house beautiful

This week she has put me in bondages quite a lot, more than normal.

There was the bay window, which I wrote about, and two sessions at the wet bar. Wednesday, she shackled me open-legged in the easy chair. And the entryway wall seems to have made a comeback in her esteem, for she’s put me there three times this week.

I don’t know what this is about, and it’s not my business to know or figure it out, but I noodle on it anyway. After all, in each of these bondages there isn’t much for me to do other than to be naked and to noodle.

I suspect it may be because we’re at the cusp of the spring season but not in it yet. Mistress longs to be outdoors and social and public in her administrations of me, and winter bottles her up. We had warmer temps this week, but that was just a tease, as it still has been too cool outside for her to prance me topless on a leash, and tonight we’re back in the winter doldrums with a snow forecast. So, I expect Mistress has been addressing her seasonal longings by chaining me to things in the house. I think she literally gets aroused by the sounds of clicking shut the lock on my collar and the snap of eyebolts binding my cuffs to walls.

The other noodle I came up with is something to do with Master McKenna. I wonder if, as part of my new regular-normal with him, Mistress is amping up her own bondages of me. Perhaps she and he are working together to provide me a consistent world of being dominated, each in their unique ways but complementary.

Of course, excessive noodling can lead to conspiracy theories.

I know I’ve written about the house bondages many times before, but newer followers may not have gone back to my earlier posts. So here’s a refresher course.

Mistress Amanda loathes “bondage rooms.” She believes D/s and BDSM should be practiced openly and become part of daily life. She doesn’t like the idea of a slave being taken into a secret room in the basement, half-lit with dark leather and chains hanging from the ceiling. (She always had a dim view of Kevin’s bondage room.)

Instead, she wishes bondage opportunities to become part of everyday existence, part of the living spaces of the house. “Bondage should be performed in sunlight.” Also, as she has a keen sense of interior design, she wishes these bondage places to fit in organically, in a kind of feng shui within a decor that doesn’t look like a bondage room.

And so all of my household bondage “stations” are invisible to visitors in their normal state, but convertible into weapons of lass destruction in the blink of an eye.

For example, Mistress created the “entryway wall.” In fifteen seconds, she can move a side table and two wall sconces to the opposite wall, revealing built-in bondage rings they had concealed, rings to shackle me into an instant bondage. The wet bar is simply a matter of discreet eyebolts, and likewise the easy chair. The bay window station uses a parsons chair that normally occupies the corner of the dining room and a couple of unobtrusive eyebolts in the corners.

It’s all rather ingenious. Amanda fantasizes becoming a feature article in House Beautiful magazine, photographs showing the elegant way she has decorated the main rooms of our living areas — with me showing up incidentally in naked bondages throughout.

There are two dimensions of my house bondages that compel me submissively.

The first is the act of Mistress “installing” me into the stations. Maybe I too get warm and wet at the sounds of locks and eyebolts. And there is something about the sound of her voice — “Now inch your ass over here a bit — that’s it” — that feels comforting to me even as it’s objectifying. Her physical handling in placing me is directive and possessive, which I dearly love. In every house bondage, there comes a point where she says, “Spread your legs,” and she taps my inner thigh. I obey, marking the real beginning of my sexual disgrace and descent into submissive spaces.

The second is about the house itself. I am attached to walls and solid pieces of furniture, and it compels a feeling of being merged literally into the woodwork. I feel this especially when Mistress puts me against the entryway wall, shackled face-in. I am literally kissing the surface, my pussy flattened against and wetting the wall in some form of illicit coitus. As such, I am married to the house.

I have joked before about how it makes me a housewife, but it is true in a literal way, and it becomes a relationship of closeness and time spent.

In this, the house envelops and swallows me like a husband.

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.

Kevin’s house and the week ahead

I made it to Kevin’s house Sunday.

It was a plane trip this time. The endless process of the car ride to DIA, going through security, waiting to board, flying here, getting my luggage, and then Ubering to the house, is roughly the same amount of time as just driving the whole thing.

I will drive back, taking the beater of a car that sits in one of the garage bays at Kevin’s. We want that with us in Denver, as it allows Amanda and I to have separate transportation on certain days when we need it.

Probably in future visits to Kevin, I will just drive here in that old car, providing it holds up. I much prefer to avoid the airport hassle, although there is a bit of a fantasy to be had in the notion of being the high society call girl who flies to her various clients. Or to one client. I’m not sure being a call girl is a fantasy worth having, but if I’m going to be used that way, then why not imagine the elegance? Though, for that, I should fly first class,, don’t you think?

So… I have decided that I will not write specifically about my time with Kevin while I’m here. What we are working out is a new kind of relationship, and I don’t think it’s fair to him, or to what this is to become, for me to describe each twist and turn of the week between us. Also, I don’t want to get caught up in it myself, over-analyzing it, as I am wont to do. Sorry to disappoint watchers and followers, but I think that’s best.

I will write more when I get back and have some perspective.

Meanwhile, I’ll write on other things while I am here. I have time — Kevin will be working parts of days this week. I will be seeing Casey at the cafe and also the crew at the home office. It will be good to connect with them again.

blake and things

Amanda’s brainstorm — movable flower baskets in the entryway — was prompted, she said to me last week, by something she read and something she heard.

Back in September she read about a dom who converted almost every room in his house into an opportunity for bondage, discipline, or humiliation. This man had a refrigerator fitted with straps so he could bind his slave girl to it for periods of time. He had a coffee table to which he could tie her in some way, and wall mounts for her in various rooms. He had a way of strapping her to the top of the washing machine in the laundry room.

Amanda was taken with the idea — but for a different purpose. “Less about bondage,” she said, “and more about display.” Apparently as we looked at houses to buy, she was also looking through this lens. I never knew.

Then in early November, Amanda was talking with Valerie, a domme and lifestyle friend. Valerie spoke of decorating a particular room creatively, such as to cleverly conceal its bondage uses and present it to her vanilla friends as a lovely normal entertaining space. Valerie said she “had a guy” who was a carpenter and handyman and did this work for her.

All of this made Amanda think about a specific possibility for me in our house. And it put her in touch with “the guy.” Blake.

Amanda has never been big on the “bondage room” thing as Kevin has.

Kevin sees the bondage room as his private BDSM universe, one in which he can “B&D” me to his heart’s content. Within the privacy of this place, he can manhandle me as he wishes, that unique kind of foreplay of his which leads him to his edge and his power-fucking of me.

While he has shared with his closest friends and colleagues his dom lifestyle, Kevin keeps his bondage room experiences with me mostly private. He doesn’t want to be on display. For Kevin, the bondage room is a place set apart, almost hidden, where he has me and does me.

Amanda, on the other hand, sees her dominance and my submission as importantly public. Our D/s life together cannot, should not, so she believes, be contained within a private room. She wants to be known by others for what she is and likewise wants me to be known — and seen — in my submission, if not my humiliation, publicly.

So this notion of a house that can display her dominance of me to friends and guests and visitors was especially appealing to Amanda. In her vision, I become the accent piece in the visual presentation, the distinctive artwork, a kind of performance decor for others to experience and delight in — or perhaps ogle and pity.

I have long lived in this concept of being Amanda’s artwork. I have written about it as a theme in her domme administration of me. I am palpably aware of it at times and the way she handles me. And in this latest period of her shaping my body to her specs, I am even more literally a figure sculpted in her image.

Amanda now has a home in which her artwork can be displayed in creative ways. At the same time, as she made clear to me, she doesn’t want the place to look like a “Halloween house.” It needs to be comfortable, inviting, warm. Not threatening. She wants our lifestyle to be seen and known, but she doesn’t want the house to look like a dungeon.

So she got to thinking of creative ways to conceal the method of her madness. And she pondered the best room of the house in which to try this. Naturally, she thought immediately of the entryway, the most public place in the house, as where to start.

This is where Blake came in.

When Amanda first revealed to me the mounts in the entryway and hung me there, she cryptically referred to this man, “Blake,” who had helped her construct this.

I hadn’t known of any man named Blake in our acquaintance, so he was a surprise to me.

She had contacted him two weeks before Thanksgiving. They met, and she described her idea for the entryway. Almost immediately he told her how he could construct it to make it look natural. She said she hoped to get it done during the time I was away in Pennsylvania with my mother. His schedule was full but had a cancellation last minute, and he was able to do the work on Tuesday morning before Thanksgiving.

So that’s how that went down.

I met Blake for the first time last weekend.

He is twenty-five years old, though looks a bit younger — attractive, tall with short black hair, gangly with long arms and legs, sinewy in build.

Amanda invited him to lunch with us when we were downtown last week going through our paces on a normal business day. Blake joined us a little late, and apologized. He’d had a job that took longer than he’d expected. “No worries,” Amanda said with a smile, and then she introduced me: “This is my slave, Shae.”

Blake didn’t blink an eye at the nature of my introduction. It was clear he’s been in and around our world before. He smiled, reached out his hand, and said, “Good to meet you, slave Shae.” Then he added, “So you’re the lucky recipient of our little installation.”

I nodded and smiled back, blushing a little.

As we talked over lunch I was struck by how intelligent he was. If he looked younger than his age, he sounded mature, well in advance of his years. He spoke as an artist speaks, in the language of design and shape and color. His interest is not just building things but creating beauty and interest in unique ways. He’s an artisan.

Amanda talked with him about some other ideas for the house, not lifestyle related but just some general remodeling changes she has in mind. She mentioned she would want him back to “finish the entryway,” which has to do with installing two more eye bolts at ankle length near the baseboard. Apparently I need to be there for the proper measurement. (So it seems that having my neck and wrists attached to the wall with steel is not enough, that my legs and feet have way too much freedom yet.)

Beyond that, there was nothing more to our lunch. Blake seemed nice.

So it was yesterday. Amanda said to me that we’ll need to schedule those measurements when we get back from Pennsylvania. She said some things about wanting the eye bolts to be able to accommodate several different heights of high heels. She added that for the measurements, she’ll have me nude.

“I don’t see,” I challenged, “how my wearing clothes has any bearing on the proper measurement of my ankle placement.” I don’t know why, but my words came out sounding officious and defiant.

Amanda glared at me. It was her “I’ll do with you what I want to do with you look.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course,” I quickly said.

“Consider it a belated Christmas present,” she said with an edge in her voice.

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied, trying to find my proper place and tone with her again. I had misstepped and now tried to get back into marching position. “Of course, I’m always happy to be a present for you in that way… or in any way you wish.” Now I was sounding awkwardly fawning and ingratiating, and I knew she knew it.

“Not me, silly,” Amanda said. “A Christmas present for Blake.”

It sunk in. Sometimes I’m really dense.


Nothing worth much in this post except for me to apologize. I have fallen behind on reading your blogs, and I have so much to catch up on. Likewise I’ve not responded to your comments for the past week or so. I promise to do so over this coming weekend. So very sorry. I miss you!

There have been a couple of excitements here this week, which I’ll report on in coming posts. Otherwise, the story is that we’ve moved into the new office space. Much of the furniture has been delivered, and we have computers and Internet and running water. It’s been anticlimactic in a way, because the space is unassuming and business-like, nothing to write home, or blog, about. However Amanda is much relieved that it’s finally set up and operational.

After helping at the office the first part of the week, I’ve been staying home the past couple of days — doing some fix-up and painting and cleaning in the storage rooms and closets here at the house. Amanda’s been going into the new office, though at this point there isn’t new business happening yet — no one knows we’re there.

I’m still processing my time with Mom last week, wondering how much of my nature has been shaped and predicted by the particular and strange world that was my home in Pennsylvania.


Good morning to all. Not that the specific schedule of my life matter to most of you, but here it is anyway. Just keeping you posted…

Over these past two weeks, Amanda and I first made the house functional, then started making the place comfortable. (And apparently we’ve started to christen each and every room.) I don’t know that it’s yet much of a home, but perhaps we’re getting there.

This next week Amanda and I will be abandoning our homemaking efforts to focus on the new office. We can’t move into the office space itself until December 1, but we have actual office work to do in anticipation of that, which is the execution of strategies and plans that Amanda worked on back home while I was packing the house.

This afternoon, Amanda wants to take me out to some stores to buy me a couple of office outfits, skirts and blazers, plain blouses. I expect her choices for me in this to be reasonably conservative. For now, anyway, she needs me to look business professional.

The week after next, I’ll be flying to Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving with Mom. And I’m nervous as hell about that. (Thanks for all the support.) Amanda will stay here in Denver. She’s been invited to have Thanksgiving with friends. It makes me happy that she won’t be alone.

And then the week after that, the first week of December, I am back, and we move into the new office space. Another move, which we’re both tired of, yet this is a small space, and the chore of it will not be too demanding.

Things will work out.


She pushes me hard against the wall of the entryway. My body thuds and my naked breasts judder. Her left forearm stretches across my clavicle and pins my shoulders.

I feel her open hand below, pressing against my vulva.

I let her have me. My arms go limp. My back and my ass flatten against the wall. I am breathing harder.

She leans her face close, her lips almost gracing mine, but she does not kiss me. Her fingers slide up my naked thigh. I close my eyes. She fingers my pussy lips. “You’re wet,” she says.

“You shouldn’t sound so surprised,” I say with a touch of sass. “You bought my body because it’s always like this.”

“Pretty on top but a dripping slut inside.”

I slowly open my eyes. She is right there, eyes staring back. “I’m dripping for you,” I say, my voice now breathy and husky.

“No. You drip for anything with legs.”

“You sure know how to make a girl feel swell,” I say. It’s the last cogent thing I’ll be able to say for the next ten minutes.

Amanda pushes her middle finger into me, deep inside my vagina.

At the end she has two fingers in me, and I’m writhing. When her thumb graces my clit. it sends me over, and my body begins to shake. My legs grow weak and I start to slump.

“Lean into me,” she whispers. Her left arm comes under my arm, around my back. and I fall into her as my legs crumple. My arms go over her shoulders and I hang onto her.

Her hand has never left my cunt, and her fingers are still inside me, enjoying their sloppy intercourse.

But finally she pulls out of me and draws me further into her.

My climax crests.

My body spasms as she holds me in her arms.

Later I have cleaned up, dressed, and we are on the couch. We’re kind of talking, but I am swoony and sleepy.

“Do you know what that was?” she asks.

My mind is slow. It seems obvious. “I’m guessing that ‘a fucking great orgasm’ isn’t the right answer,” I say.

“That’s a lovely answer,” she says, “And you were lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“But no, it’s not the right answer. What that was was a christening. Now we have a story to tell people when they come to visit us.”

“Ahh,” I say. “Just as long as I won’t have to do a reenactment.”

Amanda says nothing.

“That wasn’t meant as a suggestion.”

She smiles.

“You’re mean to me,” I say.

“You weren’t feeling that way a half hour ago.”

I shake my head, smiling. “I just think that if we were christening the house, we should have had some champagne on ice for the occasion.”

“Not the house,” Amanda replies. “We christened the entryway. Just the entryway. We have all the other rooms to christen yet.”


I want to say that years ago I never would have thought I’d be “setting up house” with another woman. But that’s not really true. In full disclosure, I had thoughts back in my Baptist-girl days, believe it or not, a teenage fantasy of living with another girl whom I had a crush on. But that’s a story never told.

Amanda and I are making this new house a home. I know homemaking isn’t done in a day or week or month, but takes a long time. It seems to require arguments about such things as which cabinet cups and mugs should go into and long conversations about the color of area rugs. Slowly we have been converting rooms from the emptiness of real estate showings into personal spaces that are shaped to each of us like satin corsets.

This is happening at the same time I will be going home to my mother. In twelve days, as of this writing. Technically, it’s not the same house I grew up in, as my parents moved my junior year in college. But it’s in the same Pennsylvania town and near to the same church, so it feels just as much to me as my girlhood home. And it’s the home my father died in just two years after they moved there.

Over Thanksgiving I will tell Mom how thankful I am for her. And I will share with her who I truly am, my submissive lifestyle, and my lesbian relationship with Amanda.

Two homes.

moving in

I wrote most of this late on Saturday night, but just posting it now.

We checked out of the hotel at 10:30 this morning, and got to the house around noon after stopping for groceries.

Amanda is into dressing me again. She had me change out of the white stretchy top, as that would get dirty in a heartbeat of unpacking. She put me into a loose denim skirt and a plaid flannel shirt. She stood before me and tied the shirttail into a tight bow, cinching it at my waist, leaving the panels of the shirt wide open in front, barely covering my breasts.

“There are buttons, you know,” I said. “Just a little tip: some people, like, use buttons to close the shirt in front.”

“You’re being a smartass,” she replied.

And with that we commenced our afternoon of unpacking the trailer, which seemed to have gotten larger since we left home. There were a gazillion boxes — that’s a real number, I believe — but we somehow got them into the house, steering them somewhat successfully into the right rooms, thanks to my handy-dandy labeling system.

We still had clothes in the trailer when the first furniture delivery came — the new bedroom sets. I directed traffic for the furniture delivery men, pointing them to the proper bedrooms, all the while looking like a porn version of Ellie May Clampett from the Beverly Hillbillies. Of course, this was Amanda’s intention in dressing me, knowing that delivery men were going to be an audience. Already she is sharing me with this brave new world.

It all worked out well. After the bedroom delivery, we had time to finish unloading the clothing portion of the trailer haul — the rolling racks and storage bins — before the second delivery showed up. This was with a few pieces of living room furniture, a sofa and a couple of chairs.

They left, we shut the door, and we collapsed onto our new sofa. We hadn’t opened a single box yet, but everything was in the house, we had beds to sleep in, places to sit, and a coffeemaker in the kitchen for morning joe.

Amanda had started the day with an order, that wherever we were in unpacking boxes at 9:00 tonight, we would stop, both her and me, and save the rest for tomorrow. And so it was. She blew an imaginary whistle and we stopped.

She’s in the shower at the moment. I’m sitting in one our new chairs writing this. My day has ended the way it started. Writing.

I’m exhausted, but happy. It’s been a good day.

domestic duties

This afternoon, I am again in my waist trainer and high heels. Along with a short, swishy black skirt. And, as if there was some ambiguity about my slave status, a black slave collar.

No top.

Amanda is home this afternoon and wants to watch, in between reviewing reports and talking on her cell with the title company. My boobs are still her playground, despite the new policy of having me wear a top or blouse again. Which is happening, but, as I reported before, I am still topless during my waist training hours.

Our cleaning crew couldn’t make it this week, so I am dusting and vacuuming. And Amanda is enjoying the show.

I’m at five and a half hours wearing the waist trainer and heels, each day increasing by half an hour. It is actually quite comfortable. It feels like Amanda’s hands are holding me above my hips, slightly squeezing, as if I’m a ballerina and she’s doing a lift and twirl of me. Pas de deux, though gracefulness escapes me in real life, making the idea of that a pure fantasy.

My heels are more of an ordeal, not hurting my feet, but causing my ankles and the backs of my legs to ache in the final hour. However, I am walking differently. It’s interesting how the forward pitch of tall heels causes my body to compensate. My shoulders lean back more, I’m taking shorter and more even strides, and I lead more with my chest.

Amanda has had me watch You Tube videos on posture and stance and walking in heels. They are intended to create elegance and formality in a woman’s bearing publicly. Of course, I have been through some slave training before that taught me how to stand, sit and walk in a slave way. These You Tube vids are not D/s in context, more genteel, but some of it is familiar.

“You’re making me into a Stepford wife,” I say to Amanda.

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly, looking up from her papers.


“You have a problem with that?”

“No, I say. “No, my goddess.”

I turn on the vacuum.

Amanda turns back to her papers, every so often looking up and gazing at me, visually savoring my tits and my submission.