This week for him is a work week, and so it is also for me as his assistant, which I’m sure others in the house place in air quotes: “assistant.” I expected to do work for him as before and am glad for it, even though my tasks are clerical and mundane.
I think the submissive life is more pleasurable when it’s enacted through work. I am a passive body and soul in slavery, by nature and training receptive and absorbent, but passivity is not the same as idleness. Doing office work translates me into actions, through which my submissiveness is viewed by him. And it turns out, others.
What has made it more adventurous for me this week is that he has often kept me half-dressed. Of course, Amanda keeps me this way often back home, but for the most part we don’t have relative strangers wandering into the house freely at all hours of the day and night. This here is different.
Monday morning, he said: “By having your tits out, people will know you are my slave girl.”
I replied: “I’d have thought they’d get that idea clearly enough from my metal slave collar and half-leash… sir.”
We have found between us this kind of softly barbed conversation, this gentle repartee. It’s new in my submission to him. It started right away Sunday night, as if it had grown by some sort of osmosis during my absence. He likes my ironical comebacks, though I’m careful to stay away from the edges of defiance. My mind works this way, and it’s lovely he allows me this space with him.
I have come to think of it like this: I must yield him my body at all times but I am allowed to speak my mind, albeit carefully and selectively. My body is passive and yielding, yet my mind is a touch feisty. He likes this.
Anyway, I suppose my clerical work of (usually) report-making has several purposes, not the least of which is that actual reports have to be made for real meetings. There’s also the purpose of keeping me out of his hair often enough during his daily business. He doesn’t want to have to tend to me in the midst of tending his businesses, but he likes seeing me bustle around being active (not idle) — and “with my tits out” to signify to the clueless what I actually am.
Strangely, he has been having me wear longer skirts for my day work — longer being a relative term, just not micro-mini — simple, A-line skirts hemmed to just above my knees.
I have quite a wardrobe here now, ironic in that I don’t wear bras or panties and, often, a bare minimum of anything else. But I have a bedroom with closets and an armoire filled with possibilities — clothing I might rarely wear sometime. This is my bedroom and wardrobe even when I’m not here. The thing is, whatever the folly of keeping a wardrobe in my life of undress here in the mansion, it gives me a feeling this is a place where I belong.
Amanda helped me build this wardrobe, of course, and for this visit she helped pack more to add to it. In consultation with Master M, Amanda packed one of the suitcases herself, keeping it blind to me, and I packed another of what I expected to need along with some toiletries to complement what I already have here. A-line skirts and blazers were in the suitcase she packed, outfits requested by Master M, a mystery box to be discovered by me Monday morning. This was all a thing between them.
So, today, for instance, I am wearing an A-line business skirt in navy blue. Matching blue pumps, office-appropriate. I also sport a matching blue blazer, sharp and dignified. All of it seemingly proper except for that fact I’m not wearing a top underneath. The blazer opens into a wide V in front, its center button not contributing much to my respectability. Besides which, the blazer is frequently, on and off during the day, made optional by him — that is, it’s his option to have me take it off entirely.
I don’t ask why — in these sorts of things men have mysterious associations they entertain themselves with — better to not know the images they imagine. I assume, though, that Master wants the appearance of business propriety with the hint of scandal behind a barely buttoned blazer. Or that he just likes the picture of his lowly business assistant openly and unapologetically sexualized. Or that he enjoys the look of a clerical assistant trying to do real work and struggling to appear normal. Normal, for everyone else is a business suit. Normal, for me, is half a business suit.
He also likes the control: at times during the day, he tells me to take off my blazer, and I go about my business fully topless. It is specifically intended to humiliate me in a new way — which it does well enough — his half-dress of me making me blush into splotches between my breasts and above, tell-tale and embarrassingly obvious, his way of featuring me in the mansion as his part-time employee and full-time sex toy.
A lot of my work for him is copying.
He has in the mansion a small room dedicated to office machines — a copier, two printers (one laser, one color), a notebook binder machine, and a spare computer on a table for visitors’ use. This is not used much by anyone else during my times here, though was used frequently at the retreat and would possibly be of use for guests staying the night.
I make reports — complex reports of many pages interspersed with color charts and inserts. These need to be printed in parts, then collated and assembled, then spiral-bound into a notebook handout. And that would be one report times fifteen or twenty copies. There are different reports as well, maybe two or three a day, although I expect some of this demand piled up over the holidays and during my convalescence.
I’m not complaining but describing: I spend a lot of my time in the copy room, glad to be busy and not strung up by chains in the corner of the Great Room where I’d be kept idle and rendered merely decorative.
At the same time, it is here in the copy room that I am most self-aware of my toplessness — my work requiring me much of the time to look down at a copier or at the piles of printouts on the table I am collating. I see my bared breasts full and pale looming over the copier or jutting into my piles on the table, my orbed flesh pressed against plastic and metal. Sometimes, as I collect a swath of pages and tap the edges on the table to align them, the paper flicks my nipple, one or the other, sending a little kind of feeling through me.
One has to be careful of paper cuts.
His posse of mansion help and business colleagues have been in and out all week. Their access and randomness of walking in on me with him is the nature of this place and of his lifestyle. He is open about himself, his work, and his dominant lifestyle. He expects me to be so too.
So, to put it bluntly, most of them have seen my tits this week.
But, of course, that’s not the full of it, for it’s all about the context. If I were his wife, walking through the mansion in an open bathrobe, that would be one thing. If I were, somehow, the entertainment for a group of board members, a stripper, say, dancing for an event, that would be one thing. If I were differently dressed, say with a spaghetti-strapped top under an open business blazer, and if my strap broke, my boob becoming uncovered and flashing briefly, that also would be one thing. Breasts happen.
But for me to work in the mansion openly topless all the time, my status known to all as the submissive-slave I am, a life that most do not understand or approve of — that’s another thing entirely.
Maria, the housekeeper, friendly to me and lifestyle-curious, saw me walking about topless on Monday, and she raised her eyebrows but smiled warmly. Jeffers, the landscaper who lives outside mostly but likes to peer through windows at me, has gotten his eyefuls. He’s a little creepy but harmless. Mr. Galli, Master McKenna’s business manager, witnessed my being spanked my last time here and my nakedness in that event. He was here Monday, his usual day, and met with Master as I took notes for the two of them… while I was topless.
I never get used to it. Not really. You get past the immediate urges to cover up and the automatic blushing from being seen by yet someone else or someone new. But, again, it’s the context of my being bared because of my subservience that cringes — the image of me as one who has to obey him, being the submissive I am, one who has this need to be dominated to such an extent that I give myself to be humiliated in front of others like this.
Lest I forget, there is Phyllis, the caterer, who despises me and delights in my debasement. She has popped into the Great Room from time to time, ostensibly to ask McKenna a question about meals. Yes, it is true that her normal schedule has her coming to the mansion later in the afternoons when Master is active with me: she preps dinner then and stocks the fridge for breakfast and lunch the next day. So, it is natural perhaps for her to nose into the Great Room between four and six each day. Yet that’s the also time when Master starts a working happy hour which involves bourbon and work calls — and doing things to me. Phyllis seems to walk in at times when I am strung up naked and subject to “corporal humiliation,” as he puts it. She pretends not to notice, ignoring me with a sniff of dismissiveness, and I swear she bears a slight smile as she is walking out.
Later in the week — well, Thursday — Master M said: “I’m tired of seeing your tits.”
I said: “I don’t think anyone in my entire life has ever said that to me.”
He smiled: “Put a top on.”
“Will be interesting to see how long this lasts,” I reply.