a walk in the park

Fridays, Mistress Amanda tends to come home mid-afternoon, starting the weekend early. I should point out that she works ungodly hours, some not in the office but here at home in the evenings with me by her side. When she gets to mid-day Friday, she deserves a break. She’ll have a Friday afternoon and Saturday, but start working again Sunday afternoon.

In any case, she came home yesterday afternoon around 2:30 and said she was going to take me for a walk in the park.

But first, she said she “wanted to dress me for the occasion.”

It was then I knew that a walk in the park wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

She had bought some clothes for me, sitting in shopping bags on her bed. She pulled out of one bag a tiered ruffle miniskirt in burgundy with a pretty pattern of off-white raindrops. I slipped it on, and Mistress was pleased. “What do you think?”

“It’s really cute,” I said. “It’s also really short.”

“You think everything’s too short on you.”

“Because it is.”

“You have a great body. People should see it.”

“Then I should be totally nude for the walk in the park,” I said.

“Oh, you will be,” Mistress said. “You just aren’t ready for that yet.”

Good to know.

From another bag she produced a crop-top cardigan sweater. Besides showing my midriff, it was a deep V-neck style with the top button of three starting at the level of the bottom curve of my breasts. I slipped into it, and while it wasn’t so tight that if I inhaled I would pop out of it, the open V showed a lot of my chest and my inner curves.

Mistress went to her armoire, opened a drawer, and pulled out a collar. Burgundy leather, to match my new miniskirt.

I like the fact that Mistress puts me in slave collars that are tasteful and fashionable. By that, I don’t mean they are small or are jewelry collars or necklaces. These are usually an inch wide in metal or leather. And often they have O-rings in front. I don’t mind that they are noticeable and call me out in public for what I am. For it is what I am. But I do like that they are finely made, that some are of various colors, and that they look rather elegant. (There’s that word again.)

I also like that Mistress’s collars for me don’t have any wording on them. Just my personal preference, but collars that carry the words “slave” and “slut” seem tacky to me, like a stick-on name tag at a real estate convention. Probably the real reason I don’t like them is that the words are redundant. If I’m already on a leash, my collar shouldn’t also have to tell people I’m a slave.

Mistress Amanda stands square in front of me and wraps the burgundy collar around my neck. It’s one of the wider ones, with an O-ring in front.

“I feel like there should be some music,” I said. “A ceremony.”

“We could do that,” Mistress replied. “Invite all our friends and neighbors, everyone from the workplaces, and rent out a space for a collaring ceremony. A couple hundred people. Big reception.” She was teasing me. Sort of.

She was fumbling with the buckle, so she walked around in back of me.

“I was thinking of something smaller,” I said. “Just a violinist in the corner of the bedroom. Right now it just seemed like a moment.”

“Me collaring you?”

“Yes. I just feel that.”

“Me too,” she said. Collar installed around my neck, Mistress kisses my hair. I lean my head back on her shoulder.

“I think a big collaring ceremony is a great idea, Shae,” she teased.

“Really, though, you shouldn’t spend your time on it. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“No, no, I think it’s important. I’ll start making plans.” She laughs and pats me on my ass.


This park was a half-hour drive west, well out of town. It’s nestled in the side of a small peak and along a narrow part of the river. There are hiking trails, a playground, and a fishing spot, all circled by a long walking path. It was here Mistress walked me.

Today there were hardly any people. It was cool outside and breezy, still school hours, and being midday, not much fishing. Besides, this is a sparsely populated part of the state.

Yet one younger mother watched her two toddlers on the playground.

Mistress took off my leash and we walked side by side away from them, around the curve of the large walking loop behind a row of trees. She stopped us there.

“This is a training session, Shae,” Mistress told me. “I know you’ve had some public training under Master Michael, and that will make this easier and faster. But I need to know what you know. And you need to know how I handle you in public situations.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I think you know by now that displaying you publicly is a deep pleasure for me.”

“Yes, that occurred to me,” I said. “I’m a lucky girl.”

She smiled, shook her head at my sarcasm. She’s gotten used to it. “Actually you are. Because you have me. I know how to do this. You have to trust me.”

“I do trust you.” I said.

“OK. Then take off your sweater,” she ordered.

I quickly looked around, then obediently went to undo my top button.

“Stop,” she said. “You didn’t trust me. You paused, looking to see if anyone was watching.”

I knew immediately she was right. “Yes, ma’am. I can do better.”

“Yes, and you will, but it just demonstrates you have to develop a special trust in me when we’re in public.”

I nodded.

“People have a right to see your submission in action. They have a right to see your body. I know you know this.”

“I do.”

“Intellectually, yes. But you haven’t fully realized it yet at the core level. You’re still very self-conscious about these things. Public training will help you develop in this area.”


With me leashed once again, she walked me along the path.

She told me she will be careful and modest with me around children. She will be mindful of any authorities present — park security, cops — “although they won’t mind ogling you themselves.” And she said she would avoid any larger groups of men or older teens, although one of her fantasies was” to walk me across a soccer field during a soccer game in progress.”

Something to look forward to.

She emphasized that this is potentially dangerous play, and that we would have sometime this next week a “safety session,” establishing hand signals and safety practices for public situations. She said she could keep me safe.

“You know I would never allow you to be hurt,” she said.

“Yes, I do.” And I really did, and do, believe that.


It’s clear that part of her “curriculum” for the afternoon involves a particular park bench, which we come to. She tells me to sit down. She stands in front of me.

“One secret to public exposure is to convey a lack of self-awareness,” she told me. “Unbutton your top button.”

I did. My sweater split open more widely on top.

Mistress Amanda walked to me, leaned over, and reached under the panel of my sweater to pull my right boob out so it was half exposed, though not quite showing my nipple.

She pulled a book out of her purse and handed it to me. “Start reading.”

“It’s a book on workplace population statistics,” I said, mildly protesting.

Mistress put her hands on her hips, exasperated. “Whatever,” she said. “I didn’t say I was going to test you on it. Next time you can bring a novel. Point is, you convey that you are engrossed in something — reading perhaps — and are unaware your buttons are popping open and your boobs are being enjoyed by the masses.”

“I see.” I laid the book open on the bench and angled my body toward it. My breasts pushed forward against the little bit of fabric still containing them.


“So where will you be and what will you be doing?” I asked.

“I’ll be across the path, down a ways. I may walk back and forth. I’ll watch others watching you,” she said. “I’ll be lusting too.”

“Oh,” I said. “I like that last part.”

“What happens,” she asked, “if you unbutton the second button?”

I did so, and the V of my sweater top split open wide, held only by a single button at my midriff. My breasts were then half revealed, showing my nipples and areolae. “Like this?”

“Yes, beautiful,” she said. “I like this top. It does what we want.”

I wasn’t so sure it was doing what I wanted, but I nodded. (I expect that Mistress will have “public” outfits for me that fulfill the requirements of measured levels of exposure.)

“People will walk by and sneak glances. Some will stare. Some will walk by and turn around a ways down in order to see you again. I guarantee you, no one will question you or challenge you. People in public just don’t. Your task is to give them permission to ogle you by being distracted and oblivious.”

“Do I look at them back?”

“No, That will compel them to look away. However, if someone says hi, it will work for you to look them in the eye and say hi back.”


A guy and girl on bicycles rode by. I was feigning engrossment in workplace statistics, so didn’t see them, just felt the swoosh of their bikes going by. Amanda told me that, after they passed, the guy stared at me.


“Occasionally someone will be so bold,“ Mistress was saying, “as to sit by you on the bench. Let them. Stay there. Don’t cover up. Again, you need to be oblivious to your own state of undress.”

“What if someone starts talking to me?”

“Engage them in conversation,” Amanda said. “In fact, that’s kind of the Holy Grail of public play. You exposed to a stranger and in personal conversation.”

I feel a submissive rush to think about that, even though I am shyly reluctant about it.

Public exposure, based on whom I’m exposed to — doms and dommes, friends, workplace colleagues of Master and Mistress, or strangers on a park bench — public exposure has so many levels and layers.


She had me stand. She re-leashed me. My breasts fell back under my sweater a bit, so Mistress arranged the panels of my sweater to catch on the outside of the nub of my nipple, exposing it. Once she had me as she wanted me, we started walking again.

A gust of wind blew across the path, lifting my miniskirt, and I instinctively pressed it down with my hands.

“Don’t do that,” Mistress said. “You are subject to the elements, however they dominate you. People have a right to see your sex.”


A runner, a young man, jogged toward us, clearly looking at me as he passed. It was my first time in this excursion being seen by a stranger. Not that it hasn’t happened to me before, but here it caused me to catch my breath.

The public experience is random and constantly surprising.


We came to a dirt area near the river partly bounded by concrete street dividers. It was a fishing spot. Down a far ways was a fisherman. Too far to engage with us. I think Mistress was disappointed, hoping for some interaction with someone.

Leaving the fishing landing, Mistress was resigned there would be few if any other people we’d encounter. She ordered me to take off my sweater completely. I did, handing it to her.

We continued walking, me on a leash and now topless, my breasts swaying with my steps.


I asked her: “What is someone came up to us now? I can’t pretend I am oblivious to being completely topless.”

“No,” she said. “So here’s the other approach to being public: You simply act as if this is how you’re supposed to be. Which is true. But you do not cover up or hide or act self-conscious. You are supposed to be topless and wearing a collar and on a leash. It’s not your job or place to explain that.”

I nod.

“It’s how you’re meant to be.”


She has me dressed in a lovely lace sleeveless crop top and a meshy burgundy skirt made of tulle. Along with matching five-inch heels, this outfit is delicate, frilly-feminine. I feel pretty, looking like I’m going to a debutante party.

Except for this: My wrists are cuffed in stainless steel and my waist is wrapped with a steel belt. Heavy-link chains attach to my wrist cuffs and and to O-rings on my waist belt. She has calculated the length of the chains to allow my hands no closer to each other than about eighteen inches. All of the chain ends are looped through shanks of large stainless padlocks. All of the hardware I wear is steel, heavy, and visible.

Mistress Amanda stands back to look at her work. She smiles. I will later see myself in a mirror and know her specific pleasure: she likes the visual irony of her dainty, lacy girl shackled in heavy chains. She has me walk toward her then away again. I do, and the chains clankle against each other with the sway of my stride. She tells me to to bring my hands as close as I can. I do. The chains become taut, tugging from my waist, and I manage to bring my manacled hands no closer than the width of my body. She seems satisfied.

She’s got her briefcase and is off to work. “Wish I could see you try to navigate your life,” she says. “Though I’ll be back early, sometime this afternoon. I’ll have fun watching you pour wine for me. Come here.”

I chain-clank my way to her. She smiles, takes my face between her hands, and kisses me, not a quick peck-and-run, but a slow, soft succulent kiss. Then she’s off, but not before leaving a final instruction: “I’m expecting a UPS delivery. Wine. You’ll have to sign for it.”


I decide to start my bondage day with a cup of coffee. I find I can’t bring my mug in one hand under the coffeepot in the other. So I place the mug down on the counter with my left hand, then position myself to pour from my right hand.

I will find, during the day, that most things can be done, but they now require two or three steps instead of one. I soon learn that my steel belt will swivel atop my hips, allowing me to extend one hand farther over — but of course that action also pulls my other hand farther back on the other side. It’s an equation that I have to calculate throughout the day.

It’s a nice morning, so I go out onto the patio to enjoy my coffee. I set my mug on the end table, and by instinct try to smooth my skirt under me as I sit on the patio loveseat. But I can’t get both hands under both sides of my skirt at the same time, and when I sit, my chains are under me. I start over, pulling my arms forward as I sit, so the chains are taught from my sides; I forego the smoothing of my skirt, which will just have to wrinkle. My bare ass underneath now presses flush down on the loveseat cushion.

I spend time observing my condition. There are three chains on each side. Two look like they once lived in a garage, probably ours, or maybe once residing in the back of Master K’s truck. They appear to be tow chains. One is older and has no luster, the other is used but still shiny in places. A third, also a tow chain, appears to be brand new. I wonder if Amanda bought it specially for me, and this.

The accumulation of metals on each of my wrists is really heavy. The wrist cuffs are themselves thick stainless steel, the three tow chains add more poundage, and then the lock dangling from each wrist is probably a pound in itself. As a result, lifting my mug of coffee to my lips feels like an exercise program.

I wonder how Amanda had calculated the length of the chains, but, of course, she measured them on herself. We are roughly the same build, and although her waist is an inch narrower than mine, she could figure it close enough. It then occurs to me she would need to have gotten Master K to cut the tow chains to the desired length. And then that probably was where these came from — old chains he had lying around. So he was in on it.

I wondered at first why three chains, not just one? But when I got up and walked to my bedroom to collect my dirty clothes for the laundry, I understood. She wanted the sound of heavy chains clamoring together as I walked.

I am able to grab both handles of my hamper and carry it into the laundry room. There I sort my clothes with one hand, finding that’s not such a hardship. Loading the washer is a bit more painstaking, but manageable. It would be later, after the first load came out of the dryer that I’d discover the tedium of folding clothes with one hand. Through the day, I will do all of my laundry — three loads (light, dark, and colors) — and Amanda’s as well — another three loads. She will especially appreciate my effort given my condition.

Yesterday was my mid-week cleaning chore, and I had done that, but I wonder what it would be like cleaning the kitchen floor, given my chains. I decide not to get on my hands and knees and scrub wearing this pretty tulle skirt, so I used a mop instead. I have to push the mop around with one hand, which is tiring, and I can’t quite reach the wringer mechanism of the pail without crouching. This became a five-step operation. Eventually, I finish the floor.

Around this time, I am questioning why I am trying these things. I am curious for sure, but am I anticipating that this condition will become a common practice? It feels instinctive for me to explore how to live in chains like this, and I wonder if I’m channeling Amanda’s thoughts, maybe her plans for me. That’s been happening recently.

These are Amanda’s clothes I’m wearing. Along with the industrial stainless steel “jewelry” that adorns me, I am literally feeling her skirt and lace top hugging my body. It surprises me that Amanda didn’t unbutton the lace top a few buttons this morning, knowing that UPS Guy would be coming. She always wants to “show my assets,” as she puts it. I think she would do so if she were here, so I unbutton the top two buttons. The top is designed for an ample figure, but I’m a bit fleshier than Amanda is, and button number three is straining. I let that one loose as well. My top pops open then, enough to reveal the inner curves of my breasts.

I sit down to write, and this made me cry. I cannot reach both hands to the keyboard at the same time. I type one-handed, hunt-and-peck, and the slow pace can’t keep up with my brain. This is the low point of my day.

It’s lunchtime and I try to make a sandwich. I pull out bread, cheese, lettuce, and lunch meat from the fridge, swiveling my hips to use both hands, alternating, to speed up the process. It really didn’t.  So I did it one-handed and it seems to take forever. Sometime after the first manned mission to Mars, I get my sandwich made, and find I am no longer hungry. Either that, or I feel that the labor cost of making the sandwich is so high, it is a shame to eat it all at once. I put the rest away in the fridge for later.

I return to my writing nook. I am bound (literally) and determined to write something. I decide to take notes with one hand rather than try to write paragraphs and longer prose.

I think about the meaning of this. There is the metaphor of being chained to myself. That my submissive nature is the bondage I was born with, and that shackles and chains are simply the physical symbol of my own innate bondage. I’ve come already to refer to my chains as my “condition,” but in truth my “condition” is my submissive sexual orientation, which is the reason I’m in chains today. There is also the metaphor of my place in Amanda’s life. My day in chains happens only because I am willing and wanting and maybe wanton for Amanda to have me controlled and limited and dressed for her pleasure. She sees me this morning standing before her and (I hope) some part of her thinks, This girl is so hopelessly devoted, she is submitting to this for you, her Mistress. There is also in Amanda’s preparation of me today a message: In dressing me in beautiful and sensual clothing, she is saying, Shae, you are a pretty and delicate woman, yet you are a slave, bound. You are both.

The note-taking works. I get ideas down, one-handed, on my laptop, and I feel a bit better. But still, this is a marginal solution. If this is to be a regular practice, perhaps I can ask for a different kind of bondage that would allow me to type with two hands.

The doorbell rings. Certainly it’s UPS Guy. I look down at my top, three buttons opened. I know Amanda would undo at least one more. Maybe two. Three are revealing but still comfortable for me. Amanda would always go a step or two further beyond my comfort zone. I unbutton a fourth button, then a fifth. My breasts push aside the fabric and show themselves, open to the edge of my nipples. Amanda would have done this: she just forgot. He has a right to enjoy your body, she would say.

I clankle my way to the front door, my breasts now free enough to jiggle, and I open it. UPS Guy stands there wearing a badge that says “Steve.” Our front stoop is a step down from house level, meaning his eyes are at my chest level, and he’s enjoying the view.

He says he has a delivery for Amanda Parshall. “Someone needs to sign for it.”

“I’m Shae—”

“Hi. I know you you are. You’re the slave.”

I’m taken aback. “How do you know?”

“Well, you standing here wearing chains is a clue. But actually Amanda and I have talked many times. I know about you. Haven’t met you yet, though.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “Well, pleased to meet you. I’m Shae.” I extend my hand awkwardly and we shake.

“I have a pen,” he says.

I take it with my right hand, but realize I can’t hold the clipboard and sign at the same time. “Could you hold that for me?” He does, and I sign.

“OK to leave this outside here?” he asks.

“Oh. Normally, I could bring it in…”

“Yes, you’re in a predicament. I can’t come in your house, regulations, but I can set it just inside the door there.”

“Thank you,” I say.

And that was Steve, UPS Guy. Friendly, maybe forty-ish, and polite. I’m in this new era of being “presented as a slave to the world,” and here’s a guy who sees me for what I am, enjoys the view, is helpful even, seems accepting, and doesn’t seem to judge or dismiss me.

Later I’m on the patio reading. Holding my Kindle requires me to put it down every time I need to swipe-turn the page. I come to a clever workaround: I lift the book and swipe it across my nose. Well, it works.


Amanda returns home around three. I hear her car in the driveway and walk clankily to the front door like a puppy bitch eager to see her owner. I stand on the front porch. She walks up, stops a few yards away, and says, “You are the picture!” She is smiling.

“May I get you a drink, Mistress?” I ask.

“Chablis,” she says. “You may have one too. On the patio.”

She changes clothes and I have wines waiting for us as we settle on the L-shaped patio lounger, facing each other. “You unbuttoned your top.”

“I figured you’d forgotten, I did what I thought you would do,.”

“I didn’t forget, I was wondering if you would remember and do what I would do.”

I smile. We really do channel each other.

“I saw the wine came. Did you meet Steve?” she asks.

“Yes, I did. He seemed to know all about me.”

“Were you unbuttoned for him?”

“Of course.”

“Good, he needs some pleasure in his life,” Amanda says.

“He seems nice.”

“I think he wants to fuck you.”

“He’s never met me before,” I say.

She looks at me with bemusement, and holds her hands out palms up, signifying what I appear like to the outside world. “You come to the door looking like a princess, yet in chains and with your breasts hanging out, and just being adorable Shae. There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t want to fuck you.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s what you were going for this morning? This outfit?”

“Partly. You look like a runway model.”

“Outfit designed by Home Depot,” I say.

She laughs. We sip our wines. “You did my laundry.”


“That must have been hard to do.”

“Yes. But I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” she says. We look at each other for a long time. “How am I so lucky to get you?” she says, almost to herself.

I am silent because I have the same question and no answer.

“What else did you do today?” she asks.

I tell her about everything. “I couldn’t write,” I told her at one point. “I lost it then.”

She takes it all in, says nothing, sips her wine. After a while she asks, “Have you ever been in bondage, chains, for twenty-four hours straight?”

“No,” I reply. “And just so you know, it’s not a bucket list thing for me.”

“I think it would be good for you,” she says, all mistress-like and making me melty. “I think I’ll keep you in chains until morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But,” she says, “I think I’ll have you sleep with me tonight.”

It takes a moment for me to register this in my head. “Really?”


“I’m going to be noisy, with all this industrial hardware,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “But I like the sound of you.”

sunday afternoon questions

A few hours after posting “orals” yesterday morning, I received these email questions from a follower: How do you feel when, after writing about yourself explicitly like you did this morning, you socialize with people who have read your blog? Do you think they are imagining you in their mind when you’re with them?

My short, quick answers: I feel embarrassed a lot of times. And yes, I am aware that some people, when they’re with me, imagine me in what I wrote about in one of my experiences, that they are literally picturing me that way. That too, of course, feels humiliating to me.

To be clear, I believe there is no shame in people having sex. But to describe the sex I’ve had and for that to be known is a more embarrassing level of exposure for me, as it would be for anyone. And then for it to be as a result of my enslavement — being ordered to do it, and submitting to someone else out of submissive obedience — is really what my feelings of humiliation come from when I’m face to face with others.

I think people assume I must have become used to the public aspect of my lifestyle by now and that it doesn’t phase me so much to be known and “seen” in what I am and do. Not so. Just being introduced as a slave to anyone in the vanilla world makes for at least a basic level of shame, which I feel as intensely the fiftieth time as in the first time. To be further “seen” in the explicit acts of submissive service I report on and later be with those people face to face is something I’ve never gotten used to.

Maybe it has a little to do with personality. I am actually shy and introverted by nature. I have a feisty streak, which never ends well, but that erupts only occasionally (thank god). I am more outgoing around people I know and trust, and I probably sound more confident and assertive in my writing, but I am really quite reserved around most people and sensitive to what they say and think of me. I’m also the product of a conservative religious upbringing, which I have since left behind, but which still affects me in these areas and also reminds me of who’s out there. So I’m not the type who just does what she does and doesn’t give a damn what people think. I very much care what people think. I tell myself not to expect others’ approval, but emotionally I still hope for that, again, as much the fiftieth time as the first time.

There’s always the question of why I do this — in particular, write what I do and submit to the social embarrassment it yields. I probably need to say again that my extreme submissive nature compels my choice to live in a lifestyle of slavery. What I haven’t written about so much is that my slavery has been defined as an open and public thing. It has been the aim of my dominants to make me known to the world, transparent about my slavery and what’s in it to others, even strangers.

They have encouraged me to write, in part because they are aware how core to me my writing is, because it’s good for me. But the other part of their intention is that it exposes my life as a slave to a broader population. They literally want me to face those people who read about me. They want me to feel embarrassment and humiliation in these things.

So this is all part of the concept. It’s what’s supposed to be.