This is an experience I wrote about a year ago, but never posted. It was back when I was still with Master Michael. It’s all true and accurate to how the conversation happened, but it turned out to be a little silly. Still, masters and slaves can have fun. I am shaking the dust off this, and posting it now. This was just a humorous exchange on a very casual evening.
At certain time, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.
So, Master Michael starts talking to me last night about an idea he has.
We are sitting in the reading room. He is reviewing a business plan from work. I am reading a novel titled The Paragon Hotel. It’s quiet and lovely tonight, even quaintly traditional, except that I am wearing a leather dog collar and a leash that drags on the floor noisily when I walk around.
So Master is saying that he feels he should be objectifying me more.
At first I say nothing, though I’m thinking this comes from a man who loves walking his slave girl nearly naked in public. But after a few moments, I cannot hold my tongue. “You know,” I say, “I haven’t been feeling particularly neglected in that department.”
“I mean literally an object,” he says, as if that clarifies anything.
I have put my book down and to my side, which is protocol, giving him my full attention. It’s annoying when you’re in the middle of a great book, but it has occurred to me that all human relationships would be improved by this practice. I am listening intentionally.
“Cameron was telling me about his latest idea for objectifying a girl,” Master says. “He’s very handy.”
Here it is. Another one of his friends has an idea for doing something to me. It’s not just him, but others too. They come up with these things. It’s a cottage industry. “Michael, have you thought of…?” and what follows invariably involves electricity and some kind of motor and remote control. They all live vicariously through Master Michael, and I am the object of their Rube Goldberg fantasies.
“He has become fascinated with human furniture,” Master continues. “He has construction plans for a number of such pieces. This latest is how he would make a floor lamp.” He pauses. “Out of a girl.”
I can’t help myself: “You make it sound like dismemberment is involved.”
He laughs. “Living human furniture,” Master emphasizes, as if that should be obvious.
Ah. I’m really not sure how to respond to this. Master is serious in tone, yet saying this to me for a reason. Is he thinking of this for real? Or is he just testing my reaction?
“He explained it to me,” Master says. “It’s all wood, cherry wood,” he says, “and you know he’s an excellent woodworker. So there’s a solid wood base, a large circle, that the girl would stand on. There would be hooks at the base for locking her to it with ankle straps.”
“Are my legs together or apart?” I ask.
“I didn’t say it would be you.”
I tilt my head and give him a look. It’s about as sarcastic as I can go with him, but we’re casual, and he doesn’t object.
He likes it and smiles. “OK, let’s say it’s you. Actually, he did mention you. Yes, it’s you… Why does feet together or apart matter?”
“If my legs are together, I’ll fall over, at least more likely to. Apart, I have more stability. Just saying.”
“Hmmm. But it doesn’t seem as if having your legs apart is quite so feminine and proper.”
“I’ve never heard you complain about my legs being apart.”
Master chuckles. “Touche. I mean as decor. It doesn’t look proper.”
“So he’s making me into a floor lamp, and you’re concerned about my stance not being proper enough?”
Master Michael smiles. “You make a point. But Cam is an artist, he wants you to look elegant.”
“With a shade on my head.”
“We’ll get to that.”
“Still. Trying to help here. Contributing to my own humiliation. I’m saying stability might be an issue.”
“Point taken. I’ll mention it to him. No one wants you falling over.”
“I’m glad to know that people care.”
He ignores my sarcasm and continues: “From the back of the base, a pole would extend vertically. Actually, he now wants it to be more substantial and sturdy than a dowel-sized pole, so he thinks it will be a foot wide with a curved front. His slave would stand with her back against it, and her hands would wrap behind and be tightly shackled in back to the pole. Farther up, the support would have a collar threaded through to fasten the girl’s — your — neck to it.”
I nod. “Well, sure,” I say, “you’d have to make sure I wouldn’t run away.”
Again, Master ignores my sass: “Toward the top of the back support would extend a lampshade. It would be height adjustable, and would be lowered over the girl’s — your — head.”
“Where’s the light?” I ask.
“So,” Master says, “glad you asked. The base would also contain a battery pack that would supply the power. Electrical wire would run through the middle of the back support. It would connect to a strap that contains a specialized ball gag — “
“With a light in it.”
“So I would be holding a light bulb in my mouth under a lampshade.”
“Yes. Something like that.”
I shake my head but have to laugh.
“There’s more, but what do you think so far?”
“The collar is redundant,” I say.
“How do you mean?”
“It’s redundant. I’m held to the back support by means of the ball gag light. You don’t need the collar as well. Besides, the collar would likely be hidden by the lamp shade, if you’re trying to make an impression. It wouldn’t show and isn’t necessary.:
“Good point. I’ll mention it.”
Again I am aiding and abetting the crime being plotted against me. “So, do you imagine a, uh, lamp that is dressed or undressed?”
“Cameron was imagining you undressed.”
“Well, with all respect, Sir, Cameron always imagines me undressed. That’s probably what got him into this human lamp business.”
“True. What’s your preference?” he asks me.
“I think I’m a dressed lamp.”
“Of course you would say that.”
“Please hear me out. Let’s say I’m dressed in one of my fifties-style shirt dresses, high heels, wearing pearls around my neck. Very retro. Then I become a kind of art piece, performance art maybe. Makes a statement. Very cool.”
“But if you’re undressed — “
“Then I look like something from Spencer’s Gifts.”
Master Michael laughs loud. After a bit, he composes himself and says, “But you’re so striking when you’re nude.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. But you say that to all your slaves.”
“Yes, I do,” Master says with a wry smile.
I shake my head, smiling.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I think people want lamps with breasts.”
That makes me giggle. We’ve gotten silly now. “Strange,” I say, “that all these hundreds of years, millennia actually, starting with torches in caves, humankind has survived perfectly well with, well, standard floor lamps. But now in 2019 Cameron has a wet-dream idea for making a human floor lamp out of me and a plank of cherry wood — and suddenly society has an insatiable need for lamps with breasts.”
“Yep. That’s about right. I’m sure if I put the ‘Shae lamp’ in the lighting department at Walmart, it would be a bestseller.”
“Oh god. Now that is humiliating.”
“Because you’re a floor lamp?”
“No. Because I’m being sold at Walmart.”
And we go on and on. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.
“You said there’s more.” I say. “Dare I ask?”
“Right. Cameron has ideas for improvements.”
“Another bulb between your legs. He hasn’t figured that out yet, but it would be a similar idea. One end inserted into your vagina and the outer part being a light bulb.”
“And I suppose the inner part would be vibrating,” I say.
“No, he hadn’t thought of that.”
We have exhausted ourselves, our humor and repartee. We go back to reading. His head goes back into his newspaper, mine back into my novel. But after a minute, I put my book down and say, “He is joking, right?”
“No, Cameron is intent on it. He’ll make something like this. Whether it’ll work or not, don’t know.”
“But you, you’re not seriously thinking about this for me.”
“Hmmm,” Master says. He lowers his newspaper slightly, and I can see his jaw shift into his own unique, diabolical smile.
“Oh god,” I say. I pick up my book again. “Well, for the record, I vote no.”
Master is back behind his newspaper. “When did you ever get to vote?”
“Ah, Sir, that would be never.”
“You got that right, slave.”
I am smiling. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.