Master McKenna call

He calls me occasionally. At first it was every week but has been less frequent of late. He called Wednesday.

“I’m thinking you’ve replaced me by now,” I say.

“Not yet but taking applications. I’ve put the job request through HR.”

“Ha, ha. Glad to know I mean so much to you.”

“For some reason,” he says drolly, “my HR people balked at one of my job requirements. I listed ‘big tits.’ They said it wasn’t PC. Go figure.”

Nice…” I reply.

He asks if I’m having any “adventures” out here. I sigh and tell him that absolutely nothing is going on. “I’ve taken to walking half naked in the woods,” I say. “It’s come to that.”

He likes hearing my submissive desperation. And I like being desperate in his presence. In normal times, me there with him, it would lead to something.

He asks about Mother. He has been genuinely concerned, and I sense it’s not just for my sake, but an empathy for her. He is not far from her age. I update him, and I tell him the latest thinking about Lucille providing live-in service, although I imagine he’s already heard that from Amanda.

“I think I will at least be back for a short time in June,” I say. “Just ten days or so… Maybe, I’m just thinking, maybe you might take me, even if not our regular schedule, just a few days?”

“Amanda will have plans for you.”

“I know. She wants to mate me with the whole neighborhood. But if I could convince her… You know, it could be a great opportunity for you.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?” I hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m at a point where I would do anything for you.”

“You already do.”

“OK… I know. That’s the problem of my being your slave. I have nothing to bargain with.”

“Besides,” he adds, “it sounds like if I took you, it would be more for your need than for my pleasure.”

“I kinda thought they were the same… But you’re going to make me beg for this, aren’t you.”

“I am.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“It’ll have to be a creative, utterly humiliating beg.”

“I was afraid of that.”

I ask him about his work. He talks business for a while, and how it’s been a season of travel for him. I wonder how he has gotten all the reports done. He says he’s farmed it out to one of his offices, but it’s a pain in the ass for him. “They get things wrong,” he says.

“I do too sometimes,” I say. “But you have me naked while I do them, so you don’t notice so much.”

He laughs.

“So, I think you should get me a cage,” I say impulsively. “A big vertical cage to put me in.” I go on to say that Amanda won’t get me one. “It’s all I can think about these days.”

“Maybe in the garden outside the wall of windows in the Great Room,” he says.

“Oh, Jeffress would have a field day with that.” (Jeffress is the landscaping guy at the mansion.)

“It would make a lovely bird cage. For a big bird.”

“See, now, you’re making fun,” I say. “I’m serious. No one takes me seriously on this. I’m telling you I am meant to be kept in a cage. It’s something you should want too.”

“Seems you have a lot to beg for.”

I sigh. “Like I say, working on that, sir.”

Being in conversation with him, this kind of repartee, heats my longing to serve him, to submit to his dominance. Out here, I have never been able to turn off my submissive desire, but it certainly has been running in idle. Every conversation with Master M revs it up once again.

He says he has another meeting in a few minutes. I thank him for the call and for bearing with my sassy demeanor, although I know he likes it.

“Oh, yes,” he adds, “before I go, there’s something else. About Maria. I’ll put it this way: If I actually did post a vacancy for your position, she might like to apply. I’m guessing.”

Maria is Master McKenna’s housemaid. “I’ve wondered about her,” I say. “She’s asked me a lot of questions. A little too curious for it not to be… something.”

“Well, one, she misses you. She’s asked about you a dozen times. Two, she’s afraid of me, but has mustered courage to ask me about what I do… with you.”

“Maria is afraid of you because of what you do to girls like me.”

Master M laughs. “Probably… She’s naturally timid, but I think some of that is a natural submissiveness…”

“I sense that too. Which may be why she’s curious.”

“So, I’ve been noodling on something,” he says. “It would be for when you’re back. Like for a longer chunk of time.”

“Whenever that is.”

“It’ll happen. With great respect for your mother’s situation, you’ll find a solution, and you’ll make it back… You need this too much.”

I sigh. “You have no idea.”

“So, this might be complicated. If Maria is open to it, I wonder if you might tutor her. In the art of submission.”

This is new. I take a moment to absorb it. “What’s your end goal?” I ask, using his vocabulary.

“Big picture: a training program. If I am making the D/s retreats with dominant trainees a regular thing, it makes sense to me that I’d have a submissive training academy as well. Maybe they get paired. But that’s getting ahead of things. For now, I am just putting two pieces together, you and Maria. If she’s interested in learning.”

He’s talking about me in a way as if I’ve never left, including me in his Next Big Thing, and it warms my heart that I continue to partner with him in my own slavery.

“Would you be her dominant?” I ask.

“That’s the complicated part. I employ her, technically through one of my businesses. That poses legal problems. But I think there’s a way around that eventually.” He goes on to suggest that at first I approach Maria casually about her own submissive orientation. “See if something’s there.” Then he says maybe it could progress to my teaching her the basics about the submissive life. “I’ll provide you time for that,” he says. “After a while you’ll tell her that you’ll approach me about allowing her to observe you when you’re with me.” And he says that in time he could work it out, if she wishes, to submit to him. “It could be a modest D/s with her, simple and relatively mild. Whatever she wishes to try.”

Like a top exec, he’s worked it all out. While he seems genuinely interested in helping Maria find her own submissive self — it’s consistent with the Master Teacher he is — I also sense he has a desire for another submissive, to have two of us. That would be interesting. Much for me to chew on.

“Sounds like a workable plan,” I finally say. “Yes, of course. I will gladly do that.”

“Good… And, by the way, when you come out here for the ten days… work it out with Amanda. Yes, of course, I will have you.”

“In so many ways…” I sigh.

“Exactly.”

thoughts on Master M week

Some miscellaneous thoughts and a few clarifications:


In retrospect, I realize Master M’s giving me a house key is a bigger deal than I honored it with words.

I think most of his staff help also have keys to the same side door, so in that sense I am no more special than they. He accumulates workers around him who are all part of the system that is his mansion — and the “system” that is him. I am, as I wrote, one of his service people, so to speak, so now I have similar access.

It is probably no more than that, except it feels like the key signifies more, especially given the submissive and sexual purposes I fulfill for him. The key suggests he wants me inside his world, and that I have a legitimate place in his life.

It also reinforces what I’ve written previously — the mansion is, so he intends, to be a home for me. Now I have a key to it.


Some have been surprised by my post about Master M’s whipping of me, specifically the duration. Let me clarify.

I reported how it was a kind of “workout” for him, in three segments of fifteen minutes each. All of that is true, and in fact I have been whipped for even longer overall sessions by Kevin in his bondage room.

However, I did not mean to suggest that I was receiving a stroke of the whip or flogger every, say three to five seconds steady for forty-five full minutes. Geez, no. Apparently some got that impression.

There were pauses in the midst of the session, sometimes for phone calls he received, sometimes for his own viewing of me, sometimes to inspect his handiwork, and sometimes for his own breaks for water and respite (at which times he allows me to stretch, move my legs, and take some water if I wish to).

I go back to my analogy of a workout in a gym. A person doesn’t sit down on a workout bench and pump iron non-stop for forty-five minutes. There are sets of reps with resting times in between, bio breaks, changes of exercises, movement onto other machines, and set up time on those machines.

Likewise, for me, it is all one forty-five-minute session of being whipped, but with sporadic breaks and pauses in the midst of it.

Now, I don’t mind saying “he beats me” in the context of corporal humiliation, and it is certainly intense, something I feel physically and emotionally for a long time after. But, no, he doesn’t beat me relentlessly for forty-five minutes to the edge of ragged exhaustion.

I’m sorry I didn’t make that more clear.


Another clarification about my whipping session: I mentioned he demanded that I keep silent during it. I did, mostly, and it made it more intense for me.

But I did not mean to suggest that every time he whips me he keeps me silent. It was just the one time. An experiment maybe.


His uses of me this time were extensive as usual, but less “busy,” which I mean in a particular way.

Times ago when I visited, I think Master felt compelled (or simply wished) to dot my days and nights with lots of different experiences. He would have me in different outfits three, even four, times a day, and use me physically and sexually in a myriad of ways during my days and nights with him. I might liken this to the shooting of a film that takes place in various places and so has multiple sets each day.

This time was different. It was like the film production slowed down, and there were perhaps only two sets, sometimes just one, each day. It was no less “shooting time,” no lagging of Master’s interest and focus, just not so much busyness all the time.

I like to think this is because I have settled in with him, and he with me. He has trained me in behavior and appearance, and I am more or less how he wants me. I have the business work he has entrusted to me, and he has the assurance that when he is not using me otherwise, I am getting reports and spreadsheets done. And perhaps he now knows well enough what I look like in short skirts and then shorter skirts, crop tops and sheer tops and no tops, and doesn’t feel the need for a fashion show each day revealing my body in so many different ways.

In any case, my point is that I returned to Mistress this time without being exhausted. Amanda has been thinking of this all along, and it’s one of her purposes in deescalating my arrangements with the two of them. I will become common with Master M and will live a part of my life with him just as I live the other part with Amanda.

As Amanda says, “Shae, I want you to live a submissive life well used — but not used up.”


BTW, my arrangement with Master M will be a five-day time with him once a month, usually on the last week of each month. And I will commute to his place for work (and such) on Mondays each week.

However, that does not include the Mondays following my weekly stays.

So, for example, I was with Master this past week, and returned to Amanda Friday night. Today is Monday, following my week with him, so I am not going back to him for the day. It makes little sense for me to go back so soon.

I myself didn’t understand this until this past week.


In the future, I will probably not write about Master M in such a “special” way each time — reflecting that his dominance of me is now a regular part of my life. I will still write about him, of course, and just as much. But it will be less of a travelogue and more just as I write normally, regularly, in revealing my life to readers.

In other words, Master M is no longer an event, but now a regular part of my slave life.

Master M: 5

Friday night I returned to my other home, to Amanda, after a week under Master McKenna.

It was a full time with him, good and… well… filling. Satisfying — at least as much as possible for a girl who feels sometimes insatiable.

I decided not to provide so many detailed accounts of my week with him. Though each daily “event” is different in feeling and experience, at the surface many are similar, and much as I’ve reported before. I just picked out a few experiences that seemed to warrant a post.

This was a bit less frenetic as before. As I said, I think my visits now being every four weeks plus Mondays puts less urgency into my stays. He knows he will have me, and I am now a regular part of his life.


This time I felt I had a more mature presence with him. This was not so much from anything I or he did, but from the circumstance of my slavery under him. I am less of his “sub girl” now, no longer his “slave-in-training.” (While he is always a teacher in a way, it seems in his view I have graduated.)

There is a sense I am to him “the woman who does this.” This probably derives from the environment of his service workers — landscaper, caterer, maid, estate manager, driver, and so on. I am now one of them, sort of, skilled in a service that provides him the intimacy of my degradation, my uniform a collar and chains.

I have a dialogue with him now that’s feels more grown-up. Ours is a language of libido — his own — on the subject of his special desires in any given moment and how to satisfy them. My body is no longer territory he “is conquering” but rather “has conquered,” and I have ceded it to him in every way. My sex is now space he occupies, and our conversation is now simply about how he wishes to live in it.


The staff (with one exception), by the way, continues to look down on me in various ways. However, while they are judgmental, it is with curiosity and perhaps with dollops of both horror and lust.

Phyllis, the cook and caterer, continues to treat me with condescension and spittle. She seems to have forgotten this is who Master McKenna is, thinking I have intruded and made him this way. I am told she delights in hearing his whippings of me but is confused that he gets off on it.

Jeffers was here just one day this week, as it snowed and has been bitterly cold, rendering moot any landscape work. So I had no interaction with him this time. I have been informed he now thinks of me as a call girl, a whore, and while disgusted with me is also leeringly curious.

Mr. Galli, of course, has been in the room and watched when Master has used me, and seems to take me in stride, to an extent he’s dismissive and almost ignores me. He may be the most important of the staff to me, as he comes to the mansion on Mondays, as now I will as well, both of us engaged in the same meeting with McKenna.

Maria, the housemaid, is becoming my friend. She is also my informant, filling me in on Phyllis and the others. She and I are of the same age, and while I wish to be confidential of some things, it’s fair for me to say she is attracted to me and my lifestyle. I like her.

Amanda thinks it’s good for me to endure the staff like this, to experience this range of judgments from the vanilla world. I am such a people-pleaser by nature and long for everyone to like me, so it is important that I face those who don’t like me and accept their attitudes as being really okay. I get that, and I can absorb the looks and sneers without internalizing it.

Still, I want everyone to like me.

Master M: 4

His sex with me this week has been somewhat less frequent than usual, perhaps because he will have me again in four weeks — and in between for a month of Mondays. Maybe he doesn’t feel he has to extract from me every possible pound of flesh, so to speak. Not to say that his uses of me haven’t been plenty, just that it’s not been so “morning, noon, and night” as before.

One new thing: Master M has had the half-moon bed raised a few inches. This is to match his height to my sex when I am lying down. He likes my body “doubled over” — me on my back while my legs are chained to the wall behind my head — and the higher elevation facilitates his use of me in that position.

Thursday night, for example, he told me to prepare myself “in the half moon” while he finished some work. I assumed that position, latching my ankles to the rings in the wall. He took his time, whether circumstantial or intentional. I find that a lot of my experience is in waiting for him, and in this case waiting while exposed in the worst possible way for the longest time. I started having those “how did I get here” thoughts.

He eventually appeared in the doorway, gazing at my spread pussy. “It’s not my best look,” I said to him. He grunted a laugh, and said, “I have a mind to keep you like this all night at our next retreat.” Which raised all sorts of questions.

Of course, the cleverness of this position, and now the higher bed, is that he can unzip himself walk up to me and easily push his cock into either my vagina or my anus, also there for his taking. Ease of use is sort of the idea. Anyway, this is what he did to me Thursday night, slow and hard, sending me into squeals and lots of heavy breathing.

He has since said he is thinking of replacing the half-moon bed with a circular bed. He says he would have it made to the exact length of my torso. This would be to have my pussy and ass hanging off one side while my head and mouth are draped over the other side.

It made me wonder what about me makes my owners want to create custom-made furniture.

Master M: 3

He has taken to whipping me on a regular basis, almost every day.

Late afternoon, he calls me into the Great Room. He tells me to strip out of my clothes, in this case a white blouse and short navy skirt, down to just my collar and heels. I stand, all naked flesh, my legs slightly apart, my hands intertwined behind my head.

His flogger lands on my bare ass cheeks with a thwack, and I gasp, surprised he hit me so soon.

He wishes that I not say words or make sounds, for reasons I do not know. It is not to keep quiet in the house, for he likes that I squeal like a slick pig when he fucks me. He wants others in the mansion to hear. But I think he believes this prohibition bottles up my experience within, to good effect later.

In any case, a gasp is on the edge of what he allows.

He wields the flogger on me again, and then again. I breathe hard, but do not groan or squeak. There is an initial sting each time, but the feeling is more of a kind of weight and force, of being slapped hard by boxing gloves.

He wishes me to stand still during his beatings of me, not take steps to balance myself or twist to avoid his strokes. At the same time, he doesn’t want me to steel myself rigid but allow my body to absorb the blows so my flesh moves and jiggles while my feet do not. This is nigh to impossible, which I think he knows: it’s more of an aspiration, like a New Year’s resolution: “This year, I will aim not to move when Master M whacks the hell out of me.”

Black humor aside, Master M simply wants a naked woman who, knowing she will be whipped, will take it with a minimum of fuss. For him, submissiveness is not just about a girl simply giving herself to the dark practices but giving herself in a specific way. To her it then becomes more than just doing it or taking it but fulfilling the humiliation in the certain manner he has taught her.

He transforms most everything into a pedagogy.

My stance — hands behind my head and legs slightly open — is part of his instruction. At times he has strung my hands to a cable that lowers from the tall ceiling. But he feels the experience is more powerful when I am left unbound, when I assume and maintain this position without having to. He is right. It is a different experience for me to stand there and receive his blows, all the while being able to walk away. It is a different dimension of submission to have freewill to avoid the humiliation and pain yet remain in place for it submissively.

Were others watching, it would reveal me more deeply. Being whipped is something I want to have done to me, yet don’t want to experience the pain of, but still long for — a back-and-forth of wishful desire and natural avoidance — with the result always my standing there and taking it.

He strokes me with the flogger again and again. I feel my ass cheeks warm, and I know they are pink. The visual is important to him, and he has in his head a range of colors, like a color sampler from a paint store. At end I will look like a raspberry creamsicle, and he will be pleased with himself.

For him, my corporal humiliation is like this — an art session. In another way, it seems like a physical workout for him. He spends about fifteen minutes on my ass and back of my thighs, another fifteen on my breasts, then another fifteen using a variety of whips on me, front and back. These are routines and reps. He is in fact aware of this as exercise, for he sometimes whips me with his other, non-dominant, hand, to even out the effect. So, he gets a lot of physical reps of his arms and shoulders on both sides, and in doing so, he makes me into his private Peloton.

His has pulled out the whips, and now his strokes hurt more, stings atop the dull ache the flogger has left. My eyes start to water.

I swirl into a mental space of why give myself to this. The “humiliation” of corporal humiliation comes in part from being reddened and wearing the raspberry effects afterward. But more of the disgrace is internal, about my own self-regard. This is my usual mental swirl — I have ready answers about why I am submissive and submit to being ordered around and used in sexual ways. Those are humiliating too, but at least I have words for them. Yet why I stand naked absorbing the sting of a whip from a wealthy man in a mansion is something for which I have no mental file folder. It’s a different level of something.

He takes the whip to my breasts. The sting is sharp. Tears roll down my cheeks. He likes seeing me this way, when the physical pain and emotional humiliation merge. He likes seeing me, despite it all, standing in place, struggling to maintain my balance. He likes seeing me in my helpless submissive need absorb all of his dominance for forty-five minutes.

He is done with me.

I will continue standing, hands behind my head, my flesh throbbing, until he dismisses me.

He pours himself a drink, sits in his easy chair. It is his happy hour.

Master M: 2

Monday morning Master M fed me his cock for breakfast.

It was what I wanted but not the way I wanted it, with Mr. Galli walking in on us without consideration or apology and Master M reviewing a document while I was sucking him. That both of them acted as if this was no unusual thing made me wonder if it’s actually not an unusual thing — if there are other women regularly showing up for these morning milkings and if my place between his legs is a time-share.

It didn’t help that Master M lasted quite a while, which was lovely for me enjoying the weight and fullness of his manhood on my tongue for so long, but made me wonder, again, if he had been serviced not long before I arrived, and if so, who.

Sometimes you become possessive of the one who possesses you. My bad. Amanda has trained me to know that jealousy is not a good look for me, so I put that away from my mind and focused on being his good little slave with her hands behind her back and her mouth wet and warm and wanting.

When he came, he paused me, pulled his cock out and pointed himself a couple of inches from my open mouth. He didn’t stroke himself but allowed his coming to roll up from within him. His cream soon spurted into my mouth, along my tongue, and over my lips, tasting of bitters and moss.

After he was done, he cleaned the wet of his cock head across my cheeks, leaving glistening smears atop my makeup.

I would be made to wear his cum on my face for a part of the morning, during my note-taking in a meeting with him and Mr. Galli, my typing of a report in the copy room, and my work later at the photocopier.

Master M: 1

I come to him now without a suitcase. Clothes are already here, the few I wear. The big front door is open for me. I live here now too.

I make my way back through a maze of anterooms off of the atrium, lightly tapping on the open door of his home business office. I find him behind his desk, and he looks up at me wearily, smiles.

“You’re looking good,” he says in a husky voice.

“I have my moments. Thank you… You look tired.”

“I am. A work crisis. Late nights, last two.”

I nod, set my shoulder bag on the chair beside the door. “If only you had someone upon whom to take out your frustration.”

He cracks a slight smile, leans back in his chair, taking me in. It’s a gaze of exhausted lust. He says nothing, feels no need. I give myself into his silence.

He goes back to reviewing papers, and I know better than to do anything, say anything. I do not move, just stand, my eyes upon him.

“I’m not going to use you tonight,” he finally says, his eyes still buried in the spreadsheets on his desk.

Disappointing…

“So,” I say, “you decided I’m just not your type?”

He laughs once, now looks up.

“I could beg you,” I say.

“That’s always entertaining. You’re pretty that way — groveling.”

“It’s one of my underrated skills.”

He grunts another laugh and closes his eyes. “What it is, is, people don’t expect a woman like you to have to beg.”

“That almost sounds like a compliment.”

He continues: “Then they see you on your hands and knees and realize it comes naturally to you.”

“Nice.”

He grins, but I can tell he is still drawn by his work. His mind is in between. “Pour me a drink,” he says finally. “Pour yourself one too. I’ll finish up here and meet you there.”

“There,” I know, means the Great Room, but I take it also to mean a place in his being where he is ready to focus on using me. Perhaps.

I turn to leave, but stop. Looking back at him, I say,“How will you want me?


I wait for him in the Great Room, still fully dressed in a skirt and top, collar and heels. This is how he wants me, for now.

He is fifteen minutes longer getting there, a reminder that my time is diminished in his schedule. I am not important to him, yet I am. He has to have someone like this. Someone he can possess and dominate. Someone who will not say no. Someone who will do anything. This makes me important to him, but just in general function. If not me, it would be another — one with a different body and kiss, one just as submissive as I am, one just as willing. So, my specifications of weight and measurements and hair do not make me important to him.

Which is okay. In slavery you accept you are necessary in general but not in specific.

I stand by his easy chair, holding two drinks.


He enters and strides across the room, his “CEO walk,” formal and purposeful, though I sense in it a heaviness, fatigue. He is in khaki slacks and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and sleeves folded up, handsome and smelling of tobacco and mint.

I hand him his drink, then curtsy, perhaps an odd choice, not required. It’s feminine, perhaps, to his masculine. Deferring to his royalty. How courtesan of me.

He seems to like it.

He gestures for me to sit on the other easy chair adjacent. I would prefer to sit by his feet, but I, of course, obey and take the chair. He sips his bourbon and leans his head back with a deep sigh. He says: “Do you belong to me?”

This is our private vocabulary, not an intellectual question of my status nor a catechism for my instruction. He is asking if my head is in subspace with him. He wants me to be candid, not give him the answer just because it’s expected.

“Not yet,” I reply. “I am here.”

He nods, appreciating my candidness, reading my reply to say that I am obedient yet not fully yet into him. I have been expectant, for weeks, wanting, but that’s not the same thing. The question is if I’m ready to swirl into his vortex. Not quite yet. It’s not resistance or rebellion, but the final step of abandoning myself into him. He knows I’ll get there.

We sit in silence, but it’s not awkward. He knows I don’t demand anything. He wouldn’t give it to me if I did. His lack of obligation to pursue a conversation with me is not impolite or dismissive. He is not there for me but I for him, which he knows I know. His very manner in this, his silent disregard, feels dominant to me and washes over me.

There’s a uniqueness to being dominated by a man, perhaps because he can literally insert himself into you. Here, with Master M, it starts to become what I feel: I know what he could do to me but by sheer dint of will and strength does not.


In another set of moments, he asks, “Does it feel too soon? You were just here a month ago.”

I pause, thinking of a half dozen things to say. “Ah… no. Not too soon.” I could say I have been thinking of him bearing the whip on me, longing for it, since the day after I left a month ago, but I imagine that will come out soon enough. Tonight, he seems unlikely to exert any energy on me, and I don’t want to say anything with that expectation. I simply add, “This is my home now too.”

Master M nods sleepily. “Good. That’s the idea… By the way, I have a house key for you.”

“Oh.” This surprises me.

“The side door. I like the idea of you just popping in and showing up.”


He asks, “Since you were last here, have you been properly used?”

I sip my bourbon on ice. It’s thick and smoky on my tongue. “It sounds like a trick question.”

“Why?”

“People don’t often use the word ‘properly’ when referring to me.” I say this with jokey self-deprecation, and he smiles, eyes closed, head tilted back. “Let’s just say I am properly used by her — in improper ways.”

He laughs. “Amanda always finds creative ways of doing you.”

“That she does…”

“So, tell me…”

He seems to want to hear the sound of my voice, maybe as a soothing drone on his way to a night of sleep. I share with him my slave life over recent weeks. I take my time, like Scheherazade telling a story as part of “A Thousand and One Nights,” this being night one… I speak of the tea party and the neighbors, Patricia and John Miller, Blake’s visit Friday (which I haven’t yet posted about). I get to Amanda’s use of me draped over the wet bar. “She is fond of it,” I say. “It’s a way of her having me bound and humiliated while she has a conversation with me — all during happy hour. It’s her happy place.”

Master McKenna, eyes closed, grunts out a chuckle: “That wet bar is ingenious.”


There is a little talk amid a lot of silence. He is a man who knows he should go to bed but doesn’t, slowly prompting me from time to time like he is clicking the TV remote randomly, looking for entertainment on the Shae channel, even though his eyes are closed.

I take it he wants to be there with me, but he has fallen silent now for a long stretch. I stand, take off my top, and slip out of my skirt. It seems the right thing to do. How he would want me.

He rouses, sees me, and offers a slow glimmer of approval.

I curl up on the floor between his legs, leaning my head against his thigh. I sit quietly within him, without expectation.

His hand comes to the side of my face, pulling my hair back, resting there.

MM and the week to come

I’m on the cusp of going to Master McKenna’s for another visit. Although, we are trying to avoid calling it a “visit” anymore — I’m not a visiting guest — as it’s my other home now, my other slavery. Just not sure what to call it instead.

I marvel now that I am so comfortable with him. We have passed the points of introduction, learning about each other dom and sub, my training so meticulous for so long. I remember, at the beginning, my apprehensions, worries about pleasing him, and concerns about how it would work long-term. But now, it is just what it is, and I come to him as I am, servile and passive and willing. And comfortable, in the best of ways.

In those early sessions, I had my moments of resistance. Always true for a new enslavement, for as hopelessly submissive as you are, it’s natural for you to try to hold on to yourself and not too readily yield your body. But those days are past, and I am now docile unto his lordship, no longer evaluating each and every command, but readily ceding myself willingly in mind and body to his desires and purposes.

We have come to a common language, born of a partnership in our life of scandal. What was once my “why?” is now my “how?” He knows this, allowing my questions, knowing they are not defiant, but constructive and self-abasing: “How may I lower myself to be what you need in this moment?” We have a dialogue now of mutual design: my words seeking what pleasures him, and his words deliciously expressing his wishes to defile me.

When I say I am now comfortable with him, it does not mean “easy,” as he will command my mind and use my body to a point of exhaustion, even given the shorter five-day stint. But I look forward to that too, his domination pounding me into a submissive haze, which is a lovely space to live in for a while.

job description

Sunday night I return to Master McKenna for my week with him. As I reported before, this will begin the new schedule, my being with him for a shorter week each month and attending to him on Mondays between the week-long stays. The weeks will be from Sunday night to Friday afternoon.

It’s only been a month since I was last there, but I have missed being with him. Mine is a submissive attraction to him, of course, in particular to his corporate manner of conducting my humiliations. Master McKenna is less assuming a man than he has to be, so when he first had me, he felt to me simply like a professional businessman. In time, however, I have come to realize he is a CEO of CEOs, a man above men, and this has compelled in me a greater awe as well as a kind of wonder that he has made me his aide-de-camp, albeit high-heeled and breasts out.

So his domination of me has a certain flavor, one I have a taste for. I like that he sees me as a beauty in the boardroom, exposed and servile. I like the feel of his whip, which I swear has a uniquely executive crack and sting. I like when, taking me in with his eyes, he breaks out of his serious CEO gaze and softens into a slight twinkle of approval.

He is self-aware of his corporate bearing and doesn’t mind when I occasionally crack it open. I teased him once that I would love to see my “job description” and how that could possibly be approved by the HR department. He laughed at that, and ever since it’s become a running gag: “Gee, Master McKenna, I didn’t know this was part of my job description!”

program notes

I’ve gotten behind on reporting some things. Not that everyone needs to know everything, I suppose, but still, I feel the need to post a bit of an update…


Our afternoon teas have continued. I failed to report out on our January tea, maybe because it was mostly uneventful. The monthly teas are open houses, and usually about half the neighborhood attends (five or six), each time different ones, depending on their schedule and availability. Everyone in the neighborhood has attended at least one tea, and these Thursday afternoons each month have become popular, perhaps because there’s nothing else that brings the neighbors together.

Mistress had me fully dressed but locked into a spreader bar. It was the short one, and it was kept in front so I could serve tea and goodies. Putting me into a spreader and high heels carrying a tray of fine china is a recipe for disaster, but I focused myself and managed to pull it off without injuring anyone.

People were intrigued by the spreader bar. While they’d seen me in one before, at the tea they had opportunity to ask questions. So it became a conversation piece.

It is interesting that people seem to be engaging more readily with our lifestyle. At the beginning, I was (understandably) something of a circus act to them, strange and bizarre. Now they seem to accept me more comfortably, perhaps understanding more the lifestyle that D/s is, a relational choice for me and Amanda that makes some actual sense. Whereas before their question seemed to be “What in hell is this thing?” now it is more “How does it work?”


I will be back with Master McKenna on the evening of Sunday the 20th. It will just be for five days.

Amanda and Master M are working out a slightly new arrangement: He will keep me just for five days (instead of eight or nine) each month but wishes to have me also on Mondays each week. These Mondays would be just for the day, like a workday. I will come back to Amanda at night. He wishes me there on Mondays because that’s his day of coordinating details with Mr. Galli and he’s found it useful for me to be present then.

For me, it’s simply a drive across town, maybe thirty minutes or so, depending on traffic.

For Amanda this works out better. Her Mondays are her busiest work day, and she sometimes works well into the evening. I hardly see her all day. She’s happy to give me up on the Mondays and not relinquish me for as much of a stretch during my longer Master M visits. It’s really the same number of days as before, just arranged differently.

For Master M, I think he feels this better suits his uses of me. He wants to incorporate me (I use that word intentionally) into his life and system. He would like my presence not to be so much an “event” each time but a more regular part of the “help” that swirls around him.

I am pleased that he seems to need my actual clerical work for him, but I have no illusion (or desire) that will ever be his primary use of me. I am his sex slave, and he will maintain me as such even in the midst of the work I do. Last time he seemed to enjoy seeing me topless at the Xerox dutifully making copies. I don’t expect this new arrangement suggests any change in his objectification and dominance of me.

Amanda says we’ll try this out for a while.


Mistress A seems to be in a season of more formal dominance of me. I think it started maybe a week or so ago, especially notable in her flogging of me last week. That was unusual. It isn’t every moment of the day, but more moments overall that she has me for formally submissive to her. I’m not complaining, just observing.

Through much of these days, Mistress has kept me collared and leashed and more formally dressed or half-dressed. Our speaking protocols have been more formal.

We still have our evening casual time. That usually starts with my serving her a drink, usually wine, for happy hour. That’s one of our slave rituals, but while it starts in formal protocol, she usually breaks out of the formality and has me sit with her on the couch, and then we’re informal and casual. That much has continued.

But most of the time before she has continued our casual protocol until bedtime. In this current season, she ends our happy hour at about seven, saying something to signal formal protocol again.

It’s just what it is.


A week ago we had a snowstorm. It was frigid here, temps in the single digits, wind chills lower. Our driveway was snowed in from the storm on Tuesday night and it wasn’t until Thursday afternoon that our snow removal service got to us: two men, one with a snow blower and the other with a shovel.

Well, you know Amanda. She see a couple of guys working outside and she gets ideas. In this case hot chocolate, served by me.

It was too cold for her to send me out topless, though she wanted to. Instead she sent me out in my camel-colored belted coat — with nothing on underneath.

The coat is not long, coming to a few inches above my knees. It has buttons, but Amanda left them unbuttoned and used the belt tie to cinch it closed around my waist. This rendered the lapels open, showing an ample portion of my upper chest, and the inner cleavage of my breasts.

She wanted me in high heels, which would be a nice look she said, “with you showing off so much leg.” But the front porch and walkway were snowy and still icy, so she couldn’t risk me slipping.

And so, as the snow guys had gotten to the upper level of our long drive, I stepped outside, bearing a tray with mugs of steaming cocoa. Amanda had bundled up and stood on the porch as I served the men. “Thought you might like a little something,” she said to them.

I wasn’t sure if her double entendre registered with them, but they seemed appreciative, and maybe it was for the cocoa.