easy chair

She put me naked in the easy chair, the one fitted with eyehooks underneath, linked my leather shackles to heavy chains, and hooked the ends to the eyebolts below.


She calls them shackles, not wrist or ankle cuffs, perhaps intentionally to reduce me to the level of a creature — a horse with shackles, a mare hobbled and fettered, perhaps for breeding. Or maybe she just likes the harsh sound of the word — “shackles.”

These have become my shackles, as they’ve become a common a part of my life these days, this era of my malaise, as there’s not much she can do with her slave other than attach me to things.

She has taken to laying out my shackles with my clothing each day, carefully arranging them beside the skirt and top and shoes lengthwise along the bed bench, draped in place as if an invisible person was lying there wearing them. Even if my shackles are not used that day, they remind me of their potential of marrying me to furniture and walls and windows, literally making me a house wife. Most recently, she has taken to have me wear them to bed, though unattached to my bedposts and rendered as mere visual echoes of my past possibilities in being fucked. These shackles are as much a part of me now as are my wrists and ankles and lips and breasts.

There are a number of pairs of them. Two pair are fashion-forward — one a thin cuff of white leather, the other a fluff of orange fabric. She has me wear the white leather bands when we are out and about. One cuff alone might pass as a bracelet of a sort, especially if I am also wearing the matching white leather collar. But two wrist bands are tell-tale with their exposed D-rings, clocking me as a submissive-in-residence, and making me self-consciously apprehensive that she will actually hook me to the storefront window of Macy’s.

Two other pair of shackles are black leather — heavy-duty devices with locking clasps — one longish with leather running halfway up my arm. It always strikes me funny these cuffs are so thick and rugged and secure — no one wearing BDSM cuffs is never trying to get away. We put them on ourselves, just as we adorn ourselves with this kind of life. We are bound by our own submissive need.


Chained into the easy chair, my legs are together, angled, and my arms are free enough to read a book or drink a glass of wine — she has allowed, for now, a fair amount of slack in the chains. I cannot leave the chair but can move around in it. And she wants that, my movement, my adjusting myself, so she can hear the clank of the chains on the floor and be reminded that she owns a person.

She gives me my Kindle, settling herself on the couch with a magazine and a book for reading time. She flips through her magazine, occasionally looking over the pages, drinking in my naked body poured into its incarceration.


Yes, there is precious little she has been able to do with me during my time of being an invalid. I am a sex slave without the possibility of sex, and until lately without energy even to be slave-kept. It has made the noun “invalid” into an adjective meaning “not valid,” like a credit card that got declined.

However, in recent days I have felt gradually better and my energy has been crawling back. I am still contagious — unkissable, unlickable, unfuckable — but I am now less fragile. Given my semi-revived state, she has been re-introducing us to the house’s built-in bondages.

Friday night, she attached me to the entryway wall. It was not for a long time, as she is mindful of my still-reduced stamina, but she invited Patricia over for a drink, and the both stood for a time watching me bound to the wall while they sipped Viognier. Patricia said, finding her inner domme, “That’s a good place for her.”

Saturday for happy hour Amanda strapped me into the wet bar. It’s been a while since she’s had me bound there. She left me ungagged so to carry on a conversation with me, using my naked back as a bar counter for her wine glass. I wasn’t stretched out there for a long while, but just enough for her to detail for me how she wants to get me lactating and install breast pumps on the bartender side — fresh milk for lattes and White Russians.

I never know what she’s serious about.


We had both been reading for some time. Every time I swiped a Kindle page with my finger, it clanked my arm chain slightly.

I felt her eyes on me, her frequent glances above her magazine, her lust for my body and breasts. It felt good, a reminder of what I used to feel being a sex object, which is for me, submissive that I am, quietly enjoyable.

Her eyes had dropped town below my breasts to my waist and then lower — my upper thighs together forming a line leading to the the delta of my sex.

I felt her attentions. “You know,” I said, breaking our reading silence, “you could make me come for you.”

She gazed into my eyes without expression or words. She saw through my ploy of framing my self-pleasure in terms that might attract her. She is a voyeur par excellence, and watching, whether by herself or with a crowd of others, is her preeminent pleasure. I was bargaining, she well knew, not normally accepted by her from me, but for now she said nothing. These are different times.

“You wouldn’t need to touch me,” I continued, “you wouldn’t be exposed. You could just watch.”

“No,” she said. But she had thought about it for a moment.

“Yes, mistress.”

We went back to reading, but five minutes later she spoke again: “I could invite people over.”

I looked up at her. I shook my head: “I wasn’t thinking of selling tickets.”

She smiled and went back to reading.


Ten minutes later she got up and readjusted my chains. She pulled my legs over each padded arm and reconnected my chains tight so I could not move my legs or pull my thighs closed.

I was spread open.

Without a word, she pulled one of my arms to the side and back of my chair, affixing it to the eyebolt on the opposite side, again tightly. And she unlinked my right wrist from its chain completely.

This was happening.

She left the room a moment, returning with a padded footstool, which she placed in front of my chair, between my opened legs. She left again, this time returning with a pillar candle on a saucer, which she placed on the stool. She turned down the room lights, found matches in the kitchen, and lit the candle, which now now bathed my pussy in a flickering glow.

I wanted to kiss her but I couldn’t. I wanted her to put things in me but she wouldn’t.

“Eyes open, looking at me the whole time,” she said.

I bit my lip and nodded, knowing any spoken words would come out in a trembly rasp.

She sat up, lifting her legs off the floor and onto the couch, pulling them up toward her chest as her long dress draped over them. She reached for her wine, sipped, then nodded to me.

“You may begin…”


I was warm now and not from the room heat. She had cranked up the thermostat earlier, knowing I would be naked, but now that didn’t matter — my warmth was fueled by my desire and was melting me into a puddle.

My free hand found my abdomen and rested there a moment. I was almost afraid to touch myself, it had been so long. My fingers eased down to my mons, smooth and shaven. I opened two fingers into a V and slid them down further until they straddled the outer sides of my pussy, framing my labia. Even just this was almost too much, my blood flooding down there and heightening all sensation.

I closed my eyes, but she called me out: “You must look at me.”

Gazing into her eyes, my fingers squeezed my pussy lips, and I caught my breath. I felt my own ooze collecting there between, and I scooped some on my index finger and painted it along the top surface of my labia. My lips, usually puffy and rounded, now were longer and farther extended like thin mountain ridges reaching up to God.

As I coated them with own juices, they cooled in the air.

I took things slow, knowing I was already primed by weeks of deprivation and aware it might be a long time again. I wanted this to last. I kept my fingers on the outsides for now. That alone made me buzzy down there and made me want to squirm. However, my restraints were tight. My legs, draped over each chair rest, were locked down spread. My other arm was bent back taut.

She watched me — my masturbation in chains — without expression.


In time, I dared to slip my middle finger between my pussy lips, letting it lie in the delta of my goo.

This is when she decided to talk.

“Who was the last man inside you there?” she asked, her voice a hush. It’s a rhetorical question, for she well knows the answer. She said it, as she likes to sometimes, implying there’s a long list of men who have access, thus some confusion of who and when a man was last occupying my vagina.

“Master McKenna,” I said, choosing not to add the obvious “of course.” I spoke without stopping my self-touches, not wanting to pause my pleasure to talk. She didn’t want me to stop either, I was quite sure.

“Did he take you lying down or standing up?”

I looked at her through now-glazed eyes. So she was going to talk through this whole thing. About him.

The timing seemed appropriate, like the swell of a soundtrack keyed to the climax of a film, so I slipped my middle finger just inside my opening. It made me start, giving me a little shock, but I answered breathily, “Standing up.”

“He prefers you that way?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” My finger now slides long into my vagina, and though it is nothing like the fuller presence of his cock, it reminds me of him, as if my cunt has sensation memory. “He likes me against a wall,” I said.

“He pounds you there.”

None of this conversation is necessary. Every time I return from Master M’s, she debriefs me, having me recount everything in juicy detail, all of the sex, explicitly. She already knows everything. She already knows the answer to what she just asked.

“Yes,” I replied, acceding to her prompting, “he pounds me there against a wall.”

She said, “He likes the force of it, I imagine, the thrust into you.”

I nodded, my finger now sliding in and out of my very wet vagina.

“Do you like it too?” she asked — again something she know full well.

“It’s rough,” I said. “He’s heavy with me.”

“But do you like it?”

“He sometimes pounds the breath out of me.”

“Do you like it?”

I was not wanting to give her this, but soon enough I answered: “Yes, I like it.” I paused again, and then gave her all the words she wanted to hear: “Yes, I like it when he fucks me hard against the wall.”

For some time, she continued with the McKenna questions. I knew they were designed to intensify my feelings of sexual subjugation, to press buttons of my humiliation — which she knew would excite me deeply. And did.

So: “Does he enjoy you sucking his cock as much as you love cocksucking?”

I wanted to say she would need to ask him, but then I thought she probably already had. My finger continued inside me, pulling out on occasion to wet my swollen labia. “I think it’s a casual thing to him,” I managed to say, “not sex.” With anyone else, that would take many minutes more to unpack and explain, but she knew the shorthand.

She didn’t pursue that, but asked me another complicated question: “Do you like it when he fucks your ass?”


The questions notwithstanding, if this could last for hours, I would be a very happy girl and revel in the luxury of it. It didn’t take hours, of course, but I lost track of time, which is almost the same thing.

After awhile she got up from the couch, hiked up her midi skirt, and slipped off her panties underneath. She pulled her skirt up around her waist as she sat back down, with one leg propped up on the couch and the other on the floor, spreading her pussy to the open air.

The light was dim across our shared space, the candle illuminating my sex, but leaving her in shadow. Yet I could tell that her hand started playing her own symphony, that she was fondling herself in the flickers of my arousal.

We were just six feet apart, but now it felt even closer, intimate, women in our own glow of loving, as if my bare and oozing pussy was pressed and scissored flush against hers.

Now all talk of Master M was left behind, and there were no more rhetorical questions about his fucking of me. This was about us, no one else, just her with me bound by steel chains and submissive need and a slave’s dependent love.

I found her eyes again, our link to this, our sex together. My finger, which could never approximate his girth, now played the part of her tongue, flicking at my entrance, sliding along my crease. When my finger pressed in and popped inside me, it was as if it was her lips had plumped against me there and her wet tongue had burst inside me, exploring, as if there were depths of me she does not already possess.

There was time, and then more time, and my pussy swelled until it throbbed.

My eyes stayed open to her gaze, my sight linked to hers as if tethered. When her own arousal swelled, her eyes would close, and when they reopened from her swoon, my eyes were there for her.

Perhaps she, like me, imagined our other times — our bodies pressed close, our breasts full and ample rolling around each other, our drenched pussies kissing. But really there was something special about this, about not being flesh to flesh in bed. We were making love across the room.


There’s a moment when you know one of your inner waves will not subside, but keep gushing higher and higher into a massive tidal release. You wait for that, yet hold it off, anticipating.

It finally rolled through me. I opened my mouth but said nothing, my orgasm uttered as a silent O surrounded by the faintest of squeaks.

Though deep in her own swell, she watched as I soared.

I tensed and stretched against my restraints until it took me over and folded under itself. My shudders rattled my chains.

Through it all, my eyes remained fixed on her. She smiled at my come, pleased, yet her eyes were glazed by her own pleasure.

I stayed with her, my body now limp. She breathed harder, fighting the physical reflex to close her eyes. She writhed as she brought herself to climax.

She moaned, then screamed.


Again, there was time, and more time. We each floated back down. There were no words.

Presently she stood, smoothed her skirt back over her, and walked to me. Kneeling close, she placed two fingers to her lips, then to mine.

She reached down to free me from my eyehooks, my chains.

But I said, “Mistress, please leave me like this awhile.”

the feeling of being used

I’ve been thinking lately about my desire to “be used.”

It comes from the same place in me as my submissive need, but is different and deeper.

I obey Amanda on a daily basis, submissively performing a few chores each week, say “yes, mistress” to her commands, and serve her wishes as her slave. This is simply the D/s arrangement of our lives, how we live — my submissive need serving her dominant desire.

But sometimes it becomes something more. Like when Amanda fitted me with a waist tray for the BBQ party (here). Or when she puts me naked in the bay window. And times when Amanda calls me in to service her orally, then dismisses me when she is done. In each of these, the feeling for me is more than my being submissive — it’s the experience of being used.

It happens with others too. There are times Master McKenna has me suck his cock and it’s part of my submission to him, yet other times I suck his cock, and it feels different — it’s this thing of being used. Kevin, too: although in my reinvented life with him he is now more genteel, he has occasionally talked about “using my holes” and then gone about doing it. I submit to him that way, but the feeling is more than submission — it’s something else, something more, a feeling of being used.

On the other hand, standing topless in front of the trash men that day felt to me humiliating, but I experienced it more as my “normal” submissive duty in subservience to Amanda. I didn’t feel used, per se, though my embarrassment was deep.

Being used also does not seem to be especially related to intensity. It’s not just a heavier degree of being dominated. Kevin has in the past administered to me whippings that have left me gasping for air and dignity, but that experience as I felt it wasn’t the same as being used.

Confusing. Being used seems to be a reality separate from submission though emerging from it, yet not always occurring when and how we might think it might.

So what is this thing, “being used”?


It seems sometimes my being used is about being reduced to a function.

My wearing the waist tray at the BBQ party is a good example. Once strapped into the tray, I no longer was a person, even a slave person, and I became a tray. It was a novelty at first, and people talked to me initially as I walked around bearing their drinks. But after a while, I was just a serving tray, and they took drinks from “me the tray” without saying a word. I became merely functional.

A lot of the submissive life is objectifying, of course, and not all objectification carries this quality of feeling used. Maybe it transitions from “being submissive” to “being used” when it gets very specific and concrete — like being used as a tray or as a reading lamp or as a footstool.

This “functional use” can be sexual as well. In fact, that’s where I feel my deepest longings for it.

In the “old” days, when Kevin and Amanda and I were living together, fellatio was my “breakfast” under the kitchen table. (In fact — funny this — she would sometimes come into the kitchen, say “Good morning.” Kevin would grunt “Morning” back to her, and then a moment later, she’d hear a garbled “Good morning, mistress,” from me under the table with Kevin’s cock still in my mouth. She always laughed at that.)

Anyway… sometimes Kevin got up late, had to run, and had no time in the kitchen for “breakfast.” Instead, he took me to work with him in his truck so he could use my mouth. I was good at sucking cock without making a mess and he was good at safe driving while I was doing so. While my fellatios under the breakfast table were submissively objectifying in themselves, they felt to me part of my submissive life with him. It was only when he took me in his truck for my cock-sucking “function” that I really felt used. I’m not sure that’s a distinction that makes sense to others rationally, but it was profoundly distinctive to me emotionally.

“Being used” seems sometimes not to be about the thing itself, but about how the thing becomes my regular function, and how it forms the assumption by another that this is what I am made to do.


The feeling of being used, it seems to me, is also connected to the idea of something being unrequited — that is, one-sided, a use of me that doesn’t return anything to my submissive need.

This can surface in doing chores, but not in the usual way. One of my regular chores is to scrub the kitchen floor on my hands and knees. Normally, I am put in a short skirt for this and kept topless, so it’s sexualized, but it still is productive work, to my mind at least, and I enjoy it. But sometimes, after I’ve finished the floor and stand before Amanda proudly, my breasts coated in suds and my little skirt drenched, she will order me, “Now do it again.”

The point is that she knows the first time I did it I enjoyed the process of scrubbing the floor. It satisfies my sense of accomplishment in doing a submissive thing. But being made to do the floor a second time has no purpose and does not return to me the same sub satisfaction. This is a time when I feel used.

Always there’s a sexual version of this. Sometimes Amanda will shackle my hands behind my back, have me kneel before her, and spread her pussy for my attentions. With my lips and tongue, without use of my hands, I service her, wetly bringing her to orgasm. But this is unrequited: she doesn’t turn it around and say, “Now let me do you.” When she is done, she says, “You may go now.” In that, I am used.

Again, this is common to a lot of what happens in the submissive life. A slave is made to service her domme — of course. It’s part of the submissive life, for sure. But it’s not the first time or even the second that the feeling of being used comes in. It’s in the times after, as it becomes an assumption this is not a random event but is my regular function, that I am meant to provide her pleasure without expectation of receiving pleasure myself. I am used as a sex toy, her dildo with the latex tongue.


Being used feels to me to an experience of being consumed and being seen by others as consumable.

The bay window is proving to be that sort of thing. When Amanda poses me there, my thighs spread, I feel used in this consumable way — my sensation of others drinking in images of me and my sexuality and my sexual parts. They take me into themselves, take me home, take me into their fantasies, consuming me.

Recently I was struck by an image by Michael on his “Dionysian Experience” website. It was the realistic digital art he does so well, of Sienna, the submissive woman in his life. In this particular painting, Sienna lies naked on her back, thighs spread, pussy bare, atop a Thanksgiving table, food dishes arranged around her body. It’s literally an image of sexual consumption, and I commented to Michael I related to it so well, that I wanted to be her. (You can read my comment to his post and picture.)

These days, in this new neighborhood wokeness about me, I feel I’m on that Thanksgiving table, naked and pussy-spread, a creamy side dish available for consumption. Now that they know about me as submissive and slave, they see me in this sense of one who is used, aware now that I am meant to be consumed, used up. They may not understand why, and they may pity me in some sense, but they also enjoy the scandal of me, wondering if it is proper to use me to dip their drumstick. So to speak…

“Being used” as such, whether in reality or by metaphor of the “Thanksgiving spread,” is disgraceful, of course, but for me also desirable — and perhaps desirable because of its very disgrace.


It isn’t all the time. In fact, I prefer most of my days to live in simple leashed submission to Amanda. But there are times when I wish for this other “gear” of the submissive life, this deeper experience of being used.

I wish for it and yet don’t. It’s the aspect of the D/s life that still scares me — not in terms of physical danger but in its psychological depth. I could get lost in it. Being used is something I desire, then dread… then desire again.

For all of this speculation, there remains this question I cannot answer: why do I desire being used, and sometimes desire it so wantonly?

another update

I trust everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving Day, hopefully with family, friends, and maybe with your submissive or dominant Others.


I hate to belabor my medical condition, but just to report that I am doing better, thank god, having to sleep less and finding myself with more stamina. I’m still far from normal — “normal” being a word not usually applied to me anyway — but in any case, I have a ways to go in my recovery.


Amanda has been taking me on walks again. This is part of the fall-winter season when we have cold days alternating with spring-like days in the sixties. She doesn’t take me out in the cold, but she’ll walk me on the leash along the front road on the days that are more warmish.

For now, there’s no toplessness even on the warmer days, even though Amanda has determined the neighbors will deal with it without protest and with pleasure. For now, they seem to like seeing me on a leash, and come out to chat when we’re walking around. We’ll see how friendly they are when I’m topless.


It’s still hard for me to muster energy for writing, so my posts are slowed down. My apologies.


When I was first diagnosed with mono, Amanda advised me that the hard part for me will come after the first month when I start to emerge from it, yet am not well yet. “With that,” she said, “will come your sexual drive, but not yet with the energy to do anything sexual.” (I don’t assume Amanda knows this herself but got it from the doctor.)

Well, I am in that moment right now. My desire is roaring back, I have fantasies galore, and am eagerly willing to be anyone’s slut-fuck. But I don’t have the stamina to do any of that. Apparently, even submissive sex takes a lot of energy.

Amanda is debating whether to give me a special dispensation to masturbate.


There’s also the matter of my being contagious. Mono is a virus spread through body fluids, which includes sexual transmission. It’s the Epstein-Barr virus. (I’ve learned that actually a lot of people have this virus in them but it never activates nor presents symptoms.)

The point is that the activated virus remains contagious for a long time, though it is believed to be mostly diminished after three months from inception. The thought is that I contracted it about a month before it was diagnosed, and so by January, I should be “safe” for others again.


Tomorrow, Blake is coming over to install the dog run and the slate pathway.

Always something to look forward to…

Blake and the dog run

It was warmer today, in the sixties, one of those days pretending to be fall but with the unmistakable scent of winter. Yet it was warm enough to justify me being outside, warm enough to make Amanda’s little scene in the back yard possible.

Blake arrived around one-thirty, as scheduled, but I was napping and missed the conversation he and Amanda had in the kitchen. At two, she roused me and laid out my outfit, then ushered Blake into the back yard while I got ready.

I have written about Blake before. He is some ten years younger than me, and looks even younger. With short, dark hair, he’s attractively tall and wiry, with strength that’s more sinewy than muscled. He hasn’t attended college, so I’ve learned, but has been seemingly successful in forming his own carpentry business, and is intuitively smart about matters pertaining to his work.

Blake is quiet and reserved and so is a bit of a puzzle to decipher. Perhaps that’s what makes him attractive to me. I am drawn to “interior” men, like mystery novels.

In the past, I have wondered about how he sees me. (For those new to my blog, Blake is the architect of Amanda’s house-bondage “stations” — the entryway wall, the wet bar, and the easy chair. He has done “bondage room” construction for other lifestyle people as well, but he doesn’t seem to be in the lifestyle himself.) While we’ve had previous encounters (here and here), and these have involved a limited intimacy, we aren’t really “friends” in any way. He knows what I am, a slave in the lifestyle, but I don’t know how he relates — if he enjoys the thought of me being a slave or judges me for it.

He and Amanda were on the lawn by the tree when I emerged onto the patio. Her look for me was a retro green-plaid skirt, flared and hemmed just above the knee. On top, she had me wearing just my cream-colored cardigan, button-down, shaping my breasts. While Amanda’s dressing me is an everyday thing, this outfit felt more like a presentation, perhaps because I’d been lounging in Pjs for weeks, or maybe just because it was Blake out there. Again, I wondered how he saw me, and I imagined it was either as a debutante or perhaps as a MILF. Or maybe just as a sorry slave.

They were talking about the installation of the dog run. “I’d like slate tiles,” Amanda was saying, “following the path of the cable. I want to have her out here in high heels and watch her step from tile to tile along the run.” So, it was clear to Blake this was for me not for a dog we might have been planning to adopt. I suppose Blake knew this when Amanda first called him, but I found myself blushing nonetheless.

The tie-out cable itself was not much of a job, except for where to attach the end opposite the tree. Originally, Amanda thought the terminus would be the aspen sapling on the east edge of the property, but Blake didn’t think that was secure enough.

While they were talking, Amanda called me to her and unbuttoned my cardigan. She undid me all the way down, leaving just the two bottom ones to keep my sweater closed at my waist while leaving it open above. Standing in front of me, Amanda coaxed out my breasts into the open air, my sweater panels falling away to each side. It was Amanda’s plan to keep me both warm and yet topless.

“There, that’s better,” Amanda said, stepping away. I felt the sun warming my breasts. I felt Blake’s eyes warming them too. I remember times ago he would look away, diverting his eyes, perhaps thinking he had no right to partake of me. Now he looks, maybe having learned it is my place to absorb stares of lust and longing.

The continued their discussion, and Blake suggested connecting the cable to the house itself, above the patio. “You can have her,” he said, “on the dog run right through the patio.” I knew Amanda was enjoying him speaking of me in the third person.

Humiliation is a coat of many colors. Crimson shame can mix with sunshine desire to create peach-flesh passion. One can feel exposed and diminished at the same time as feeling wanted and wanting. I remember in that moment I couldn’t help but wonder what this might have been if Blake and I had met in more ordinary circumstances.

I knew Amanda was suddenly imagining me leashed to the dog run while on the patio, perhaps serving drinks at a party while leashed above. To her the possibilities were, no doubt, delicious.

It had already been determined that the cable would be retractable, and could be hidden in its coil on the opposite side of the tree, out of sight. But Amanda, though she loved the patio idea, now struggled with the slate path being parallel (and redundant) to the brick pathway already in place from the patio to the far end of the yard. “Redundant,” she said. It wasn’t feng shui enough for her.

She spoke her concerns, and Blake had no immediate solution.

I stood, of course, in topless silence. Blake and Amanda were standing side by side, looking across the lawn to the patio. By chance, I was standing opposite them, in the path of their gazes. Amanda may have been focused on the patio but Blake wasn’t.

The sun felt good on my naked breasts, I must say, its rays coating them like warm butter. My nipple rings glinted in the sunlight. My blushed embarrassment notwithstanding, it was lovely to be outside and feel like a woman again.

Amanda asked Blake how much work it would take to create the tile path beyond the tree and out to the rise of the hill on the east.

“I can do it,” he said, “but it’s a bigger job then. You might want your landscaper to do it.”

Amanda nodded. “It occurs to me our neighbors might like the path coming into their yard. They walk over here all the time — this back way. The tiles would make it easier for Patricia, especially… And that way the path could curve to the side. It would look better that way.”

“Then again,” Blake said, “The holidays are down time for me. I have an open schedule until January. ”

I wondered if he felt the job might mean more exposure to, well, my exposure. I also wondered if, for me, the possible outcomes would be me in the presence of Blake versus me in the presence of a landscaping crew.

In my mind I was voting for Blake when Amanda said, “Deal.”

That solved, Amanda had one more thing to do. She instructed Blake to stand on the patio. At the tree, she attached a leash to the back of my collar. “Visualize the path we follow,” she told him.

Her instruction was to walk slowly in an arc to where Blake was standing. “Like a processional at a wedding,” she said to me.

“Is that a proposal?” I asked.

She laughed.

I walked, leashed from behind, as instructed — taking a step with one foot, then bringing my other even with it, then reversing the order.

It was later I realized this was entirely unnecessary. She just wanted me to step this way to give Blake the visual — my halting steps bringing me to full stops with every stride, sending ripples through my breasts each time. His pleasure, my humiliation.

Though in a way I didn’t mind.

pajamas

She has started to dress me again, which means, of course, the opposite.


Since the mono diagnosis, I have lived in PJs. This has been a special dispensation from Amanda. Since I have slept about half of every daytime as well as at night, it has been senseless for Amanda to try to maintain her daily outfit selections for me, as I would simply be taking them off anyway for my frequent stints in bed.

There’s also been a need for me to be kept warm, which makes the general rule of no pants, skirts and dresses only, an invitation for chills. My usual nightwear of thin, short chemises wouldn’t do during mono time. Consequently, Amanda has allowed me to wear cotton PJs, actual cotton tops and pajama bottoms that cover my legs and other parts to keep me warm.

Traditional pajamas are such a novelty in my life that I actually don’t own any. So Amanda bought several sets for me, which have been cycled through the wash every few days.

She tried to find PJs that had a D/s or BDSM theme — and they exist — but she for some reason declined to buy them. Perhaps it was just hard for her to put her slave girl clinging to the edge of life into a pajama top that says, “Flip over to spank me.”


Readers will remember that I have written longingly for the feel of soft fabric in the form of a bra hugging my breasts and plush panties to cradle my pussy. My owners and keepers have not allowed this, and I have lived without bra or panties for a number of years.

PJs during this brief time are really different, soft and warm and protecting. But most of this time I haven’t had energy or lucidity to enjoy my cotton nirvana. In my condition it’s been lost on me. And, besides, PJs are not the same as a cozy bra.

Some readers, especially some men I’m aware of, will be relieved that during this time I still have not worn a bra or panties, that my “streak” of being so deprived has continued.


The “PJ era” seems to be over. I have been doing better, and we’re past the time of worrying about chills.

Amanda is dressing me again.

Today she has me in a burnt orange midi skirt and a simple white button-down blouse, sort of retro. It’s actually a little dressy, which is nice. I think Amanda thinks it’s time for me to feel better about myself.

I was standing, per ritual, with the coffee tray this morning, and as Amanda poured her mug, she looked at me approvingly. But she had me set the tray down and stand before her.

Amanda unbuttoned my blouse, leaving just two buttons at my waist. She opened the panels of my blouse and coaxed my breasts out.

“Now you’re dressed,” she said.

words about myself: elegance

Already this sounds self-boasting, and I don’t mean it to be. You will remember the many times I’ve spoken of my klutziness, of stumbling over own my feet at parties, of spilling drinks from a tray. I can be a tripping mess, so clearly I’m not suggesting elegance as some level I’ve attained. It’s clearly not (yet) my own accomplishment.

But apart from any social elegance, I think it may also be a mindset, one which is being instilled in me gradually.

I think something started when Master McKenna trained me early on in how he wants me to sit and stand and walk. It reminded me of the old concept of etiquette training for women, “finishing schools” that tutored women on how to present themselves elegantly in social settings. The results of Master M’s training of me are subtle, but real.

Amanda is herself an elegant woman, tall and graceful and confident in red lipstick. She seems always to have been amused by my occasional swirls of bumbles and stumbles, and it may be she likes that side of me — she certainly accepts it. And yet she also seems to have an image of me as her “slave of elegance.” It’s evident sometimes in how she dresses me and how she takes me on walks. I am the girl on her leash at parties, and she wants me to be seen standing “beside and behind” her in a certain sort of refinement — to be a slave of confident grace.

To that end, she has appreciated Master M’s physical training of me, and extended it into our lives together. I have continued these postures throughout all my hours and days, when I’m with Amanda as well, and it’s now more of what I am.

Of course, these rules of slave posture and etiquette are just the physical window into my slave mindset. Elegance in standing from a sitting position without fuss and extra fidgets itself compels a whole way of thinking about myself as a slave. It is about projecting a quiet, unfussy, acceptance of my slave state to others, about a clean confidence in the midst of my public humiliations, about a passive grace in the face of people’s judgments.

Recently, Amanda has been dressing me in maxi skirts and high heels. It’s a combination that can be quite elegant, but she’s also, in her dom fashion statement, kept me topless. The lesson, though she’s never stated it, is how do I maintain the elegance of the outfit even while my breasts are amply displayed? And somehow it happens: I walk about the house in “the Master M way,” my shoulders back, my steps economical, my posture straight and unfussy. More to the point, I appear notably unapologetic for being only half-dressed. Or at least sometimes.

This may be one of those occasions when outward presentation works an inner transformation. And vice-versa — once it becomes internal, it prompts the external behavior.

It’s true that my behavior training has cause me to start thinking differently.

How, I am now asking myself, can I be “elegant” while shackled to the entryway wall as guests are arriving? How can I possibly be “elegant” while stretched over the wet bar, my legs spread and ass out?

I think it has something to do with the idea of “unfussy” — learning within myself how not to mentally and psychologically “squirm” but rather settle into an inner tacit acceptance of my place and purpose. I recently wrote about a submissive woman I observed whom I was mesmerized by. I think it was this — a kind of inner, passive elegance that I saw in her.

To be clear, neither Amanda nor Master M are wanting me to be lifeless and robotic. None of this leads to that. I still express my “sparkling personality” through my new elegant postures of outward body and inner being. And I can’t say my new training has eliminated my klutziness. Amanda rather likes my oopses and finds them endearing. Master M smiles when I stumble, although I suppose his tolerance may have to do with how many drinks are on the tray I’m carrying.

But I am learning that my elegance in presentation has to do with my inner self-acceptance as a slave. It’s becoming a subtle shift in my slavery.

words about myself: “value”

The irony is I am valued for allowing myself to be devalued. My “worth” often lies in giving myself to being objectified and used sexually: often a literal stripping of my being from a higher value down to a lower value — and then being valued all the more for giving myself to it.

Of course, a submissive enjoys being devalued in some mysterious way, and a dominant thrills to having a girl like me whom he or she can devalue in daily life. This is the dynamic of D/s. I accept it. I submit to it. I “enjoy” it.

However, “enjoy” is a more complicated feeling than that suggests. Being devalued is a submissive pleasure, for sure, but not just casual “fun.” While it’s a deeply satisfying life somehow, it also involves a sobering struggle to replace the value stripped from me with something else that reassures me of my worth.

I am placed, naked, in the bay window, my legs spread and my pussy bared and gaping. My value is stripped from me as people observe and lust. In those moments, I have to find something within that gives me a purpose-value despitemy shame.

So I tell myself that by submitting to this humiliation I am pleasing Mistress A. In being viewed sexually, so I whisper, I provide an erotic pleasure to others. By obediently giving myself to this exhibition, I become a better slave.

I believe these all to be true, and I use them to build up my value even as I am devalued.

Even so, I know the audience is simply seeing me objectified. I’m not just a nude girl, but one who has been made to show herself this way, one who has obeyed and now sits in public with her womanhood glistening.

Who does this? No one, except a deep submissive, except someone like me.

And in that, perhaps, is a perverse sort of value.


Yes, my value is partly based on scarcity. True submissives are hard to find, so it goes, like truffles buried in mossy loam. Uncovered and taken, we become a rare delicacy, valued for our unique taste.

Yet our scarcity comes also from the ignominy of living as a slave: Who would submit to such a life? Not many, it seems. I am rare, I kinda know, but dubiously so: I’m “precious” because no one else will clean the toilets.

But I have convinced myself that a slave is in a unique category of provision and purpose needed in the social structure — a world in which everyone else is bent on achievement and importance and being successful. The world needs more people to be on the bottom, literally “bottoms” who are happy and fulfilled being so.

I think a slave provides to dominant persons a useful and flexible relationship that becomes a kind of lubricant for their daily lives. I provide assistance in the middle of stress, therapy in the middle of conflict, and, well, sex in the middle of the day.

In this, I have come to truly embrace my value as a submissive to others: bringing comfort and pleasure into their lives as a slave.

I don’t have a personal mission statement, but if I did, that might be it.


At Master McKenna’s retreat, I was “valued” by five dominant men for my breasts. I know, because they said so in front of me: “She has a good tits.” “They bounce nice.” (I went to college, have a degree in literature, and it comes to this. 😉)

But I am used to it now, my value being reduced to my boobs — or my legs or high-heeled feet or my thighs or my pussy in a bay window. In vanilla life, this sort of thing is rather forbidden anymore; in the slave life, it’s sort of the point.

But more to the point is that my erotic objectification to those men at the retreat was also influenced by their experience of me in sessions — hearing me respond to questions, witnessing my way with words, chuckling at my sense of humor. In other words, my tits are even better to them because I am a reasonably smart cookie and somehow I’ve made myself topless anyway.

I don’t mean this to be just about me — it applies to every submissive and whatever skills and talents and smarts she possesses. I’m talking about one who plays the piano or who can cook a delicious meal or who has amazing intellect or is a part of the PTA or leads a reading group. In D/s life, as she is reduced to having a great pair of legs or a killer ass, she is all the more juicy because she can do these other things.

I know that when I am devalued, it means more because I have abilities of worth that are being stripped away. I am more attractive sitting pussy-bare in a bay window because others know I am a woman of words and now am not able to use those words, reduced only to my sex.


These are just my musings on the subject of value. But maybe I can end on a note of (humble) advice.

Yes, the submissive life is very much about being devalued. But I think it’s a mistaken notion that the best slave is one without any self-worth.

To the contrary, the best slave is one with a lot of worth to be stripped away.

afterfeelings

Since my recent time with Master McKenna, I have found myself in a different kind of space.

Domination stays with you, it seems.

In the background now is this sense of detachment from him, not as in aloofness but as one who was once attached, then became detached, and now so longs to be attached to him again.

Being used by a man, and so thoroughly, is a unique dependency.

We submissives need to be consumed. It’s the beautiful shame of our being. While we claim that being dominantly used is (strangely) satisfying to us, the truth is that we are never satisfied, that the more we are used, the more we crave.

They make us need them.


He has gotten inside me, made me dependent, made me crave him, to the point that sexual intercourse with him is simply a metaphor.

Now he has pulled out of me, and I am empty. Detached.

Until next month.


If M is my consuming dominant, Amanda is my nurturing dominant.

In her arms I find replenishment, upon her breasts I find rest, and between her dripping lips I find nourishment. She dominates me, yes, but in a way that only another woman can dominate another woman, in a way that celebrates what makes me female and submissive.

From her, I fill up the crevices of my womanhood that he consumes.

on McKenna time, 7, final day with Master M

Monday morning, and Master McKenna was reviewing with me a few changes to a particular report he will present on his trip later this week.

Mr. Galli arrived at ten, his usual time. I was then part of a meeting with him and Master McKenna in the Great Room. Even though I finished the reports last Friday and there was nothing on my plate for the coming week, they included me. I expect this will be the routine every time I visit. I like the real work and the professional connection.

I was still mini-skirted in heels, as Master M likes me, although he specified a skirt that morning not quite so “mini” as usual. I could maybe get away with it in some offices. I was glad for this, given Mr. Galli’s presence.

Mr. Galli needed a copy of something, and I took it from him, and click-clacked in my heels to the copier in the other room.

They were talking about their trip, reviewing details. I take it they enjoy traveling together. They have a shorthand of communication developed over some years of travel time.

I returned with the copy, handed it to Galli, and sat once again. Master McKenna got a call on his cell and took it from his chair. Mr. Galli rooted through his briefcase for an itinerary.

It was a normal business morning. A relaxed and routine, but necessary, meeting.

Master McKenna finished his call. He told me to get him a refill of coffee. I asked Mr. Galli if he’d like some too. He said yes. I left, then returned with two steaming mugs.

The two of them agreed to meet at the airport for their flight Wednesday morning. They talked about a restaurant in Chicago they might try that night. Master M leaned back in his chair, and asked Galli, “Do I have the itinerary?”

Mr. Galli nodded and said, “I sent it to you, but I’ve made a few changes already this morning. Shae could make you a copy of my changes.”

I stood to do so.

I didn’t notice at first — I was watching Mr. Galli. But he was looking at McKenna, puzzled. My eyes followed his gaze. Maser McKenna was slapping the top of his left wrist. I was blank on it for a second, but then it registered. It was the signal.

It took me a moment to process, a brief hesitation. Maybe Master by accident started to slap his wrist? But no, it was too uncommon a gesture to be a mistake. My heart raced. This was really going to happen? Now and here?

I was in a bit of a daze, but I dutifully followed my new training. I walked over to Master’s easy chair, and stood facing him from the left side..

He looked up at me and smiled.

Yes, this was for real.

He gestured with both index fingers sliding upward. We didn’t rehearse this, but there was no mistaking. I reached to the bottom of my top and peeled it upward, over my head, and off. My breasts out and naked, I could not bear to look sideways at Mr. Galli.

Master sat in the same chair we practiced yesterday, which made this easier. (I had also practiced some more later in the day.)

I squatted to a near -90-degree angle, leaned forward, and reached across his lap. I balanced my weight with my hands on the opposite arm, and let myself down. It wasn’t quite perfect — I had to adjust once — but I got my breasts to clear the the opposite side, where they hung down. I reached and grabbed the right-side legs of the chair.

I remembered to spread my legs behind me, bracing them in the carpet.

I realize now in re-living Monday morning, that the attention to form — the specifics of the process and the precision that Master requires — became a distraction from the humiliation I was going through. It had built up in me such a desire to “do the movements” effectively, to earn a good grade, so to speak, that I got into the experience automatically, by routine.

Once there across his lap, the awareness of my degradation more fully set in: I was going to be spanked in front of Mr. Galli.

With two hands, Master M pulled my skirt up from behind, and I could feel him pull it evenly and neatly to the mid-point of my back. Even in spanking, Master himself follows a precise form.

I could not see, of course, but I could not help but imagine Mr. Galli’s eyes scanning my legs and my pale ass cheeks and my bare-shaved labia cracked open between my spread legs.

Master M rubbed my cheeks first, then squeezed them, then squeezed them harder. His hand came down and hit me with a stinging but mild slap. The second was harder. But I will say that those that followed were the same intensity — hard and stinging but absorbable. I think he gave me a dozen spanks.

It went quickly. The pain was in the sting, not the heaviness of the blows. Still it hurt. I tried not to moan loudly, but I couldn’t help repress a few soft yelps. My eyes watered, though I’m not sure as much about pain as shame.

Master finished, rubbed my ass cheeks once, pulled my skirt back down, and said “Good.”

I brought my legs together, re-anchored them into the carpet, and pushed myself up from the chair arm. It was not as smooth a “dismount” as desired, but I managed to make my way back to my feet.

I picked up my top and put it back on. I’m not sure now I was supposed to do so, but I did.

The whole thing took maybe three minutes. It felt like an hour.

As I recall it, there was silence. A few moments. I guess even for the men there wasn’t any kind of etiquette for conversation following a live girl-spanking. I somehow felt it was on me in some way to say something.

“I’ll make that copy for you now, Mr. Galli,” I said. I walked to him, not able to look him in the eyes, and he handed the itinerary to me. I left to make the copy. I just wanted to get out of the room.

As I walked out, I heard the men chuckle and say some things I couldn’t decipher.


In retrospect, my humiliation Monday morning was deepened because of the business-meeting context, in which I had a part, albeit a clerical part. That “legitimized” me in advance, which made my actual spanking all the more debasing.

You often know when another knows what you are and can imagine what is done to you — in this case, Mr. Galli. In their presence you always feel a faint veneer of “being known,” but it’s at a distance, filtered through imagination.

With Mr. Galli it was now real, first-hand, visceral. He had seen my submissive shame first-hand. Now when we work together, when I click-clack off to make copies, he will always see me like this, spread and spanked.


In retrospect, I wonder if Master’s intent from the beginning of the week was always to reach this finale on Monday morning.

Probably.

on McKenna time, 6, spanking

At the time of posting this, my visit with Master M has finished, and I am home again. What follows are some of my notes and recollections that I didn’t have time to post while I was there.

Sorry that what I post here is a mess — my raw notes, half-edited but not really, and not in my usual narrative. It’s a jumble, but if I wait to write it out more polished, it won’t get posted for a long time.


“At times I will spank you.”

“No, really, sir, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine without.” [Said with a touch of “ham-on-wry.”]

He smiles, but forges on: “When I spank you, what’s the purpose?” [His Socratic mode.]

“For your pleasure. And my humiliation.”

“Yes.” He seems pleased I have grasped and remembered the mantra for the week. “In our lifestyle,” he says, “spanking gets confused with punishment. I don’t use it that way.”


He establishes with me a signal for spanking time.

He lightly slaps the back of his left hand with his right. He says that in the company of others, it will be practically unnoticeable, but it will be, now, understandable to me. He will call my name, slap the back of his hand, and I will come to him, standing by his side, facing him.


He asked me about my childhood associations with being spanked.

Yes, I was spanked. No, it wasn’t especially traumatic. Yes, as an adult now, I still associate it with childhood punishment.

Picture: Me sitting at his feet, one arm supporting me on the area rug, my legs curled to the side, my miniskirt barely covering me — this week I have long stopped caring about what shows or doesn’t show.

“Were you ever spanked in front of others?”

“I don’t remember if I was, sir.”

“If I were to spank you in front of a crowd of other adults, how would you feel?”

“Do you have an audience waiting in the atrium ready to come in and watch me being spanked?” [He seems to let me be wry and sarcastic, but how far does this go? Does he know this is my natural nervous response? I’ll need to find out somehow.]

He smiled and chuckled [good sign]. “I’ll see if I can arrange that,” he said. [He actually played along.]

“Yes, it would humiliate me to be seen being spanked by others. Of course.”

“It would humiliate you, but not traumatize you?”

“Yes.”


Maybe Thursday?

He is prowling through my mind on the subject of spanking. I admit to him that public spanking is an erotic fantasy of mine, but not something I necessarily desire in person. “It’s a submissive response,” I say. “Love-hate. It’s thrilling in a fantasy story, but something else in person. I might desire it for real, but in a different way. I don’t know.”

I know full well his intention is to spank me sometimes in public. It’s no longer an “if.” I know that whether I like it or not matters not to Master McKenna. He wants to know what my submissive feeling will be when he does me across his lap — just so he can enjoy it. He wants to enjoy my debasement as he is slapping me.


It’s important that I come to his left side. I have to remember this. Left side. He is left-handed and wants his spanks to come at me from that side.


Another conversation about spanking. He is crawling through my mind on this.

I am sharing with him, willingly telling him my secrets. [This is the strange, unique partnership of dom and sub, with me the slave supplying fuel to him the dom for his deeper humiliation of me. As we slave girls share more of ourselves, we are all the while abetting our own submissive humiliation.]

He and I talk about the experience of being an adult taken across another’s lap and hit by hand. He is not one for pet play, or for making his slave a little girl. The outrage of a spanking for him (and me) is based on the fact that I am an adult, a fully grown-up woman, yet being spanked across his lap. Who does that?

He asks how I’d feel if spanked by someone younger. “It would be more debasing,” I admit. How would I be as a submissive woman, slave, to a younger person has come up before and makes me feel something different? I don’t know. [I need to explore this more myself.]


Another talk-time about spanking:

He asks if I have written spanking fiction. Yes, I have, and I mention one post. [Note: forward it to him.] This is the public aspect of the act, the special shame of being spanked in front of witnesses. I tell him I will feel a deep disgrace to be spanked in front of strangers. Like, in front of the staff, god forbid.

It feels I am talking too much to him, revealing more than I should, perhaps, although these are the territory rights of a master.

He wants to know how my being spanked fucks with my mind.


He mentioned the general outrage of gender in spanking — a man striking me, a woman, so regular a part of the D/s life yet so inappropriate in the vanilla world. An added insight for me: I will walk away from being spanked by this man, knowing I have allowed myself, a woman, to be done in such a way by him, a man, and already hearing the jeers of judgment, already my face blushing from the shame of it. [Blushing the same color as my ass.]


We actually practice this.

Left side. I will stand facing him.

He then will nod, and I am to squat beside him — not a full squat, but with my knees bending and my thighs coming to a 90-degree angle, as if I’m sitting on a chair, without the actual chair. (Must keep my back straight.) A difficult position to get to and more to maintain, but thankfully it’s just for a moment.

I am then to reach across his body for the opposite side of his chair. If he’s in an easy chair, this will be the arms of the chair on the opposite side. If he’s in a straight-back chair, it will be the edge of the seat itself.

My arms support me there for a moment, and I let myself down, gradually, until I am spread across his lap.

Even in such a thing as spanking, he prefers economy in movement, precision in my body posture and control. [Is precision his personality or obsession or fetish?]

To him — this is his pleasure really — all of my body posture-and-movement training tells others I have been trained this way. It shows others that Master has control of me even at the muscular level. He wants that. But for a body to be draped across a man’s lap is a particularly awkward movement. Even this he doesn’t want to be fumbling and fussy.

We practice this part of it a few times. My thighs start to hurt, but I push on. I am getting into a flow of movement, and at times I actually can be graceful.

“Take off your top.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” I say, all sassy.

He shakes his head, grins. “We have to practice breast placement,” he says.

My top comes off. “I think, sir, they’re already in the only place they can be.” More sass from me, but my breasts bounce out, my nipples are perky, and he doesn’t seem to care.

“You have a lot to place.”

“Nice,” I reply.

[He seems to accept my sass when it’s self-deprecating, coming out of my acknowledgement of my subservience to him.]

So it turns out, “breast placement” is a thing. In the straight-back chair without arms, he instructs me to extend my torso across his lap so my breasts hang on the other side. In the easy chair with padded armrests, though, my breasts rest partially on the rest, pushing that end of me up and making for him a slanted, more difficult body arrangement for my spanking.

“You have to eyeball it and adjust yourself as you stretch across. Your tits can wedge against the far side of the armrest but not lie on top of it.”

I try, rather awkwardly, and with some adjustments, get to the desired position, my breasts clearing the opposite arm. [Tab A fits into slot B.]

He doesn’t like adjustments. “Too fidgety,” he says.

I try it again several times, eventually doing it in one fluid motion.

“Good.” he says.

“But,” I say as I push myself up from him, “that’s this chair. What if you’re sitting in a different chair?”

“You’ll have to practice with different chairs. Learn to eyeball them.”

“So, in every chair you ever sit in, I must anticipate the possibility that you might decide to spank me, and I’ll have to estimate how far I stretch myself across my lap?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s the sort of thing your mind should be focused on.”

“I think it would be easier if you just grab me, yank me across your lap, and whack mercilessly on my ass cheeks.”

He says something like: “One: I don’t care what you think. Two: I will just grab you and spank you sometimes. Three: Other times I want others to see you submit automatically — and gracefully — to being spanked.”

[My thoughts: He’s so appealing when he gets into this bemused, half-joking-yet-serious dominant thing… Spanking for him is really a public deal… He actually does care what I think, but enjoys telling me he doesn’t.]

“It sounds like a lot of spanking times.”

“Maybe. That’s for me to decide.”

OK, then.


He has a phone call. Then another conversation with someone else by phone. He leaves.

We return to practice an hour later. [Write this as one continuous practice session?]


Once I (gracefully) assume the position across his lap, I am to grasp the right legs of the chair with my hands, so to steady myself.

“Now spread your legs so your feet are approximately parallel to the chair legs.”

I do. I dare to ask why.

“It opens your pussy from behind, which people want to see.”

“Well, good,” I say. “I was worried this would be less than ladylike.”

He laughs at that. [Good.]

My spread legs also steady me on that side, my heels angling into the carpet like anchors. I don’t know what they’ll do on bare floors.

The word “steady” is part of Master’s design. “As I spank you, you must not wriggle or twist or struggle. You are here in this position to receive the spanking. You must give yourself to it.”

He lifts my skirt, and I feel air on my cheek flesh. He slaps my ass twice , but rather lightly. Anticipating the third slap, I raise my rear toward him, and he reprimands me: “No, you may not reach for it. You just take it, absorb it. Don’t anticipate me. But when I do this for real, I’m quite sure you won’t want to be ass up.”

We also practice the aftermath, my pushing myself back up and out of the position after I am spanked — something like how a gymnast dismounts. This is hard for me, not pretty. I will have to practice.

We go through the sequence more times, and I’m finally remembering each step, but still needing work on my technique. I also know it will be harder when he spanks me for real.

I fear that Master is disappointed with me. “I’ll do better,” I promise him.

He calls it a day, or at least a morning. “Final thoughts?” he asks me.

“I think you’ve done this before, sir.”


Again, I’m sorry for the mess of my notes above. I’m sure it’s not easy reading.

So, all of that happened before Monday morning.

Then, Monday morning Master McKenna spanked me for real. I will post this later today or tomorrow. I don’t mean that as a tease, but simply because I’m still processing that in my thoughts and feelings.