Tag: McKenna

how do you solve a problem like Maria?

Forgive the flippant song title from “The Sound of Music.” I couldn’t resist… although I think I used it before.

In fact, this is a serious post. I’ve been torn in knowing how to write about Maria in her current family situation. This is sort of an update on things with her.

I know, this may be TMI for most readers. I feel I need to explain these circumstances, as they involve both Master McKenna and me. But I realize this is a soap opera…

I might say first that Maria herself is a reader of this blog. She says that she’s learned much from my posts and that they’ve been instrumental in her decision to explore this life. (I’m honored.) So Maria is well aware that I live my slave life out loud in this WordPress space. And she knows her life and mine are now intertwined as we both are to live submissively together under Master McKenna. Some time ago, Maria gave me permission to write about her and me and Master McKenna specifically (perhaps explicitly) in my postings.

That was agreed to before. But this is a different matter, as it has to do with Maria’s family situation outside the mansion. There are privacies that should be maintained.

Yesterday, I discussed this directly with Maria at lunch. I said there was no reason for me to go into her family situation on my blog, but I felt I needed to say something in regard to her situation with Master McKenna.

What follows has Maria’s permission for me to express. It’s a lot, more than I had intended, yet maybe not enough to forestall further questions about aspects I cannot reveal.

Maria is in her thirties, unmarried without children. Her mother is separated, and her father still lives in the area. They are going through a divorce. She has two adult brothers. They all live separately, her brothers have families, and Maria has lived on her own in an apartment until just now, when she moved into Master McKenna’s mansion on the third floor.

It is perhaps best for me to state what this isn’t. These are not family health issues or physical emergencies. If they were, Master McKenna would not only be gracious but seek to help. Nothing I’ve heard from Maria suggests there’s any physical abuse involved within the family, although by my reckoning, there may be emotional coercion and psychological abuse.

There’s apparently a lot of drama surrounding the impending divorce. Maria’s mother is not a strong person emotionally. It seems her father is bullying her mother, manipulating financial things, and creating little explosions of drama impulsively. I realize there are always two sides to every story, but the point here is only how Maria’s mom perceives it. Maria’s brothers tend to side with their father. Maria sides with her mother. Her mother needs Maria for support and calls her frequently.

There is more underlying this than I can share here.

Maria tells me she would never have committed to anything with Master McKenna had she known this would be a problem. Her parents decided to divorce in January, and these conflicts only popped up later, in April, seemingly triggered by things in the separation agreement.

Somehow the whole family thought it a good idea to have Easter dinner together. But that exploded, forcing Maria back to the mansion on Easter Sunday, earlier than expected. Master McKenna was not pleased.

Master McKenna is not an unreasonable dominant. He understands what Maria’s family predicament is and has shown considerable forbearance. At the same time, her family drama has called her away so frequently as to make any D/s schedule for her with him, any training plan, nearly impossible.

The further complication is that Maria, a ways back, got out of her apartment lease to move into the mansion. This was Master M’s plan. The mansion is now her home. She has to live there, even if she isn’t actually there a lot of times. It’s rather awkward.

Master McKenna is exasperated like I’ve never seen him before. He is normally very pragmatic, a great problem-solver, which has equipped him to be the CEO he is. But in these matters of Maria’s family dynamics, he seems at sea, probably because he can do nothing about them.

His only connection to her is as her dominant. He is not her father or caretaker or husband. He cannot do anything to solve her family issues, and in the meantime, he is connected to someone in theory whom he’s not connected to in practical reality. In business terms, he sees it as a “dotted-line relationship,” which is usually problematic. (My amateur analysis.)

He feels helpless in the situation. And it’s never good for a dominant to feel helpless.

So, I had some ideas about this and also a legal suggestion from Amanda and then some good advice from the outside (thank you, Nora). Yesterday (Tuesday) I had lunch with Maria, and later in the afternoon talked with Master McKenna, and there’s now a temporary solution in play.

I suggested they both consider a pause to the slave training. I proposed, for the time being, Maria should live freely at the mansion without any obligation to Master M. This will be approximately until I come there (in three weeks) for the month of June. Essentially, I have suggested to both of them that they stop for now and start over later.

During this interim, Maria will advise her mother to get a restraining order on her father. (Amanda tells me restraining orders are common in divorce proceedings, not as any implication of abuse but as a clear boundary for both parties. Amanda is surprised this wasn’t done as a matter of course. I have some questions about the mother’s legal counsel, but that’s not my business.) If this is done, it should eliminate the urgent calls for Maria to show up to her mother’s house at the drop of a hat.

I have proposed that in June when I come to the mansion, Maria’s training start then. This will be the re-boot, the start-over. As if no family drama has intruded.

However, I have additionally suggested that Maria’s training time then be during days only, say from eight to six, like a workday. This gives her opportunity to leave in the evenings and be with her mother if need be. Any family issues can be scheduled for attention during her nights.

Maria’s internship has always been intended to last two months. She now will train in June alongside me, then in July alone with Master M. (This works with his travel schedule.) After July, as previously planned, Master McKenna will decide if he wishes to take her on as his slave part-time or full-time.

By then, at the very least, Maria’s mom and dad should be officially divorced, and these issues should be behind her.

So, I had lunch with Maria yesterday, proposing this. I then talked this through on the phone with Master McKenna later in the afternoon. They sat down and talked this out face to face last night.

Both of them have agreed to this plan, and are proceeding with it — as Master M says, “effective immediately.”

It doesn’t seem to me this is so brilliant a solution that they couldn’t have gotten to it themselves. But I think they both were trying hard to make this work and got mired in the mud of it. They couldn’t see a path out of it.

Both are relieved. Maria has time now to come and go at the mansion without feelings of guilt. Master McKenna has a solution to a difficult problem, and he is always fond of solutions. Her submissive internship will go forward, just starting later than originally planned.

Master M said to me on the phone, a brightness now in his voice, “There’s another benefit in this.”

“What’s that?”

“Now I have you alone to myself in the evenings.”

I didn’t tell him that was my plan all along.

McKenna: impressions 9

There is sex. Eventually.

It isn’t until Monday evening when he finally takes me. The four-poster, catty-corner in the fourth quadrant of the Great Room, is indeed the scene of my sexual bondage.

He has me wearing a simple skater skirt, royal blue, nothing on top, and makes me shed my heels before installing me onto the bed.

There is hardware. Link chains emerge from a cardboard box. He untangles them like strings of Christmas lights. He walks around the bed and behind, pulling my shoulders so I am laid back, stretched across the width of the mattress, not its length, such that my head falls over the long edge of the other side.

My incarceration comes with sounds, the clanks of links and the clicks of caribiners as he attaches chains to the metal canopy frame overhead and lets them dangle down like hanging snakes.

Now he attaches my wrists to the chains, adjusting them so my arms are stretched outward and held floating, slightly above the mattress. He walks to the front longside of the bed, wraps padded cuffs around my knees, attaching them by overhead chains as well. Here too he arranges the lengths of the chains to spread my legs wide and lift my knees and legs above the bed.

His process is deliberate and precise, his dominant pleasure wrapped up in the details of creating the bondage as well as what will be the consummation of it.

This is a new thing, this binding of me so my limbs hover above the surface. It is creative of him, and for a moment I have a glimpse of him as an artist, and I wonder if as a boy he created kingdoms with Legos — and maybe tiny bondage beds as well.

He walks away, pours himself a drink, and returns to examine his handiwork. He stands at a distance, saying nothing, sipping his bourbon, observing me in dominant silence. Several times he walks up to the bed and leans over to adjust my little skirt so that it falls between my legs just right. He is the artist with a paintbrush, touching up his composition in the final moments.

I wonder if my desire, now so visible — my skin flushed and my nipples hard like pink buttons — is part of his artistic statement.

As I lie in bondage, I maintain a solemn quiet, aware this is a new aspect of him I haven’t quite seen or felt before. I have entered into a secret room of his being, a place where he putters and paints and purrs like a well-tuned sports car.

I find there are rare moments when bondage and sex and worship and art all come together. I have experienced that with Kevin before.

Somehow I have slipped into this same sanctuary with my Master McKenna.

He stands behind the bed, straddling my head, his balls and cock lying on my face. I suckle each of his balls first, swathing them in my watering mouth, closing my eyes as I savor him. He cannot possibly know how many times I have imagined this, him, during the past four months.

He now slips his cock between my lips, but its visit is short-lived, as he just wants me to wet him and get him hard. Soon he pulls out, walks away, retrieves his bourbon, and roams the room like the dominant he is, seeing my obvious lust for him and making me wait.

I try not to give in, remaining silent, though I realize it’s such a silly game I play, a last-ditch effort to retain control of that which I’ve long ago ceded to him. What is this futile resistance, after all, when I want him so much? I know it’s that I want him on my terms — I want to hold his precious cock in my hands and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

He will not have that. He will do his slave while she’s in chains. As he wishes.

Master M stands bedside and again waits. I know what he wants to hear, and in time I give it. “Please,” I say, my voice hushed and raspy.

He emits a short laugh at my feeble beg, and I feel him lift my skirt. I know he sees my pussy bare, glistening with wishes, my labia lips already swollen. It must give him great satisfaction that he does this to me. He sees me oozy in this moment, but there are many other times in the course of my life with him about which he has no idea.

And now he climbs onto the bed and enters me. I make some noise unintelligible to anyone. He stretches over my torso as he pumps me, and I feel his mouth on my breasts, over my nipples, sucking them in.

There is a soundtrack to this fucking of me: a regular creaking of the four-poster bed springs as the percussion and the jangle of chains as a dissonant melody. I shudder, way soon, and I will explain later it was because it had been so long — as if an orgasm ever needs explaining.

The music continues, wonderfully endless, the clank and jang of my chains corresponding to my sexual responses and the clenching of my desires as he fills me. I come again.

In time, he does too, filling me with his warmth and wet, his deep, heavy breaths closing out the symphony.

He steps back and takes a last look. He sees this snapshot of me: naked-bound to the four-poster, my legs spread, and his cum oozing like white lava from my pussy. We both know this now will forever be the image he sees whenever he enters the Great Room and casts his eyes on the four-poster.

He’ll be in his office space and will look across, enjoying in his mind’s eye my sexual incarceration. There will be board meetings in the far quadrant, and he will, in mid-sentence, imagine me here like this, chained to the four-poster, shuddering in climax. He’ll be in conversation with his colleagues on the leather chairs and couches and likely recount this view of me and how he so precisely binds me in chains.

And this now will be seared into my memory as well. I will forever again enter the Great Room, see the four-poster, and feel both the humiliation and the ecstasy of this time, desperately striving to maintain my dignity in the presence of the room, the bed, and the man.

McKenna: impressions 8

Later I shall write at greater length about Maria and her training, but Monday morning is the start of it, and Master M addresses us together: “It’s important to talk about how I want this to work.”

We’re sitting in the Great Room with coffee. Master M occupies his leather chair across from Maria and me on the couch. She and I are fully dressed, and it all has the the feel of a casual coffee klatch — except, of course, we are submissive women in the presence of a dominant who possesses us, a man whose natural presence can’t help but command the room.

“First,” he says, “Maria, let me welcome you. You’ve been part of the mansion staff for some time, but now you’re serving me, let’s just say, in a different way. It’s good you are here in this new situation.”

His is a warm reception of her. She needs it, for she is nervous. As she thanks him, her voice trembles: “I appreciate you taking me, sir.”

I note that the kerfuffle from yesterday is long past, forgotten. That’s one thing about Master M — when he lets something go, it really is discarded. He clearly didn’t want that annoyance to cloud the beginning of everything with Maria today.

Master M goes on to say that this now, “with three of us in it,” is a more complicated arrangement, and so there needs to be “clarity about how it will be done.”

He straddles a line between the formal and informal, and I realize something. He and I have developed a kind of language together that is both casual and hierarchical. I can be sassy with him (to a point), and he takes it, both of us knowing it never undermines his authority over me. But he has yet to develop his language with Maria. And, with both of us in the room together, he is still finding his best voice with the two of us.

“One.” He says it with a full stop, taking a swig of his coffee. “You both are my submissives. I consider you equal to each other. Shae, you are not above Maria in status, though you will be coaching her. Maria, you are an intern, learning from Shae, yet you are not below her.” He goes on to say that the two of us will need to “negotiate” (as he put it) our own relationship together, whatever that is, but he stresses that he considers us equals at “the lower level” of submissive.

“Two,” he goes on to say, “I will never communicate to either one of you through either one of you.” He pauses, allowing us to unpack the statement. “Maria,” he continues, “I will never have Shae give you orders from me. And Shae, vice versa. I will tell each of you directly what I expect from each of you.”

Maria has a lined tablet and is studiously taking notes. This, I can tell, pleases him, the Master Teacher, who is now well into his pedagogy.

“Three,” he continues, “what I do with each of you is no business of the other.” Again he pauses, letting the statement sink in, as good teachers do. “Your submissive purpose is to please and pleasure me, however I demand that from each of you.” He goes on to say that he will not tolerate jealousy. “When one of you serves me well, the other should be fulfilled.”

I take this item to be mostly directed at me. Maria at this point has no status with him to lose, no basis from which jealousy might form. But I will now have to share Master’s attentions with her. He is aware of that, and he wants me to be aware of that too. And I have been, having written about it before.

I look over at Maria. She is enraptured by him. Her eagerness is appealing. I am reminded it’s been about a year since she first expressed interest in my lifestyle. Now it’s happening for her.

To be clear, Master McKenna has previously had numerous conversations with Maria and me individually about his expectations and our roles. Part of his purpose for this Monday morning coffee thing is to say some of these things in the presence of both of us — so we each hear what has been told to the other.

He speaks further about his definitions of “coach” and “intern,” what they are and aren’t.” He is clearly concerned about the potential problem of my assuming authority over Maria.

But I have already changed my self-thinking from the image of being “coach” to that of “older sister.” I’ve always been a little uncomfortable with the label of “coach.” It’s more natural for me to consider Maria as a sister slave and to relate to her as a sister who is simply older and more experienced. I don’t say this to the two of them this morning, because stating the “role of sister” is an assumption of relationship that hasn’t happened as yet, one which I cannot impose. If it happens, it will need to develop naturally and mutually.

He mentions other things, though he doesn’t enumerate them as separate points.

He speaks about Maria’s form of slavery as “yet to be determined.” This has been a matter of some discussion between them. The problem is that, as a “service slave,” she would likely be doing similar work — that of maid and laundress — as she had been doing before while in his paid employment. She has told him she is more than willing to do those services now as well, but he (wisely, I think), doesn’t want her to.

Instead, he wishes, for the time being, to make her a clerical slave, such as I have been to him, which means he wants me to train her in my current work. (This is not news to me; Master and I have discussed it before.) In this, Maria would be working more closely with him and alongside me — not tucked away in the upstairs rooms cleaning and collecting towels for washing.

I have written this before, but these various forms of service are more discretely observed in lifestyle, 24/7, slaveries, I believe. And even then, they are not so cut-and-dried as this sounds. I think of this as like declaring a major in college: you take other courses as well, pursue other interests, but you are trained in a particular specialty. For me with Master McKenna, you might say my major is sexual slavery and my minor has been clerical slavery. In lifestyle D/s, it’s actually rather helpful to be focused as such.

And now, he mentions sexual slavery specifically. He makes the point that his use of me sexually is not a preference for me over her. He says, “A sexual slave is not a higher level than service slave or a clerical slave.”

I know he says this to temper Maria’s expectations. He is not sure she is “that kind” of submissive. Meanwhile, she very much wants to be. Whether she is right for it or capable of handling it is another question.

As he speaks about this, I can’t help but question him a little: No, sexual slavery is not a higher form of D/s slavery, not in principle. But it does yield a certain level of intimacy, and I’m sure Maria perceives that of me with him. In a way, I think “she wants what I’m having.”

She probably doesn’t realize that sexual slavery comes with considerable burdens: constant sexualization by others, a public status that humiliates you, and the need to be ever on demand for a Master’s sexual desires.

This may be one of those big-sister things I’ll have to coach her on.

McKenna: impressions 7

Even though I am well past my time with Master McKenna, I have a few more notes and impressions to post before moving on. Understand that the time frame here goes back to Easter weekend and the first half of last week.

So, there are two incidents over the weekend that disrupt and change everything.

On Saturday night, Master gets a work call about an urgent situation with one of his companies. This is followed by a flurry of other calls. I overhear some of it, but have no idea what the problem actually is. Not my place to know. He is plenty bothered. After an hour of phone conversations, it becomes necessary for him to go into Denver for an emergency meeting of some of his people.

He tells me he will be out late, not to wait up, he will see me in the morning. “Don’t get into any trouble,” he says.

“No worries,” I reply. “It’s only when you’re here that I’m not a good girl.”

I have a random thought on Easter Sunday: it occurs to me that there are now three beds for me in the mansion. Not sure what to make of this, if anything, but I make a note of the thought.

I have a bedroom to myself, where I keep my clothes, dress, sleep. It is, I will say, a personal space. I’ve put up a few pictures — of family, Amanda. Yet while personal it’s not private, meaning that Master has every right to enter. Though he does not.

There is another room on the second floor, the small room with the half-moon bed, a bed not conducive to sleep but perfectly equipped for bondage sex. Here he can strap my ankles to the walls with bungee cords and double me over, so that what I present to him are the curves and folds and holes of my ass and pussy, served up for his carnal pleasures.

And now there is the four-poster bed in the Great Room. I expect he’ll inaugurate me in it before my time this week is over. He wants others to know “this is where the slave is fucked.” They will assume that anyway, seeing me handcuffed to one of the posts, imagining the configurations of my wrists and ankles cuffed to any of four wooden posts for the choosing.

At noon on Sunday, he has me pull out Ms. Yuan’s provisions for Easter dinner — a delicious spread of turkey, yams, green beens, corn pudding, and dinner rolls.

He and I sit at the small kitchen table, modest and informal. This is strangely intimate, as I don’t recall a time when he and I have shared a meal together alone. At the mansion, the staff does food at different times, and Master M tends to work through, using mealtimes for phone calls and grabbing a bite or two from the kitchen on the fly.

He has kept me topless much of the time this weekend, and even now I sit across from him at the kitchen table with my boobs out, which look like pale canned hams on platters. Even here and now he sexualizes me, and I rather love it.

Early afternoon, I take a nap in the four-poster. My bedroom upstairs is nice, but dark, and there is beautiful sun pouring through these windows in the Great Room.

As I fall asleep, I recall a casual comment by Master M on one of our walks outside. He talked about how he acquired this four-poster: “I told [my friend] I was looking for a ‘Shae bed’ for the Great Room, and he knew someone who was listing a Victorian bed in an upcoming estate sale…”

I had been opposed to the idea for two reasons: because a bed here didn’t “fit the room,” but also because it would be a visual humiliation of me, which it very much is. But in a way, I had to admit that the four-poster, while it may not fit an atrium room in a mansion, does fit Master McKenna’s Great Room, because it is so very him.

The room bears the quadrants of his life — an office space, a conference area, a conversation pit. And now an elegant bed with hooks and chains that represents his dominant lifestyle.

And it then dawns on me as I drift into afternoon slumber, that in talking with his friend he had said “the Shae bed.” He had identified the bed from the beginning as a place for me. Aside from the visual humiliation it represented, it was a symbol of his bringing me into the other quadrants of his life.

I serve him only part time, but the “Shae bed” is there full-time, always a part of his daily life.

So, the second incident… there’s a kerfuffle mid-afternoon that wakes me. [You may wish to look at a comment from Nora on my blog post days ago, “A Program Note”; my answer refers to this.]

Maria has unexpectedly returned a day early from her family Easter. I hear Master with her in the front atrium, and while he does not much show his anger, he is angry.

It takes me a while to sort everything out, but it comes down to this: The plan was for Maria to start her internship tomorrow, Monday. Master McKenna was to have me to himself over the Easter weekend. Something happened at Maria’s family’s Easter getogether that caused her to leave early.

I need to explain that the mansion here is now Maria’s home, as she moved in the week before into a bedroom on the third floor. When she left her family this afternoon, she had no other place to go.

This a circumstance that can’t be avoided, so it seems to me. But it’s disruptive and puts Master M into a rare funk.

Certainly Master M confronts disruptions in his work and life every day, and handles them with cool aplomb, by all appearances. He is generally unflappable, but these events this weekend — the work thing last night and now this with Maria this afternoon — have unsettled him.

Note: The ones who rule us are not perfect. They have ups and downs like the rest of us.

But it’s a most unsettling feeling to be submissive to a dominant who is unsettled. I have every desire to go to him and offer myself, what he already owns, to assuage his frustrations. I imagine Master’s displeasure toward Maria, and I fear this is the worst possible way for her to start a submissive internship with him. I want very much to go to Maria and comfort her. I think of offering myself to Master to take on her punishment, whatever that might be.

Yet I know better. My submissive instincts paired with my religious upbringing often lead me toward misplaced ideas of substitutionary atonement. My inclinations are to steady any situation by my own efforts to balance the boat, much of which are unhealthy forms of codependence.

In the end, I do nothing and stay out of it. This may be wrong too.

Note: Is having a third person in the equation — now dom-sub-sub — always going to be this way, always going to yield high drama?

By mid-evening, Master M has composed himself. To his credit, his change of mood doesn’t come from a bottle of bourbon. He takes a walk outside (without me) and comes back cooled off.

He tells Maria that he will start with her, clean slate, in the morning. Also, on his walk he has called Amanda and worked out an extension of my time with him, a compensation for lost time. He has me sit at his feet while he smokes a cigar.

The high drama has burned off like wisps of cigar smoke.

In the end, he has managed everything quite well. I just think he intended to have an easy weekend with me in which he wouldn’t have to manage much of anything.

McKenna: impressions 6

Saturday afternoon, he makes me fully naked and puts me on a leash and walks me outside, a slow stroll around the grounds of the mansion. As always, he has me in tall heels, but this time he has me wear thigh-top stockings.

Master McKenna has always felt to me like an “inside man,” his dominance of me almost inseparable from the soaring presence of the mansion he lives in. And more — his work as a CEO of multiple companies feels tangible as a kind of conceptual scaffolding that towers over me in his possession. He is a man who has built these structures around himself, and it now feels different out from under them, outside with him and only the sky above.

Of course, I am used to being walked outside on a leash by Amanda, often partially undressed and even on occasion fully nude. But each master/mistress walks me differently (which is probably what only a puppy could say, if she were able to speak). Each has a unique stroll and pace, and each handles my leash with individual style. With him now, it feels like a brand new experience, being walked nude outside around the property by the man I have become tethered to in so many ways, my shaven pussy tingled by the cool breeze with every step.

I don’t know how many acres the mansion sits on, but there are expanses of lawn and trees all around. It is relatively private, and I am not fearful of people seeing me like this, though in the distance at times I can see other estates and mansions and their properties folding unfenced into this one, so nothing prevents a neighbor from being out on a similar hike or stroll. And while Jeffers has the weekend off, I would not be surprised to see him lurking somewhere, grabbing glimpses of my female flesh and imagining pleasures he will never have.

There are winding walkways throughout the grounds made of slate slabs. These slate tiles are mostly regularly spaced but sometimes not, making the walking of them in heels a challenge, forcing uneven steps and frequent bobbles of my breasts. Master M is patient with me as I navigate my steps, though it doesn’t seem he minds much.

For all my submissive exposure, though, this is a conversational stroll, Master M discussing with me his approach to bringing on Maria and his thoughts about her coaching and training. He wants to know some of the curriculum ideas I have been developing for the school for submissives, thinking those might be a basis for Maria’s development, starting this week. This feels like a kind of professional, even intellectual, partnership with him, even as he dominates me fully naked at the end of a leash. Somehow this feels perfectly right.

There is a stand of aspens at one corner of the estate, and he walks me there. The aspens open up unto another property, rather close to a neighboring house, but to the southwest there is a clear vista. There we stop and for a moment pause our conversation, turning toward a most majestic view of the mountains.

As we gaze in silence at the Rockies, Master McKenna shifts my leash into his left hand and wraps his right arm around my naked waist. It’s almost a tender gesture— though it’s just above the welts that he striped my ass cheeks with yesterday.

My whipping yesterday feels different to me today. I don’t mean physically, for while the redness surrounding my welts has faded some, the stripes persist and are still sore. He laughs at me with a certain self-satisfaction for my frequent asking to be allowed to stand rather than sit.

But when you are whipped by a man, you develop a relationship of a sort with the markings he has left on you. Yesterday these were symbols of my shame: I endured the concerned gazes of an observer, Mr. Comcast guy; in front of his caring judgment, I had to acknowledge my whipping and admit that I willingly gave myself, my body, to being treated that way — and even enjoyed it.

Today my relationship to my markings bears a different emotion. As Master walks me around the estate, I feel my welts as symbols of my belonging to him. I think he has me nude on a leash outdoors for this very reason — because he is proud of his handiwork. My red stripes signify his possession of me. They claim me just as much as his taking me in bound intercourse, and much more visibly.

Even more, the fact that my stripes are welts, not “cuts-turning-into-scars,” is actually evidence of his restraint, a hint of what he could have done but didn’t. In that, my markings also attest to how I stood steadfast in the path of his whip and received its bite, trusting my Master M to do the right thing.

So, today I hold my head a bit higher, as I am actually kind of proud to wear the welts with which he has marked me.

McKenna: impressions 5

Mid-afternoon, last Friday…

Master M has me in a new outfit. Another short skirt, blue, and a white camisole with spaghetti straps. This top scoops low and hangs loosely on me, revealing the top and inside mounds of my breasts and barely hiding my bumpy nipples underneath. Not to mention that it is now showing in living color the tell-tale welt, a red stripe across my chest.

He once again tucks my skirt into my waistband behind, revealing the criss-crossed welts on my ass. This, apparently is the new thing: the oh-so-stylish look of a skirt that seems to have not been properly re-adjusted after a bathroom visit.

Again, he places me with the four-poster in the Great Room, wanting me to sit on the bed while he grabs a bite to eat in the kitchen. But I beg him to let me stand. “It hurts to sit down,” I say simply, trying not to sound whiny. He is bemused by my sass but bothered by my whine.

He can’t help but smile at my distress and lets me stand beside the bed that is fast becoming my identity.

He returns with a sandwich and beer, retrieving a folding chair from the anteroom. He sets himself down, sitting and eating before me as I stand holding the spiral bedpost.

Now he wants to talk.

“Did you have sex,” he asks bluntly, “while you were in Pennsylvania?”

His question takes me by surprise. I take a moment to compose a response. “Well, sir, I think you know the answer to that.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“No. I did not have sex while I was in Pennsylvania.”

“None?”

“Well, Amanda, when she came out to visit us. But no, not with anyone else.”

“Those were long times without.”

“Many people are celibate for longer.”

“You’re so highly sexed.” He says it as a statement not an opinion.

Not that that’s any secret about me. It’s just how he says it, as a matter of factual record. Like it’s so evident to him and everyone.

“If you say so,” I finally say, a lame admission, I know, and wrongly reticent.

“You disagree?”

“I don’t like being obvious.”

He breaks into a wry grin. “Being so highly sexed is part of what makes you suited for this.”

A whirlwind of thoughts rises up in my head, all about words and precise meanings. I’m not sure about the term “highly sexed” — what that actually means. Like “nymphomaniac,” it seems to suggests I was born sexually promiscuous. I believe I was born submissive, while being “highly sexed,” if that’s the term, is simply my submissive conditioning. Yet these are nuances befitting a blog post, and I’m quite sure Master McKenna is not wanting a vocabulary lesson right now.

He goes on: “I want you to tell me if you had sex with someone when you were in Pennsylvania. Here in Colorado as well.”

“Well, I didn’t. In Pennsylvania.”

“I’m not accusing you. It’s not a sin.”

“Well, in that particular place in Pennsylvania, it kind of is.”

He smiles, and shakes his head at my humor.

“Shae,” he says, “you’re missing my point.”

“I’m sorry, sir…” I pause, then add: “You see, someone just whipped me senseless.”

He laughs, takes a swig of his beer.

“I’m ordering you to tell me when others have you for sex. On a regular basis.”

So, there it is.

“I’m not looking for details,” he adds. “I want a report of who used you and when. Not how. I respect others’ privacy. Nothing about you and Amanda, of course. I assume she has you when she wishes.”

I smile a little inside at his manner: he is so “executive,” even in such a thing as this. He is laying out specifics of how he wants this done, almost to the point of dictating the format.

I can’t help myself: “So, a report… do you prefer me, sir, to submit this to you as a Word document or Excel spreadsheet, sir?”

He smothers a half-grin, but plays along: “A Word doc will be fine. You can make copies and sort them into the binders for the board meeting.”

“Ha, ha.”

We back out of the word play. “Seriously,” he says, “Each time you come to me, I need a report of your sexual activity in the interim.”

“Seriously,” I reply, “yes, sir. I will. I realize you want me to suffer yet another humiliation of telling you each time I’m used sexually.”

“Exactly.” He adds, “Verbal, of course. Keep it simple.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way, I may, at my discretion, have others present when you report out to me.”

“I was afraid of that.”

It is shortly later that the doorbell rings.

“I want you to answer that,” he tells me. “It’s Comcast. Lead him to the copier room… but first, come here.”

I walk to Master M, standing submissively, arms to my sides. He adjusts my cami, like I am a doll he is primping, pulling the spaghetti straps to the edges of my shoulders, creating a yet wider window to my welted breasts. Now he has me turn. He re-tucks my skirt tightly into my waistband behind, ensuring the exposure of my welted butt cheeks.

“You really want him to see me this way,” I murmur.

“I do,” he says.

And so it goes. Comcast guy is middle-aged, a little overweight, and a bit bug-eyed to see my breasts spilling out atop my cami. I imagine he’s also confused to see my breasts striped with a welt, but he says nothing.

Well, not then.

I walk him to the electronics corner in the copier room, knowing he sees my bare ass and the criss-cross of my welts there. I catch a glimpse of Master M tucked back in the atrium hallway watching my humiliation. Comcast guy doesn’t see him.

I endure my bare-assed walk back to the copier room, realizing there’s no story that can explain this. That I perhaps just got careless getting dressed this morning doesn’t seem to account for the precise and careful draping of my skirt behind, and nothing explains my welted striping front and back. Nothing but the truth would convince.

We get to the copier room, and I point the man to the corner electronics closet. Comcast guy sets his case down, and then turns to me. To his endearing credit, he says to me in a hushed voice, “Ma’am, are you okay?” It’s not quite to the level of “Do I need to call someone?” but close.

My face is now flushed. His response discombobulates me, but I somehow have some presence of mind: “Thank you for asking,” I say. If there’s another situation in which a woman truly needs help and protection, I don’t want to leave Comcast guy feeling foolish by this inquiry. He would do well to ask again in another circumstance.

“I appreciate that,” I add. “It’s good for you to ask… But, yes, I’m perfectly fine.”

He tilts his head, not convinced.

“This is what we do,” I add.

He offers a slow nod, but gives me another moment to say otherwise.

“Actually,” I say, “I enjoy it.” I feel my face growing red.

And now his becomes a more knowing expression, or an expression of one who think he knows, one that moves into a slight smile as he turns to do his work. I’m sure my deep blush, more than anything, signals the truth of my situation.

I walk out of the copier room, and Master McKenna is there across the atrium. He’s heard everything. I lean against the wall, exhaling deeply. With his hands in his pockets, he catches my eyes with his. We say nothing. He nods.

Oh, the things we do for a master’s approval.

Later Master and I are back in the Great Room, and I am standing again at the four-poster. He is talking about Ms. Yuan, hiring her, how well she’s working out, but how he is somewhat regretful to lose Phyllis, as he sort of liked her stony demeanor. “She was actually good for you,” he is saying, going on to say something about how I need a person like her around. I’m not sure why, but I barely hear him, guilty of not paying attention, so caught up in the reverie-swoon of my submissive state with him and this whole day of gradually falling into his dominance once again.

I lean my head against the bedpost softly. Perhaps I’m being a bit coquettish, I don’t know. It’s not intentional or designing, just a reflexive instinct. I adore the conversation with him and this afterglow of my whipping at his hand, its pain and pleasure now merging. Not so long ago, I was in Pennsylvania wishing for this. With him.

Something pricks my thoughts. I speak, perhaps careless in interrupting him, but he seems not to mind. “There is something, sir,” I say.

He nods for me to go on.

“You want me to report,” I say, “on… things.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Last week. It was Mr. Blake. I sucked his cock.”

McKenna: impressions 4

At one in the afternoon (this is still last Friday), he has me naked in high heels, strung up to the T-bar lowered from the ceiling.

So much for “slow assimilation” and lack of “action.”

Times before, he has whipped me without my hands chained above, leaving me unbound as a test of my resolve to stand in and take it without moving (much), without covering up my parts. It becomes about my will to withstand his corporal discipline. But this time he has my wrists strung up — for some reason I cannot figure.

He takes a soft flogger to my ass — slow, easy strokes at first. It warms me there, extracting from me sighs and hums. I close my eyes, luxuriating in this submissive space after months of deprivation.

I sense that for him this is his transition from a work week into his weekend of play, and now I am his object at hand, his play toy beginning his holiday. I melt in the thought that my corporal submission is helping him relax and get his mind away from work.

This makes me creamy.

He soon progresses to a more weighty flogger and works my flesh for a long while. This does not sting so much as the soft flogger, but peppers me with heavier blows. This stage of harder flogging sometimes feels to me like a massage that works aching muscle tissues — it hurts but in a good way. The flogger thuds against my ass cheeks, buffeting me as with light punches from a boxing glove.

With this treatment of me, he seems to be further climbing into his dominant space, and I sense he is likewise trying to pound me into a deeper space of submission to him, although I am already there.

It may be that the real purpose of floggers and whips and things is not physical at all, but psychological — a process of two people, dominant and submissive, getting synchronized into the same space.

He moves to my front, flogging my breasts into the same rosacea as my backside. When the flogger strands land a certain way across my nipples, it makes me yelp like a puppy. Tears come to my eyes.

Now he has me rosed up, all pinked, and lightly burning.

Master tosses the flogger to the floor with a thud and now wields a whip, one which I cannot identify in my current condition. I soon know it’s a single-tail with a hard edge of some sort.

For me, being whipped is a challenging experience emotionally. I can rationalize being flogged, but a whipping is the point where my experience no longer is a kind of massaging pleasure or synchronizing alignment with my dominant, but something that seems to cross a line. Of course, everything in D/s crosses lines of social propriety and correctness, so this should feel to me no different, but it does. Yet I submit to it, which is the point of my unease.

Somehow, I understand Master’s strokes of a whip on me but not my acquiescence to it: Who submits her body to be hit by a man? Who becomes so intensely aroused by it?

This is always the question inside the experience — what does it say of me that I give myself to this? — one I’ve asked myself many times before. As if the blows dislodge the question once again, I feel everything now as a deepening disgrace.

In this, the pain of being whipped transitions me into deep feelings of humiliation. I remember what Master McKenna said long ago, that he considered a good whipping really as “corporal humiliation” not “corporal discipline.”

And I guess that’s the point. Everything about it is wrong… yet so shamefully desired, which itself is so deeply humiliating. It’s a spiral descent, each part of that feeding the other.

It’s also the story of the submissive life, just now enacted by a whip.

He positions himself behind and to my side. I hear him draw his arm back, and I tighten my eyes, tensing, but the blow doesn’t come. He moves, adjusting his position. Again he pulls back his arm. This time the whip lands but without force, the tail just softly kissing my ass — he has checked himself mid-stroke.

There is a third time, and I whimper ahead of it. He has measured his aim, calculated his force. This time it lands, sure and hard. I scream.

Before I can recoil, he whips me again, coming down on the top curves of my ass cheeks, above where he hit me the first time. His quickness is a actually a mercy, shortcutting my fearful anticipation, but it still hurts like hell. I scream again. Tears roll down my cheeks.

He moves around to my other side, now positioning himself slightly in front of me. I know his intent.

“Please, no,” I beg. It is my protest but not my safeword.

He rightly ignores my plea, but tells me to hold my head back, to look up at the ceiling. Again, he flicks the whip softly as a test, this time applying it to my breasts. Another soft flick, checked mid-air, lands harmlessly on the upper slope of my breasts. I shudder, my body dreading the inevitable and at the same time releasing its arousal.

“Be still,” he commands. I say, Yes, sir,” close my eyes, and steel myself.

He pulls back and lets the whip fly. I remember hearing the crack before I feel the sharp pain across my breasts.

I scream, and his stroke releases tears down my cheeks.

He tosses the whip to the ground. Just three hard, calculated strokes. Two on my ass and one on my breasts. His work is done.

He unshackles me from the T-bar and tells me to look at myself in the mirror in the powder room.

There, after washing the tears from my face, I witness his handiwork: a bright red welt across my breasts, just above my nipples. I turn my backside to the mirror and look over my shoulder: two welts criss-crossing the upper curves of my ass cheeks.

I return to him in the Great Room, and he asks, “What do you think?”

“Sir,” I say in a tamed whisper, “you’ve been practicing.”

I know it’s a symbol, a ritual, this marking of me. In it, he has his purpose and pleasure.

I just may have wished to be claimed by him another way.

McKenna: impressions 3

These are adapted from my journal notes, and are indeed just impressionistic thoughts of my time here with Master McKenna. Since I have been — let’s use the polite term — “indisposed” for much of my stay, I have not been able to post regularly, so what I’m posting here goes back to last week. I will catch up…

Being Easter, the mansion staff is on holiday for the weekend. Jeffers is around this morning (Friday), using the riding mower on the front expanse and the circle, and Ms. Yuan stops by at lunchtime to leave off food for a special Easter dinner. I’m told a Comcast technician will come in the afternoon to install something.

I have a brief moment to become reacquainted with Mrs. Yuan, but there’s no time for a conversation, as she has other deliveries to get to. I don’t ever see Jeffers Friday morning, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t somehow find a way to see me. I rather think he’s working on Good Friday only to grab a sneak peek of me to take with him for the weekend.

It is my disappointment that Maria is not here when I arrive. I am told she has taken the Easter weekend to be with her family in Tucson and will start her internship on Monday. I am sad about this, but it will be okay. We’ll have time next week.

All told, it points to a weekend in which I am alone in the big mansion with Master McKenna. I feel no apprehension about this with him — there’s no deeper trust formed than being naked with a man with a whip. But I think it may be the first time it ever has happened that it’s just the two of us. The mansion is usually like Grand Central Station. This will be new.

Today (Friday), he has dressed me in a thin, see-through top and a short skirt. The top is of the “what’s-the-point?” variety — a mostly transparent, clingy nylon excuse for an article of clothing.

When I present to him downstairs, he walks behind me, takes the hem of my skirt, and tucks it tightly into the waistband, revealing my ass cheeks.

“That’s not my best feature,” I say.

“I know,” he replies.

Not wanted I wanted to hear.

Master McKenna does business work through the morning (Friday), tasking me with assembling report binders for a board meeting next week. I lay out everything on the conference table, facing him across the room as he works at his desk.

Since my arrival yesterday, his assimilation of me into his dominance has felt slow. I should say it’s been more psychological than physical. And mostly visual. After four months away from him, I long for more, well, “action,” but he has a better plan, it seems.

Or else, he simply has had better things to do.

Master now tells me to reverse my work at the conference table so I am not facing across from him, but with my backside toward him. It feels like a subtle degradation, suggesting he’d rather be looking at my ass than my face.

I realize I would be more comfortable with my breasts out and about than my ass being made public. It’s a different objectification of me than I am used to. I’m sure that’s his intent.

Exposed as such, I work through the morning in his presence, sorting parts of eleven binders while bare-assed, walking to the copier room with my breasts wobbling to and fro under this nylon top, and fetching refills of coffee for Master M while click-clacking the floor in these high heels.

At one of these moments, I deliver him a fresh cup of joe and he looks at me, taking in the pink circles of my areolae beneath my nylon mesh top.

After he luxuriates in a stare for a while, I say sarcastically, “Able to get any work done?”

He leans back, placing his hands at the back of his head, offering only his patented half-grin smile.

I breathe in deeply, feeling myself sinking into his dominant self-satisfaction. “I didn’t think so,” I manage to say, walking back to the conference table, my bared ass cheeks feeling the air in the wake.

Again, he seems to be allowing me my words.

Well, he always has… to a degree. His original vision for my place in his world was as a kind of “slave assistant,” making me a helper in facilitating events and projects, frequently asking my opinion about this or that. I’ve become something of an executive-whisperer, and in my asides to him, my natural humor (sometimes sarcasm) comes out.

Now he seems to give me even more space for my sass. He’s allowing this not just in the context of business work but now in our personal repartee, giving me space to make it about him and me and this unspeakable things we do. In this morning of quiet work, there are several such exchanges.

At one point, I make a flippant comment about the binder assembly: “What would you ever do without me…”

“Actually, I’ve managed rather well,” he says. “I have others.”

“Yeah, but they don’t let you dress them this way.”

“True. They’re not submissive sluts like you are.”

I pause my sorting of papers. “Awww,” I say over my shoulder to him, “you always say the right thing to make a girl feel special.”

He barks out his trademarked half-chuckle.

Our repartee freely teases the romantic, both of us knowing we can never go there, that our intercourse is based on the unspeakable illicitness we both need and the forbidden urges we each serve.

And so the morning goes.

I write sometimes about how 24/7 D/s slavery is different from other forms of “episodic” BDSM. This morning is an example: Nothing much happens. He and I work in the same room. We have occasional repartee that teases my place as his slave, and his place as my dominant. But mostly we are quiet, settling into a relaxing rhythm of silence.

And I stand at the conference table, my skirt tucked in behind, opened and draped symmetrically to each side like the opening image of old movies where the stage curtain opens to start the film. I feel this exposure revealing the cheeks of my ass, and no doubt, a peek at my bald pussy from behind. It gives “Rear Window” a whole new script.

I have to make eleven copies of a report for the binders, so I go the the copier room.

Moments later, Master M follows me in, ostensibly to retrieve a pad of ruled paper from the supply cabinet. In fact, he does so, but before returning to his desk, he takes his open palm and spanks me twice, once on each ass cheek.

It surprises me, and I gasp from the sting, but I know better than to ask why. I am available to him in such ways, for him to do with me as he pleases. There is no need for why.

He says in a rasp, “I may apply more of that later.”

I breathe in deeply, which makes me obvious. “Promises, promises,” I say.

He has to take a break to make calls and tells me in the meantime to sit on the four-poster across the room.

I do so, setting my bare butt on the wine-colored comforter, feeling small once again in the expanse of the bed and the dominant mass of the Great Room.

I begin to realize the more the utility of the bed in this room and in my slave life with him.

The four-poster can be viewed by him from any of the other three quadrants. And not just by him, but by others. From the office quadrant, Mr. Galli for one, but other colleagues will at times sit in the chairs across from McKenna’s desk and do business, while I, am seen as a curiosity in her rightful place, a bed.

The bed suggests my use.

I can easily imagine him and his buddies in the conversation group of leather chairs, smoking cigars and drinking bourbon — all while they steal glances at me bound to the bedposts of the four-poster. And would he, could he, possibly hold a board meeting at the southwest quadrant conference table while I am chained in a bed across the room?

Master returns and looks at me across this uncrowded room. He sees me sitting where he had directed me, and I imagine he is gratified by my simple obedience. Masters like their submissives to be where they last left them.

He walks up to me, to the four-poster, stops, takes me in. I look up at him.

“When others are here,” he says, “I want them to see you with the bed.”

“I figured,” I reply, nodding.

I’ve been here twenty-four hours and he has not had sex with me yet. I remind myself sex is his option not his obligation. It has occurred to me that on one of my visits to the mansion sometime he may not have me for sex at all.

His abstinence only emphasizes his control. He does not need me. I am optional, superfluous to his pleasure. And perhaps this is the purpose of his “slow assimilation” strategy with me: to emphasize my relative unimportance in his life, to put me in my lower place.

Which intensifies my sense of his utter dominance.

Which makes me want him more.

Which he knows all too well.

McKenna: impressions 2

It’s not that I intend to detail every moment of my service to Master McKenna (thus my post title “Impressions”), but there are in my first hour with him several significant moments that I expect will have an impact on my slavery to him this week.

There is something about the process of entering a slavery after time away that’s important in the experience and that I feel I need to mention.

I am always submissive; it’s not something I turn on or off. When I’m away from Mistress and Master for a time, I never feel I am unowned, unsubmitted, to them. And yet, coming back into their worlds is a process of re-immersion into their possession and re-syncing with the unique rhythms of their dominance.

This was something of the point of Amanda’s collaring of me at the airport. She didn’t need to — I am always collared, and I well know I am owned by her — but she re-collared me anyway as an act of reassimilating me into her dominance. It’s symbolic, of course, but more than that. It gentles me submissively back into her domain. The public act of her collaring me at DIA, the ball-gagging of me publicly, the leashing of me in the garage, all reacquainted me with her specific dominant signatures, and conjured up my submissive feelings in my service of her.

Likewise, my entry back into Master McKenna’s world. His instruction to come to him topless is symbolic in various ways: It reminds me that in his world I arrive with nothing but my submissive, naked self (if he could safely have me drive over completely nude, he would). It reminds me that when I’m with him, I must be as open about what I am as he is about what he is. It reminds me that my relationship to Master M starts with my obedience to be bare-breasted for him. It reminds me that my purpose in his life and mansion is ultimately sexual.

Again, these are not just symbolisms, but conditionings of my submissive focus, bringing me into sync with his dominance. They arouse me into his specific style of mastering me.

I would say that much of my first day with Master McKenna is marked by this gradual process of reconnection and resubmission. He is well aware of this, of course, and prepares for me accordingly…

After my topless arrival, Master M has me take my roll-aboard up to the second floor bedroom, where I always stay. I am gratified that my clothes from prior visits are still here in the closet. I don’t think the bedroom’s been used in the interim. It feels like I have a permanent, if small, place in his massive world.

There’s a dress laid out for me, in my best color of jewel red. It’s a swing dress, with a solid bodice and deep V-neck with scalloped edges, the skirt in a pattern of white flowers. It’s lovely. It touches me that this is a welcome gift of a sort, though I imagine Amanda helped Master McKenna pick this out.

I’m relieved this dress allows me to cover up. I hope to visit today with the new caterer as well as Maria’s replacement as mansion maid. They, I know, at some point of my time here, will see me undressed, partially or even fully, but I want to make positive first impressions. Best to have my boobs covered, although I see that this dress, now that I have it on, has wide open décolletage, revealing a fair portion of my top real estate anyway.

There’s also a fabric slave collar, wide, in a wine red that matches the dress, with an O-ring in front. I wrap it around my neck, and it enslaves me, makes me feel I am now his, once again.

I return to the first floor, and Master McKenna meets me in the atrium, looks me over and nods.

“Thank you,” I say, twirling once, like a coquette, in my swing dress.

“Looks good on you.”

He leads me into the Great Room, where I am presented with my first surprise.

You may remember that, during my last time with Master McKenna, he talked to me about the idea of putting a four-poster bed in the Great Room. I offered my opinion that a bed doesn’t feel appropriate to the room.

Now there’s a bed in the Great Room.

I’ve described the space many times before: the Great Room is massive, the size of a hotel ballroom, with vaulted spaces overhead and floor-to-ceiling windows at one end. Master McKenna conducts much of his business work, board meetings, and conference groups here. It was the main setting for the dom retreat he did two years ago.

It’s also the main arena for his dominance of me.

The room’s four corners are furnished for specific purposes. One corner features a conversation pit arrangement of leather chairs, small tables, and a leather couch. Another corner is set up with a mahogany table and chairs, for board meetings. A third corner has a desk, area rug, and office chairs: Master M has a separate office in another part of the mansion, but uses this corner of the Great Room more often. While all of these corner-quadrants are set off from the rest by how they are furnished and purposed, it’s all one open space. Pretty awesome.

The fourth corner has always been underused. Usually it has contained a refreshment table, providing coffee, drinks, and snacks to the mansion staff. But now, that refreshment table has been moved into the conversation pit quadrant, behind the leather chairs.

And now, the fourth corner of the Great Room houses this four-poster bed, angled broadside toward the center of the room.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I say.

“You weren’t in favor before.”

“I need to warm up to new ideas, especially when they’re designed for my public humiliation.”

“I never knew you to need much warm-up time.”

“Nice,” I reply.

In fact, this very dance of our repartee is a kind of foreplay, though not so much a prelude to a kiss as a prelude to my corruption.

As if on cue, Master pulls a leash out of nowhere and attaches it to the O-ring of my collar. Dominants always seem to have a leash at the ready, like bungee cords in the trunk of a car.

He walks me by leash the length of the Great Room to the bed. It’s actually beautiful, an antique, Victorian four-poster in dark mahogany, with four barley-twist columns rising up to an overhead frame. One end, the headboard is draped with a canopy, teasing a privacy that will never exist for me there.

Furniture in the Great Room needs size and weight to be worthy of the room, and this piece acquits itself well, I must say, anchoring the room with its mahogany weight. I feel its physical presence in the way I feel the mass of the room itself, and for that matter, the strong presence of Master McKenna, the weight of his dominant will. All of the mansion and the Great Room are extensions of Master McKenna, and this four-poster bed is too. In the moment I feel the dominance of them all, much as I first felt the dominant power of my uncle’s combine when I was girl of fourteen.

Overwhelming, in a good way, and I shake off a shudder. “It’s gorgeous, sir,” I say, my snark and sass now put in their place, sobered, because I know I am looking at the public stage of my future disgrace.

It is now that I wake up to my second surprise. I didn’t connect it up until now. The bed’s linens — sheets, duvet, shams, and skirt — are in the same Cabernet color as the dress I’m wearing.

He has dressed me like a bed set.

He removes my leash, has me sit on the edge of the bed, and I blend like a chameleon into the bed itself, completing his intended decor. It says I belong here atop a bed, chained, kept.

Hanging from the tops of the bedposts are heavy chains, and Master extends them now, attaching two to the O-ring of my collar. They loop dramatically from the bed to my neck.

I sit here, bound by heavy metal, my legs primly aligned, my hands folded in my lap. He steps back, views his creation, pleased I am surprised.

I know in the moment that I’m the fulfillment of a vision. “You’ve been wanting this for a while,” I say.

He ponders that and offers a little grin. I know he gets both my meanings — that he has wanted this image of the bed in the Great Room, and also that he has wanted to see me on it. I wonder how long it will be till he claims me here. And who will be watching.

McKenna: impressions 1

He has texted me to arrive topless and to park at the drive entrance, which is a hundred-yards walk from the circle at the mansion entrance. I am to text him when I exit the Interstate, which is fifteen minutes from his mansion.

I do not know if he means for me to leave Amanda’s house topless and drive across town with my breasts bared, or to take off my top when I get there. I have been made bare in the car before but always with Amanda driving. I figured he would not risk me driving topless on the Interstate, but I’m not sure.

He is not an unreasonable Master if you get a detail wrong, and yet I obsess over these things. I haven’t been with him for four months, and I don’t want this to start badly. I decide to take off my top when I get off the Interstate. I need to pull off to the side to text him my arrival anyway.

So it is, and I drive the remaining fifteen minutes topless, park at the bottom of the estate, and walk the hundred yards to the mansion entrance, pulling my roll-aboard behind me.

I know he is watching, as he likes, watching his slave girl exposed, watching her bounce into his dominion once again.

These are “little experiences,” but they feel major to me in the moment. Submission is much about the major significance of minor things.

I’m at the door, ringing the bell. My breasts are out and goose-pimply from the cool breeze. My nipples are hard and extended, either from the chill or from my excitement.

And here is one little thing: I have no idea who will open the door.

Master M doesn’t have a doorman, per se. While he has a mansion staff, he is not frivolous about such hires, employing only those people he needs to efficiently maintain the mansion and his work. A doorman or butler or house manager is a position he considers superfluous — the door can be attended to by anyone who is closest, anyone walking though the front entryway.

Standing there, I know it could be Jeffers opening the door, Master M’s groundskeeper and erstwhile peeping Tom. It could be the new caterer and cook, Ms. Yuan, whom I barely know. It could be Mr. Galli, his business manager, or his driver with the car service, or any number of part-time workers he calls in to fix something. It could be the new house maid, replacing Maria. Or it could be Maria herself, her first day of submissive internship.

It isn’t that I’m self-conscious about being seen topless. Well, I am, I always am, never get used to it, but anymore I accept it as inevitable. It’s how people have me, prefer me. It’s not that. Besides, most have seen my flesh curves already. Jeffers has gotten his glimpses, and Mr. Galli, notably, has watched me get spanked by Master McKenna, the memory of which still makes me flush when I see him.

I steel myself for it to be Galli answering the door, and the feeling it conjures is about what my topless presence at the entrance of the mansion says about me, that, yes, I am that woman who comes to the mansion pitifully baring her boobs just because she’s been told to, the one who submits to being spanked. It’s about his perfunctory greeting with the tinge of “here she is again,” and the leering look of condescension that lasts a lifetime too long.

These are the little things, the subtext of my submission.

Master McKenna opens the door.

You live for four months imagining this moment, picturing him this way in his Indochino business suit with a white shirt open at the collar, but nothing you dream matches the presence of this man standing in the massive doorway of his mansion. Some men are dwarfed by the world they build for themselves; other men fill it and then some, just as they fill you.

He says nothing, takes that look that lasts a lifetime, although his is not the leer of an observer but the thirsty gaze of one who owns me. He drinks me in silence.

It warms me. I blush. I pull my hands behind my back and stand straight. I remain silent. This is not conscious but instinctive, prompted by his sheer dominant being.

I sense in his eyes a flicker of satisfaction, but he is otherwise expressionless, wearing that calm, executive, oh-so-authoritative demeanor. God.

I melt a little. Submission is a different experience with a dominant man than with a dominant woman, both electric in their ways yet distinctive, and this moment is a particular reminder of how I respond so helplessly to his sheer male presence.

He continues to take me in with his eyes, and it’s a moment of moments. He objectifies me but not as separate parts: he enjoys my breasts, but differently than a Galli or Jeffers, seeing for as what they are right now — my private womanhood that I have made public only because of him.

Whenever I start to feel like pudding deep inside, I desperately reach for my words. Something comes out, not always well considered. And now I cannot help myself: I blurt out, “Enjoying yourself?”

It’s sarcastic, maybe inappropriate, but it’s me.

He takes my Shae sass. I know he likes it. He has a way of smiling without smiling, a facial approval somewhat shy of a grin. He replies, “Yes, I am.”

“I have a confession to make,” I say.

“Something I can punish you for?”

“That’s for you to decide, sir… I wasn’t sure how to interpret your text. Topless from the house, or just from here at the bottom of the drive.”

“And what did you choose?”

“I split the difference. I took off my top when I got off the interstate and texted you.”

“So… I might have meant one of two things, and you did neither.”

I look up at him. His logic is impeccably McKenna, honed by the sharp steel of executive leadership. It becomes a trait of his dominance, overwhelming you. “Yes…” I start to say. Then it dawns on me. I get it. “You intentionally made it ambiguous.”

He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he is pleased. Not that his cleverness confused me — he doesn’t gloat about such things, his own prowess, doesn’t have to — but he is pleased that I caught on. His dominant humiliations of me, his sexual conquests of me, feel sweeter to him because I engage with him at his intellectual level.

“Did anyone stare at your tits?” he asks crudely — as he stares at my tits.

“No.”

“That’s a pity.” He opens the door wide, now grinning, and I walk in.

“So,” I say, “that wasn’t a test.”

“No.”

“And you’re not going to punish me.”

“No.”

I turn to him in the entryway. “Well,” I say, “that’s a pity.”