white stretchy top

Last night I told Amanda I might get up early to write, down in the hotel cafe.

She had nodded approval but said she wanted me to wear my white stretchy top. During our week here she’s been hand’s off on dressing me in the mornings, part of her realization she wouldn’t be able to “mistress me” during this time.

Except when she does.

The white stretchy top is one of a few clothing items she packed for “Shae show,” as she puts it. There hasn’t been much time for Shae show. Apparently now there is.

It’s a tight nylon/spandex top that molds to my body like a coating of cream. It’s also slightly transparent, not so much as to create social unrest, but enough to prompt public looks and stares.

“I think people should know you have boobs.”

“I don’t think anyone would doubt that,” I replied.

“I think they need more visual evidence.”

She said she was going to try to sleep in, for which I am glad. I think she is tired — spent from everything in recent weeks.

As for me, I couldn’t sleep past four-thirty. So I am here in the hotel cafe at 5:30 a.m. with a cup of strong coffee.

Wearing a white stretchy top.

Other coffee drinkers now have ample proof that I am a woman. Amanda will be relieved.

summer weekend

I wrote much of this last Sunday night but never finished until today.

It’s been another hazy, lazy weekend of summer. We’ve had a number of them, though this weekend has been the loveliest, with temps in the low 80s. Lots of sun, and not much threat of the late afternoon thunderstorms, which has been the pattern.

Neither Mistress nor Master have had work business to do and have lounged around the house and patio with me, which adds to the slow, languorous rhythm and the art of doing very little. Much of the time I’ve been out on the patio with Amanda sipping lemonade, which is its own quiet joy. Master has played golf both mornings, but early, getting back home by noon or one, then joining us on the patio.

Mistress has had me in summer skirts all weekend: yesterday a thin tulip skirt in a pretty cantaloupe orange; today a white, eyelet beach skirt, midi and sheer and flowy. Both days she has insisted on applying my suntan lotion, spending a lot of time and product on my breasts. Normally she uses a Neutrogena sun block, but this weekend she’s been applying Hawaiian Tropics lotion, and lots of it. The Neutrogena is non-greasy and has a flat finish; the Hawaiian Tropics is slick and leaves a glimmery sheen. So she wants me gleaming and reflective.

She did my breasts a third time, and I looked at her with a wry smile and said, “You know, you don’t need to waste suntan lotion. Just play with them if you want.”

She smiled but said nothing and continue to waste Hawaiian Tropics on my boobs.

Mistress took me out yesterday morning, to the cafe and then grocery shopping at City Market. It was a brief run early, while Master was golfing, but we had time enough for coffee and delicious scones at the cafe, a short conversation with Casey, and then a quick tour through the grocery. We got back by eleven.

I’ve had time to read and write, although I haven’t felt much like writing. I find that in certain cycles, I just need to slow down putting words to paper, and just live life.

So this became a slow, lovely rhythm of reading, fetching drinks, and being watched by Mistress and Master as I walked around in just a summer skirt. They like watching me. In between I took naps, falling asleep in the sun.



Lost in the busyness of last week was my return to the cafe a week ago.

Amanda dropped me off on her way to work. This was my day downtown, getting out of the house, feeling productive even with my broken wrist. That is the plan these weeks. But last Tuesday I knew I was there because I needed to be at the cafe with Casey there, not for his sake, but to confront my own squirrelly something inside.

Ramona recognized me from the Thursday before and took my cappuccino-and-scone order. I could see Casey back in the kitchen working.

I started writing. I use a headset with a dictation program, so I’d chosen a side booth that allowed me to face the wall as I was speaking, which cut off some of the room noise and kept my dictation private. It’s clunky and way imperfect, but it’s all I have for now.

A half hour later the breakfast crowd began to clear out. Soon Casey broke free of the kitchen and came out to see me. He stood by my booth. I invited him to sit if he had a moment. He was eager to do so.

Just seeing him again, I was nervous, though I steadied myself with a sip of coffee.

“It was nice to see you last week,” he said.

“You saw a lot of me.”

“True, I did.” Casey smiled.

I blushed. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“Beautiful woman like you? No, ma’am. Fair to say, I enjoyed the view.”

“Well,” I said. Then nothing more at first, as I wasn’t sure if I should thank him for the compliment or be embarrassed by it. “Thank you.”

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Amanda wanted to show me to you.”

“And you do what she tells you?”


“I thought you were, you know… lovers.”

I took a moment. Words and terms went flying through my head. Of course, It looks from the outside as if Amanda and I are lovers, but I am reluctant to call us that. We are together, sure. Friends, more than friends, intimate and sexual, yes. But more. She is my mistress. Yet to say to Casey that Amanda is my mistress would carry a whole different meaning. Then too, being lovers and obeying what she tells me to do are not, in my world, exclusive. But they are probably in his. How to explain any of this? I finally fell back on a common trope:

“Yes, Casey, in a way, we are. But it’s complicated.”

He nodded with a smile, as if he understood, but there’s no way he could. “You make a good couple.”

Again, I didn’t know how to respond. And I didn’t have to. “You need more coffee,” he said, jumping up to get the carafe.

He quickly returned and poured me a new cup. I said, “I just hope it’s OK for me to be here. That I’m not a problem. Now, that is. After Saturday.” As I said it, I realized I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to accomplish or set right.

“Miss Shae,” Casey said, “you are always welcome here. As is your lady.”

And that was it.

I realized later I was trying to control his perception of me. I wanted him to see me as something other than a scandalous girl who sits in the corner booth, a topless disgrace on a Saturday morning. I knew I wasn’t much concerned about him knowing me as Amanda’s slave. That was OK. It was my exposure, and how I wanted him to perceive me otherwise.

But why did it matter to me so? Why him?


I was conflicted about going back to the cafe and seeing Casey again after my topless turn there last Saturday.

It wasn’t that I dreaded going. I kind of wanted to see him again. And there is something about being exposed and returning to the scene of the crime. Well, that’s being too flippant. Truth is, there’s something else inside me about this.

I live a life now in which I am more frequently revealed and undressed in front of people I don’t know. It is simply part of my life. Some slaveries are more public; some dominants more into the public exposure of their submissives. It is its own special kind of control, I believe, maybe sort of a benchmark of a submissive’s commitment.

My submission experiences early on involved public places from time to time, and then my transition from sub to slave, at least a year in the making, culminated in a rather notable public scene, which I have refrained from writing about, not because it was traumatic but because it was so precious. My dominants, including Master Michael, and now Mistress Amanda, are very inclined toward public exposures of me, and Mistress has said she intends to do me publicly more often as time goes on. She was planning a return visit to the park when I broke my wrist.

Someone asked me if I am used to being exposed in public, that is, if I have gotten accustomed to it. The answer is no, not at all. I may have some limited experience with this, but it’s not (yet) all that common for me. And I’m not sure anyone ever “gets used” to it.

The important thing is that this is not just about exposure of my body, in this case, sitting with my breasts bared for Casey to gaze at. This is also a baring of my submissive status, my slavery to another, which has its own sweet humiliation in the truth of it. And when the scene is longer, as it was Saturday, it is also a sharing of me sexually, a revealing of my sexuality to another, and to a degree, a participation of another with me in a kind of sexual intimacy.

None of this on Saturday was bad-feeling to me. It was actually exciting, arousing, deeply touching me submissively. But while I’m a slave, I am also a woman, and there are dynamics to public sharing like this that would deeply affect any woman and that affect me likewise, something that I need to process.

There is a difference between my being exposed to people inside the lifestyle versus those outside in the vanilla world. I was topless before Jocelyn when she visited, but that was a different experience. I still felt exposed, but I knew I was understood as the slave that I am. In front of college guys on the hiking trail or the pizza delivery guy it’s different, as they have no context for a submissive woman being required to do that. Even so, in those circumstances, they probably just saw it as a dare or a fling.

With Casey, it was different and more — a long morning of sitting bare-breasted before him during his multiple visits to our booth. This “long play” was what Amanda wanted to happen. Over time, I’m sure Casey saw my subservience to Amanda in it, then observing my sexual response from it, and finally settling into watching me for his own sexual pleasure.

I probably need to parse in a more precise way what the terms “embarrassment” and “humiliation” and “shame” mean to me. I don’t know if I feel embarrassed much these days. Humiliation is more related to people knowing or learning that I am a sex slave and my looking into their eyes as they evaluate and judge me in that. But ultimately, with Casey, I don’t think my confusion is about those things.

I think it’s more that he has come to mean something to me in my visits there on my own as a writer and frequent patron. I’m not sure what that is. I don’t think we’ve had much conversation along the way, so I’m not sure why I feel that. I probably am imposing a significance onto him that he doesn’t feel himself. I think I’m able to sit in the dual truth that I am an obedient sub/slave in a corner booth on a Saturday morning and I also am a writer who sips coffee at his cafe on weekdays. I just hope Casey can handle both realties of me. I don’t know. But it’s something like that.

So I went to the cafe on Thursday morning, hopeful for a brief conversation and some follow up with him, steeled for whatever his response would be. Anything would be OK, I told myself.

I was waited on by the waitress he’s hired. Her name is Ramona. She told me Casey was taking the day off.

sunday night

Sunday night and my body is still thrumming from the weekend. I feel the buzz from Saturday morning at the cafe, not only my undress before the thirsty eyes of Casey, although that still sings and arouses inside, but also the rhythm and beat of my conversations there with Amanda. So I have been playing this song over and over. Then, other things later Saturday and this morning, none particularly eventful and all seemingly random, have added to the welcome harmony of these two days.


“Nap with me.” Amanda extends her hand, leading me into her boudoir, which on other occasions has cuddled our passion. This will not be that, but just what it perfectly is, a afternoon nap, shared, which carries its own special intimacy.

I lie in her bed, on my left side, my good arm under and my broken wrist on top. She crawls in next to me, sliding her arm under my cast and around my waist. If the day started as an intervention, if I had thought for a moment she was with me because she had to solve her “Shae problem,” I now know otherwise. She wants to be with me. She wants me.

She kisses my ear, then pretends to sleep. Soon her hand comes up and cups my breast. “I don’t think I fondled you enough in the cafe today,” she says softly.

“No, I don’t think you did,” I whisper with a smile.

cafe 3

My breasts were fully exposed. I felt the cool air from the fan. I remember some of the sounds, a group of men talking and laughing at the other end, dishes clanking in the kitchen. Casey, now explicitly invited by Amanda to partake of me, freely stared and smiled.

Perhaps some other time I would have been more embarrassed, though I don’t know if I’m embarrassed anymore. Perhaps the word is self-conscious. Coming out of the frustrations of this past week and moving into my slave space with Amanda this morning, any modesty I might feel never emerged. I settled in passively to the experience of being a visual feast for this older-not-so-older man Casey. Perhaps I was less self-conscious this Saturday morning because Amanda was handling me, literally so, in a way I had missed for some time. I felt enveloped in her once again, touched by her, and nothing much else mattered. I sat, silent in this sub-space, being shared with this man.

I looked down at my coffee, not an avoidance of Casey’s eyes, but as a permission for him to consume me. It was my consent. I could see myself, the front of my body, naked. As often happens to me, my upper chest was blushing in splotches. My nipples had perked up, as if aware of their release and of being seen in the open. I looked up again at Casey, who with a sweet grin, danced his eyes between my face and my breasts.

I wondered what he thought of us. He knew long ago, from our many visits, that Amanda and I were “together,” and seeing us kiss earlier was not for him a surprise, though I expected it was, for him, always a gift. Previous times, he must have sensed my submission to Amanda, my passivity at her hand and my compliance, and now, as she had undressed me for him without me offering so much as a word of protest or lifting a single finger. But I didn’t know if he had an understanding of our D/s language, a context for what I am, and what I am to her.

I thought of the many times I’d come to the cafe on my own, for coffee and to read and write. I would do so again, I thought, many times more. But now Casey would see me differently. He would imagine me like this, unwrapped. He would visualize my pale tits, under whatever I wore, my areolae pink and puffy, my nipples erect, reaching for touch. I thought it would be a kind of intimacy between strangers. And then, playing it out in my mind, I thought that would be OK.

“She is lovely,” Casey said to Amanda. “True indeed.” Despite the moment of intimacy he was having with me, he spoke to her. Maybe he sensed that was some sort of protocol. Or not. I seem to have that effect on people. I recede in the presence of my Mistress. As it should be.

There must have been some other conversation here. It seems there was, but I don’t remember. Casey was with us again later, but this time, I remember him lingering, talking with Amanda about something, ogling me. But in time, whatever that time was, Amanda ordered us both cappuccinos and another scone for us to share. Then Casey backed away and went to the kitchen.

I thought first that Amanda had forgotten to order scones for us to take home. Then I knew she hadn’t — she was just measuring out reasons for Casey to keep coming back to the booth.

In fact, she and I weren’t anywhere near done. “I want to talk about Jocelyn,” she said.

“I have to confess something.” This had been gnawing at me since Wednesday. “I overheard your conversation with her when I was out of the room making the vodka gimlet. More than that. I listened in.”

“I know you did. I assumed you could hear everything. If I didn’t want you to listen, I would have ordered you otherwise.”

I nodded, relieved.

“Jocelyn triggered you.”

“Yes, she did.” I replied. “But I realize now that’s more my insecurity than anything she did or said.”

“Good for you to know that.” Amanda was climbing back into her inner Mistress and was re-finding that tone with me. “But Jocelyn is a force. She triggers everyone. Or used to.”

“She’s not in the life any more?”

“She had some health issues. She’s better now but doesn’t have the stamina for keeping a slave again. But she loves doing training. Which brings me to my point.”

“You want to send me to her.”

Just then Casey returned with our cappuccinos and scone. “Very hot,” he said to Amanda. “She should be careful not to spill on herself.”

A stranger protecting my bare breasts. He was already taking possession, as men do.

“Thank you,” Amanda answered. “Say, Casey. If you have time for a break, maybe you would want to sit with us. While I play with her. Nothing much, just some touching. Maybe you would like to join in. She would like that a lot.”

Casey thought about it. It was a long five seconds or so. You could see the wheels turning. “I would, indeed…”

If this were fiction, erotica, he would have said yes. But it was real life, a Saturday morning when Casey had a waitress working tables, “his girl” who would come looking for him for something or other. “Been keeping her away from this corner,” he said.

“Thank you,” Amanda said, “very much for the privacy.”

“Rain check?” he asked regretfully, gazing at my breasts one more time, then looking into my eyes.

Sometimes you see a man’s desire for you and it’s about power and urgency. In Casey’s eyes, I saw something more gentle, a tired longing and maybe more the memory of lust than lust itself. I realized that in that place and with this man, I wished myself for him. I nodded then, my granting of a rain check.

Amanda split the scone and eagerly coated each half with the cream and marmalade. We took bites of heaven and sips of nirvana.

Amanda returned to speak of Jocelyn. “So, yes, I’m thinking of sending you to her. I’m not asking you, but I’m asking you.”

“If it makes me better for you.”

“No, no, no, it’s not about that.” Amanda sighed. “Good god, Shae, I don’t want you better. Where did all this self-doubt shit come from? Where did my girl go this week?”

“Don’t know,” I admitted. “But it seems reasonable to assume if you’re sending me to Jocelyn, you want me to learn something, to be better in some way.”

“Shae, I could care less about Jocelyn’s training of you. You don’t need it.”

“Then why send me to her?”

“Because she begged me for you. She was impressed by you — I know, hard to believe, given how useless and worthless you think you are — and she sees you as a top quality slave who doesn’t know an area of training she does know. At one point Jocelyn actually said, ‘please, Amanda, it would mean a lot to me.’”


“That’s why I’m not asking you but I’m asking you. She did something for me once. Now I want to do something for her. And so I’m asking you to do something for me, for her. It’s kind of a slave favor.”

“Of course. Certainly, yes, I will. But you don’t need my permission.”

“I know.”

The morning had been a kaleidoscopic image of our relationship. Amanda as counselor, caretaker, dominatrix, friend, lover. Me as girl lost, sexual object, submissive, slave, friend, lover. We slipped into and between effortlessly all these roles we are to each other, each one of them significant, though all bowing to the center — Amanda as dominant and me as her slave.

Amanda said she wanted, on the way home, to stop at Joanne’s to get some fabric to make various slings for me, such that would be more fashionable. I said I didn’t know she could sew. She said she couldn’t, thought I could. “I don’t know anything about sewing,” I said. We had a laugh. “How hard can it be?” Amanda said. We laughed again.

Casey appeared. He asked if we needed anything more to drink, even as he visually sipped from my breasts. Amanda ordered a half dozen scones to take home, complete with clotted cream and marmalade.

Before we left, I asked Amanda what her other option was.


“The other road. You said I took the road less traveled. That was your plan b. What was the other road, plan a?”

“I kind of expected you to wallow in your stew of self-pity. You surprised me and crawled out of it instead. You made a good choice.”

“But if I hadn’t, what was plan a?”

“I was going to take you into the middle of the cafe, bare your ass and pussy, and spank the daylights out of you in front of everyone.”

“That’s one of my fantasies.”

“Yes, I know. But I wasn’t going to do it in a way that you would want to dream about.”

“Got it.”

cafe 1

Late this morning Amanda took me out to the cafe, our frequent weekly routine. I hadn’t had much time with Amanda since Wednesday, and this was most welcome, even though I was still in my funk from the past several days.

She decided to allow me to wear a top, not that there would be some realistic option to have me sit topless in the cafe downtown. Though I put nothing past her. As it happened, she nearly did so anyway.

Amanda had me wear one of her own floral A-line skirts. The blouse was a simple white cotton V-neck button-down.

But she didn’t allow me to wear the blouse until we got there, keeping me topless in the car. She drove us downtown, finding a parking spot on the side road around the corner from the cafe. It was only then she allowed me to put on the blouse. But in the passenger seat I had trouble angling my right arm through thee arm hole, and eventually I said, “Fuck it,” and got out of the car on this residential street, my breasts bare and bouncing for anyone to see. It was a perfect metaphor for the crap life I’ve been living. Then standing, I was able to crawl into the blouse, finally.

Amanda came around and stood in front of me. “Relax, girl,” she said. “Calm down. You are so wound tight.”

I sighed deeply. “OK.”

Amanda stretched the panels of the blouse over my breasts and buttoned it up in front. She turned me around, unzipped the skirt in back, tucked in the blouse all around under the waistband, and zipped me up again. She pulled my hair back from my face. “Let’s get some coffee.”

It was then I knew she’d read my frustration blog from last night. I don’t know how — something in her tone, her way with me just then — but I just knew.

The cafe was fairly busy inside, but we got the corner booth with the curved bench seat, our favorite spot. Casey the owner came by, made small talk, and took our order for coffee and scones. He has a waitress working for him, but he always serves us himself.

Amanda said then she’d read my blog. “Sorry you’re frustrated. I really am. You broke your wrist. That sucks. I get it, that life is a really a hard patch for you right now. You have every reason to write out your frustration, scream, cry. Do that. Get it out. But then, Shae, get over it. Move on. If you let this go further you’ll cross a line, and then we’ll be in slave punishment hell again. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”

I said nothing at first, just looked at her. She said nothing more then, waiting for me to deal with what she’d said. I bit my lip and was close to tears. I settled into a pouty silence.

Amanda said nothing. Our silence dragged on.

I knew she was right. I was flirting at the edge of a meltdown. SHe was doing an intervention. Finally I said, “I’m sorry.” Then more silence as I tried to come up with words. “It’s not that I can’t handle the injury,” I said. “It’s that I can’t be a good slave to you and Master while I’m like this. I can’t serve you. Serving is what I do, my only value, and I can’t do it. And then Jocelyn comes by and talks about what a proper slave must know and do, and I know I am not trained in the way she thinks is necessary, and all the while I can barely serve you drinks on the patio — I have to make a half dozen trips. This cast is just plain ugly, neither you or Master K will even touch me, you think I’ll break or something, and so again I’m failing at what I am and do… and now, damn it, I’m just repeating what I wrote last night.”

Amanda said nothing, waiting for me to be finished. Then she leaned over and kissed me, a long, lingering kiss, soft, warm.

Casey appeared with our coffees and scones, and stopped in his tracks when he saw us. Amanda didn’t stop for him, her lips remaining on mine, and she kissed me more. Finally, she pulled back. “Shae,” she whispered, “you are beautiful and you are desired.”

I nodded. It was one of those frustration sets that had felt monumental and deep for days, but when I finally blurted it out last night in a post and now at the cafe with Amanda, it started to shrink in size.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

a new skill

Sunday morning and Amanda has me topless. Master K left earlier for golf with friends. She had me take off my top after he left, which tells me she wants me, or at least my breasts, to herself. And I kinda like the sound of that.

I serve her a light breakfast of yogurt, granola, and banana on the patio. As I lean over with the tray, my right breast falls against the small carafe of milk. It spills only a little as Amanda is quick to catch the carafe and set it right again.

“So sorry. I’ll get a towel.”

“Don’t,” she says, “It’s just a little.” And true, it’s just a small puddle of milk on the tray. “Kneel,” she orders.

I go to my knees beside her in the lounge chair. She takes her finger and swirls it in the milk puddle, then paints my left nipple with it. She does the same for my right nipple. “Look,” she says with a laugh, “you’re lactating.”

I smile at her lame humor.

She leans over and takes my left nipple into her mouth, sucking me and tasting the droplets of milk she put there. She leans back and smacks her lips. She is playful this morning. She reaches for my right breast, pulls it to her, and I lean to one side, giving her access. She sucks my teat, again savoring the thin wet of the milk.
Amanda leans back. “Go, sit.”

I sit in the chair opposite her and she says we’re going to the cafe this morning. We weren’t able to go yesterday for our usual Saturday morning coffee there, so she wants to go today. That sounds good to me, though I suspect a couple of her friends will be there, so it won’t be just her and me. But still, it’ll be fun to be there with her.

Later I ask, “So do you wish I were really lactating?”

“God, no,” she says. “Well… it would be interesting. It would be a thing. A Shae-has-a-new skill sort of thing.”

I smile at her and shake my head. “I’d rather take up painting. Would be easier.”

“Nothing worth doing is easy, my child,” Amanda says in her schoolmarm voice.

We both break out laughing.


Today was a “free” day for me, not that I am ever unowned, unenslaved, but it was a day without particular slave duties or expectations to be in available for use, of whichever kind that might be.

Originally, it was to be my day at the spa, as Mistress had so generously arranged me a morning there. Alas, there was a scheduling mixup, and though they would try to take me in anyway, two of their staff called in sick, and it was clearly becoming a stressor for them, so I said it was OK and simply rescheduled. They apologized profusely and promised to give me, on Amanda’s tab, a reduced rate for next week.

That left me with time of my own, and I found myself at the old cafe downtown in a corner booth with a coffee and a biscotti and reading my book. Casey, the owner, remembered me, of course, from my many times with Amanda, and he was happy to see me, although I think he missed seeing Amanda and me together, the special cocktail of lesbian dominance and submission and kissing we are so very good at. He talked with me for too long, but eventually left me alone to my reading. This was lovely.

I think I went to the cafe to see if the place was reminiscent of the bar in my dream, but no. It’s old and dusty and wooden, yes, but not the same place. I think the bar in my dream is an old country saloon back in the Springs.

I left around lunchtime but, not wanting to eat anything, took a stroll down by the river. It was a cool day but sunny, and I wore a sweater, so it was comfortable doing the riverwalk. After a while, I found a bench and did some more reading.

There is a boutique downtown with some surprisingly beautiful women’s clothes. Surprising for an out-of-the-way clothing store in an old western town. Artsy yet elegant, colorful tunic tops. Amanda had encouraged me to buy something that I liked, and I did — two tops that I think look good on me. We’ll see what Amanda thinks.

They also had some pajamas and a small assortment of bras and panties. The PJs were kind of tacky, I thought, but I found myself looking longingly at the bras. This has been true of late, for some reason. I am not allowed to wear bras or panties, of course, and haven’t done so almost ever in the past two years plus. There’s exposure in that, which I’ve never gotten fully used to, but also freedom, of course. So it’s always been this yin-yang of exposure fear and freedom joy.

But alongside that, just of late, has been the yearning for the sensuality of wearing a fine bra, feeling the softness of its fabric cupping my breasts. Now, I know as well that the luxurious sensation of wearing a bra becomes later in the day an agony of straps and underwire cutting into flesh. I remember my days selling real estate, coming home around seven and walking in my door with my blouse already half off just so I could get out of my bra.

But now, and today, I have a kind of nostalgic fetish for a bra, and I found myself looking at bras and panties and holding them in my hands with a bit of a sigh. But I didn’t try on any, as that would be a violation. Even on my free day, I am mindful of rules.

It got to be close to four and I headed back to the car. On the way out of town, I stopped at the Dairy Queen and got a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. It was purely an indulgence paid to my years as a girl growing up in Pennsylvania always looking forward to the occasional DQ outing and treat — always a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate.