Blake 1 (redux)

I am reposting this, as it’s been a few weeks since I first posted it, and I am about to share the second part of the account. This is about the day our handyman came to work on house and bondage projects for Amanda.

Again, if you have read this before, no need to re-read it. I’m just reposting for continuity with the remainder of the account of that day.


So it happened last Sunday.

Blake came at about ten for the work at hand — to do some interior house repairs, install eye bolts, work on the area of the wet bar, and finish the lower bolts for the entryway wall.

Before he started, Amanda had me serve him coffee. At this point I was dressed in a denim skirt and loose top. We sat at the breakfast table, talking about life in quarantine through recent weeks. He talked about his work drying up for a while. He’s busy now, he said, but he’d been sitting around for too long, putting on weight. I wouldn’t have noticed — he’s tall and wiry.

Blake mentioned a client of his, someone Amanda knows in the D/s lifestyle, who has him building a bondage room. Amanda asked about that, and they talked for a while about some of the design features he was putting in.

Amanda said that she was never given to a separate room for such things, though Kevin had had a bondage room. Then she went on to tell Blake who Kevin was and how I am sent to him every month for a time. Amanda said, “I don’t think of going to a specific room when I play with her. I want the possibilities for restraining her to be everywhere, all over the house, for others to see.“

I sat, saying nothing. I had pretty immediately gone into my sub space, content to let them talk about me. I knew that Amanda referring to me in the third person was intentional on her part. And Blake was addressing her not me, respecting my slave status to her. Though he was never, all day, impolite to me.

Eventually we walked around the house discussing the work to be done. Well, they discussed — I followed behind them silently. Amanda had another new idea, which I hadn’t heard before, and will write about later.

Blake had a small notebook and made sketches and measured things and wrote notes as we went around. He said he had figured out another way of finishing the entryway wall, less invasive, which came as good news to Amanda. So, he said, he could complete that today after all.

After the walk-around, Amanda had us back at the breakfast table again, though we stayed standing. She had me pour us fresh mugs of coffee. Blake was talking about the easy chair, that it would be simple. The legs were a walnut, he said, which was unusual, but good. He could drill in hooks that would show.

Amanda said to Blake that before he got started, she “wanted to be clear about something.”

She spoke about making me available to stand in place for measuring and positioning. “Blake,” she said, “I told you I was going to have her undressed for this. I know that’s not necessary for the work, but I just want her that way.” But, Amanda said, she didn’t want this to offend him. “If it will bother you, Blake, we won’t do it.”

As I recalled this later, I was reminded of a certain quality Blake seems to have. He is twenty-five, I think, though he looks a bit younger. Yet he has a presence of someone older, a certain confidence with people. And he answered her with just that kind of mature response: “Amanda,” he said, “it would be my pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Excellent,” Amanda said. She told him I would be in the same room with him, but would stay out of his way. “Slave girl is good at talking only when spoken to.” Blake didn’t have to make conversation.

They went on to talk about what height heels I should wear for positioning along the entryway wall and the wet bar. Six-inch heels versus, say, flats, would change my ankle height. Would that make a difference to the position of the eye bolts? I hardly ever wear flats in such situations. They decided four-inch heels would be a median height that would suffice for all heel heights.

Then Amanda told me to go to the bedroom, undress, and put on the cream pumps with the ankle straps. Finally, I was to put on my linen robe and then come back out.

It has become clear to me that Amanda intended this time with Blake as strategic to my submissive development. When she first mentioned this some time ago, I thought it was just her bit of tease to have with me, to play with me, in front of someone. No, I realized now, this had a purpose She wanted me to be seen and lusted for by a man, a practical stranger, and for me to stand in that lust for a number of hours.

This was to be a first test, one that will lead to other things — my being nude and led down the street, or visiting neighbors, or being walked in parks and along mountain trails and up on the ridge in back. It will be how Amanda presents me at parties and how she entertains certain guests here at the house. It is my further, deeper sexualization and training, and she intends this to be my way of life.

A short while later, I emerged in my little robe and Jeffrey Campbell heels with the ankle strap. They were in the entryway, the front door wide open. The side table had been moved over, and the sconces and candles were taken down, leaving the iron fixtures for my bondage.

Amanda was talking when I walked in, but she stopped and told me to take off my robe.

I obeyed, untying the sash in front, letting the linen robe open in front, then pulling it back from my shoulders, and off. I gathered it and laid it on the chair.

Blake was standing maybe six feet away, close to the door. At his feet was a toolbox. Amanda picked up the conversation again. I stood naked, not knowing what to do with my hands. They talked about the work, I forget what, but it turned into a longer conversation.

Amanda stood slightly behind me. I suspected she wanted to make sure that, as he conversed with her, he would have a long visual drink of my body.

Which he did. As Blake talked, he was looking at my breasts.

I was self-conscious, of course, my upper chest growing little splotches of red, as it does, and my ring-pierced nipples growing into thicker nubs. I remember not knowing myself where to look, where my eyes should go, so I turned my head to Amanda when she was talking, then off to the side and down, and occasionally at Blake directly, catching his eyes sometimes. When I did, he did not look away. He was a confident guy, that’s for sure. I was the one to look away.

They continued to talk, and I slipped further into sub-space. You can feel someone looking at you, and I felt his eyes like fingers over my breasts. And then, soon enough, I could feel his view go lower, between my legs, finding my bare slit, shaven, bald, and smooth.

I have been nude in front of people before, of course, but not so often completely nude like this, nor with someone still so much a stranger as was Blake, nor in my slave state so obviously, nor in this sort of proximity, six feet away, from a carpenter and his tools.

it was an intimacy all of its own, being “had” by someone I didn’t choose. Not to say it was painfully uncomfortable for me, no, it wasn’t, as there was something about him that was strong but not threatening, yet I felt self-conscious and was well aware of his gaze.

I imagined what he might be thinking. I was the slave girl in the room, submissive to her and by her proxy, also to him. I was ten years older, MILFish, perhaps he thought — I don’t know how men think of that. But I imagined that perhaps he was enjoying seeing an “older” woman so submissive and obedient as to humiliate myself naked before him, a younger man.

Amanda realized then I needed to be wearing my collar and would need wrist and ankle cuffs. She told me to go fetch them all, and to change out of the pumps with the ankle strap and wear my red ones. Also to put on matching red lipstick.

I did so, realizing that Amanda was showing me off. She probably all along intended for me to walk out and then back in, for Blake to see my breasts sway and ripple as I walked out and then back in while wearing high heels. As the day progressed, Amanda had me change my appearance multiple times.

Soon I was back, freshly heeled and lipsticked in ruby red, holding cuffs and collar. Amanda put my collar on me from behind. Likewise, my wrist cuffs, then ankle cuffs.

And then she attached me to the entryway wall.

Amanda had me stand with my feet a few inches apart, but this was the part of using me for “positioning” that was actual and necessary. Blake knelt to the floor, inches from my bare pussy. Amanda, had me try numerous stances — from my feet together, to inches apart, to wider and wider. At the widest stance, my pussy lips were parted, open.

Amanda thankfully said, “In high heels, slave girl can’t sustain that wide a set. I don’t like it anyway.” So we tried other stance-widths all over again — my adjusting my feet against the baseboard, and the two of them looking at me quizzically, as if centering a picture frame.

Amanda reiterated that she wanted my ankle straps latched tight to the wall. Not with lengths of chain. So the “home” position of my legs and feet mattered specifically and were the basis for Blake’s exact measurement.

Amanda finally settled on a position with my feet about a foot apart. “I think that’s right,” she said.

Blake, crouching at my feet, wrapped his hand around my right ankle, slowly pushing it back flush to the wall.

It was the first he had actually touched me. He has big hands.

He marked the wall with a flat pencil.

floor lamp

This is an experience I wrote about a year ago, but never posted. It was back when I was still with Master Michael. It’s all true and accurate to how the conversation happened, but it turned out to be a little silly. Still, masters and slaves can have fun. I am shaking the dust off this, and posting it now. This was just a humorous exchange on a very casual evening.

At certain time, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.

So, Master Michael starts talking to me last night about an idea he has.

We are sitting in the reading room. He is reviewing a business plan from work. I am reading a novel titled The Paragon Hotel. It’s quiet and lovely tonight, even quaintly traditional, except that I am wearing a leather dog collar and a leash that drags on the floor noisily when I walk around.

So Master is saying that he feels he should be objectifying me more.

At first I say nothing, though I’m thinking this comes from a man who loves walking his slave girl nearly naked in public. But after a few moments, I cannot hold my tongue. “You know,” I say, “I haven’t been feeling particularly neglected in that department.”

“I mean literally an object,” he says, as if that clarifies anything.

I have put my book down and to my side, which is protocol, giving him my full attention. It’s annoying when you’re in the middle of a great book, but it has occurred to me that all human relationships would be improved by this practice. I am listening intentionally.

“Cameron was telling me about his latest idea for objectifying a girl,” Master says. “He’s very handy.”

Here it is. Another one of his friends has an idea for doing something to me. It’s not just him, but others too. They come up with these things. It’s a cottage industry. “Michael, have you thought of…?” and what follows invariably involves electricity and some kind of motor and remote control. They all live vicariously through Master Michael, and I am the object of their Rube Goldberg fantasies.

“He has become fascinated with human furniture,” Master continues. “He has construction plans for a number of such pieces. This latest is how he would make a floor lamp.” He pauses. “Out of a girl.”

I can’t help myself: “You make it sound like dismemberment is involved.”

He laughs. “Living human furniture,” Master emphasizes, as if that should be obvious.

Ah. I’m really not sure how to respond to this. Master is serious in tone, yet saying this to me for a reason. Is he thinking of this for real? Or is he just testing my reaction?

“He explained it to me,” Master says. “It’s all wood, cherry wood,” he says, “and you know he’s an excellent woodworker. So there’s a solid wood base, a large circle, that the girl would stand on. There would be hooks at the base for locking her to it with ankle straps.”

“Are my legs together or apart?” I ask.

“I didn’t say it would be you.”

I tilt my head and give him a look. It’s about as sarcastic as I can go with him, but we’re casual, and he doesn’t object.

He likes it and smiles. “OK, let’s say it’s you. Actually, he did mention you. Yes, it’s you… Why does feet together or apart matter?”

“If my legs are together, I’ll fall over, at least more likely to. Apart, I have more stability. Just saying.”

“Hmmm. But it doesn’t seem as if having your legs apart is quite so feminine and proper.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about my legs being apart.”

Master chuckles. “Touche. I mean as decor. It doesn’t look proper.”

“So he’s making me into a floor lamp, and you’re concerned about my stance not being proper enough?”

Master Michael smiles. “You make a point. But Cam is an artist, he wants you to look elegant.”

“With a shade on my head.”

“We’ll get to that.”

“Still. Trying to help here. Contributing to my own humiliation. I’m saying stability might be an issue.”

“Point taken. I’ll mention it to him. No one wants you falling over.”

“I’m glad to know that people care.”

He ignores my sarcasm and continues: “From the back of the base, a pole would extend vertically. Actually, he now wants it to be more substantial and sturdy than a dowel-sized pole, so he thinks it will be a foot wide with a curved front. His slave would stand with her back against it, and her hands would wrap behind and be tightly shackled in back to the pole. Farther up, the support would have a collar threaded through to fasten the girl’s — your — neck to it.”

I nod. “Well, sure,” I say, “you’d have to make sure I wouldn’t run away.”

Again, Master ignores my sass: “Toward the top of the back support would extend a lampshade. It would be height adjustable, and would be lowered over the girl’s — your — head.”

“Where’s the light?” I ask.

“So,” Master says, “glad you asked. The base would also contain a battery pack that would supply the power. Electrical wire would run through the middle of the back support. It would connect to a strap that contains a specialized ball gag — “

“With a light in it.”

“Exactly.”

“So I would be holding a light bulb in my mouth under a lampshade.”

“Yes. Something like that.”

I shake my head but have to laugh.

“There’s more, but what do you think so far?”

“The collar is redundant,” I say.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s redundant. I’m held to the back support by means of the ball gag light. You don’t need the collar as well. Besides, the collar would likely be hidden by the lamp shade, if you’re trying to make an impression. It wouldn’t show and isn’t necessary.:

“Good point. I’ll mention it.”

Again I am aiding and abetting the crime being plotted against me. “So, do you imagine a, uh, lamp that is dressed or undressed?”

“Cameron was imagining you undressed.”

“Well, with all respect, Sir, Cameron always imagines me undressed. That’s probably what got him into this human lamp business.”

“True. What’s your preference?” he asks me.

“I think I’m a dressed lamp.”

“Of course you would say that.”

“Please hear me out. Let’s say I’m dressed in one of my fifties-style shirt dresses, high heels, wearing pearls around my neck. Very retro. Then I become a kind of art piece, performance art maybe. Makes a statement. Very cool.”

“But if you’re undressed — “

“Then I look like something from Spencer’s Gifts.”

Master Michael laughs loud. After a bit, he composes himself and says, “But you’re so striking when you’re nude.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. But you say that to all your slaves.”

“Yes, I do,” Master says with a wry smile.

I shake my head, smiling.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I think people want lamps with breasts.”

That makes me giggle. We’ve gotten silly now. “Strange,” I say, “that all these hundreds of years, millennia actually, starting with torches in caves, humankind has survived perfectly well with, well, standard floor lamps. But now in 2019 Cameron has a wet-dream idea for making a human floor lamp out of me and a plank of cherry wood — and suddenly society has an insatiable need for lamps with breasts.”

“Yep. That’s about right. I’m sure if I put the ‘Shae lamp’ in the lighting department at Walmart, it would be a bestseller.”

“Oh god. Now that is humiliating.”

“Because you’re a floor lamp?”

“No. Because I’m being sold at Walmart.”

And we go on and on. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.

“You said there’s more.” I say. “Dare I ask?”

“Right. Cameron has ideas for improvements.”

“Such as.”

“Another bulb between your legs. He hasn’t figured that out yet, but it would be a similar idea. One end inserted into your vagina and the outer part being a light bulb.”

“And I suppose the inner part would be vibrating,” I say.

“No, he hadn’t thought of that.”

Damn myself.

We have exhausted ourselves, our humor and repartee. We go back to reading. His head goes back into his newspaper, mine back into my novel. But after a minute, I put my book down and say, “He is joking, right?”

“No, Cameron is intent on it. He’ll make something like this. Whether it’ll work or not, don’t know.”

“But you, you’re not seriously thinking about this for me.”

“Hmmm,” Master says. He lowers his newspaper slightly, and I can see his jaw shift into his own unique, diabolical smile.

“Oh god,” I say. I pick up my book again. “Well, for the record, I vote no.”

Master is back behind his newspaper. “When did you ever get to vote?”

“Ah, Sir, that would be never.”

“You got that right, slave.”

I am smiling. There are these times, there is laughter, and the life is extraordinary.