Category: Slavery

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.

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.

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.

the Sunday hodge-podge — Sunday, May 3

Sorry that this is a very belated Sunday hodge-podge…

Saturday, Maria and I went downtown for the day. This is our frequent girl thing to do together, but our first occasion to do it since she assumed dominance over me. Of course her dominance of me is to be reserved for designated occasional weekends, but it has surfaced again in our happy-hour times each workday. Outside of that, we revert to our girlfriend-ish relationship — sorta, but it’s different now, both of us having “eaten of the forbidden fruit.” Even as equals, we have knowledge of the other way we are now.

In downtown Denver, I found myself deferring to her in subtle vibes, and she rather easily assumed a quiet leadership of us. If before I was “older sister” to Maria’s “younger sister,” now it’s reversed. She’s the big sis now. This is not awkward, actually surprisingly natural, and I find myself comfortable in the secondary role. It makes me wonder if my being the “big sister” for so long was really the unnatural relationship for me.

But shopping downtown was fun again. We perused the second-hand shops Coco+Grace and Show Pony, and I bought a couple books at the Tattered Cover bookstore on Colfax. I’ve been looking for a pair of riding boots for my sometime work at the ranch with the horses, and so we spent some time at the leather goods store Scarpaletto. As I talked with Maria about the horse ranch, thankfully, she made no teasing comments about my wearing my new horse tail at happy hour training.

Early afternoon, we decided it was late enough for a glass of wine, and we headed for Larimer Square where wine bars pop up like dandelions. We had our pick of several. Normally I would decide, but I said to Maria, “You choose,” and she did, and we both knew it was a moment.

She and I don’t talk about it, her dominant defiling of me. Both of us seem to sense that to analyze it would somehow disrupt this delicate balance we’re in. It’s our new bio-system, and my occasional submission to her has created a D/s symbiosis for us even in the other occasions.

We both accept this in a kind of mutual and knowing silence, as if I’m carrying her child and we aren’t talking about it until we know it will come to term.

There was one other notable experience of the weekend. Master McKenna said the gentlemen had been asking about me and wanted to see me again — could I join them at the golf course on Sunday?

It was nice to be asked, and indeed I have long wanted to see Master and his friends in their natural golfing environment. It was arranged for me to meet up with them in the golf clubhouse after I finished church Sunday morning.

I may write about this separately, although there’s not much to say. It was just unusual to be hanging out with a number of men whom I’ve slept with.

I’m still processing that.

It seems I may make a trip to Pennsylvania to see my mother in early June. By circumstance, it’s a time when both Master McKenna and Mistress Amanda may be traveling. Given that, Maria may decide to take some time with her family. Meanwhile I have been looking for an opportune time to see my mother again.

I talk with Mother every week, such as it is. When we chat, sometimes she is present of mind, sometimes not. She is pretty much the same, with some predictable decline.

It will be good to be with her and Lucille again.

I guess I need also to report that at the collective where I do my writing work, my friend Jenna has been more and more curious about my lifestyle. I have over the months told her bits and pieces, and gradually she’s gotten a larger picture. She’s fascinated and non-judgmental. Which is nice in a way, but a problem in another way.

Jenna has become a friend — but, notably, a vanilla friend. I have long wished for relationships outside my lifestyle, desiring to be and to talk with friends about “other things.” Yet most of those friendship possibilities change into something else when they find out about my slavery. Jenna has stepped over that threshold with me, and she is now all questions about my lifestyle. I feel like I’ve lost a friend.

One other thing is that at the collective word about me has gotten out. While people are polite, they too are asking leading and sideways questions. I can handle that, but it threatens my sense of the collective being a neutral place for me to work as a professional writer.

That series of reports about my happy-hour slave training offered me a chance to “write short.” I tend always to “write long,” and I know those are a lot to absorb and wade through.

So I’m trying to write some shorter blog posts. My trainings lend themselves to that because usually the happy hours themselves are just an hour and a half. Also, I can break up parts of my trainings into separate segments.

So, I’m looking for ways to create more “bite-sized portions.” Even so, I will still write and post the longer stuff.

short scenes from my happy-hour training: 5

Friday, as usual, was Blake’s appointment with me, so happy-hour was pushed back to 7:00 after he had left.

Before his arrival, Maria decided to brush my hair into a ponytail. As girlfriends, we do each other’s hair sometimes, but this was a little different — she was “mistressing” me, softly dominating me for “my Blake service.” She said I looked “cute this way,” and added, “you look like Blake’s ponytailed MILF-mom-whore.”

“Thanks a bunch,” I replied. It’s never good when you’re reduced to a series of hyphens.

I am a redhead, though that has many shades of reddish-brown meaning. These days I keep it a medium-dark auburn — a blend of chocolate and mahogany red. My hair is long-ish, over my shoulders, and it makes for a ponytail that reaches down in back into a full bushy mane.

Well, the Blake visit is a blog post for another time, but he liked my ponytail… among other things. All of this is to say that, after he left, I wore a pony tail to my happy-hour training.

And also to say that Maria had another purpose for it.

At my happy-hour training, Master M wanted to “discuss” with me my time with Blake, which is another way of saying he wanted to humiliate me with it.

But this posed a new “problem.” In my slave training and presentation I am supposed to be kept mute and silent. Yet, here Master and Mistress had need for a dialogue with me. And not only on this occasion, but visiting guests might have some desire to interview me sometimes. Should I be allowed to speak? How should it work?

Such are the weighty dilemmas of dominants. Master has every desire to operate me through silent signals, to create a kind of ASL language for me. Indeed, I have thought that it might be easier to learn ASL than to navigate all Master’s finger signals. Friday night, Master said to Maria, “Make a note. We need a silent signal for her speaking.”

Mistress Maria, ever practical and always finding the simplest solution to most everything, said to him, “Sir, you simply need to say, ‘Shae, permission to speak.’ And when you’re done, ‘Shae, permission ended.’”

He begrudgingly agreed to this, perhaps disappointed not to add something more to his silent-signal spreadsheet. I think ultimately, though, he realized that Maria’s solution more impressively would demonstrate to others his utter control of me.

With that, he turned to me and said, “Shae, permission to speak.” What followed was their embarrassing Q&A about my sucking Blake’s cock. Mistress also probed my cocksucking of Blake, the two of them intentionally humiliating me in dialogue.

I stood at the edge of the carpet, collared, bare breasts out, nude with my pussy bejeweled, atop tall white heels, and now bearing a long bushy auburn ponytail pulled back to hang between my shoulder blades. Because this was part of my training — prep for the intimate questioning I might get from a random dominant visitor — I tried to respond without sass or attitude.

Still, this became a blushing twenty minutes on a Friday night that included my describing, among other things, how I licked a man’s balls.

After my interrogation, Mistress Maria announced that she had a surprise.

Master M formed a twisted grin, so I knew both were in on it. Mistress went over to the conference table and underneath pulled out a long narrow box with a ribbon around it. She walked back to the conversation pit, invited me to sit on the couch, and handed it to me.

It looked like a gift box for flowers, and at first I thought it contained long-stemmed roses. But that didn’t make any sense in the context of my happy-hour training time.

I undid the ribbon and opened the top of the gift box. At first, I didn’t know what it was. I pulled it out. It was long and bushy, beautiful in its way. And notably, the very same auburn color of my hair.

Then it dawned on me this was a horse tail.

Even then, it took me a while to understand its purpose. I looked more closely and saw that its top end was sculpted into a large teardrop shape and made of a flexible silicone. It was a butt plug. I then realized the intent was that this was a horse tail for me to actually wear.

Magically, Mistress Maria produced some lube, and before I knew it was pushing the plug into me behind.

Master looked and commented, “I think it works… Maria, good idea.”

Mistress said to me, quite seriously, “I know how you love horses.”

I gave Mistress Maria a confounded look: Who are you?

Maria took me to the atrium bathroom for me to see myself in the full-length mirror.

My image — naked in heels, my natural ponytail flowing down from my head and now a matching tail flowing from between my legs — prompted within me a number of contradictory feelings.

Initially, I felt ridiculous. I looked like a novelty act, a joke. I felt the horse tail “made” me into something else, not a real mare per se, but something odd in between, like a Greek satyr. It was odd, wierd.

I realized, though, that Maria was not laughing, not seeing it as a humorous gag. She saw it as beautiful and erotic, like a beguiling fashion accessory. “It’s gorgeous on you,” she said.

I looked in the mirror again. There was indeed a kind of attractive symmetry between my auburn ponytail and my matching auburn horse tail. They were complimentary to each other, both seeming to flow from me naturally.

I wasn’t sure what the tail was actually made of, but it felt real like that of a human-hair wig, although most likely a synthetic fiber with the same natural properties of real hair. It was a quality piece, the hair soft and wispy fine. I actually liked the sensation of the tail swaying as I walked, its softness flashing against the backs of my thighs. There was, I could not deny, a sensory pleasure in it.

Another feeling had to do with my interest in horses. I had a girlhood crush on horses early on, and that has been revived in recent years. I continue, though now more occasionally, to tend horses at Savannah’s ranch. Though this tail was an odd BDSM toy, for sure, it felt to me like positive identification with my equine love, perhaps like a football fan wearing the jersey of his favorite player.

Not to make a pun, but it was growing on me.

Maria walked me back into the Great Room. The butt plug firmly held its place inside me, yet was comfortably flexible, and I could walk in it without problem.

Master had me model it for him. While I continued to be relieved that he and Mistress didn’t view me wearing it it as a joke, I began to fear the alternative: that they were seeing the tail as a reasonable look for me, something they would make common. If it were a novelty, they’d have their fun and then put it away forever, like a silly party hat. But as I posed in it for them, they were not laughing but actually nodding in appreciation of the look of it on me. This was not good either.

My training Friday night involved rehearsing my usual services while wearing my horse tail. I practiced kneeling and squatting. Sitting down on the couch now required me to shunt my tail to one side.

Still free to speak, I answered their questions about how it felt to wear it. I could not lie, and I had to acknowledge to them that it was indeed comfortable.

Master asked, “So, you feel you can wear it for a long time?”

I was wary of his intention, but I had to say yes.

As it happened, I wore it beyond our happy hour, all the way up until bedtime. At a point, I actually forgot I was wearing it.

And at another point, I realized I was referring to it as my tail.

I do not know what to make of this development, or what Master and Mistress will make of it. But it clearly, to them, is not just a passing fancy.

This happened just yesterday. Today, Saturday morning, they have had me in it again — or it in me. Maria has had me wear it underneath skirts and also with my tail hanging out over the wiastband in back. Indeed, I wear it now as I write this.

I fear having to wear it in public.