quartet

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

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

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

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

And now there’s the bay window.

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

She has been very clever.


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“Ha, ha,” I replied.

She will do it too.


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

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

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

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.

return to the bondage room… not

One thing I had not written about regarding my last visit with Kevin was the experience of him taking me in his bondage room.

I didn’t write about it because it didn’t happen, not really.


For those new to me, here’s the background to this: I was once owned by Amanda and Kevin together, slave to them within the same house. After about a year, Amanda moved to Denver and took me with her. As compensation to Kevin, she has allowed him to have me every six weeks or so for his sexual pleasure— but specifically not as his slave.

As slave to Amanda, I am now shared with Kevin as his escort.

Kevin has a bondage room, rather well-equipped — which is also an apt description of Kevin’s house and truck, as well as certain aspects of his physical anatomy. I have written about times when I was still his slave and he took me into the bondage room and “claimed” me in hours of bondages and humiliations, leaving me breathless and dripping and in submissive euphoria.

But after Amanda took me with her to Denver, I visited Keven as his escort-companion, not his slave, according to Amanda’s stipulations. No more bondage room.

However, after a year of visits to Kevin, in January this year, Amanda said to Kevin he could take me in the bondage room for one night each time I came to him. My January visit was to be our first time back in the bondage room since 2019.


He had told me that he would have me in the bondage room my last night there — sort of a climax, so to speak, of the four days.

He also suggested that during that day I go into the bondage room and wipe down the surfaces. I assumed this was because he had used the room with someone else and hadn’t cleaned it later. But instead I found it was dusty. He hadn’t used the room for many months, maybe more than a year since I was still his slave.

Well, I really don’t mean to tease this. He had me standing, shackled to a bar from the ceiling and with a spreader bar attached to my ankle cuffs. We were just starting.

He got a call from one of his employees. It was a dire emergency.

He uncuffed me, explained, apologized, and that was that. He was gone until very late. It was a bizarre and difficult night for him.

The bondage room will happen instead next time I’m with him, at the end of the month.

Master McKenna 2

I split this into two parts only because of length. Now continuing…


We come back from break, and he starts to explore aspects of my sexuality: “Amanda tells me that you are, more specifically, a sex slave. Do you agree with that?”

I take a moment to collect my thoughts. It seems he is patient enough with me to allow me to think first before answering, but I wonder in my more formal submission to him if he will be as patient. Amanda gives me space for that.

“Yes, I think of slave types as ‘specialties,’ in a way. I think one could work to specialize in one or another thing, although we each have certain affinities, I guess. But I could be another type — being a service slave, for example, would come somewhat natural to me. But at this point in my slave life, I’m a sex slave…”

“What does that mean for you in practice?”

“It means, of course, that I am used for sex by my dominant and sometimes by others. But more often it involves my being sexualized — presented sexually, undressed to one degree or other, perhaps displayed in sexual ways… In general, it all means that my primary purpose is sexual… I accept that.”

“Did you decide you were a sex slave as opposed to other types, or was this Amanda’s decision for you?”

“It honestly wasn’t something we talked about much. It was something that evolved. She started assuming that too. It just has made sense with me. And with her. That’s what I am. Or maybe she knew it all along.”

“You are bisexual, obviously. Is that how you identify? Is it even for you?”

“Even?”

“Attraction to women versus men.”

“Oh, right… Yes, I identify as bisexual. And I am equally attracted, though it’s different for me in the experience. But yes, I have strong attractions to men. Amanda teases me with that. I’m sure that’s partly why she is giving me to you, sir.”


More coffee, more conversation. He asks me about my own services to Amanda, what I like about how she handles me.

I answer, but I fear he is going to go into the BDSM checklist thing of my likes, dislikes, and limits.

He doesn’t. In fact he says the opposite: “You’ll find I am not a dominant who caters to you. In a way, I don’t care about what you want. When I have you, you will be there to cater to me.”

“Yes sir.”

Actually I am relieved. In saying that, he has just started feeling much more dominant to me.


“I will be training you,” he says, “in basic things that I like done in precise ways. We’ll start by how I want you to sit and stand and walk. I’m sure you have gone through that times before. But I have very specific expectations. I demand a certain precision. I will train you in how you appear and behave when you accompany me, wherever that might be. I will train you in how you speak with me and with others.”

I nod.

“Shae, I wish to hear your verbal assent.”

“Of course. Yes sir.”

“You will find I am more formal that what you’re used to. I believe in protocols, how I want you to behave in various social contexts. I will train you in those. I am not one to obsess about classic slave positions — I understand you have some training in that — but I will train you in a few positions that I want you to readily assume in specific ways.”

“Yes sir.”

“I believe a slave exists for service of her dominant. I will shape you into the slave I desire, the girl I allow to be in the same room with me. If nothing else, that itself pleases me greatly.”

“I will do my best to please you.”

“I’m sure you will… When we get past the basics, I’ll get into sexualization and objectification with you. I will enjoy humiliating you. I will use you in sexual ways but in ways that please me and perhaps not always ways that please you. Like I say,, you will find I don’t care much about that.”

“Yes sir.”


It occurs to me for the first time that Amanda is aware her dominance of me is “soft.” Our relationship is slave-mistress, for sure, but also girlfriend-girlfriend and lover-lover. Her dominance of me is influenced by these other relations.

Is giving me to Master McKenna her way of providing a harder dominance of me, something which she does not wish to provide?


We are toward the end of the morning. He asks me if I have questions for him. I have thought I might be asked for such, and I have a lot of questions in my head for him. However, I intentionally focus on just a few — and not questions about how it will work for me but how it can work best for him.

“Thank you sir. I think I just want to ask about how I can best meet your expectations. That’s way general, I know, but I can be more specific.”

He seems to appreciate my intent and jumps in: “I want your complete yielding to me. I know that Amanda is your owner and Mistress. Nothing changes that. But when I have you, I don’t want from you any hesitation or questioning or holding back. I expect your complete devotion and yielding to my will.”

“Yes sir… more specifically, I would ask if satisfying you, meeting your needs, involves bondage or not. Also pain or not. I am asking truly just to know what pleasures you.”

“Very well. Yes, I will enjoy putting you in bondages. I have a room. Pain, yes sometime I enjoy inflicting pain. Not a big thing with me. Amanda has suggested limits for some things, which I will observe, of course.”

“Thank you… Also I am wondering if my slavery to you would involve personal services. Amanda sometimes has me bathe her, do her hair and nails, pamper her in those ways. I don’t know what that would mean to a man, what is comparable.”

“I have ideas for that. Yes.”

“A final question… What was it that your former slave, Shana, did for you that you appreciated the most?”

He pauses. “An excellent question. Let me think about that. I’ll give you an answer before I go today.”


We take another break and then there is another short time of conversation before Amanda joins us again.

He asks about my earlier life and background. I talk about my schooling, writing, and real estate career before entering slave life. He asks about my parents. I don’t share too much about that, but simply report that my dad passed away some time ago and my mom is living in Pennsylvania.

He mentions that he is fifty-five, noting he is almost twice my age. He never asks if that is a problem for me, but I know that is what he is circling. As this comes out right after I’d mentioned my father, I suspect he is also thinking that he is old enough to be my father. But he doesn’t go there.

Even so, I volunteer that in my submissive life everyone I’ve served has been older than me. “I think age, and to some extent the older someone is, conveys to me a greater sense of one’s dominance.”

Which has always been true.


Master McKenna stayed for lunch. I put out some sandwich fixings and chips. I was then dismissed.

They sat in the kitchen and talked some of the logistics and details.


He requests of Amanda a final few minutes with me in the living room.

There he says: “Your question about Shana. What I appreciated about her the most was that she was strong without being defiant. I want a girl who is fully submissive but not fragile.”

“You want to be able to crush me while knowing I will still be resilient.”

He blinks at my response. I surprise myself with how it comes out, so forward like that. But I know when he said that about Shana it is what he meant.

“Exactly.” he said, smiling.


Amanda told me later about the arrangement they’d come to.

Initially, I will be provided to Master McKenna every other Saturday. The first two times, he will come here to the house. Amanda will be around, but not involved. If then it seems to be working out, she will continue this, but then I will be going to his house on those Saturdays. After two or three months, she will reassess.

Amanda had to work out schedules on the calendar with him, specifically accommodating my times with Kevin. That is still a bit of a wrinkle in this, simply because Kevin’s schedule with me seems to vary based on his work.


A day later, I am, of course, processing it all.

Being shared with a dominant stranger like this is not a casual thing, but neither, I see now, is it so big and potentially traumatic as I might have imagined it to be. I find I am more comfortable now in what it is and will be. Amanda wants to give me a new experience. She gets her kicks from seeing my submissiveness in the context of others. It is the next thing for me in her development of me.

Master McKenna, as I feel him, is a strong dominant man. At least with men, I am better in the presence of strong, clear dominance than something softer. (Perhaps with women I am better when it’s more relational.) Master McKenna’s style is formal and exacting, with, it seems, specific expectations — and that I will respond to well. He had moments when he smiled and laughed, so he is not without a lighter side. Perhaps he will enjoy my sense of humor.

In all this, I guess I am relieved. As a dominant man, Master McKenna is appealing in a certain way to my submissiveness. If that weren’t the case, this could be more difficult.

Anyway, that’s how I am feeling today. Tomorrow I may wake up in sheer panic.

Much to think about. I will share more.

about Amanda and Kevin

I am aware these days that a number of my watchers and followers are more recent subscribers and haven’t had time to go back to read my earlier posts. (I am also aware that I’ve written a boatload of posts going back now two years — such that I myself am forgetting what I’ve posted in the far past!)

Most of those legacy posts are not so important really, but sometimes there are things in my current life that are confusing to a newer follower who doesn’t have the background of the earlier posts.

So it is with this man, Kevin. In my current life I go to him in a town some five hours away by car. I do this about every six weeks or so, for a period of about five days each time. In fact, Amanda created this arrangement, shares me with him in this way, in which I provide sexual services to him, sort of like an escort.

Some of you, understandably, have asked to know more about Kevin, how he and Amanda know each other, and how this came about.


Amanda and Kevin, I am told, first met at a D/s lifestyle event in Chicago about seven years ago. Both are dominant, although back then Amanda sometimes switched. Both from Colorado, they subsequently kept in contact with each other.

A year and a half later, Amanda moved in with Kevin. I think this was 2015. For them, living together was a decision of practical convenience. Kevin had a huge house and used only a third of it. Amanda was starting an online business, had poured her funds into the startup, and didn’t have money to buy a house.

Theirs was not a romantic relationship. I’m not saying they weren’t intimate sexually, for they were at times, and there was BDSM play between them, but they remained separate and kept different social connections.

One common interest was they wanted to find a live-in submissive. Amanda had connections in the D/s community that Kevin didn’t have. They felt it might be more likely to find a submissive girl if they were together.


Amanda eventually did find a submissive she and Kevin both liked.

They forged a relationship with this woman and eventually worked out a trial period with her of a few weeks.

However, she lasted only a week.

This was not for any lifestyle reason or relational problem, but because of a tragic death in her family in California. That effectively derailed the whole plan with her.


Around that time, I was seeing a dominant man by the name of Michael. That’s a whole other story. I was about to enter into a 24/7 with him, and I was still a newbie to the D/s life.

I am told that Amanda had been at a lifestyle party where she’d seen me. Apparently she talked with me then, but I am embarrassed to say I don’t recall it. Many of these lifestyle experiences were new and overwhelming to me at the time.

The story goes that Amanda had designs on me from that first conversation, and she was disappointed to learn I was already with Master Michael. She talked with him and mentioned that if circumstances were ever to change, she would be interested in me.


Two years later, my circumstances changed.

My dom, Master Michael, was facing health issues that made it difficult for him to keep me. (There’s more to this part of the story — for another time.) He remembered Amanda, contacted her, conversations were had, and they began to discuss a transition of me to her and Kevin.

Much else happened to lead into this, but I won’t spend time on that here. Suffice it to say, I became sub-slave to Amanda and Kevin, jointly. This was at the beginning of 2019.


Kevin and Amanda had very different views and needs regarding D/s. I don’t think they fully understood these differences until they got their girl — me.

Kevin basically sees dom-sub as just one of his many sexual preferences, a kind of sex that he enjoys from time to time. He has a sizable sexual drive that seeks a variety of sexual experiences. Bondage sex is one of them, but not a constant need. Back then, he wanted a submissive he could take into his bondage room, but also one who could provide him, well, vanilla sex on demand, especially fellatio. But he didn’t much like the 24/7 commitment of dominating a sub-slave. He didn’t have time for that.

Amanda, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. Owning and dominating a slave girl is relationally and emotionally exciting to her. Sex and bondage are parts of it for her, but not the main thing. She seeks to dominate a submissive psychologically. D/s is to Amanda her life calling. She never really cared much about the BDSM aspects of the lifestyle as Kevin did, but she wanted the dom-sub with me to be a real relationship, possibly permanent.

For most of a year, I served them each separately within the same house. Kevin used me for sex, trained me in fellatio, and at times took me in his bondage room, which was an overwhelming (and wonderful) experience for me.

Amanda, meanwhile, captured my mind and heart.


By the end of that summer Amanda and Kevin had conversations about another change. I don’t know all the reasoning. Amanda needed to extend her business back to Denver. Kevin was perhaps feeling too tied down to us at the house and wanted more freedom to see other women.

But I also suspect that Amanda and Kevin had been finding it difficult to live in the same house together.

Long story short, they decided to split, for Amanda to move to Denver. She would take me with her.


I was part of the financial arrangement between them.

Much of those details I am not privy to. But essentially Amanda repaid Kevin for his earlier financial assistance. And more: in a sense, she bought out his portion of me.

He didn’t want to give me up, but also didn’t want to maintain me 24/7. So part of the arrangement was that Kevin would still have access to me, on some regular, perhaps monthly, basis.

Amanda insisted that she would be my sole dominant. I could not serve two masters hundreds of miles apart. When I came to Kevin each month, Amanda stipulated it could not be dom-sub. She forbade Kevin taking me into the bondage room. He could have me as he might have an escort, sexually, but not dominantly.

And so it has been since last fall. Because of COVID and other things, my visits to Kevin have not been as regular as was originally intended, but I have gone to him, I think, seven times in the past fourteen months.


When I lived with both of them, Kevin kept himself closed to me personally and emotionally. He wasn’t much for conversation. I wrote about this a lot, desiring to find a more personal connection with this man who was dominating me so forcefully, claiming my body.

In this new arrangement, Kevin has opened up to me more. He has become more conversational. He does not dominate me any more, but he has me for sex as he wants it. We are more like friends with benefits. I like Kevin, and this has become a comfortable and enjoyable experience for me.

The one thing we both wish for, though, is an occasional time in the bondage room again. Those experiences had been so extraordinary for both of us. So far he and I have observed the rule Amanda originally stipulated, but I wonder if in soon time, Amanda will relax that restriction.

in good standing

He is impulsive but not wild, urgent but not violent.

In the midst of our conversation, he suddenly stands, holds out his hand, and says, “Come here.”

He leads me to the living room wall and pushes me against it, face forward. He tells me to spread my legs, and I obey.

I hear him unbuckle his pants. They slide from his hips and I hear the belt buckle clink when it hits the ground.

He lifts my chemise from behind, and I feel him against my thighs and then my ass cheeks, until he guides his cock and finds my opening. He pushes himself into my pussy. I breathe deeply from his fullness inside me.

He slides his feet behind mine, his legs aligning against mine, his torso leaning into mine. He pins me to the wall, his weight pressing me there, flattening my breasts into fat disks against the wallboard.

This is the closest he has come to force and bondage. He would dearly love to take me in the bondage room, but Amanda has forbidden it. He can have me but not as his submissive, not as his slave. Instead he pins me against the wall with his body. It is a different form of capture.

His urgency is exciting to me. I like being pinned, and truth be told, I would love for him to drag me into the bondage room and humiliate me there like he once used to. This here is not enough, but it’s what he can do, and I give myself to it, and to him, and to his heavy body pressing the breath out of me.

He swings his hips and pumps me from behind. It is raw and rutting, a primal fucking.

And quick. In a few minutes he tenses and pushes his length deep inside me. He groans, releases, comes.

Between heavy breaths, he kisses the back of my head. He steps away and I hear him pulling up his pants and buckling them again. He returns to his chair.

I remain against the wall, catching my breath and my composure. I turn and walk to his chair. I touch his shoulder and ask if he wants something to drink. A beer.

I go to the kitchen to fetch it and feel his slick semen between my upper thighs.

I bring him his beer and return to my chair. In time we start talking again.

caged: a longing

Sometimes I would be content just to be seen and watched, observed like a painting.

I imagine myself in a vertical cage.

It is exactly my height — plus a few inches for my heels. My hair graces the cage’s top metal plate. It is a frame of steel pipes rising up vertically from the base and then horizontally across, spaced at one-foot increments. Real pipes, as if you could flow water through them. There is a small break in the pattern in front, a hole through the piping grid, an opening of about eighteen inches wide by twelve inches tall.

For food, perhaps.

The cage, whether a prison or a safety pod or elaborate sex toy, is exactly my size. That is, the cubic geometry of my naked body — my width: the breadth of my shoulders and the width of my hips, and then my depth front to back: the base of my chest to the outward curve of my rear cheeks — makes me a cube of flesh. This metal cube of a cage is fitted to me, a cube of flesh, such that my body becomes part of the cage itself, its bars pressing into my flesh in places so that cage and shae occupy some of the same physical space.

I can only imagine another story that is about the fitting itself — me standing naked in the human cage store, being sized up by a man with a measuring tape. The cage is thereby designed and presented — but wait, you say, the fitting hasn’t accounted for the girl’s breasts.

These are my glory and also my bane. Almost always the problem, they throw my metrics off, the cause of ill-fitting dresses that are perfect around my waist and hips but tight on top, squeezing my orbs behind the buttons of a bodice that strains and stretches. So too with cages, apparently.

I imagine the man at the human cage store says to Amanda, “They won’t fit,” meaning my breasts. He is intimating that a younger, more lithe and slender girl might be an easier project for him — some Donna actually fits in the standard human cage. Me, not so much, and that becomes a a custom job, and another shame for me to stand in. She is too big — the little man in the human cage store says.

Amanda snaps back at him (in my dream of dreams): “No, she is perfect. Your cages are deficient. But here’s the solution. Allow her tits to project out.”

Whatever the back-story of measurement and design and construction, I stand caged behind bars, naked, my ass squeezed tightly against pipes, taking on the imprint of prison bars, my breasts pushed through the opening in front. I cannot move. My legs are stretched wide, ankle-shackled to the floor of the cage. My arms are wrist-shackled to the ceiling of the cage.

Soon the guests arrive.

There will be forty of them, or whatever number that overwhelms me. They will be amused by seeing me caged, intrigued and full of pity, rich with lust.

She has ball-gagged me. Despite the inevitable drool that will coat my chest and breasts with slick white glistening ooze, some of it dripping below between my legs, into my pussy and onto my feet — I am grateful. I don’t want to speak.

I know I want to be caged because I want to be free of responsibility. I want this because I am a submissive and a slave and a sex slave and don’t want to explain or apologize or justify anything. If I am imprisoned, kept and gagged, I can let go of myself into the strange peacefulness of being a simple object in a cage.

They will wonder at the sexual art I am presented to be. They will fondle my breasts through the opening as if I am an animal at a petting zoo. They will speak in front of me, abasing me in words of humiliation, as if by being gagged I cannot hear. They will look and gaze and ogle. They will fantasize having sex with me, both men and women, and I will see in their eyes exactly what they will do to me.

Sometimes I would be content just to be seen and watched, observed like a painting. Just like this.

being reclaimed

Since my return Tuesday, Amanda has been much more “mistress-y” and much less “girlfriend-y.” It isn’t that she’s been unkind or hurtful, but she has been very domme with me. I know she is reasserting her dominance and reclaiming her property, after my time with Kevin.

She has kept me in some form of bondage ever since I returned. Besides the entryway wall, she’s attached me to the wet bar once and chained me into the easy chair several times. During our work days, she’s had my wrists in the short spreader bar, allowing me to type, but awkwardly.

There is no sense of punishment in this. It doesn’t feel like that. I suspect she is reestablishing her authority over me. She may also be fulfilling her domme needs after my ten days away.

I have been more and more aware of this, how Kevin and Amanda have their cycles, sexual or dominant or both. I fulfill them both in turns.


We have talked in the evenings over wine. She has asked me about my time with Kevin, specifically my sex with him. I have come to know this is not jealousy. In fact, it has little to do with Kevin at all. Amanda is wanting to possess my sexual experience. To know what I have done, how I felt it.

She has prompted me to recount my every sexual time with Kevin. It’s been sobering to realize I don’t remember some of them, or at least not well enough. With Amanda, I have had to develop a vocabulary for it all, reaching for unique words that capture my sexual impressions— “harsh,” “sweet,” “easy” “urgent,” “thick.”

I do not know how this works for Amanda. She is bisexual, but in her current season has more or less sworn off men. I know her probing curiosity is about experiencing my sexual sensations and responses, but my experiences were with a man and based on my sexual desire for men. She read what I wrote about my secret passion for a man’s cock and later prompted me to retell it. But if she is sex-neutral toward men, I don’t know how much pleasure she can retrieve when half of that coupling doesn’t work for her.


Amanda has also been unusually interested in how I am with Kevin apart from sex itself, how I am with him, say, leading into it. This seems to be about my “style” with him, how I am enticing or seductive or, to use a terrible term, sexy.

Of course, I am not any of those things with Kevin, or at least not intentionally so. I may write about this separately, but it’s been curious to me Amanda is so interested.

This goes to how I talked with Kevin, the kinds of conversations we had, what sort of attitude and approach I had with him. She’s asked me about that numerous times. I’ve tried to give her examples, not quite knowing what she is after.


Evenings we have resumed our walks, though not as girlfriends walk, but with me on a leash, two steps behind and to the side.

She is reclaiming me, putting me in my place. She wants the world — and me — to know it.

chair talk

I am in it tonight, the chair, naked, my legs draped over its padded arms, ankles chained to bolts underneath, my wrists shackled in back. She has figured out that chaining each arm to the opposite side in back — my left wrist to the right eye bolt, and vice-versa — arches my back, stretches my chest, and pushes out my breasts.

Amanda can chain me into this in about ten seconds.

This is in our primary living area where we read and talk. Tonight Amanda has me bound this way but is talking with me in normal conversation, as if my pussy is not presented all public and pale, puffing out into peach-pink folds. She pretends to ignore my gaping sex, but doesn’t quite manage to — while she talks, I feel her licking me there with her eyes.

Her desire will build and she will later have me for sex, taking me as she wishes to have me served up to her.

We talk about our neighbors — Amanda has had some more conversations with them. She wants to visit the older couple soon, maybe even this weekend, with me collared and leashed and heeled. Wearing masks takes some of the eroticism out of it, she says ruefully. “People need to see your mouth and lips,” she says, “and imagine what they can be used for.”

I look at her with a kind of bemused glare.

“Of course,” she adds, “when people see you, I think they guess what you’re used for.”

Ah, good one. Amanda is in her domme element, a gentle one not a harsh one. She has degrees of domme, like a blender with settings 1 to10. This is a two, “gentle mix.” Ten is “frothy whip.”

She smiles, pleased with herself for her verbal humiliation of me.

I start to say something, but stop. It’s ridiculous for me to protest that I am not a slut when I am sitting before her as I am.

And she is already on to talking about something else, something now about my slavery being made known to more people, how great it would be if everyone knew I was a born submissive and was a sex slave.

This Is her Holy Grail, to make me completely public in what I am, to demonstrate me and share me. She gets off on seeing others’ reactions, judgmental evaluations, and lustful fascination at my being revealed for what I am. And she thrills to see my humiliation as I weather those looks and leers and the range of ways in which people interpret me..

I sometimes think that if she ever did achieve this Holy Grail — make me completely known as a sex slave to everyone — she would then get bored and tired of me. She’d get to the end of “Shae” and need someone new.

But there are so many people in the world for her to humiliate me in front of. That should last us through the end of time.

Which is good, I guess, but maybe not actually comforting.

For a while Amanda shares about a personal matter, something private to her life, such that I will not reveal here. Just to say it involves her family. She wants my thoughts, and I share them, and she thinks they make sense and give her a new way forward. She thanks me.

This is a kind of conversational ping-pong — a back-and-forth of topics and discussions, some slave-sexual and others about regular life. It is Amanda’s vision for making my sub-slavery normal, common, casual. She integrates it and me into daily life — and into our dialogue. Family matters share the same air with the sexual use of my lips and mouth.

We discuss my upcoming trip to visit Kevin. We still don’t know what week it will be, but probably week after next. Amanda says we should probably get my car into the shop for an oil change and fluids check. I nod, realizing that will need to be this week.

Then out of the blue, she asks, “Are you eager to have his cock in your mouth again?”

I shake my head at her, as if saying “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.” Of course she has all mistress-authority under heaven to do so, but she isn’t often so blunt. She smiles wickedly. I say nothing, and I say nothing defiantly.

Of course, quiet defiance only goes so far when I’m sitting chained and splayed open as I am.

”Shae,” she repeats coaxingly, “are you eager to have his cock in your mouth again?” The blush of this is not that she asks the question, but that she knows the answer. She just wants to hear me say it.

I set my eyes on her in faint protest, but I feel a reluctant admiration at her audacity, and I can’t suppress a subtle grin. “Yes,” I finally say.

“I think you’ll get a lot of it,” she says. “I think you’re both very hungry.”

Just then, Amanda’s cell rings. The number is from a work client, and clients are warned against calling at night. This must be an emergency of a sort. She takes the call. The problem sounds complicated, like it will take a while. Amanda wanders into the other room, talking, then paces her way back. Toward me, she rolls her eyes, indicating that it’s likely much ado about nothing, but she has to talk this guy through it.

Amanda kneels beside my chair, putting her phone on the floor. The man is jabbering away loudly. She unhooks my wrist and ankle cuffs all around. She retrieves her phone and says uh-huh, letting the client know she’s there.

I do not change my position, leaving my legs open and draped over the arms of the chair.

She is now saying something to the client, and as she speaks, she sits on the floor, leaning her back against the front of the chair, nestling herself between my legs. Amanda lifts her long hair from behind her neck, tossing it backward so it blankets my pussy with its brunette softness.

I lift my legs from the arms of the chair and hang them over Amanda’s shoulders. Still talking, she leans her head against my inner thigh.

She reaches her free hand back. I take it and hold it.

With my other hand, I stroke her hair, and lay it over my pussy, over and over again.

As Amanda continues her call, I am sure she is deeply aware of two things:

Her slave girl, who eagerly desires a man’s cock, craves something else much, much more.

Her slave girl doesn’t need easy-chair chains to bind her — she is firmly bound, always and ever, in another way.

Blake 2

It has been hard for me to capture in words the true experience of that day, my physical exposure, and the submissive feelings of those hours. I have needed some time and distance to write this, though I have diary notes, as always, to remind me of what was said, what happened, and what didn’t happen.


I had been bound to the wall, then was taken down like a nude painting.

Now I sit again in the chair in the entryway. My legs are together and angled properly, as if there’s anything proper about any of this.

Blake is now doing the finish work on the lower part of the wall.

My experience is quietly sexual. You cannot put me in an undressed submissive posture with a man and expect me not to feel aroused. And it shows. But at the same time, it is not about sex exactly, as I do not expect it nor do I fear it. It’s just a slow eroticism, driven by my obvious availability, and my awareness of it.

He looks at me at times, and I feel his eyes. He is doing his job, yet watching me. He is polite in the watching, but quiet, and there’s much in his quiet I wonder about.

I wonder if it is more remarkable to him that I am a woman sitting here naked or that I am a submissive woman obeying someone else in order to be naked before him. Does he think I would do this if I weren’t made to?

He is a smart man, I am sure, but I doubt he thinks about such things. This is the psychology of a submissive. And, even then, probably this is a labyrinth only I get lost in.

No, he just looks over at me, my breasts and my pale pussy — I feel him drinking me. He seems about to speak, then just comes quiet.


There is something about his work, his hands, the business of handling metals and woods, nails and screws, tools with loud motors and batteries or cords. His is a world of solids, hard materials that have edges.

I have no hard edges. I sit across from him, soft flesh in hills and valleys, supple skin that slopes and folds, parts that swell and ebb like ocean tides. It is my nature too, my submissive desire being a kind of spiritual flesh, flowing like mercury, constantly oozing into new forms and spaces, begging by its nature to be constrained.

As he measures the baseboard in the entryway, it occurs to me that this man of precision steel edges could not actually measure my breasts. His ruler is too hard and straight, and his metal tape, though flexible, too crinkly awkward and imprecise to calculate my flesh and fullness.

There is some satisfaction in that for me: the thought that a slave like me can be caged but not contained, can be bound but not broken, can be mastered but not measured.

Ah, these are the things one thinks about when sitting naked with a carpenter.


Amanda has me sit in the easy chair as the two of them stand and analyze the task to be done. It’s actually quite simple: eye bolts on the underside of the chair to attach my cuffs to.

They start with my arms, and Amanda demonstrates me by pulling my left arm around and down. Blake eyes where my wrist falls toward the rear legs of the chair. “You will need some links of chain,” he says.

Amanda says that’s fine here, that she just didn’t want the clutter of chains in the entryway.

“Just five or six links, I’m guessing,” he says. “I can make it so the chains are attached to the bolts and are stowed there underneath out of sight. They can be already there when you bolt her in.”

“That would be super,” Amanda says, pleased.

He is talkative with her, it seems, and as he says “bolt her in,” I feel he is actually complicit with her in executing my slavery. This is his installation of hardware for my bondage, and I wonder if he is feeling Amanda’s unrestrained joy in all of this, and now beginning to channel it himself.

Blake has me draw both my arms around and behind, telling me to make sure I’m evenly seated and my arms are the same extension on either side. I stretch my arms backward, and my breasts jut out even more.

Amanda tells Blake he can position me himself. “You can touch her. She won’t break.” And he does, at one point squatting behind the back of the chair and taking both my hands in his, and eyeballing the position. He tells Amanda to look at me from the front to see that I’m sitting straight, which she does.

She winks at me, and I glare back at her (all this, really?), and she pronounces to Blake that I am straight. Which in some other context would be hilarious.

He marks the chair legs then walks around in front.

The intention is for my legs to hang over the padded arms of the chair, my ankles shackled to eye bolts underneath. Of course, for the work to be done now, it requires me to open my legs.

I have no reason to believe Amanda and Blake conspired on this ahead of time, but it seemed to me that my “positioning” in the chair was totally unnecessary, that Blake from the start could have simply turned the easy chair upside down and drilled the eye bolts into the chair legs in a matter of four minutes. It would have worked fine.

But Blake now stands in front. I am actually feeling giddy now, perhaps my tension earlier in the morning wearing off. The absurdity of it all has become humorous to me.

Blake actually tells me, “Open your legs.” And I immediately feel a flood of funny, an immediate rush of one-liners: “Not on a first date…” or “If I had a dollar every time a man said that to me…” or “You know, I’m not that kind of girl…” When, of course, obviously I am.

Maybe I’ve been smiling through this or maybe my pause has made him realize how that sounded. He tries again: “Put your legs over the chair’s arms and make it comfortable.”

I shake my head slightly and slowly, as if to say I can’t believe this, and, repressing a laugh, I lift my legs up and over, letting my ankles dangle on either side.

There’s nothing that says “comfort” more than splaying open your bare pussy in front of a carpenter man.

Amanda, standing over to the side, is the director of this all-day play. She is having her fun. She loves the control. She cast Blake as the leading man. If at first he seemed bland and stoic, turns out he has the cool reserve of Keanu Reeves.

Blake, having been given permission to touch me, slides his hand under my thigh and shifts my leg further forward. His hand is rough and warm. His touch floods me. He asks if that’s comfortable, and in all my scandalous exposure, it again seems funny to me, given my Blake-sized crevice yawning before him. I want to say something snarky. I start to, but Amanda picks up on it, and gives me a steely look that says behave yourself.

The director wants the scene a certain way.

“Yes,” I finally say. “Comfortable.”

He makes marks on the inside of the chair legs then tells me to stand up and to the side.

I do so, and Blake flips the chair over and drills eye bolts into the legs in about four minutes.


We are well into the afternoon and we have the wet bar to do yet. No one has had lunch. Amanda offers Blake a sandwich, and he says that sounds good. I beg off, asking Amanda if I might lie down, take a short nap. She wonders if I’m feeling OK, and I am fine, just tired, for some reason. I know when I get giddy and everything gets funny to me, I am at the edge of tired.

I nap but do not dream, or such as I remember. My awake reality is itself enough like a dream today.


I re-emerge from my nap in my short robe, which purpose is not really to conceal me for a few additional seconds in an otherwise nude day, but to give me a sense of being a model for a shoot. Not sure that’s working, though.

Amanda and Blake are behind the wet bar, and she is trying to explain to him her idea. She sees me, waves me over. My robe comes off, and I stand at what now is a familiar position, my legs apart, my torso bent at the waist, and my breasts hanging down on the bartender side.

“You see,” Amanda says, “she’s the right fit for the bar.”

“So you want to chain her into it,” Blake says.

“Yes. At the base, and I’m thinking a hook chain from her collar to the bartender counter on this side.”

“How bout her hands and arms?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know.”

I am aware Blake’s conversation with Amanda is easy and natural. It seems he now has become more fully Amanda’s partner in planning my domination. I wonder if he is dominant too, or if it’s Amanda’s natural woo that has beguiled him.

They arrange my arms in different ways, as if I’m a Raggedy-Ann doll. Blake suggests just locking my wrists together behind my back. Amanda explains how she likes the possibility of my flat back being a surface for drink glasses.

Blake goes on a while on an idea of constructing a tray that would straddle my back, for a firmer and steadier surface. His words are coming fast now, as he’s in his element. Maybe it’s because he feels good with Amanda, but more likely he’s excited about solving a woodworking problem. Again, he is complicit in my being used, but he does not think in terms of flesh and girl and curves, just angles and oak.

I find myself wondering if he is different when he’s not working, when he’s dating, when he’s in bed with someone.

They have me stretch my arms out along the length of the bar top. Blake says the bartender will have to reach over my arms with glasses, not slide them, and there’s likely to be spills. “That’s OK,” Amanda says, “she can be spilled on.”


Stretched out along the wet bar, I tune them out. Their voices fade into mumbles.

The account of that Sunday is only partly about Blake. I realize it’s actually much more about Amanda.

She has mashed two people together in a kind of experiment.

She has that rule over me but not him. Yet he has gradually allowed himself to be pulled into this scene beyond the specific functions of hammer and nails. She has not only won him over, but she has gotten him to join the planning committee. He is brainstorming with her now in pursuit of my sexual use. God.

As for me, her intentions have been all over the place, confounding me. Of course, everything serves her domination — the whole day is about submerging me in submissive experience. And well done. Check that off the list. And I know there’s an element of her wanting my public exposure and to a stranger. Check, check.

But I don’t know what else she expects. Is my day-long nakedness in front of a man to mean something more? It has made me feel objectified and sexualized, for sure. Is it some sort of conditioning of me? Am I supposed to get used to it? For I certainly have not — I am just as tremulous and vulnerable-feeling now at the end of the day as I was this morning.

Does she intend for Blake to have me? Is there some sexual outcome to this day? There has been this tension for six hours now, which is a nervousness that something will happen and also a fear that something won’t.

I decide Amanda would not hesitate to give me to him. I think she would. In fact she’s almost dying to. But I doubt that she would engineer that for him. She would think about how he would feel later, about our future work and relationship with him. She would not assume that level of goddess control over his life. I don’ think. Or maybe not yet.

But he is enjoying himself now — this creative partnership with her, my submissive presence all day, my open pussy and my hanging breasts as I assume a humiliating position across the wet bar. He is drinking in his pleasure, and that will be enough for her. At least for a while.


Amanda now is talking with Blake about a bench step behind the bar. “So a person can be positioned at the same level as Shae’s mouth,” she says. I expect her to say more, to be more explicit, to explain she wants people to have access to me for blow jobs — but she doesn’t need to.

Blake nods and says that even with a bench step, the guy would be distanced because of the bartender counter. “But here’s what might happen instead.” Blake goes to the end of the bar and demonstrates. He lifts himself and kneels on the bartender counter. “It could be like this.”

Amanda nods, but she’s not liking it. She’s still thinking.

Blake says, “With her, especially made like this, guys will find a way.”

“Yes,” Amanda replies, “but the whole presentation is about making access to her easy, not with obstacles… The whole look is meant to be an invitation… Is it possible to cut out the center part of the surface on this side, so someone could stand in the gap?”

Blake eyes the bartender side. He kneels down and looks underneath. “Yes, I think so. I’ll have to angle the cut. Otherwise you’ll have sharp edges. I can round them too, like the other corners. Re-finish, of course.”

Amanda agrees. “Let me think about this cutout thing.”


Blake finally sets about putting in the eye bolts. I move to make room for him to work. “No,” he says, “I need you in place.”

I’m not sure he does, but I obediently resume my position. He grabs his measuring tape from his waist belt and goes to the bartender side, measuring the full length of the bar. He does math in his head apparently, then measures the halfway point, the exact middle. He marks that with blue tape. He then has me stand in that center point.

He circles the bar again, now is behind me. Again his rough hands are on my hips. I feel the front of his jeans against my ass. “Lean forward. Keep your head in the same position,” he says, “but now spread your legs to the distance you had before.” His hand now comes inside the upper part of my thigh, inches from my pussy, and it makes me start. He pushes my leg out. I adjust.

Now he is touching me more freely than before. His hand then goes to my other thigh, pushing my leg in place. I am standing upright, but he puts his hands on my hips and instructs me to lean across the bar top. I obey. He wants to see where my waist bends. So he says. He has me repeat this, bending over at my waist.

He says to Amanda, “She has to be as natural in this as possible. Otherwise she won’t last long.”

Amanda is behind me, so I can’t see her. I imagine she is nodding. And enjoying this immensely.

He comes to the bartender side and has me lean over again. My breasts slide against the bar top edge, then tumble over the side. He reaches under and feels the bar top edge as it frames the lower curve of my breasts. His fingers slide along my breasts where they meet the wood. “Can you lean over so there’s more space here?’

I try again and there is a smidge more space, which is better. He feels that space, and my flesh once again.

Blake has me stretch out my arms, and he measures points under the bar top.

It is late now in the afternoon, but he is taking his time.


Finally I am dismissed from the wet bar, but Amanda has me stay present, standing, and still naked.

Again, installing the eye bolts is relatively swift and easy. They are all hidden, except for the ones in front, which will be painted a dark color that will blend in.

Once installed, Amanda wants to see me locked in.

Once again I assume this position now so familiar it’s part of my physical memory, and I am finally, firmly, attached to the massive wood of the wet bar.

This is what Amanda has longed to see for so many months, and along with the entryway and the easy chair, it gives her a playground for her incarceration of me, bondage opportunities that are organic to the house, open and part of living spaces, party spaces, not sequestered in a dark bondage room.

Amanda and Blake talk more. About this and other things, other projects. I remain in bar bondage, all bare flesh being ingloriously viewed as they talk.

But if I have been skeptical about each of these projects, the preposterous and audacious concepts that they are, I now, locked in, feel strangely comforted. I can do nothing else. I have no obligations, no means with which to perform, no expectations I can possibly fulfill.

All that can happen is what would be done to me, what way in which I might be used, what method by which I would be enjoyed.

Submissive pleasure flows in this.