I am naked before him for the first time.

He stares, walks around me, leers and ogles.

He takes my right breast in his hand, bounces it, lets it fall, making ripples in my flesh.

He does it again. And again. Then my left breast, a slight squeeze, then a bounce. Then from behind me, he cups both my breasts simultaneously. He seems to like that they are bigger than his hands. He rolls their flesh around like they are large spheres of mercury rolling and reshaping according to gravity. I am there for him to play with.

“You have big tits,” he says.

It’s not a question, and I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.

“They make men want to fuck you.”

Again, it’s not a question, just a statement.

“Yes, sir,” I manage to say.

He’s in front of me now, and takes both my breasts in his hands and squeezes them hard. Tears come to my eyes, and I bite my lip. He squeezes harder, and I can’t help but yelp from the pain. He pauses, then squeezes even harder, another level of pressure, and I scream. He releases and I exhale sharply. Tears roll down my cheeks.

“If these are covered, then you’re just a tease.”

I nod.

“Do you believe that you, a slave, have any right to tease men?”

“No, sir.” My voice trembles.

“Then we’ll need to keep you topless so you aren’t just a tease, and men know you are available. Your purpose is to provide fuckings. We might as well show people you’re open for business.”

Now he’s full of words. I know he’s trying to break me by demeaning me. Yet what he says and the way he states it have their effects.

“Yes, sir,” I say, believing he’s right, that my purpose is to be fucked by men.

“Who owns you?” he asks.

“You do, sir.”

“Do I own your tits?” he asks.

“Yes, sir, you do.”

Master K lifts my right breast quickly, as if tossing it in the air. As it falls he deftly smacks it with his other hand. It stings like hell and I yelp. He does it to my other breast. Tears roll from my eyes.

He goes to a box in the corner of the bondage room, returning with a snarl of super-sized rubber bands. He sorts them out, takes one, stretches it wide, and loops it over my right breast, adjusting it under, and letting it go at the base of my chest. It doesn’t hurt but constricts slightly. I feel it.

He takes another rubber band, and does the same, this time on my right breast. I close my eyes as I feel the constriction. He takes another and slips it over my right breast, again.

I look down and, to my modest horror, realize there are a dozen rubber bands on the floor beside him.

Sure enough, he applies all of the rubber bands around my breasts. By my count some seven around each of my tits. Individually, the feeling was slight; in the aggregate, my breasts swell and throb.

Looking at Master K again, I am once more aware of his mass and size. He is solid and big, and towers over me as he squeezes my breasts into the shape of cantaloupes. His rough power attracts even as it terrifies me.

“Your nipples,” he says. “I will want to have them pierced. Prettier with rings and more useful to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Master Michael was intending piercings for me as well, and I am slowly resigned to men putting holes in my body.

Master K goes back to his box of tortures and pulls out some objects that I realize close up are manuscript clips. This is not good.

He takes one clip, squeezes it open and presses it over my right nipple, then letting it slowly clamp shut. I squeal. The pain is excruciating. He repeats with another clip on my left nipple. Again, the pain is unbearable, but soon the agony of both my nipples settles into an throb, awful but endurable.

“It will dull after a while, but you will bear it all night,” he says.

I bite my tongue. One realizes that when she’s naked and bound with a cowboy man, here’s nothing to be said or done or objected to.

He presses a remote. The ceiling bar descends, “Kneel,“ he says.

I obey.

He positions before me, his cock appears in my face. “Suck me,” he says.

I do. His cock tastes of soap at first, then it tastes earthy. He is thick, just as I remembered him from that final day at Master Michael’s house.

I know very well he has a whole night ahead with me, and I can’t imagine how he will pace himself, but almost certainly he is not intending my fellatio right now to bring him to orgasm. My mouth around his organ is simply to warm him up and keep him hard.

Also to condition my mouth to the shape of his manhood.

I remember taking his organ slowly, sliding my mouth straight over it and straight back, my tongue wet and smooth underneath. His hand is at the back of my head, but he is not pushing me into him. It justs rests there, almost tenderly. My arms are still stretched upward, shackled to the ceiling bar.

It is curious to me that this man is virtually a stranger — I’ve had hardly any time with him at all — yet this is the second time his cock has been in my mouth, and is already familiar to me. He is not so long that he hits the back of my throat. I can take all of it into my mouth. My lips then go to the base, my lower lip gracing his balls.

He keeps his cock rocking back and forth along my tongue in this gentle-rhythm fellatio, like a slow dance to a song that never ends. Maybe “Stairway to Heaven.”

In other words, he has stamina.

In time, he pulls out, and steps back. He lowers the ceiling bar more. Some of my saliva has drooled to the floor. He orders me to lean forward and clean it up with my tongue.
I bend forward so my face is inches from the floor. My arms stretch back and upward behind me. My hair falls forward over my shoulders and around my face. I extend my tongue and lap up my pooled saliva from the dirty floor. I finish and sit up again.

Master K says nothing. No affirmation. Apparently, cleaning the floor with her tongue is what a slave is supposed to do. He walks to the ceiling bar and unshackles my wrists. He tells me to walk to the bondage horse.

There are a number of furniture pieces in the bondage room — a padded medical chair, a St. Andrews cross along the back wall, a cage in one corner, a swing made of nylon straps, and the bondage horse.

The bondage horse is the centerpiece, sitting in the middle of the room like a perverse throne. It’s shape is a half-barrel with wide ledges, wings, on either side — all of it covered in black leather. I would learn that the length is adjustable manually, and the height adjusts by means of a remote.

He tells me to climb up and straddle it doggie style.

I do so, walking to it and mounting it, placing my knees on each of the wings. My straddle opens me behind, and I am aware that my pussy and asshole are splayed open, which is the point, I presume.

He has adjusted the length of the half barrel to end right below my breasts, so they hang over the other side. I see that my banded breasts are now a deep red, and as they hang down I feel them throb.

Master K presses a button on the remote and I feel the wings lower. It settles my torso flat along the half-barrel. He shackles me in, my ankles locked to the edge of the frame, my wrists shackled together behind my back, and my collar attached by chains on either side to a ceiling bar — to keep my head up and facing forward. I am rendered immobile.

I have, of course, been in bondage previously — not so much under Master Michael, but in my pre-slavery days when for a short time I visited clubs with a friend. So yes, I’ve been tied and bound in various ways before. But I’d never before been bound so completely to a thing of this mass, strapped so tightly to an object that I practically become part of it. This is one of my deep submissive responses which I’ve written about before — my profound submissive feeling in certain buildings and machines and contraptions of weight and control. So this is a new experience, and I am tingling even as I am aching and throbbing.

Master K walks to my front end. I realize I have been reduced to a front end and a rear end. His cock extends a few inches from my stretched neck, too high for his purpose. He presses the remote and the bondage horse, with me strapped in, lowers by several inches. Now his cock is even with my lips.

Once again he pushes himself into my mouth. His taste and girth have become familiar. I realize he is making my mouth his home. I cannot move, my head immobile in the traction of my collar and chains, so he pushes his hips forward and slides himself in and out over my tongue. Again, he is not forceful, not trying to abuse my mouth, but make it comfortable with his cock sliding into it.

I have lost track of time. There is no clock in the room, no countdown for my ordeal. We started late. It might be midnight or one. It will be what it is. There will be this, and then more, and then something other, and then another thing, and then it will be dawn, sometime.

He pushes into my mouth. He pauses. Leaving it there on my tongue, his meat touching my cheeks, my saliva juicing and covering him. I do not assume it is a special intimacy with him, or that he desires such with me, but we submissives always dream that there is more, don’t we? Yet it is, to me, somehow lovely even as it is forced and rough.

Alas, he pulls out of my mouth, and I feel empty. He stands back, perhaps looking at me like a sex toy or blow up doll or his new slave girl who is in between a piece of standard property and prime real estate. Truth is, I don’t know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t talk much.

He walks to my other end. His thumb slides over my anus, his fingers slide between my labia. I am wet, and he notices, grunts, wipes his wetted fingers along the back of my thigh.

I hear him walk to the corner of the room to one of the boxes. He returns, and I feel his thumb touching me behind. It’s a dollop of petroleum jelly, and he’s smearing it against my asshole. Then a finger slips in, dragging some jelly inside me there. His thumb enters me. Another finger. Two fingers. He stretches me. A third finger. He jellies me. I know what’s coming.

There’s another adjustment of the height of the bondage horse. My ass is facing upward, and I expect he wants to come into me a little from above.

He says nothing.

I feel his cock at my anus. His cock head probes me. He is thick and I dread his penetration. I sense him positioning himself squarely behind me, his body between my thighs. His cock head pushes against my asshole. With his hands he stretches my ass cheeks apart. He presses in. I am tight, but soon his cock head plops inside me. I feel the initial pain of it, and I moan, but it dulls, and I’m OK.

Master K slowly slides further into me, graciously allowing the jelly to lube me inside.
God, he is thick, which I’ve observed before but never is more felt than now. I am stretched, though there is no pain. Soon I feel his groin pressed flat against my ass cheeks, and I know he is all the way inside. He holds himself there for the longest minute. I am stuffed by him, this my cowboy master, and I am the holster that sheaths his gun.

He pulls back, and the movement is easier now that the jelly has lined me inside and his presence has widened me. He begins his long back-and-forth fucking of my ass, like a piston in a cylinder. He has a precision to him, a regular pumping, and it feels mechanical in a predictable way that is strangely comforting. I have no doubt he could do me differently, roughly, and will at some future time, but for now, his purpose his to fill me, to make my body conform to his manhood.

The rhythm is mesmerizing, lulling me into my subspace, and is a lovely thing. Time fades. My soul is deeply warmed by being possessed and inhabited in this way. My entire awareness deep focuses on the sexual sensations of his pumping presence in my ass and the ripples it sends to my pussy. There are other moments too. At times I feel violated. I cannot move or resist or object. I am his slave. He is taking me. Possessing me. And possessing me there. I am being sodomized by someone still a stranger. I feel shame, but not for what I am submitting to: my submissive body cannot help but welcome his presence even as it feels offended. I really want it. Him. His cock. Inside me. There.

The body remembers. And that’s what he wants. For me — tomorrow, days from now, a week hence — to still feel his phantom thick presence inside my ass even when he’s not actually there.

If I say he is taking forever, it’s not a complaint, just a curious observation. His stamina is impressive to me. His way with me — hands firmly on my hips, the deep focus on his penetration of me, the fact he has not once touched my pussy — carries with it control and intention. It is actually comforting to me. He may beat the hell out of me sometime, but it will be for a reason. He has purpose and self-control. Enormous self-control.

I am immobile, but his pumping of me makes my flesh ripple. It shakes my breasts, making them ache even more. I moan, whether from my breast in tight agony or from his meaty cock spreading wide in my rectum. I shake my head, almost the only movement I can make, flipping my hair back from my face, not so much an futile effort at making myself more presentable, but more to remind myself that I am a woman with pretty auburn hair and not just a colonoscopy in progress. We reach for dignity even in the moments when dignity is farthest from us.

Again I think about the time, not that it matters. I imagine he has been sodomizing me for almost an hour. Maybe not, but it feels like that long a time, which is not to say I don’t like it. He is making me his, and to a submissive heart, that is glorious. This is my experience — pleasure and pain, joy and shame, fear and comfort — alternating and revolving rapidly like a strobe light.

Maybe it’s two a.m. Or some other time.

He slows down. I think he is now at a point of release and wants to edge himself awhile.

He pumps me now a few times, then stops. Another two times, then stops.
In time, he lets himself go. He thrusts into me fast and hard, making me grunt and, at times, moan. This, too, goes a while. Somehow he feels even harder, and I feel more stretched than ever.

There is a final push, a thrust that rocks the bondage horse, and me. I scream. And he unloads in me. I feel his warm semen shooting deep inside me in several spasms. Then a fourth smaller one, and he is finished. He takes a moment, then pulls out.

And now, bizarrely, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want him to stop. I don’t want to be without his thickness there inside me. I feel empty.

He walks to the far corner of the bondage room, retrieving something. Behind me again, he pushes something against my anus. It’s hard and smooth. Metal, cold steel. He keeps pushing, and the object feels bigger than he was, and then bigger yet as it seems to expand along its length. Just as I fear it’s too big for me, it pops in, forcing a painful stretch and making me yell. The widest part now inside me, I feel a round base kissing my hole. The plug is installed.

Master K walks around to my face end. His cock is softer now, glistening, slightly drooping but still engorged. “Clean it,” he orders.

He steps close, his cock touching my cheek. I lean toward it, opening my mouth and taking it between my lips. My mouth remembers it from before — it’s weight, it’s girth, the texture of its skin folds. He tastes like mushrooms smell, some combination of his musk and the earthy pungency of my ass, and it occurs to me that the comingling of our intimate flavors is kind of marriage, albeit a matrimony of domination, one consummated by a man’s cock sodomizing a girl’s asshole in bondage. It is this unequal mingling of flavors that coats my tongue. He remains soft but I like him that way too, and his cock even at rest makes my mouth its home.

Later he unshackles me from the bondage horse, though keeping my wrists cuffed behind me. He tells me to dismount, stretch, and walk around. I start to move, and the movement of my breasts is now a fierce ache. I look down and my breasts are crimson. My nipples are mangled in the vices of the manuscript clips, but they have become numb.

As I move off the horse, Master K scans the leather and sees a wet spot where my pussy oozed. “Lick it clean,” he says. I obey, leaning over from my waist until my tongue reaches the black leather. I lick it in wide swaths, collecting my juices, and leaving behind smears of my saliva. Master K has a rag in his hand and wipes the leather there in that spot, and then all over the leather horse, as if buffing the finish of a sleek sports car.

He asks me if I have to pee. I say no. He attaches me to the ceiling bar again, and he walks out of the bondage room. He is gone for a long time. I listen for sounds of him elsewhere in the house, but I hear nothing. I stand, my arms stretched up to the ceiling bar. I cannot imagine what other business he has, for it must be one or two a.m. or so. Perhaps Amanda has come in late and they are talking. Yet I cannot hear them.

I feel the butt plug lodged tight inside me. His cum has taken on my body temperature so I don’t feel it as when he first ejaculated into me. But the liquid is there inside, a stream of ooze sliding here and there as I shift my legs.

He returns after the longest time, and my eyes go to his cock, now my lover and my tormentor. It hangs down, soft. I say nothing, but in the stupor of the night, it is my desire to make it hard again. My submissiveness makes me easy prey for his dominance, but in his methodology, his slow all-night fucking of me, he is wedding me specifically and obsessively to his cock.

He pushes a button on the remote, lowering my arms. Once again he tells me to kneel.

I obey.

“I need to pee,” he says.

I look up at him. I hardly can comprehend what he means.

He says it again. “I need to pee.”

It then sinks in. What he intends to do to me. “Yes, sir,” I reply, even as my face is expressing distress.

“You will take it all in your mouth. Swallow. Do not spill any on the floor.”

I nod, reluctantly opening my mouth.

He steps forward and places the head of his penis just inside my mouth. He holds it there. Soon a stream of his urine shoots to the back of my throat. I fight the urge to choke, leaving my mouth open. It is a flood, and it fills my mouth quickly. His piss is warm and acrid to the taste. I manage a quick swallow, but I make the mistake of closing my lips in the middle of his stream. It sprays over my lips and cheeks, dripping to the floor. I quickly open my mouth again, and capture perhaps another half cup. I wait for a pause in his urination, and when it comes, I swallow. There is another stream, this time not as long or profuse, and then yet one more. After another swallow, I open my mouth for him again, and he taps his cock on my tongue, letting the final drops dribble into me.

He is done. He walks to the far corner of the room and grabs some tissues. He dabs them to the tip of his cock, then tosses them. He has no intention of providing tissues to dry off my face.

He returns to me and says, “You spilled. Lick it up off the floor.”

I lean down and obey, cleaning the floor of his urine. When I’m finished, I look up and I think I detect a slight nod of approval.

The night continues. He takes me to the the medical chair, actually a gyno-chair, with adjustable sections at either end, and metal extensions with ankle clamps that clearly are meant to serve as stirrups. He has me lie down on my back. He ties my hands to another ceiling bar at the head of the chair, and he places my ankles in the manacles on either side of the foot end of the chair.

He steps back. Of course, there’s a remote for this as well, and he presses buttons and adjusts me so I am sitting partway up, presumably so I can watch his fucking of me. My breasts are now unnatural orbs of blue, like twin planet Neptunes. My legs are extended wide. The footer of the chair has folded down, and now my pussy is just over the edge, my slit open.

Master K is hard again. Again, his stamina is impressive. He has had enough time to recycle. Perhaps that’s what his absence was in the other part of the house. Or maybe he was drinking water in preparation for making me his toilet.

And then he begins, stepping toward me, his erection horizontal. He takes his cock and slides its head along my slit. I breathe deeply, sigh.

This is the third act of the play. I know this whole night is conditioning me. I know he is claiming me. Hole by hole.

He pushes straightway into my vagina.

I gasp at his intrusion. His meat is thick and full as it was in my ass, but now this is a different presence, a different fullness, the special intercourse of a master with his slave. He slides in and out of me, and it’s as if each stroke is one step more toward my taming.

Once more, he takes his time, slowly pumping me. I soon am aware he has a rhythm, pumping very slowly the full length of my vagina five times, then holding his cock planted fully inside me for maybe ten seconds.

His purpose is surely his own pleasure, not mine, and perhaps this is his way of pacing himself, but I suspect even more he wants me to feel him inside me, for me to get used to his presence there. It is his way of saying, “I’m moving in. This is my place now.” That’s what this whole night has been about.

I am close to climax. He doesn’t care. He continues his deliberate rhythm as I start to tense. It comes from my core and ripples out, my thighs and belly shuddering first. It crashes upward, my banded breasts soon shaking, creating new aches and making me scream, a sound of both pleasure and pain. My climax comes and then subsides, fading away like a tsunami that never reaches shore.

He watches, I presume enjoying my helplessness and utter vulnerability, but he doesn’t change expression or his metronomic rhythm. My orgasm doesn’t matter to him. It is irrelevant to him, an inevitable byproduct of his fucking me. He is simply using me as he wishes, and, as he promised, “filing my holes.”

In my pleasured wait, I am now ashamed of what has been my judgment of him.

Personal, never spoken, sure, but harbored in my private impressions, I’ve seen him as rough and physical, not necessarily thoughtful. Perhaps I’ve fallen for the stereotype of “rural, blue collar,” and assumed wrongly about his education. And then perhaps I equate education with intelligence, smarts. I know better, but still, there it is in my sense of him. So wrong of me, and I am ashamed. Clearly Master K is a very intelligent man. Not only in his professional life but in his domination of me. He knows exactly what he’s doing with me. He has me bound naked in a gyno-chair, is pressed tight against my vulva, and is deeply implanted in my vagina. So who’s the smart one in this picture?

He executes his strategy perfectly over this extended time of intercourse with me, as his cock feels more and more familiar. And desired. He has made me want him, crave him. I know when he is done with me, as before, it will leave me, and I will feel empty.

I cannot say how long he fucked me, for I have lost all sense of time in this alternate universe. It feels like forever that he has been in my vagina, and then not long enough. I wonder how many other girls he’s had in this chair. Amanda, perhaps, as I know she switches, but then I can’t imagine her submitting to this with him. But no doubt he’s had others. How have they been with him? Which of them has he liked most? Who has he preferred? I stop myself, knowing I am sounding like a high school girl, jealous and silly.

His rhythm changes into something else, and I sense he’s close. He tightens his grip on my hips, then thrusts into me hard. I grunt at his force. Then again. And he holds himself there. I feel his spasms, and then his thick hot syrup coating me inside. I close my eyes.

He pulls out of me. He reaches for something near him. It’s another plug of sorts, this one with straps. He pushes it into my pussy, stretching me until the thick part is in. It catches there, and its base, cold and hard presses against my labia. Master K manipulates the straps, going around my waist and a single strap connecting above my vulva and through my legs underneath and up to attach to the waistband behind. He tightens it. This also secures my anal plug below.

He untethers me from the chair and tells me to kneel. He shackles my wrists behind me.

Again, he presents his cock to my face. “Clean it” he says.

I take his dick into my mouth and give it a warm bath with my lips and tongue. I am thinking this will be one of my regular duties, perhaps, this bathing of his manhood with my mouth. Disgusting to most, perhaps, but I don’t mind, for now, this morning, I like it that my mouth is his home.


There is more.

Master K eventually removes the manuscript clips from my nipples, the pain of which cannot be known in human history. I yelp and cry, tears streaking my face.

He removes the rubber bands around my breasts, which carries it’s own kind of pain, but then relief as well as the pressure in them begins to subside.

He pulls a dog dish from the box in the corner, and places it on the floor. He tells me to kneel and straddle it.

He unhooks the strap holding in my vaginal plug. Once undone, he slowly eases the plug out. He places the stainless steel plug, wet and smeared, in front of my face. “Clean it,” he says. I take it in my mouth. At the same time, I feel his semen flow out of me into the bowl below.

When I have dripped the last drop, he repositions me over the bowl. He teases out of me the anal plug. Again he pushes it to my face and tells me to clean it. I take it in my mouth and wash it. And now there is a slight trickle that flows out of my anus into the bowl.

Much of his semen I have absorbed.

Master K tells me to lap up the contents of the bowl.

My knees go to the floor and I settle back on my haunches, leaning down, and pushing my face into the bowl like a dog. Now Master K’s bitch. I extend my tongue into the cummy wetness, and lap it up into my mouth, tasting its bitter foulness.

I finish, but Master orders me, “Clean it,” and I bend down again, and lick clean with my dishrag tongue the bottom and sides of the bowl.

Now he has me stand at the end of the bondage horse, and tells me to bend over and to stick my ass out. I obey. He takes a flogger to my ass, warming my cheeks with its thick leathers. This seems to me random, apart from the strategy he has been executing meticulously.

Then I feel it — the biting, brutal spank of a cane coming down at an angle across my ass cheek. I scream.

Master K repositions behind me. He canes me again, this time the torture striking my left ass cheek, a vertical stripe. Again I scream. I start to sob.

There is one more. Third strike. I yell.

He puts the cane away, then walks me to the mirror against the far wall. He turns my backside toward it, and tells me to look. My ass is welted in three brilliant blood-red stripes.

Forming the letter K.

“You belong to me, Shae,” he says. “Tonight I have claimed you. I will continue to use you as I wish, to fill your holes as I wish, to fuck you as I wish. Is that clear?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“I expect your submission to me in everything, without question or hesitation. I will take care of you, and never harm you, but I will have your utter submission to everything I require. Is that clear?’

“Yes, sir.”

“It is four a.m. Go to your room, clean yourself up, and sleep for a while. I will be up at eight-thirty, and I expect you to have a cup of coffee ready for me then.”

“Yes, sir.”


I manage not to sleep through my multiple alarms. I do not want to be late for him. I had showered at four before falling into bed, and now at eight, I try to freshen my face and hair. I don’t know what to wear. I decide nothing, as he’ll want to see the marks on me. I tie a scarf around my waist, hoping he’ll like it. I laugh at myself for imagining this as a coffee date and thinking a scarf is the fashion statement that makes me desirable. But I want him to desire me.

I make the coffee and stand, waiting. This is habit, my years of making coffee for Master Michael.

He appears at eight-thirty with a newspaper under his arm. He says nothing, just sits at the breakfast table. I serve him a tray with his cup, saucer, cream, and sugar. I pour a cup of coffee from the pot.

He looks at me as I walk back and forth. He sees my labia, still red and swollen. He sees the band marks in a perfect circle around my breasts. As I turn to put the coffeepot back, he sees his artwork on my ass, his signature “K.”

I kneel at his feet.