I have written about these bay window experiences before, and I fear they are not so interesting to readers the second and third time. Nothing much “happens,” after all: I am posed naked in a window. People watch. People go home.
My own psychology in it offers the most suspense, so to speak, the inner drama of my fight to maintain in public humiliation some dignity as a woman. I don’t know if our audience of neighbors sees that, but I try to represent here in my accounts.
Going back home and submitting to this again, I was reminded of how odd a thing this is. Amanda’s other “devices” for my humiliation — the entryway wall, the wet bar, etc. — are likely seen by others as her private playground with me, of interest because it is a glimpse of two lesbians doing their D/s kink. In that, it makes sense to a vanilla neighborhood.
But this bay window staging of me is more obviously intended as a social experience. It cannot be imagined as something behind closed doors because it is not — literally played out in front of public windows. My nudity in this is not accidental or peeped in on — it’s intentional and posed, meant for their consumption. I’m not sure this, then, makes sense to them or fits in any of their categories. I would think afterward, they’d walk away wondering “What was that?”
At best, it’s a kind of erotica performance art; at worst, it’s porn in someone’s backyard. They must consider it a weird thing, for sure.
Yet they don’t seem to mind. They keep showing up.
The bay window faces our back yard, which is a sloped on one side and extends far out and up a hillside, making it sort of private. Our yard is not fenced, so anyone hiking the hill along the ridge could walk down, wander in closer, but no one does. There’s an intimacy to the bay window that Amanda puts me in, even as it opens up the house to nature.
Amanda invites people into this backyard intimacy. The slope of the berm and the hill in the distance create a sheltered cove of privacy. Neighbors assemble, I know, “to see the slave girl naked,” but I also think the setting creates a feeling of cozy specialness for everyone, a sense of being “in the club.”
You have to be invited into these personal spaces — that of the yard itself and that of my private, pink flesh.
Months ago, before my Pennsylvania sojourn, I’d asked Amanda if when she put me in the bay she could display me more obviously in bondage chains. Yes, she usually chains me into my posings, but sometimes the chains and hooks are not so easily seen.
My reason was that I didn’t want people thinking I was posing naked as an exhibitionist. I don’t eagerly do these exposures — in fact, I resist them — and my motivation certainly is not in wanting neighbors to see me naked. My motivation is in obeying my mistress. My naked display is forced, required of me, despite my reluctance. I want people to know this.
Amanda understood my feeling but was skeptical of my logic: “I think that ship has sailed, Shae-girl. Fine line between you being exhibited because you want to and you being exhibited because I want you to.”
“But heavier, more obvious, bondages,” I maintained, “would show more clearly that fine line.”
Amanda nodded, and didn’t say no. I think she liked the visual of thick-gauge chains and over-sized carabiners weighing me down into my posings. But she observed, “Sounds like you want to control the story.”
I replied, “Well, I don’t want it to feel like I’m the whore in the Amsterdam window overlooking the street, where everyone walking by thinks I’m selling my body. They need to know I’m forced to do this.”
“You can’t control,” Amanda said, “what people think of you.”
This time I am blindfolded.
There is some question about the need for this. Amanda had blindfolded me before and wanted to try it again. However, now there are more lights in the base of the bay shining back at me, like spotlights on a stage, essentially blinding me, so I can’t see much of anything anyway.
However, the blindfold has a psychological effect on me. It makes me feel that people are looking at my body not my face, and certainly not my eyes. Probably ture anyway, but I feel it more deeply with a mask over my eyes.
Meanwhile, it makes me more focused on sound. I listen to voices. Amanda cracks open the two bottom windows on either side of the bay to let sound through. It’s muffled, but I can make out parts of conversations. I can hear what they’re saying about me.
Neighbors will start arriving in a half hour. There is prep first.
Amanda is posing me. I’m already in the blindfold, pulled tight over my eyes. She has me sitting to one side of the wooden chair, legs together, providing a side-profile of my body to the public view.
“You’re trembling,” Amanda says.
“I’m cold.”
“I’ll get the lights on in a minute. They’ll warm you.”
Amanda takes my wrist, the one closest to the window, and pulls it around my back, latching it tautly to a chain eye-hooked into the base of the bay floor. Sometime during these six months of my absence she’s bought some heavy-gauge chain link, tow-truck style. I’m pretty sure this is not to appease my self-image issues but because she decided she’d like the look. If a semi-trailer can’t break this chain, I certainly am not likely to. And the chain links come with more sound: when I move, it yields heavier clanks and thuds.
“Are they here?” I ask. I am hoping she will accidentally go through the list and tell me who. I know the Millers will be there. But which others? And Blake. Will Blake be there too?
She’s onto me and doesn’t answer.
I hear her crawl out of the bay. She takes my other wrist, raises it over my head, and links it to a short chair hooked into the bay window ceiling.
I imagine I look like I’m in a dramatic pose, like a flamenco twirl with one arm resting against the small of the back and the other thrust overhead, holding canastas. She is more pragmatic: “This keeps your arms from getting in the way.” I realize she means such a pose provides observers a clear line of sight to my side view: my bare thigh and protruding breasts.
My arms now tightly chained, Amanda fusses with my high heels, attaching something to hook my ankle straps together. I want your legs together,” she says. “At first.”
I say nothing. I could speak, but don’t want to. Amanda knows I’m sliding into my space of submissive quietude.
She leans close to my face and kisses me full on my lips.
Patricia has arrived. I hear her in the kitchen. “Pumpkin muffins,” she calls out. “John is behind me with the cider.”
“In here,” Amanda calls back.
I hear the soft clank of tins being unloaded onto the kitchen counter and Patricia’s footsteps into the dining room.
“Shae looks good from outside,” she says.
“I want her leaning back more. It’s still too casual a bondage.”
I hear the sliding glass door open from the patio and John announce his arrival from the kitchen. “Managed not to spill,” he says. I assume he lugged a big crock pot of cider through our backyard.
He finds the others in the dining room. “She’s a damn sight,” he says of me.
They talk a while about my pose. Amanda wants to chain my collar from behind, to arch my back.
John asks why.
“To make the pose more… bondage-y,” she says.
John gets the picture and adds, “It would also thrust her tits up and out more.”
“That too. But I’m afraid it would be hard for her to hold herself in that pose for long, and when she couldn’t, the collar chain would choke her.”
They talk some more and finally decide that if the wooden chair was turned, my back would rest on it and solve the problem. “Wish I’d thought of that,” Amanda says, “before I already chained her up like this.”
They have me pull myself up from the chair just a bit, which I do awkwardly, while John Miller swivels the chair into the desired position.
Amanda now attaches another chain to the O-ring at the back of my collar and hooks the other end to another ceiling hook. But Amanda is not happy with that, after all: “What if the chair breaks? The chain would break her neck.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Patricia says casually while walking in from the kitchen.
John adds his characteristic dark humor: “First rule of slave-keeping: you want to torture your slave, not kill her.”
Amanda puts some slack in the chain to my neck, ensuring the neighborhood event won’t become a homicide.
Amanda has set this up as an open house: people can come anytime between seven and eight-thirty. I can hear voices of people arriving. It makes me nervous, although there is nothing for me to do.
Earlier I had noticed Amanda had arranged lawn chairs closer to the window than times before. Maybe fifteen feet from the window instead of thirty or so. (Guessing.)
Closer as they are, I can hear voices more clearly. “Oh!” someone says, seeing me.
There are fresh greetings exchanged as new people arrive. I hear a “wow” from one. “Good to see her again,” a man (I think Mr. Hawkins) comments. Another replies, “Good to see her like this again.” There are chuckles.
I listen for Blake’s voice, but do not hear him.
There are compliments to Patricia for her pumpkin muffins. They’re drinking cider, and John announces he’s just also put out some booze to add to it. “Good with bourbon,” he says. “I have rum out there as well.”
In some sense, it’s an ordinary neighborhood block party with people eating muffins and drinking cider. So normal and… autumnal… and yet so strange. Again I wonder how they think of this… thing we do.
After the first half hour, Amanda turns off the spotlights in the bay, and arranges me in a different pose.
She turns the chair, and me, to face out. She’s had (this was new since I’d left) holes drilled into the seat of the wooden chair on either side. This provides a way of hooking the heels of my pumps into the chair.
So my legs are propped up, but open slightly to each side of the chair. This offers a view of my pussy, bare and slightly squeezed.
Once done, she turns the lights on again and walks outside.
For this second pose, I do not hear comments. I assume people have turned to look, but I cannot see, of course, and I imagined there’s a hush while people take in my pussy creases. And then they start talking again — conversations about their office work and construction on the interstate and a new housing development down the road.
It occurs to me that the one thing worse that sitting in pussy-bared humiliation is simply to be ignored.
I feel like an animal kept, caged in a pet store window box, less cuddly and cute, but just as interesting for a time… and then not. I wonder if any of them think of taking me home with them, then decide I’d be too much trouble, much like the red-headed terrier at the pet shop. People move on.
I think I am probably interesting to them initially because I am the woman who at other times serves them tea. This, I know, is part of the eroticism, that the Victorian demoiselle once offering scones on a silver tray is now obscenely fleshed in public view, as if the servant girl has been posed and captured into a Rubens painting in the Prado. But even then art lovers consume their fill and move on to the next in the gallery.
Later Amanda will tell me that “this all works” because the neighbor men lust for me but the neighbor women know that Amanda has me, literally, under lock and key. “It’s safe for both of them,” she says, making me think the art museum analogy is apt. To them, my fleshy breasts and wetted pussy lips are enjoyable, but held safely behind glass. It gives everyone, it seems, a way of sampling the erotic fringe that we live in without personal fuss or muss.
“And,” Amanda will add, “It’s good for their sex lives. The guys, filled up with you, go home and fuck the hell out of their women.”
“So I have a purpose,” I will reply.
The third pose has me face out again, this time with my hands chained behind the chair, my head pulled back by means of a collar chain, and my legs now straddling the chair, chained to the floor, opening my pussy gaping wide.
Strange to say, but behind my blindfold it’s as if I can feel their eyes close to my sex, as if eyelash flutters are tickling my pussy lips. What has been generally erotic to me now feels blatantly sexual. I feel my juices puddle, and wonder if they are all close enough to see my liquid desire glistening and dripping.
I think I hear the rasp of Mr. Farris’s voice garbled through the window panes, and also another man’s baritone, maybe Mr. Linden’s. I wonder what they are thinking now: not what their opinion of me is — we’ve crossed that Rubicon already, for sure — but how in the thick of their minds they are having sex with me, the local slut that I inevitably am.
I listen for others I recognize, hearing Stacy Knox’s laughter, which has a lilt and a higher register at times. I will not yet have heard Amanda’s later comment that the men are not the only ones who want to fuck me. Which is not to say Stacy does, but there is someone apparently. I wonder.
Again, I hear John Miller, now with a pitcher of cider, offering refills. I do not hear Blake at all, but he has a low, husky voice, and maybe I would not pick it up out of the crowd.
I have not much mentioned the word “humiliation,” which is not to say I wasn’t awash in it. But, strangely, the chains, the heavy “obvious” chains, helped.
I would rather be humiliated for being a submissive kept, owned, and offered than a for being a sex slut who provides herself to the neighborhood. I know Amanda feels that’s a difference without a distinction. And it’s still humiliation.
But I would rather be humiliated for what I really am than what I am not. I desire authenticity in my disgrace.
The evening winds down to a close, the heightened eroticism wafting away on the night air. Nothing has happened tonight, not really, other than cider being drunk and the slave girl being posed with her thighs spread naked in a window. People watch. People go home. There is no grand finale, no denouement, no consummation.
Later, Amanda will not tell me who was there. I will ask specific names, and she will wink at me and just smile.
But she will take me into her bed. Apparently there is a climax after all.
slave shae 