reluctance and writing

It’s been a week of beautiful weather here as well as a week of work-from-home meetings, calls, and document prep.

Amanda has kept me collared all week, which is not unusual, but this included our Zoom sessions with clients. In one of the meetings one woman commented on my collar, said she liked it. I know it was noticed by others as well.

I think now that Amanda is gradually going to out me this way, gradually, with our clients.

In my recent Friday night chats with Amanda, she tasked me with two assignments. One was a paper on the proper way for me to beg. The other was to write an imagined encounter with a man to whom I give a blowjob. The first part of that second assignment is to actually email some real man we kinda, sorta know and ask his permission to write about him this way.

I had written much of the first paper on begging, but was admittedly passive-aggressive in doing the second assignment. Amanda gave me some leeway, but I as of yesterday afternoon hadn’t written a word. I was pushing the boundaries with her.

Yesterday, my friend Jade here online gave me a needed talking-to, and said I was heading into punishment hell with Amanda if I didn’t just write the fucking thing. She was right.

So last night I stayed up till one a.m. and finished both assignments. The second assignment at this point is simply a letter to this man asking permission. It’s just a page, but it was hard for me, and it took me hours to write.

Amanda was pleased when I handed both of these to her this morning. Punishment averted. She will review and give feedback. I don’t know if she’ll have me post any of this on my blog.

I’m not sure why this second assignment has been so difficult for me. I am generally accepting of my sub-slave status with everyone. I write about my life openly on here, for god’s sake. I am introduced to strangers as Amanda’s “slave.” Contacting a man about writing something should not be so big a deal. Yet this assignment feels different to me. I’m not sure why.

work and submission

It’s been quite a pivot from last weekend when I was gloriously dominated by the Goddess Amanda. Monday morning we were back at work, home office of course, but all business. And so it’s been all week. Busy, long hours, real work.

Amanda has had me wearing casual business outfits this week, such that I could walk into a conference room for a business meeting and be properly and respectably attired.

Yet she has mastered the hidden erotic detail — having me wear underneath lace top stockings, or breast bands, or a waist chain bearing a dangling jingle bell. She has kept me in a collar and heels all week, and as always, sans bra and panties, details that would seem to matter less when it’s just her and me at home. I am a strip-party for her mind: she knows what’s I’m not wearing underneath as well as those secret adornments she’s decorated me with. So, in the midst of real work all week, while she keeps me dressed, I am her fantasy life.

We work in separate parts of the house, a setup that serves practical purposes. For one, we actually get more done working separately. For another, it provides her privacy for teleconference meetings. She doesn’t mind if I’m privy to them, but clients might, and the semblance of separation conveys professionalism. Our separate work spaces at home also seem to put us in the mindset of business work.

But our home office arrangement offers some other realities: I need to walk across the house to bring documents to Amanda in her study. I could send them to her instantly by email, but she likes seeing me walk into her office, and she likes that I have to wait for her to finish what she’s reading or reviewing before looking up at me. She also likes when I drop something and she can watch me bend over to pick it up.

Occasionally she will come to my writing room for a file, or to tell me something she could have told me by calling my cell. In doing so, she walks through the living room and past the wet bar, where a day earlier she had me tied, bound, and pussy-splayed from behind.

I know this because she tells me: “I was remembering the wet bar yesterday,” she says.

“Oh,” I reply without looking up from the spreadsheet. “How’s that working for you?”

“Nicely.”

And then she picks up the file she wants, pauses to undress me with her eyes, and returns to her office on the other side of the house.

So while we pivoted into the work week and we actually have been productive each and every day, the memories of last weekend — the instant replays of my submissions — are all around us, my sexual humiliations dangling and spent like party streamers the morning after.

Anyone watching us this week would have seen a businesswoman and her assistant doing their jobs: I got the master spreadsheet done on Tuesday and wrote up a draft of a client letter by Wednesday morning. We reviewed together the priority list, and we had a conference call with the home office. Amanda had twenty Zoom meetings with clients and employees. We got a lot done.

But an observer would not know our subtext. “The kitchen floor looks really clean,” Amanda says, a seemingly innocent observation. An observer would not know that Amanda is intentionally reminding us both of my body soaked in suds last weekend, my breasts flattening against the tile, twin wet mops like none other.

Today, Friday, she has me in a simple shirtdress, a bit retro as she likes to do sometimes. It covers me completely, and comes to below my knees, but Amanda knows that beneath this common dress is my naked body, piglet-pink, pale, and all perked up.

Whatever my clothing, whatever our work or home context, she peers below my surfaces with X-ray specs. There, underneath, she sees me, pure sex and flesh. That excites her.

And it excites me that I excite her. As a pair, even while working, we are serially erotic.

beautiful weekend

If the essence of D/s is a domme making her sub-slave do humiliating things, then Mistress Amanda had a very successful weekend with me.

I know it was to distract me from this present darkness, and I am grateful.

I was kept ball-gagged much of the weekend, with a microfiber washcloth hanging from a short chain dangling from my slave collar to catch my constant drool. So much for elegance in the submissive life.

The kitchen floor is cleaner than its ever been, thanks to Mistress Amanda’s new technique of using my entire naked body, mostly breasts and ass, to wash and polish. She watched. Besides being humiliating, it’s an exhausting workout.

While I was mopping the kitchen floor tiles with my flesh, Mistress started calling me “piglet” and carried that through the weekend. I was kind of offended, which is her right to do, but at one point I asked, “Do I look like a pig to you?” She said, deadpan, “You are pinkish, have fleshy curves, and you’re really cute.”

I just shook my head. Well, OK.

Saturday afternoon, I was tasked to organize books in the basement, which we have never unpacked, into some sort of order, which I am dubbing the Shae Decimal System (meaning that a week from now I will have completely forgotten the logic of it). For this job, she put me in ballet boots and shackled my hands by wrist cuffs in front of me, which meant I had to hobble around and sort and place one book at a time… We have hundreds of books.

Last night, she tied me naked to the wet bar again, which I will write about and post another time.

I would like to say at night she used me for sex. I mean I really would have liked her to use me for sex last night. I would have done anything for her. And I told her so. In fact, even though I was exhausted from my day, I begged her for sex, which is the lowest point a sex slave can get to but is what puts the sex into slave, I suppose.

But she didn’t.

Sunday morning, after I served her coffee at 7:15 and made her toast — we’re running low on groceries already — Mistress freed me to observe Easter church services online, knowing and respecting my faith.

At 11:00, I returned to her, thanked her for her kindness, and said I am submitted again for her purposes. She was hungry, and I made her more toast with honey.

She had me undress, put on thigh-top stockings and high heels, and then had me sit beside her on the floor while she took a nap on the couch. As she lay on the couch on her side, her hand cupped my breast, she fell into a nap, and I hoped I was giving her sleepy-time pleasure. I leaned my head against hers and dozed off for a few minutes myself, She napped for a full forty-five minutes. I sat still for her.

She had wanted to take me for a walk, but Sunday turned cold and actually was snowing for a while. She thought of bundling me naked under a winter coat, but decided against it, for my health, as I would still get really cold that way.

So then she got a little bored, it seemed, and she ball-gagged me again with the drool cloth hanging from my collar. (Friends, I’m just telling you, it’s not my best look.) And then she disappeared for a while. I heard her on the phone, and then at her home office desk doing some work. I read my book.

Later, she re-emerged from office work and had me model some clothes for her. She got bored with that and decided she wanted me to give her a bath and a massage. I thought maybe that would lead to something in the category of sexual pleasure and orgasm. After all, the massage involved two naked women in a bed with fragrant oils.

But Mistress fell asleep. I pulled up the sheets and blanket over her and turned off the light.

Apparently this slave life really isn’t about me. I keep forgetting that. 🙂

It was a beautiful weekend for this one little piglet.

a most lovely walk

The weather was beautiful today. Amanda leashed me and took me for a walk. She had me naked, but for a pair of white wedge sandals and a slave collar. But this wasn’t as daring as it sounds.

As I’ve written before, we have a long back yard space that angles up into a ridge around the mountain, a space that is partly private, then not, then private again, as we walk around the top rim at the far end of others’ back yards.

Even so, she wasn’t parading me in front of others. Amanda hasn’t yet had the conversations with some of the neighbors about us and our lifestyle and me, and the possibility of my nudity out in the open. But today, Amanda could walk me nude anyway. Our closest neighbors are away, sheltering in their winter place in Florida. We didn’t walk so far around the ridge as to be within obvious sight of the homes on the other side. Then again, you never know who may be watching, and there is always a chance someone else might be walking the ridge, but I’m in a state of mind right now of not so much caring. It’s the least of our worries.

Amanda is itching to show me in public, with plenty of others watching, but this wasn’t that. The naked Shae parade will happen soon enough. It just wasn’t her intention today.

This was the first day the temps climbed into the low seventies, and even though there was a slight breeze, the sun was quite warm. The spring air felt good flowing between my thighs and over my breasts.

I was subdued, as I have been for most of the past few weeks — quiet and deeply compliant. I am into deep subspace these days and have wanted lately just to be her puppy on a leash, dutifully following her lead. Today I was very much her obedient little bitch.

There’s a shortcut from the ridge on one side to the other side, and she had us take that. At the apex, she unleashed from my collar, and told me to wait at the top. She made her way to the bottom — down to the ridge path on the other side. Then she turned and called to me to come down.

This puzzled me, but of course on her command I did so, navigating the uneven, matted dirt-and-leaf steps down, sometimes holding onto tree branches to steady me. Halfway down, I realized Amanda simply wanted to watch me from below. She wanted to see my naked body as it angled and searched for its footing and hit uneven steps with slight jolts, sending my breasts into jitters and my thighs into ripples.

She didn’t miss a single wobble of my flesh during my descent. When I made it down and stood for her to re-leash me, I smiled slightly and tilted my head as if to call her out on her obvious intention to watch me leeringly and lasciviously. She twisted a smile and shrugged. She can ogle me with the best of men — she makes no apology for it.

And, frankly, I don’t mind.

We made our way around, back to the far edge of our yard, then back into the house.

I think maybe that shortcut — my breast-juddering descent — was her intention from the beginning, her personal afternoon delight. But also I think maybe she was trying to get me out of my recent depths, to open me up outdoors, literally, to allow nature to kiss and caress my flesh.

It was a most lovely walk.

update

I regret I haven’t posted in a while. The week started with Mistress Amanda playing with her shae toy and became a laser-focus on business work made more urgent because of the pandemic. Normally I help assist with business work some days of the week, with Wednesday designated as my off day and Friday a partial day if needed. This week I did Amanda business on Wednesday as well, and through all of Friday and most of Saturday. Today she is giving us both a much-needed break, but we’ll need to be back at it in the morning.

Evenings she has continued to play with her shae toy, in all of the ways I previously posted as well as a few more. But the feel of it is different. Last weekend Amanda’s demeanor was boredom, and she was using me to entertain her. Now her need at night is mental recovery, and she is using me for replenishment. It’s the same set of humiliations, but it has a different quality to it.

She is not unaware of my own weariness, and she’s promised to keep her hands off me today. We’ll see how that goes.

I hope everyone is well and staying safe.

this present moment

I’ll start this by saying that we are getting along fine.

Then, I’ll say that this present moment puts the “sub” into submission.

So, in this era of shelter at home, I am now a sexual object 24/7. Not that I wasn’t before. But my slavery to her is normally a mix of psychological then physical, mental then sexual. Now, in this time of “shelter in place,” my slavery is physical and sexual constantly. Every moment something.

She has nothing else to do but me. So she does me.

It helps, perhaps, that the roles are clear. She gets off by humiliating me. I get off by her getting off as she humiliates me. So, yes, it satisfies my submissive need. I desire this, to some extent, but it doesn’t mean I love every moment of being led, spread, and bedded.

Well, I like the bedded part.

My status as “her submissive girl” puts me at a lower level, which I accept. I have no expectation of equality or fairness. This is the saving grace of domme-slave. I have no entitlement to anything. That keeps me from the usual frustrations that lovers — well, roommates, well, girlfriends, well, domme-slave bisexuals, well, one of the above — often get raw and testy about when confined together for long periods. But I have no right to be annoyed or bothered with Amanda.

So, that said, I am annoyed and bothered with Amanda.

Over the weekend, she couldn’t help but dream up all kinds of things for me. She is bored with life, with being cooped up in the house, with not having other contact with people who energize her. So she looks over at me and thinks of things she can do to me. I am her Frankenstein. She experiments.

Like I posted: When a domme can’t control anything else in her life, she doubles down on controlling her slave girl.

Because she can.

She made me into a flashlight lamp last night. Yep.

Me in ballet boots,and a short plaid skirt, nothing else. Me — very Irish schoolgirl lass. Me standing behind Amanda, as she was reading a book on the couch. Me with a flashlight wedged between my breasts. Me holding the flashlight in place by pushing my breasts together. Me hearing Amanda talking about how my “tits need to have more uses.” Me praying she doesn’t talk about milking me.

Over the weekend she was tying me to more things.

Again, the wet bar. I know I’ll be married to that in the near future, there’ll be a wedding, and it and I will have a life together.

But then also, a rope to my collar and extending up to the ceiling light in the middle of the living room. It was a loose, half-assed tie, but a vision of yet another eye bolt in a strategic location. She’s thinking parties, my wrists shackled behind my back, and people feeling my boobs and my other parts in a future time when there is no more social distancing.

Let’s see…

Well, late Saturday afternoon, no lie, she pulled out a box of Christmas wrapping paper and ribbons from the basement. Why, you might wonder. Well, that was my question too.

Out of red -and-green wrapping ribbon, she devised for me a bikini. She wrapped me in ribbon, stripes over my breasts and nipples and down across my pussy and up through my ass in back — all just wide enough to make me decent enough from getting arrested and indecent enough to get me totally fucked. That occupied Amanda for a couple of hours, me a craft project, as she tried to get it all just right. Summertime, and she thinks I’ll go out in public in this. God.

One wonders what to do when your mistress is delusional. There has to be a number you can call.

Of course, there have been more times I’ve been hung on the entryway wall. But without people coming in and out, without a party of oglers and touchers, she’s not so excited about that.

She’s just bored.

The other day, for a couple of hours, she made a rule for me that when I was walking from one room to another, I had to lift the hem of my skirt to my waist, revealing my pussy and ass. I obeyed, ridiculous as it was, and in short time she got bored with it. I imagine she’d stick with it if there were people watching, but just the two of us, not so much. She’s retired that for now, but it’ll be a party feature someday.

We still have out times on the couch reading books, sitting opposite each other. But lately she has told me to pull my skirt up and spread my legs so she can look at my pussy.

“You had a pretty good close up last night,” I dared to say.

She glared at me, and I quickly said, “Yes, ma’am,” hiking up my skirt.

She’s talked about getting a second slave, which scares me to death and makes me jealous as green sin, but she’s just teasing me with it. (I think.) Still, I got to a point Sunday afternoon when I thought yes, bring in another slave. Please, God, give Amanda some Calista blonde, and let Amanda torment her for a day or so — and give me a fucking break.

So all of that.

Like I say, Amanda and I are getting along fine.

life changes

It’s a strange moment we’re in.

Amanda has decided to extend our office moratorium through the end of next week. Meetings by teleconference only. That’s not great for recruiting, but will have to suffice for the time being.

She’s also decided not to have other people in the house, even friends.

And she wants me to be fully clothed during this time, to keep me from catching a chill and compromising my immune system.

“Does that mean,” I ask, “I get to wear a bra and panties again?” As I say it, I know I am a little too eager in my tone.

“No. We’re not going that far.”

So we’re changing some things, but not bounce and sway.

Amanda didn’t specify this, but I guess boot-licking is also banned. The literal kind. The metaphorical kind in which I am her gofer and helper and chief boot-licker will continue as per usual.

In regard to the literal, I prefer licking other things anyway.

This next Wednesday was supposed to be the time for me to go to Kevin’s. He himself called and asked that we reschedule later. He’s in the throes of managing his construction company through this virus scare, keeping as much going as possible while yet sending “non-essential” people back home. He’s having to work sixteen-hour days.

“I have ways of relaxing you,” I say to him on the phone. I’m still working on my escort voice with him. “I could help you fall asleep, and maybe I would come into your dreams.”

“You always come in my dreams,” he says.

Nice line from the man who doesn’t talk much. Nonetheless, I won’t be going to Kevin’s for a while.

Amanda still wants to go shopping today. She’s checking now to see what stores are open, if anything other than grocery stores.

For Amanda, shopping trumps everything, even a virus.

time to dream up stuff

Mistress Amanda made a comment yesterday about my visits to Kevin. She said, “When you’re gone like that, I realize how many uses I have for you.”

As Amanda-speak, I know it’s an intentionally domme-loaded compliment. Like saying, “You’re a good housewife because you scrub the floors fairly clean.” Or “You match the decor nicely when I hang you on the wall.”

If I were to translate “how many uses I have for you” to mean “when you’re gone, I miss you,” she would correct me and tell me that if she meant that, she would say that. Instead, she would insist she means that when I’m gone, she doesn’t have anyone to carry her briefcase or pour her glasses of wine. Or be her fuck-toy.

Apparently, I’m a multi-purpose kind of girl.

But all of that is beside the point.

What’s become apparent to me is that my visits with Kevin give Amanda time to focus on her dominance of me. She needs time to think and ponder, and when I’m always around, I become distracting, forcing her into an active mode of doing. While I’m gone, she is freer to think of things, dream of things, fantasize of things to do to me. When I return, these trickle out of her like carefully placed clues, leading me gradually into her creativity of erotic objectification and new adventures of submission and humiliation.

I’m not sure it’s appropriate to say “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” It just gives her more time to figure how to prosecute my slavery.

saturday normal

It is a bit warmer today. Not warm enough to play outside, but fifty-ish, and some of the snow has melted. And so has Amanda.

She’s been in a mood the past bunch of days, a kind of terse and touchy funk. She hasn’t been upset with me — I would know that — but she’s just been out of sorts. Nothing to it, I don’t think, maybe just the winter doldrums. She has seemed tired. Mistresses have the right to down times too.

This morning she seems to have a little more pep. And she has surprised me.

She has allowed me to be in a shirtdress today. This is a floral print of tiny flowers — yellow and red tulips and white daisies against a royal blue background. Pretty. It has a belt that cinches me tight at the waist, then billows out a little over my hips, and over my knees to a midi length. It’s a dress that swings and flows. And it’s something modest for a change.

She’s also provided me a respite from the waist trainer, which is wonderful, and she’s given me time off from heels and ballet boots. These I’m wearing are white canvas flats. Also no collar, no leash. “I’m giving you the weekend off,” she says.

So it’s Saturday and I feel like a normal woman.

We talk over coffee as we always do about the day ahead, and she mentions shopping. She also suggests we do afternoon high tea at the Brown Palace. “You look the part for it,” she says. But after we talk more, it is clear she really doesn’t have the desire to go out. “I just want to be lazy,” she says. “Maybe Brown Palace tomorrow.”

I’m not sure why she’s allowing me these days of normalcy. Maybe because my dress has flowers and she’s longing for spring. Maybe she thinks if she dresses her doll-slave in a spring dress, then winter will be over sooner.

She knows that a weekend of normalcy doesn’t derail my slavery under her. I am subject to her by nature not enforcement. I have been created to be submissive, to serve as a slave. It is what I am, not what I am shackled into being.

Amanda knows that putting a collar on me doesn’t make me a submissive; it is a symbol of the submissive I already am. She knows that leashing me doesn’t make me her possession; it’s simply a visual icon of how she mentally and emotionally possesses me as an object of her pleasure. She knows that hanging me on the entryway wall isn’t what holds me in slavery to her; it’s just a stained glass that depicts how I am already bound to her physically and sexually.

Mistress, I expect, knows very well that allowing me the sway and pretty of a simple shirtdress on a lazy weekend without the symbols and icons and ballet boots will eventually make me long for my slavery all the more. She probably knows that occasional normalcy intensifies the experience of a life of slavery. It’s a reminder, when I wear ballet boots once more, how glorious it feels to wear flats.

Monday’s coming, and it will be more and better because of this Saturday normal. For now, I will enjoy it.

“You look lovely, Shae.”

I thank her. “I adore this dress,” I say. “It swishes.”

She laughs.

routines in chaos

I have written about my “slave duties” before. Amanda recently asked me to update for her the list of my regular duties and chores. I suspect she wants this for two reasons: she feels it’s a good exercise for her obedient slave girl to be mindful of what her duties are, and maybe she has more obediences for me to do.

Of course, I prepared the list for her, but then I thought I could probably post it on here as well. I’ve annotated it, offering a bit more background and context.

In fact Amanda is not a stickler for duties at specific times. I am more so, wanting to be the perfect slave, of course, and holding myself to the high standard — extra credit girl that I am. Sure, Amanda likes when I do my slave duties — she notices and appreciates and lusts, but she doesn’t demand precision and exact fulfillment of everything. I don’t get punished if I miss a beat.

She’s much more demanding of me in terms of my attitude, my emotional expressions toward her, my immediate obedience of her in social situations, and my response to her control of me in public. There, if I miss a beat, I will get a beating, so to speak.

Amanda lives in a kind of controlled chaos. She likes the whirlwind. In her own way she is very organized, but her life — our lives — are like a constant tornado. So I think she likes that I have routines because they create a steady ground to her own life of chaos. Through routines, duties, she knows where I am and what I am doing, I am her ground zero.

She also lusts for me as she watches me doing them. So there’s that.


My Daily Services

Two simple things that are the alpha and omega of each day of slave service to my Mistress.

Coffee, 7:15 am.
This ritual was started under both Amanda and Kevin, and she has preserved it in my solo slavery to her. It isn’t just making coffee, but presenting it — on a silver tray with mugs and sugar and cream. I stand just outside the kitchen holding the tray, like some manor servant, waiting until she comes out and pours her own mug of coffee.

Each morning, I awaken at 5:30 to shower and do my hair and makeup. I dress, but only partly. Amanda likes rolling out of bed, coming out, hair disheveled, for her mug of coffee, and seeing me standing there, bearing the tray while I’m topless. Her first image of the morning. She has said my bared breasts make her day.

This is an absolutely every day thing. There is hardly a morning when we both don’t want coffee early, and this specific time almost always works. If on a rare day Amanda sleeps in, then I still prepare the coffee for her at 7:15, but am free to set the tray down at 7:30.

There are nights when Amanda takes me in her bed and, let’s just say, not a lot of sleeping gets done. Even so, I still get up, exhausted as I might be, at 5:30 to shower and make myself ready, and then to make and present coffee as per the routine. Amanda doesn’t require this of me, but I do so anyway, wanting to fulfill my slave duty. And she loves seeing me there, knowing what she has done to me the night before, and how exhausted I am, still serving her at the appointed time.

Cocktails, 8:30 pm.
This ritual bookends the day, with me again bearing a tray in the evening, this time with wine and cocktail glasses, standing next to the wet bar. I am sometimes still wearing what I wore that day, but other times I have changed into a short, thin sateen chemise. She especially likes the burgundy one — says she likes that color on me while I’m holding a glass of red wine.

Most every night Amanda is home by 8:00 pm, so 8:30 is a perfect time for a nightcap. It is also our moment of connection after a long day. She will sometimes come to me bearing the tray and pour her own drink, or call out to me from her bedroom to pour her something as she is changing. We then will sit on the sofa and talk about the day.


My Daily Body Preparations

My body is Amanda’s pleasure and playground. It belongs to her.

Hair.
Amanda likes my hair in one of three styles. In all of them, she wants my hair long enough to fall over my shoulders, and in waves and big curls. She doesn’t like my hair straight or short. One of her preferences is with a sweep of my hair falling across my left eye, sort of Veronica-Lake forties style, only red hair not blonde. A second style she likes is with all of my hair pulled around the back of my neck over my right shoulder, a style I’ve associated with actress Christina Hendricks. A third style is a twisted updo that pulls my hair away from my shoulders into a bun in back. Amanda likes this on occasion when she has me collared in public because this way my hair doesn’t hide my collar like other styles do.

Every morning I try to do my hair in the style Amanda prefers. Of course there are days when my hair just does what it damn well chooses what it wants to do.

Makeup.
I don’t normally wear much makeup, although there’s usually some that I apply. Colorado is a very dry climate, so I am frequently using moisturizer, and I apply that to my face first thing. I use a little concealer under my eyes, though I don’t apply much and generally don’t use foundation. I have freckles, and Amanda likes to see them. I use a little eyeshadow, but light colors and a natural look. A thin eyeliner and a touch of mascara. I usually use just a lip gloss, not a heavier lipstick.

If we’re going out in the evening, I will do a little more.

Clothing.
As everyone knows, Amanda dresses me. She lays out an outfit for me the night before. This is almost always a skirt and a casual shirt or a T-shirt or a light sweater. If she doesn’t put anything out for me, I wear an outfit I know she will like, usually one she’s put out for me before.

Of course I am forbidden to wear panties or a bra.

Waist training.
I am waist training still, so a cincher or training corset goes on under my clothes in the morning. I wear the trainer through the day until early evening. About twelve hours these days.

I will update everyone on my waist training progress, such as it is, sometime soon.

High heels.
Amanda likes seeing me in heels, and she also likes me submitting to the discipline of them. So I’m in heels a lot of the time. Of course there are various heel heights, and Amanda usually leaves that up to me. She also is careful with me when I am doing chores, going up and down stairs, walking outside on snowy/icy sidewalks. So there are options for me to wear flats at certain times.

Ballet boots.
The wearing of ballet boots is a continued discipline (read “agony”) in my life. I wear them almost every day that I am home — one- to two-hour stretches. Amanda’s goal is for me to be able to wear them for up to five hours during a party sometime soon. She also wants me to serve drinks on a tray while wearing them. I can do so, but I’m guessing she doesn’t want the drinks to spill or the tray to topple over. (She is just so demanding!) Seriously, I am doing pretty well walking in them, doing so smoothly enough so as to keep a tray steady. Some of the time.

I have taken to wearing them when I’m bearing the coffee tray in the morning. Amanda loves seeing me waiting, perched on my toes and bearing the coffee on the tray. And sometimes I’ll wear them when she comes home at night. Walking in to see me that way gives her the feeling that she has been disciplining me even when she hasn’t been there.


My Weekly Chores

Housework sexualized. Mistress likes to be present.

Scrubbing floors. I’ve written about this before. I actually like scrubbing floors, crazy me, and apparently certain others like watching me do so. She likes me doing floors while wearing a loose, low-cut top and short skirt. Kitchen, pantry, laundry room, bathrooms. I do this once a week. The challenge is not in getting the floors clean, but in keeping my breasts and pussy within some measure of modesty. Amanda enjoys my struggle.

Vacuuming. Carpets and floors throughout the house. Lately I’ve been vacuuming while wearing my ballet boots. It’s actually a good way to train in ballet boots, with the vacuum as a balance, and the steps being short. It takes longer this way. But the carpets get, like, very clean. Amanda loves the look. Of me, not the carpets.

Laundry. I do hers and mine. Mistress requires me to wear a vintage-style shirtdress and high heels on laundry day. I channel Donna Reed. Someday, Amanda and I, queen and princess of vintage, will join Donna Reed in heaven and have coffee and cake around a kitchen table. We’ll talk.

A note: Lately, Amanda has begun to refer to me as “her housewife,” with all the fifties connotations and offense that carries in the feminist 2020. And, strangely, I rather like that.


One Other Thing

Bathing Amanda.
My life with Amanda started with the experience of my bathing her. That has continued on more or less a weekly basis.

It is not a chore for me, as it’s the most lovely, wonderful, and erotic experience of my weekly life.

But it’s a requirement.

Somebody’s got to do it.