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?

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.

quartet

Miz A now has four locations within the house in which to stage my humiliations. She is making her funhouse. She’s quite pleased with herself.

There’s the entryway wall to which I can be shackled and affixed.

There’s the wet bar, to which I can be spread atop of and hooked into.

There’s the easy chair. which has short chains underneath that can be used to put me in a sitting bondage.

And now there’s the bay window.

Amanda’s desire is to have bondage devices in the house to use on me without anything looking like it’s a bondage device. These all are part of the decor, the bondage attachments hidden or camouflaged to be undetectable.

She has been very clever.


Among the four, the easy chair is the one that seems to have the least purpose. Amanda doesn’t it use it that much. The main point of it, I suppose, is to arrange me spread-eagle so that my pussy is open and gaping. However, the chair is too low for it to position me at a good level for anyone else, say, of the male persuasion to do things to me. It is more of a “lesbian chair,” so to speak, but Amanda will never kneel before me to service me that way.

She has tried to reverse me in the chair — that is, have me facing into the chair, my ankles parallel to and atop the chair arms, my breasts flattened against the back of the chair. This makes my ass face out rearward, which in itself is the kind of humiliation Amanda desires for me. The bonus for her is that it places my head atop the back of the chair facing out — which gives it a rather diabolical usage-opportunity for people using my mouth for “various things.”

To be clear, so far the chair hasn’t been used that way on me.

The chair’s installed chains can be used to bind me into the chair this backward way — they do work, sort of. However, my ankles resting on the chair arms are a bit unstable. The arms are a bit too narrow and rounded, making my shins slide off. It’s doable, but not the rock solid bondage Amanda wishes.

Amanda is considering another chair that sits higher and has flatter, broader arms.


Amanda installs me into the wet bar about once a week or so. The entryway wall, the first of the devices to be created, is used less often, but sometimes. That has yet to be used for a party, but it will be. And like I say, the easy chair is hardly used at all.

Her current toy is the bay window. Amanda has perched me there now twice since Saturday night.

She told me she wants to get a mini-easel for the corner of the bay window and put on it a placard that reads “Slave Girl. $24.99. Marked down to $18.88.”

“Ha, ha,” I replied.

She will do it too.


Miz A says she has another idea in the works. At the conceptual stage.

I told her, “You should stop now. There are enough rides in this Disneyland.”

She didn’t reply but simply flashed her wicked little smile.

bay window, Saturday

Late yesterday afternoon, Mistress A had me undress. She called me to join her in the dining room. There, she put wrist cuffs on me.

“Climb into the bay window,” she ordered, “facing out.”

I looked at her for probably a little too long, a hesitation that I know annoys her, yet I was not really understanding. I finally obeyed, sliding into the window area on my knees.

She noticed my slight delay in responding: “You have to work on that girl.”

“Yes, Miz-A.”

“I want you squatting, not kneeling… your thighs opened.”

I balanced myself so and spread my thighs.

Mistress left for a moment, returning with a step-stool from the laundry room. Climbing up a couple of rungs, she attached my right wrist to an eyebolt in the top corner of the bay. She repeated the process with my other wrist on the other side.

All of this was a surprise to me, her using the window this way with me. And, how did the eye bolts get there?


The bay is about five feet wide and six feet tall from ceiling to the bottom bed. It has a a triptych of panes — the wide center pane facing out and two narrow panes on either side at forty-five degree angles.

It juts out, overlooking our back yard — the small hill on one side and the ridge farther back and curving around the mountain. In any other situation, I’d consider it a lovely view and would suppose it to be a bit of a shame we had blocked it off for so long with office files and household fodder. But in this moment, I wasn’t so focused on the aesthetics of architectural features.

I was, however, beginning to be grateful for little things: it faces our back yard not our front and is therefore private.


Mistress opened the two side windows. “I think you’ll need some air in there,” she said.

“Are you planning this to be my permanent keeping place?” I asked with a touch of snark, trying to make light of my windowed nudity.

She said nothing, but left to fetch something, which turned out to be a ballgag that she installed deep in my mouth. “You’re too jabbery this morning,” she said.

So much for snarky retorts.

Mistress went outside, walking around the patio to stand in the grass some twenty yards out to observe her artwork. She perched at different spots, on either side and close and far.

This now felt different with her watching, with me in the bay facing out, with a window framing and revealing me. I felt kept and presented at the same time — merchandise shown to the public. I was like a mannequin in a department store window.


Suddenly she was no where in sight. At first that seemed to matter, but then not so much. I was left in my thoughts.

I wondered if Amanda had this idea even before we cleaned out the dining room. Was this her intention all along? Or was this a discovery that came to her as I myself was unburdening the bay from its junk?

My ballgag was getting wet with my saliva, and some collected at the corner of my mouth. It dripped down onto my left breast, sliding toward my nipple. I realized that, by pulling myself up slightly, my chained arms could take some weight off my spread thighs.

I wondered if Amanda installed the eyebolts herself, or if somehow she had Blake come in to install them. Yes, he probably did this,while I was in Pennsylvania, equipping yet another part of the house for my humiliation.

She wanted this to be a secret. She wanted to surprise me with it.


Amanda returned in about fifteen minutes, appearing again in the back yard..

With her were John and Patricia Miller. I could hear them as they talked. Amanda led them from the patio into the grass. She turned them toward the bay window.

“Oh, my,” Patricia said.

There they observed me naked, my arms chained to the ceiling, my thighs spread, and my pussy, shaven and bared. My labia were wet and glistening in the golden light of the setting sun.

I turned my head to the side, looking down.

John said, “Well done, Amanda.”

mother and me

Last week Mother asked me more about my D/s life and some of the specific things I am, uh, “made to do.”

For those new to my life, two years ago I came out to her, first about my bisexuality and my lesbian relationship with Amanda, then about my submissiveness and D/s lifestyle. It was admittedly an unusual seasonal cocktail — my first confession at Thanksgiving, my second at Christmas — a holiday one-two punch. Amanda, proof of the first part, was there for the second part, and wooed my mother into surprising acceptance of everything.

I think that in the years following my father’s death, my mother, although feeling deep loss, has also come to a new freedom. I don’t know what all that entails, nor do I need to know, but I believe Mom’s acceptance of me (of me and Amanda, and of me under Amanda) has much to do with her awareness that the man she was married to was quite restrictive morality and especially narrow in the area of sexuality. She herself wanted more and “other” — or so I surmise. I don’t know that she has anyone in her life now, much less her own Christian Grey, but at the very least, she seems to have curiosities about my alternative life and to a degree lives vicariously through me.

And so she asks me, “How does Amanda tie you up? You know, take control of you?”

This would be humorous if it were someone else and someone else’s mother, and if I weren’t in the squeamish position of deciding how much to tell her about the heated intimacies of my slave life. Telling her “Amanda makes me go topless and has me wear jingle bells from my pierced nipples” is one thing. Telling her that Amanda shares me with two other men is quite another.

I think mother probably still holds to a morality of monogamy, accepting the lesbian and D/s elements of my life because I am the “wife,” in her sensibility, of “husband” Amanda. To her, per the Bible, a husband should have one wife, and vice versa. Given that’s how Mother imagines Amanda and me, it’s really okay in “Mom-theology” for Amanda to do whatever she darn well pleases to me. (I’m not sure what Mom does with the so-called biblical teachings against homosexuality that Father frequented spouted, but she never really was much on board with those sermons, as I recall.)

In any case, I’m guessing that, for my mother, monogamy is still a pillar of civilization, so I avoid mention of the fact that I am on a regular basis servicing two men about once a month. That might not fly, I’m guessing. Amanda, the Woo queen might be able to sell it to her someday — Mom thinks Amanda is wonderful — but if I mentioned it, I’m sure mother would disapprove. To her, thinking of me as a lesbian submissive to Amanda is thrilling but to think of me as a promiscuous slut would be deplorable.

Another area I avoided in conversation with her was corporal punishment. For me it conjures recollections of being spanked as a girl, not frequently but, let’s just say, memorably. And it reminds me that as an adult woman I was spanked not so many weeks ago by Master McKenna. Actually Mother would like the spanking part, one of the fifty shades perhaps, and maybe even the idea of a debonair man pulling me across his lap, but then not so much the idea that I am a slave to more than one person which, again, makes me a slut. This gets so convoluted…

So, pressed by her, I manage to sort through this and volunteer a few things. Amanda really isn’t so much about bondage, which mother actually gets into. Mistress A is far more about public display, which I think would be troubling to mother. So, I avoid the BBQ party and being made bare-breasted in front of trash men. How do you explain that? Again — conversations you should never have to have with one’s mother. But I have to tell her something…

Not sure it was a wise choice, but I tell her about the wet bar.

“So,” mother says, reprising my explanation, “you’re stretched over the bar and your breasts are hanging on the other side, and she sits there and places her wine glass on your bare back? Doesn’t it topple over and make a mess?”

Somehow in my naked bondage mother finds tidiness important.

“Yes, my back is the surface,” I say. “It’s up to me not to move or breathe too deeply so there is no spillage.” (Yes, I used the word “spillage.”)

She wants to know how my ankles are secured to the wet bar and I tell her about the eye bolts and shackles. “And your arms, where do they go?” I tell her they are stretched to either side of me and bolted to the wet bar as well. I watch her face as the mental picture of me forms in her mind, which gives me a little twinge of horror, and, yes, somehow she makes the observation that my body then bears the image of a cross.

I certainly don’t want to go to unholy images of me as a crucifix, so I try to change the subject. “Amanda also makes me scrub the kitchen floor,” I say, “while I’m naked. Well, sometimes with a short skirt on.”

“So she uses you for cleaning. That’s good.”

Somehow, as we’re talking about my utter debasement and sexual disgrace, my mother finds virtue in keeping a spotless floor. Through her eyes, my whole life is summed up by a sudsy, slippery roll on the slick kitchen floor and a bright yellow bottle of Mr. Clean.

For a hot funny minute I imagine my mother as a D/s slave. She would drive Christian Grey nuts. He’d tie her to a bed and she’d make a comment about dust collecting in the corner of the ceiling.

I think she’d have to be a service slave.

The Party (Fiction)

Note: This is flash fiction, which is generally defined as a really short, short story. One rule of thumb is that it is to be about 500 words in length, although some allow more words. This comes in at 500. I find flash fiction is a good exercise in economical writing. It forces you not only to eliminate any unnecessary words, but find other words that do more “work.” It’s not the only kind of writing you want to do, of course, but it’s a good discipline. Here I’m trying to adapt erotica into this flash fiction format.


He warned if I toppled any glass I would be given lashes in front of the crowd.


The problem with the waist tray was that my breasts, which would be made bare for the event, jutted into the space above the tray. This was fine for stemless wine and cocktail barware, which sat comfortably under, but made tall champagne flutes and highball glasses precarious. My breasts swayed slightly when I walked, tending to jostle any glasses that tall.

“I can’t help it,” I apologized, “they just move.”

Master Jack grunted but would hardly complain, for he valued my assets. Indeed, the whole point of the waist tray was to frame my tits above the tray for all to see.

He put me in a black miniskirt and strappy heels and my titanium collar with a Yale lock in front. He shackled my wrists behind my back and filled my mouth with a ballgag.

The tray belted around my waist, with chains holding up its front corners. The question was whether to attach the chain ends to the piercings in my nipples or the O-ring of my slave collar. Master tried to attach the tray to my nipples, and it worked sort of, but my nipples elongated like springs when the tray was filled with drinks, making everything unstable.

The O-ring it was.


People arrived around seven, some thirty of them, men and women, strangers offering leering smiles when they saw me.

Master announced at the beginning — “My slave cannot serve drinks in tall glasses… for her tits are too big.” Everyone looked at me and I was obvious and people laughed.

All evening I walked around in a random pattern from bartender to party guests, my breasts jiggling, framed between the chains.


Later I became weary from being in my heels all evening. My shoe caught on the edge of the Oriental rug. It was a minor stumble, nothing really, but two empty glasses toppled over on my tray.

Immediately Master Jack led me to the wall. He beckoned the crowd to watch. He made me bend over at my waist and grab my ankles. He lifted my skirt from behind, revealing my cheeks. I felt the air, circulated by the overhead fans, waft over my shaved pussy.

He announced my stumble, that there were to be two strokes. He handed a whip to one of the guests. “Have at her,” he said, and everyone laughed.

I heard the whip being raised. It whistled through the air, landing flat against my flesh.

I screamed, trembling.

“Harder!” someone said.

The second stroke landed. I yelled again, gasping from the slice.

People clapped, laughing.

I felt blood trickle from the stripes I’d been given.

Master straightened me, facing the guests. My tears made my mascara run. He left the back hem of my skirt tucked into my waistband: my welts were visible to everyone.

I continued serving drinks on my tray.

Someone asked Master Jack, “Where do I get one of her?”

coming home

I pull in to the driveway, tired, not from physical fatigue but from a week of caring for mother and sorting through the childhood I once lived.

Amanda appears on the front porch. “About time you got home,” she says. She wears a smile and tight jeans. She seems ever more beautiful than when I left her.

“I’m a mess,” I say.

“Yes you are.”

“I was so tired this morning, overslept. Had to rush out to get to the airport. Mother still wanted to talk — after all our time together, somehow she still had things to say — and I wasn’t able to do my hair and makeup—“

Amanda interrupts: “How about a kiss first.”

I take a deep breath and oh so willingly place my arms over her shoulders and lean close. We pause there, face to face, and we kiss, lips wet, soft, lingering in the longing that my short absence has yielded. Her arms wrap around my waist. We kiss again, a kiss of both passion and possession, each of us holding what we have in each other. She pulls me in tight, and our clothed breasts flatten into each other, and her lips take mine in another slow kiss.

I lay my head against her and close my eyes.


Later, over wine, I say, “I have missed you.” It’s a statement of the obvious, but it could mean many things. One misses another in different ways. I mean “all of the above.”

Amanda offers a slight nod. She knows. She says nothing, but it is a silence of closeness not distance. She does not commence talk about what’s been going on in her life or pepper me with further questions about my mother. She and I have talked on the phone about mother several times while I have been away, so there’s no point to more of that.

We sit in the quiet, our selves re-merging.


In the evening we go on a walk. Front road. She keeps me dressed. It feels good to be collared again. She doesn’t leash me. Perhaps she is just gentling me back into my slavery.

She asks, “Were you a good girl?”

We both know what that means. “Yes,” I say. “I never touched myself.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t say I was happy about that.”

She laughs.

“Well, full confession: one night I rested my hand on my upper thigh near my pussy. I was close. But I didn’t.”

“You should have called me. Maybe I would have granted you permission.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” I say.

“You’re right,” she replies, amused.


It had been a warm day, but the night is cool — we’ve crossed over into autumn. The dusk settles in on us, but there are clear skies with a bright moon. I reach for Amanda’s hand, and she gives it. We walk now hand-in-hand.

Later Amanda asks, “Did anyone come on to you?”

She says it with a light tone, and I realize she’s being facetious, at least slightly so. “Not sure that would be likely to happen.”

“You’re so naïve about yourself that way.”

“Is that why you asked it?”

“Yes. I like playing with your lack of self-awareness.”

“You just like playing with me, period.”

“True. You’re a fun toy. Fun and naïve.”

“Well… naïve or not, I mostly had connection only with doctors. And it seems, go figure, they are kinda busy with other things.”

“So you think.”

“Well, no one came on to me.”

“Surprising. And a pity. Doctors have needs too.”

I’m laughing. “I assure you I have come back to you a virgin.”

“So to speak,” she says.

“So to speak.”

“I never doubted, of course,” Amanda says. “Just protecting my property.”

I smile, happy to be that property of hers, once again in the flesh.


Saturday night she takes me into her bed.

Naked we hold each other. She holds onto me like her prized property, and I hold onto her like salvation. Yet this time we are as equals, Amanda and Shae, lovers. Our breasts dance, our lips part, and I finger her to a juicy climax. She has missed me too.

Sometimes sex is the love itself, and other times it is a symbolic expression of the deeper love that already has happened. Our intercourse had been happening ever since I stepped out of the car.

I feel her tongue slide firmly into me, my vagina so very wet for her.

I shudder.

I come.

I come home.