update

Amanda leaves later today on an extended business trip, and tomorrow I go to the mansion to serve Master McKenna alongside Maria.

Master M has a trip scheduled starting next Monday, and both Maria and I will be accompanying him. This is for two board meetings in different cities on the east coast. That will be interesting and kind of fun, though Master has said to us that, in terms of D/s, it will be rather subdued. On the road, he cannot control the environment as he can at the mansion.

My neighborhood cock-begging experience happened some ten days ago. As always, because my writing process is so demanding and takes time to do, when I post something, it is at least a week later from when it happened.

In this case, much happened last week following my cock-beg walk that I haven’t been able to write and post as yet. I could post these after I get to the mansion tomorrow, but it’s not good for me to be focused on these past experiences with Amanda while I’m needing to focus on my present service to Master M.

All to say, I may try to post several things today. I don’t like posting more than once a day, but maybe this will have to be an exception. Sorry if it’s too much…

The news of my cock-beg walk got around the neighborhood last week, and some have expressed to Amanda disappointment I didn’t knock on their door. People have been urging Amanda to have me do it again soon.

Mistress’s plan apparently was always to make it a regular occurrence, but now isn’t sure if it would have the same affect upon me a second and third time. “It’s not much of a cock-beg,” she said, “if, at the very first house you go to, the answer is yes, even before you actually beg for it.”

My thoughts that it had been elaborately staged and pre-organized were unfounded, it seems. But Mistress Amanda now feels that, to do the cock-begging again, it has to be more pre-planned than it was.

“See,” I commented to Mistress, “you’ve created a monster.”

“Some of them have to say no, make you beg. Some have to reject you. And now you know what’s coming. It’s not the same.”

“Well, for the record,” I added, “I don’t like the begging part, but I kind of like the rest of it.”

“Of course you do,” she said with her mistressy smile.

Some ask, so I’ll just mention that I talk with my mother on the phone about twice a week. Well, I phone home about twice a week, and if my mom is lucid, I talk with her. If not, I talk with Lucille. Usually, in a given week, I get one reasonably cogent conversation with Mother.

She is about the same. Nothing new to report. The good news is that she seems happy in whatever reality she is aware of. I’m grateful for Lucille’s patient care of her. And I feel content in this arrangement, one in which I can live my life yet be confident that my Mother is in good hands.

I have asked Master and Mistress for permission to plan a trip back to Pennsylvania sometime in early summer. They are, of course, more than willing to facilitate that. Dates to be determined.

This past week has been busy with people. We did an elephant gift with Mr. Hawkins, Amanda’s lifestyle friend Dayna stopped in one afternoon, and there was a surprise visit from our former neighbors John and Patricia Miller. (I will write about those first two in separate posts.)

The Millers’ visit was brief, but they were flying through Denver and wanted to stop in to discuss some matters regarding the property next door.

For those who are new to my blog, let me explain about the Millers. They are a lovely couple in their sixties who used to live in a house adjacent to ours. They became interested in our lifestyle and have had, let’s just say, some “moments” with me. A couple years back they took up a second-home residence in Arizona, to be close to family and new-born grand-kids. They still own the home here — but that was the purpose of their visit.

They are thinking of selling it, but wanted to discuss this with us first. Mindful of our lifestyle and the neighborhood’s participation in it with us, John and Patricia don’t want to sell their house to people who might be averse to us and our D/s practices. Yet they feel they need to do something with the property, and they can’t really be discriminating on the basis of those who might be “lifestyle friendly.”

This matters because our two houses are closer to each other than others’ in the neighborhood. All of these homes have very large lots, but by circumstance, the Millers’ house and ours each have a “back forty” that merges. And so, anyone new moving in will have an especially close proximity to Mistress Amanda’s dominance of me in its various forms and public displays.

This was the discussion, but nothing was decided. I was good of the Millers to consult with us. More will be figured out in the next month or so.

This past week has also been an especially submissive time for me with Amanda. Not so much in terms of eventfulness, but as a quiet, firm dominance she has applied to me. It’s been lovely.

I expect this has been due to her awareness that she is going to be traveling awhile and will be without me for some time. Much as I need my cock “fix,” she has a need to express her ownership of me, sort of to “fill her up” dominantly, as if storing her domme pleasure until she has me again.

She is not a corporal-discipline type of domme, but rather finds quieter ways of putting me in my place and using me. This week it’s been about mounting me onto the wet bar almost every evening, attaching me to the entry-way wall, and strapping me into the easy chair with my legs spread. She’s also been rather giddy about hanging dangled things from my nipple rings.

And… this time alone for us here (after Maria went back to the mansion) has included some serious heart-to-hearts about my, well, “planned promiscuity.”

There was a time several years ago when Mistress expressed to me her vision for sharing me with everyone in the neighborhood. This was before we even knew our neighbors and before some of our current neighbors had yet moved in. It seemed preposterous to me then, and took it to be hyperbole, more Amanda’s fantasy than a realistic vision. I laughed.

Now, it’s become not only possible but likely, judging from some of the chatter Amanda hears from neighbor folks. As I’ve written, it’s a delicate conversation, I’m sure, between partners, husbands and wives, to engage with the idea of bringing a third into a marriage relationship. But now that two couples have had me and the sky hasn’t fallen, it seems more couples are talking about it.

However, while Mistress has not backed away from her original vision, in our talks, she expressed some restraints within it. The gist is that she wants me to know she doesn’t intend to provide me sexually all the time to everyone. I said, “Thank God for that!” but in fact I have never been too concerned — I trust her to manage and use me safely and appropriately. Still, it was good to hear her say this —essentially expressing that although I am a sex slave, she will never provide me “on demand.”

I suppose there’s reason to wonder about her definitions, for I am already provided “on demand” to Blake, and it seems that being shared with couples when they ask for me is something like that as well. But to Mistress Amanda, the Blake thing is really for my own submissive “benefit,” and sharings with couples are one-time events, not intended as a serial practice.

In fact, although I have been offered for sharings with any of the neighborhood couples, that’s happened only twice in the last year and a half. It will happen again soon with Scott and Cecilia Kemp, but it’s not as if these couplings are occurring every month. It could be this is a once-a-year thing.

As Amanda said to me, “I adore being your mistress domme, but I have no desire being your pimp.”

Somehow that was comforting to me.

on writing my life

When I write the sexual events of my life, it is as if I am experiencing them all over again. Recalling for the purpose of reporting them to others forces me to relive them step by step. It leads me to remember not only what happened but how I felt as it happened — re-arousing feelings of relationship and touch, both emotional and sexual.

One difference is that, in the recall, I am watching myself from a different viewpoint. I see myself as others see me, from an objective perspective. So, it’s almost like a split screen, and I experience myself both first-person and third-person. Replaying that night, for example, I “saw” Mr. D’s cock close up, as it was for me in that moment, but I also “saw” myself from a side view, witnessing my face and his cock just inches away. I don’t know why this is, but it’s how it works for me. Long story short, it’s very vivid, and affects me emotionally, deeply, in my writing of it. Mostly it exhausts me.

Mistress Amanda knows this, and after my writing of such events, graciously gives me some “soft time” to recover. It’s not “time off” from my slavery — there never is that — but she handles me with a lighter touch and is less demanding of me for the rest of my day..

This happened last week. I told Mistress I was going to be writing about my cock-begging night. I started reliving it Wednesday evening and wrote the first part Thursday morning. I needed Friday morning to recover from that, and began to get myself into the second part on Friday afternoon. I posted part two Saturday morning. It took a lot out of me.

Mistress Amanda sent me out shopping for something Saturday afternoon, a specific order I was to submissively obey. Her intent was to keep me in submission but also get me out of the house into a few stores for an afternoon of shopping therapy, a chance to recover from the redux of my cock-begging experience. It was helpful to me.

The effect of writing my humiliations is not depression nor is it subspace. It’s something else, which probably looks to others like simple quietude. Mostly it’s a kind of emotional exhaustion. Normally a woman of words, in these valleys between writings, I have few words left.

In reliving these experiences, I do not regret having done them, but I do feel the impact of being the one who has done them. I see myself as others see me — the neighbor girl who goes to houses for cock-suckings. At other times I might flail against how I am perceived, wriggle under the eponym of “slut,” but in writing the event for posting, I cannot deny that’s how I see myself in my mind’s eye. I, Shae, actually begged the irascible Ms. Angelica Martin for her husband’s cock. I, Shae, really did suck the cock of Mr. D, a neighbor at the other end of the block a half mile away whom I still hardly know.

I cannot pretend I didn’t do those things.

I have always written a journal to make sense of my life, my personal search for meaning. Of course, my life has become progressively more submissive and sexual, so that’s yielded another dimension to my writing experience — one of confession.

I don’t mean confession in the religious sense, though I write often about atonement as a theme. I don’t believe what I do is sinful. Yet I know most other people see it that way. I wrestle more with how others see my “sins” than with any belief I myself have that my actions are inherently sinful.

But some of my postings are confessions nonetheless. I am “confessing” that, yes, this is what I did, and yes, this is who I am.

I share this here just to let you know these kinds of posts are emotionally substantial for me to write. They aren’t just “Oh, hey, I sucked Mr. D’s cock Saturday night, and ‘fun, fun, fun till her Daddy takes the D-bird away.’” See what I did there? 😉

Mine was a substantial experience with Mr. D, and while I enjoyed him immensely, it was also an experience of submission and humiliation and deep emotions, both relational and sexual. I re-live all of that in the writing.

I don’t ask for sympathy, for I know I live a life of great privilege. I just ask for understanding about the complex experience of writing about it.

Actually, Mistress finds my writing of my experiences good submissive training of me. She sees the re-experiencing of them to be good for me. But even more, she knows that, by having me commit them to the public hyperspace, my humiliations can never be forgotten.

Ultimately, I do this for me. By writing my life, even as it exhausts me, I find some meaning. I’m often not sure what that meaning is, but my faith these days is in the notion that some sort of meaning and significance are out there.

begging for cock: 2

It had felt at first like a game, a scavenger hunt, and my best hope for it was that it would be fun and friendly. But after my humiliation on the doorstep of Angelica Martin, it didn’t feel like a game anymore. My dog-bone treat for the evening was to be some man’s cock in my mouth, but after two rejections and what I imagined would be the likelihood of six more around the block, I’d lost my appetite. In those moments, sucking Blake’s cock seemed so much easier.

But now, suddenly, Darnell’s words hung in the air as I stood at their doorway: “I’d like that very much. Come on in.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback. I hadn’t expected to get a yes. I now was looking into the eyes of a neighbor whose manhood would soon be throbbing in my mouth.

Frankly, these experiences rush by in a blur of impressions and feelings. I try to capture them in words, but much is fleeting and hazy. I’ll report this as best I can.

I remember being relieved as Darnell said yes. At the same time, I was aware this was to be another kind of humiliation. Humiliation has different flavors. To be rebuffed in my begging for cock door-to-door was one distasteful flavor. To be offered to someone as a “cock-sucker” was another. I preferred the latter, maybe because this at least left me feeling accepted and wanted, even for such a thing as this.

Jacie offered to make coffee or tea, and Amanda said coffee would be nice. We sat in the living room, talking about random things. Mistress had me curl up on the floor, and there I remained silent, docile, ready to… do my thing.

Another memory: it struck me how normal this seemed — a neighborly visit and coffee chat — even though the given circumstance was to be my sexual servicing of a woman’s husband. Only Amanda could make such things happen and make them seem… socially proper.

Jacie was hard to read. While she had expressed her consent to Darnell — “I’m fine with it, hon” — there was something in her manner that was merely acquiescent, somewhat reserved. Still, she was warm to me and commented on my dress — “It’s so gorgeous!” — and she was a generous hostess. But in conversation she seemed slightly more receding than I had known her to be before.

This surprised me because when I did the white elephant gift of dusting their house, Jacie was very playful. I remembered one moment from dusting day when Jacie lifted my little skirt from behind and invited Darnell to cup my ass cheeks, which he did. She was giggly and playful then. At the end of our time, she’d even seen me off with a kiss.

She was all over me then, so her somewhat cloudy demeanor now didn’t jibe. Maybe to Jacie the dusting-day experience was just teasing roleplay, while this Saturday night was a whole different thing — being that I was to have sex, of a kind, with her husband. (Amanda, it turned out, sensed this same thing.)

Darnell was saying to Amanda that they had wondered, since the NYE party, how she was going to arrange “this begging thing.” (This made me think that there had been no detailed discussion ahead of time about this with them.)

“I want this to be casual,” Amanda answered, “not a big event, but just as a comfortable thing in the evenings, finding people as they are.” She went on to compare it to making an extra batch of cookies and taking some house to house to share with people. “I imagine it could be a common occurrence,” she added, “one night every quarter of the year.”

“I think you should do it every month,” Darnell said.

“We’ll see. It’s getting hard to schedule everything with her. But I’m just saying that when we do it, it can be whatever it turns out to be. Maybe no one is home or no one wants her that particular night. That’s okay, as it should be. Not a big event, but a common neighborhood thing.”

This was the first I’d heard of this being an ongoing practice. I would have to process that in days to come.

The conversation swerved into their vacation plans, an Alaskan cruise in June. Darnell got a phone call on his cell and took it in another room. Jacie offered more coffee, and she and Amanda went to the kitchen, leaving me alone on the floor with my feelings.

My nervous humiliation in knocking on doors begging for cock had melted into a measure of comfort in the home of Darnell and Jacie. While they are our newest neighbors and we don’t know them well, I’d had my “dusting-day experience” with them, finding them to be friendly, even warmly sensual with me. At the NYE party, Darnell had been appointed to be my spotter for a particular game; his was a non-participatory role, but in my mind symbolically “protective,” and I somehow remembered feeling his large hands on my naked waist. Funny how a stray memory can give you comfort.

I had mostly let go of my endless back-and-forth of how much this whole cock-begging evening had been “staged.” I now thought Mistress had merely told everyone this would be the night, that we might or might not show up, but not much more. In any case, we were in the home of Darnell and Jacie, and the worst of the cock-begging evening was over. I was in a comfort zone here. And, despite the indignity of being the “designated cock-sucker,” I had a treat ahead.

Darnell returned from his phone call. Amanda and Jacie were still in the kitchen, chatting. He looked at me and asked, “How do you feel about doing this?”

I looked up at him. “In my case, that’s complicated… Submissively, I mean. Here, now, with you, sir, I am excited for it. Getting here, knocking on doors, was another set of feelings.”

He nodded as if he understood, but I can’t imagine very many people could possibly understand. Who else in the world does this?

“I’m realizing,” I said, “that I’m not sure what to call you. I mean, in my mind I think of you as ‘Darnell.’ But my submissive training requires me to address others as ‘Mr.’ or ‘Ms.’ I should probably call you Mr. Tribodeaux.”

“I know,” he admitted, “that’s a mouthful.”

That being a double-entendre didn’t occur to him, but I immediately thought of several responses, most self-deprecating. Yet I refrained from saying that I was “used to men who were mouthfuls.” Ha ha.

He went on to say that at his work people called him “Mr. D,” just to avoid the long and awkward “Tribodeaux.”

“Mr. D not Mr. T?”

“Yeah. D for Darnell. It’s just what I’m used to. I work in a sports organization, so ‘Mr. T’ has another association.”

“Oh, that wrestler guy, actor?”

“Right. So it’s Mr. D.”

That would work for me. “So, Mr. D,” I asked, “how do you feel about my doing this… with you?”

He grinned. “What man wouldn’t enjoy a beautiful woman like you to suck his dick?”

I sensed there was a compliment in there somewhere. I said nothing, though I wasn’t sure if my blush was response to the “beautiful woman” part or the “suck his dick” part.

Amanda and Jacie returned to the living room, talking as they sat down, and I immediately sensed a change, a positive one, in Jacie’s demeanor. Amanda had done her woo thing, and Jacie seemed, well, “less cloudy.”

“What we’ve been talking about,” Amanda shared, “is how I am trying to make Shae’s slavery more socialized.” Shae needed to accept herself, she opined, for what she is in our neighborhood. “She needs to be seen and experienced by others as—”

“As a slut,” Jacie interjected. Her tone wasn’t one of spite, rather seemed a part of their prior kitchen conversation.

Amanda nodded. “Exactly. Shae is a slut, obviously, but has trouble accepting herself as such. This sort of thing tonight is necessary for her training. The two of you are assisting in that.”

I remained quiet, though I squirmed a bit. It wasn’t that I was talked about in the third person — I am used to that — but I was feeling this was becoming like a private counseling session made public. That I have trouble accepting myself as a slut is true, but this sounded now like some kind of public therapy. I could do without that.

Yet, I recognized that was Mistress Amanda’s strategy. She was appealing to neighbors to help me “get over this thing.” She continued: “I need neighbors like you two to help me in what I’m trying to do.”

All this seemed overstatement to me, but clearly Jacie had now bought into this line of thinking. “Obviously,” Jacie replied, “this is very… different for us, Amanda, but we like to think we’re open-minded enough to be a part of it. And we want to be part of Shae’s training.”

I said nothing but was bemused to think that, to Jacie, this was about a training exercise, while to Mr. D it was about a beautiful woman sucking his dick.

“How is this going to happen?” Mr. D finally asked. He wanted to get on with it.

“If it’s okay, Jacie,” Amanda jumped in, “I think it’s best to do this right here in the living room. This is a social activity not a private bedtime. Her sharings are for the bedroom, but this is something to be done while others are sipping coffee and watching.”

“Sure, I’m fine with that,” Jacie replied, again answering for Darnell as well.

“Otherwise,” Amanda went on, “how she provides her service is up to you two. Sitting or standing, with Shae on her knees or squatting. Usually, she does Blake while he’s standing and she’s on her knees. Have her the way you wish. It’s up to you.”

I could have done without the Blake reference.

Jacie asked Darnell his preference. He said he wanted me on my knees with him standing.

Amanda said, “Now, just so you know, sometimes Shae’s blowjobs can be facilitated by the woman — she can feed Shae her partner’s cock. Also… Shae can do her servicing without using her hands. In fact, I have wrist cuffs in my purse and can cuff her hands behind her back. But that’s up to you, Jacie. These are just options.”

“I’d like that,” she replied. “For her to be cuffed and me to assist… And, hon,” she said to Darnell, “maybe you could change into your satin PJs. They look so good on you.”

He nodded, his face now a wide, shit-faced grin. He left for their bedroom.

Jacie, now fully into it, suggested she and Amanda bring in some kitchen chairs so to have front-row seats. Amanda said she didn’t need to sit close, that her interest was only in watching me from the easy chair she was in. But Amanda checked to make sure her presence watching wasn’t a problem for Jacie or Darnell. “I can go in another room.”

“Nonsense,” Jacie assured her. “I’m fine with it, and Darnell now has his mind on only one thing.”

It struck me that all this process had become a very complicated set-up for the most simple of sexual acts. It was becoming a stage production. All that was missing was popcorn.

Apparently it takes a village to do a simple cock-sucking.

Mr. D returned in a black satin lounging jacket and matching bed pants. He was quite striking. He’s tallish, over six feet, with black hair, and the black satin made him look sleek and dashing. As he walked in, Jacie smiled and her eyes seemed to sparkle, her pride in him quite evident. It was a nice moment.

I got to my feet, asking, “Where do you want me?” Mr. D chuckled and said, “I think that’s obvious!” Laughter around.

I walked to stand in front of him, and Amanda stepped behind me with the wrist cuffs, binding my hands behind my back. I started to kneel, but Mr. D said to Jacie, “I want to see her tits.” It was an inquiry, as if for approval.

Jacie nodded and facilitated his request, reaching over to me and peeling down the bodice of my cocktail dress. My breasts were revealed, full and pale, and Mr. D stood there ogling them, his hands to his sides. Eventually Jacie said, “For goodness sake!” and took one of his hands and plopped it square onto my left breast. “You know you want to,” she said with a giggle.

And he did want to, soon fondling and squeezing my breasts with both his hands. I stood in my submission to his hands, to him, to this whole little circus. And now I wanted him, which is what these moments do to me, and wondered if he would actually kiss me. But he didn’t. His fondling my breasts and having me suck his cock were permissible, apparently, but for him to kiss me was a bridge too far.

I went down to the floor, onto my knees. Jacie sat in a kitchen chair beside us, close, Amanda went back to sit in the easy chair across the room.

This was how it happened.

Jacie slipped Darnell’s bed pants down and off, and I found my face inches away from Mr. D’s beautiful cock.

It was not yet erect. It seemed rather slender, but it hung down far. I mean really far down. It was unusually long. Mistress always teases by saying I never met a cock of any shape or size that I didn’t lust for, and that’s true.

But Mr. D was especially well endowed.

“Oh!” I said with surprise. I looked over at Jacie, my eyes opening wide.

“I know,” she said in a whisper and a knowing smile.

Jacie took his cock and stroked it a few times, but she didn’t need to do much, as he was already hardening, impossibly lengthening even more. She fed him to me like a hot dog at a baseball game, and I took this man’s cock head between my lips. I tasted him, a mix of loam and pine, his natural musk and maybe a dab of cologne.

Once he was hard and extending straight out, I tongued his shaft, finding his veins and ripples. I would do this several times, searching for some ridge or fold that would become my special memory.

As I always long to do, I ducked my head under his cock, reaching my mouth for his balls. I took one in my mouth, and I felt Mr. D’s hand at the back of my head, against my hair, pushing me in further. He liked this, wanted this. I suckled each of his balls, slathering them and holding them behind my lips. He sighed, not a moan, but a breath of special contentment.

I wasn’t able to get both his balls in my mouth at the same time; if I had use of my hands, I might have. But one at a time was glorious enough, my saliva coating them liberally and making my face wet with myself as I nuzzled his sacs below.

I wondered if Jacie might join me in orally pleasing her husband, but she didn’t. I wouldn’t have minded, and he was hers, after all, but she seemed content for this to be my cock-sucking.

I took his cock in my mouth again, this time sliding my mouth down the length of it. Again, his cock was slender, so I could handle his girth well enough. But his length made it difficult for me to swallow all of him easily, and didn’t try until later. I slid down on him three-quarters of the way, pulling back slowly. I knew he was watching from above and would be seeing my lipsticked-red lips circled around his manhood, flattening against his flesh.

Jacie didn’t hold him for me the whole time, and she didn’t need to after he was fully hard and extended. But at times she circled her fingers around his base and guided his cock into my mouth. It was a tender gesture in its way, her feeding her husband into the addiction of a neighbor girl.

I took my time. In a way, I always do, for to me it’s like slow-licking an ice cream cone, making it last, wanting heaven to never end. But especially on this night, after my door-to-door humiliations, I felt I kind of had earned it. I wanted to enjoy Mr. D as long as I could.

He seemed to have stamina for it. I went down and back on his cock many times before he seemed even somewhat close to coming. Once, I tried to take all of him, pulling him into the very back of my mouth until its cock head probed down my throat. I took him there for a moment, but couldn’t for any longer without gagging. I continued, however, to pump my mouth over his shaft, subsequently allowing his cock head to grace the back of my throat.

After a time of this, of my deepest pleasure attending to him, he moaned, a guttural grunt from deep within. Jacie knew his sound and held his cock at its base. Mr. D grabbed my hair and pulled me back, so his cock was out of my mouth, pointed at my face inches away.

He erupted. He came, in ribbons of white cream. One spurt roped across my eye and nose. Another sprayed my cheek. More dribbled out onto my extended tongue. He tasted slightly sweet and earthy. He made a mess of me, and while I swallowed what was in my mouth, most of him was on my face.

After he was fully done, Mr. D exhaled fully and said, “Oh my god.” Jacie giggled. Amanda clapped her hands in applause.

Eventually I stood, my face drenched with him and the delicious humiliation this had been. I said, “Thank you, sir.”

I remember Jacie offering to get a towel, but Amanda stopping her: “No, I’d rather Shae wear it back home.” Jacie said she just didn’t want me getting it on my “pretty dress” and she went to get a towel anyway, actually two. So there was all this “towel” fuss. Amanda permitted me to dab away cum that was dripping from my chin, to keep it off my dress, but no more. Jacie used a second towel to wipe down her husband’s spent cock and balls.

I remember Mr. D slipping back into his bed pants, saying, “That was great. Well worth the price of admission.” (It occurred to me that I was free.)

Amanda chose to leave my wrist cuffs on and my hands hooked behind my back. She also left the bodice of my dress folded down and my breasts exposed.

There was a bit more standing conversation, but Amanda said it was time for us to go. Thanks were shared all around, and we soon said our goodbyes. After everything, it had been a good evening.

Amanda walked me back to our house the long way around, which was most of the frontage road loop. But she stopped us again at Stacy’s house, marching me up the front steps, and knocking on the door. Stacy appeared.

“Sorry to bother you again, Stace,” Amanda said. “Just thought you’d enjoying seeing our girl here, after all her begging tonight.”

Stacy, seeing me, opened her mouth wide in surprise, and as she saw my cum-streaked face glistening under the porch light, she settled into a broad grin.

“Oh my,” she said with a laugh.

begging for cock: 1

I don’t need to write again what has been patently obvious for a number of years — that I have an uncommon desire for sucking men’s cocks. I don’t know how I got this way. Nature or nurture, again.

For me this is different from my submissive nature, which I wear somewhat proudly. My sexual predilection for cock may also be inborn (who knows?), but it embarrasses me, a sexual “affliction” I would rather keep private.

I readily accept meeting someone in a grocery store who thinks of me as being someone’s slave. But meeting someone in a grocery store who wonders what man’s dick my lips recently wrapped around makes me blushingly cringe.

It’s within this context that Mistress Amanda, in her cruel and clever dominance, contrived this idea of my going door-to-door in the neighborhood very publicly begging for cock. It is her pleasure to dominate me into a very humiliating act of demonstrating to others my cock-addiction.

As she designed it, this “game-event” would be a merging of my submissive status which I am proud of with my craving for cock which humiliates me — even as my mouth waters for it.

This took place on Saturday evening.

The details of the event itself I will get to. But first I should explain Amanda’s rules for the “game” and how she may or may not have prepped the neighbors.

The proposed scenario was this: Mistress Amanda would walk me to a neighbor’s house but stand back a few yards as I knocked on the door. If the man of the house answered, I would request to speak to his wife or partner. If the woman of the house answered, I would speak to her directly. This was very intentional on Amanda’s part — she wanted neighbors to be assured that anything sexual with me that happens with the man must be by consent of the woman.

One of the rules for me was that I had to ask the woman at the door if I could “suck the cock of her husband.” I had to use those words, not come up with some euphemism or vague suggestive hint in my request.

If I was refused in my request or if there was some hesitancy on the part of the woman, I was required to find words to overcome the objection (perhaps negotiate something), and ask (beg) again. In all, if I was rebuffed again, I was required to beg for the man’s cock a third time. This was, as Mistress called it, “the rule of the three begs.”

If the outcome was a final rejection, I would thank the woman of the house and leave, only to move on to another house. This would continue, Mistress insisted, until I finally was “granted my cock-need.”

What I never knew was to what degree Mistress prepped the neighbors for what was to happen. It seemed only logical to me that she at least had to have given neighbors some advance notice, perhaps also checking to see who would be home. I imagined she might need to “script” them to some degree, so their responses to me would be pre-determined.

As you’ll see, I went back and forth on this in my mind the whole evening, thinking at times this was scripted ahead then at others times sure it was not. Even after the event, Mistress wouldn’t tell me how much was staged. I still don’t know. She pulled it off very cleverly.

As I entered into the evening, I chose to think of it as an adult scavenger hunt, a game in which neighbors know to expect someone to come to the door asking for something. How much of an actual “game” it was to neighbors, I didn’t know, but I could imagine they’d find the comparison appropriate: I literally was scavenging the neighborhood for a man’s cock.

Mistress had me dressed in my wine-red strapless cocktail dress and matching high heels. It was an glamorous outfit, such as I’d wear attending a formal gala at a hotel ballroom. I knew she wanted my evening elegance to contrast with my cock-sucking disgrace.

We went out around 8:00, well after dinner time, and Mistress had us walk to the opposite side of our neighborhood, to the east end.

Surprisingly, she had us go to the door of Jarret and Angelica Martin. Angelica, you recall, was the one at the NYE party who won the activity of spanking me, turning it into a sour diatribe about my being a slut and seducing her husband.

As we turned into their front walkway, I turned to Mistress and said, “Really?” She nodded, and I obediently knocked on the door.

As it happened, Jarret answered. He looked at me surprised, though taking a long gaze at my dress, bared shoulders, and the flesh of my breasts spilling out the top of my bodice. He then cast his eyes behind me to Amanda.

I was nervous, mentally sifting through my possible scripts. “Mr. Martin,” I managed to say, my voice raspy and trembling, “I’m wondering if Ms. Martin is home. I need to ask her a question.”

Just as I got the words out, Angelica called out from another room, “Who is it, Jarret?”

“They’re asking for you.”

Angelica came to the door, and Jarret stepped back behind her. She took a moment to look at me and looked also at Amanda farther back. It was as if she hadn’t expected us at all. “What is it?” she asked in a flat tone.

“I need to ask you…” I said, and that’s as far as I got for a long moment.

Angelica waited impatiently, then prompted, “Yes?”

“I need to ask you,” I went on haltingly, “Ms. Martin, for your permission…” — I paused again — “to suck your husband’s cock.” I eventually got the words out, though it felt like such an inappropriate request to be made on a front doorstep. I felt my face grow red, the color of my dress.

Angelica laughed, a derisive laugh. I cringed, my mental scripts having no option for ridiculing laughter.

“You have a lot of gall to ask me that,” she said.

If I had any notion that Amanda had previously worked this out with them, partnered ahead with Angelica, this wasn’t fitting that assumption. Angelica’s reaction felt very unscripted. Now, sure, perhaps Angelica remembered that this was the door prize at the NYE party and maybe in some of the ensuing conversation Amanda had with her a couple months ago, this scenario had come up. But clearly this was the sort of thing Angelica had railed against at the party: the neighborhood slut stopping by for sex with her husband.

So now this didn’t feel like a scavenger hunt game. I was mortified. I knew I had to ask again, and somehow a third time. I realized the “rule of the three begs” was not only to more deeply humiliate me at every iteration, but to make me stay in it, to earn my reward for a cock.

“I know this is inappropriate, maybe seems offensive to you,” I said, “and I don’t mean it that way.” Even in my nervous state, I somehow thought of a strategy — to appeal to her desire to humiliate me. She had spanked me at the NYE party, and despite her attitude, or because of it, she’d clearly enjoyed hurting me. “I think it could be pleasurable to you, Mrs. Martin, to watch my… disgrace. I would be on my knees… and you could watch me… I don’t mean anything to him…” It was something like that. I was just pushing out phrases in a random word-salad. “You could laugh at me, call me names,” I said, “…if just you’d allow me to suck his cock.”

She looked at me with a wicked grin. “You are such a piece of work,” she said. “I was right. Everyone knows the slut you are.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I saw Jarret in the background, and maybe I expected to see disappointment on his face, but he was laughing. I said nothing more, and it was just enough pause to compel Angelica to force an end to this encounter. She started closing the door.

I remembered I was supposed to beg a third time. This became a point when my submissive need to satisfy Amanda standing in back of me wrestled with my desire to escape further humiliation from Angelica standing in front of me. At the last minute, I blurted out, “Please, Mrs. Martin, maybe I could do something in exchange. I’m good at dusting and cleaning floors. Please, I really need to suck your husband’s cock.”

She slammed the door shut.

I stood there paralyzed in her rejection of me, not sure how to take what had just happened. None of it seemed staged or scripted, and now I thought this wasn’t a game at all. Mistress had marched me to the door of my harshest critic, and I had been royally shamed in front of her.

Mistress Amanda and I walked away.

I said, “That went well.”

Mistress Amanda seemed unaffected by it. She was smiling, and I didn’t know if it was because her “script” had gone so well, or because it wasn’t scripted at all and still had gone so well. She seemed pleased I had experienced the humiliation of such a rejection.

We then walked up to the house of Robert Diaz and Stacy Knox. Stacy opened the door, immediately brightening at the sight of me. It’s no secret she and I had our special moments that night I was shared with them (here and here), and we have continued a gentle infatuation since.

“I have an unusual request,” I said. “I wish to ask your permission to… with Robert… I mean…” I knew I had to say the words: “I wish to suck Robert’s cock tonight.”

Stacy grinned at hearing this, and I’m not sure if she had expected my request or was bemused by my asking it. Theirs being an open relationship, I knew she would not be offended, and she wasn’t. “Well, lover-girl,” she replied, “first off, you look beautiful. Such a dress!” She stepped out on the porch, took my hands, and extended them. “Look at you!” She then hugged me, giving me a warm kiss on the lips.

Presently, Stacy answered my question as if it was a normal one: “Robert would certainly love that, and you know me, Shae, I have no objection. But I’m afraid Robert isn’t home tonight.”

“Oh.”

“He’s with some of his buddies. One Saturday a month. But I’m sure,” she said with a chuckle, “he’ll be glad to know you stopped in and asked.”

At this point, I didn’t know how to fulfill my “three begs.” Stacy wasn’t following any Amanda-supplied script. In fact, she went on to talk with both Amanda and me about scheduling another sharing night. Conversation went down that track, randomly, for awhile.

I collected my thoughts and tried to bring their chatter back to my purpose for the evening. I suppose I felt the burden to fulfill Mistress Amanda’s “three begs rule,” even if doing so was awkward. “Seems so strange to ask for this kind of thing,” I said, “but, regarding my request, maybe I could take a rain check?”

“Well, I can’t speak for him, but I certainly don’t think he would refuse… And he’ll be tickled that you came to the door to ask. He’ll so regret he wasn’t home for this. But I’m sure next month on his guys-night he’ll enjoy telling his friends about you being here.”

“Oh.” God, I didn’t want that. “Really, Stace, he doesn’t have to share this all around.”

Stacy shook her blonde hair back, and her mouth twisted in to a little grin. “They already know about you. This will be just another story for him to tell them.”

I didn’t need to know that.

“Shae, I’d invite you in, but I’m working a project, on a deadline. It’s due Monday, and I have to work late. Otherwise we could have some fun, you and me. But we both know you’re not here for that tonight.”

I realized I had begged, sort of, twice, but I wasn’t sure what to say for my third. Our talk hadn’t gone that way. Maybe Mistress didn’t require a third beg if the conversation didn’t make an opening for it. But I wanted to do the right thing…

“I just want to be sure Robert knows I was here, for him,” I managed to say. “That I really wanted to suck his cock tonight.”

It was awkward, I knew, odd to say in any context. But it fulfilled my third beg. Stacy seemed to read between the lines, sensing (or knowing) I was fulfilling Amanda’s instruction.

“I’ll be sure he knows, lover-girl.” Stacy kissed me again, and we said goodbye.

By now I was sure Mistress was going to march me through the neighborhood and have me beg for cock at every doorstep. It was the only thing that made sense. I felt she wouldn’t include Angelica and Jarret unless her intent was a complete round of all the neighbors. I imagined now that I’d beg all those times and finally get to the last house, where I’d be granted a cock to service. It seemed apropos of the New Year’s Eve party, where this whole idea was unveiled. Everyone was there that night, so everyone would be included in my “cock-walk.”

Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure that I now really wanted to suck a cock that night anyway. Going through all this wasn’t worth it. Even as a fix for my addiction.

I rang the doorbell of Darnell Tribodeaux and Jacie Joyce, the couple who’d gotten the white elephant gift of my dusting rooms in their house.

Darnell answered and, as per my script, I requested to speak with Jacie. She came to the door, and I asked, “Ms. Joyce, I’m here to ask a special request.” By now, since I had practice and since I expected a refusal, the words seemed to spill out more perfunctorily: “I’d like your permission to suck Mr. Tribodeaux’ cock.”

Her eyes opened wide, as if my request took her by surprise and was as blatantly inappropriate as it actually was. Jacie took a moment to absorb it, then called Darnell back to the door and said, “I’m fine with it, but you should ask him.”

“Mr. Tribodeaux,” I repeated, “I’m here to ask you if I might suck your cock tonight.” While my words were outré, what I felt was by now more ordinary. I would need to go through this another half-dozen times. Tell me no, and let’s get it over with.

He stepped into the doorway, looking at me, then at Amanda. He glanced over at Jacie, and she nodded. “I’m fine with it, hon,” she said.

Darnell said with a wide grin, “I’d like that very much. Come on in.”

the return of Blake

I mentioned yesterday that my weekend was chock-full of submissive and sexual experiences. It started with a visit from Blake Friday afternoon…

For those who are new to my blog, Blake is Amanda’s handyman/carpenter, one who has done BDSM “lifestyle constructions” for Amanda, notably the entryway wall and the wet bar. A couple of years ago, Mistress granted him the right to schedule times with me on a random basis — “dates,” as she calls them (Grrrr) — for, let’s just say, a particular sexual service. Further, she has required me to post a notification on my blog each time it occurs.

Blake has been away from the area for most of the winter, working for his father on a construction project in Arizona. For me, this time has been either a respite or a deprivation, not sure which. In any case, he returned last week, and rang our doorbell around 4:00 yesterday afternoon.

So… this is my required notification of y’all as to what happened.

I am a woman who does not control her life or dignity — yet always try to. Much of my life is in the service of a dominant, Mistress or Master, and I do anything and everything to please and submit to them — despite the humiliations they subject me to. But for someone vanilla, a man “just showing up” to have me suck his cock, well, it makes me a little squirrelly. I perceive it as an out-of-context indignity and feel I have to make myself proper in it.

To those who read me regularly, this is old news, and I would not belabor it here, except to make the point that I found in this particular case I was actually looking forward to “being with” Blake again.

I believe this is because I hadn’t been with a man, namely Master McKenna, in this way for more than three weeks. This attests to my addiction, which I am more and more confessing to — my craving to have a cock in my mouth. But I kind of hate to admit that Blake’s absence for these months also probably contributed to my craving. The thing is, I long for cock in general but also cherish each man’s cock specifically, remembering and longing for its unique nature and texture. So, I have missed Blake’s cock. There, I said it.

Mistress once teased about blindfolding me, bringing in a lineup of men, having me take each one’s cock in my mouth, and seeing if I could identify by name who each man was. I pushed back, claiming there weren’t that many men I’d done like that, not enough to make a lineup. I went on to list just two, Master M and Blake, but soon remembered Roald Linden and Robert Diaz in the neighborhood, and then Kevin, and then a few others. “”Well, never mind,” I wound up saying, “I just don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

My conflictedness about servicing Blake is not because I dislike him personally. He is an attractive guy, for sure, and other than being too young for me and making me feel “Mrs. Robinson older,” is likable if a bit non-verbal.

It’s just that the idea of my being scheduled for him, the intended illusion of my servicing “a man off the street,” the implication that he probably sees this as an appointment with “his MILF-whore,” are indignities I have to work through — in order to earn my addictive dog bone treat.

So my impending indignity and the promise of delicious cock did battle within me, as always. It’s not that my dignity ever wins, for I obey my orders in any case. It’s just about my finding some self-respect in it. In any case, Pavlovian bitch that I am, my mouth started watering when I heard the doorbell.

I welcomed Blake in, leading him into the living room, which is always the “service site.” It is never done in a bedroom, which is too private for Mistress’s intentions regarding this, but in the same space where we entertain people with tea and conversation. When we sit down with visitors from a vanilla life, she wants me to remember times before, right there, when my mouth was stuffed with a penis.

Amanda was sitting in the living room, waiting, as she does, for she watches the act between Blake and me, which is her pleasure. It seemingly now is his preference as well (some sort of male thing perhaps?), being swallowed by a MILF-ish redheaded submissive while watched by a dignified businesswoman.

Amanda has been dressing me retro all week, and Friday she had me in a thin fifties shirtdress, with teal-colored polka dots. I wore blue high heels, as would befit a housewife of that era. My only deviation from the retro style was my collar — black leather with a loud brass buckle in front.

Blake said, “You look nice,” and I said, “Thank you” — which may have been the only words he and I exchanged the whole time. We don’t talk much, my purpose not being relational but functional.

Instead he talked with Amanda. Blake updated her on his winter project in Arizona and his time away. I sat in the middle of the living room floor, my teal-dotted dress pooled around me, my legs angled to one side.

This time he looked even younger to me, probably due to my not seeing him awhile. For new readers, I’ll describe him again: he’s tall and slender, not muscle-bound but sinew-strong, with short brown-black hair. For a while I described him as a “boy,” but was admonished not to, that he deserved my respect to be considered the man he is. Which is all well taken and correct, and I have changed my ways on that. Yet I have to say he has a boyish quality to him.

He’s, as I said, a man of few words, but he talks freely enough with Amanda, and did so Friday afternoon. I don’t know if he chooses not to talk with me because he doesn’t like me conversationally or because of my submissive status. Maybe he’s just treating me as the slave I am.

Sometimes, either by his request or Mistress’s, I am made to take my top off or completely undress. He likes seeing my breasts. But this time Mistress wanted me to keep my dress on. “Just don’t get it messy,” she cautioned me. I didn’t reply, though I wanted to chirp back at her that the mess of things to happen wasn’t really up to me.

He stood close and pulled my head against his khakis. I could feel his cock hardening through the fabric, and I closed my eyes in the simple sensuality of the moment. At times I would be perfectly satisfied just for that, leaning my head against a man’s pride and swell. Blake gave me quiet time for that Friday, standing silently while the side of my head, my temple, worshiped his manhood, feeling its presence behind a fabric veil.

In time, I unzipped him and pulled him out carefully, unfolding him into the air and softly lifting his balls out from their shelter. I looked up to his eyes to see if his manhood was situated comfortably, and he nodded. It is notable we now have a vocabulary of touches and nods between us specifically regarding this the only thing we have in common, fellatio.

I guided him between my lips and over my tongue, thrilled to his warmth and weight, and closed my eyes. The sheer living sex that pulsated within my mouth felt like heaven throbbing.

I took my time. I figured he had been away so long, he deserved a full concerto not just a brief etude. But truthfully, I wanted the longer music. Again, I had missed it. With him.

In remembering this, it seems I spent an ungodly amount of time with his balls in my mouth, one of my many secret pleasures in cocksucking. Oh my god… I also like tracing the veins of a man’s cock, and I did so with Blake’s, my tongue remembering his lines and ridges and folds. It happens he is a good length for me, and I took his full erection all the way into my mouth, sucking it in until it tickled the back of my throat.

He moaned at a point, and I slowed my attentions, not fully pausing, but easing him back, in order to prolong his pleasure. And mine. I did this several times, bringing him to an edge then subsiding him back.

He could never think I was “just trying to get it over with.” Despite my squirrelly feelings about the situation and emotional dynamics of these “dates” with Blake, once he was there in the living room and once I had his cock flesh in my hands, I too wanted to make the most of it, like nursing a lollipop so it lasts forever. My cocksucking of him went on…

In time that I was unaware of, I felt him clench. I tried to ease him back again, but he could not hold it. I rested his cock head at the front of my tongue as his flood coursed through him. He released himself there, spurts of his cum shooting into my throat and splashing against my inner cheeks.

I let him spasm again and again before trying to clean his cock head with my lips. But my mouth was profusely cummy, and as I took him back in my mouth, I simply spread more of it around.

Yet in this moment following his ejaculation into me, I felt my own deep satisfaction, swallowing it all, and giggling in a kind of giddy afterglow.

I remember one more thing. Afterward I stood, smoothing my dress down over me, happy that I’d not made a mess of it. In standing, I wound up very close to Blake, and he looked into my eyes with a feeling I could not decipher.

Apparently, I had a dollop of his cum at the corner of my mouth, like a smear of vanilla icing after frosting a cake. With his finger, Blake wiped it off and held it to my lips. I licked it clean. It was a unexpected moment of something ineffable, some emotion mysterious and vague. I don’t know.

Again, I’m just reporting, Blake is back.

Easter Sunday

This will be brief. Just a few thoughts to share…

It has for me been a particularly carnal few days, chock-full of submissive sexual experiences, making it rather striking for me to slam into the spiritual reality of today, Easter Sunday. Striking, but not uncomfortable. I went to church this morning, not for the purpose of apologizing for my sexual life but for the purpose of reengaging with my own spiritual self. That difference is the result of my journey.

Just as I experienced a journey of discovery about myself as a submissive woman needing a submissive life, I have also traveled away from the church and morality religion of my childhood toward an embrace of myself as a spiritual being. This is not a spirituality religion or a particular church or a special ritualistic practice. It’s just an awareness of myself as spiritual and a desire to spend time nurturing that.

One of the aspects of acknowledging my spiritual self has been some sort of reckoning about myself, God, and the carnal life I live. I’m still working this out. I know many would say I “live in sin” and need to repent. I myself felt that way for a long while.

However, I have come to a different view, one in which I believe that just as God created me to be a woman with physical, emotional, and spiritual dimensions, he made me with a sexual dimension as well — a wild and profound sexuality at that. He makes each of us with varying degrees of sexuality and orientations. And given this, I cannot accept that God could create me with sexual needs, desires, and propensities —then condemn me for having them.

This is the teaching of traditional faith I grew up in and the focus of many religions — that sex and sexuality are inherently sinful. Also that they are primary, most egregious of sins. I know there’s a context to that — sex within marriage — but I find that to be simplistic and idealistic. In the view of moralistic religion, I should get married and be content in that. Otherwise, though I am made to be sexual, I’m declared immoral for being so.

I no longer accept that. There’s a lot to unpack in this, and I’m not here to go into it or preach. I just want to simply say that in a weekend of carnal experiences, I also this morning found myself in a spiritual experience. Easter is about overcoming what we were buried in and the freedom we really have in life, now and forever.

My resurrection has brought me to understand that the carnal and the spiritual coexist in me. And I don’t believe them to be incompatible.

nature or nurture, again

I don’t know if this post is a retread or not, but maybe this is a different go at it. I was asked some questions the other day: “Do you feel your life in slavery has made you more submissive?” “Do you feel your life in slavery has made you more sexual?” And, “How do you feel your life in slavery has changed you?”

These didn’t come out all at once, but cascaded through a longer conversation. I answered something and another something, I forget exactly what, but it’s prompted me since into further reflection…

I suppose it’s the age-old question of nature or nurture, specifically applied to the D/s life. As I’ve written times before, I believe I was born submissive. I know there are psychological explanations for submissive orientation, but I’ve never really bought those arguments. I know the core of what I am, what’s always been in me. I was, in the words of Lady Gaga, “born this way.”

Now, I believe our society doesn’t have a category for submissives and dominants to fit into. We are relegated to a mostly clandestine lifestyle behind closed doors. I believe submissive sexuality is repressed by both liberal social correctness and conservative religious upbringing. So we “born submissives” learn to hide and suppress what we are and need, possibly to the extent we ourselves become unaware of what we are.

Consequently there is a place for nurture — that of opening us submissives to ourselves, of bringing us out, of reawakening our scandalous natures. Nurture helps us to accept what we are by nature. Maybe this is what true submissive training is about. As a submissive woman, I am trained/nurtured to accept my submissive truth and to give myself openly to being submissive in practice.

Our first and most primary experiences in the submissive life — being collared, being put on a leash, being made to kneel — are much about a dominant simply reinforcing with us, “This is who you are. Accept it.” These simple acts draw out the submissive in us (by nature), peeling away the layers of repression and nonacceptance our submissive selves have been buried under.

For many, the submissive experience is in an occasional Zoom call or a monthly meet-up. It is a periodic expression, a coming-out, of the true submissive person one is by nature, and in it, the submissive is trained to do things that remind her of the submissive that has been hidden and repressed inside for so long.

Training, I can attest, never ends, no matter how long you’re in a D/s life nor how immersed you are in it. Well, perhaps, it does end for some, those who get to a point of full-self-acceptance in all public situations, but not for me. And I think for most of us, the social and personal repressions of our lives have nurtured us the other way to such a degree that perpetual training is required.

When Master M had me sit half naked on the atrium floor for all mansion staff to observe, it was a re-training (re-initiation) of me into my submissive place in his world, re-conditioning me to accept myself as a true slave in the eyes of others. I am an experienced submissive/slave, I think it’s fair to say, and yet I needed the training of that experience to nurture me into my natural state.

So, to answer the original question, “Do you feel your life in slavery has made you more submissive?” I might suggest that my slave life has made me more submissive in frequency of practice, but not more submissive in depth. I’ve always been deeply submissive, even back when I didn’t know that’s what I was. This life just explores what’s already there.

The further question posed to me had to do with my submissive sexuality, in particular my sexual desire and, let’s say, appetite — in the slave life as opposed to the vanilla life of my twenties. Have I been nurtured, conditioned, to feel more sexual in my slave lifestyle — or is my deep and intense sexual need now simply an extension of how I was “born this way”?

For me, this is a trick question, though a good one. If I say my current sexual appetite is what I was born with, I must accept myself as inherently something society considers a nymphomaniac — or that word I so wrestle with — a “slut.”

If I say I am nurtured this way — that my sexual cravings are a result of my training and conditioning — then I can claim I am not a slut by nature but trained to be one by nurture. (I know this “slut” conversation is a train that’s left the station, but I still run after to catch it.)

Yet I have to admit to myself this claim of being “required to be promiscuous” doesn’t hold water. One cannot live a life continually forced to have sex “against her nature.” I am “made” to provide sex to others, and there are times I might rather not, but if it were always a horrible experience for me — and if I didn’t have the sexual capacity for it — then I wouldn’t stay in the life. I do have the sexual capacity and desire, and I think that’s the truest argument for my deep and persistent sexual desire — again, it is what I was born for.

That said, I do believe a slave life that requires constant sexual service has the effect of fueling more sexual desire in me. By being used for sex a lot, I want sex — a lot. There is that.

“How do you feel your life in slavery has changed you?” was the capstone question posed to me. That’s a big subject for another post, perhaps, but I’ll just say a few things here.

As I’ve said, it hasn’t changed me in the sense of persuading me to be a different person than I was before. (I feel the need to re-state that over and over, that I am not in a cult, conditioned to believe and live a certain way. Submissive is what I am, what is natural to me, and the slave life is what I’ve chosen. What was unnatural, what I pretended to like, was the professional life of real estate agent. My true “career,” I believe, is in being a kept slave and servicing others.

But yes, of course, submissive experiences change you. The 24/7 life of being someone’s slave changes you. It gives me an appreciation of what it means to serve others, making me content to exist quietly in the background. For me, it gives me a different view of sex and sexuality than what I grew up with — namely, that sexuality has every legitimate reason to be served and satisfied. And I think my slave life gives me a better experience of my spiritual self — how to be silent and absorbent within the spiritual nature of God and others.

I know that sounds too sweetly altruistic. Another time, I’ll detail some of that more substantially. But maybe others wish to contribute. How would you answer the question, “How has your submissive experience changed you, perhaps made you a better (or worse?) person?”

in which we have no being

It is about 2:30 in the afternoon, and Amanda emerges from her home study and calls for me. I am writing in the easy chair, and I set my laptop aside, standing to meet her as she enters the living room.

“Come here,” she says, and while her tone is commanding, I know it is not from frustration or bother but from dominance.

“Yes, Mistress,” I reply, snapping into submission.

She leans herself against the living room wall, using hand motions for me to come to her. I walk over stand across from her. She reaches to me and pulls open my sweater, revealing my breasts. She takes them in her hands.

There are no words. I sense that while she has been working, she has been thinking of me. I take no love in this, nor do I expect any, for I am well aware she has been objectifying me in her mind, from behind home office doors, imagining my breasts and mouth and tongue while on Zoom calls with executives in other worlds.

In the moment, I yearn to open her blazer, rip open her blouse, and press my mounds against hers. Yet I know this is not love-making but sex-taking — which is not a judgment of her but a real function of my life as her slave. Instead I stand, her docile submissive, hands to my sides as she fondles my tits.

In time, as she is handling me, I slide my skirt over my hips, letting it slip down my legs to the floor. I assume this is how she wants me. In doing so, I do not lean down or to the side, but remain in place so she can continue to consume my breasts with her fingers. It excites me, but I know my pleasure doesn’t matter.

In time, she stops kneading my flesh and reaches down to lift her skirt up to her waist. She spreads her legs, leans back against the wall, and closes her eyes. Still, there are no words. They aren’t necessary. I know what I am there to do.

I squat, a position cultivated by others and designed to allow someone a standing view of my bare pussy. I softly slide my hands up her stockings, across their lace tops, and along the flesh of her upper thighs. Mistress sighs as she feels my breath on her pussy.

As my tongue traces its slickness over her labia lips, I know that in her mind I do not exist, at least not in this, and not in any way she feels compunction to acknowledge. She is using me, an object of her property, to satisfy her sexual need in a very particular moment. I could be a dildo, and am, except with the special feature of a licking function that no sex toy can provide.

The folds of her flesh are sweet and supple, and I slowly separate them with my tongue, like the sections of a tangerine. She sighs as her eyes remain closed. I know she is not imagining me, but perhaps someone else, a phantom of her dreams, an imagined fling with a distant colleague, or the anticipation, perhaps, of another love — perhaps, of Maria. I do not know, of course, but I am aware of the possibilities. It is her right as my mistress to use me as an object for her fantasy of another.

At times we submissives are just used, consumed for purposes in which we have no being.

This has also become the practice of Master McKenna in my new “harsher” slavery under him. Part of “harsher” has nothing to do with corporal humiliation or spanking or deeper degradations. Those are there in spades, but part of it has to do with being consumed sexually on call, without love, as a literal sex object.

I think this must have been his intention installing a four-poster bed in a corner of his work and living space. It was always the place in which he wished to keep me, to make the living symbol of my identity, and to locate his random sexual uses of me.

I am there in the bed almost always. He can, likewise without words, leave his desk and work, unzip himself, spread me open, and dip into me for his momentary pleasure. I am to him in these moments faceless. I am to him just soft and drippy flesh. This is not the all of our relationship, we both know, but it is a part of it. Indeed the larger expanse of our relationship is enriched precisely because I am sometimes just this object to him, available to him without strings, for purposes in which I have no being, used in ways that bear no obligation for him to acknowledge.

I eat her like that tangerine, her juices smearing my face, and Mistress Amanda is writhing against the wall. I am buried in her female sex, and even in the aroused moment, that metaphor is not lost on me. The submissive relationship, the one like this, with her, is much like being buried, somehow, inside her. I am a part of her body — an extra limb with which she can touch herself, or now, an extra mouth with which she can satisfy the cravings of her pussy. In this moment I am not even another woman, just an implement of her own masturbation.

My tongue curls and slides into her, and she pounds the wall behind her with her hands. I slither into her like a snake, and Mistress moans. She is profusely creamy, her forth building along my lips such that I almost can drink her like a milk shake.

As my tongue sinks deeper into her vagina, my upper lip graces her clit, and this is what sends her. She yells “Oh god!” and shivers, as she does, before gradually becoming limp, with only a wall to prop her up.

Still, there are no words.

Mistress takes a deep breath, then pulls down her skirt over her stockings.

I remain squatting, my mouth slick with her wet.

She walks away and heads back to her home office, returning to her work.

And I will return to my writing. Until I am randomly used again.

Maria-musings

Maria left for the mansion early this morning (Monday), and I’m sad to see her leave, even though I know I will be reunited with her in soon time.

It was a positive experience with her here — which it didn’t have to be. Many things could have gone sideways but didn’t. Not to say there won’t be conflicts or challenges in the future — in fact, there will — but they didn’t emerge during these past two weeks. Which may ensure this will be a continuing story and our new reality going forward. Likely now, there will be a next time, and a time after that…

I have some thoughts about Maria being here, some feelings as well…

The hierarchy shift I had dreaded never happened. Mistress treated Maria and me on equal footing. Mistress assured me of her Amanda-love, yet dominated me into significant humiliations. She pushed Maria into public exposures she hasn’t been used to, and made her do our rituals and perform chores alongside me. She dressed both of us each and every day. She hung Maria on the entryway wall, even as she mounted me upon the wet bar. Amanda has been an “equal-opportunity” mistress, so to speak.

Yet, I still expect a hierarchy shift under Amanda. Maybe I’m telling myself that just to be prepared for the worst. I don’t know. I just have the notion that life under Mistress A somehow needs to parallel life under Master M. At the mansion, I am a bottom at the bottom, with Maria having special status over me. I think it’s inevitable that will be mirrored here at the house under Mistress Amanda.

And yet, Amanda has made a concerted effort over these two weeks to take me into her bed, making time and intimacy for us to be Shae and Amanda, women in love. She wants me to know I won’t lose that.

Given this, it seems hard to imagine how she could demote me and give Maria special status above me, while still mutually passionate with me as her girlfriend-lover. But Amanda has special powers to do all things.

It is clear to me that Mistress and Maria actually like each other. A dominant and a submissive may fulfill each others’ needs but that doesn’t mean they actually enjoy each other personally. Mistress likes Maria, and vice-versa, which wasn’t a foregone conclusion. Of course, they’d met each other before at the mansion, so this wasn’t a “cold open.” It’s also true that Maria is inherently likable, and that it’s one of her natural traits to be so.

But this was the first time Maria has been under the full authority of another not named McKenna —and it seemed to go very well between them.

This does not make me jealous. In fact, I am relieved by it. Nothing would be worse than my living in and around some sort of dislike and animosity between them.

That said, I rather expected to see some measure of resistance or defiance from Maria. It’s what we submissives do in a new dominance — testing our domme by calculated misbehavior. It’s somewhat instinctual, I think, a need to push against the boundaries to see how our dominant will handle us.

The only submission Maria has known has been to Master McKenna, and I think it’s fair to say he has coddled her into a special D/s relationship. She has never been under another dominant, never experienced a more “objective” dominance. Mistress Amanda was not rough with Maria but also didn’t grant her special status. So, I might have expected Maria to have such a moment of defiance.

The other thing is that sometimes when we submissives misbehave it is a measure, a test, on behalf of our own security and safety. We force our dominant to put us in our place: if she responds strongly, we are assured she is capable to defend and protect us. By the nature of my own slavery, I am constantly put into sexually vulnerable situations; but I know that if anyone does anything to me outside stated lines of permission, Mistress Amanda will rise up and protect me with the ferocity of a mother lion.

For Maria, especially in a new social environment in which she is open to more people than she is used to, I would think she might have needed to prove Mistress Amanda’s mettle. But this domme-testing didn’t wasn’t anything that Maria attempted.

This time anyway. Perhaps that was due to the short, two-week length of her visit. Perhaps she has some greater confidence in Mistress Amanda already because she knows me and my long history as Amanda’s slave.

Or perhaps this is a chapter in their relationship still to be written.

There were some sexual “grace notes” between the three of us. Notably the time Maria and I bathed Mistress Amanda in the vintage tub, but also other moments involving brief touches, casual fondling, and what I call “empathy kisses.” For fun during the snowstorm, Amanda had us all try on old clothes from our storage wardrobe, and this was a time of dress and undress in front of each other. Of course, Maria and I have long become familiar with each other’s bodies in the course of our slavery under Master M, but this was a bit different, the three of us women being naked together. This wasn’t sexual per se, not in any active way, but it was at least sensual amid our laughter.

Maria has an innocence about her that is genuine, but that doesn’t mean she’s “simple.” She’s relationally smart, quite “knowing” about people, perhaps an intuition honed in a very complex family situation. So it has occurred to me that Maria must be keenly aware during her time with us that she is living with a dominant lesbian and a submissive bisexual. Of course, she has always known these are our sexualities, but for Maria living among us, it seems to me, would be a different vibe than at the mansion in the presence of profound testosterone. These two weeks she was inside, metaphorically speaking, a Degas painting of women bathing, herself offering sponges and towels to our sapphic natures.

So, I wonder how Maria processes this, how she thinks and feels about it. Seems clear Maria does not harbor any natural resistance to intimate expressions between us women. On my way home on a leash from the Kemp’s on Saturday morning, Maria stopped us in mid-walk to kiss me on the lips, rather passionately. I know, we both know, that’s from her emotional empathy from watching me endure the humiliations of the morning. So it has that purpose, nothing more, but it’s interesting that Maria has no compunction about kissing me — or being kissed in a “Degas bath” by Mistress Amanda.

Some have asked me about my own attraction to and sexual interest in Maria. I’ve perhaps danced around that because I don’t want to influence something between us that would create in Maria an obligation or predispose our future relationship in a certain way. Should it come to pass, I hope for that to be what it should be — no more, no less.

If anything should happen, naturally, between us, I would very much like that. Maria is beautiful in both physical and emotional ways. We share the common understanding of what it is to be submissive, and the experiences of our being mutually dominated bonds us in ways normal friendships never know.

For now, we are just flirty and kissy with each other, casting sideways glances at the other’s undress, sometimes reaching for the other’s hand during a scary movie. It’s only girlfriend stuff, but that’s perfectly fine. In fact, it’s rather lovely.

after-feelings

Sometimes a humiliation becomes more than you expected and affects you more deeply than when you are used dominantly for actual sex. It took me a day and a half to recover emotionally from my deep humiliation in front of Scott and Cecilia Kemp on their kitchen floor.

I started out Saturday in a dark cloud-mood, and the floor-scrubbing experience didn’t help, sending me into a spiral of reflective self-interrogation. As a slave, things are done to you — you’re made to do them — so you subject yourself to blushing indecencies. Later you can tell yourself you had no choice, and you didn’t, yet it doesn’t keep you from self-recrimination. You know you’re only in the life in the first place because you’ve given yourself to it. I have chosen this — maybe not this with the Kemps — but I have chosen this life of non-choice that makes me have to do this. These were my after-feelings Saturday and a good part of Sunday.

Maybe it’s like waking up one morning in bed next to a guy you met at a bar last night: you don’t remember what choices you made that led you to go home with him, but some set of choices put you there in the first place. You were looking for Mr. Goodbar, and now his semen is inside your body somewhere. Who does that?

In fact I’ve never done that — pick up a guy in a bar to sleep with him. Which is a funny and ironic thing for me to claim: I say that with some tone of moral superiority. I had friends in college who did that all the time. I never did. Give me a gold star.

Yet, Saturday I scrubbed a neighbor’s kitchen floor like a slut, half naked and butt-plugged, fondled for people’s amusement. Who does that?

The truth is, I do that. And did.

Mistress gave me kudos for my submission, and Maria said she learned something by my docile acceptance of humiliation in front of neighbor-strangers. Other neighbors read my post yesterday and expressed excited thanks for my sharing it, adding how hot I was in it, how erotic it was to witness me in my sexual humiliation. Some readers and followers have thanked me for the same.

I’m glad that my humiliation is appreciated by others — I mean that sincerely. I love to hear from others who find unique pleasure, sexual and otherwise, from my experiences. I have come to understand that my “adventures” of various kinds enhance people’s lives vicariously, and that is satisfying to me. Being your happy pill makes me happy too.

But for all that, I don’t do this for those affirmations or extended benefits to others. I do it because I crave it, despite my equal resistance to it and my desperate drive for dignity. I “sleep with the stranger” because I want to, even though I don’t want to. I submit to humiliations on a kitchen floor because I want to, even though it sits me in puddles of shame.

That’s the stinkin’ truth of my slave life and the reason there’s sometimes so much after-feeling for me to process.

This is one of those posts I write just to sort through my feelings out loud. Thanks for letting me process.

It’s not a pity-party, and I have since come out of my cloud-mood. Mistress, Maria, and I watched an old movie Sunday afternoon while munching popcorn, and it was fun. I’m okay.

There will be more humiliations for me this week. They don’t always affect me so deeply, and maybe these coming up won’t either. In any case, I will submit to them, endure them in the hurt-so-good way a submissive experiences these things.

Who does that? Apparently, I do.