Amanda’s goals

The other night Amanda mentioned there were three goals she had for me a year and a half ago: (1) making my slavery more public. (2) wooing the neighborhood to accept my slavery. (3) sharing my slavery with others. I had known these were in her thinking, though I don’t recall her talking about them so specifically and intentionally as this, like a list of annual corporate targets.

The COVID lockdown hampered her progress with me. She was saying that now, in mid-2021, she has finally gotten to the point of fulfillment of the three, progress she’d hoped to get to by the end of 2020. She feels this is a failure of sorts. But as she talked it out, she came to accept that it’s simply a six-month delay for her goal-setting, and that COVID was the culprit.

Of the three, the first one — making me more public in my slavery — has been the most diminished. Because of the lockdown, experiences in public places have been few and far between. But most everything here is open again, and yet Amanda hasn’t really taken me out for a good public park exposure. I don’t know why. Work, time, opportunity, most likely.

Still, she now quite often has me in partial undress when we’re out and about in the car. I am kept partly naked around the house almost all the time, even when the random visitor stops in. And we have our walks up on the ridge in back as well as the front road. My exposure to others has become more and more common — which is not to say it has become old hat. I still feel exposed and properly humiliated in it.

Her second goal — wooing the neighborhood — has been almost fully realized. The tea times have worked well. We have one more in a couple of weeks, and that may be the more difficult of the five, but so far there’s been a lot of acceptance of me around the block. She is pleased with this.

Her third goal of sharing my slavery with others has also largely been realized. I’ve observed that she talks about this in two ways — “sharing my slavery” and “sharing me.” I discovered these are different in her mind.

“Sharing my slavery” is about bringing others into my slave life and training, but not specifically for sexual pleasure. For example, she has been “sharing my slavery” with John and Patricia Miller, meaning that she has incorporated them into my slave life and practice. To Amanda’s mind, giving me to Master McKenna, even though it is sexual, is for the primary purpose of my slavery and training, so it fits in this category.

“Sharing me” is about giving me to others specifically for their sexual pleasure. This, I believe, is Amanda’s future intent for me, perhaps a singular goal for 2022. Of course, Kevin falls into this category, although he is so familiar to me, it isn’t quite like what she imagines.

I have all kinds of feelings about this… for another time.

It was a brief but interesting conversation. Amanda has a way of revealing and concealing at the same time. It’s her way. I suppose in a more exacting and strict slavery, I would be told nothing ever. So I’m grateful for what she does tell me. Yet it’s this last part — sharing me sexually — that she is less forthright about. Maybe she doesn’t know yet how to execute that.

In our days and weeks together, as we are out and about now, she observes someone randomly and says, “I’d like to see you with him sometime” or “I could see you and her together sometime.” This is not her version of matchmaking. She means it literally, sexually, randomly, with an emphasis on her watching. That is her kink. One of them.

new (old) year

We have been talking about 2021 and what that will hold for us. Amanda’s plans for me now are much the same as they were last year at this time — a testament to the lost time that 2020 represents.

For my part, I feel this year has been filled with things started but not finished. I had high hopes for a relationship with a sister slave, Emma, but that hasn’t developed, for COVID reasons and distancing. Amanda had gotten me into a submissive email exercise with a stranger (to me), Mr. Drake — but, for reasons on his end, that never played out. I was excited by a freelance opportunity with a journalist named Josh, editing interview segments for him; while that work continues and I am grateful for it, the work hasn’t extended into creative writing, as he had once promised — this also a slowdown prompted by Josh getting COVID and going through a long recovery. All of this has been disappointing.

I know Amanda feels the same way, not so much about things she couldn’t complete, but the many plans she had for me she couldn’t even start.

So much of Amanda’s vision for me is social and public, and that starts with exposing me to people. I mean “exposure” in the broadest sense, not necessarily physical undressing, though sometimes that, but more in terms of my being known to others as what I am — owned property, a slave, a sex slave. In such experiences for Amanda, there is an intersection of things that become her deepest fulfillment. It is her fun in training me into an additional dimension of slavery plus her pride in being seen to own and possess a slave like me plus her joy of providing to others the thrill of seeing me dominated and exposed. This is a trifecta of pleasure for Amanda — and largely thwarted in this COVID year.

While this has been frustrating to Amanda, it may be this has been good for me. I perhaps have needed a slower introduction into the public arena. This year has nonetheless yielded some outing experiences for me — notably with our neighbors John and Patricia — as well as some exposures, literally, to the landscaping crew back in the summer. So my conditioning into this vision of hers has been happening, though more slowly than she’s wished.

Anyway, here are her goals for me, verbatim, in the new year:

  1. Introduce, present, expose Shae to ten lifestyle friends. Individually, collectively, group parties, private engagements at the house.
  2. Find acceptable, appropriate ways of introducing Shae as a submissive/slave to three business clients.
  3. Continue to work the neighborhood. Bring two other neighbors on board.
  4. More active, physical domination of Shae — one event/exercise daily (at least five per week).

The first three are self-explanatory. The last one reflects Amanda’s belief that she has neglected somewhat the harder edge of my slavery. More for me to write about on this later…

As she and I have talked, she has acknowledged that in 2021 COVID won’t go away immediately or quickly, even with a vaccine. We will still be in some version of isolation for a while. She hopes that by spring we will all be more open in a safe way. Still, in the meantime she will work on these goals, most of them carried over from last year.

It may be that this is COVID’s last kick in the ass — that we all are destined to live out what 2020 might have been.


Saturday morning. The landscaping crew arrived at 9:30. They’re scheduled for 10:00, but got here early. It was the four men from before and a new addition, a fifth man, Marco.

Amanda kept me in the house until just before 11:00. She had me prepare a pitcher of iced lemonade on a tray with tumblers.

In another kind of preparation, Amanda had applied suntan lotion to my breasts. It had some gloss to it and gave them a bit of shine, which I’m sure was intentional on her part. She debated putting the silicone O-rings on my nipples, but decided not to. As the day started, she’d had me in my red skater skirt, but I reminded her that was what I wore the last time the landscapers were here. “They’re not going to be looking at your skirt,” she said, but then thought again, deciding to have me change into my orange linen skirt instead. She also had me wearing tall heels and the copper slave collar.

Amanda then had me set out the lemonade on the the patio serving bar.

The men are re-doing our brick pathway, so they were in the back not front yard, although maybe fifty yards up the hill beyond the patio. Still, when they heard the lemonade glasses clinking, they saw us, and some of them stopped, squinted against the sun, and looked.

Amanda called them to take a break and waved them back to join us on the patio.

Amanda had been precise in her instructions for me. She wanted me to stand apart from her on the patio, beside, not in back of, the serving bar. She herself stood close to the sliding glass doors to the house.

I swear she scripts these things in her head. As the men rambled in from the yard, they glanced at her, but gazed at me. They couldn’t look at both of us side by side at the same time. Now I knew why she had us apart. Without Amanda next to me, it was only me they were looking at, and I felt the full heat of their eyes on my naked breasts. Landscape workers have no compunction about staring.

That’s what Amanda wanted me to experience.

My every instinct, of course, was to cover up. But there was no option for that. I had to stand in my embarrassment. This was what I was there for. I blushed. My nipples grew perky — O-rings not needed.

As they sifted onto the patio, two of the guys had smirky smiles on their faces. One mouthed to another a silent “Wow.” They seemed to glance at Amanda repeatedly to check to see if this was really OK, them looking at me. She stood with a smile, remaining close to the house, watching the scene before her. One of the men said something I couldn’t hear, and another laughed at what was said. Seth, the head of the crew, was on the phone and was the last to get to the patio. He ended his call, turned, and seeing me, opened his eyes wide.

Amanda invited them to have something to drink. “By the way, you remember my slave girl from last time you were here. Her name is Shae. She’ll pour your drink. We have ice water and lemonade.”

It felt like what it felt like, and I’ll talk about that in a moment, but unlike the pizza night before, I was not outside the experience looking in. For whatever reason, this time I stayed in the moment. I felt objectified and sexualized, but that was the purpose, and I stayed in the moment.

It was in Amanda’s script not to have the drinks already poured for the taking. She wanted me to pour one by one, and for each of the guys to walk up to me to receive it from me. She wanted them to have close-ups.

As I poured each glass, I managed to address the men by name. I’d remembered them all, though I had to think a moment to recall Colin’s name. The new crew guy, Marco, introduced himself and shook my hand. Seth politely said, “Good to see you again.”

So Amanda by then had walked into the middle of the patio and was in conversation with some of them. When I finished pouring drinks, she called to me loudly: “Shae, I forgot the cookies. Would you bring the cookies out?”

Of course, she didn’t actually forget the cookies. She wanted me to walk in and out of the patio in my high heels, making my breasts ripple and bounce in front of this audience. This is where the night before I had been snarky and pissive-aggressive.

Instead I said, “Yes, mistress,” and I headed in to the kitchen, my breasts dancing with each step.

In the kitchen, I took a deep breath. I would get through this. Actually, it wasn’t like this was a terrible ordeal, but it was intense.

I was being objectified and sexualized, which was Amanda’s intent and pleasure. Because it pleased her, the humiliation I felt had a purpose, which was satisfying to me. I felt I was doing well, standing there in their lust. In that I was glad to please her.

But also, in full honesty, by arousing them, I was arousing myself. I was turned on by their lust. What does that make me?

Humiliation circles in on itself, becomes another thing.

I’m told a crew break is usually fifteen minutes. Seth let this one be thirty. I don’t think it was because of the cookies.

I set the cookie plate on the serving bar, and again stood to the side. The men again came up to help themselves, getting another opportunity to ogle me, and this time more of them said things to me.

I think it takes a while for people, those outside the D/s world, to know what a slave girl in their midst really is, how they can act and speak to her. A slave like me is an oddity really. No one does this. To them, it’s strange for me, a slave girl, even to be standing there, stranger still for me to be topless, my breasts all fleshed out. They have no context for that and little for them to say.

At least at first.

But by now they were figuring me out, learning they had a kind of permission to be themselves, understanding that in my undress and exposure, I am obeying because I have to.

Marco announced, “My first week on crew. And look at this! I’m really lovin’ this job!” Laughter all around.

Jeff came up to me. He spoke loudly so all could hear: “We all voted and decided you have a great pair of tits.”

Everyone howled. How can you respond to that? “Well, thank you,” I just said, blushing.

Seth called their break to an end. They rambled back to work.

Colin, walking by me, said, “You’re really hot.” Again, I didn’t know what to say to that. It was sweet but sexual. I thanked him.

As they walked away from the patio, I heard someone mutter, “Wished we got to play with those jugs.”

Later next week I will think and write more about the strange submissive pleasure I felt in being sexualized and objectified Saturday morning. The point is these feelings are complicated and intense and contradictory, humiliations that debase me even as they celebrate me.

Afterward, Amanda reported to me — only because she delights in doing so — other things she overheard the men saying as they returned to work. Two of the choice ones were “I wanna piece of that pussy” and “God, I’d fuck the living shit out of that girl.”

“I don’t even know how to think about comments like that,” I said to her.

“In a way,” Amanda said, “they’re compliments. It means you made a good impression.”

I looked at her and said, “Amanda, a good impression is when a guy introduces you to his parents and it goes well. ‘I wanna piece of your pussy’ sounds to me like a pretty different thing.”

Amanda laughed. “Well, they were going crazy seeing you like that. They were fawning over you.”

Being an object of sexualization seems sometimes close to being an object of worship. That’s the experience, both confounding and exhilarating.

The other thing I must mention is that Amanda was thrilled by all of it. She was very pleased.

road curves ahead

Amanda said this evening she intends to keep me topless all weekend and I will be presented to people. It was a matter of fact statement. She wasn’t specific as to who.

I’ve known this has been coming. She has wanted to have me exposed out in the neighborhood for a long time. We’ve had some outings, but they’ve been controlled and careful.

My naked day with Blake was the tipping point, but that was still in the house, kind of something she staged with him. My introduction, clothed, to the landscape crew was simply a portent of things to come. The other night, she was counting on the Millers being home; she had hopes of walking me topless to their patio, but they were away.

But it now will happen. To what extent, and in front of whom, I do not know.

There’s no protesting. She’s my domme, she owns me, so she can. And thus she will.


This week, Amanda has been talking with me about “socialization,” by which she means public presentations of me. And more.

Last weekend was full of people, mostly new acquaintances. In every encounter, I was introduced directly as Amanda’s “slave girl,” presented to them while I was collared and leashed. Certainly not my first time for that, but the number of such encounters over a two-day weekend was kind of a lot.

I am now known as a slave by our neighbor friends, our landscaping crew, a couple of visitors last Sunday, which I shall write about in due time, and Dayna, a friend of Amanda’s, a domme herself, whom I had met before, and who grilled me in a certain way about my slavery. I imagine there may have been others, but the abundance of exposures is such that I cannot remember.

Amanda says there will be more of this. She wants to fill the rest of our summer and early fall with people interactions and social experiences. She wants me to be public in my slavery.

As I’ve written before, Amanda’s deepest pleasure as a domme is social — the presentation of her slave in public situations to various people, both friends and strangers.

Certainly, she derives pleasure from my submission when she and I are alone, which has been most of the story during COVID. But her dominance is only truly fulfilled when I am presented to others in various ways.

When I am introduced to others as owned property, Amanda loves seeing their reactions to that, and it’s a thrill for her to watch me emotionally work through the experience of being judged in various ways in those moments. She delights in seeing me stand before a crew of men and watching me being sexually objectified by them. She would love to expose me more to them, and will. She wants eventually to share me more sexually with others — either for them to view or for them to use.

All this is how she is wired as a dominant woman.

I am an introvert by nature, and so being with a lot of people a lot of the time is a challenge to me. It isn’t that I don’t like people, but I am better one-on-one. Being with many people in a short frame of time tends to shut me down and send me inward. I become quiet and passive.

Of course, “quiet“ and “passive” are good traits for a sub-slave. Amanda holds the leash and does the talking, and I remain silent, submissive. People read into my passive demeanor and assume I am a slave who will submit to anything, obey everything. They are not wrong.

Amanda delights in all of this. It is her sexuality. She gets off on my humiliation.

As an introvert, I would prefer to live in the cocoon of our home. In this closed-up world, I am comfortable with everything Amanda does with me and to me. Being made to serve, being stripped and made naked, being bound, being debased in any way, being flogged and whipped, being used for sex — whatever, if with her and in front of just her, I readily if not eagerly submit to my own humiliation.

But I have to accept that, while this much might be sufficient for me, it does not attend to Amanda’s immense dominant need. She wants all of that which we do in the house to happen outside, socially, with others. I have to honor that, to accept my purpose in fulfilling her.

Our neighbors and Blake the handyman and the landscaping crew on Saturdays and more drop-in visitors are people and occasions in which my slavery is extended to the surroundings of the house and our neighborhood. She is trying to extend my exposure zone.

I am not afraid of what is ahead. I know that Amanda will not allow me any danger. Yet it will be something to go through. It will challenge my dignity and submit me to the lusts of others. I will have to find inner resources to face that. In the oddity of what it is to be deeply submissive, I don’t deny my exposure can become a deep pleasure. But it comes at a price — the cost of my own humiliations.

friday afternoon walk

Amanda had us end work early this afternoon, and she took me for a walk.

She was in a good mood, and I think it had to do with my turning in my assignments this morning, I surprised her with that. I think she was expecting a showdown with me. It seemed to relieve her greatly that didn’t have to happen.

So she seemed to be upbeat today, and I rather think that turning off the work computers early and taking me for a walk was a kind of reward. For me, but also for her. We averted personal crisis.

It is like I am attached to her like on a rubber band, and sometimes I stretch it very long and far. If I snap it, then we have a break, and a mess, and she has to figure how to put me back into her orbit. I know I can be a quiet bitch like that. Anyway, that didn’t happen, and she’s a happy camper today.

She put my heavy titanium collar on me for the walk. She has quite the collection for me — chokers, fashion collars, and slave collars. This one leaves no question as to what I am. It’s thick and heavy and almost looks like a car part. No one would wear it unless she were made to, which makes my slaveness readily apparent to anyone walking by. I’m tempted to say Amanda didn’t intend it to humiliate me in public, though she probably did, but the collar is also a gleaming symbol of her proud ownership of me.

It was cooler today, and so she didn’t have me topless. In fact I wore a cardigan — and, glory be, with the buttons buttoned no less. Very prim and proper — but for the slave collar. And the skirt situation.

It was also very windy, and she had fun putting me in a short crunchy skirt of thin georgette. Very intentional. Pretty and proper, except that the fabric has the properties of a parachute. Without underwear on a gusty day, I was subject to constant adventures.

I know by now that I’m not supposed to tamp down my skirt when it billows up, and instead allow nature to reveal me. That’s the theory, but there’s a lot of natural instinct in me to cover up. So I took to holding my hands behind my back to keep them from fussing with my skirt.

I asked Amanda if she had wrist cuffs in her shoulder bag, but she didn’t. She did have a leash with her, but decided not to attach it to my collar for some reason.

She walked me along the road in front of the house, not in back along the ridge. I think she was hoping to run into some of our neighbors, but we didn’t. Still there were other people from nearby developments — walkers, some backpackers, and a number of bikers coasting by from time to time.

Once when a pair of approaching bikers were still far off, the wind picked up my skirt and blew it entirely above my waist. I did my best not to react and, after what felt like an eternity, my skirt settled back down over me.

I said to Amanda, “People will see my pussy.”

“You have a pretty pussy,” she replied, as if that answered anything.

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.

the art of living topless

It’s been nearly two months now that Mistress has kept me topless in and around the house. This has been every day, except for Mondays and Wednesdays when I accompany her to work. And so it is now as I type this at my desk — I am wearing a blue flare skirt and nothing else.

I am increasingly aware this is likely to be my way of life in the future. A slave kept and always half dressed.

At first, I considered this rather trivial — Amanda’s sex play with me. Master K just enjoying my boobs. I now realize it’s much more than that, a lifestyle practice that has many layers of meaning and experience.

At its most natural level, I am now much more aware of my own body. As I do my chores — laundry, dusting, cleaning — because my breasts are unconstrained, I feel their weight and movement in a new way. It becomes sensual: On my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, they fall and sway. Organizing Amanda’s library, I feel the armload of books press against the flesh of my breasts, coating them in dust. As I fold laundry, I sense them bounce slightly with my movements, and I feel them jiggle as I kick open the tight, sticky closet door in the master bedroom. It makes me hyper-aware of my own body in a way a woman is not mindful of normally.

At another level, I am aware that I am undressed this way simply because Mistress says so. It is a constant reminder that she owns and controls me. This is not what I would choose for myself. On my own all day, I could put on a top and get away with it. But I don’t. It is my submissive obedience to Mistress that I remain bare-breasted throughout the day until she returns home.

When Amanda or Master K are present, as they look at my breasts, I can feel that I am pleasure to them, eye candy, if you will. This is a method of objectifying and sexualizing me in a way that is constant and always. It puts more “sex” into “sex slave.”

Amanda calls my being topless my “common state,” how I am supposed to be. “You are physically and sexually meant to be seen,” Mistress says. “Others have a right to enjoy you.” As this has become my new norm, it has involved strangers who come to the front door, say, a package deliveryman or a salesman or occasional real estate agent. I answer in my “common state,” and endure a level of embarrassment as they, man or woman, are startled, react, and then settle into the right they have to view me.

Lately, Mistress has extended the range — I now ride in the car without wearing a top. Now when we go into town or take to the mountains, I touch up my makeup, loop my handbag over my shoulder, and, bare boobs bouncing, follow Amanda out the front door, down the driveway, and into her car.

This continuity of being topless from bedroom to the rest of the house to the patio to the yard to the driveway and into a car is important to Amanda. Ultimately she wants me to forget the distinction between public and private. She wants me to walk through life without thought of my exposure.

She now keeps a T-shirt and a button-down blouse on hangers in the back seat. When we arrive at the cafe, I get out of the car, walk to the driver’s side, open the rear door, and only then put on a top, usually the T-shirt. It is now a routine, part of the automatic business of arriving at a destination, like making sure you have your keys and purse. And T-shirt.

When we leave the cafe, the sequence is reversed. I take off the T-shirt and arrange it on the hanger, then topless, sit again in the passenger seat.

Sometimes there are others in the parking lot getting in or out of cars. Amanda determines when it might not be safe or might become a problem, but often she has me follow that same routine as someone looks and stares. I blush, embarrassed, but maintain my composure.

Mistress has impressed on me the importance of my own bearing in doing this. She doesn’t want me covering up with my hands and arms, or in any way being defensive in my posture or mannerisms. And I’m not to hurry or rush for fear of being seen. She’s made the good point that any such display of covering up or defensiveness just calls more attention to me and the situation. I have learned that if I am steady and natural in how I comport myself, others will just watch and then move on.

Occasionally, Amanda and I go to an overlook near the crest of one of the mountains thirty miles away. Topless, I get out of the car and walk to the guard rail. The two of us gaze across the beautiful vista. Sometimes we hike a ways down a dirt trail. After a time, we get back in the car and head home. And during the whole trip, beginning to end, I have been naked on top. I have to say it is an exhilarating experience, and partly because of the continuity of it.

Of course, Amanda is careful enough and appropriately cautious. She doesn’t drive down the center of town on our trips there, taking back streets instead. She doesn’t park in places where there are too many people. On the interstate, she’ll stay in the right lane mostly and not pass other cars, except for semi-trucks, which she delights in passing so very slowly. Truck drivers see a lot anyway, so I’m nothing special, but they get their eyefuls of me.

I’m sure all of this tickles Amanda’s dominant nature. She gets to manage my exposure. She protects me from the authorities and any group of people who might pose a danger. She wants me to be seen and viewed, but not in some way that becomes a problem or violates someone else’s sensibility. Directing all of this is what thrills and excites her.

I know this is a precursor to public park play and training. She had tried that with me some time ago and because of circumstances it was kind of a dud experience. Then my broken wrist made that impossible. It’s also better done when the weather is cooler and layers of clothing can be taken off, unbuttoned, or opened up. Amanda wants to go back to that. Meanwhile this art of living topless is a bit of training for that to come.

Though Amanda calls this my common state, it is not something that has become ordinary to me. I am used to it in the sense of accepting this is to be my practice now, but I am still aware of my body, my submission, and my sexuality in doing it and “being” this way. It is my new “usual,” but it also still feels unusual, arousing me sexually and deepening my submissiveness.

And I suppose that’s the point.


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.

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.”