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.


on McKenna time, 6, spanking

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

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

“At times I will spank you.”

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

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

“For your pleasure. And my humiliation.”

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

He establishes with me a signal for spanking time.

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

He asked me about my childhood associations with being spanked.

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

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

“Were you ever spanked in front of others?”

“I don’t remember if I was, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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


Maybe Thursday?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another talk-time about spanking:

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

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

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

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

We actually practice this.

Left side. I will stand facing him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take off your top.”

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

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

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

“You have a lot to place.”

“Nice,” I reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It sounds like a lot of spanking times.”

“Maybe. That’s for me to decide.”

OK, then.

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

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

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

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

I do. I dare to ask why.

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

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

He laughs at that. [Good.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, all of that happened before Monday morning.

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

on McKenna time, 2

I apologize for not writing more this week. While I’ve been given time and permission each day, I haven’t always mustered the energy my mind needs to string words together.

So… let’s just say it’s been a “heavy” time with him this week — physical in bodily ways and an extended lesson in corporal discipline.

Yesterday he had me change clothes four times. He likes my various outfits but likes even more making me get out of them. There’s a pattern — I dress, model for him, we talk, and then he has me strip naked.

In the Great Room, there are cables that mechanically drop down from the vault ceiling. These are usually used to hang a video screen on which to project Powerpoint presentations at board meetings. Apparently they have an alternative use: to shackle my wrists above my head.

In such a way, I am strung up, in high heels and a slave collar, standing naked in the middle of this immense and empty room. He leaves me there as he goes elsewhere in the house. I hear him talk to the caterer in the kitchen. He re-enters the Great Room, but now is on the phone with a business partner. He wears a bluetooth ear piece to keep his hands free.

Master M continues to have his phone conversation as he begins to flog my flesh.

Earlier he has talked with me. He has coined the term “corporal humiliation.” Not corporal punishment or corporal discipline. He redefines common understandings.

“True punishment,” he says, “has to be based on an aversion a submissive has — if she enjoys being whipped, then it won’t work as a deterrent to an unwanted behavior.” Master M, I am convinced, could have been a teacher in another life. He often speaks in logic and definitions. “Whippings can be useful as a punishment if the girl hates the experience, but generally a submissive likes it in some way, and so corporal treatments are not real punishment.”

“True physical discipline,” he goes on in his professorial tone, “is the training of a girl to physically behave as the dom wants her to. I have already applied to you, slave Shae, corporal discipline by training you how to sit, stand, and walk. That’s the true meaning of corporal discipline. For me to whip you doesn’t actually ‘discipline’ you to do or not do anything.”

He sits in the leather easy chair, and takes a drag from his cigar. I sit at his feet. I spend a lot of my time at his feet.

“I prefer the term ‘corporal humiliation,’ he says. “Which is the same act of hitting your flesh, but for different purposes.”

“And what are those purposes?”

“Your humiliation and my pleasure.”

The humiliation of being hit is complex, I am finding. D/s brought to public awareness is always humiliating in its way, But there’s the matter of a man hitting a woman — especially in this day and age — its sheer social impropriety that looks to others to be outrageous. Somehow I imagine I may have to confess this in some vanilla conversation someday.

But the deeper shame lies in my allowing him to hit me. The cables holding up my wrists are not restraints, actually. They are simply to pull my hands out of the way. I am not “in capture.” Any onlooker could figure out that I am able to stretch the cables together so to undo my wrist cuffs. I could get away. I could walk out of the house. But I don’t. I stay. I submit. I give my body to the ignominy of being flogged by a man — which becomes my humiliation.

Each stroke of the flogger lands heavily and jolts my body. Hit this way, I cannot help that my flesh recoils into ripples and jiggles. My breasts judder, and my ass cheeks bounce after every hit.

“Stop squirreling around,” he commands, interrupting his call. I don’t know what “squirreling around” means, and at the same time I realize the client on the other end of the call must hear this and knows.

“I’m not squirreling,” I protest faintly.

“Stop dancing around. Stay in one place.”


He flogs me again, and this time I don’t shuffle in my high heels. It’s instinct to try to avoid the lashes, which was what I was doing. Staying put is harder, mind over reflex, but I do it.

The pain of it is not the main thing. Each stroke hurts some, but is absorbable. The pain comes later in the accumulation of the blows, and then after, when the sting rises to the surface.

And he knows how to do it.

For him it is a kind of art, a form of human painting. Instead of body paints, he uses implements that bring out the reds in my skin, and there are degrees of the color — from pink to rose to cherry to crimson to Cabernet — that become his palette.

Monday, he painted my ass. He flogged my ass cheeks into a “deep rose” — and I dared not think about what Cabernet would feel like. I could not sit down at dinner. He said it was just like my doing makeup in the morning — layering my face with colored foundation, concealer, blush, and eyeshadow. I guess for him it’s likewise about bringing out “colors in my skin,” but I told him I failed to see the analogy, and he laughed.

I’ve been whipped before, of course, but, in the way he does me, it is a new kind of humiliation. It’s not a sexual event, cum and done, as it is with Kevin, but kind of a way of life.

So, as he said, it’s not a punishment at all, nor even any kind of training, but simply an action done by him because he just damn well feels like hitting me with the ends of things called floggers and whips and cat-o-nines. It’s simply his pleasure. And my humiliation — that I have submitted myself, my body to him, for these, his heavy paintbrushes.

This is just a quick fly-by report of this part of my week with Master M. I have much more to tell and write.

The “professor” has also taken me through a whole unit on spanking. And I have some experiences to report out on that, one particularly notable.

And there was an interesting instruction (in the category of “manhandling”) on “how to be thrown against a wall.”

I am okay, I should mention, well and happy, albeit rather sore in certain places. I’m not concerned about my treatment at his hand. Yes, it’s intense, even severe at times, but he made a rather beautiful statement ahead of time that there is no room for violence in the D/s lifestyle. Violence, he says, is reckless anger wielded against a woman’s body. The art of corporal discipline, he says, is actually in its restraint — knowing the precise boundary between hurt that will heal and injury that won’t.

Just when you think you’ve experienced everything in the slave life, you find out there’s more.

short shorts

I think I will do another q & a post soon. If you have questions about my life, send them to me by email (shaemadigan@comcast.net) or by comment below…

Last weekend for me was quite bottomless, and by that I don’t mean an endless supply of alcohol, although a drink or two would have helped me through my exposures.

I think I prefer being topless than being bottomless. Why, I don’t know.

Amanda is continuing our tea parties once a month for anyone in the neighborhood to attend. Next one is tomorrow afternoon.

It’s a variation of my vertical cage fantasy, I know, but of late, I have had images in my mind of being hung in a closet. Strange, but I think it’s something of the same idea — that I am “stored” somewhere, and in that place I have no responsibility and there’s nothing for me to do.

Now that I am scheduled on a regular basis and the calendar is set, I find I am thinking more about Master McKenna — I go to him on Sunday night. I’m not nervous about being with him again, but I do get a little fluttery about it. Like going on a date. A week-long bondage-and-slavery date.

I asked Amanda if I could address her as “ma’am” again. She has felt it suggests age and hasn’t liked me to call her that.

I offered, “But it’s the only good feminine counterpart to ‘sir.’ I address all dominant men as ‘sir,’ even if they are younger than me.”

She finally said, “Okay.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Amanda had said she has another secret bondage “staging” in mind (beyond the quartet that I blogged about). I have made myself a little crazy thinking about what that might be.

Last evening, I offered to lick her pussy.

She said, “You mean with your hands tied behind your back so your face gets all wet and shiny the way like it?”


“No, I don’t want you right now,” she said.

Okay then.


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.”

home is where…

I was in bed with Amanda that first night upon my return, and I whispered to her, after a time of suckling, that it was “good to be home.”

I realized as I spoke those words that “home” means many different things.

It refers to my childhood home as well as my adult home. This is about physical houses — my Pennsylvania house when I was a girl and this Denver house now. Physical houses carry memories of who you were at a time, and when, and now. And they have their character — my Pennsylvania house was an old split-level, hidden and private, with small rooms on different levels, and (notably) lots of closets. This Denver house is a rancher, fully open and spread (as Amanda often makes me when she plays with me).

“Home” for me it is also a designation of “place” in a broader sense — that there was a place (Pennsylvania) for my growing up and this (Colorado) is now a place/environment for my being an adult. These are also two very different ways of thinking and believing — my religious narrowness growing up and my more open acceptance of people and ideas now. In my former home, relationships were categorized and boxed. Here and now they are open and free and poly.

“Home” now is very much for me a matter of my life and how I live it. Pennsylvania represents my vanilla life as a young woman searching, while Colorado represents my submissive life as an adult woman, having found what she is. “Coming home” to this place is about my coming of age, my coming into my slavery, and Lord knows, my coming, period.

And finally, “home” also refers to people. When I told Amanda, it was “good to be home,” my face was nestled between her ample breasts. She may have fallen asleep to the rhythm of my lips and touches, the slow fondling of my attentions, and may not have heard me. Yet I’m sure she would agree that one’s best home is where you are understood and accepted and made more fully into what you are.

While the one-time meanings of my childhood home have been left behind, that place still holds me in one respect — my mother, who has amazingly accepted me in this bi and sub life of mine and opened her mind and heart to what was unthinkable in the old homestead.

Indeed, it comes full circle: she is the one who once nursed me at her breast.

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?”


This is Sunday evening right before dusk. We are on the front road, and I am collared and leashed. She has me in a red skater skirt and a white pullover top and, unusually, tennis shoes.

“This will be an exercise in trust,” she says.

“I already trust you.”

She doesn’t reply but pulls something from her shoulder bag, wrapping it around my head.

It’s a blindfold.

“Can you see anything?” she asks after fitting it over my eyes.


“Good. You will walk behind me. Listen for my steps. When I stop walking, you must stop as well.”


“If I tell you to step to the right or left, it will be to steer you around something in the road. You must follow my instructions or you will stumble.”

I realize now this is why she has me in tennis shoes and not high heels — stability and safety.

And so we walk. It isn’t so hard if Amanda keeps a steady pace. It’s when she slows or stops that I have trouble.

I nearly bump into her.

“You must,” she repeats, “listen for my steps.”

So I do, or try to, listen to her shoes clacking softly on the road. It means I cannot talk, or at least not until I get the hang of it.

I walk behind her successfully for a time, but my mind soon wanders and I lose the sound of her shoes on the road and once again I bump into her.

“Shae!” Amanda says.

“Sorry. My mind got distracted.”

“Pay attention.”

“Yes, Miz-A.” Apparently this exercise is more demanding than I thought. I not only have to listen, but I am forced to focus my mind on her steps. In a way, I am not supposed to think. Just be.

We continue, and I do pretty well for a long stretch. Amanda throws in some other directions along the way — “step right,” “step left” — and I navigate that successfully, although I don’t imagine there were really any potholes or snakes or boulders in the road.

The experience becomes one of dependency, which I suspect is the ultimate point. Amanda and I lead somewhat independent lives —she has her work and I have my writing. She does not micromanage me, and I have a fair amount of autonomy in my daily patterns. Still, every minute of my life is lived in the awareness of my subservience to her and her ownership of me as her property. Yet within the house on a daily basis we run in our own circles. She keeps me as her slave, but in an unstructured way. Perhaps this blindfold walk is a little piece of structure designed to focus me on her in a very specific way.

She stops, and this time I am paying attention and stop as well.

“We’ve come full circle around the block,” Amanda tells me. “But we’re going around again.”

“Okay,” I say, “and this time, let me guess, you want me to juggle tennis balls as we walk, just to make it a little harder.”

I listen for her laugh but don’t hear it. I realize how much I depend on seeing her face for feedback. She has a lot of subtle facial expressions that say so much (one reason she is hard to write about). In this moment, I can’t see her face, so I can’t read her mood.

“Well,” she finally says, maybe with a tremor of a chuckle in her voice, “not tennis balls per se, but more like melons.”

I am now at a loss until she tells me to take off my top. I do, handing my tee to her, and now my bared melons are bathed in the cooling night air.

We walk once again, but this time it is harder because I am preoccupied with being topless in public. Who is out there? Who is standing at the side of the road? Who is looking from house windows?

I bump into her again.

“Shae!” she says.

“Sorry. Being like this is distracting. I don’t know who is looking.”

I feel her come close and her fingers take each of my nipples into a soft squeeze. “You should assume that everyone is looking, and accept it.”

“So I shouldn’t focus on the humiliation of being naked in public.”

“To the contrary, I want you to feel every ounce of humiliation from being exposed. But I don’t want you mentally wrestling with who is seeing you and how you can justify in your own mind how you are in front of them. That’s what you do. You think about it too much.”

I nod. It’s true.

She continues: “You need to let yourself be in the moment. Give yourself to the experience, just as you’re giving yourself to me in the walking right now… You need to assume that everyone in the neighborhood is viewing you topless, and you need to simply accept it. You should assume that everyone in the neighborhood wants to fuck you, and you should accept it.”

I take this in. “I’m not sure I have the energy for that right now,” I finally say.

Amanda laughs.

We walk some more.

I try to focus on her steps and not on my now-erect nipples in the cool night air.

We make the full circle a second time. I sense Amanda is disappointed that no one came out to talk with us. She wanted me to experience that — being viewed while I’m topless and blindfolded.

I’m guessing there will be another time.