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.”
“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.”
“People have a right to see your submission in action. They have a right to see your body. I know you know this.”
“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.”
“It’s how you’re meant to be.”