Blake, buddies, bar

I suffered my punishment Friday night. I haven’t wanted to write this, for it’s like reliving it again. But I must, for various reasons. I have to move on. Perhaps the reporting of these events will give me closure…

It’s a sports bar, north and west of downtown Denver. I’ll refrain from disclosing its name and location, but I can say it’s kind of upscale as bars go — Western rustic as everything around here is, but clean and fresh in its way, with a patio terrace facing the mountains.

Mistress and I had been here once before. Blake and his friends gather here many Friday nights after a week of work. Most of them are in the construction business. More on that in a moment.

We pulled into the parking lot around five. It wasn’t that busy. The bar is a bit out of the way up in the foothills, so it doesn’t get after-work traffic, but it still can draw a clientèle on the weekend. I learned later that the Denver basketball team played Thursday night but was off Friday, so maybe that was why it was less crowded.

Fine with me.

In the car, Amanda had reviewed with me what I was required to do. “I’ll lead the conversation,” she’d said. “You’ll get to know the guys. At a some point, I’ll prompt you to speak. Shall I go over what you have to say?”

“No, I memorized it,” I said.

“There are four.”

“I’m well aware — seared into my mind. Trust me, I’m not going to blow this.”

My words were unintentionally ironic. Amanda laughed and was about to make more of a funny from it, but stopped herself, suppressing a smile.

After a few miles, she asked, “Are you nervous?”

“Yes. Extremely.”



“You’ll get through it.”

I said nothing, steeled within, thinking Mistress Amanda was enjoying this way too much.

The weather had been rainy and cool all day, and though it wasn’t raining when we arrived, the terrace was closed, its patio umbrellas folded and strapped shut.

Mistress had me in a short denim skirt and a light sweater with a deep V-neck, showing some of my cleavage, loose enough for my boobs to roll around underneath. I also wore one of my titanium collars with O-rings, wide like one of the rings of Saturn.

I’ve learned since, Amanda wasn’t sure what she was walking into — in regard to the other patrons and the vibe of the room. She didn’t want to invite an unintended scene, she just wanted to create her own scene somewhat more privately. So, aside from the collar, she toned me down a bit. I wore flats not heels, and she didn’t walk me in on a leash, although I saw she had one in her purse.

Blake and his friends were in a side room that had a long table in the center, which they had reserved and now occupied. Blake and one other of the guys stood as we entered. I saw the two who remained seated exchange a glance and a grin.

So, the gang was Blake, Connor, Tyler, and Jack.

This is how I perceived them at first blush: Connor was built square and solid like a football player, and initiated a lot of the conversation. Jack had an angular frame like Blake, and wore black-rimmed glasses. Tyler wore an orange Denver Broncos T-shirt that showed a little bit of a paunch in front. (For a while, I got Tyler and Jack confused, I think because my stereotype of a financial accountant (Tyler) is of a nerdy guy wearing glasses. In fact it was carpenter Jack who wore the glasses.)

It seemed to me all of them were in their late twenties, and I could sense from their smirks and smiles what I already had assumed — that all knew what I do for Blake.

“Blake’s talked a lot about ya,” Amanda was saying breezily as we sat down. She so easily slips into woo mode, adapting to the style and jargon of whatever room she’s in. “I’ve been meanin’ to do this sooner, but work gets in the way…” She went on for another minute, talking about how nice the bar was, and how we’d been once before, only briefly. She always does this so well, talking awhile to give people time to process her, and us. She paused, taking a breath. “Anywayyy,” she said, drawing out the word, “thanks for letting us crash your party.”

“Been wanting to meet you,” Connor said. “Blake here’s told us things. Just haven’t been sure whether to believe them.”

“Good things, I hope,” Amanda replied.

Interesting for sure.”

Jack, the guy in glasses, uttered a little laugh, out of the blue. Everyone was smiling. Blake looked over at Amanda, perhaps looking for her approval of his buddies and the setting. I sat subdued, imagining what specifically these guys had been told.

“Well,” Amanda said, “we have no secrets… But I want to know why you wouldn’t believe our Blake here.”

“He has these stories,” Jack blurted out, “about the work he does for people like you. And things with her,” he added, nodding at me.

Blake smiled. I blushed. I did a lot of blushing Friday night.

Connor reached for Blake, next to him, and gripped him by the shoulder. “Blake here doesn’t say much, a man of few words, so when he speaks anything, it’s usually true. But this was so out there, we were wondering… Nice to put faces to rumors,” Connor said. He proved to be articulate and glib, clearly the alpha of their group. We would learn later that he has his own home repair company, employs a few people. He uses Tyler part-time as his financial guy, accountant, or something like that.

The waitress came by. Introduced herself as Missy. “These boys giving you any trouble?” she said to Amanda.

“They a rowdy bunch?”

“Depends on the game,” Jack said.

“They talk it up, but they’re harmless,” Missy replied. “My regulars, every Friday night, just about. What can I get you gals?”

Amanda ordered a beer, I ordered a bourbon. Figured it would help me endure this if I got halfway smashed.

As she was leaving, Missy said, “Let me know if these boys give you any what-for.”

There was some general introductory talk, as Amanda had suggested in the car that there would be. It was Connor who prompted it, asking Amanda about her business. She responded about her online HR company, and they did the CEO thing for awhile. I was aware both Connor and Amanda were the alphas at the table. But they weren’t competing. Nothing much more to say on that, but I could feel it.

Blake spoke too, saying something about Jack: “You remember him.” I nodded, but then felt awkward because I realized he was addressing Amanda. “Helped me with building the dog run.”

Amanda nodded. “Of course. Now I can place you, Jack. Good to see you again.”

Seems that Jack is a freelance carpenter and both Connor and Blake use Jack on projects. So the four of them work somewhat independently but connect in various ways in their work.

There was other conversation, not about me, which I was only too happy for. The guys talked sports awhile, which all went over my head. Amanda said, “I heard the Nuggets won last night.” I looked at her sideways in puzzlement. She knows nothing about sports.

I never initiated any conversation, but responded when asked a question. Frankly, I was struggling to remain present in the moment.

Drinks came, a beer for Amanda, bourbon for me, refills on beers for the guys. My heart sank a little when Amanda ordered an appetizer, and the guys ordered burgers and BBQ chicken. I think I had imagined this would all be done over a single drink, that I’d make my four-part confession speech, and we’d be out of there.

No, this was going to be a long evening.

As a group, the guys seemed a mixture of latent adolescence and young blue-collar professionals. They weren’t offensive in their comments, though suggestive at times with innuendos and inside jokes. Jack was least restrained, a little giggly, often blurting out things. Blake was quiet as always, but smiled and laughed in a way I don’t know him. Tyler was a bit of a cipher to me, but would ask questions later. As a group, within their gang-of-four chemistry, they sometimes gave off a frat-boy jokey vibe. Yet individually, they flashed moments of responsible maturity and seemed like men at the front edge of adult life.

Their conversations droned to a thrum in my background. I wondered if my reality as a submissive woman appealed to them more as smirking boys or as men on the cusp of very adult things.

I don’t mean to drag this out, but it felt dragged out to me, and was part of my experience Friday night. It seemed like forever.

We had finally finished eating. Missy had cleared off our plates and had brought refills of drinks. I had declined another bourbon.

Connor, sipping his beer, said: “Blake has told us about you, but we want to hear more. From you.” Something like that. It opened the door for Amanda to get into it.

(Now that I write this, I realize I may have some of the sequence of these conversations out of order. We may have had some of this discussion during our meal. I suppose it doesn’t matter.)

Amanda spoke about us being in an alternative relationship that was based on dominance and submission. Tyler asked what “alternative” meant. Amanda explained. She didn’t go into us being in a lesbian relationship, I assume because that was fairly obvious — however, Jack would ask about that later. Amanda talked about how we take the life seriously, believe in it as a real hierarchy of roles, and live this way 24/7. How we are wired this way, choose to live differently, and so on and so on…

This conversation about our lifestyle went on a while. But it eventually wound down, and I could tell Amanda was about to invite me, finally, to present my confession.

Suddenly realized I needed another drink. Leaning over to Amanda, I whispered my request, one that I would soon regret.

A smile grew on her face, and she nodded. To my embarrassment, she pulled out my leash from her purse and attached it to my collar. “Shae wants another bourbon,” she announced to the table, “and we probably need to go up to the bar to get it. Connor, would you do the honors?”

Connor nodded with a shit-grin on his face, and Amanda handed him my leash.

The happy-hour and dinnertime crowds had cleared out, and the side room was empty but for us. It was the lull before the late-night drinkers. But the main bar room still had people at tables and booths. So, yes, Conner led me by leash through the maze of tables up to the bar. I could feel people staring. I asked the bartender for a bourbon and stood there waiting, facing Connor a foot away, holding my leash, which now hung in a loop between us.

Connor stared at me with a smile.

“What?” I said, red-faced.

He gave a shake of his head, then said, “This is fascinating.”

We got back to the table. Amanda was holding court. I sipped my bourbon of courage, and she took her time finishing up what she was saying. I know she was giving me time.

Unfortunately, memories like this become very vivid, indelible. I recall it this way:

Amanda said, “So, Shae has something to say. I wanted us all to meet anyway, to meet all of you, Blake’s friends, and this has been so good, but we have another purpose in being with you tonight.” With that, she turned it over to me.

I had rehearsed this over and over, and I had in my mind the four parts of my confession:
What I do for him.
My order to notify.
My failure to notify.
My public apology.

My voice was whispery and hoarse: “As you probably know, for a while now, Blake has had appointments with me. These are times when Mistress Amanda has me… well… service him.”

“Say it for what it is,” Amanda prompted.

I started to turn to her with a glare (this was already hard enough, for god sake), but thought better of it and nodded. “I service him orally.”

“Shae,” Amanda said sternly.

“I give him a blowjob.”

There was some tittering laughter. Big grins. I remember someone said, “Way to go, man,” directed to Blake. At a point, my eyes couldn’t look at anyone directly, and I cast my eyes down, focusing instead at a spot in the middle of the table.

“How often do you suck his dick?” Jack blurted out.

I looked over at Amanda and she, smiling, nodded for me to answer. “About every few weeks,” I said. “Whenever he books his time with me.”

Jack added, “That’s exactly what he said.” He turned to Blake, “So you weren’t blowing smoke, after all.”

“He was getting blown,” Tyler punned, and everyone chuckled.

I glanced sideways at Blake. He too was smiling, probably exulting that his stories about me were being verified. I think I had wondered if he would be embarrassed by this evening too. Maybe I wanted him to be more “in it with me,” sort of like this is something we do and “if you must, guys, now you all know.” That sort of coupled sharing of the experience. Of course, I always want to make everything a relationship, force meaning into it. But Blake Friday night was not like that, showing a different side of him, rather enjoying his conquest, me, in front of his buddies.

I took a gulp of bourbon, and it burned going down. I was blushing deeply, I knew — red-face itself quite a sight, I was sure. I resolved to myself just to get through the rest of my four-point confession.

“Mistress Amanda gave me an order,” I said. I went on to explain my blog. “Her instruction to me was to provide a notification to readers whenever I service Blake.”

Someone interrupted, asking about my blog — Tyler, I think — and if they could read it. Amanda said she would send Connor the link and he could distribute it. (They may be reading this now.)

“So,” I continued, “I failed to notify anyone that I had serviced Blake— ”

“Serviced?” Amanda corrected, again not allowing me euphemisms.

“Had given him a blowjob. The appointment happened a week ago Tuesday, but I hadn’t posted any notification for a full week after. That was a disobedience, wrong of me.”

“Does he come in your mouth or on your face?” Jack interjected rudely.

I breathed in deeply, took some more of my bourbon. Now I wished I’d made it a double. “Either way,” I answered dutifully. “However he wants me.”

“God,” Jack said, “that’s so hot.” He turned to Blake: “You’re such a lucky dude.”

“Don’t I know it!” Blake replied with a chuckle.

I remember there was laughter around and other things said, but I don’t recall the specifics. I had two more points to get to, but the guys perhaps thought that was the all of it, and they went on and on for a while.

Amanda stepped in to redirect. “I require this of her,” she said, again commanding the room, “because it’s part of her slavery to me. It’s what she needs and what she craves. And she loves sucking cock…

I closed my eyes, unable to look at anyone.

“So, there’s more Shae has to tell you…”

So, at this point, I just wanted to plow through to the end. I opened my eyes again and looked up, forcing myself into eye contact. “So I confess that I failed to do the notification. I was wrong. And this is my punishment — to confess all this to you in person. I apologize to you publicly for not notifying everyone of my servicing of Blake.”

It became a blur, and these words may be out of order and maybe not exactly what was said, but I think it was something close to that.

I remember Amanda asking Blake if there was anything he wanted to add.

He looked around the table. “Now do you guys believe me?”

Nods all around, jokey comments and laughs following.

“I have to say,” Blake continued, “that Shae is a pretty good cocksucker.”

“On a scale of…” Tyler started.

“Of five stars,” Jack finished. “Make it one to five stars.”

“Really?” I said aloud. As in, do we have to go there?

Blake thought a moment and finally said, “Four stars.”

“Why four not five?” Tyler probed.

“I want her to keep trying harder.”

Everyone roared. I shook my head, but even I had to smile slightly. I was relieved now. It was over.

Missy came back into the side room. She apologized for not attending to us for a while. “Was on break,” she said. “But anything more I can get you now?”

Connor ordered another beer. I asked for another bourbon. “Maybe I’ll actually taste this one,” I said.

Amanda stood and pulled Missy to the corner of the room to tell her she’d pick up the tab.

Jack, who seemed never to have a thought he didn’t speak out loud, asked, “So are you two lesbians or what?”

“God, Jack,” Connor said. “You don’t ask about one’s orientation.”

“I just did,” he said proudly.

“It’s okay,” I replied, thinking we’d already talked about my cocksucking, so sexual orientation seems like a mild inquisition in comparison. “It’s no secret. I’m bi. Amanda will have to tell about herself.” I looked over at her still talking to Missy in the corner.

“Cool,” Jack said.

“I think we’re all wondering,” Tyler said, “how we can get a piece of this too.”

I hadn’t expected that question, perhaps should have. I knew better than to say no. “You’ll have to ask her,” I finally said.

They had more to ask me, mostly about what it was like being submissive. I knew they were angling for more sexual details. Now I just wanted to get out of there, but managed to find a voice to answer a little, not getting into anything too explicitly.

Amanda was finally done with her unusually long conversation with Missy. Returning to the table, she said, “I’m picking up the tab tonight, guys. This has been most enjoyable.”

Presently, Missy returned with our last-call drinks, and I started in on my third bourbon, more alcohol than I usually have in a night. As Missy left, she closed the sliding doors to the side room.

“There is one more thing,” Amanda announced. “Something Shae does not know about.”

It almost sounded like a final surprise at a birthday party, and I wondered for a moment if she was going to reward me with something for getting through the evening with this gang of four.

“She had four parts to her confession tonight. She got through them and did them well.”

Oddly, Jack started clapping, but the others followed suit. This felt to me cringe-worthy and awkward.

“So,” Amanda went on, “there’s a fifth part to her punishment.” She turned to me. Shae, I want you to arrange yourself across my lap.”

I looked at her in embarrassed horror. “Please no,” I begged in a hushed voice.

“Afraid so, slave-girl.”

“Do we have to do this?” I whispered. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice low and hard.

Again, I couldn’t raise my eyes to look at anyone. I reached for my bourbon, taking a gulp, then another in quick succession. It would dull my physical pain but not my humiliation. I stood, a bit dizzy now, and somehow slid my body across Amanda’s lap.

“Seven spanks,” she declared, “one for each day you failed to post a notification.”

I heard chairs slide across the floor as the guys stood to get a better look. Someone walked around and stood behind Amanda, watching over her shoulder.

I felt Amanda pull up my denim skirt around my waist. I uttered a warbled, feeble protest. I could feel the air of the room against the back of my thighs.

“No panties,” I remember hearing Jack say.

God. I could feel the slit of my pussy exposed from behind, and knew they all were gazing at it.

Amanda’s flat palm landed against my ass cheeks. I yelped. I realized now the reason for the closed doors.

“Holy shit,” someone said.

There was a second spank, and the guys started counting.

Her hits were not hard, that isn’t her style, but it wasn’t the point. My humiliation was the point — the whole point of the evening. If I ever saw any of them again, and I prayed I wouldn’t, I knew they would see my face and associate it with this moment — this picture of my reddened ass cheeks and my pale pussy lips peeking out.

It was another forever in an evening of forever. Across her lap, looking down, I tried to block it out, futilely trying to memorize the grain of the wood floor.

I will perhaps never understand the flood of different feelings from being spanked. There is something about being an adult woman who is spanked that is utterly humiliating. For it to be done in a public place with others observing turns the humiliation into shame. It’s actually a kind of horror.

Yet for me as a submissive, it is also deeply fulfilling in some mysterious way. It is maybe the perfect nexus of being dominated by another, diminished to this, my bare ass moon-faced to a gang of adult boys. And with this submissive fulfillment comes, strangely, eroticism. I am damnably aroused in this very moment of horror.

So, when later in another time and place someone asks if I like being spanked, how do I answer? It’s horrifying in a way that I would never wish to endure again. It’s a deep humiliation to be an adult woman spanked like a disobedient child in front of a public group of watchers. Yet it arouses me, profoundly, sort of the spark-point of nuclear fission for a submissive like me. And my very arousal from such a humiliating horror becomes itself more deeply shaming.

How do I answer if I like this or not?

As I memorized the bar floor, tears came to my eyes, and I felt myself becoming wet elsewhere as well. I prayed no one would notice.

It was Jack (of course) who noticed. “She likes it. See?”

I wanted to yell out, but I didn’t, having no retort anyway. No I don’t like it, it’s not so simple as that. Yes I do like it, but it’s not so simple as that.

In the meantime my pussy becomes wet, and I have no answer for that either. It’s my submission in liquid form. I can’t help it, I wanted to yell out.

But I just squelched back the tears of my shame and absorbed the remaining spanks of my punishment.

After, she had me stand beside her as she held court at the table. She held my leash. My eyes glistened. She said some things about our life together as dominant and submissive. There were more questions. She made my spanking a teaching moment.

Not that the guys cared much about the philosophy of D/s, but at this point, she had their rapt attention.

I’m still processing what happened Friday night. That is what happened. I don’t yet know what it really means. I think it is a threshold of something beyond what it was.

Certainly I will not forget posting notifications ever again.

servicing Blake

This is my official and very belated notice to everyone that a week ago Tuesday, May 9 at around 3:30 p.m., Blake had an appointment with me. Kneeling on our living room floor, I serviced him, taking his cock in my mouth. He ejaculated on my face and tongue, then left.

I apologize to everyone for not reporting this earlier.

Blake has scheduled another appointment with me next week, on Wednesday the 24th at 4:30 p.m.

fashion bondage

One new development in Mistress’s domination of me is the use of what I will call “fashion straps.” These are thin ropes, soft, apparently made of silk, woven together to make cords. Notably, they come in fashion colors.

Today she has me in a royal blue skater skirt and topless, but for two royal blue fashion straps looped around my breasts. Think underwire, without the bra. Each strap circles my breast once, then attaches to my neck collar O-ring.

Mistress thinks of it as a bondage I can walk around in. “This way,” she says, “I can have you bound and still use you for things.”

“Thanks for reminding me of my utilitarian purpose,” I reply.

I’m afraid she thinks these fashion ropes are equivalent to clothing, that they are some sort of actual covering. “You know this isn’t the same as a T-shirt, right?” I ask.

“I think of it as a bra-top.”

She doesn’t actually think that, for she has me throw a T-shirt over the ropy arrangement when we go to the grocery. Yet she keeps me this way when neighbors pop in invited, which they are doing more these days.

“Now that you’re a horse woman at the ranch,” she says, “you should appreciate the art being roped.”

I look at her quizzically. “I don’t think when they rope calves, they take time to do shibari.”

She is reading these days about shibari, the art of Japanese rope bondage. I think the concept of that suits her sense of design and fits her feng shui approaches to home decorating. And her dressing of me has always been for her a form of decorating. So now these two interests are merging.

I have to admit the ropes are not uncomfortable. They’re soft and don’t irritate my skin below my breasts. The loop of the ropes squeezes my breasts slightly and pushes them out a touch. It’s not pronounced but just a slight increase of protrusion. Not that I need any help that way.

Later, over wine, she’ll take my ropes off and try another rope design, taking her time to create something new on me. I think she takes quiet pleasure in it, like doing a crossword puzzle.

“I think this rope thing,” I’ll say, “is just your excuse to fondle my breasts.”

She’ll look at me bemused, replying, “Silly girl, I don’t need an excuse to do that.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

She’ll continue to wrap me in rope, experimenting with symmetrical and asymmetrical, and sometimes very random like some Shibari Jackson Pollock.

And I’ll be reminded of something I overheard Master McKenna saying to a colleague: “When you own a girl like that, there’s no end to the things you can do with her.”

a day in my life

I have covered most of this in other posts, but there are new readers and followers, and some things have changed. Since I’ve been back with her, post-Pennsylvania, Mistress Amanda has settled me into most of our former routines but a few new ones as well, most all of them sexualized.

So here, once again, is a day in my life…

She dresses me every day, like before, which is to say that at night she lays out my outfit for the next day, placing it on the bed bench outside my bedroom.

For those new to my life, I am forbidden to wear slacks or jeans, only skirts. And Mistress has now become more fond of skater skirts on me (which happens also to be Master McKenna’s preference). A skater skirt is suitable for home and shopping, yet practical as submissive attire: short and usually pleated, it flares out from my body, making me more accessible to dominant hands.

Regular readers know I also am forbidden to wear a bra and panties. This I have never gotten used to, and being panty-less still makes me feel vulnerable wearing short skirts in public places.

A new wrinkle is that Mistress Amanda has less often rendered me fully topless around the house, which used to be the almost everyday practice. Now, she has me in button-down tops and blouses that she can open up in front, adjusting my décolletage to expose my breasts to varying degrees. Not that she has to have a reason for this, but she does have one: neighbors are stopping in to visit more often these days. “It’s not,” Mistress says, “to keep them from seeing your boobs but that you are potentially a gift to them at some point. I want them to have some surprise when they unwrap you.”

That logic, apparently, doesn’t keep her from walking me outside au naturele within sight of neighbor houses. Or displaying me in the bay window. Dominants, it seems, are not subject to the laws of logic.

We have had two rituals. Now, one she’s maintained, the other she’s changed.

I still bear coffee on a tray in the mornings, standing and waiting for her to emerge from her bedroom. She often drinks her coffee standing as I hold the tray, and she talks to me about the day ahead, for both me and her. This has been a ritual since my early days serving both Amanda and Kevin in the same house.

The other ritual, the one that’s changed, is my serving wine to her in the early evening. I’ll share about that in a moment.

In the past, I’ve had two weekly chores, but she’s added one since I’ve been back.

I have always done laundry, hers and mine, on Thursdays. I also do our linens and towels. This takes me through the morning into early afternoon.

My other regular chore is scrubbing the kitchen floor. You might read more about it here. I usually do this on Fridays. This is a hands-and-knees job involving suds and dirty water and my getting slick and sodden. I use tiny brushes to clean the crevices around tiles. I have become a bit obsessive about it, as if “my” kitchen floor is a little piece of my life I can control. Scrubbing the floor is also a spectacle of prurient interest, as Mistress often leaves her office study to watch me.

The new chore added to my weekly routine is dusting on Monday mornings. Mistress has a cleaning service that comes once a month, but dusting is not their strong suit. It doesn’t need to be done every week, but that’s sort of the point — making her slave perform unnecessary tasks, especially on a ladder in a short skirt. Apparently, Mistress has suddenly developed a strong distaste for dusty ceilings.

As I’ve reported in this space, I am now spending time on a ranch nearby learning the care and feeding of horses. Mistress Amanda has been gracious to allow me to do that, actually quite glad I am doing so. That has worked out to be on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings.

So every weekday morning is consumed with either chores and horses.

My afternoons are usually my time for writing and reading. I usually have about three or four hours to do what I want, and mostly that’s writing.

I don’t mean to suggest it’s “free time,” for a slave girl is never free, and other things come up for the doing. As I hold the coffee tray in the morning, Mistress sometimes says, “I’m gonna need you to…” and then finishes with some clerical task she needs me to do for her work. She used to employ me part time for this, but ended that for payroll and tax reasons; yet she has continued using me for ad hoc work needs here and there.

In this clerical work and in my chores, I am sexualized, dressed in some form of exposed fashion. I don’t “mind” this, as it’s my submissive place to be made this way, but as in most things, I never really get used to it. I know it’s her purpose to keep me always aware of being objectified in sexual ways.

As for the work, I don’t mind the chores, as I am happier when I’m kept busy. I’m still not sure about this dusting thing, though — it bores me.

Each day, Mistress enjoys a “happy hour,” a glass of wine. This has become a ritual for us, my serving us both glasses of wine on a tray — “bearing a tray” bookending the beginning of our work day when I serve coffee on a tray at 7:15 a.m. and the end of the day at happy hour.

The actual time for this happy hour is variable, depending on Mistress’s work schedule. She tells me when she’ll be ready for it — as early as 4:30 but often as late as 6:00.

The new wrinkle is that she has revamped this ritual to have happy hour with me “installed” at the wet bar. For those new to my blog, this post will describe it best.

At the designated time, Mistress leaves her home office and finds me already naked and bent over the wet bar in the accustomed position, my legs spread, my arms extended across the bartop, and my breasts hanging off the bartender side. I will have previously poured her a glass of white wine that sits in front of a bar stool to my side. And I will have placed, at her direction, a flogger beside her wine glass.

She locks my ankles and wrists into the eyebolts of the wet bar. And then she sits on the stool, sips her wine, and talks to me, unwinding from her day.

After a while, she stands, picks up the flogger, and applies it to my naked ass cheeks. And that’s an experience to share in another blog post.

But this is a whole new thing.

At first with this revised end-of-day ritual, I thought I would miss our times talking together on the couch. Before, our happy hour found its way onto the couch with wine and nosh plates, a time for casual conversations. This new ritual of me installed into the wet bar, seemed to get substituted for that.

But Mistress actually didn’t replace that, just moved it farther into our evening. After “attending” to me at the wet bar, Mistress unhooks me, and we both change into casual clothes. We collect what we want to eat from the kitchen and find our way to the couch. Our casual conversation is still there, the only difference is now that my sorry ass is more tender to sit on.

Some have asked about our meals together. Since neither of us cooks, we rarely sit down to a table for a formal meal. We tend to nosh, pulling things out of the fridge on small plates. We do eat together, but often casually on the patio or on the couch in the living room.

In the evenings, we sometimes read on the couch or patio (I read books, she reads magazines), or stream something on TV.

One new thing is daily walking. Mistress has always taken me out on walks, but now it’s every day. She says we need to get more exercise. I asked her if she thought I was getting flabby. “No,” she simply said, “me, not you.” (I hadn’t noticed.) Usually this is her walking me on a leash around the neighborhood. Sometimes it’s a walk up on the ridge, as I just wrote about. How I am dressed (or if), is always an adventure.

At some point in the evening she will say something like, “I think I will have you tonight,” by which she means have me sexually. Other times she may say, “I don’t want you tonight,” which I am not to take as a rejection but as a simple statement of her desire to be alone. Sometimes, she’ll say, “I want just a little taste tonight,” by which she means she’ll enjoy me for a short while, after which I am to return to my own bed. But I am always available to her as she wishes.

It isn’t always so formal, of course, and sometimes we are just girlfriend lovers. I’ve written about that here.

On average, in one mode or other, she has sex with me three or four times a week.

What I’ve written about here is our weekday routine. Our weekends are quite different — difficult to write about because they are so random and varied. There really is no routine on weekends.

Weekends, she and I tend to live in a more casual protocol, so to speak. We’ll go shopping together, see a movie, go into the city, hang out at a park, attend a neighborhood barbecue. It’s more girlfriend-ish.

But in certain things on weekends, we still live in D/s mode with each other. Mistress has me draw her a bath Sunday mornings. I guess that’s become a ritual too. I wrote about it here and here. It’s a very special time, I have to say.

Saturdays are when we do grocery shopping, and somehow she always seems to slip into her “Evil Mistress” mode at King Soopers. She finds all kinds of ways to embarrass me there. I’m always blush-faced by something she shouts across the produce aisles while holding up a cucumber.

Despite that (or because of it), it’s so good to be back in my life with her…

a walk along the ridge

It’s been a mighty long time since Amanda has leashed me and taken me for a walk up on the ridge. She did so on Monday.

My sojourn in Pennsylvania for nearly a year precluded any chance of ridge walks, and before that was winter. While we could hike in colder weather, we don’t, Amanda feeling that there’s not much point of it if she has to keep me bundled up. We figured it was late summer of 2021 when we had our last ridge walk.

Regular readers may remember that we live in the foothills of the Rockies. Our neighborhood is a huddle of ranch homes (now nine) set spaciously apart (think two football fields distant) in a wide expansive arc around a hill-mesa. There’s a path that rises up one side of the hill and circles around. This is what we call the ridge. It’s a good hiking path, much of it within sight of the back patios and porches of the houses.

At a time, this was a frequent activity for Amanda and me, a chance for her to walk me on a leash semi-publicly.

Monday was projected to get to about 70 degrees, and Amanda set aside her work late afternoon to walk me up on the ridge.

Sometimes she has had me topless when we’ve hiked. This time she wanted me completely nude. At some point in my next life I’ll get used to this, but I still am not now. It seems to be Amanda’s great pleasure. I’m just not sure if her satisfaction comes from observing my body naked or from her thrill in dominating me such that I am indeed fully naked in public against my respectable will. Probably both.

That said, the ridge is not much populated these days. We are the only ones in the neighborhood who walk it, and only occasionally do we see hikers there from other parts of the area. My public exposure is mostly unto our neighbors who might witness us from their patios a hundred yards away.

I showed up on the patio undressed, wearing only brown hiking boots and white socks. “Not a good look for me,” I said to Amanda.

“If we see anyone, they’re not going to stare at your feet.”

This time, there was a new wrinkle. “I want you to wear this backpack,” she said. She pulled out a small brown canvas bag with straps.

“What do we need to carry?” I asked.


I looked at her puzzled. She looked at me as if I were missing the point, which I often am.

She put some books in the backpack to fill it out and weight it down, none of it necessary for a forty-five-minute stroll.

She just wanted to watch me, nude, carry a backpack.

There was some fussy business with her arranging the straps of the backpack on me. Namely, she couldn’t decide how to place the front strap across my chest.

At first, she had the strap straight across my breasts, covering my nipples, like a string bikini bra, only made of a canvas strip. But when she tightened it, the strap “divided” my boobs in two, upper and lower flesh bulging out. “Doesn’t look right,” she said.

I couldn’t help myself. “If we see anyone,” I said aping her earlier comment, “they won’t really care so much.”

She threw me a look, repositioning the strap just above my nipples. “There,” she said, but when I moved, the strap slipped higher over the top slope of my breasts to my upper chest. That was where it was intended to be really, above my breasts, but it still didn’t suit Amanda.

She tried again, this time placing the strap just under my nipples.

We started to walk out from the patio, but Amanda looked at me and stopped. “That’s going to rub your nipples raw,” she said. “And your girlfriend Stacy will not be pleased if your nipples are raw.”

I blushed, this being a continuing thread of teasing from Amanda these days, subject for another post maybe. “Nice,” I said.

So there was another fussy adjustment, this extending the canvas strap under my breasts into their crease, lifting them up a bit, like a platform bra.

Finally, this was the solution she went with.

After all these years with her, I still do not understand her unique pleasure in showing me off so nakedly in public spaces. I know it is her pleasure, but I don’t know the chemistry of it. It just is her thing, her dominatrix thing, at least one of them.

I have a sense of pieces of it. She knows my public nudity is a humiliation to me, submissively felt, something that challenges my dignity, which I so struggle to maintain. Her making me walk on the ridge like that becomes about her power, her control, over me to make me unrespectable.

I have realized more since being back from my Pennsylvania sojourn that for her there is also simple lust in seeing my body. I think this has always been true, but for some reason I’m just now more aware of it. I think I’ve always perceived Amanda mostly in terms of her dominant nature, but there is something also to be said about her lesbian nature and her pleasures in looking at my body. I write so often about being topless because it’s how she has me live with her and is how she delights in seeing me. I never quite get used to this, but yes, I rather like her looking at me that way.

But there’s another aspect, I am starting to think. She somehow enjoys my nakedness in front of others as a sexualization of me. That is, she enjoys watching others observe me in various stages of undress, and seeing them lust for me in the experience. I think she finds joy in (a) their sexual imaginings of me and (b) my submissive humiliation and (c) her sexual memories of having me — all of them mixed together all at once.

That’s my current theory.

It seems, when you enter into another’s domination of you and give yourself to them, you walk into their unique sexuality, the urges and fantasies and particular pleasures they create with you. It’s a wonderland of a kind, and while I tend to want to analyze and understand, ultimately I must simply submit to the mystery of their kink.

Amanda walks me on a leash along the ridge. Sometimes she walks beside me and we talk. Sometimes she attaches the leash to the O-ring at the back of my collar and walks behind, as if I am the transportation pulling her up the slope. Sometimes, of course, she walks ahead of me, talking the lead.

And sometimes, while in the lead she turns around and walks backwards so she can watch me on the leash behind. It may be so she can talk to me. But sometimes there are no words, and I know she is simply watching my nakedness in the public air, enjoying the sway and bounce of my breasts and the moistening slit of my bare, pale pussy.

She also enjoys seeing my pinkish cheeks, which in autumn would be from the bracing fall breeze but here on a warm day in May are the blush of my humiliation, so pretty in her sight.

Robert and Stacy 2 (of 2)

I do not remember every detail, of course, and even if I did, I don’t know I would or should share it all. Some things should be kept within our inner places. Besides, it was a dreamscape of sorts, in which what’s dreamt and what’s experienced become mingled, out of sequence and only vaguely recalled.

It truly was a night of fade-ins and fade-outs, as scenes in an old movie, much of it in the dim, flickering glow of candles.

As she made out with me on the couch, Stacy whispered, “I’ve had my eye on you from the beginning.”

“I think most everyone in the neighborhood has,” I said. “Literally. The bay window, I mean.”

She giggled at that, a girlish laugh that was off-type. It was pretty on her. “I’ve only been to one of those.”

“I never really know who’s out there in the back yard.”

“Do you consider yourself an exhibitionist?” she asked.

“I’m really not, but Amanda insists I am. I’m often the last to know…”

“It would be okay if you are,” Stacy said. “We’re all a little trapped by what others think we should be.”

It was a comment to remember because it seemed a glimpse into her heart, a flash of something that intrigued me. I thought of delving further, but I had my arms around her, our breasts were kissing, and it didn’t seem a proper time for a sociology discussion.

She was hungry for me, which felt really good. When she kissed me, it was like I was ice cream and she couldn’t get enough. Our tongues danced together, and sometimes our lips just met and stopped, pausing in time.

My chemise had gotten pulled up around my waist and Stacy’s hand was feeling me below, her fingers caressing my smooth bareness. It was slow and easy, both of us seeming to know that the pleasure was not in the destination but in the rhythmic journey of the night train getting there.

In time, her fingers slipped inside me, and I closed my eyes, knowing that even if there was nothing more, this alone was worthy to be my cherished memory of intercourse with the woman executive down the block.

If Stacy indeed had never done this before with another woman, it seemed to come naturally to her with ease and elegance. She was undaunted by this being new to her. She plunged into it with confidence. And her natural inclination, much like Amanda’s, seemed to be to lead. Unlike Amanda, this didn’t seem to be dominant yet was directive.

I admire that so much. I am everything opposite, worrying about everything new and untasted, doubting myself. Perhaps that befits the submissive in me.

In any case, we found these “places” with each other. I was an escort to them, but oh so easily fell into following Stacy’s initiatives. Apparently I can’t help it. I am submissive even when I’m not needed to be. But the good thing was that it was natural for us both, I think.

It seemed to work out well: Stacy aggressively pursued her long-fantasized appetite.

And I was what she was hungry for.

Robert watched us quietly, drinking a beer from a stein.

It was always their plan for Stacy to have me and for Robert to watch. However, I learned later that was actually his request. Stacy wanted the experience with me, for sure, but just as deeply, Robert wanted the experience of observing us “women in love.”

As Stacy and I were engaged on the couch together, I actually forgot Robert was there, he was so utterly silent. Later I would wonder how this was for him, how he might feel seeing “the slave girl from the neighbor’s house” naked and kissing his girlfriend in his own living room.

There came a time when Robert spoke. Hearing him break his silence actually startled me: “You two should dance together.”

Stacy seemed slightly annoyed at the intrusion, but soon there was slow jazz in the background, and she and I were undulating naked, our breasts pressing to the rhythm and our hard nipples flicking to the warm lust in the air.

So… what happened then was kind of a change in plans.

After a while, Stacy turned to Robert and asked, “You want some?” referring to me. It was her executive tone, somewhat exasperated and yet with a tinge of guilt that she was keeping me to herself. I took it that this was not according to script.

Robert paused — I don’t know — maybe trying to read her tone or internally measuring his willpower. He leaned his head sideways and then produced a slight nod. It was noticeable to me as more than an assent, like some sort of secret language that couples have. Later, I thought this maybe had been a “plan B,” an alternate scenario they’d discussed.

In any case, Stacy, knowing what he wanted, pulled me close and whispered into my ear, “Robert would like you to suck his cock. Would that be okay?”

I almost laughed, for I don’t know when, if ever, I’d been asked if sucking a man’s cock was “okay” with me. Knowing me, it’s sort of a “well, duh” question, and I wondered if Stacy meant it that way, ironically, if she had read my blog and well knew this about me, my obvious sexual preference for men this way. But I think she was really meaning is it okay with you if we interrupt what you and I have going on here and you do this other thing?

I murmured back to her in a hush, “Yes, as long as you promise not to go away.”

“We’ll have the rest of the night,” she whispered.

I won’t detail here my oral attentions to Robert, which is not to suggest he wasn’t completely desirable and delicious. Readers have read so many of my other oral experiences, and this here is to be more about Stacy. However, there is one thing I will mention, as I had not experienced it before.

I was kneeling at Robert’s feet. He sat in the easy chair, his briefs off, his body slid forward, and his man-cock dangling off the edge of the chair cushion. Stacy sat beside me, watching me take her boyfriend into my mouth. She fondled my breasts and kissed my shoulders as I attended to him.

In time, his hands clenched the arms of the chair, his body tensed, and his cock released his scoosh of cum into my mouth.

Before I could swallow, Stacy turned my face toward hers. She leaned in and whispered, “Share it with me.” We kissed, and Robert’s cum rolled over her lips and into her mouth.

That was new to me…

They took me to bed. I should say they both took me into their bedroom, though Robert soon left us, as I was to be Stacy’s for the night.

I feel that some of what Stacy and I experienced together needs to remain private. My wish, not her request. I wish to keep to myself, for now, her particular style, her way of touching me, the specifics of her hungry desire. There are ways another woman, in her own pursuit of intimacy, makes you different in how you are in bed, and I want more time to cherish that.

There’s plenty you might rightly imagine: our eager tongues and pussy lips, our legs intertwined as scissors, our fingers fondling. But to describe every action of our passion doesn’t capture what it was. I could describe the experiences and totally miss the experience.

I don’t mean to suggest that for her and me these moments were so very special that they must be kept secret — as in the “best-est orgasms we ever had,” so amazing as to be unspeakable. I’m not suggesting infatuation and deep relational love happened that night, for they didn’t and weren’t the expectation for either of us. None of that’s really the point.

I will offer this: it’s a unique experience to have an orgasm with someone you don’t know, then in the afterglow of climax, in murmurs and whispers, getting to know her for the first time.

It was maybe around four a.m., though any sense of time was elusive. Like I say, Stacy and I had had a number of “moments” during the night, separated by sleep and dreams. Here I was between her legs again, my lips and tongue tracing the lovely contours of her labia. Stacy was moaning and edging close, once again.

I became aware that Robert was in the room. This might sound creepy but wasn’t. At the start of the evening, while I knew I was to be Stacy’s for the night, I also thought Robert would be watching. He had done so in the living room earlier, and I rather expected he might be in the bedroom with us, sitting in the chair in a corner or even stretched out in the bed alongside us. As it happened, he gave us privacy for much of the night but had apparently awakened and looked in on us just as we were, well, engaged in another “moment.”

I sensed him kneeling beside the bed. I looked up and saw he had taken Stacy’s hand in his. I returned to the liquid pleasure of Stacy’s pussy, flicking her clit lightly with my tongue. She moaned hard.

And then I felt Robert reaching for my hand. He held my hand and hers as I continued my loving of her. Soon she arched and breathed out her climax.

Robert held our hands, both, through her entire orgasm.

When she had come down from her high, he offered my hand a little squeeze, stood up, leaned over, and gave Stacy a kiss before leaving.

To me, it was a different glimpse of what a threesome might be about — less kinky than it sounds and more tender than one would imagine.

We slept in until about ten; we were groggy even so. Stacy had me shower with her — one last touch of intimacy. Eventually we dressed. She took me by hand and walked me into the kitchen where Robert was working on his computer.

“Look what I found!” she said to him brightly.

He had coffee ready for us, along with a bite for breakfast. Muffins, of course.

Nothing more was said about our night together, just talk about their weekend ahead, and about mine once I got back with Amanda. I rather liked that we didn’t chat about what we’d just done, that it wasn’t such a huge event after all and instead was, in a way, just another beginning of a weekend. I don’t like being on a stage even though I’m so often put on one. With them that morning, it felt normal and casual, making me think I could now walk into their lives again and would be received just as if I was supposed to be there.

I went to the bedroom to collect my toiletry bag, purse, and my chemise, slightly used, now a cherished memento.

They walked me to the door. Robert hugged me. Stacy took me into her arms and kissed me one last time.

The night train had reach its station. We would walk away, strangers once again, yet forever changed.

Robert and Stacy, 1 (of 2)

It seems strange to say this feels almost too private to tell, but it feels that way, as if I feel protective of the two of them in writing about it. It’s not precious in the sense I consider myself anything more than the gift I was to them or that I have walked away from them in hushed infatuation. Nor do I think I was anything so remarkable that they would wish to keep memories of me quietly close to their heart. It wasn’t like that.

Perhaps my pause has something to do with the phenomenon of it: that we are strangers on different paths in different lives who, for a moment in time, have found ourselves in the same neighborhood. Our tryst that night was a convergence of fulfillments together by chance, like strangers on a train.

How do I capture this in words?

Yet they wish me to. What I write here has their blessing. When I was leaving the morning after, Stacy leaned close, kissed me, and whispered, “We’re eager to read about this in your blog. It’ll be like experiencing you all over again.”

They are adventurous people — daring enough to do this with me in the spotlight of the neighborhood, to bring me into their relationship and their bed, all for a lovely night and a special moment in time.

Amanda and I walked down the block to their house around eight p.m. She wanted to present me, the gift I was to be from her to them, although she did not have me on a leash.

Stacy took my hand at the door and walked me, us, through the house to their back patio. It was cool outside Friday night, but they have a semi-enclosed patio with overhead heaters. It was nice, cozy. They offered us drinks, and we sat talking for a while.

Early on, they requested that I call them “Robert” and “Stacy” in private, and “Mr. Robert” and “Ms. Stacy” in public. It underscored how they wanted me to be with them intimately, yet how I was to submissively address them in the neighborhood public. I’m sure Amanda coached them on this. “That sounds good to me,” I said.

Amanda and Stacy talked shop, both being executive women at the top in tech businesses. It was Stacy who eventually turned the conversation to me, asking about my long-ago career in real estate. Later I would think on this and realize it was her way of connecting with me as an equal, apart from my submissive place, finding personal common ground with me.

Now, I may have the order of some of these conversations mixed up. Not sure I remember clearly when things were said. I recall at some point they had questions about my week with Master McKenna. They’d read my blog posts, which made me blush a little. It’s easier to write and post intimate things from behind a laptop than to acknowledge them face-to-face.

Mr. Diaz — I should say, Robert — said that he’d been “thinking about McKenna” and what it might be like to keep a submissive girl. He sat dressed in loose khakis and a casual white shirt, untucked, and he sported a goatee, which has always conveyed to me an air of confidence. “I’m not of that persuasion,” he said, “but just in the sexual aspect, it must take a lot of self-discipline.”

“You mean,” Stacy paraphrased, “it would be hard for you to keep you hands off her.”

“Well, yes,” Robert said, “just look at her!”

Amanda and Stacy laughed.

I smiled. It was a nice compliment. “I think he must plan it out ahead of time,” I said.

“His sex with you?” Robert asked.

“Yes. He intentionally makes me wait.”

“But that means he has to wait too.”

“Yes. But he’s a man of immense willpower. ”

“My point exactly.”

“Well,” Stacy jumped in with a sly smile, “we’re not going to wait that long.”

Again laughter. It was a warm and natural segue into a sexual conversation.

I started to feel that they were about about having adventures together and pursing things that are fulfilling. I took that to be their own mantra in life. And there was a suggestion I was like them in this, that I too was exploring the far dimensions of my sexuality. That was our partnership this evening.

I rather liked that. This was our point of connection — that we together were engaging in something adventurous.

If there was anything about the evening ahead I was nervous about, it was how we all would just get into it together — how we’d get physical and sexual with each other naturally. It is the problem of being with someone for the purpose of making love… without being in love. I feared awkwardness.

It’s different in the D/s world. Dominance and submissiveness are their own kind of attraction, a kind of predilection for a kind of relationship. Total strangers know what each is, dom and sub, and that becomes the lubricant for slipping into intimacy. My submission is to everything my dominant demands of me, and that goes to his physicality with me and his sex with me. I am used to that in D/s relationships, and it feels natural there. Here in the vanilla world, I wasn’t sure how this would work. Or how I would work.

Now, the general plan for these neighborhood sharing things is for me to be more of a submissive escort than a submissive slave, as neighbors likely don’t have the experience or the will or the interest to dominate me as such. My being an escort to them is ostensibly how it might most easily happen.

Readers will remember that in service to Kevin back in the day, I became capable of a kind of escorting to him. Being an escort, a sexual companion, is itself submissive to a degree, which makes it work for me. In slavery, I obey commands; in escorting, I obey requests — a slight difference but both forms of submissive obedience. Even so, I already knew Kevin, and intimately so, before my escorting with him. This was different from this— I didn’t really know Robert and Stacy, not yet.

Of course, that was the thrill of it.

Of course also, that still begged the question: how do complete strangers make love without being in love?

The plan was for Amanda to stay just a short while, and she got up to leave, but Stacy protested: “You must stay for our dessert. And we have coffee.” She then asked me to join her in the kitchen. “I’m making muffins,” she said. “Could use your help.”

“I’m not sure you want me doing any cooking,” I said. “Not my skill set. But I’ll watch you.”

“Stacy’s a terrible cook,” Robert offered.

Stacy didn’t protest. “True. But you and I, Shae, can ruin the muffins together.”

And we pretty much did. In the kitchen, she had opened a box mix and poured the dry contents into a bowl. That was all. We both stood for a moment, side by side, looking at the bowl and the empty box like it was hard math, like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity..

“I see you’ve made a lot of progress,” I said.

Stacy laughed, put her arm around my waist in back. “I think we’re supposed to add something else.”

“I guess we need to read the box.” I went to the counter, picked up the box, and said, “I’m good at following directions.”

“So I hear.”

And so soon as that, she and I had settled into playful repartee. Took us a half hour to get an egg and some milk into the bowl, us giggling like girlfriends and generally making a mess. Eventually batter happened, some of it still in the bowl.

Stacy took a dollop of it, held it to my lips, and I licked it off her finger. Then she kissed me, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

They are attractive people. Amanda says I find the “attractive” in most everyone, and I do, which is not some virtuous trait, but just how one tends to see people from a lowly submissive perspective looking up at them. Most everyone has something in them that’s appealing which you can fall in love with a little.

That said, Robert and Stacy happen to have a lot of physical attractiveness. Everyone in the neighborhood knows this. None of us is a model of perfection, but they are striking people in appearance. They dress smart. Stacy is tall and slender, Nordic, which is a model’s look, but she has an angular face and short blonde hair, blunt-cut, which gives her, intentionally, I imagine, a look of useful severity in her executive career.

But now in the presence of muffins and kitchen mess and a stolen kiss, Stacy became warmly human to me. It is sometimes in the things we do least well where we are the most beautiful. The kitchen became a moment in which Stacy’s attractive but cool exterior became softened like butter and vulnerable and, frankly, quite appealing. The stern executive got utterly cute.

Muffins in the oven, Stacy took my hand and walked back out to the patio.

“Did I miss anything?” Robert asked.

“Yes,” Stacy replied. “All of it. We’re done. Had sex. She was wonderful… Oh, did you want to watch?”

Robert grinned and shook his head at her.

Amanda winked at me.

So, we had muffins and coffee and talked some more. It was now about travel and Europe and seeing the world. My presence there, the purpose of my being there, felt perfectly normal and casual.

Amanda bade her farewell and nodded a smile to me as she was leaving. Another time, perhaps, she will stay and watch, perhaps holding my hand during, which would be one of her deeper pleasures.

“The present,” Robert prompted.

“Oh, right!” Stacy left and then returned with a wrapped package. “A little something for you,” she said.

It was a pretty satin chemise, in burgundy, a color I wear so well, with a lace bodice demi-cup for my breasts to spill out of. The gift was unexpected and thoughtful and made me feel warm to the moment

So it went like this: Robert sat in an easy chair in briefs and a Nirvana tee-shirt. Stacy had me sit with her on the couch. She wore a short silk robe tied loosely in front, a royal blue that paired well with her short blonde hair. I was draped in my new burgundy chemise.

She leaned over to kiss me, and, well, everything began.

All my earlier trepidations about awkwardness fell away. I was simply their guest for the night. We had muffins. And now sex. Somehow that all fit together and felt like a perfect Friday night.

When, she kissed me again, a long succulent kiss, her lips lingering, my eyes closed. “I thought you hadn’t done this before,” I whispered. “With a woman.”

“I haven’t.”

“It seems to come naturally to you.”

“Yes it does, doesn’t it,” she said with a lilting laugh, kissing me once more.

It struck me that Stacy’s a woman who goes after what she wants and is undaunted by new experiences, even eager to pursue them. Amanda is like that too, and I am not, though I wish I were more like that. I realized here this night I had been pushed into this new experience by Amanda and pulled into this new experience by Stacy. My life seems to be ever-expanded by women who have me.

I untied Stacy’s silk robe and pulled it apart. Her small breasts were tear-drop shaped, nipples excited and perky. “So pretty,” I murmured, taking one on my hand and fondling it. Stacy sighed.

She looped my spaghetti straps off my shoulders, lowering the bodice of my chemise, and my breasts fell bounding out. Hers were so dainty and delicate, I remember thinking, while mine were likes bulls in a chinashop.

Stacy pulled me across her body so I was stretched over her lap looking up at her. For me, this was a moment. Because I’d been secretly imagining it for some time.

My unspoken truth is I’d been looking forward to being with Stacy ever since the sharing had been planned. Though I’d been unsettled about the act of being shared, I’d otherwise been desirous of being with another woman. That isn’t to say Amanda isn’t enough for me, she is, but just to admit I have longings sometimes for another… experience. Amanda herself has frequently teased me with notions of her taking a second slave, and maybe that’s more than teasing, though it hasn’t happened. This with Stacy was not that but was, Amanda well knew, a satisfaction of my ever-hungry sexuality. Which I am always reticent to admit the extent of.

So, once my sharing was agreed to and worked out, and once it was determined it would be Stacy alone having me, I pulled out memories of her, like they were pictures on my phone, and found my swoon. I was in my Pennsylvania wilderness still, with not much else to distract me but the hope of returning to Amanda and this odd but seemingly delicious experience with Stacy Knox.

I am different with women than men. My attraction to a woman seems based on my knowing her heart in some special aspect and my finding a connection to it. (Most of my experiences with men have been with dominants, and my attractions to them are based on other things.) Here I didn’t know Stacy, we had no romantic history, and she was mostly a stranger. I didn’t know her heart, any part of it. Yet somehow I had developed a longing for her from afar — or at least a longing for this, on the couch and later in bed.

I might define a “lust-longing” as the snapshot of yourself that you desire with another. My lust-longing for dominant men is well documented here — me on my knees and, well, you know. My lust-longing for a woman seems to be more focused on the experience of embracing, the simple feeling of intimate physical closeness. I have sometimes written of the eroticism I feel when Amanda and I are holding each other close, our naked breasts pressed together, our hard nipples touching. I don’t need more, I don’t need an orgasm. My “lust-longing snapshot” simply shows me in a sensuous intimate embrace with another woman.

Here I was, Stacy cradling me across her lap, the two of us half undressed, clenched in a desire of strangers. We kissed, slowly and wetly, and when her lips were not occupying mine, I suckled her nipple, which grew red and pebbly.

This, precisely, was what I had imagined and longed for, heightened even more by the fact we were just strangers on a train, not in love yet finding passion together in the heart of a fleeting night.

McKenna: impressions 9

There is sex. Eventually.

It isn’t until Monday evening when he finally takes me. The four-poster, catty-corner in the fourth quadrant of the Great Room, is indeed the scene of my sexual bondage.

He has me wearing a simple skater skirt, royal blue, nothing on top, and makes me shed my heels before installing me onto the bed.

There is hardware. Link chains emerge from a cardboard box. He untangles them like strings of Christmas lights. He walks around the bed and behind, pulling my shoulders so I am laid back, stretched across the width of the mattress, not its length, such that my head falls over the long edge of the other side.

My incarceration comes with sounds, the clanks of links and the clicks of caribiners as he attaches chains to the metal canopy frame overhead and lets them dangle down like hanging snakes.

Now he attaches my wrists to the chains, adjusting them so my arms are stretched outward and held floating, slightly above the mattress. He walks to the front longside of the bed, wraps padded cuffs around my knees, attaching them by overhead chains as well. Here too he arranges the lengths of the chains to spread my legs wide and lift my knees and legs above the bed.

His process is deliberate and precise, his dominant pleasure wrapped up in the details of creating the bondage as well as what will be the consummation of it.

This is a new thing, this binding of me so my limbs hover above the surface. It is creative of him, and for a moment I have a glimpse of him as an artist, and I wonder if as a boy he created kingdoms with Legos — and maybe tiny bondage beds as well.

He walks away, pours himself a drink, and returns to examine his handiwork. He stands at a distance, saying nothing, sipping his bourbon, observing me in dominant silence. Several times he walks up to the bed and leans over to adjust my little skirt so that it falls between my legs just right. He is the artist with a paintbrush, touching up his composition in the final moments.

I wonder if my desire, now so visible — my skin flushed and my nipples hard like pink buttons — is part of his artistic statement.

As I lie in bondage, I maintain a solemn quiet, aware this is a new aspect of him I haven’t quite seen or felt before. I have entered into a secret room of his being, a place where he putters and paints and purrs like a well-tuned sports car.

I find there are rare moments when bondage and sex and worship and art all come together. I have experienced that with Kevin before.

Somehow I have slipped into this same sanctuary with my Master McKenna.

He stands behind the bed, straddling my head, his balls and cock lying on my face. I suckle each of his balls first, swathing them in my watering mouth, closing my eyes as I savor him. He cannot possibly know how many times I have imagined this, him, during the past four months.

He now slips his cock between my lips, but its visit is short-lived, as he just wants me to wet him and get him hard. Soon he pulls out, walks away, retrieves his bourbon, and roams the room like the dominant he is, seeing my obvious lust for him and making me wait.

I try not to give in, remaining silent, though I realize it’s such a silly game I play, a last-ditch effort to retain control of that which I’ve long ago ceded to him. What is this futile resistance, after all, when I want him so much? I know it’s that I want him on my terms — I want to hold his precious cock in my hands and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

He will not have that. He will do his slave while she’s in chains. As he wishes.

Master M stands bedside and again waits. I know what he wants to hear, and in time I give it. “Please,” I say, my voice hushed and raspy.

He emits a short laugh at my feeble beg, and I feel him lift my skirt. I know he sees my pussy bare, glistening with wishes, my labia lips already swollen. It must give him great satisfaction that he does this to me. He sees me oozy in this moment, but there are many other times in the course of my life with him about which he has no idea.

And now he climbs onto the bed and enters me. I make some noise unintelligible to anyone. He stretches over my torso as he pumps me, and I feel his mouth on my breasts, over my nipples, sucking them in.

There is a soundtrack to this fucking of me: a regular creaking of the four-poster bed springs as the percussion and the jangle of chains as a dissonant melody. I shudder, way soon, and I will explain later it was because it had been so long — as if an orgasm ever needs explaining.

The music continues, wonderfully endless, the clank and jang of my chains corresponding to my sexual responses and the clenching of my desires as he fills me. I come again.

In time, he does too, filling me with his warmth and wet, his deep, heavy breaths closing out the symphony.

He steps back and takes a last look. He sees this snapshot of me: naked-bound to the four-poster, my legs spread, and his cum oozing like white lava from my pussy. We both know this now will forever be the image he sees whenever he enters the Great Room and casts his eyes on the four-poster.

He’ll be in his office space and will look across, enjoying in his mind’s eye my sexual incarceration. There will be board meetings in the far quadrant, and he will, in mid-sentence, imagine me here like this, chained to the four-poster, shuddering in climax. He’ll be in conversation with his colleagues on the leather chairs and couches and likely recount this view of me and how he so precisely binds me in chains.

And this now will be seared into my memory as well. I will forever again enter the Great Room, see the four-poster, and feel both the humiliation and the ecstasy of this time, desperately striving to maintain my dignity in the presence of the room, the bed, and the man.

McKenna: impressions 7

Even though I am well past my time with Master McKenna, I have a few more notes and impressions to post before moving on. Understand that the time frame here goes back to Easter weekend and the first half of last week.

So, there are two incidents over the weekend that disrupt and change everything.

On Saturday night, Master gets a work call about an urgent situation with one of his companies. This is followed by a flurry of other calls. I overhear some of it, but have no idea what the problem actually is. Not my place to know. He is plenty bothered. After an hour of phone conversations, it becomes necessary for him to go into Denver for an emergency meeting of some of his people.

He tells me he will be out late, not to wait up, he will see me in the morning. “Don’t get into any trouble,” he says.

“No worries,” I reply. “It’s only when you’re here that I’m not a good girl.”

I have a random thought on Easter Sunday: it occurs to me that there are now three beds for me in the mansion. Not sure what to make of this, if anything, but I make a note of the thought.

I have a bedroom to myself, where I keep my clothes, dress, sleep. It is, I will say, a personal space. I’ve put up a few pictures — of family, Amanda. Yet while personal it’s not private, meaning that Master has every right to enter. Though he does not.

There is another room on the second floor, the small room with the half-moon bed, a bed not conducive to sleep but perfectly equipped for bondage sex. Here he can strap my ankles to the walls with bungee cords and double me over, so that what I present to him are the curves and folds and holes of my ass and pussy, served up for his carnal pleasures.

And now there is the four-poster bed in the Great Room. I expect he’ll inaugurate me in it before my time this week is over. He wants others to know “this is where the slave is fucked.” They will assume that anyway, seeing me handcuffed to one of the posts, imagining the configurations of my wrists and ankles cuffed to any of four wooden posts for the choosing.

At noon on Sunday, he has me pull out Ms. Yuan’s provisions for Easter dinner — a delicious spread of turkey, yams, green beens, corn pudding, and dinner rolls.

He and I sit at the small kitchen table, modest and informal. This is strangely intimate, as I don’t recall a time when he and I have shared a meal together alone. At the mansion, the staff does food at different times, and Master M tends to work through, using mealtimes for phone calls and grabbing a bite or two from the kitchen on the fly.

He has kept me topless much of the time this weekend, and even now I sit across from him at the kitchen table with my boobs out, which look like pale canned hams on platters. Even here and now he sexualizes me, and I rather love it.

Early afternoon, I take a nap in the four-poster. My bedroom upstairs is nice, but dark, and there is beautiful sun pouring through these windows in the Great Room.

As I fall asleep, I recall a casual comment by Master M on one of our walks outside. He talked about how he acquired this four-poster: “I told [my friend] I was looking for a ‘Shae bed’ for the Great Room, and he knew someone who was listing a Victorian bed in an upcoming estate sale…”

I had been opposed to the idea for two reasons: because a bed here didn’t “fit the room,” but also because it would be a visual humiliation of me, which it very much is. But in a way, I had to admit that the four-poster, while it may not fit an atrium room in a mansion, does fit Master McKenna’s Great Room, because it is so very him.

The room bears the quadrants of his life — an office space, a conference area, a conversation pit. And now an elegant bed with hooks and chains that represents his dominant lifestyle.

And it then dawns on me as I drift into afternoon slumber, that in talking with his friend he had said “the Shae bed.” He had identified the bed from the beginning as a place for me. Aside from the visual humiliation it represented, it was a symbol of his bringing me into the other quadrants of his life.

I serve him only part time, but the “Shae bed” is there full-time, always a part of his daily life.

So, the second incident… there’s a kerfuffle mid-afternoon that wakes me. [You may wish to look at a comment from Nora on my blog post days ago, “A Program Note”; my answer refers to this.]

Maria has unexpectedly returned a day early from her family Easter. I hear Master with her in the front atrium, and while he does not much show his anger, he is angry.

It takes me a while to sort everything out, but it comes down to this: The plan was for Maria to start her internship tomorrow, Monday. Master McKenna was to have me to himself over the Easter weekend. Something happened at Maria’s family’s Easter getogether that caused her to leave early.

I need to explain that the mansion here is now Maria’s home, as she moved in the week before into a bedroom on the third floor. When she left her family this afternoon, she had no other place to go.

This a circumstance that can’t be avoided, so it seems to me. But it’s disruptive and puts Master M into a rare funk.

Certainly Master M confronts disruptions in his work and life every day, and handles them with cool aplomb, by all appearances. He is generally unflappable, but these events this weekend — the work thing last night and now this with Maria this afternoon — have unsettled him.

Note: The ones who rule us are not perfect. They have ups and downs like the rest of us.

But it’s a most unsettling feeling to be submissive to a dominant who is unsettled. I have every desire to go to him and offer myself, what he already owns, to assuage his frustrations. I imagine Master’s displeasure toward Maria, and I fear this is the worst possible way for her to start a submissive internship with him. I want very much to go to Maria and comfort her. I think of offering myself to Master to take on her punishment, whatever that might be.

Yet I know better. My submissive instincts paired with my religious upbringing often lead me toward misplaced ideas of substitutionary atonement. My inclinations are to steady any situation by my own efforts to balance the boat, much of which are unhealthy forms of codependence.

In the end, I do nothing and stay out of it. This may be wrong too.

Note: Is having a third person in the equation — now dom-sub-sub — always going to be this way, always going to yield high drama?

By mid-evening, Master M has composed himself. To his credit, his change of mood doesn’t come from a bottle of bourbon. He takes a walk outside (without me) and comes back cooled off.

He tells Maria that he will start with her, clean slate, in the morning. Also, on his walk he has called Amanda and worked out an extension of my time with him, a compensation for lost time. He has me sit at his feet while he smokes a cigar.

The high drama has burned off like wisps of cigar smoke.

In the end, he has managed everything quite well. I just think he intended to have an easy weekend with me in which he wouldn’t have to manage much of anything.

McKenna: impressions 6

Saturday afternoon, he makes me fully naked and puts me on a leash and walks me outside, a slow stroll around the grounds of the mansion. As always, he has me in tall heels, but this time he has me wear thigh-top stockings.

Master McKenna has always felt to me like an “inside man,” his dominance of me almost inseparable from the soaring presence of the mansion he lives in. And more — his work as a CEO of multiple companies feels tangible as a kind of conceptual scaffolding that towers over me in his possession. He is a man who has built these structures around himself, and it now feels different out from under them, outside with him and only the sky above.

Of course, I am used to being walked outside on a leash by Amanda, often partially undressed and even on occasion fully nude. But each master/mistress walks me differently (which is probably what only a puppy could say, if she were able to speak). Each has a unique stroll and pace, and each handles my leash with individual style. With him now, it feels like a brand new experience, being walked nude outside around the property by the man I have become tethered to in so many ways, my shaven pussy tingled by the cool breeze with every step.

I don’t know how many acres the mansion sits on, but there are expanses of lawn and trees all around. It is relatively private, and I am not fearful of people seeing me like this, though in the distance at times I can see other estates and mansions and their properties folding unfenced into this one, so nothing prevents a neighbor from being out on a similar hike or stroll. And while Jeffers has the weekend off, I would not be surprised to see him lurking somewhere, grabbing glimpses of my female flesh and imagining pleasures he will never have.

There are winding walkways throughout the grounds made of slate slabs. These slate tiles are mostly regularly spaced but sometimes not, making the walking of them in heels a challenge, forcing uneven steps and frequent bobbles of my breasts. Master M is patient with me as I navigate my steps, though it doesn’t seem he minds much.

For all my submissive exposure, though, this is a conversational stroll, Master M discussing with me his approach to bringing on Maria and his thoughts about her coaching and training. He wants to know some of the curriculum ideas I have been developing for the school for submissives, thinking those might be a basis for Maria’s development, starting this week. This feels like a kind of professional, even intellectual, partnership with him, even as he dominates me fully naked at the end of a leash. Somehow this feels perfectly right.

There is a stand of aspens at one corner of the estate, and he walks me there. The aspens open up unto another property, rather close to a neighboring house, but to the southwest there is a clear vista. There we stop and for a moment pause our conversation, turning toward a most majestic view of the mountains.

As we gaze in silence at the Rockies, Master McKenna shifts my leash into his left hand and wraps his right arm around my naked waist. It’s almost a tender gesture— though it’s just above the welts that he striped my ass cheeks with yesterday.

My whipping yesterday feels different to me today. I don’t mean physically, for while the redness surrounding my welts has faded some, the stripes persist and are still sore. He laughs at me with a certain self-satisfaction for my frequent asking to be allowed to stand rather than sit.

But when you are whipped by a man, you develop a relationship of a sort with the markings he has left on you. Yesterday these were symbols of my shame: I endured the concerned gazes of an observer, Mr. Comcast guy; in front of his caring judgment, I had to acknowledge my whipping and admit that I willingly gave myself, my body, to being treated that way — and even enjoyed it.

Today my relationship to my markings bears a different emotion. As Master walks me around the estate, I feel my welts as symbols of my belonging to him. I think he has me nude on a leash outdoors for this very reason — because he is proud of his handiwork. My red stripes signify his possession of me. They claim me just as much as his taking me in bound intercourse, and much more visibly.

Even more, the fact that my stripes are welts, not “cuts-turning-into-scars,” is actually evidence of his restraint, a hint of what he could have done but didn’t. In that, my markings also attest to how I stood steadfast in the path of his whip and received its bite, trusting my Master M to do the right thing.

So, today I hold my head a bit higher, as I am actually kind of proud to wear the welts with which he has marked me.