Master McKenna call

He calls me occasionally. At first it was every week but has been less frequent of late. He called Wednesday.

“I’m thinking you’ve replaced me by now,” I say.

“Not yet but taking applications. I’ve put the job request through HR.”

“Ha, ha. Glad to know I mean so much to you.”

“For some reason,” he says drolly, “my HR people balked at one of my job requirements. I listed ‘big tits.’ They said it wasn’t PC. Go figure.”

Nice…” I reply.

He asks if I’m having any “adventures” out here. I sigh and tell him that absolutely nothing is going on. “I’ve taken to walking half naked in the woods,” I say. “It’s come to that.”

He likes hearing my submissive desperation. And I like being desperate in his presence. In normal times, me there with him, it would lead to something.

He asks about Mother. He has been genuinely concerned, and I sense it’s not just for my sake, but an empathy for her. He is not far from her age. I update him, and I tell him the latest thinking about Lucille providing live-in service, although I imagine he’s already heard that from Amanda.

“I think I will at least be back for a short time in June,” I say. “Just ten days or so… Maybe, I’m just thinking, maybe you might take me, even if not our regular schedule, just a few days?”

“Amanda will have plans for you.”

“I know. She wants to mate me with the whole neighborhood. But if I could convince her… You know, it could be a great opportunity for you.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?” I hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m at a point where I would do anything for you.”

“You already do.”

“OK… I know. That’s the problem of my being your slave. I have nothing to bargain with.”

“Besides,” he adds, “it sounds like if I took you, it would be more for your need than for my pleasure.”

“I kinda thought they were the same… But you’re going to make me beg for this, aren’t you.”

“I am.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“It’ll have to be a creative, utterly humiliating beg.”

“I was afraid of that.”

I ask him about his work. He talks business for a while, and how it’s been a season of travel for him. I wonder how he has gotten all the reports done. He says he’s farmed it out to one of his offices, but it’s a pain in the ass for him. “They get things wrong,” he says.

“I do too sometimes,” I say. “But you have me naked while I do them, so you don’t notice so much.”

He laughs.

“So, I think you should get me a cage,” I say impulsively. “A big vertical cage to put me in.” I go on to say that Amanda won’t get me one. “It’s all I can think about these days.”

“Maybe in the garden outside the wall of windows in the Great Room,” he says.

“Oh, Jeffress would have a field day with that.” (Jeffress is the landscaping guy at the mansion.)

“It would make a lovely bird cage. For a big bird.”

“See, now, you’re making fun,” I say. “I’m serious. No one takes me seriously on this. I’m telling you I am meant to be kept in a cage. It’s something you should want too.”

“Seems you have a lot to beg for.”

I sigh. “Like I say, working on that, sir.”

Being in conversation with him, this kind of repartee, heats my longing to serve him, to submit to his dominance. Out here, I have never been able to turn off my submissive desire, but it certainly has been running in idle. Every conversation with Master M revs it up once again.

He says he has another meeting in a few minutes. I thank him for the call and for bearing with my sassy demeanor, although I know he likes it.

“Oh, yes,” he adds, “before I go, there’s something else. About Maria. I’ll put it this way: If I actually did post a vacancy for your position, she might like to apply. I’m guessing.”

Maria is Master McKenna’s housemaid. “I’ve wondered about her,” I say. “She’s asked me a lot of questions. A little too curious for it not to be… something.”

“Well, one, she misses you. She’s asked about you a dozen times. Two, she’s afraid of me, but has mustered courage to ask me about what I do… with you.”

“Maria is afraid of you because of what you do to girls like me.”

Master M laughs. “Probably… She’s naturally timid, but I think some of that is a natural submissiveness…”

“I sense that too. Which may be why she’s curious.”

“So, I’ve been noodling on something,” he says. “It would be for when you’re back. Like for a longer chunk of time.”

“Whenever that is.”

“It’ll happen. With great respect for your mother’s situation, you’ll find a solution, and you’ll make it back… You need this too much.”

I sigh. “You have no idea.”

“So, this might be complicated. If Maria is open to it, I wonder if you might tutor her. In the art of submission.”

This is new. I take a moment to absorb it. “What’s your end goal?” I ask, using his vocabulary.

“Big picture: a training program. If I am making the D/s retreats with dominant trainees a regular thing, it makes sense to me that I’d have a submissive training academy as well. Maybe they get paired. But that’s getting ahead of things. For now, I am just putting two pieces together, you and Maria. If she’s interested in learning.”

He’s talking about me in a way as if I’ve never left, including me in his Next Big Thing, and it warms my heart that I continue to partner with him in my own slavery.

“Would you be her dominant?” I ask.

“That’s the complicated part. I employ her, technically through one of my businesses. That poses legal problems. But I think there’s a way around that eventually.” He goes on to suggest that at first I approach Maria casually about her own submissive orientation. “See if something’s there.” Then he says maybe it could progress to my teaching her the basics about the submissive life. “I’ll provide you time for that,” he says. “After a while you’ll tell her that you’ll approach me about allowing her to observe you when you’re with me.” And he says that in time he could work it out, if she wishes, to submit to him. “It could be a modest D/s with her, simple and relatively mild. Whatever she wishes to try.”

Like a top exec, he’s worked it all out. While he seems genuinely interested in helping Maria find her own submissive self — it’s consistent with the Master Teacher he is — I also sense he has a desire for another submissive, to have two of us. That would be interesting. Much for me to chew on.

“Sounds like a workable plan,” I finally say. “Yes, of course. I will gladly do that.”

“Good… And, by the way, when you come out here for the ten days… work it out with Amanda. Yes, of course, I will have you.”

“In so many ways…” I sigh.

“Exactly.”

morgan’s woods

I park the car in a little alcove off the dirt road that runs through Morgan’s Woods. There is no traffic here, probably only the owner himself, Mr. Morgan, as I imagine him bearded and fifty, I presume, canvassing his property in a faded blue Ford pickup. Rich people always have a beater truck they love to drive in.

The alcove is not visible from the dirt road. I made sure of that. So, my imagined Mr. Morgan would not stop along his prowl to investigate who was poaching on his land.

I leave the car and walk about a hundred yards into the dense forest. There is no path, no one has ever trodden down these leaves, which is part of the experience I like. I come upon a glade where sun breaks through. There is a patch of grass, green and fresh, and I sometimes come back here with a towel to lie down and bask in the sun. But today I have farther to go.

Still, this glade is where I take off my top. I’m in a flannel shirt of orange-and-sienna plaid, and I slowly unbutton it as if the woods is my lover looking. I pull my shirt off, and my pale breasts feel the cool air. There’s a branch of a sapling that serves every time as a hanger, and I drape the shirt there, where it hovers like a ghost in my closet.

Topless now, I walk farther toward my sweet spot, through thickets of maples and oaks with low branches that spank my breasts like whips. Ten minutes of this, and I will be reddened and scraped, marked by nature, which is, to me, a lovely thing. Especially here in this world of proper living and dull kindness, the scratchy pain of it is an experience of love. It is about feeling, well, something, anything.


My spot these days is a particular oak tree set at the edge of a creek.

I am disallowed from wearing jeans or shorts, which would be the dress code for woods-walking, so I wear a short denim skirt and my orange-striped tennis shoes. The denim would be too heavy for Amanda’s liking — she’d prefer me in thin cotton — but I need to sit on twigs and leaves, and the heavier fabric offers a slight cushion for my unpantied flesh underneath.

Here I sit, against the oak, and I lean my head back, closing my eyes. I feel the breeze off the creek against my breasts, and I smell the earthy aroma of the forest loam. The silence is not actually silence — it is a constant rustle of leaves, trees chattering in the background, a hushing lullaby that sends me into half sleep.


I have dreams. Dreams of being taken and tied, like my forest play with childhood friends. And more adult dreams as well, being roped to trees, face-in, my flesh tender against the bark and my arms circling around the girth of a trunk, as if embracing the phallus of a god.


Later I awaken and step gingerly down to the creekside. There’s a spot with stepping stones into the middle of the trickling water. I make my way, each hop step jouncing my tits, until I stand in the middle of the waterway, with cold water seeping through my shoes.


It is time to go. I walk back, I stop at the glade and retrieve my shirt, but do not put it on. I find my car in the alcove, and there I begin to clothe myself again. But I have another thought. I put my flannel shirt in the car.

I walk, bare-breasted, out to the main road.

I do not know what I hope for here. Perhaps I simply wish to extend this nature-reverie. But it matters to me to be revealed as I am, somehow, even unto no one. Or else, it’s the danger of the stray someone driving through. More likely I long for the humiliation of the mere possibility.

Maybe it’s just that I hope to meet Mr. Morgan stopping, peering out of his faded blue Ford pickup, and enjoying the view in his woods.

sex-pourri

She has still not allowed me to touch myself, a deprivation she maintains with wicked glee. She knows I attribute my unrequited yearnings to her. Abstinence is my obedience, my submission to her hand of dominance reaching across the country.

I would never defy her, intentionally plunging my oiled fingers between my wet labia lips and into my vagina. (Sigh.) But it spurs thoughts of how it could happen “accidentally.” It wouldn’t take much to send me into shudders of orgasm.

(Suddenly, I long to ride a horse.)

The real temptation is in the shower with a soapy loofah sponge. I have to clean myself, right? Yet cleaning time seems to be slightly less than what it takes for orgasmic “accidents” to happen, however primed I already am. My “Amanda-conscience” will not let me linger long enough.


On the phone I tell Amanda I now will consent to sex with total strangers.

She laughs, saying, “This is a new thing?”

“I maybe never said it before.”

“You gave me full control long ago.”

“I know. Just sayin’.”

“You,” she says, “would fuck anything right now, wouldn’t you.”

“Pretty much…”

“I like keeping you this way,” she says.


When Amanda visits in a couple weeks, she says she will allow me to climax. She says it will be in the woods where I like to go these days. She will make me naked. And she will watch.

dream

My subconscious mind is active these days, erotically bent, no doubt as a result of my current deprivations, both submissive and sexual. I have had a recurring dream, three times now, the first more than a month ago. What I write here is an approximation of this dream which visits me in the dead of night.


It’s a party at a hotel in some city. A banquet party. A formal affair, with women in gowns and men in suits and ties.

In the center of one of the hotel’s ballrooms, I stand alone in a vertical cage. I am completely nude. There is no particular scandal in this to the guests. It seems as if this is a common occurrence somehow.

This cage is relatively spacious, and I can turn around in it without my flesh gracing the bars. My wrists are shackled together behind my back, and my ankles are attached to a short spreader bar, just enough to spread my thighs slightly apart. I am collared, but I wear no ball-gag, so I am free to speak.

As people arrive, a hostess leads them to the middle of the ballroom to the cage where I stand. She points out the banquet table to which they’re assigned, hands them a program, then tells them my name. While a caged woman may be normal to them, I am still of interest, an erotic curiosity. They take time at my cage looking at me, until the hostess arrives with other guests.

To me it’s a profound humiliation to be kept and viewed like this. I see more and more people stream through the ballroom double-doors, and I feel for a moment a certain panic.

In my dream world where logic and consistency don’t apply, some people talk with me and others talk about me to each other. One couple engages me in a conversation about what kind of work they’re in, what I studied in school, recent travel destinations — all while they ogle my body and marvel at the sexual novelty I am. There is a normalcy to the conversation, even as I am a naked curiosity in the middle of the ballroom. Other guests treat me as if I am mute and dumb, staring and making comments to each other. One woman notes my nipple rings, in this case dangling bells that jangle as I move, while a man comments on my shaven pussy and says “The should put a ring through that.” A couple of businessmen drinking scotch-and-sodas stand side by side gazing at my flesh, providing a review of my figure — “thighs are fleshy, see?” and “full tits” but “I prefer a fuller ass…” — landing on a rating of, variably, two or three or fours stars out of five.


The dream continues as dinner is served. There are maybe two hundred people seated at a couple dozen tables. People eat, talk, and soon the room fills with the din of clanking silverware and jabbering voices.

I remain standing naked in the cage as they eat. I feel the quick peeks of people at the tables nearest me, glances of curiosity, sideways stares of lust. I look away, so as not to engage the eyes of those ogling me.

Servers and busboys hurry about, trying to focus on their business, yet many also steal glances toward me. One young server with a tray catches my eyes as I look up, and we passingly connect in a quick exchange of some sort of recognition. She is submissive, I feel, knows she could be me, and wonders if that’s a horror or a promise.


In time, dessert is served.

Taken out of my cage by the hostess, I am put on a leash and walked around to each of the many tables.

In each section of tables where I am displayed, people stop their conversations in mid-sentence and turn their heads toward me. Hands come out to touch my flesh, usually my ass cheeks and sometimes my breasts. There are comments and whispers.

There’s one unusual detail. More women reach out to touch me than do men. Perhaps men who are accompanied by a wife or girlfriend are more restrained about this. An odd observation to be aware of as I am dreaming it.

I am paraded from section to section. Each group of tables I leave resumes its chatter, perhaps about me. Each new group of tables I walk through falls into a hush.


After the meal, an emcee steps up to a low platform in front and commences a short program. He speaks of the charitable efforts of the group. I do not remember the organization’s name — not sure it’s actually spoken in my dream.

As he is speaking, the banquet hostess again takes me out of my cage and walks me on a leash to the front of the vast room. I mount the platform and stand next to the emcee, naked and high-heeled before hundreds of people. In the dream I feel deep embarrassment but also am aware of a kind of “rightness” to what is unfolding, a sense that this is what I am supposed to be and do.

The emcees speaks my name and then reads a short bio of my life. He reads from a sheet my physical measurements. He recites some of my experience as a submissive slave.

He then says, “We will open the bidding at $100,000.”

In every dream, even the subsequent iterations, this comes as a surprise and shocks me. The emcee starts into the fast-talking ramble of an auctioneer, and around the ballroom people hold up green placards on long sticks.

This is where my dream starts to disintegrate into pieces: The auction ends somehow. The hostess says to me, “There’s a couple in the back who won the bid, and they will take you home.” A man comes up and says to the hostess, “I’ll get her next time.” The emcee talks to a busboy and I overhear him saying something about suitcases in the side room.

And that’s it. I don’t remember in the dream ever seeing the couple who placed the final bid on me.


In retrospect, just for fun, I have tried to analyze the dream, but I haven’t come up with much. It obviously springs from my cage fantasies. But it’s strange that no one in the dream is anyone I recognize, all are strangers. Also, odd that Amanda is nowhere in it.

musings on humiliation

One thing I miss being out here is the experience of being humiliated. Strangely, I long for it. I would give anything to be put in the bay window again.

I am well aware my topless sojourns in Morgan’s woods are my feeble efforts to sexualize and objectify myself. I almost hope for Mr. Morgan to traipse through someday, see me, and accost me for trespassing.

But the thing is, you can’t do it to yourself. Humiliation, that is. What I miss is the unique experience of being disgraced in obedience to dominance. It requires another. And Amanda is so good at doing it to me.

Odd to desire humiliation, isn’t it. Yet it’s always a love-loathe experience for a submissive, something euphoric in its very shame.


I have come to think that D/s, often described as power exchange, is for me more a relinquishment of dignity.

It is Amanda’s dominant pleasure to strip me of dignity as I know it. This is what thrills her. In my case, “dignity-stripping” becomes literal as my clothes come off — or perhaps it’s better said that my frequent states of undress and naked stints in the bay window are symbols of my self-esteem being stripped away.

If her only intention, though, is simply to shatter my self-esteem, that would be at best unhealthy and at worst cruel and unusual. The fact is, while she is stripping me of the dignity I once had — what I thought made me respectable — she is replacing it with a new dignity, one of submissive pride. She wants me to see my value in light of my submissive brilliance.

But while I may feel good about myself for obeying Mistress in full and ready submission, it is still humiliation — embarrassment felt deeply in cringing exposures of obeisance and acts of fleshy disgrace that never fade.


This is something not much talked about: Her humiliations of me are always there to be remembered. They never go away.

Someone observed that my bare-breasted morning appearance by the trash cans at the foot of the driveway before a crew of waste management men will be something they’ll always remember. But it’s just as much my memory, one shared with Amanda — and she and I will always know I did that, debasing myself in the eyes of strangers’ lust, on a particular day in July. It happened, and while the event is long gone, the persistent awareness is that I am a girl who does such things.

I know this, and so does she. We may live into our eighties together, but we will always have this shared knowledge of my humiliations for the memory book. Some reminisce about their trips to Europe. We share the recollections of my sexual disgrace, in great detail. “Remember the time…?” So it will go.

My humiliations live on in infamy. And in a blog.


So, humiliation is something we submissives loathe, yet how possibly can we also love it?

The answer is in the fulfillment of being submissive. I find extraordinary delight and value in obeying an order from Mistress A. When I look up at her, saying, “Yes, I obeyed you, completely and fully,” it is an accomplishment of deep satisfaction. Being a good submissive is my sweetest spot in life, and it balances the disgrace of the humiliations it requires of me.

Being humiliated is to me not an “either-or” proposition. It’s more of a “both-and.” I don’t wish to be put into the bay window naked, and yet I do. I don’t desire to be humiliated publicly, and at the same time I long for it because immersing myself in that shame is the price of my submission well done.

The cringing experience of being humiliated swirls together with the deep joy of submission to dominance. It all becomes its own thing, a kind of burning liquor you can’t get enough of.


It occurs to me that being humiliated is both an event and way of life.

There was the time I served lemonade topless to a crew of sweaty landscape men, and that was clearly an event, staged by Amanda for my sexual display. Such experiences are the most memorable, the images that make it into the memory book.

But what I find myself longing for now are not the notable scenes from the highlight reel, rather the daily experience of living in constant subservience, of my slow, dripping abasement in being sexualized hour by hour through the routine of days. This is about having to stand and wait with a coffee tray in the morning, being made to live in high heels, sitting and standing in the precise ways I’ve been taught to by a dominant man, wearing frightfully short skirts, and being kept always at the level of a slave.

It is the whole life that immerses me in quiet humiliation. A life I do not now have. This is really the humiliation I miss right now. What I so long for sitting in Morgan’s Woods.

housekeeping

…as in tidying up Mother’s house and tidying up things in my life…


Mother always kept a clean and tidy house, but because of her physical issues in recent months she has not kept up. I am not a clean-freak by any means, though I am more bothered by clutter, which Mother tends to have in spades. None of this matters except to say that out here I have had something of a side job in housekeeping and that in the housework I find a slight measure of submissive pleasure.

I dress in a simple, belted floral shirtdress, and high heels. Lately I’ve been wearing thigh-top stockings, with wide lace bands hugging my upper thighs. Of course, I am without bra and panties underneath. As such, I go about my housewifey duties with a sense of sexual servitude. As I vacuum the carpets, I find a sliver of submissive thrill in knowing I am ready and available if someone were to dominantly take me.

I know — it’s kind of lame, but I need a little something.


I have been to the store several times now for clothes shopping. Again, I have refrained from buying intimates, but I have bought skirts and tops and a couple shirtdresses. Amanda has shipped out some clothes as well, so I have an adequate wardrobe of outfits here now.

I now have standing wardrobes of outfits here, back home in Colorado, at Master M’s mansion, and, still, at Kevin’s house.

I’m not sure what that means.


A little blog business…

When I came out here to Pennsylvania, I imagined my stay to be about two weeks. I started this series “Postcards from the Edge,” thinking it would encompass my stay here and be short-lived. But obviously that prognosis has changed. I will be here for some time more.

So, I’m leaving that series titling and moving on. I’ll leave those posts intact with those titles but will blog now under other titles.


Even so, I will be writing more about my conversations with Jeremy. Past and future: we will continue to get together at the diner for coffee and conversation.

As must be obvious, I am energized by Jeremy’s probing curiosity. We have settled into a comfort zone in our talk. Or maybe better said, I have become freely open with him about the specifics of my sexual slavery.

Jeremy has a girlfriend he wants me to meet. I expect he’s needing to assure her that his interest in me is Platonic, although it is clearly prurient as well.


I continue to go to my spot in the woods not far, take off my top, and sit with my notebook. It is a nature thing for me, but also nostalgic — as being bare-breasted is in some way my communion with Amanda, who always keeps me this way. I imagine her watching.

It is in fact private property, known as “Morgan’s Woods,” but seems to be a vast amount of untended acreage in a remote area. I suppose there’s some chance that a Mr. Morgan might stumble upon me here as he his walking his land.

The issue is whether I am wary of that or hoping for it.

postcards from the edge: 11

I wake up every morning having to tell myself I can do this. I am managing, but I feel lost. Underneath this current role of “responsible adult” trying to make momentous decisions for a parent, I am just a hopelessly submissive girl longing to crawl back into her simple life of slavery.

I think that during these past six slave years I have “unlearned” certain life skills: the making of big choices, the art of leading others into my better judgments for the future, the pushing of financial buttons according to my best wisdom. These do not come naturally to me anymore.

In my recent slave years, my biggest choices in life have been in the supermarket — which flavor of ice cream to buy for Amanda.

I sit in a meeting with doctors, and the options presented to me are obviously a world more weighty than a simple supermarket choice. I sift through their jargon and somehow figure it out. Slave-training, apparently hasn’t made me stupid. I’m an intelligent woman even when sitting naked and spread-legged in a bay window (although some might question my intelligence for doing so).

I’m no dumber than before, but there are leadership muscles that haven’t been used for, like, forever. Slavery has trained me in other directions. Now in a small examination room across from medical experts, it aches me to make even just one of a half-dozen choices. Still, I get through them somehow. Push some buttons. Move everything forward.

But tomorrow morning I’ll wake up and have to coach myself into another day of making important decisions.

Truth be told, in that frozen food aisle, even that wasn’t a decision. Between butterscotch praline and French vanilla, I usually bought both. One for us to eat, the French vanilla for Amanda to lick off my breasts.

This now is such a different life.

postcards from the edge: 6

Out here, my fantasies have been profuse and persistent, ideas that wander into my mind randomly as daydreams, reappearing later in night dreams, the same scenario only darker. I do not deny I nurture them, developing the details and deepening my humiliations in them. All of it, I know, is a playing out of my submissive longings currently unfulfilled.


I am walking in the woods, undressed. I wear a collar and shackles on my ankles and wrists. There is a destination I must go to, but I don’t know what will be there. The fantasy echoes a story I once wrote here and here and here, which itself was based on a fantasy about “my nature being in nature.” Now, as in that story, I hike through the woods naked, leaves of saplings brushing against my breasts, an intercourse of natures.

In time, I come to a clearing. There sits a flat stage the size of a small patio, with six-foot poles erect at the four corners. I stand in the middle, somehow knowing that’s what I am to do…

Cords, elastic and narrow but strong, appear out of nowhere, attaching to four O-rings of my collar and fastening to the tops of the four poles. Other sets of bungees affix to my ankle shackles, pulling my legs apart into a wide stance and connecting to floor rings on the sides of the stage. My arms, then, are pulled behind me by cords linked to my wrist shackles and hooking to the rear corner poles, forcing my breasts out.

Another set of cords appears, hooking to the rings in my nipples and extending to eyebolts at the front edge of the stage.

I think it is done, but no. Yet another cord fastens to rings in my pussy lips. It pulls them out and down, rubber-banding them to hooks in the floor.

I can move within my restraints, the elastic pulling my parts this way or that, elongating my breasts and nipples and pussy lips into new shapes, like silly-putty.


My purpose here isn’t dream interpretation but some things are obvious. My journey through the woods seems to mirror my current gig here in the woods of Pennsylvania. I am, perhaps, finding my way back home to Colorado, symbolized by a stage on a flat mesa where I will once again be possessed and contained.


I mentioned in a post recently my fantasy of being caged. I wrote this:

In my imagination, it’s a vertical cage, tall enough to stand in, narrow enough so my naked breasts are pressed through the metal grid, made wide in front for this purpose, behind, my ass cheeks imprinted by bars into squares of flesh. I am high-heeled and collared, wrists shackled to the top corners of the cage. Gagged with a red ball. Well-contained — and publicly displayed. This is the point. Strangers walk by. Observe. Fondle the protruding orbs of my tits. Make comments.

I have always known that part of my lust for being caged is my response to having to perform in other parts of my life. I have at times longed for the cage when returning from Master McKenna, back in the time when I felt I had to prove myself a worthy slave to him and his people. (It is different now.) I’d return to Amanda and beg her to get a vertical cage to put me in — the point being that in a cage there is nothing I can do, nothing to be responsible for, and my “performance” is simply my body as it is, naked and sexual.

Out here in Pennsy, many of my current fantasies involve being caged, no doubt because I am having to be the responsible daughter, making big decisions and managing another’s life.

After an intense day out here, I just want to be put in a cage.


Again, my current deprivations do not seem to compel my desire for sex, just my desire for submission.

Of course, if I were back home and Mistress or Master were to take me and do me, I would be eager and trembly and juicy for them. But in my current vanilla life, so far I am not desperate for sex itself.

I just fantasize obsessively about being made submissive once again.

postcards from the edge: 3

As you all know, there have been times I have been dominantly deprived of sex for lengths of time, rendering me into a puddle of desire and begging. It is not a good look for me, though my desperation and carnal need are attractive to my dominants — or at least amusing.

In my current gig in Pennsy, I am likewise deprived of sex, though by circumstance not dominance. Somehow this is different and doesn’t reduce me to begging wantonness. Or, at least not yet. Why, I don’t know.

What I find I do long for is the hand of dominance. I miss my submissive life. I want Mistress A to tell me to shut up and Master M to tell me to take off my top in front of Mr. Galli. I wish for commands and orders. I long to be walked on a leash again. I desire to be humiliated. And, as is common for me in times like these, I find myself longing to be caged.

In my imagination, it’s a vertical cage, tall enough to stand in, narrow enough so my naked breasts are pressed through the metal grid, made wide in front for this purpose, behind, my ass cheeks imprinted by bars into squares of flesh. I am high-heeled and collared, wrists shackled to the top corners of the cage. Gagged with a red ball. Well-contained — and publicly displayed. This is the point. Strangers walk by. Observe. Fondle the protruding orbs of my tits. Make comments.

So, I will probably go without sex for quite a long time here. But that’s okay. It’s being dominated I so long for. Put me in a cage where I have nothing to do, nothing to decide, and just can be.

I feel I should write to someone about this, but I don’t know anyone around here who’s in charge of such things. City Hall doesn’t seem to have a Department of Cages.

postcards from the edge: 2

Amanda packed for me one of my day collars, the thin one in red leather, so clever in how it passes as a choker but surreptitiously says something more. I wear it all the time here. To most everyone, it looks a little quirky but fashionable — “Red is your color, Shae.” To anyone in the lifestyle, it clocks me for what I really am.

People here have no idea.

While I’m here in Pennsy, Mistress A has given me permission to wear a bra and panties again, her nod to propriety in this sepia world. You all know of my occasional yearning for the feel of a soft bra encasing my breasts and cotton panties against my labia. I have begged her before for this, and with her permission now, have been close to running out to Kohls for an underwear haul.

But I have not done so. For some reason, now I have not wanted to.

I’m not sure this is really so much in honor of the Mistress who owns me and wishes to keep me sexually self-aware. Or even in respect of those followers who, in their own virtual dominance, find pleasure in imagining me au naturel underneath. Nor even that I’m on Day 2,000-something of “underwear abstinence” and that it would be a shame to lose that record.

I’m sure it’s much more about my defiance of this world of proper behaviors — my rebellion against the norms of an asexual culture that took most of my years for me to escape. I wonder if this is true for most of us submissives — that while we are obedient and docile and acquiescent in slavery now, it took strength of will and defiance of cultural norms to get us here. Maybe we are independent rebels fighting for the right to be disciplined and made dependent.

In any case, my being panty-less is undetectable publicly, but I enjoy it privately as my own delicious disgrace. My being bra-less renders most of my T-tops useless, as they too thinly shape to my perky nipples. So, in public out here I wear shirtdresses, whose bodices contain me sort of, making me just barely street legal.

Or not. I’m sure I still present a slight more jiggle and sway than is permitted in the bylaws. A misdemeanor, I’m sure. Maybe I’ll get locked up and put in a cage.

One can only hope.