quartet

Miz A now has four locations within the house in which to stage my humiliations. She is making her funhouse. She’s quite pleased with herself.

There’s the entryway wall to which I can be shackled and affixed.

There’s the wet bar, to which I can be spread atop of and hooked into.

There’s the easy chair. which has short chains underneath that can be used to put me in a sitting bondage.

And now there’s the bay window.

Amanda’s desire is to have bondage devices in the house to use on me without anything looking like it’s a bondage device. These all are part of the decor, the bondage attachments hidden or camouflaged to be undetectable.

She has been very clever.


Among the four, the easy chair is the one that seems to have the least purpose. Amanda doesn’t it use it that much. The main point of it, I suppose, is to arrange me spread-eagle so that my pussy is open and gaping. However, the chair is too low for it to position me at a good level for anyone else, say, of the male persuasion to do things to me. It is more of a “lesbian chair,” so to speak, but Amanda will never kneel before me to service me that way.

She has tried to reverse me in the chair — that is, have me facing into the chair, my ankles parallel to and atop the chair arms, my breasts flattened against the back of the chair. This makes my ass face out rearward, which in itself is the kind of humiliation Amanda desires for me. The bonus for her is that it places my head atop the back of the chair facing out — which gives it a rather diabolical usage-opportunity for people using my mouth for “various things.”

To be clear, so far the chair hasn’t been used that way on me.

The chair’s installed chains can be used to bind me into the chair this backward way — they do work, sort of. However, my ankles resting on the chair arms are a bit unstable. The arms are a bit too narrow and rounded, making my shins slide off. It’s doable, but not the rock solid bondage Amanda wishes.

Amanda is considering another chair that sits higher and has flatter, broader arms.


Amanda installs me into the wet bar about once a week or so. The entryway wall, the first of the devices to be created, is used less often, but sometimes. That has yet to be used for a party, but it will be. And like I say, the easy chair is hardly used at all.

Her current toy is the bay window. Amanda has perched me there now twice since Saturday night.

She told me she wants to get a mini-easel for the corner of the bay window and put on it a placard that reads “Slave Girl. $24.99. Marked down to $18.88.”

“Ha, ha,” I replied.

She will do it too.


Miz A says she has another idea in the works. At the conceptual stage.

I told her, “You should stop now. There are enough rides in this Disneyland.”

She didn’t reply but simply flashed her wicked little smile.

Blake 1 (redux)

I am reposting this, as it’s been a few weeks since I first posted it, and I am about to share the second part of the account. This is about the day our handyman came to work on house and bondage projects for Amanda.

Again, if you have read this before, no need to re-read it. I’m just reposting for continuity with the remainder of the account of that day.


So it happened last Sunday.

Blake came at about ten for the work at hand — to do some interior house repairs, install eye bolts, work on the area of the wet bar, and finish the lower bolts for the entryway wall.

Before he started, Amanda had me serve him coffee. At this point I was dressed in a denim skirt and loose top. We sat at the breakfast table, talking about life in quarantine through recent weeks. He talked about his work drying up for a while. He’s busy now, he said, but he’d been sitting around for too long, putting on weight. I wouldn’t have noticed — he’s tall and wiry.

Blake mentioned a client of his, someone Amanda knows in the D/s lifestyle, who has him building a bondage room. Amanda asked about that, and they talked for a while about some of the design features he was putting in.

Amanda said that she was never given to a separate room for such things, though Kevin had had a bondage room. Then she went on to tell Blake who Kevin was and how I am sent to him every month for a time. Amanda said, “I don’t think of going to a specific room when I play with her. I want the possibilities for restraining her to be everywhere, all over the house, for others to see.“

I sat, saying nothing. I had pretty immediately gone into my sub space, content to let them talk about me. I knew that Amanda referring to me in the third person was intentional on her part. And Blake was addressing her not me, respecting my slave status to her. Though he was never, all day, impolite to me.

Eventually we walked around the house discussing the work to be done. Well, they discussed — I followed behind them silently. Amanda had another new idea, which I hadn’t heard before, and will write about later.

Blake had a small notebook and made sketches and measured things and wrote notes as we went around. He said he had figured out another way of finishing the entryway wall, less invasive, which came as good news to Amanda. So, he said, he could complete that today after all.

After the walk-around, Amanda had us back at the breakfast table again, though we stayed standing. She had me pour us fresh mugs of coffee. Blake was talking about the easy chair, that it would be simple. The legs were a walnut, he said, which was unusual, but good. He could drill in hooks that would show.

Amanda said to Blake that before he got started, she “wanted to be clear about something.”

She spoke about making me available to stand in place for measuring and positioning. “Blake,” she said, “I told you I was going to have her undressed for this. I know that’s not necessary for the work, but I just want her that way.” But, Amanda said, she didn’t want this to offend him. “If it will bother you, Blake, we won’t do it.”

As I recalled this later, I was reminded of a certain quality Blake seems to have. He is twenty-five, I think, though he looks a bit younger. Yet he has a presence of someone older, a certain confidence with people. And he answered her with just that kind of mature response: “Amanda,” he said, “it would be my pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Excellent,” Amanda said. She told him I would be in the same room with him, but would stay out of his way. “Slave girl is good at talking only when spoken to.” Blake didn’t have to make conversation.

They went on to talk about what height heels I should wear for positioning along the entryway wall and the wet bar. Six-inch heels versus, say, flats, would change my ankle height. Would that make a difference to the position of the eye bolts? I hardly ever wear flats in such situations. They decided four-inch heels would be a median height that would suffice for all heel heights.

Then Amanda told me to go to the bedroom, undress, and put on the cream pumps with the ankle straps. Finally, I was to put on my linen robe and then come back out.

It has become clear to me that Amanda intended this time with Blake as strategic to my submissive development. When she first mentioned this some time ago, I thought it was just her bit of tease to have with me, to play with me, in front of someone. No, I realized now, this had a purpose She wanted me to be seen and lusted for by a man, a practical stranger, and for me to stand in that lust for a number of hours.

This was to be a first test, one that will lead to other things — my being nude and led down the street, or visiting neighbors, or being walked in parks and along mountain trails and up on the ridge in back. It will be how Amanda presents me at parties and how she entertains certain guests here at the house. It is my further, deeper sexualization and training, and she intends this to be my way of life.

A short while later, I emerged in my little robe and Jeffrey Campbell heels with the ankle strap. They were in the entryway, the front door wide open. The side table had been moved over, and the sconces and candles were taken down, leaving the iron fixtures for my bondage.

Amanda was talking when I walked in, but she stopped and told me to take off my robe.

I obeyed, untying the sash in front, letting the linen robe open in front, then pulling it back from my shoulders, and off. I gathered it and laid it on the chair.

Blake was standing maybe six feet away, close to the door. At his feet was a toolbox. Amanda picked up the conversation again. I stood naked, not knowing what to do with my hands. They talked about the work, I forget what, but it turned into a longer conversation.

Amanda stood slightly behind me. I suspected she wanted to make sure that, as he conversed with her, he would have a long visual drink of my body.

Which he did. As Blake talked, he was looking at my breasts.

I was self-conscious, of course, my upper chest growing little splotches of red, as it does, and my ring-pierced nipples growing into thicker nubs. I remember not knowing myself where to look, where my eyes should go, so I turned my head to Amanda when she was talking, then off to the side and down, and occasionally at Blake directly, catching his eyes sometimes. When I did, he did not look away. He was a confident guy, that’s for sure. I was the one to look away.

They continued to talk, and I slipped further into sub-space. You can feel someone looking at you, and I felt his eyes like fingers over my breasts. And then, soon enough, I could feel his view go lower, between my legs, finding my bare slit, shaven, bald, and smooth.

I have been nude in front of people before, of course, but not so often completely nude like this, nor with someone still so much a stranger as was Blake, nor in my slave state so obviously, nor in this sort of proximity, six feet away, from a carpenter and his tools.

it was an intimacy all of its own, being “had” by someone I didn’t choose. Not to say it was painfully uncomfortable for me, no, it wasn’t, as there was something about him that was strong but not threatening, yet I felt self-conscious and was well aware of his gaze.

I imagined what he might be thinking. I was the slave girl in the room, submissive to her and by her proxy, also to him. I was ten years older, MILFish, perhaps he thought — I don’t know how men think of that. But I imagined that perhaps he was enjoying seeing an “older” woman so submissive and obedient as to humiliate myself naked before him, a younger man.

Amanda realized then I needed to be wearing my collar and would need wrist and ankle cuffs. She told me to go fetch them all, and to change out of the pumps with the ankle strap and wear my red ones. Also to put on matching red lipstick.

I did so, realizing that Amanda was showing me off. She probably all along intended for me to walk out and then back in, for Blake to see my breasts sway and ripple as I walked out and then back in while wearing high heels. As the day progressed, Amanda had me change my appearance multiple times.

Soon I was back, freshly heeled and lipsticked in ruby red, holding cuffs and collar. Amanda put my collar on me from behind. Likewise, my wrist cuffs, then ankle cuffs.

And then she attached me to the entryway wall.

Amanda had me stand with my feet a few inches apart, but this was the part of using me for “positioning” that was actual and necessary. Blake knelt to the floor, inches from my bare pussy. Amanda, had me try numerous stances — from my feet together, to inches apart, to wider and wider. At the widest stance, my pussy lips were parted, open.

Amanda thankfully said, “In high heels, slave girl can’t sustain that wide a set. I don’t like it anyway.” So we tried other stance-widths all over again — my adjusting my feet against the baseboard, and the two of them looking at me quizzically, as if centering a picture frame.

Amanda reiterated that she wanted my ankle straps latched tight to the wall. Not with lengths of chain. So the “home” position of my legs and feet mattered specifically and were the basis for Blake’s exact measurement.

Amanda finally settled on a position with my feet about a foot apart. “I think that’s right,” she said.

Blake, crouching at my feet, wrapped his hand around my right ankle, slowly pushing it back flush to the wall.

It was the first he had actually touched me. He has big hands.

He marked the wall with a flat pencil.

wet bar 2

This was a week ago Saturday, another wet-bar tie-up, and I promised I’d write and post this.

So she has me, naked, at the wet bar once again. My legs are spread and ankle-cuffed and tied by rope to narrow footers at the bottom of the bar.

She discovered recently the bar has these narrow footers. The first time she didn’t notice these, and her tie of me was a rope around the ends of the bar to a something behind it — as a result, loose and insecure. Amanda’s not really into rope ties anyway, and she doesn’t have patience for lengthy binding. Whereas Kevin loves rope bondages — coiling ropes tight and tieing me to things was for him extended foreplay — Mistress Amanda has little patience for it. She would love for there to be places all over the house to which she could instantly fasten me. This is the concept she has for the eye bolts everywhere. Clip-click, and I’m bound and married to the house — a literal housewife.

Anyway, the wet bar looks like it sits squarely on the floor, but in fact has these very narrow disc feet, and Amanda discovered that a rope could squeeze around these footers and make for a tight connector to stretch my ankles to. (Despite the humiliation of this for me, I would much rather be tightly bound than roped to something loosely.)

Our wet bar is an island with a galley-way behind it, then a matching counter/hutch along the wall in back. She has me stand in front of the island, facing where a bartender would be working in the galley-way. It’s as if I were ordering a drink as a woman out at the pub, except, of course, I’m not here at this bar as a respectable woman but spread-legged and naked and prepared for fucking. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Lately, Amanda has been experimenting with me around the house, looking for locations and furniture and fixtures on which I can be mounted. Without people coming in and out these days, the entryway wall has lost some appeal for her. She still does hang me on the wall there, but it’s not a place where she can sit and watch me. Generally she has no everyday reason herself to be there, and sitting in the living room while I’m mounted on the wall somewhere else just doesn’t interest her. The entryway is for my public display.

So she is looking elsewhere for places she can put me that are in her presence or path of her daily living.

Amanda has tried me on the kitchen island, but it has no natural nooks and crannies to tie me to. Maybe when Blake is available for some eye bolt installations that could work, but it’s still awkward. The island is so wide, I cannot straddle it. She used it the one time by having me sit on the island corner as she poured melted chocolate over me, but I was not bound to anything. So the kitchen seems unlikely. Amanda jokes that she is looking for an over-sized serving tray on which to arrange me like a roast pig and present me there on the kitchen island as part of an appetizer table. (Well, I think it’s a joke.)

We have upholstered furniture in the living room, which doesn’t work that well for binding me to. With the exception of one easy chair. This is opposite the long couch where Amanda and I often read. She can have me sit in the easy chair and drape each of my legs over the padded arms of the chair. She can tie my ankles, then, to the thick wood feet of the chair. She might likewise tie my wrists behind the chair or down to the rear legs. Or else she might allow me to have my hands free so I can read. In any case, that works well. She can read and just look over at me and my spread pussy.

But of all the possibilities, it’s the wet bar that pleases her the most these days. It’s situated in the Intersection of our primary living spaces. She can see it, me, from a number of places where she happens to be and do her living. The wet bar also seems especially suited to my dimensions.

If I’m wearing tall heels, my bare belly nestles perfectly against the mahogany bar top. The bar top is narrow, its width approximately the length of my midriff. So as I lean across, the bar top starts where I bend at my waist and ends just below my breasts. My breasts then hang freely off the opposite edge of the mahogany surface, into the bartender space.

Amanda likes this symmetry.

So Friday night she has me this way at the bar — high-heeled, my legs spread about two feet apart, tied to the island’s footers, and I am bent over the width of the mahogany bar top, my breasts hanging off the other side.

Mistress walks around the bar, but pauses to stroke my inner thighs and grace my spread pussy with her finger. She finds me wet, of course.

She walks around and steps into the bartender galley. “I don’t know what to do with your hands,” she says. “If I tie them down this side, the ropes get in the way.”

I am not ball-gagged, but I have nothing to say. Mistress is talking to herself.

She decides to latch my wrist cuffs together behind my back. “For now, anyway,” she says. She pulls out some bourbon glasses and wine glasses onto the bar top. Then she walks around to the front. She positions the four bar stools to the ends of the bar and then one on each side of me, in front of each of my tied legs. Amanda sits on the one to my right and starts placing the empty glasses on my back. Because my breasts are not under me but hanging off the other side, my back is flat. “See if you can remain still enough that they won’t fall.”

If I don’t breathe, it’s not much of a problem. I find I can take shallow breaths and keep the drinks on my bare back bar balanced. Then Amanda starts fingering my pussy from behind. I fight to keep from breathing too deeply or wriggling from her attentions.

She stops. No bar glasses have fallen. “Wine glasses might be a challenge,” she says. “But this makes you a functional part of the wet bar. People can use you as part of the surface, place their glasses on you. They will find that amusing.”

I realize then that in all of this, she is not intending to use me or fuck me today. She’s staging me for a party. Not now, not soon, but someday.

She moves the glasses off my back and tells me to get upright. I lift myself off the bar, my legs still spread and tied and my wrists shackled behind me.

“They can play with you in this position. They’ll want to play with your tits. Everybody wants to feel your breasts.” She is still talking to herself, talking through scenarios. “I won’t ballgag you — too messy where people are eating and drinking. I’ll have to tell people you are ordered not to speak. They’ll fondle you but not talk to you. You will not talk.”

She walks back into the galley-way. “Lean over again,” she orders.

I do, my breasts falling again on the other side of the bar top. I raise my head to look up to her.

“I need a hook down here,” she says, pointing to a spot below on the inside panel of the bar. “I’ll chain your collar to that when I want you like this.”

I am, quite frankly, a bit tired of modeling. I want her to play with me.

“I’ll have to do something about your hair,” she goes on. “I want people to see your face, even down here, at least from the side. “Maybe we’ll put it up in a bun.”

I’m not sure why people would need to see my face, but OK.

“And I will ask Blake,” she says, “to construct a little bench step for this side. A step up for the right height.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. Amanda has gone into some deeper space of construction-bondage-presentation that has lost me. It occurs to me that for Blake to construct all this, Amanda will have me model for him to take measurements.

I fully expect, after the shelter-in-place is lifted and things open up again, she will take me to Home Depot, and it will be like an erotic dreamland for her as she imagines everything as a gadget for my bound humiliation and objectification.

Amanda fetches the short stepladder from the garage and places it there behind the bar. She steps up on the first step and measures where her body is positioned opposite the bar top and me. With a tape measure, she notes the height of that first step.

I make the mistake of speaking: “I don’t understand why a bartender needs a bench to step up on. There’s nothing up above to reach for.”

“Not the bartender. The men.”

“Men?”

“Yes. The men you’ll be giving blowjobs to.”

“Oh.” It’s the quintessential Amanda comment: part fantasy, part tease, and just possible enough for her to make real. I say nothing. I am tempted to say something sassy, with attitude: “You don’t have to make me into a flying buttress for that. You could just have me on my knees.” I restrain myself.

Amanda thinks she finds places for eye bolts to restrict my arms — extending them along the edge of the bar on the bartender side. She is pleased to think of that because it’s a clean solution, my body shaping to the line of the bar top. She notes that my arms, stretched and cuffed tight as such would also create a kind of lip to the bar top, and this pleases her to no end — anything to make my body functional for another purpose.

It seems, finally, Amanda is done with the research portion of the home improvement project, so I finally speak. I know as I say it that it has too much edge: “Are you going to fuck me,” I asked, “or do I have to beg you?”

So. Right. Another one of those moments I realize that although I’ve been a sex slave for more than four years, I’ve learned absolutely nothing about how to behave.

Fortunately, Amanda is enjoying herself with me way too much to make a deal out of it. Oh, yes, she notices my inappropriate tone, but she ignores it. She is back to having her fun, walking around to different places of the house within view and looking at me spread and bound from various angles.

I guess that, no, she isn’t going to fuck me, and begging isn’t going to do any good. And I am right.