short report: topless

She has kept me topless for the past couple days. That is, she’s kept my breasts uncovered and naked every moment since Tuesday morning. And again today (Thursday).

Weather’s been hot here, so I’m more physically comfortable wearing a thin short skirt and nothing on top. So there’s that benefit. Yet she’s keeping me this way not for my comfort but for my sexual exposure and objectification. My breasts, naked and swaying in public, suggest that I am to be considered as a sexual property. Which is what I am by virtue (or shame) of my submissive life. These days my “property value” is being presented more openly — and I am displayed with more curb appeal.

This affects me more deeply because it’s 24/7, which becomes a special kind of humiliation in its relative permanency. Clothes become a luxury, the province of normal people. I am different, and don’t deserve to be fully dressed.

This is her intent.

Our next-door neighbors, John and Patty, stop in all the time, often unannounced. They’re used to my various states of undress, and yet not — they still seemed to find erotic surprise when I welcomed them at the patio door, dressed in just a thin skirt and wedge sandals, my naked round breasts greeting them with perky blush. I simply quipped, “They’re happy to see you.”

More unusually, Mistress Amanda invited Christopher Hawkins over for tea. He’s our resident bicyclist and a sales executive in a Denver company. We don’t see much of him because of his work schedule, and he’s more rarely been involved in my neighborhood exposures and humiliations. Mistress thought it a good idea to connect with him — or to expose me to him.

In my topless state, I served Mr. Hawkins and Mistress Amanda iced teas in the living room, then assumed my position in the corner of unimportance, where I stood in servile and mammary silence.

He asked questions about that — my more formal servitude — and Mistress explained my slave training under Master M, further maintained by her. Mr. Hawkins eyed me constantly during their chat.

Yesterday evening, Mistress walked me around the neighborhood in my half-undress.

She rigged a bottle of lotion to hang from a chain attached to the O-ring of my slave collar. The chain extended between my bare boobs, the bottle dangling below them.

As we encountered neighbors on our walk, they and Amanda would chat awhile. Mistress then announced, “I think Shae’s breasts are dry and need some lotion. Would you mind?”

Of course, no one minds.

The women enjoyed this as well as the men. Stacy was all-too-eager, of course, but as we walked around the loop, Theresa and Helene took their turns as well. The men — first Robert, later Roald — leisurely lingered in their pleasure. Roald took so long massaging my tits that Theresa finally said, “Really dear, I think that’s good enough. She’s plenty ready to be milked.”

I noticed something interesting. The women applied the lotion to their hands first, then massaged it into my breasts. But the men dripped the lotion from the bottle onto the slopes of my boobs, letting the dollops slide down a bit — then they massaged it in. I don’t know why men and woman do this differently.

My living topless does not prevent Mistress from taking me out in the car. I’ve written about this before, but there’s an added something in my constant awareness that at any moment she may have me climb into the car topless and drive to our local grocery store.

Of course, her ideal BDSM-friendly society would sanction the keeping of D/s slaves in public. She envisions a grocery store where dominants would open take their slaves shopping, openly leashed and chained. And in such a place, she would be able to shop with me while my breasts are bared, as round and fresh as the cantaloupes in the produce section.

But society won’t let her do that. Yet. Instead she leaves me in the car, though that still offers its share of random exposure.

If in my topless life these days I find some personal satisfaction, it’s in the way Mistress Amanda looks at me.

Part of her pleasure is her dominance, and her witnessing my bare breasts every moment during the better part of a week underscores my helpless submission to her. She takes enormous pleasure in that I simply allow her to display me this way, keep me this way, despite my humiliation in it.

But also what I feel is her unfathomable lesbian lust. As we pass each other in this house, I sometimes catch her staring at my naked breasts with erotic thirst. My eyes find hers, and I smile blushingly as I walk by.

short report: the pergola

A week ago, Amanda had her new pergola constructed. She bought it as a pre-fab kit, but hired the same company to set it up, a service they offer. They made quick work of it and finished last weekend.

It’s an open structure made of California redwood, set on a stone-tiled floor, with a slatted roof and decorative louvered panels. It has its own lighting system — soft, glowy lamp fixtures hidden in and around the beams — and is now furnished with outdoor cushioned chairs and a small wet bar. It’s not as large as Master M’s pavilion, just maybe sixteen feet square, although there’s plenty of grassy bordering space for party people to spill out into.

It also has a ceiling base for an overhead fan, although Amanda has a different purpose for that, which I’ll get to.

The pergola is set far back in our long yard, at the juncture of our property and the Millers. It’s accessible through either of our properties, but also from the ridge and from the frontage road. Point being, Amanda intends it for neighborhood use, sort of like a homeowner’s clubhouse.

It’s really beautiful at night — elegant in a warm glow, cozy in the open Colorado air. Perfect, Amanda says, for displaying me naked.

The construction crew finishes the pergola on Saturday afternoon, attaching the louvered panels. The panels add decorative elegance to the structure and a semblance of framing walls.

Back at the house, just before dusk on Saturday, Mistress Amanda has me strip naked but for a pair of strappy wedge sandals. She puts me on a leash and walks me through our yard into our back forty and on to the pergola, which is aglow in the dark blue twilight.

There she attaches me by wrist cuffs to the ceiling base, which is supposed to bear a ceiling fan, but in Amanda’s scheme instead houses a power winch with a steel cable and industrial shackle hook.

Bound there, I stand naked, my arms stretched upward, my bare breasts bathed in the glowy light, my shaven pussy framed in the delta of my pale thighs.

Mistress sits in one of the chairs, sipping her Chablis, and relaxing as she gazes at me, her sapphic and submissive pleasure.

This Friday, she says, for my appointment with Blake, she will have me do him here, in the middle of the pergola, early in the evening cool.

“I’ve invited a few neighbors to come over and watch,” she says.

Mr. Alan Devers — April 15-17, Boulder conference

I have taken a while to write about him, this most recent of my courtesan dates, the fourth of the gentlemen to have had me. My apologies to readers who have been expecting my report sooner.

My delay is due to a conflictedness I felt in the experience with Alan. I find it difficult when a man has sex with me and I walk away not really knowing him. I suppose that’s the life of an escort — intimacy without relationship — but I have expected that my “courtesan form of escorting” would yield more… connection.

To be sure, all my courtesan dates have had me in bed the first night before much relationship has developed, and I am good with that, good in that, as it turns out. But that becomes part of an ongoing process of relationship-building the next day and next night. With the others, there has been a progressive emotional intimacy, and relationship has emerged, making the sexual intimacy meaningful.

Alan was never relationally personal with me. He was aloof and kept me distant. At the end, he revealed a particular disclosure that made me angry. Actually, I cut short our time together, so in part I might be blamed for not giving enough time for a relationship to rebound. But he didn’t seem headed in that direction. Sorry to be cryptic, but he was cryptic with me until the end, so welcome to my party.

And now, I’m not sure how to write about Alan Devers.

I’ve entertained the possibility that I just might not post anything about Alan, skip this one, sit out reporting on this psrticular my courtesan date. Then again, I don’t think that’s fair to him. Alan was not an unlikable man and was only having me as he wished to — distantly — for personal reasons that became clear to me later. And there were good things, to be sure. He is an attractive man and was quite good with me sexually (I mean really good). I feel that if he made more time with him relationally, we might have been good together. But he didn’t indulge me that way, and it all became a bit of a chilly mess.

But I will tell about my time with Alan Devers, after all, for better or worse. Maybe I just feel the need for a complete history of the gentlemen and their times with me.

This occurred on April 16 and 17.

From the beginning, it seemed Alan Devers considered me a call girl that he didn’t want to be seen with. He enjoyed me in bed but otherwise distanced himself from me in public. He knew other people attending the conference, but he didn’t have me with him when he chatted with them. He didn’t attend any social functions with me. We “did the conference” separately. So, there wasn’t opportunity for me as a “social courtesan” with him, to be his companion in his world.

Perhaps he has his reasons, I thought. I understand the stigma that might attach to a man being seen with an escort like me, but still — do people care about that anymore? Further, it’s not like I dress provocatively like a whore on the street luring tricks. Why should he care about being seen with me?

All the same, I’m not saying Alan was cold to me or unlikable. Maybe a little formal, yet personally he was approachable (funny that I have to clarify that a man who has sex with me is “approachable.”) He laughed at my sometimes wry sense of humor, which is usually the key to my heart — and some of my other features. And, as I say, he was good with me in bed.

I try not to compare my gentlemen relationships to each other, but in this one aspect I will. Previously, I had written about Chaz (Jenkins) treating me more like escort than like his courtesan, being more “client-like.” Yet, Chaz was playful with me and social, taking me to dinner with a couple of his colleagues. Yes, I was just his sex companion, not his deep-hearted confidante, but we had time for good conversation and got to know each other, yielding much fun together, privately and socially.

I am having to remind myself that in my courtesan “work,” I cannot expect a scintillating relationship with each and every man. Each will have me on his own terms, according to his own personality. And I know that part of the pleasure a gentleman has with me is in the opportunity to be himself and not have to measure up to some romantic dream date. Some men may simply not be such a meaningful and glorious experience for me.

I guess sometimes there is just “work” in “sex work.”

The event was the Conference on World Affairs at the University of Colorado, Boulder. It’s a forum for big ideas, world trends, and creative initiatives in a kaleidoscope of subject areas. Alan attends on behalf of his company, reporting back to the company leadership — their way of staying current on trends and movements.

One of the side benefits of my courtesan work is that it brings me into these kinds of arenas of knowledge which I would otherwise not be able to sample. With Bill, it was a leadership summit; Chaz had me at a biomedical conference. This conference was eclectic, featuring sessions on climate change and world power shifts and global trends, as well as music and film. A fascinating milieu. At this conference, I sat in on an interesting session on “storytelling in science.” There are perks to being a courtesan at these things.

The conference started on Monday and lasted through Thursday. I met up with Alan on Wednesday afternoon, and the original plan was for me to be with Alan through Thursday night, leaving Friday morning.

But I never anticipated I wouldn’t be with Alan in attending the sessions of the conference. I saw him around, here and there, and he seemed to be doing real research, collecting handouts, papers, and occasionally chatting with people. It became clear he wanted me available just for sex, just when he wanted me, and only in his hotel room. He would text me his plans, where and how we would connect.

Like I was an escort or something.

Alan is a tall man in his late fifties with short gray hair. He has an attractive square-ish face and wears black glasses that gives him the serious look of an executive. He reminded me of the Christopher Reeve version of Clark Kent. Well, an older Clark Kent. Nonetheless attractive, appealing, virile.

All of the gentlemen are twenty years older than me or more, evoking some sense of age differential — I’ve been aware they see me as the young woman who could be their friend’s daughter’s girlfriend, and it seems there’s some illicit excitement in that for them. They like the experience of being with a younger woman.

I have indulged them in that, even played into the age difference as their fantasy (Bill Holt as “grandpa”). But the gentlemen have also shown me another dimension, a boyish side to them, which opens them up to me more personally and casually. It evens the age difference — they become a younger version of themselves, and I become something other than that “friend’s daughter’s girlfriend” — but simply a woman friend they confide in. And that becomes the basis for a fledgling relationship — in the midst of a lot of sex they have with me.

Alan Devers doesn’t have that other “boy gear,” or at least didn’t show it to me. Our age difference never got evened out. He was always the older man, the senior professional. To him, I was always the younger woman, a call girl, a “professional” in that sense.

For these two days, I always felt with him like I was his hidden shame, the friend’s daughter’s girlfriend he was fucking in a misbegotten sexual tryst that he needed to keep secret.

That first night, he texted me to come to his hotel room at 9:00. I walked in with my small lingerie case. He smiled to see me, welcoming me in, and offered me a drink from the mini-bar. He poured me a white wine, and we sat in the anteroom of the suite and talked awhile.

Surface pleasantries, much as I would imagine initial conversations between an escort and client might go. It was about the conference sessions at first. I asked him if he was attending with colleagues, and he said no, not offering more. He mentioned some of the sessions he was planning to attend, and I spoke about wanting to sit in on the storytelling seminar the next day. He was friendly to me but not forthcoming.

I asked about the league of extraordinary gentlemen, when it all got started. I knew some of the history from Master McKenna, but I like hearing each man’s version of the group origins and dynamic. I also hoped it would get Alan talking. It did, and he shared with me some of the history of it, and his first entry into the group, hinting at the bonds that knitted them together. In the moment, I glimpsed a more relaxed and relational side to him.

After a while, Alan paused. “You come highly recommended,” he said. It was an obvious reference to my sexual services.

“That sounds like a lot for me to live up to,” I replied.

He smiled, chuckled. “Well, you look the part.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. Was he saying that I look like an escort, and what did that mean? Maybe he was complimenting me on my body, which he was about to see in the flesh. It was one of many slightly awkward moments when we were not quite in sync. Maybe the problem was me, I didn’t know.

I managed to offer a demure, “Well, thank you,” and opened my lingerie case. “I brought some special outfits for you, Alan, and you’ll have to choose one for me tonight.” I hoped this might shift him out of his professional airs and get him into his boy mode.

“Sounds good,” he simply said. He bore a tone of professional expectation not boyish eagerness, as if this was my job and he wanted me to get on with it.

I held up in succession each of three sets of lingerie. Alan chose my sheer white robe, a frequent favorite. I think the men like it because it shows all my bare curves as if I’m framed in a window behind a gauzy curtain.

This is the moment when common escort protocol is to ask, “Have you left me a little gift?” and the client points to the table and the envelope stuffed with the money payment. That’s followed by “Give me a minute to change in the bathroom.” It’s the escort ritual.

Well, I don’t have the financial element, but changing in the bathroom is part of that ritual. There, in that private moment standing before a mirror, I feel most like I’m selling my body to a stranger. Which is actually not a terrible feeling to me, but it is a moment of self-reflection, especially because I’m aware this body of mine is about to be used by a man I don’t know.

I felt this more so with Alan Devers. With others, I have been able to look into the mirror and tell myself that I actually like this man and this is an interesting or fun or surprising date. Alan, however, didn’t see me as a date, per se, not as a real woman-friend, but as a sex girl, one whose name he might forget the next day.

I modeled for him in my sheerness, my breasts moving nakedly underneath the white mesh, my promised land showing its fleshy folds as if through a fog. He smiled as he gazed at me, and he held out his hand for me to come to him.

I sat beside him there on the couch in the suite, us both angled toward the other, and he wrapped his arm around my shoulders, placing his other hand against my gauzy robe. As he cupped and squeezed my breast, he leaned close, and we kissed.

He whispered, “You’re beautiful,” but I didn’t take it personally.

He continued to kiss me in fervent hunger, and his hand roamed my body like a man finger-mapping the terrain of one of the conference dioramas, curious with a touch of awe.

Alan unwrapped me from my gauze, consumingly like a man, not giddy-gee like a boy, for he would never share his inner boy with me the whole time. But he opened my shroud and gazed at my naked flesh.

“You look like a dream,” he said.

I said nothing, letting him have his visual pleasure of me.

Alan added, “You have a body to die for.”

“Thank you,” I joked, “but I was hoping there wouldn’t be any violent death tonight.”

He chuckled, but didn’t banter with me further.

That led me to another question that’s part of the escort ritual: “How do you want me tonight?” I ask this of all the gentlemen, but maybe it was more appropriate for the “let’s-get-down-to-it” Alan Devers.

“I want you on your back in bed with your legs spread.” He spoke it without hesitation.

“Oh!” I replied in a surprised laugh. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“A little.” He grinned, and that was nice to see.

“I’m not sure that’s my best look,” I replied.

“I’m told it is.”

“You boys have to stop talking about me.” I said it with a smile, hoping he would engage me further in my love language of words and sass. But he didn’t. He closed himself again.

Finally I nodded. “As you wish.”

I held out my hand, we stood, and he walked me into my fucking.

So, I’ll say this again: his sex with me was really good.

The bedside light was dim and the room was shadowy and I think I felt him inside me before I saw his manhood. I was plenty wet for him. I could say it was the circumstance — the novelty of being a stranger’s fuck toy — but I often am wet even in other situations, my common state, my almost constant low-grade arousal, like a persistent fever.

In any case, he slid into me easily, extending deep. I remember thinking that it was just that morning we had shaken hands like passing acquaintances, and now he was impaled inside my pussy thick like pudding. It all felt wrong to me, and yet he thrilled me.

This wasn’t love-making, rather sex-making, but for me there was a kind of relieved pleasure in that. He didn’t care to make me a real relationship, so I didn’t strive to make meaning out of it. As I looked across my body, over my mounds, I could see he and I were nothing more but a male cock sheathed in my vagina, his veiny shaft spreading my labia folds and exposing my clit, shiny and moist. Un-relational sex reduces you to an explicit, carnal intercourse of flesh but not of the heart, nothing more than bio-sensation, with no emotional crests and tides to ripple the pleasure. But he wanted me this way, and I gave myself to the meaninglessness of it, for better or worse as in a marriage vow. I would hate myself later for becoming to him nothing more than his warm wet fuck toy. Yet in the moment, there were visceral pleasures galore.

I felt his fullness, his girth stretching me. He was big and felt so lovely good. Alan pushed and pulled his cock back and forth within my vagina in slow strokes, sending me into some faraway la-la-land where I floated for a while, not worrying about the whore that I was.

His fucking of me lasted longer than I expected. I maybe assumed his distancing from me would mean that he’d make quick work of me in bed. But no, he took his time, and that turn out to be… wonderful. Perhaps he felt he’d “paid” for me and was going to get his money’s worth. But actually that’s too harsh on him. He was making with me some really good sex, such as it was.

He was forceful for a time, thrusting me hard, rocking the bed, and making my breasts sway. But later he slowed, pacing himself. We settled into a lovely rhythm, an easy, swollen lust of flesh and flow. My joggling breasts felt hot, flushed with heat. My nipples grew into Hershey’s Kisses.

When he eased back on his thrusts, he changed his angle, I guess, and his intercourse more directly played my clit like a bow on a violin. That aroused me all the more. I clenched the bedsheets.

I didn’t want to come, didn’t wish to give him that. My climax is the most intimate experiences of a relationship, and we didn’t have a relationship. I tried to hold back, just has he had held himself in reserve from me.

But eventually, his fucking of me was too effective. I couldn’t help myself. I gasped, my body bucked. I shuddered into a rolling orgasm.

Maybe prompted by my helpless spasms, Alan tensed and came, and I felt his warm cum shooting deep inside me.

He held me then, his hands full with my breasts, and we fell asleep.

We both roused a little after midnight, awakening into another awkward moment. He didn’t say so, but I sensed he preferred me to leave.

“Maybe I should go back to my room,” I said. It was open-ended, inviting him to choose.

He didn’t say anything, which I took to be an agreement that I should go. Even so, there was something in his non-response that seemed regretful. It was as if he felt it was proper that I leave, yet didn’t want me to.

There’s a meme online that “You don’t pay a prostitute for sex, you pay her to leave afterwards.” Something like that. Kind of vile, but maybe true in sex work. Maybe as a “proper escort,” it was my time to “leave afterward.”

I was drowsy and still buzzy from our sex and couldn’t make sense of his his vibe. I just collected my things to go.

“This was good tonight,” he said. “Thank you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Apart from any relationship or even the prospect of one, it felt like that he was complimenting me for having a pleasurable vagina. Maybe that’s all I am.

He kissed me at the door, and added perfunctorily that he would like a blowjob from me in the morning. It was like he was ordering breakfast.

In his defense, the other gentlemen have likewise ordered this “from the menu,” and the morning blowjob has become a common practice in my courtesanships. Still the timing of his request surprised me.

“You’ve been talking to the others,” I noted.

“They might have mentioned something.”

I nodded, resigned to this, realizing this was the work of an escort. “So, Alan, what time do you want me for that?”

At 7:30 am, I showed up at his hotel room door. I was dressed in one of my business outfits — black skirt and matching black blazer, with a white blouse underneath. This surprised and excited him — I assume he didn’t expect to see me looking so much like one of his professional assistants.

I soon found myself on my knees in front of a cock and balls that I had barely seen the night before.

I vowed silently that I would not worship his cock. He didn’t deserve to be the lord of my life, though I admit that’s a low bar to achieve — I submit to most anyone. But I wasn’t, apparently, significant to him, even as an “other,” so I would do this without any, let’s say, adoration. (I know these are the games I play when I am made insignificant.)

Yet his cock was full and meaty, and my mouth salivated around it. I loved its velvety head against my lips, and its weight along my tongue. I told myself I would lick it but not kiss it, as if kissing — even a man-cock — was a signal of emotional commitment. And, for a while, I did lick his hard penis, albeit too eagerly, like a girl at Dairy Queen licking an ice cream cone.

But in time, I couldn’t help myself, and I did kiss his cock up and down along its shaft, god help me. In the moment I told myself it was just my technique, this is how I do this, and it didn’t mean anything. Which it didn’t, and yet, to be honest, I kissed his cock with the faint hope that somehow by kissing this one part of this man could prompt him to love me back.

No, no, no, I didn’t want him to love me. I just wanted him to open up to me. And what was that about? Was it just me? Did I want him to open up to me as some sort of confirmation that I wasn’t for him just a bundle of female flesh for him to fuck? Did I long for him in that way as a justification for this that I do with men?

Well, he did “open” up to me — in the form of releasing his thick semen into my mouth. He burst into me there, coating my tongue, leaving droplets of his frothy cum on my lips.

And I couldn’t help but hate myself in the debased pleasure of it.

After, with his cum still on my lips, he suggested we meet up at one of the conference sessions — and that I sit with him.

This confused me to no end. The day before, it felt to me like he couldn’t bear to be seen with me. Now, he wanted me to sit with him. Was this going to get personal after all?

So, I don’t much cotton to passive-aggressiveness in people. As readers know, I can handle most anything someone does or says to me, but I’m not good with passive-aggressiveness. If you don’t like me, say so. If you want to keep me at arm’s length, just tell me why. Do you want to be seen with me, or not? Just decide.

Still, I wasn’t sure Alan was really being passive-aggressive. Maybe this was his decided plan all along —sex first, and if that goes well, then get to know the girl. Maybe he just needed to warm to me first, his fuckings of me making me worthy of a seat beside his throne. Or maybe there was some other purpose I didn’t understand.

So, when he said, “You should sit with me,” in my confusion, I couldn’t help a snarky comment: “Are we going to hold hands?”

He laughed, but it was uneasy, and he didn’t know how to take it.

In the session room, I slipped into his row and asked, “Is this seat taken?” Perhaps I was still being sarcastic, but truly I felt I was playing along with his seeming desire for mutual anonymity. He smirked, and I sat down. No we didn’t hold hands.

We sat through a panel discussion on (no lie) “Reclaiming Human Connection in the Digital Age,” which seemed terribly ironic. I was with a man who wouldn’t let me know him, yet whose man-cum I was still tasting on my tongue.

Every courtesan date seems at first like a terribly long time to be with a stranger, yet as it actually plays out, it isn’t. At least, usually. With the other gentlemen, as I have reported, I have come to really enjoy the man and want to spend time more time with him even after the sex is over, hanging out with him socially and publicly.

But with Alan, I’d had the night and early morning with him, and while the sex was good (actually great), I wasn’t sure how I was going to continue the rest of the day and evening and night only as his sex whore. I began to think about a way I could bow out early, sometime in the afternoon.

I would not feign sickness, for I don’t do that. I would not simply drive away without telling him. I would have to speak with him directly about it, maybe just admit the truth, that he had clearly just wanted sex with me as an escort, had gotten his fucking of me, and so let’s just go our separate ways.

But after that morning conference session, Alan asked to have coffee with me. He had a brief opening in his schedule, he said.

This made me really confused. Now he wanted to talk? At the same time, it presented itself as my opportunity to beg out of the rest of the date-not-date with him.

Cafe Alon is an upscale brasserie at the edge of the university campus. He wanted to meet me there at 11:00. I agreed. Whatever his intentions, it was my way of getting out.

As we sat in a corner, sipping lattes, I was forming the words to beg my departure: I think you’re a very attractive man, Alan, and the sex with you has been amazing. But there’s something about this that isn’t working, and I feel it best that I go home. That was one version. Not sure that will work. I conjured up other versions as well.

However, Alan beat me to it: “Shae, I want you to know something. I realize now I should have mentioned this earlier.”

Surprised, I mumbled, “Okay.”

“I’m at the beginning of a relationship,” he said. “Her name is Dierdre. It has just started, just in the last month. There are no commitments between us. In fact, she is dating other men. But she and I have been seeing each other, and I feel there might be something there.”

This was a confession, of sorts, although his tone was informational not apologetic. My first thought was that Alan was finally confiding in me, sharing about a woman he was fond of. I was happy for him. Then it began to dawn on me what he was getting at.

He went on to say that there were people at this conference in the same circles as he and Dierdre. He didn’t want them seeing him with me. He went on: “I really respect her, and I didn’t want this… with you… getting back to her.” He said it as if it was all very logical: it wasn’t an apology, just news that he had mis-timed in telling me.

And now I felt angry. IFunny that your respect for her didn’t translate into respect for me.

“You’re a beautiful, intelligent, sexual woman, Shae. ”

Here we go…

“Also interesting to be around.”

How would you know?

“This event with you was scheduled long before I met Dierdre. I wanted to keep our date, enjoy you… like the others. And until this past month, I didn’t know Dierdre meant something to me… She would not understand… not approve… of me doing this with… well, you know…”

With a whore.

“So I needed to keep this secret. While here, I felt it best to keep my distance from you socially.”

He stopped there, looking into my eyes for my reaction. He had said it all as something practical, sensible, even virtuous. In his mind, he was being respectful of another woman.

I took a long moment of silence. “You should have told me up front,” I said in a growled hush. “I would have accommodated you, been careful in public. But at least I would have known why you’ve kept your distance.”

Alan nodded. “I realize that now. Which is why I’m addressing the problem.” He said it as if was a badge of honor that he was facing the issue. That he was doing the right thing in finally addressing it.

At this point, I was seething inside, but I tried to remain civil. For all of this mess, Alan was still Master McKenna’s friend. “So, out of respect for this Dierdre,” I said, “you felt it was okay to use me for sex, as long as she didn’t know.”

He blinked, but didn’t pick up on how many ways his thinking was wrong. “Yes,” he replied. “After all, that’s what this is.”

There it was. I was just his whore. He needed to keep me secret. And it didn’t matter if I knew why.

So many thoughts raced through my mind.

I wasn’t upset that Alan had a girlfriend. Good for him. An escort assumes every client has other relationships. She probably expects him to keep her a secret — usually in a hotel room in a far-away city. Should I really be angry about that?

As a courtesan, though, I assume I am something more. I am to be a social companion, and in some ways a confidante. My liaisons with each of the gentlemen are more than a couple of hours of sex in a bedroom but two or more nights and days in a “dating” relationship. I am supposed to be a girlfriend — with benefits, of course — but a girlfriend companion of a kind.

I never expected to be special to Alan Devers, nor did I have illusions about being some significant other. But I also didn’t expect to be marginalized socially, kept out of sight, hidden like a dirty whore.

Yes, I am an escort to be used for sex, but I am a woman even so. His failure to explain his situation with me up front was a manipulation, a way of managing me as nothing more than a sexual opportunity. He wanted the use of my body.

Without the chance of snapshots.

I was in a swirl of conflicting feelings, and I didn’t know what more to say. Technically, I was provided to Alan Devers by Master McKenna. Alan was Master’s friend. I didn’t want to displease Master by how I would handle this. I was pretty sure Master would understand my predicament, but I couldn’t let my anger toward Alan become a permanent rift.

In another example of how Alan and I were out of sync, I was just forming my responses when Alan started talking again.

He mentioned his plans for me later in the afternoon and for the night ahead— bedroom trysts — proceeding as if he’d moved on from the problem. In his mind, he had handled it, handled me, and was on to his next agenda item. That item was his next fucking of me, like he had paid for the time and was now collecting on the remainder due.

I stopped him mid-sentence. “Alan,” I said, “This isn’t working.”

He got quiet.

I said that I understood about Dierdre, and was happy for him with her. I said something about how my being a courtesan is supposed to mean something more social and personal. “But you’ve made me distant from you, Alan. Now I understand why, but you didn’t respect me enough to share that with me up front.”

I also said that this was the reason I didn’t wish to be courtesan to anyone who was married. “You know there’s is a rule about that,” I reminded him. “I’ve never wanted to be disruptive to anyone’s existing relationships… You aren’t married to Dierdre, of course, but the issue is the same — you don’t want her to know about me. That’s a red flag. And that’s the point of the rule. I feel I am hurting this other woman Dierdre. And, Alan, that’s why this should never have happened.”

I had an edge in my voice, but I managed to talk without too much anger spilling out as hot muck. I knew I could have, should have, just slapped him and walked out, but these were complicated circumstances, his being one of the gentlemen and a friend of Master McKenna’s.

“I have a proposal for you,” I finally said. “Let’s conclude this now. I’ll drive home. We had some really good… moments together. The sex was great, it really was. Let’s just leave it at that. All of you gentlemen will have more times with me. When your second opportunity with me comes up, see where you are with Dierdre. If you’re not in any relationship then, I would love to be with you again under different circumstances. We can try this again. Start over.”

It was something like that.

He absorbed my words and said nothing, offering only a reluctant smile. I don’t know if that was a regret that he had hurt me or a regret that he wouldn’t have more sex with me.

I drove home then and there. The hour and a half in the car gave me time to collect myself. I wasn’t emotionally distraught. He hadn’t invested himself in me, and I wasn’t invested in him. No tears. My anger had dissipated, and I was no longer upset, though I still felt I’d been used by the man.

I realize that in my other life as a sex slave, I often am used by dominant men (and women), and that I have no rights to be treated gently. But at the heart of it, being a sex slave is consensual. I am used in the mutual awareness that I am a submissive and the other is a dominant. And even when I am marginalized and demeaned, there’s an underlying respect for me as a submissive woman who gives herself to being dominated.

Being someone’s courtesan-escort is a different role for me. But it too is consensual — or is supposed to be. This with Alan Devers was not. Not that he violated me sexually but that he was concealing his true situation from me, using me in a way I didn’t really know, and thus didn’t consent to. Maybe there’s a technicality in that, but that’s how it felt to me.

By the time I got back to the mansion, I’d worked some of that out. Above all, I actually felt good that I had pushed back with Alan and found the words to end it.

Back at the mansion, I told Master McKenna about everything.

He listened, was fully supportive of me, said I’d done the right thing. He thought my solution was well thought out. Actually, he was more angry with Alan than I was.

He asked if I wanted him to have a talk with Alan, and I said no, it was okay, that I didn’t need retribution. It was all just a misbegotten engagement.

Master said he would talk with Alan anyway. And maybe with all the gentlemen. About the nature of my being a courtesan and not a whore.

There are times I feel I would do anything for Master McKenna.

Then I realize I already do.

my objectification: CJ

When I wrote about my experience of literally being made into a service tray, I invited readers to suggest how they would want to objectify and sexualize me. Friend and follower “CJ Playroom” took me up on that offer and provided a detailed (and delicious!) explanation of his preferred approaches to me as a service tray, in those categories of objectification and sexualization.

With his permission, I am reprising his commentary and offering my thoughts and responses if he were to actually do me in those ways. I am writing this back to him, but I think it may be of interest to all readers.

By the way, I continue to welcome others’ ideas about their objectifications and sexualizations of me.

CJ, you begin with assurances that you speak of me in these terms only because you “know I am a sex slave” and that I derive a fulfillment from submissive treatment. You say, “Consent is key to me.” And at the very end you state, “As always, I never want you to feel belittled in any way. I respect who you are and your role as a sex slave too much.”

Knowing you as I do, CJ, you are being honest and genuine in this. You have always respected me, and I appreciate that you preface your “treatment” of me with these assurances. By saying these things, you convey to me that you see this as a kind of “unequal partnership” with me — as I’ve often written about. I like that.

Yet have another take on your comment, “I never want you to feel belittled in any way.” When I am objectified and sexualized in my D/s life, I do feel humiliated (belittled) and I accept that as “part of the program.” I know you are expressing your heart-felt sentiment of not wanting to hurt me, and thank you.

But being belittled is the the essence of being objectified. And that is part of the pleasure of the dominant, as well as part of the submissive fulfillment I sometimes experience. Just to say, I accept the humiliation and the degradation of these experiences, CJ.

CJ: “To further objectify you while you are made to be a tray, I would strap a ball gag into your mouth. This would eliminate your ability to speak and further reduce your usefulness except for being said tray.”

In this, you prompt in me several thoughts. There’s an interesting difference between being ordered not to speak and being physically rendered unable to speak. They each have a dominant effect.

When you ball-gag me, CJ, you are physically taking away my ability to speak. And you are right — that would most completely reduce me into being the tray and nothing else. For me, it would feel like a fuller, deeper objectification. If you kept me that way for a length of time, it would likely push me more fully into sub-space, where I start to believe I am actually just a thing, the tray.

On the other hand, without a gag, speaking is a constant “choice” for me, a kind of every-moment self-restraint. At every turn, I must not respond verbally even though I am able to. Sometimes my owners enjoy that, liking my need to discipline myself into mute obedience. Maybe especially knowing how I enjoy sassing about things, they like my having to hold it back, bite my tongue, so to speak.

I’ll add one other thought, CJ. When you ball-gag me, it visually suggests a “filling of my mouth” — the implication that my mouth is always supposed to be filled with… something. This is especially the case when a cock-gag is used on me, and observers see me that way. They sometimes make comments about my “looking so content with a cock-gag in my mouth,” like it’s a pacifier. Which is not untrue, but is an added humiliation.

CJ writes, “I have two thoughts regarding your pussy and ass. In the effort to objectify you as a tray and not an available sex object, I would insert an anal plug into you … maybe your horse tail, but probably a decorative plug with a colorful jewel or a large colored base. Then perhaps lock your pussy into a Chasity belt … or maybe use some small linked chain to thread between your pussy rings and use a small master lock to lock them into place.

“My point for doing this is two fold … by gagging you, locking your pussy up via a Chasity belt or the small chain idea and plugging your ass … I have rendered your three holes unavailable for penetration, thus making you a non desirable sexual object. If I can’t use you, I can objectify you. But knowing that your ass is plugged would give me pleasure in knowing that you are being penetrated and thus you can “feel” my Dominance inside of you.”

First, CJ, let me say that it awakens my inner submissive when you talk about my “three holes.” That’s so very objectifying in itself. Utterly humiliating. I accept that a dominant has the right to think of me only as “holes” that he can use to penetrate me when he wishes, each of my holes providing him a slightly different sensation. With you, sir, I know that at other times you think of me as being more than three holes, appreciating me with greater value and respect, but I also accept these moments when you are addressing my holes “as what I am.”

Your strategy is well-thought, and it would work on me, serve your purposes, and I expect would convey to guests what you are intending — to draw attention to my holes and yet eliminate them from their “consideration,” further making me into having no other use than just being a serving tray.

I might suggest one of my pussy treatments that Mistress Maria puts me in. Each pair of my labia piercings is conjoined by a ring — so three rings close up my vagina. Then she threads the rings with a fairly heavy-gauge chain, doing so in several loops. The two open ends of the chain are finished off with a large and heavy Yale lock, clicked shut. The visual of this conveys your intention, CJ, that this hole of mine, my vagina, is unusable. But also, because the lock and chain are heavy, it is for me a constantly weighty sensation, making me always aware of my pussy in hardware displayed to others.

My two cents is that the horse tail wouldn’t be quite right. You are making me into a serving tray, not a mare. Those are two different “things.” I think what you would want in me is a more standard anal plug. But that’s your call, of course. If I could make a request, though, I’d ask that the plug be large enough to wedge inside me firmly. I can endure the initial pain of insertion, but it’s very distracting if I have to constantly work to keep it from falling out.

Finally, I concur that your plugging of my holes will make me “feel your dominance inside me.” It has the effect of making me feel you inside me in all three places at the same time, overwhelming me in a lovely way. I suppose that’s also your pleasure in seeing me that way — knowing I am “feeling you” everywhere.

And I am guessing you intend a further possible effect if you are showing me to your friends this way. As you are objectifying me into being a serving tray, they do not realize you are also “fucking” me in three places simultaneously.

CJ: “For aesthetic purposes, I would dress you in a garter belt and stockings and high heels. The color of your heels would match the anal plug jewel or colored base of the plug.”

Whatever you wish, of course, sir. I appreciate the color coordination. If I must be made into a serving tray, I would prefer to look elegant rather than trashy.

One suggestion, CJ, is that since I am already wearing my brass Swedish slave collar, you might consider a brass Yale lock on my pussy, as well as a brass anal plug. I don’t own brass high heels, but they make them — a kind of gold lamé that looks like brass. Perhaps the tray itself could have a brass rim/trim and the chains holding it up likewise brass. That would be quite a look.

CJ: “I would also attach ankle cuffs to your ankles and connect them to a chain of maybe one foot long. That’s long enough for you to still walk but would restrict you from taking longer strides and this further remind you of your slave status. I personally love the sound of a women in heels and chains. Chains are my preferred method of bondage. I love the hard, cold steel of chains and the contradictory soft, warmth of a woman being combined.”

I like the way you say that — hard, cold steel against my soft warm flesh…

Two thoughts. On the practical side, I am naturally klutzy. My slave training has mitigated my missteps, but I am prone to such things. Adding chains to my ankles along with the tray is a bit risky. I’m not concerned with my safety — I never injure myself — but I sometimes stumble. Just saying that if I am just with you, you might enjoy my occasional klutziness, but if you’re having me with your friends, you might not risk it.

Assuming you go ahead with the ankle chains on me, I’ll admit that the heaviest chains have the strongest affect on me submissively. Dragging weights across the floor makes me feel in bondage, which is a deeply submissive experience.

CJ: “Lastly, based on how the tray fits your waist and how much of your breasts touch the tray, I would like to attach a pair of nipple clamps and run the chain of the clamps between the “O” ring of your color to pull your nipples upwards towards your collar. The clamps could potentially be attached to your nipple hoops without tugging too hard (I don’t want to harm your nipples by having your piercings rip out). I think you may enjoy the feeling of having your nipples constantly pulled.”

You may wish to confer with Mistress Maria on this. She has tried the nioole-chain thing, but that tends to remain constantly taut, with a minimum of movement. She prefers an elastic band, sort of a mini-bungee cord, that stretches and contracts as I move. In elastic cords, my nipples are constantly bobbing in and out, up and down, in rhythm to my walk which jounces my breasts and my head and neck movements which tug on the cord.

But, yes, as you think about it further, my nipple piercings can bear fairly thick rings now, and you will be able to use them in such ways.

My dominants have thought about attaching my nipples by chain or cord directly to the tray, but there is some danger in that, as you mention, CJ. Still, they want to do that. They like the image of the tray being even more a part of me, integrated directly into my nipples and breasts.

Thank you, CJ, for all of these thoughts and future plans for me. By the way, I have not forgotten about your schema of different types of cock sucking and how you will apply that to me. I still intend a future blog post for that.

slavery redux

After our lovely weekend in the woods, Amanda and I return to the house and neighborhood Monday evening. We are back at work the next day.

Tuesday evening, Mistress puts me in a short skirt and tall heels, leaving my breasts bare, and promptly invites our neighbors, John and Patty Miller, to come over. I know she is plunging me back into my slavery humiliations. I obey without resistance. I want to be back in my submission too. Mistress feels my acquiescence; without words she appreciates my easy compliance. We are a team in this, mistress and slave, in front of our friends.

I serve drinks and snacks, my boobs hanging over the tray as I lean over. They all chat. I go to my corner.

Picking up a cue from Master McKenna, Mistress has now created her own places of unimportance for me, this one literally a corner of the living room at the junction of the east and south walls. Here, I am to stand with each shoulder lightly touching the adjoining wall. It makes my body a part of the structure of the house — except for my bulbous breasts, which reach out embarrassingly, begging to be fondled.

I remember a theater friend in college explaining to me the importance of “stage space” in a play. A great distance between two characters could create tension, suggest psychological distance, maybe convey deep longing.

There is something like that in my position at the corner of the living room. The distance sets me off from the focus of social interaction. Yet I am, nonetheless, a half-naked woman standing in a corner with her breasts out and full. The result is a spacial tension that diminishes me while compelling a focus on my sexual availability.

And so, this evening, when not in use, I obedient stand in the corner apart from our friends, feeling distant, yet aware of their occasional attentions, feeling the longing in between.

Patty and John, indeed, have been good friends to us, to me. They were the first neighbors we came out to, confessing our lifestyle, and they were open, wanting to learn more. I’ve had heart-to-heart talks with Patty, and John has been a kind of guidance counselor, befitting his professional career in educational publishing. These two have a respect for me as a writer and professional woman.

They have also seen me topless many times, occasionally fully naked, and have observed my slavery in action around the neighborhood. Indeed, they have participated in my humiliations and in intimate ways enjoyed my body. They’ve had more of a front-row seat to my slavery than perhaps any of the neighbors. Somehow, I find myself comfortable with them in all of my dignity and indignity, safe and accepted in my professional career as well as my submissive humiliations.

Yet, I never get used to my display in front of them. And now I stand in the corner, my boobs like swollen gibbous moons projecting my shame into their nighttime conversations.

Most of my submissive experience is not heightened intensity or climactic outcome. Sometimes it is quietly lived, my humiliations silently absorbed like aloe lotion. It is this mellow vibe this evening with John and Patty.

There’s a short time when Mistress has me sit at her feet, including me in conversation. Patty and John ask me about my writing, and I am pleased to talk about myself professionally. I am well aware I am sitting before them half-naked as I am sharing my current ideas about plot structure. Somehow, I manage the dissonance, and they seem to do so as well.

There is tea later, which I again serve on a tray, more conversation about families and vacations and future travels.

Now, I am again relegated to my corner of unimportance, even when they all walk out onto the patio for a time, only to return a half hour later to observe me still standing where she put me, in the corner still obedient in my uselessness.

In that moment, my eyes find hers, and I sense her deep dominant satisfaction, and that makes everything worthwhile.

holiday weekend with Amanda

In our usual “changing of the guard,” I was scheduled to return to Amanda’s domain over the Memorial Day weekend. She was returning from her travels, Maria had plans to be with her family, and Master McKenna was joining a couple of friends for a getaway in Lake Tahoe. It was a logical time, long-ago planned, for my transition back to her.

So it was that I left work at the collective on Thursday and drove home, not to the mansion but to Amanda’s house. For me, it was just our back-and-forth routine, my tale of two city-states.

It was a most pleasant surprise then that Amanda took me to a cabin up in the mountains that she had rented for the two of us for the duration of the long weekend.

The cabin was secluded, sitting in a tangle of forest land south of Steamboat Springs. We had to drive three miles to get to a paved road. We never encountered another soul. Except for one excursion to a restaurant an hour away, we ate from a cooler and a box of foodstuffs we’d brought with us.

The remoteness was intentional: Amanda said she wanted this to be time free of distractions, neighbors, and work and such. She also made it clear she wanted the three days to be “mutual time,” a vacation from everything. My formal servitude was set aside. I am always her slave, but this became girlfriend time in various ways — us talking, playing, and drinking from each other, in every way you might interpret that.

For a few moments I feared this was all a pretext for a major announcement from her, some big thing that would change my life. But it wasn’t. She had been traveling so much and we’d been apart for so long, she just wanted the weekend to reconnect with me as Shae, not as slave Shae.

And that was a lovely thing.

I still bore the accoutrements of being her slave. I wore my wide, thick Swedish collar with the tell-tale O-ring in front, and jewelry in my nipple and labia piercings. In these ways, I am ever marked as the lifestyle submissive that I am.

Nothing new there, except it becomes notable at such a time when I am not formally in “slave mode.” Even though my slavery was not invoked or used over the weekend, I still bore the appearance of a woman tamed and trained, pierced and collared — a reminder that this is what I am and always will be — even during “mutual time.”

We hiked a lot. Sometimes, Amanda wanted me to be topless, “but it’s a request not an order.” There was no leash that she put me on. “Haven’t seen your body for a bunch of weeks,” she said, “and I need to lust on you for a while.”

“As long as you wear those jeans I like you in,” I said.

And so we hiked, my breasts jiggling to every step and her shapely legs and ass sheathed in tight denim. We aroused each other into frothy desire, which we consummated in the hot tub in the cool of the evening.

We talked a lot.

When I am with Master McKenna, Amanda and I talk on the phone several times a week, so we are constantly caught up on what’s going on with the other. Amanda also is in touch with McKenna quite often, and she has a hand in his execution of my slavery. She is always up to speed on how I am being dominated and used.

So, our conversations this past weekend weren’t about that kind of “updating,” but about relationships, the nuances of her complicated family and the subtleties of my feelings about, well, everyone.

Notably, Amanda and I also discussed our future together, hypothesizing various scenarios, and again vowing to be there for each other into old age. She shared some financial information about her own portfolio which I hadn’t known. And we explored how later in life our dom-sub relationship could continue even through physical limitations. It was sobering on one way, but affirming in another, a re-commitment of our long-term intentions.

After rounds of these conversations, we would get some physical exercise by playing, of all things, badminton.

There was a rudimentary “court,” a flat clearing out in the far woods, overgrown but serviceable. We strung the net across, and swatted the birdie back and forth. She was really good, and I learned in the process she had played tennis in high school. (The things you learn about people you know so well.)

After she won the first set, Amanda said I should be topless. This was for no good reason other than her insatiable lust, and I shook my head in feigned exasperation, but took off my tee to please her.

We played on, my naked breasts always seeming to play a different game than I was playing. Even so, I won the last set, no doubt because lovely Amanda was so distracted.

We had one serious talk about my slavery, in which Amanda shared something she and Master McKenna have been in dialogue about.

This started with a discussion of my sharings with the neighborhood couples. These are less frequent now. One reason is that there are no new people coming into the neighborhood Further development has stopped), and the handful of existing couples who were open and interested now already have had me.

Amanda calls me a “spice girl,” one who is used to add adventure to an existing marriage on special occasions, sometimes a couple’s marital celebration, such as a ten- or twenty-year anniversary. But much as those couples have enjoyed me, Amanda says, they don’t want to make their marriages a frequent threesome.

There are some future possibilities. Scott and Cecilia Kemp want me again, but they moved to Chicago some time ago, and their schedule for returning to Colorado on visits has been in constant flux. Stacey Knox wants girl-girl time with me, but her job has changed and she is traveling a lot these days.

All to say that my sharings with neighbors now are likely to happen every few years, not every few months.

This is particularly disappointing to Amanda, whose fetish interest in the sharings was always to be able to watch me being sexually enjoyed by others. She understood that was a hard “ask” of couples to allow her to be present the first time around, but it seemed more possible on “return engagements.” But now there doesn’t seem to be a second time around.

So… hold that thought.

This conversation led into something she and Master McKenna have been talking about. They wish to offer me as a slave to other select dominants. This would mirror the courtesan dates that I have with Master’s friends, but these would be for the purpose of providing me as a “slave courtesan” to selected dominants.

To a degree, this is similar to the experiences I’ve had at the beta retreats with dom trainees, except these engagements would not be at the mansion, and would be “slave dates” over a couple of nights/days, during which these dom clients would be given the right to dominate and enslave me to themselves.

In my courtesan engagements with the gentlemen, I am rented out for sexual companionship. In these courtesan engagements with dominants, I would be rented out for submissive-sexual domination.

The other wrinkle being talked about (if you’ve been holding that previous thought) is that Amanda would accompany me to oversee my slave courtesanship, offering protection for me and guidance for the dom, but also providing her the pleasure of watching another dominant enjoy me.

This basic idea was not new to me. It’s been hinted at many times. That Mistress and Master seem ready to implement it, however, was a bit of a surprise. Amanda’s possible participation is a new angle to it, and very welcome. I have to process it, but I’m not overwhelmed by the idea. I think Mistress and Master are managing the frequency of my sharings overall. With the decline of neighbor interest, they are finding new options for the use of me.

More to say about this in future posts.

Otherwise, over the weekend, Amanda and I stayed away from lifestyle talk, and lived in a kind of mutuality. Which was nice for a change, although as we returned home last night, I was ready to resume my slavery again.

More than anything, the weekend was simply a time for Amanda to love on me. And that was an unexpected joy, to say the least.

the objectification of becoming a service tray

I often write in terms of my objectification and sexualization. I suppose there could be BDSM relationships that do not incorporate those, some practice of power exchange not oriented to reducing a submissive to lower states, but it’s hard for me to imagine them.

As readers know, objectification and sexualization are a big part of my D/s life, largely because my dominants know how my being objectified/sexualized so humiliates me and how utter degradation becomes submissively fulfilling to me. Certainly it satisfies their dominant needs as well to watch it happen and observe my coping with my reduction.

In my view, objectification and sexualization are different though related. Both are about dehumanizing me in literal ways. Objectification, as I use the term, reduces me to a literal thing-object — a footstool or chair, or in this case, a serving tray. Sexualization, in my definition, reduces me into being a sexual object — something of a sex toy.

Sometimes the two are combined. You may remember recently Master McKenna and Mistress Maria fitted me with a serving tray.

It attaches to my body by means of a belt around my midriff, held level by two chains that attach to my slave collar O-ring. The utility of it is really not the point; converting my body into a serving tray is.

My dominants have continued to experiment with me and the tray over the past week. It’s been a frequent accessory during my training times and became even something more over the weekend, which I’ll get to.

It’s called a “waist” tray, but this actually sits high up my torso under my naked breasts like a platform bra, such that my boobs swell out onto the tray surface. From there, guests can serve themselves snacks, select their beverage of choice, and perhaps grab a quick feel of my nipples and breasts.

Though topless, I am otherwise kept dressed in a black skirt and matching heels, befitting the look of a waitress at a cocktail party — which is the intended use-case here: a public social at the mansion or in Amanda’s neighborhood.

In their quest to reduce me further into utilitarianism, my dominants are now chaining my wrists behind me. This eliminates any possibility of my actually waitressing, restricting any service help I might have provided, and suggesting I am incapable of anything more than be a tray. A tray with boobs.

This is a combination of both objectifying and sexualizing me at the same time.

Over the last two weeks, in some of my my training times, Master and Maria have had me rehearse being a serving tray, instructing me how I am to act and be at a mansion cocktail party or neighborhood teatime.

I am to be silent, except when someone fondles my breasts; then, I am to say, “Thank you sir.” Or “ma’am.” I am to expect that at times a guest will spill something on my breasts — jam, half & half, or honey — and I am not to clean myself up, allowing the splatters to drip from my boobs naturally.

I have learned how to stand as a tray just the right distance outside conversation circles, so I am not intruding and yet am available to people for serving themselves. For persons sitting, I am to crouch into a squat beside them. I am now able to do so while keeping myself as the tray level.

When I (the tray) become empty of appetizers and drinks, I am to go to the kitchen or wet bar, where someone else will replenish my tray’s offerings. In this detail, I am not even permitted (capable of) filling my own tray, which underscores my utter thing-ness.

Being a serving tray is a lower circle of objectification than I am used to. Other objectifications of my body make me perch me in the half-moon table or bind me to one of the bedposts or arrange me reclining in the bay window — such that I am posed as a piece of art to be viewed. Those at least carry some aesthetic value of being art, such as it is.

This, however, literally makes me into a thing — I become a service tray. I walk from person to person as I am beckoned, stand in inanimate uselessness, and wait as people serve themselves from… me. I am seen as the tray itself, albeit with legs and breasts.

You may recall Master and Mistress Maria discussing the idea of making me wear the tray to bed. I thought that to be absurd, propped up in a moment of dominant fancy.

On Saturday night they made me do it.

I was fitted with the tray at around 6:00 for my slave training, made to wear it through the evening, and required to sleep in it all night. I tend to sleep on my side anyway, but turning from side to side woke me up repeatedly through the night, although I fell asleep again quite readily.

On Sunday morning, having worn the tray to bed for the night, I prepped myself in my upstairs bedroom, actually showering while still wearing it. That’s another story.

Of course, their intention was to make me feel that the tray is a natural appendage to my body, and to accustom me to the sensation that the tray and I are one. That actually happened to some extent.

Sunday morning, I appeared in the Great Room before Master and Mistress M, with me still attached to the tray. I wore a skater skirt and wedge sandals but was topless, my bare breasts jutting out above the tray bound to me.

I entered with my own steaming coffee mug sitting on the tray, and managed to sit without spilling. I suppose that bore witness to my complete transformation into the object — that I was actually using myself as the object.

I’m sure they were amused, but they didn’t make a sound or blink an eye, just continued in conversation. That too was an intended part of my objectification — they now were taking for granted that I and the tray are one.

Dominant readers can speak to the nature of the specific pleasure of viewing me as a serving tray. I don’t know the dominant mind, but I assume there is a unique pleasure in the utter objectification of a submissive like me to such a degree. Perhaps there is a dark joy in my dehumanization. Maybe making me wear a horse tail falls into the same category. I don’t know.

For me, it is a a particular kind of humiliation. Other times, I am often made into a sexual object, which is often a difficult humiliation for me but has its rewards. Sexual humiliation at least is me, my body. That reduces me to my sexual assets, so to speak, making me be perceived as a whore but still human, a woman, however sexually used.

But being made into an object, being transitioned into “thing-ness,” is a different feeling. It’s a denial of my human-ness, a nth degree of being disregarded and made unimportant.

The damned thing is that I like it. Well, not like it — as if waking up in the morning I would choose to live my day as a chair or table or serving tray and feel this will be fun. No, it’s so deeply humiliating. But when I am objectified to that degree, I find it plunges me into a subspace, which is its own soothing satisfaction. No, I don’t like it, being reduced to the “thing” of a serving tray, but I like the way it caresses my submissive depths.

In this way, being so deeply objectified is both humiliating and satisfying to me. All of my dominants know that. That is the yin-yang of my submissiveness — finding submissive nirvana through the fire of humiliation and debasement.

People ask me why I subject myself to such degradations. That is why. The only way I am truly fulfilled is through “realizing” my submissiveness. And that comes from enduring the humiliation of being made into a thing.

Even to the point of my becoming a service tray.

So, from Saturday evening to Sunday evening, I spent twenty-four hours living as a service tray.

After a night of sleeping with it, mine was a normal Sunday, except I didn’t go to church. I spent time writing, finding a way to extend my arms under the tray to type on my laptop keyboard. I read a book, made myself a sandwich for lunch which I ate from the tray, and talked with Amanda on my phone, setting it on my me-tray and using the speaker function.

In the afternoon, Maria paraded me, “the tray,” out for Jeffers to see. On his weekend off, he had come to the east garages to work on his car. She had prepared iced tea for him and some mini-scones, which she placed on “me the tray.” I managed to descend all the cement steps of the mansion without spilling.

Jeffers looked up as we approached. My wrists were attached to the back of my slave collar, and my breasts jiggled like Jello rounds atop the tray. He ogled me for a long time, but didn’t say anything to me, realizing that this was part of an exercise of sorts.

“Thought we might bring you some refreshment,” Maria said to him. He took the glass of iced tea from my tray and one of the little scones. Jeffers and Maria chatted, while I remained silent.

Maria asked Jeffers what on his car he was fixing, and he waved both of us to the front to look under the hood. He explained something about the transmission and reached under to tighten something with a wrench. As he worked and talked, he used me as a tray for his tools — several wrenches, a mallet, and a screwdriver. One of the wrenches he placed at an angle leaning atop my naked breast.

I wanted to say, “Mr. Jeffers, don’t get used to this,” but trays don’t talk, and I remained silent.

I think Maria got an “aha” from this. She discovered a new use for me: a tool tray.

I was finally detached from the tray at 8:00 pm on Sunday night and took about an hour to find my humanity again. That sounds more traumatic than it is, but it was for me a gradual transition back into personhood.

I accept being objectified and sexualized as part of what being a D/s slave sometimes, even often, requires. I submit to it, in part to prove myself a worthy slave and also in part to experience my deepest submissiveness. Again, it’s yin-yang for me, kind of a discipline I endure for a higher purpose. No, I don’t like it, but I like it, and all that.

I know some people read about my objectifications and sexualizations and cringe, worrying about my well-being. Am I okay after? Well, while it sends me to places of deep degradation, I always have some sense of my value in it, and I assure you that I survive these things. While they are difficult and shaming, they also bring me into a deep submissive fulfillment. I find myself contented after.

I know some enjoy my sexualizations more than this kind of inanimate objectification— preferring to experience me as a sex toy in operation than an inanimate thing like a serving tray. I assure you there will always be plenty of both. Never a shortage of me as a sexual object.

I know some dominants deeply enjoy seeing a submissive woman like me reduced to becoming a utilitarian object. That is your thing, and to you I simply say that I’m glad if my humiliation as a serving tray has brought you pleasure. I’d welcome your reactions, thoughts, other ideas, and would love to hear more of your specific pleasures in watching me so objectified.

Blake, reloaded

It says something that I have now lost count of how many times I have sucked this man’s cock.

On the phone with Mistress Amanda, who has been traveling for family and business, I mention this in a kind of “what have I become?” tone. She, of course, has no sympathy, instead offering to check the calendar going back years and doing a manual count. I say, “Really, that isn’t necessary.”

Medical wisdom is that frequent ejaculation is important to a man’s well-being, mentally and physically, and so I suppose I can take some solace that I am helping to keep Blake healthy, like I’m his weekly workout at the gym. Given the past couple of years of these regular reps, Blake should be a very healthy man indeed.

So, Mistress Amanda mentions that I haven’t written about Blake’s visits in a while. “Not telling you what to write,” she teases, “but your readers want to read about your prostitution.”

“I’m not a prostitute.”

“You are to him.”

Not untrue. I could continue the metaphor and say that for Blake I am well worth the gym membership. But then again, he doesn’t actually pay for me. That’s both a saving grace and a kind of damning humiliation. Technically I’m not a prostitute, but he gets to use my facilities for free.

Which he does tonight.

As is his recent pattern, Blake drives around back, parks, and rings at the back service entrance. I think he may feel more like a regular there, using the entrance that the mansion staff uses. It’s also where our repairmen show up, whom Maria, mistress of the mansion, ushers in. Blake gets to see Maria that way, and they chat as she walks him from the back through the maze of hallways and rooms around to the Great Room.

Some have asked if Blake’s weekly appointments with me continue when I’m at the mansion. It took him awhile to follow me here — I think he was intimidated by Master McKenna and the massive estate vibe — but yes, he comes to the mansion every Friday when I’m not in Amanda’s neighborhood. I can’t remember when that started. Last year?

So, I am upstairs making myself beautiful for him. This is also a new wrinkle in our redefined appointmentship — I actually want to look good for him. I mean I always prep my best for anyone, but before with him I didn’t so much care because I felt he didn’t so much care. These days, I may be his MILF girl for just this humble sexual purpose, but he seems to value me in that way, and I want to look my best for him. And, among other things, this involves lip gloss.

While I am primping, downstairs he and Maria talk for a while. She texts when he is ready for me. Once summoned, I come downstairs and present myself. This has become the recent ritual, making Maria something of the “house madam.”

I appear in the Great Room, give him a warm “Good to see you again” and a friendly hug, and I sit beside him on the couch.

Our chemistry has been much better since I became his his regular call-girl MILF. He seems more sure of himself in how to be with me, and I bring a touch (literally) of my courtesan experience to the party. I am able now to be more physically affectionate with him, occasionally placing my hand on his shoulder as we talk and sometimes touching his hand. He extends his arm around the back of the couch behind me, and it’s all a kind of limited foreplay.

These roles also allow us a measure of conversation — not especially relational or intimate— but such that, compared to before, I have my voice back. We small talk for a while — and he offers updates on his week and construction projects he’s doing now. He tells me about a bay window he’s putting in on a project in Arvada (which may or may not be a vague reference to Amanda’s “bay window events” featuring me). His tone is friendly yet a bit formal, as befits the situation of us about to do an intimate thing without allowing ourselves to get personally intimate.

He has me wearing a long-ish skirt, over my knees and a white button-down blouse, along with the requisite high heels. Lately, he has requested the longer skirt for some reason, and in the course of my service he has me keep it on. I’ve learned in my courtesanships never to question a man’s preferences for me (i.e., Bill Holt’s fondness for thigh-top stockings), but I can’t help but wonder about this. I might imagine that Blake is drawing a line in the sand about me now, that I am his to use for oral sex but not for anything more. Officially, Amanda has never allowed him to do more with me, but she’s left that door slightly ajar, giving Blake room to think so you’re telling me there’s a chance. But Blake hasn’t made moves on me otherwise — perhaps feeling that he already is living in high cotton — and now is observing this limit between us. Perhaps this has to do with other women in his life or maybe now in special regard to Maria, as if he is saving himself for some future with her. In any case, this also clarifies things for me in a good way, allowing me to focus on simply providing him a really excellent blowjob.

Maria sits across from us in the big easy chair, ever knitting, out of the corner of her eye watching all this with bemusement. Blake has taken to her watching him with me — he didn’t at first, but then did, perhaps thinking that his cock impaling my mouth shows his masculine prowess and makes her impressed. Or jealous, in an “I’ll have what she’s having” sort of way. The truth is that her eyes are on me, twinkling with sapphic stardust.

I ask Blake, “May I get you a drink?” This is our usual segue into our moment. He asks for Jim Beam, which we only have because he asks for it every week. Master M can’t stand the stuff. I fetch it for him, over rocks.

Meanwhile, by the way, Master is making his 5:00 business calls in his private study. He may drop in later. He sometimes says, to my blushing chagrin, “I always like watching you with a cock in your mouth.”

Still seated on the couch, Blake sips his whiskey while I stand before him. I begin to unbutton my blouse. This is how we do it now. It’s part of his purpose in requesting a button-down top — he likes watching his MILF slowly reveal her full breasts to him, the striptease of it. I take my time, not in a teasing way, but undressing for him naturally, like a woman alone in her bedroom. I don’t make it overtly seductive, though I suppose it feels that way to him.

I slip my arms from my blouse, and now my breasts appear naked and pale. I casually walk over to a chair, drape my blouse over the seat, and resume my place in front of Blake in his chair. He watches for a while, and I stand before him, my hands to my side. I say nothing, giving him time to drink me in.

He sips his Jim Beam and says, “Nice.”

“I think they’re pretty much like they were last week,” I joke.

“Yeah, but they’re still nice.”

“Thank you,” I say. It’s all rather innocent and lovely. I’m tempted to ask him what grade he would give them on my report card. But let’s not go there again.

With Blake, I still swirl my head around my four designations: courtesan, escort, whore, prostitute. It’s not a deep angst thing with me anymore, and once I was freed from the semi-submissive role, I became comfortable with our dynamic. But word-nerd that I am, I ponder it a bit… before, during, and after my times with Blake.

I know that to him I’m not a courtesan, for that requires a kind of social interaction, a public companionship around other people. I could be an escort to him, but that usually implies a full-service kind of date night. The word whore is more general and disparaging, implying a lower and more slovenly social status. Sometimes in my slave life I am called that as a verbal humiliation, but I’m not a whore, not really, not in the socio-economic sense of the meaning. That leaves prostitute, which is perhaps a more apt description, suggesting that I provide a menu of delectable services and cocksucking is the entree of choice for Blake.

So, Amanda is probably right — he sees me as a prostitute of a kind. But, again, I am not paid for this, so “prostitute” is not quite accurate. It doesn;t matter to me anymore, butI need another label to describe what I actually am and do for this man.

I know — cock-whore fits — but I was going for something a bit more elegant.

Eventually Blake gets to his feet, facing me. With his whiskey glass in one hand, he feels my breasts with his other. He fondles me softly at first, then squeezes harder. His hand is rough and strong, used to handling woods and metals, now adapting to my warm tender flesh. His thumb is coarse as it flicks my nipples. I inhale deeply as he plays with me, my nipples and breasts, and I hold my breath for a few sweet seconds. Yes, I like it.

This is new as well, under this new understanding of what we are. Before, he had occasional access to my breasts, per Amanda’s permission. Now, it’s considered part of my service to him, the side dish that comes with the meal. He plays with them awhile as I stand close to him quietly feeling his feeling of me. It’s sexually objectifying and yet I enjoy his fondling.

Tonight, with one of my breasts in his hand, he says, “Maria told me about your bells. I want you to wear them while you’re doing me.”

I turn my head to Maria in surprise and give her a look of you really had to tell him about that? She shrugs her shoulders and flashes a devious smile before she answers him, “Yes, we can do that,” and she pops up to fetch two of the liberty bells.

Soon, she is standing by my side with them, and Blake is sitting again with a pleased-as-punch look on his face. He enjoys watching her soft hands holding my tits, her fingers finding my nipple holes, threading them with each bell’s hanger. I’m sure he is imagining Maria and me together.

She finishes, steps away, and Blake wants me to jiggle them. I give him an exasperated look but swing my hips, and the bells sound, “letting freedom ring,” and immediately I know this now will be part of our weekly ritual. Sigh.

“I’m going to have to charge you extra for this,” I say.

Lately, he has been having me do him while he is standing. I have wondered if he likes the debonair look of being posed with a whiskey glass in one hand, a kind of male nonchalance. But I also think he’s come to enjoy the moment I stand with him, my close presence, my body against his — sort of a prelude to our “kiss” of carnal cocksmanship.

I sidle close to him, my breast bells sounding until I press into him and they die into a muffle. My cheek rests against his, as my hands find his belt buckle below. My fingers undo it and unzip his pants. And now I kiss him, my glossy lips finding his, while I reach down and wrap my fingers around his cock. Holding his manhood, I let my kiss linger.

I don’t assume, or want, this to be a romantic moment. Maybe I once did, but I have no desire for that now. I know he doesn’t take it that way, nor does he want me that way. To him, my kiss is the intimate foreshadowing of my lips along his cock.

For me, it helps make this meaningless act more meaningful.

Soon my lips leave his, and I slide myself down his sinewy frame. As I assume my kneeling position, my breast bells peal as if announcing the advent of a wedding.

And now his lovely cock hangs inches from my face.

As my lips travel along Blake’s shaft, my gloss rubs off on him and glints in the glow of the fading sun. I kiss down to its base, and then angle under into that tender space just above his balls sac. I take my time there, inhaling his mossy scent. There are moments here when I feel immersed in his male flesh. Perhaps this is the source of my addiction — to be enveloped by a man in his most intimate crevices.

I pull out from under and now cover his cock in kisses, aiming to caress every inch of him with my lips. He grows from my attentions, his shaft lengthening and his girth swelling against my hand and lips. I always feel it’s a glorious thing to bring a man to life.

I find myself floating into a dream state, this tactile and savory pleasure sending thrills through my body. I actually shiver, my breast bells swaying in the rhythm of my service, chiming as from a distant church steeple. If this is not cock worship, it is close, a kind of adoration of the miracle of manhood.

I look up at Blake and ask, “How do you want me tonight?” I know it’s a question any man would love to hear, but this has now become part of the new Blake ritual, befitting my place as his call-girl MILF begging to please him. I am taking his menu order.

“My balls, please,” he says. “And I’ll come on your face.” It’s like he’s ordering steak for dinner and a spectacular flambé dessert — bananas foster would be the appropriate analogy. It seems I’ve already lit the fire. I nod and smile up at him, as if I’m waitress commenting, “Good choice.”

And so it goes, my slow and lavish licking of his cock. I take him into my mouth gradually, until his cock head touches the back of my throat, then pull him back slightly into a more manageable intercourse, his weight and mass weighing fully on my tongue. I enjoy him there, my mouth watering around him and my cheeks feeling the slick of his meat on either side.

I suck him there, actually inhaling, pulling him into a vacuum of oral possession, giving credence to the term “cocksucking.” I hear him sigh above me, his whiskey-ed nonchalance briefly challenged.

I now wrap my arms around the back of his thighs, and as I lean forward, I feel the weight of my bells pulling my nipples down. They sway and ring as I slide my mouth back and forth along his cock. I hear Blake chuckle at that, and now I hear Master McKenna, behind me, laugh too. I don’t know when he came in.

I hear Master say to Maria, “The bells your idea?”

“No,” she replies. “Blake’s.”

“Nice touch.”

I say nothing, of course, for now my mouth is stuffed with his balls, bathed inside my mouth like a hot bath. I slick and slather them, soaking them in my sudsy desire. I know Master and Maria are probably watching with crooked smiles, making quiet fun of my ardor and addiction. I don’t care.

And I can’t help myself, God help me.

As I slide my mouth in and out over his shaft, my bells ring. I look up at him, my eyes finding his, looking for his pleasure. He bears a faint grin, and his hand reaches for my hair. I have no doubt that his appreciation is a form of pity. I am the hopeless MILF who milks him like this every Friday. And yet it is a moment of tender connection, which we didn’t used to have. His is a warm gesture, a touch that says a kind of thank you.

His hand rests now atop my head, his signal that he is getting close. I raise his hard cock upright and give it underneath one last long slow lick, my eyes looking up, never leaving his.

I now drop my hands to my sides, and he takes himself, holding his cock like a sword in front of my face. This arouses me to no end, seeing a man wield his own manhood.

He pumps himself a few times, then stops. He points himself at my face, mere inches away. And then he explodes in a shower of white frothy cum. It stripes my face in honeyed pleasure, both his and mine. Some splatters on my lips, and I taste him. Damned that I so really enjoy the earthy, dark taste of Blake.

After, he puts himself away and sits again, while I remain kneeling and dripping cum before him. This too is our ritual. He wants to see his masculinity all over me. It is objectifying, but I don’t mind. Somehow, I like wearing him.

Cocksucking is by nature a submissive act, I suppose, and even in our new reality, I am subject to this boy-man’s sexual possession of me. But it is different overall, and I know I am not a “slave sorta” to him but a woman of sexual desire.

The explosion of climax settles into a quiet rhthym of normal.

His cum drips from my face onto my breasts. A dollop slides over one of my nipple bells.

Master sits down in his easy chair.

Maria resumes her knitting.

Blake engages them in conversation about business and construction.

I remain kneeling, cum-drenched, somehow satisfied.

Maria: Mistress and… Artist

I am discovering that Maria has specific desires for putting me in certain images, seeing me in very specific visual humiliations. These are coming though her dominant self, and they may be some reason for her pursuit of dominance of me.

The thing is, she’s creative, even artistic, in these depictions of me, subjecting me to humiliations that I am now seeing have higher concept and deeper meaning.

One example was her original notion to lace up my pussy. I am told that, to casual observers, the view of my labia lips criss-crossed together with an elastic shoelace is erotically stunning. I suppose it looks like an exotic, kinky bondage of a sort. You tell me. But there’s more art to it than that.

One evening last week we had a guest. It was a return visit of Mr. Beck, the dominant man who was part of the weekend when Maria mistressed me, the fit-and-muscled businessman-acquaintance of Master McKenna. He was in the area, phoned ahead, and stopped in, though for just an hour.

I was in my formal training protocol, naked and standing at the edge of unimportance. This was as I had been presented to him before, although that didn’t make it any easier for me — I still felt naked before a stranger. Apparently, Mr. Beck requested on the phone that my pussy be laced up for him, as it had been during his first visit. Maria obliged his request before he arrived, and Mr. Beck soon sat with his gin-and-tonic looking at my laced-up pussy with the air of an art critic.

The point of telling this is not about Mr. Beck’s visit, for he had just a short time with us, but about what he said. “It’s quite compelling,” he commented to Maria, “in what [the lacing] conveys as an image. This is why I wanted a second look. It appears as a kind of taboo of her sex — like a “Do Not Enter’ sign — and yet the bow on top is clearly an invitation to open her, as a gift box. It suggests prohibition and permission at the same time. It’s intriguing as a contradictory statement.”

He spoke as if analyzing a Salvadore Dali painting. I wondered what kind of art background he had, and I found myself wishing to have a serious conversation with him about art.

Well, Maria was smiling, pleased as pudding, and replied, “Yes, that’s what I was going for.”

Now, I would have taken her reply as simply playing into our visitor’s art fancy, but Maria elaborated: “I think bondage is erotic to us because it presents someone like Shae as being kept by her master under lock and key — yet at the same time available to someone else who has the key.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Beck said. “There’s that tension in this image of her pussy laced up. It says something.”

So, I’ve had this gradual awareness that Maria’s humiliations of me may have another level of visual meaning, something beyond what is literally obvious. She has her creative side, but I’ve always thought of that as more artsy-craftsy — knitting, needlepoint, and occasionally rug-making. But this is a very specific kind of art — sort of a performance art with a story subtext— that I didn’t know was in her.

I thought of a position Maria put me in during her dominance of me over Easter weekend — that of doubling me over, latching my wrists to my ankles, so that I am standing bent over myself. I asked her about that, if she had an interpretation of that image of me.

She nodded. “For one thing,” she said, “that position hides your breasts, which is your lust-asset, as well as your pussy. It hides your obvious erotic value.”

(I had to admire her term “lust-asset,” a clever coinage.)

“But it exposes your ass,” she continued, “which you believe is your shortcoming. To people viewing you, it suggests your only use is your rear end, the part of you that you least like.”

She added, “There’s a hidden meaning… in the image of you folded in half, doubled over, so to speak. You do live a double life. Slave and escort.”

I said that seemed obscure, that I wasn’t sure anyone would get that.

“Maybe not,” she said, “but I do.”

Sometimes a relationship is about the comfort of knowing who someone is. Other times it’s about being surprised by a friendship in new dimensions you didn’t know. These are aspects of Maria’s being and personality I never knew existed.

All this leads up to Monday night this week. In this new season of “Mistress Maria,” this is the latest episode.

For my happy hour training, Maria casually asks Master if she could be my dominant for the time. He agrees.

Mistress Maria promptly requests Master M to bind me to the four-poster. Master M positions me against one of the posts of the bed, and affixes my arms overhead, attaching my wrist cuffs to the top of the post.

I am naked and high-heeled, wearing my wide Swedish collar. My pussy is adorned in the liberty bells (she says she wants to “hear” me wriggle). I am tied standing, bound to my “sex bed,” facing forward, my breasts protruding out.

The two of them sit in the chairs broadside to the bed, now permanent fixtures for some audience to witness my sex life firsthand. They talk about me in front of me, commenting on my breasts and pussy, and about presenting me this way when guests visit.

Soon Maria pulls out a piece of paper. “About the golf club Sunday,” she says to Master McKenna, “Shae wrote this in her blog. I quote, ‘I keep trying to knit it together, my submissive life and my courtesan life, two different things, yet quite symbiotic.’”

Maria looks up and adds, “When I read this, it gave me an idea.”

Listening to Maria quote me, I shift my bound body against the pole, and my pussy bells ring. I am filled with conflicting feelings. Those are very personal thoughts I wrote, and Maria is reading them out loud. Yet, I have posted them, as I post all my life, on a public blog — anyone can read them. Further, I know Maria follows it religiously, and Master sometimes reads it too. And actually, I feel honored, in a way, that Maria pays attention to my written words and now is reciting them as something to be noted.

Maria now fetches a container from the conference table. I see that it’s a box of Sharpies, and my heart sinks. She pulls out a folding chair and sits in front of me. Maria flips her piece of paper around. Looking down at it, I see it bears a rough diagram and words arranged within it.

The words are names. And now, Maria proceeds to write these names on my body, speaking aloud each one as she does her calligraphy: “Gerald Bauer… Bill Holt…” She turns to explain to Master McKenna what is perfectly obvious: “These have spent man-time here, inside her pussy.”

Master M chuckles, sips his bourbon.

“Chaz Jenkins…” Maria is arranging the names in ordered spaces above my vulva, in the pale landscape of my lower abdomen and the shaved triangle above my pussy. She uses different colored Sharpies, and she will tell me later the colors somehow correspond to my impressions of each man as I reported in my blog. In my utter humiliation, I am aware that Maria has done her research, carefully reading my blog posts, getting inside my head and heart.

“Alan Devers…” Maria explains to Master M that, since I haven’t written about him in my blog yet, she is writing his name in gray. At times she’s seems like a girl using crayons in a coloring book, talking to herself about her choices. And yet, she is very mature in her intentions with this, quite adult in this humiliation of me.

As she pens my shame, Master M talks more about “golf club Sunday,” saying how I did well with the men and how they appreciate me.

“Of course they do,” Maria says. “They like fucking her.”

Master laughs.

As she writes each man’s name around my sex, she holds me still with her forearm. I know better than to resist and writhe, else I will be marked with a mess of straying lines and squiggles. Then again, I don’t know why it should matter to me. I guess somehow, if I must be degraded in this way, I want her artistic calligraphy to render elegantly on the canvas of my flesh.

“Declan Reilly and Gabriel Garcia,” Maria announces, “haven’t had her yet, so I’m writing them in a beige. Actually it’s an almond-colored Sharpie.” She proceeds to ink their names high up my inner thigh. “It’s like they’re approaching the Promised Land but haven’t gotten there yet.”

Again Master laughs. “They’ll get a kick out of hearing that.”

Please no. I cringe at the thought of this being reported to the men, or worse — their witnessing this firsthand. For a fleeting moment, my mind conjures a nightmare: the gentlemen waiting in the wings and ushered in to witness me like this firsthand.

With a few final flourishes, Maria finishes and steps back to admire her handiwork. She once again sits with Master M, and they both gaze at my now-annotated pussy in a kind of reverent silence.

Maria gets up and leaves the Great Room, returning shortly with a floor mirror. She places it in front of me, angling it upward so I can view myself, even though I desperately don’t want to.

But there I am, standing bound to a bed, my naked breasts flushed in shame, my nipples erect from the eroticism of my humiliation, and my bare pussy teeming with the names of the gentlemen who have had me.

And now, I look down and away, not out of submissive affect, but because I can’t look Mistress and Master in the eyes. Yes, the reality of my life as an escort to the men is something I have accepted myself, and yes, it’s well known by my all three of my dominants. Nothing new in that. But Mistress Maria has painted my whoredom on my naked body.

Maria pulls out her paper and once again quotes me aloud: “I keep trying to knit it together, my submissive life and my courtesan life, two different things, yet quite symbiotic.”

“Maria,” Master says, “I think you just knitted them together.”

She smiles. “That’s what I was going for.”

I write this post on Tuesday, my flesh still bearing the names of six men, the once and future kings of my sex life. I will live with this all week. As I prepare for work each day I’ll be reminded of all these executives who have had me. I will go to the collective in a trim business outfit knowing that underneath I bear the names of men who have played with my body — iplayed n the very spots where they are etched into my flesh.

It’s tempting to go to a mental place where I think that my dominants and these men have made me into a whore. But, of course, that’s not so. I am a woman who is profoundly submissive and profoundly sexual, yet also a woman who has personal limitations and moral inhibitions. My dominants do not make me into this but draw out of me what I already am.

And, in this case, write it on my body.

Later that evening, I got dressed and we all were casual and Maria was no longer in her dominance over me and Master was in his happy zone.

I sat down on the couch opposite her, gave her a faint smile and a quizzical look. Referring to what just happened, I said, “Really?!”

Maria smiled and her eyes twinkled. When she’s not dominantly terrorizing my flesh, she can be awfully cute. She said wryly, “Just be glad I didn’t add the names of all the neighborhood couples.”

Making a face, I threw a pillow at her.

Master McKenna said, “Not enough room in that pussy.”

“Really?!” I said again. “You are so rude!”

He laughed.

We ar\wee playful, but nothing lessened the real humiliation of this body writing upon me. Yet I felt something wholistic in Maria’s art upon my flesh. It really did unite my two “sides” — submissive and courtesan — into a single image. I would not bear the names of men around my pussy unless I was hopelessly submitted to the humiliation. And there would be no men’s names to write there unless I had been courtesan to their sexual needs.

The body writing, in some ironic way, makes me whole. And I think Maria knew that it would.

being with men I’ve slept with… and two I haven’t

A Sunday ago, Master arranged for me to hang out with his golf buddies at the club. They played a round early in the morning. I went to church, as usual, then joined them in the clubhouse lounge around 11:30.

For some time I have been interested in Master McKenna’s golf life with his friends, curious about their male-bro executive culture on the golf course. I’ve just wanted to know more about this man who rules me, his relationships outside the mansion, and what makes him tick socially.

Of course, that was before my courtesan dates with these men themselves, back when they were still strangers to me. Now, they and I know each other (oh so well), and that makes me all the more interested in this golfing world that bonds them all to each other.

At the same time, because of my escort relationship with the men, this get-together at the club was nervous-making. I have slept with four of them, and the two others are scheduled with me for this summer. How would they act around me side by side with each other? How should I act with them as a group of men who know me… in the biblical sense?

So, this clubhouse “reunion” felt both welcome and weird. It would be a strange vibe. Yet, with a few butterflies, I was glad to be invited into their inner sanctum.

I walked in, and the men, standing around with mugs of coffee, stopped chatting turned toward me, and welcomed me. It was a moment, and there was some clapping. It embarrassed me, but made me feel welcome.

For the most part, the gentlemen were, well, gentlemanly. I mean, it’s a public space, and there are others there the men know socially and corporately as well as women golfers mixing about, so they maintained a a decorum we wouldn’t have had if, say, we’d been at the mansion. Master McKenna had reserved a side room for this, so there was some privacy, but the men remained properly proper. Mostly.

I was still in my Sunday-go-to-church dress, floral with eyelet lace trim, topped with a lavender cardigan. The men probably hadn’t ever seen me so prim, and someone said I looked like a librarian. I commented drolly, “I can honestly say no one has ever said that about me.” There was laughter, and it kind of broke the ice.

There are times when my way with words, my sass and wit, serve me well. Other times, not so much. On this occasion it came in handy, giving me the means to engage in repartee as a way of maintaining my confidence.

Coffee and croissants were provided in back, and Declan Reilly offered to get me something. “Coffee, thank you, black,” I said. It was nice to be served. Though there were two round tables with chairs, everyone remained standing, chatting in random conversations. It was a cocktail party without the cocktails.

Mr. Garcia explained, “We don’t start drinking until noon,” as if that was some moral high ground.

Chaz (Charles Jenkins) quipped, “If we did, we would triple-bogey every hole.”

Gerald teased, “Of course, Mark does that even when he’s sober.”

McKenna grinned widely, and everyone chuckled.

Like that, the group engaged in good-natured ribbing, shots fired across the bow at each other, but I could feel friendly warmth among the men. I had seen this before when they have been at the mansion, but now it affected me more because of what I now am to them. It made me feel secure, not only in th experience of the full group itself, but with each of the men individually. They respected each other, and while I was merely the escort that I was to them, they included me in their mutual appreciation.

Indeed, there was no open, explicit chatter about my sexual experiences with them or about my escorting services. If there had been, I’d handle it in some way, but there wasn’t, not in front of them all together.

Yes, at times one or another would pull me aside to talk with me more intimately and would refer to our time together, recalling something of our shared sexual experience. But that was done with me warmly, even nostalgically. More on that later…

For me, one oddity of this occasion at the club was to stand among multiple men who each have had me in bed. A traditional escort has repeat clients, but she doesn’t socialize with, say, six of her former clients all together at a public mixer. This group thing was a rare and strange dynamic.

Part of the vibe I felt was about each of the men knowing I have slept with each of the other men. They were all aware that the others have had a similar intimate knowledge of me. To put it bluntly, each knew that the other men have likewise pleasured with my breasts, explored my pussy, and, just to say it, entered my vagina. I knew they each were thinking of me, at least some of the time, in those very sexual terms.

Further, I was sure they have talked among themselves of their experiences with me, compared notes. It’s what men do, or so I assume, at least in regard to a woman who has this designated purpose with them. Indeed, I knew this for a fact — in my times with them, some of the men requested things they only could possibly know from another’s experience with me.

This felt a little embarrassing to me, so I was lightly blushing much of the time. Yet I managed to assume an acknowledgment of what I am, suggesting socially that I am well aware of their sexual attraction to me and know my erotic affect upon them. Maybe it’s the only way a woman can survive in an environment of dripping testosterone — to use it for leverage. To be clear, this was real for me, not acted or reached for. However, it was a choice I made — to confidently “wear” what I am to them as a woman of their desire.

I’m probably making too much of that, but it was very much my swirl of feelings that day at the club.

Another choice I made ahead of time was to connect with each man individually. Call this “escort networking” or “client cultivation,” if you will, but it’s not disingenuous on my part, for I really do care about each of the men. Also, I figured my best way of coping with the whole group of men socially was to connect with each of them personally.

All to say, as the men had their own side conversations in twos and threes about their golf games, about business matters, sometimes about mutual friends, I prompted a few private chats on my own.

Mr. Garcia, one of the men I have not yet been with, had heard me say I had come to the club from church, and he was curious about that. I think most of them find it unusual that I go to church, being of the lifestyle I am and doing the escort service I do with them. But it seems Mr. Garcia attends church too, and we wound up in an interesting conversation about, of all things, faith versus morality.

Circling over to Declan (Reilly), I asked about his family, how Aiden was doing in college, and also about Barbara. I know more about Declan than any of the men there, even though I have not “been with him” yet. I will have a busy summer with Declan and, now it seems, his wife Barbara.

In conversation with Bill (Holt), we talked about his recovery from divorce and moving on from his ex-wife. Those details will remain private here, but he is doing well in that regard. He continues to say his time with me was notably helpful to him in that way. Which thrills me deeply.

Occasionally one or another of the men asked if I wanted something from the snack table or from the bar. I felt they were serving me almost as a kind of royalty. I remember thinking, This is what it feels like to be a courtesan in a royal court. It felt nice, warm, even if I knew they were taking care of their woman of pleasure.

But, as I alluded to, the gentleman were gentlemanly… mostly. Sometimes with me privately the men were more explicit. This never felt crude or rude to me, although it was pointedly sexual.

In a side conversation, Gerald (Bauer) whispered that “next time he had me” he would want me to wear this same “librarian outfit, because it’s really hot.” I remembered from our time together how he seemed to embody both romantic grace and a kind of wolfish libido. I teased him, “Gerald, I dress like this most Sundays. You should come to church with me sometime.”

Privately, Chaz (Jenkins), referring also to my demure outfit, compared that to the morning I came to his hotel room door perfectly naked. I blushed but managed to reply coyly, “Chaz, had I known that was your request for today, I would have accommodated you. But you never asked. I’d say that was a missed opportunity for you.”

So, I was able to respond in kind, dish it back to them in good humor, assuming my “sexual royalty” among them — again, my sass and flair coming in handy.

As the men came on to me in private sexual talk, I sensed some were actually reminiscing about our time together. Even their explicit language felt to me like they were saying it as a warm, nostalgic memory. And I could honestly respond in a similar way, for my intimacies with each of them were something I too enjoyed and remember fondly.

In some cases, I sensed these verbal intimacies were a way of confirming that I remembered them in some specific experience. Gerald was like this with me. He had me almost a year ago now, such a long time since, and I think he was testing me to see if I really remembered our experience together — or was he just another “client” among many? He mentioned the hotel we had gone to but left his comment open-ended, as if to see if I would fill in some of the blanks. I did, mentioning his colleague by name, whose retirement dinner was the occasion for our date together. I stood close to Gerald, put my hand against his chest, and said, “You know, Gerald, what I cherish that night is you and I dancing. I haven’t been dancing since.” Which was true. His face lit up.

A couple of the men anticipated my next courtesan engagement with them, saying they wanted to do this or that with me next time. Alan (Devers) asked me if my “escort services included…,” and he proceeded to list several “activities” he had been considering. I have not written yet about Alan, but he treated me literally as an escort-whore for hire. So be it. Even among the men at the club he seems aloof, although he connects well with Bill Holt. (But everyone connects well with Bill.) Here he was asking about my “menu of services.” I answered Alan, affirmed his lust list, and added with a wink, “Now I have something more to look forward to next time, Alan.”

I didn’t get much reaction. That’s who he is.

Meanwhile, Chaz was enjoying my sass and spunk. In one of his teases, he led me on, commenting, “When we were together, I don’t think I played with your tits nearly enough. I’ve made a note for next time.”

I replied, “They’re glad to hear that, Chaz… they’ve missed you.”

Part of the unusual dynamic of being an escort is that you are “suddenly sexual” with a stranger. You move from “What kind of business are you in?” to “How do you want to fuck me?” in ten seconds.

I have experienced this with four of the gentlemen so far, meeting them for our date early evenings and finding myself in bed with them later that night. Those men are no longer strangers, now lovers of a kind, and it will be interesting to see what kind of experience our “second date” becomes.

But two of these men I hadn’t slept with yet. Being around them Sunday made me feel that anticipation of soon being “suddenly sexual” with a stranger.

Of course, Declan is not a social stranger to me. Still, the kind of acquaintanceship I have with him is “friendly distant,” as if he is like someone else’s uncle whom you know from family BBQs and would never imagine having sex with. Although now with Declan I do, and being around him that Sunday, I felt it. This was neither dread nor eager anticipation, but my physical response to the realization of our soon destiny together. From a couple of things he said to me, I think he felt this too.

The other man I am still a virgin to was Mr. Garcia, whose divorce process has seemed never-ending but now is final. This social outing at the club allowed me some good time to chat with him and get to know him a bit better. I like him, and I look forward to being with him soon.

Generally, I have been thinking of my courtesan services as “dates” with each of the men, which they are, kinda. Thinking of being on “dates” with Mr. Reilly and Mr. Garcia makes it feel more normative to me. If I were truly in a vanilla life, any date I had with someone I just met would be “a date with a stranger.” So I tell myself. These are the mind games I play in my head. They help me feel less promiscuous.

Then again, with these men, I am a “date with benefits.” And more — I am with them for the purpose of those benefits. So, it still feels odd to think of myself with either of these men in bed. Not because they are undesirable but because they are strangers.

But that’s what it means to live the life of an escort.

The men decided to play another nine in the afternoon, and they took me out on the course to the first tee. They thought it would be fun to provide me with my first golf lesson, and they each took turns trying to tutor me. Of course, they had no interest in improving my golf swing but a lot of interest in putting their arms around me in the process.

It became feel-y and hands-y, and they had their (rather juvenile) fun. Inevitably, men become boys at times. I went along with it, serving dollops of my sass and snark.

Gerald was wrapped around me, trying to hold my body still, keeping me in proper posture as I swung the club. I quipped, “I’m getting the hang of it, but I don’t understand how it improves my shot for you to fondle my breasts while I swing. Is that how it’s done?”

Chaz, pretending to be earnest, explained in detail how having someone hold my tits was “absolutely key” to the whole technique.

“I didn’t realize that golf was such a couples’ sport.”

“Oh, yes,” Chaz went on in playful seriousness, “like in tennis, doubles.”

“And I suppose you’re willing to give me lessons.”

He grinned. “Of course.”

Bill said that I needed to get myself proper golfing clothes. “That’s part of your problem — your outfit is restricting you. You’re overdressed.”

I replied, “If I had a dollar for every time I was told that…”

Laughter. And more teasing fun, which I took in good stride. It was suggestive, but playful, men acting like boys with a MILF-y girl like me.

I looked over at Master McKenna who stood in back of the circle of guys. He was smiling, and as his eyes found mine, I could feel his approval. Among his closest friends, I had done well this day.

But I was terrible at golf. I admitted this to all of them, although it was already patently obvious. Gerald joked, “Good that you have a day job — or should I say night job.”

Bill added warmly, “And you’re very good at that.”

I left shortly after, letting them have a proper golf game. Without distraction.

I drove away thinking about my very odd life. I keep trying to knit it together, my submissive life and my courtesan life, two different things, yet quite symbiotic. I am a courtesan/escort by submissive obedience to the wishes of my owners. Of course, they wish this for me in part because they know this kind of sexual service fulfills me. They know I want this escort thing but cannot on my own give myself into it. So they “make” me do this thing that I cannot personally conscience — yet feel is oh-so-right for me.

And so, I found myself on a Sunday afternoon in the circle of men whom I am servicing sexually. I stood in a social mixer of respectable conversation in an elegant setting. It was an odd but warm, affirming experience, and I felt like I was a real courtesan in a kind of American royalty.

More and more, I am accepting that this is what I am and do. And on this particular afternoon, I found myself appreciated for it.