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.

short scenes from my happy-hour training: 4

Thursday at happy-hour training, the numbering system for the silent signals became a mess.

Master said he wanted to add to the silent signals — for one of the positions in which Maria displayed me on Easter weekend. This was me doubled over, my wrists attached to my ankles, my rear end facing the room.

“I think,” Master commented, “there are times when a guest would like to see her ass.”

I was thinking no one wants to see me that way, but I remained mute, as I’m supposed to. Yet the “rear-end bend-over” was, to my chagrin, instituted into the program.

Likewise, the “begging for cock” routine that Maria diabolically invented was also admitted to my hall of shame.

And now there was also “food service,” with me wearing a waist tray. As well as the newly concocted idea of “spa services.”

“We need more numbers,” Maria observed.

So, Master and Mistress discussed the numbering system. They decided to make the first ten signals services and the second ten positions.

Master toyed with the idea of establishing a third set of ten signals to accommodate the new items. He so loves the idea of controlling me with numbers — his kind of dominance-by-spreadsheet.

Out of turn, I spoke: “No one told me there’d be math.”

Mistress Maria came to the rescue: “This is getting too complicated, sir.” She proposed that they condense some of the first ten services, combining a few. For example, the separate services of serving cigars and “taking the ash” could be folded into one.

The current number 1 is “Serve Master/Mistress a drink of choice.” Maria suggested they incorporate the occasional guest into the services, making it “Serve Master/Mistress/Guest a drink of choice.” This way there’s no need for separate numbers for guest services.

Further, Maria suggested, “We can include food service into that number 1 as well. Shae can figure out drinks or food or both, what’s being asked for.” It was a rare acknowledgment that even in slave training, I have a brain.

The outcome of Thursday was that the silent signal system became a holy mess. I am utterly confused. Mistress Maria is re-jiggering it and will present the new list this weekend.

short scenes from my happy-hour training: 3

Each evening, time is set aside for me to rehearse the silent signals and their corresponding functions. These functions are, of course, intended to be objectifying and sexualizing. But to have to practice them is objectifying and sexualizing to another level.

I have come to realize that, in a sense, BDSM “training” is actually “doing.” That is, for Master and Mistress, my rehearsal is the performance every night. Yes, we are now entertaining dominant guests more and more often, and their possible visits become a focus in my nightly trainings. But my happy-hour rehearsal is itself the point and purpose.

Every evening results in my degradation and humiliation. It’s not just going through the motions. I blush for real, deeply feeling my slaveness.

On Tuesday, we practice my presentation to an imagined guest for fondling.

Mistress and Master want to make my approach and kneeling smoother and more fluid. I am grateful that they are not criticizing how I have done this — they’re figuring out how a visitor-guest might more easily access my bared breasts.

They don’t want me to be pushing myself onto the guest, but at the same time they don’t wish me to settle back on the floor next to him. They debate whether I should kneel at his side or between his legs. But what if the man’s legs are crossed, or positioned together? This becomes an intense discussion.

“You might,” Mistress says to Master, “have to tell the guest that Shae is presenting her breasts for fondling. The man won’t figure it out only from her sitting on the floor next to him.”

Master prefers to think that everything can be done through silent signals.

But Maria observes, “You can be silent to her but vocal to him. For example, even now, when you offer her to serve drinks, you ask for the man’s drink order. She still responds and serves silently. I’m just saying you can say something to indicate to our guest you are inviting him to feel her breasts.”

“Yeah, okay. I can silent signal her, and as she’s walking to him, tell him, ‘I want you to feel her tits. They’re very nice.’”

“Yes, exactly,” Maria concurs, “and then our slave kneels directly in front of him, and our guest can decide to open his legs for her to get closer. It’s up to him.”

I am struck by how meticulous this discussion is. These two people who lead and manage a handful of successful corporations are spending time on the minute details of my posture in front of a guest. It occurs to me that this is their way of relaxing — controlling something trivial like this is a relief to them.

So, I practice this with Master M as the dominant visitor. They make subtle adjustments to my posture and presentation: I am to sit farther up on my knees and pull my shoulders back more. It’s a subtle matter of offering but not pushing myself onto him.

Master and Mistress make the additional point that I should look down and to the side. This is so that our guest does not feel he needs to engage with me personally, just enjoy, as Master said, “the pleasure of playing with her tits.”

Their training of me is in pursuit of my perfect presentation.

In other aspects of my slave life, I am not expected to be perfect or precise. Thank god. In fact, my dominants like my edges and klutz, my sass and insolence. They are not trying to mold me into an “ideal submissive,” whatever that is.

But in my happy-hour trainings, they are requiring of me a kind of meticulous attention to perfecting the details. I have realized that this gives them a sense of more complete control of me, satisfying that dominant pleasure of mastering even specific muscles in my thighs as I squat and the exact length of my walking stride that most jiggles my breasts. If Master M had his wish, he’d have a silent signal for making my nipples engorge and another silent signal to make my pussy cream. (But then, he does that to me in other ways, also without words.)

Of course, on occasion there is that sometime visitor, and it pleases my dominants deeply to watch me presented in naked servitude with such perfect precision.

short scenes from my happy-hour training: 2

On Wednesday, Master and Mistress created a new service for me. It involves a waist tray.

Master and Mistress have felt that, while they use me for serving drinks and have a silent signal for it, they haven’t established a means for me to serve food. They feel they need to offer visitors something to eat.

For this, Mistress M purchased a slave tray for me to wear.

Mistress Amanda has used a waist tray with me before, though on rare occasions. Perhaps Maria got the idea from her. In any case, this tray is rectangular with rounded corners, made of a wood rim and a black non-skid surface. One edge of the tray has a belt attachment that wraps around my back; the front bears two eyehooks on either side with chains that attach to my slave collar O-ring.

In practical use, there is now a silent signal which orders me to make my way to the kitchen and put on the waist tray, buckling it behind me and attaching its support chains to my collar. I can “install” it myself. When guests visit, there will be an assortment of snacks already prepared — finger sandwiches and canapes — on serving plates. I am to place the plates on my waist tray and return to the Great Room to serve our guest.

Of course, the dominant visitor’s pleasure in this is to see me reduced to the the inanimate level of a functional object. My body is made an extension of a serving tray; my value is simply in giving the tray mobility. In a sense, the tray is not attached to me, but I am bound to the tray. I am made an object who is subject to another object.

To add to that image, this tray attaches not around my waist but around my bust. Its belt and buckle fasten behind me like a bra strap, and my breasts actually rest lightly atop the tray in front. Large plates of finger foods actually touch my nipples.

On this Wednesday, I practice walking in my tray bondage. It’s surprisingly stable. I can’t lean or twist in my carriage, but the tray can bear the slight up and down of my stride. With plates of food, I rehearse kneeling in front of Master and Mistress, lowering myself into a steady squat without spillage.

There, I am presented as a charcuterie board, with meats and cheeses mounded on plates alongside my bare milky breasts, suggesting that all of it is intended for tasty consumption.

Mistress Maria says she wants to experiment with supporting the tray with chains attached to my nipples.

Master nods “Her nipple holes should be made more useful. Not just decorative.”

“Agreed,” Maria replies, “but we have to be careful not to rip or tear. The tray should not be entirely supported by her nipples. But I think I can do it safely. With rubber bands.”

I look at her with a mixture of disbelief and awe. Awe that she is so diabolically creative. Sometimes I am in wonder at all of what’s inside her.

Master M loves this idea. He is all about springs and things attached to my body. To him, a hardware store is a sex boutique.

Mistress explains, “The springy tug on her nipples would keep her aroused all the time.”

“Yes, but our sex slut doesn’t need to be aroused any more than she is.”

At this, they both laugh. I blush, even though I know much of this dominant chatter is postured for my humiliation. It’s still humiliating.

Mistress Maria suggests to Master M that I be made to wear the tray for a full day. “It needs to become part of her. Like her collar.”

“Could she sleep with it on?”

“Probably not comfortably, but maybe just one time would be effective.”

I remain silent, as I am supposed to, but I cannot imagine what sleeping in a waist tray would be “effective” for. Still, I know they are having their fun and half of what they talk about will never happen. But they’re serious about the other half.

“Also,” Master says, “I see it useful for our work each day. Like when I’m at the desk and, Maria, you’re at the conference table, and we need a means to send a paper file back and forth.”

Mistress nods. “So you’re saying we could use her as a transport tray.”

“Exactly.”

short scenes from my happy-hour training: 1

My training continues each day at around 6:00 pm. I am made to stand collared, high-heeled, and perfectly naked at the edge of the conversation pit while Master McKenna and Mistress Maria decompress from their work day.

Mistress M has not had dominance over me for full days or weekends since Easter, a month ago. But she does assume authority over me for these happy-hour trainings every evening, an hour or so in which she co-doms me with Master M. (I once referred to the two of them as “M&M.” That didn’t go over well.)

I am used for serving drinks, fetching things, and, of course, for their visual sex with me, a kind of casual and dismissive lust as they glance at me during their conversations. But I’m a marginal sex object, not even worthy of long appreciative stares as is a Rubens painting of a voluptuous nude.

I am just there at the edge of naked unimportance.

On Monday they incorporate into my duties a set of body-care services.

Mistress M “needs” me to brush her hair. She sits in a straight-back chair in the middle, and I fetch a tray of combs and brushes. As she and Master talk, I quietly attend to her espresso hair, brushing it out and curling it under.

It is not different from our girlfriend times doing each other’s hair, except it is. Here I am to be silent, and my hair-brushing is service not play. As I lean into her from behind, I’m sure she feels my bare breasts pressing softly against the back of her head. This is sexual cosmetology.

Monday, Master wants his own share of my body-care abilities, such as they are, and he has me attend to his feet. I think he wants just a massage, but Maria said he should get a “full pedicure treatment.” He doesn’t quite know what that is. I fetch a basin with warm water, some towels, and liquid soap.

I clip his toenails and smooth them with an emery board. I soak his feet in the water basin, cleaning his toes and heels with the soap. I dry off his feet with a towel and massage them with body oil for quite a long time. Meanwhile the two of them continue talking.

At a point, Master wants me to massage his feet with my breasts. This involves oil. He’s now a fan of seeing my boobs oiled up. I’m not quite sure how to do this, but I place one of his feet into my cleavage and slide the orb-flesh of my breasts around it. I repeat with his other foot. He seems pleased. It actually feels oddly good to me too.

Mistress Maria watches with bemusement.

Now the two of them are discussing the idea of extending these body-care services into a separate set of silent signals.

After our “spa time” the other day, Master is now keen on full-body massage. Mistress Maria suggests that in addition to manicures and pedicures, I could be used to provide facial massages and warm oil treatments.

Master M says, “When we have dominant guests, I don’t want to provide Shae to them fully, not on the first visit. I see it as much as an audition of the visitor, a verification of my trust. But still, I want to give a visitor an experience of her. This should be something more than just her serving drinks and cigars. Maybe we could offer her to them for these kind of spa experiences. With a little “something extra.”

Mistress Maria jumps at this: “Sir, if so, we really need a professional massage table. And maybe a private space — a guest might not want to do the ‘something extra’ in the middle of this room.”

“Let’s figure that out,” Master says.

a master’s touch

It was a quiet weekend, as Mistress Maria spent time with her family and Master McKenna played golf with his buddies. I went to church Sunday morning, afterwards treating myself to a light brunch at the Blackbird Cafe. It was nice to be alone for a change, but I wished Maria was there.

Back at the mansion, I curled up in the four-poster with a book. Master was still out golfing, and while I cherished my reading time, being alone felt less enjoyable than usual. I am an introvert and enjoy getting lost in my private worlds, but even still, I get to moments where I need to be around someone. Besides, the mansion can get very lonely, and its many vacant rooms can echo the emptiness within me.

I took a nap. Upstairs. It’s funny that I have no trouble sleeping in the four-poster at night, despite the huge space of the Great Room around me. Yet here in the middle of the afternoon with no one around, it makes me uneasy to sleep there.

I guess it was a little after 2:00 that I awoke and came downstairs. I found Master M back from golf, settled into his easy chair, and doing nothing. His head was leaned against the top of the chair and his eyes were closed. He roused when I came in.

Walking over to him, I called out “Hey!”

He looked up, smiled wearily. “Now, Shae, is that any way to address your master?”

“Hey… sir.”

He chuckled at my irreverence, one of those times he lets me get away with sass. Actually, we sometimes have a bit of back-and-forth repartee at the beginnings of things, in which I determine what level of protocol he wishes to engage me in. Most times he wants me in strict and formal submission, but once in a while he has need for us to be purely casual, usually for serious talks, as if I’m a normal human being. And occasionally it’s a more playful level of his dominance and my subservience, allowing my humor and playful sass.

I continue to take his temperature on this: “May I get you something, sir? Coffee tea, bourbon… me?”

“Actually, I want a club soda on the rocks.”

“Let it be noted,” I announce to a phantom audience, “that he chose club soda over me… I guess I’ve lost my fizz and sparkle.”

He laughs in good spirits, and I know we are in playful protocol. But I can tell he is tired. I pour us both club sodas over cubes, serve him, and sit at his feet.

“Perhaps,” I say facetiously, “if you gave me a whipping it would perk you up. You so love beating me and hearing my screams.”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“I didn’t think that has ever been a prerequisite.”

Grinning, he looks down at me.

I add, “But if it helps for me to misbehave, I certainly can do so.”

Master looks at me in feigned “what-am-I-to-do-with-you” exasperation. He sips his club soda. “We played a round and a half,” he explains. “I used to be able to handle that easily. Today, it wore me out.”

“You’re saying you have no energy to whip the living bejeezus out of me.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Though I never use the word ‘bejeezus.’”

“Nor do I usually, but I thought I’d try it out on you.”

He laughs. It’s a soft laugh, real and true, but without gusto. He’s in a rare space in which he has no energy to run businesses, flog his dominant imprint into my flesh, nor do much of anything at all. He is dominant of me now not by force or will or energy but simply by agreement. It brings me to imagine some future when he, God forbid, might be bed-ridden for a short time, and how my submission would persist, and how it might propel us both through his weakness.

“Seems you need a nap, sir.” I don’t want him to do so, to leave me for bed upstairs, for I want his company, even in his enervated state. But that’s selfish of me. He really seems tired.

“Perhaps.” He says it as if he doesn’t want to head upstairs, or maybe just doesn’t want to muster the energy to do so.

“Would you like a massage, sir?”

“It would have to be the kind where I fall asleep.” He chuckles and adds, “Not sure you’re capable of that, Shae.”

“Well, sir, here’s a new concept for you: I can keep my clothes on.”

“That may not be enough. You know, Shae, people imagine your naked body even when you’re fully dressed.”

It’s a jokey tease, but I know it’s not untrue. I flash him a coquettish smile, as if I’m well aware of the effect my imagined exposure has on people. Which also is not untrue.

He decides a massage would be good. The question is where. Maria has long lobbied for getting a professional massage table, but Master never has agreed to it. He says it’s because it doesn’t fit in as furniture anywhere, but Maria and I have told him it folds up and can be stored in a closet. Besides, this is the same man who decided to put a four-poster bed in the corner of his Great Room business space.

I prepare a makeshift massage bed atop the conference table. A long cushion from the patio chaise, a blanket, and two sheets does the trick. I hand him a bath towel, and I go to fetch some body oil.

When I return, he is stretched atop the make-shift massage bed face-down, the towel covering him from his waist to his thighs.

This is a rare occasion for him and me. Our relationship is often literally “positional” — with me kneeling at his feet or laid out on a bed with him standing over me. Here he is prone, laid out on a makeshift bed, while I am standing over him.

One other thing: he is nude and I am, for a change, the one who is dressed. I say nothing about this, but I make a mental note of this unusual moment.

I apply some oil to his shoulders and back. I am not a trained masseuse, of course, but my hands have had some practice with, let’s say, male flesh. Yet, as I knead Master’s muscles, I am reminded that I so rarely get to touch him.

When he does me, in one way or other, my hands are often bound, either up to the ceiling T-bar or to the posts of my bed. When he enters me, I often long to wrap my arms around him, touch these same shoulders I am now massaging, frame my hands against his bristled face, hold him close. But much of the time my hands are bound, and I cannot.

That is somewhat the natural circumstance of a submission in which I am frequently tied or chained when I’m with the man. But it also is one of the conditions of my slavery — to be unrequited in my moments with him by being deprived of the sensual closeness that simple touch affords. It is a way in which I am kept from possessing him, being kept hand’s off while he is very much hand’s on.

And yet, in truth, he does not often really touch me tactilely. When he has bound sex with me, he stands between my legs bound wide, my thighs chained apart into a milky V. He pushes his erect manhood into my vagina but does so with a minimum of hand touch, sometimes with his hands behind his back, sort of exulting that he does not have to hold me down or in place, that I cannot move and he can fuck me with a minimum of effort.

Yes, he does enjoy fondling my breasts. Sometimes… but more rarely than you’d think. He more enjoys watching them, observing their properties of slow undulating motion, and seeing others fondle them.

Of course, his corporal work on my flesh is also hand’s off. His hands are at the other end of floggers and whips. He “touches” me but only by extension. There are times I endure the slapping pain of his implements, imagining in a kind of wishful thinking that they are his fingers and palms. I long for the touch from him I don’t get often enough. It enslaves me to him all the more, always prompting the hope that next time I will feel him more.

Now on this Sunday afternoon, in a very different context, of course, I am rolling the heels of my hands over his shoulder blades, kneading his shoulders with my fingers, and massaging his bare flesh like a baker exercising bread dough.

I am touching him, flesh to flesh, and I feel a little giddy.

He falls asleep in my hands, his face buried in a pillow, his breathing settling into a shallow rhythm. I gently massage the backs of his thighs and ankles, coating them with a light sheen of oil. As I do so, he groans, and I know his leg muscles have absorbed the throb of a golf course over two days.

I fetch a basin of warm water and cloths, and I wash his feet like a handmaiden. For a moment I think of my handmaiden services to Mistress Amanda, bathing her in the vintage tub, and wonder if Master McKenna would let me serve him in the same way. It’s a kind of submissive service that I don’t experience with him — not overtly sexual, more sensual, a lovely servitude.

Master rouses. He mumbles something, but still face down on the conference table, his words get lost in the pillow. He turns his face toward me and repeats, “You need to take off your top.”

I joke: “I wasn’t feeling encumbered by it.”

He laughs groggily. “You’re going to get the oil all over your clothes.”

“Oh, so that’s the excuse you’re going with.”

He chuckles, now a little more awake.

“You think,” I say sassily, “it’s just that easy to get me out of my clothes.”

“You’re the easiest of all the women I’ve ever known.”

“Yes, but they don’t worship you as the Lord of their lives, like I do.”

He laughs again, but doesn’t have more words for repartee. “Like I said, you need to take off your top.”

“Yes, my lord.” I proceed to pull down the spaghetti straps of my cami and peel it off over my head. My breasts loosen from the cami’s cups and jiggle free. He stares at them from his side view on the pillow.

I add, “I thought you wanted the kind of massage where you can fall asleep.”

He says nothing but turns over on the table, onto his back, his bath towel falling to one side. He doesn’t make an effort to cover up. He lies there, his meaty cock curled into a fat coil.

“Oh!” I exclaim.

“Wasn’t sure if you’re full-service,” Master quips.

“Well, sir, if you don’t know that by now… I’m not sure what a girl has to do around here…”

Master utters a single laugh and says, “Oil up your tits.”

It’s an order. He seems to be finding his dominant energy again. I’m actually relieved by this. I know who I am to him within his dominance. But if I’m supposed to do some seductive massage with him as his equal partner, I am at sea. Yes, I know I often long for him to simply make love to me apart from whips and chains, but in an actual moment of supposed equality with him, I am lost and insecure. For all my sass and our casual repartee, he is my dominant owner not my lover. Maria is his lover.

And so, when Master McKenna objectifies and sexualizes me by ordering, “Oil up your tits,” I am rest assured to be back in my proper place.

I apply thick dollops of oil to each of my breasts as Master M watches in unabashed lust. Massaging the oil around my flesh, I smooth it into an even sheen.

But he wants me to use more oil. And then more again. I drip loads of the stuff across my boobs until they’re thick with it, dripping sloppy. My breasts glisten in the afternoon sun coming through the Great Room windows, and I am the centerfold in the pages of his mind.

He now has me continue my massage of him, starting with the front of his chest. I take my time, trying to make it a legitimate massage, so to speak. As I lean over him, my oiled breasts slide across his torso.

He closes his eyes again, though I think it’s not to sleep but to enhance the tactile feeling of my flesh against his. Eventually I move down to his legs, massaging the fronts of his thighs and ankles.

I pause now, wiping my oiled hands on a towel.

Master says wryly, “I think you missed a spot.”

Apparently, we’re still in casual sass. “I wasn’t finished, sir,” I say. “I just wasn’t sure how you wanted me to do…the spot.”

“Take off your skirt.” Again, it’s an order, and I thrill in the firm sound of his voice.

I obey, slipping my skirt over my thighs and off.

“You’re wet,” he notices.

I have no response, but for some reason I blush.

He reaches toward me, and I step into his hand. His fingers slide over my bare-smooth pussy, sliding between the short barbells in my piercings. He makes me tingle.

“Well, I’m wet now,” I say.

“I want you to straddle me, massage me with your cunt.”

“Yes, sir. But, you know, that’s an extra service, and I’ll have to charge you more.”

“So you’re negotiating with me now? You must be really something as a call girl to the gentlemen.”

I let out a little yelp of feigned offense, paired with a smile: “Oh, really, you’re going there? You’re a bad man, Master McKenna.”

He chuckles.

And I climb onto the conference table.

Straddling him like a cowgirl, I find myself in a rare position with him, atop and upright. Though, somehow, I am not “over” him in feeling or control. Somehow, even on his back Master exudes his dominance over me. His hands are firm over my hips, pushing me up and down, making it a question of who is riding who.

But it’s more than physical position, of course. It is the presence of this dominant man, his mental control of me, and his sheer will of possessing me even in his supposedly tired state. And, of course, it is the hard truth of his cock impaled inside my vagina like a sword in a scabbard.

I cannot and do not believe I am special to him in this position, and actually feel more like I am just one in an imagined lineup of slave girls that he beckons one by one to service him in just this way. He commands me, not as Shae, but as, say, “number seven.” So my mind wanders…

Even so, before I dismount and he beckons the “next girl,” swoon in the privilege of his cock taking up residence inside me.

It must be said that we are sloppy-drenched in body oils. In his massage fucking of me, he continues to pour oil from the bottle at his side onto my breasts. As they heave up and down, they actually splatter oil around, drops shooting off from them like liquid fireworks. We are an unholy, oily mess. And we don’t care.

In time he stops me, and tells me to dismount. He wants me to take him in my mouth.

I do not know if he really wants me this way. Or if, for some reason, he doesn’t want me to have the experience of his semen shooting deep into my womanhood. Or if he is deferring to my addiction for cock.

As he tells me to suck him, I tease, “So, I don’t have to beg you for this?” referring to my begging humiliation at Easter in front of Mr. Beck.

“Consider it your tip for services.”

“Niiiice.”

Of course I do. My mouth eagerly swallows his penis, hard and wet. It tastes like a culinary fusion of my juices, his own musk, co-mingled with massage oils. I oil his balls as I go down on his shaft. I stroke him as I kiss the head of his cock.

Soon, he clenches, and Master McKenna explodes into my mouth, filling it with his frothy dominant cum.

After, he reaches for me, and pulls me on top of him. My slippery breasts slide against his hairy chest. My wet pussy presses into his now resting penis. My head cradles on his shoulder.

For a short few minutes, Master falls asleep with me in his arms.

I remain awake, knowing this is a rare moment, maybe not to be repeated, not like this, for a very long time. This has been a different kind of domination of me — spontaneous, sassy, and wonderfully sloppy. I need to savor this, feel every inch of him. I need to make a memory of this, his touch.

orts

Yes “orts” is a word, as those of us who do crossword puzzles well know. It derives from medieval times and refers to crumbs or morsels of food left after a meal. I have never used the word in casual conversation, or ever, but it applies here, perhaps my one and only chance to use it in a sentence.

In the aftermath of Maria mistressing me, there are a lot of orts — leftover crumbs along with some morsels (questions) from you. So, let me clean up some of these dangling particles…

I was actively dominated by Maria through parts of Sunday, but I have decided to end my posts with the Saturday account.

Sunday was a mish-mash of obediences and services, much of the same without a lot new to report. In the middle of the day, Master M did a heavy corporal beating of me, and while Maria assisted, she was not directly dominating me during my whippings. Later, for happy hour, she conducted my slave training, but that was similar to my slave trainings before.

If there was “news” to write about, it was in the deepening of my submission into Maria’s dominance, my increased acquiescence to her authority. But on Sunday none of that was event-driven, rather more time-driven — you spend 72 hours under someone’s control and you melt into her more and more.

But that relational flow is hard for me to describe adequately in words. I will share some of it in other ways over time. All to say, there will be no “part 4.”

The day after Easter weekend, Monday, I returned to work at the collective as a professional woman secretly dominated now by more people than she can count. I needed the time away to reflect on what went down those previous three days.

I realized I “didn’t not like it.” That double negative is intentional and precise. I entered into submission under Mistress Maria privately vowing I wouldn’t “like” it but would submit to her anyway, providing myself as a kind practice dummy for her exercise, but nothing more. I would endure her. That was probably bad of me, not fair to her, but it was my way of coping.

Well, as it happened, she surprised me. She exercised her domination with ease, kind of wooing me into submission to her. She found a way of flirtatiously humiliating me. I don’t know how anyone does that, but she did. By sometime Saturday, I had forgotten I was supposedly just going through the motions for her sake. I was really her slave. I lost my vow to do this dispassionately. And I was not “not liking it.”

As I’ve written before, submissive obedience is always a love-hate thing, “hurts so good” and all that jazz. So, “liking” to be humiliated is never quite the right way to describe it. No one ever wants to be shamed. Yet being objectified and sexualized often results for me in a kind of deep submissive satisfaction, a different passive pleasure. In this case, Mistress Maria effected that. She engaged my disengagement. She converted me from vowing not to “like” it to actually finding submissive release unto her.

In the days following, Maria and I talked about it. Sort of.

Neither of us wanted to analyze it, over-think it. It was more about “are we okay with what just happened?”

I remember the first time, in my twenties, I slept with another woman. I had known about my same-sex attractions for a while, was curious, but also felt my sapphic feelings to be immoral (based on my still-fresh religious upbringing). But, let’s just say, she and I sort of “fell into it one night.” The next morning, we awoke to each other knowing it was a first-time big deal for both of us, and wondering what just happened. We asked each other, “Are you okay?” Meaning “are you okay with what we just did?”

In the days following with Mistress Maria, it was like that. It was a substantial thing that we did, relationally at least, and we both needed to check in with each other to ask “Are you okay?”

I said something of what I wrote above, confessing I was going through the motions at first, but then somehow she won me over. Maria said she actually ‘loved it [being dominant] too much.” Beyond that, we didn’t talk about it in detail. I think we both intuitively know this is not the last of it, there will be more, and we do not serve our new D/s relationship very well by talking through how we will be going forward. It would be kind of like sitting down on a first date and laying out a schedule for the relationship all the way to engagement and wedding. If you do that, you’ll ruin it, and it’ll likely be your last date.

In the aftermath, when we were supposed to be equal again (more on that in a moment), we came back to our familiar repartee, our closeness, our friendship. And yet it is different, not in a bad way, but different.

Some readers and followers have said that once Maria dominated me, she and I can never go back to what we were before. I think you are right. We can’t go home again.

To her credit, she has not pressed her dominance of me beyond that weekend. But we both find ourselves settling into a gentle hierarchy, one in which I more readily cede myself to her. Even now when she is not actively dominant, I can’t help but feel the potential dominance in her. This is my submissive nature naturally doing what it does — latching onto the dominant in the room like a magnet.

I now find myself, even in our vanilla times, slipping into a kind of casual submission to her. I have called her “Mistress” a number of times. I find myself offering to serve her coffee or a drink even when I don’t have to. The other day, I found myself asking her permission to do something. It seems Mistress Maria’s handling of me those three days imprinted me in a memorable way, such that I am still likely to defer to her authority all the time.

The saving grace to our relationship now is that in her domination of me, Mistress Maria translated our existing friendship, intimacies, and playfulness into this new hierarchy. It is different and perhaps we have lost something, but maybe not. We still have what we had, though it’s got a different color scheme.

The Monday after, I asked Maria in a kind of awe, “How did you know how to do me like that?”

She coyly smiled but didn’t answer, just being ambiguously cute.

So, let me draw from the mailbag:

A query from my friend Angel “therebelliousangel”: “What if Maria had told you to beg cocksucking from Mr. Beck? Undoubtedly he would have been thrilled to accommodate you. Would you have done the deed if ordered to do so?

The short answer is yes. I would have obeyed, and I would have enjoyed his cock in my mouth… and I would have felt shamed for obeying and enjoying him that way. My feelings are not just about my well-reported pleasure in cocksucking, but also the indignity of being ordered to provide it to someone at random, a stranger. What does that say about me?

The longer answer is that if Master McKenna ordered me to provide Mr. Beck a cocksucking, I would have obeyed quite easily. But if Mistress Maria had ordered me to do so on that Saturday, I may have resisted, rebelled, suffered a punishment… and then sucked the man’s cock.

I don’t know if Mistress M thought of ordering me so. Maybe she also did the calculus of my possible response. If I did defy her in that, it would be a major disrespect to Mr. Beck, resulting in a bigger punishment and a very messy scene. Maybe we both avoided it intuitively. This time.

The larger context to your question, Angel, is that my dominants are training me into doing this on demand. Especially with “dominant visitors,” or at the beta retreats, or even during Amanda’s neighborhood events, my owners want to have such a command of me so that I will passively obey such an order without hesitation, kneel before a man, and provide him that pleasure.

For better or worse, it will happen.

Follower Matt asks, “Is Maria still owned by Master M or has that changed as well? Is she still his submissive? I got a little lost in the weeds.” And Angel wonders, “What does the future hold for the poly group?”

I honestly don’t know exactly how Master M and Maria see themselves with each other. They have a close intimacy, for sure. She is still submissive to him at times, but she is also his equal sexual partner at other times. And then, too, she wears these other hats of executive assistant and mansion manager. All of the above.

I don’t think at this point that Master would say he actually owns Maria. Meaning that she may be submissive to him at times but is not considered his property. Their D/s relationship is not as extreme as mine is with him, in which he and I both accept that I am his property owned.

Matt, it’s no wonder you got a little lost. Their relationship has evolved over time, but with no specific or obvious points of change. It’s ambiguous.

Angel, one of the things I’ve learned about poly group arrangements is that they are always changing. Relationships grow and wane, become more sexual or less, develop into deeper or more casual connections — all on the fly. I think the core idea of “poly” is to let relationships happen as they naturally evolve.

I suppose that’s what’s happening now with our poly. What’s the same is that it’s still Mistress Amanda, Master McKenna, Maria, and me. What’s different is that Maria is now given dominance over me on certain occasions, and she and I are working out what that means relationally to both of us. But the poly is still in place; it’s just shifting somewhat, as all polycules do.

Poly groups are intentionally about ambiguous relationship. That’s sometimes hard for me, as I like to have more definition. But our basic quartet is intact.

Finally, my good friend and dominant, Mr. Archie, responded to a comment I made about now being submissive to a third dominant and how I now feel more submissive overall, potentially being in servitude to any number of possible dominants. I said that makes me feel less like “slave Shae” and more like some sort of “generic slave.”

In response, Mr. Archie posits the idea of “my being owned by a committee of dominants.”

So now I have to imagine that. I’m not even sure how that would work.

Thoughts?

dominated by Maria, part 3, April 3, Saturday

This is long. I apologize.

Saturday morning I waken to a text from Maria, my dress order for the morning. She is dressing me now. She wants me in a skater skirt and tight white tee. White heels, always heels. Master likes me in high heels as a kind of erotic bondage, and he enjoys my having to endure them all the time. I think Maria likes the pairing of formal high heels with my casual Saturday attire because it creates an implied look of sluttiness.

The skater skirt is an interesting choice too. Maria has heard my occasional insecurities about certain outfits being too “young” for me as a woman in her thirties — skater skirts particularly. “But you have the legs for it,” Maria has said. To which I have retorted that I look like Kaitlin Olson in the TV show “High Potential.” Which is to say I look ridiculous. Maria has responded, “She looks ridiculous but cute. Besides you have less bling.”

And so, I wear a skater skirt. Notably, there’s no dress order regarding my pussy piercing treatment. I wonder if she just forgot. Then again, Maria doesn’t forget anything.

I come downstairs to find Maria sitting in the Great Room. Master McKenna is out golfing for the morning, and it being Saturday, no staff is around. It’s just Maria and me. That is, Mistress Maria and me.

She is sitting in Master’s place of dominance, his leather easy chair. She has a mug of coffee and is knitting something. I am submissive to a woman who knits booties for infant nieces and nephews.

She tells me to sit opposite her on the couch. It’s spoken as an order not an invitation. Once I’m seated, she says, “Last night, you said you wanted to continue.” Her voice is firm, commanding, but familiar, not cold. Her comment infers she’s giving me a second chance… to stop this and go back to what we had.

I take a moment, but not to consider the offer. I am trying to figure her out, this different Maria than the one I knew. But I have already made my choice for this weekend and I won’t renege. It doesn’t accomplish anything for me to push back on this, walk away, opt out. Perhaps there are conversations to be had later and a different decision in the weeks to come. For now, she is trying this out, trying me out as her submissive. In this moment, I feel I ought to give her this experience, cede myself to her for these next two days.

“Do you still feel that way this morning?” Mistress Maria asks. “Do you still want to continue?”

“I do,” I finally say. I add, “I don’t mean that as a wedding vow, but yes, I wish to continue.”

She cracks a smile at my sarcasm. “Very well,” Mistress Maria says and without pause adds, “My coffee is cold, so get me a fresh mug..”

I kind of expect this first hour of the morning to be a time of us talking about this, about us, how it will work, how we pursue this brave new world of D/s relationship. Perhaps I am longing for this conversation.

But no, she just plunges right into her plans for the day: “We’re going out to run some errands.”

“Downtown?” I ask. Downtown Denver, the pedestrian walkway along 16th Street, has been our common Saturday girlfriend fun.

“No. That’s our space. I mean we have some errands to run closer to home.”

This strikes me as interesting. She says “our” as being a different context. Maria is separating her girlfriend time with me from her dominant time with me, already demarcating our relationship according to place.

“Get the elastic laces,” she is saying, not looking up from her knitting. “I want to watch you lace up your pussy.” No, she didn’t forget.

I obey. I suppose I am just going through the motions of submitting to her, and I’m sure she is aware of it. Meaning, I haven’t given her my body and soul. I’m simply giving her time. Time to practice on me.

She has me sit in the easy chair adjacent to hers so she can look over and watch. I am told to hike my skater skirt up to my waist and prop my legs on the arms of the chair. This spreads me open, my vulva laying out bare in the space between us.

Of course, from the beginning when Mistress Amanda had my pussy pierced, Maria wound up being the “caretaker of my holes,” as she indelicately put it, attending to their healing and various decorative uses. But that was a kind of nursing. Now, she is ordering me to lace up my pussy while she watches. It feels voyeuristic and sexual. She is taking possession of my womanhood in a new way.

Maria has put her knitting to the side and watches intently. “Don’t finish it off,” she says. “I’ll do that.”

I proceed to thread the elastic lace through my bottom holes, then criss-cross it up the length of my labia. I leave the lace ends dangling from the top.

Maria takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re so pretty like that,” she says.

“I hope you don’t intend to show it off in public.”

Maria forms a sly smile, tilts her head coyly. “You never know.”

“You know, it’s confusing to people when a woman displays her sex but it’s all tied up like this. Sends mixed messages. You can have me but you can’t.”

Maria takes my sassy sarcasm and adds to it: “Slave Shae, if I show you off like this to people, mixed messages are the least of your worries. “ Touché.

Now she gets up, kneeling before me. She pulls the elastic lace tighter, narrowing the spaces between my pussy lips, but she stops from making it too taut. She ties the dangling lace ends into an extremely tight knot, and she finishes it off in a bow. She is making my pussy hers.

I protest: “Now, to remove it, you’ll have to cut it off.”

She looks into my eyes and says, “Exactly.”

So, we do errands.

Mistress Maria drives, making me in the passenger seat pull my skirt up to reveal my laced-up pussy. She allows me to keep my thighs together, which is a barely adequate attempt at modesty. I am still laced and knotted in some form of would-be chastity, but my thighs are “properly” together, creating a long pale landing strip into my promised land.

“We need to show you like this to Alex,” she teases.

“Don’t you dare,” I say.

“I wanted,” she says, ignoring me, “to Sharpie all around your pussy the names of all the men that have been there.”

“You have a far more deviant mind than I ever thought.”

“But I realized,” she continues, “I would have run out of room.”

“Niiiice.”

She chuckles, surprisingly happy in her position over me. She is different with me in her dominance, yet has some of the same playfulness I’ve always known. It’s marbled now with dark streaks of power and milky splashes of new delight. I don’t know this woman, yet I do.

She has some clothes to take to the dry cleaner. I think we’ll do the drive-up, but she parks, attaches a leash to the O-ring of my collar, and walks me inside like I’m a MILF on a string.

Walking around with my pussy laced up under my skirt is a sensation of a kind, though it doesn’t hurt. The laces being elastic, there is stretch and pull, a soft feeling of my labia always in movement, almost like a massage. It actually feels good, slightly arousing, but it also makes me aware that I am in a walking bondage, a condition only Mistress Maria knows I am experiencing.

I get triple glances from the woman behind the counter. First curiosity, then confusion, then judgment. We aren’t a couple of teenage girlfriends roleplaying for fun but adult women living in a real-life power exchange. The woman behind the counter can tell this is not a simple lark or dare, and can’t quite hide a smirky grin. She sees me in my wide Swedish brass collar with a prominent O-ring in front, and a leash chain attached to it. I wear a too-short skater skirt and a tight white tee that faintly shows my areolae underneath. The woman sees I am obedient to the point of public humiliation. There’s no other way of interpreting me. I look away and down, embarrassed.

We get out of there, and now Mistress Maria needs to pick up some things at the drugstore. Again she marches me in on my leash. She has me carry the shopping basket, as she has her hands full with my leash in one hand and her handbag in the other. She points out the cosmetic items she wants, and I take them and put them in the basket, serving her in the most mundane way.

Again, I encounter stares and judgments from people as we shop.

If there’s a surprise in any of this, it’s that Mistress Maria seems so comfortable parading me around as a kept slave in public. I suppose she has learned this from Mistress Amanda, perhaps even has asked her for advice and technique for public exposure. Amanda knows that while it’s daring to do such outré things in public, there’s also safety in openly social places. People are constrained by the public environment; additionally, they’re far less likely to intervene when there’s another woman, rather than a man, holding my leash — it appears more consensual. Maria now seems to knows all this, and is blissfully unconcerned about reactions. She seems to have learned that people aren’t judging her, just judging me. Which she delights in.

Yet, while Maria seems to have been taking dom notes from Amanda and, in other areas, Master McKenna, she is finding her own style with me. She is giving me a great deal of verbal latitude, a freedom of words and sass. She knows that’s important to me, and she does not squelch it. The result is a playful banter between us, some of which we had before, some of which is a new dimension. A new space for us.

I realize something more. On the day before, Friday, as Mistress Maria executed her dominance over me in front of the mansion staff, it was her way of assuming authority over me in our private world. On this Saturday, in the common venues where we run errands, she is assuming authority over me in the public world.

This, I realize, is her strategy for my domination, to impress on me that she controls meeverywhere.

We check out of the drugstore, and Mistress says she needs to get her car washed.

I quip, “The car looks pretty clean to me.”

This is an automated car wash where you get out of the car and sit in a waiting area as your auto goes through the sudsy brushes. Mistress Maria parks before we get to the place, and she pulls bondage cuffs from her handbag. These are the white ones in Velcro, not buckled, with O-rings to each side.

“I see you’ve come prepared,” I observe.

“You will wear them inside the car wash.” It’s an order.

I say no.

She says yes.

I now obey and wrap them around my wrists and ankles.

She drops off the car with the attendant and confidently walks me in. Sitting in the waiting area are a half dozen men, each no doubt on their own Saturday list of errands. They glance toward us as we walk in, then stare. I know what I look like, and now it’s more than the wide brass collar that wraps my neck. Nor is it just the chain leash that attaches me to her. Now it’s the white cuffs on my wrists and ankles each bearing O-rings that suggest any number of bound uses of me. I imagine what the men are imagining about me, what thy might in some other life attach me to.

I blush furiously. Meanwhile, Mistress Maria sits, holding my leash with a contented smile. She reads a magazine. She seems to know what I haven’t fully admitted: public exposure of me as a slave is both my deepest shame and most intense submissive feeling.

After, we get into the car, and it doesn’t look much different from before the car wash. I comment sarcastically, “Oh yes, this is so much cleaner.”

Mistress Maria smiles coyly. She is cute even in her dominance of me.

Master McKenna is back at the mansion early Saturday afternoon. He brings with him a visitor. Who is kind of cute.

Mid-forties with black hair slightly tousled, a square jaw and a confident smile, Mr. Beck wears beige chinos and a tight crew-neck tee in royal blue. The shirt is tight, revealing Mr. Beck to be fit, athletic, and, well, muscled. As in pecs and biceps.

I look over at Mistress Maria and raise my eyebrows at the sight of GQ man. She returns a slight smile and a quick, mutual share of our female lust.

I assume he had joined Master and his gentlemen buddies for a round of golf, but apparently not. I eventually learn that Mr. Beck has been pre-arranged to visit, one of Master’s “dominant acquaintances.”

Mistress Maria walks me in on my leash, and Master McKenna introduces Maria to our guest, saying that “Maria is getting some experience in the art of dominance.” Mr. Joshua Beck stands to greet Maria, and they shake hands. He does not acknowledge me.

Master M and Mr. Beck sit in the leather chairs. Maria takes a seat at the end of the couch opposite them. She directs me to stand beside her. I obey, standing leashed and properly silent. The three of them talk, and I am ignored.

I am frankly impressed that Maria so confidently holds her own in the conversation. It’s probably not mentioned enough how one feels more submissive when her dominant’s presence among other dominants is confident and assured. Your dominant doesn’t have to be the strongest or loudest in the room (indeed, you don’t want that ego trip, for it’s a sign of weakness), but when your dominant easily assumes equal standing, you become proud to be at the end of her leash.

Here Maria is not simply one of “Master’s girls play-acting the dominant role,” but she assumes her own dominant space among dominants, commanding it with ease, and the two men respect her at their level. I find myself feeling more submissive in the moment, melting more into into Maria’s mistressing of me, perhaps even wanting to make her proud of me.

Mr. Beck asks Maria “how it’s going so far,” and she says, “Well enough. Shae’s a well-trained slave, but she’s not so sure of her submission to me. Yet.”

Which is the truth of it.

“You’re keeping her in her place?” Mr. Beck asks.

Maria nods and, to my chagrin, tells him about her spanking of me yesterday “in front of Alex, our house cleaner.”

“Good for you. Slaves resist the discipline but they need it. It fuels their submissiveness.”

“Yes,” Maria replies, “but with Shae it’s a challenge. She is so smart about the dynamics, she is well aware of what you’re doing to her.”

Her response surprises — and warms — me. Maria finds a gracious way of countering Mr. Beck’s comment. Embedded in her response is a compliment about me. She is informing Mr. Beck that I may be mute but I am not stupid.

This is another of many small moments in which I feel Maria is conducting her domination of me out of her personal knowledge of what it means to be submissive. She knows I am willing to be submissively silent, but I hate the experience of being deemed as unintelligent. Mistress Maria has found a way, while dominating me, of advocating for me.

She tugs my leash and unhooks the leash from the O-ring of my collar. “Go to your place,” she orders. I dutifully walk to the corner of the carpet, the edge of my unimportance.

As I say, it appears that Mr. Beck’s visit has been pre-arranged, an event in which to show off Mistress Maria’s mastery of me, apparently part of the plan Maria and Master M cooked up on the road. Yet Maria herself has not actually met our visitor before. Master M prompts her to tell our guest about herself. She shares her journey from mansion staff to McKenna assistant to manager-in-chief of mansion operations. Mr. Beck seems impressed, and Master M seems of course proud.

Mr. Beck soon speaks of his interests in the dominant lifestyle, his current part-time submissives and his corporate position in an insurance firm in Denver. He speaks with personal confidence but not with strutting ego, and he seems much like Master McKenna in his assured but restrained style and presence.

In the midst of this “getting to know you” conversation, Mistress Maria interrupts and looks over at me: “Shae, I think it’s time for you to take off your top.”

Of course, in my head I sarcastically think that I didn’t know there was a time for me to go topless, as if in Emily Post’s Etiquette: Manners for Today there’s a chapter about the proper moment in a causal visit when “the slave must show her boobs.” I think of these things, have my little funny, only to realize no one in the room will get the irony and my weird humor. I say nothing.

I am still wearing my white skater skirt and tee from the morning. In this moment, upon Mistress Maria’s order, I peel my tee-shirt from the bottom over my head. My tee catches on my breasts as it comes off, and they bounce back down after it clears. I fold it and lay it on a chair, resuming my position at the edge of unimportance, hands to my side and my breasts full and pale in the public air.

Mr. Beck looks at me with objectifying eyes, the unapologetic air of a dominant with the right to consume a submissive’s body and sex. I look back at him, not defiantly, but engagingly, receiving his gaze as a submissive who knows this is her purpose.

It’s not until now, a full hour into this man’s visit, that I am finally introduced to our guest. I imagine Mistress Maria was angling for this: to expose my breasts to the man before I am formally acknowledged by him by name.

But now Maria grandly gestures toward me in my topless resplendence: “So, Mr. Beck… this is my slave, Shae.”

He takes his time to scan my body, absorb my figure, and drink in my naked breasts. He tells Maria, “They’re very nice, by the way.”

His is a compliment wrapped in possession wrapped in personal sexual lust. I take this in submissive stride, but what feels different is that he says this to Maria. He is complimenting her for the visual quality of my tits. In this, he is acknowledging her ownership of me.

Maria smoothly accommodates this. She echoes his chanelling of me through her, accepting the compliment: “Thank you. I’m glad you like them.”

“Full and round flesh. My own preference.”

He is complimenting Maria on the size and shape of my breasts, as if she grew them herself and has to carry them around as the objects of sexual objectification. I am not bothered by this but find it a new experience. As a submissive woman herself, Maria knows the feelings of objectification, how am I experiencing this. In this moment she is using that in her dominance of me. This is new, and this feels intense, a kind of intimate unity of the two of us enjoined.

Maria follows Mr. Beck’s comment with an invitation: “Would you like to feel them?”

“I would.”

Maria flashes me the silent signal of seven fingers to present myself to a guest for fondling. I dutifully walk to Mr. Beck and kneel on the floor before him, pulling back my shoulders slightly, which pushes my breasts toward him.

He leans down, extends his arms, and cups my breasts. His hands are big but smooth, and he squeezes me with strength. I breathe in as his fingers knead my flesh.

“They have a good feel,” he says. “Firm but malleable.” He speaks of them as if they are volleyballs. (I think it’s the first and only time my boobs have been described as “malleable.”)

“Thank you,” Maria says. “You’ll see that my Shae has a number of appealing assets.”

This writing is about Mistress Maria and me, not about Mr. Beck, so I am not taking time to represent him fully. In this time around him, I come to suspect he has a literal belief in the place of submissives at the low end of the social space. That is, he doesn’t see our lifestyle as a roleplay but rather as a destiny. This mirrors our own belief system. Whether or not he is aware of Gorean myth, I suspect Mr. Beck has adopted a similar social determinism about dominance and submission. And about me.

I think this is likely a common “religion” among Master McKenna’s dominant acquaintances — they all see BDSM as a lifestyle of necessity, not a roleplaying game. To them, it’s a way of life that people are born into. But given that, some dominants execute a slavery more strictly, while others do so more humanely.

Though Mr. Beck is treating me as a lowly submissive object, somehow I get vibes from him that are warmer and more humane. Perhaps this comes from the respectful way he treats Maria. Some dominants are simply misogynistic. Mr. Beck is not. He accepts Maria as an equal dominant, seeming to have no edge against her because she’s a woman.

I find myself glad for her in that.

They continue their conversation about business and life, with me at the edge of unimportance, my breasts loudly naked.

They discuss the current economic landscape and the challenges of running a business amid the uncertainties. Maria is an equal part of the discussion, sharing some of the economic woes of the staff. Mr. Beck speaks of his own staff of twenty and how some are struggling. It occurs to me that all three of them have positions in which they manage other people. Not surprising, but it adds a submissive awareness that I am in a room full of executives. Which now includes Mistress Maria.

Mistress Maria flashes me a silent signal — one finger — and asks Mr. Beck if he wants something to drink. He asks for a gin-and-tonic. I execute the order by walking properly across the room, stopping by Master M’s chair and curtsying, and heading to the wet bar.

There’s a break in the conversation as Mr. Beck watches me, the trained slave girl, serve the drink order. I stride over to him with the tray, lean over as my naked breasts roll down in the space between us. As he takes his gin-and-tonic from my tray, I once again notice his muscled arms. He grabs another feel of my “malleable” tits, and nods to dismiss me when he is done. I detect a faint smile, dominant and sexualizing.

As I resume my standing position at the edge of unimportance, I glance at Mistress Maria, and she gives me an approving wink.

As I stand in my unimportance, my mind wanders into reflection about Maria as a dominant.

As she has risen in the mansion hierarchy from laundress to submissive to assistant to supervisor to a kind of “estate executive,” she has demonstrated greater and greater capacity for leadership. Now, I know some followers reading my accounts of Maria think her ascension is calculated, her own grab for position and power. But those close to her, myself included, don’t see her that way.

Even in her more humble position as laundress, Maria had the talent for higher things. She is intuitively great at organization and has amazing people skills. While we didn’t see it in her in those early days, it was there, and it was inevitable she would ascend to higher levels, if not at the mansion, in some other place of career employment. She has the skills to be a successful executive.

Standing there, topless and marginalized, I realize that I have none of those skills. I had my career in real estate, running my own business, and I really wasn’t good in it. Nor did I want to do it. I was miscast in it, perhaps due to my innate and substantial submissive nature. I am meant to follow and obey. Maria is meant to lead.

In my thinking, I realize that although I was “first” in Master’s orbit and Maria emerged later and although I was more experienced and she was a naive newbie at the start, there are natural reasons why Maria should have dominance over me. Again, I am meant to follow, while Maria is meant to lead.

So, maybe now, this weekend, she is “trying out” this new dominant thing, but it doesn’t mean it’s a stretch for her. She isn’t reaching beyond herself to “be dominant.” She has the skills for it.

There’s more, and longer, conversation during these visitor occasions than I can interestingly report.

I remember Sunday afternoons as a girl of ten or eleven, when my parents had friends from church for Sunday dinner. We’d all adjourn to the living room. I’d sit in the corner, reading a book, hearing the adult voices drone on. It seemed they talked forever. And so it does now.

I eventually re-engage with their drone of voices and hear Master and Maria telling our visitor about the new pavilion going up. For parties and gatherings,” Master M says. “We may hold business meetings there,” Maria adds, “perhaps small conferences.”

Master M explains the beta retreats, and how we likely will use the pavilion for dom-sub training. Mr. Beck is quite interested, asks questions. Maria says, “Well, why don’t we talk a walk up to the west ridge and look at the pavilion’s progress?”

So it goes. Mistress Maria leashes me and leads us all outside. It’s cool, in the sixties, but the sun is bright and warms my bare breasts. I’m in heels which sink into the earth, making my walk herky-jerky. This jostles my breasts, making them jiggle. Mr. Beck glances over at me often.

We come to the pavilion site. The space is dug out and filled with concrete. There are metal posts rising from the foundation. Master McKenna explains that there were concerns from our neighbors about the pavilion sitting atop the ridge, within earshot of their estate, so it was decided to set it against the slope of the ridge. “Took more work to dig it out,” Master explains, “but the slope creates a sound barrier. And we still have a view of the mountains.”

We walk around to the north, the back side of the mansion, doing a short tour of the estate. Mistress Maria keeps me on the leash, so the three of them walk in a line slightly ahead of me. From time to time, Mr. Beck glances back at my joggling breasts.

At one point my heel gets stuck in wet sod and my shoe comes off. This stops me and tugs the leash that Mistress Maria is holding. She looks back. I say nothing but stand for a moment in frustrated defiance, bare-breasted with one of my heels on and one literally stuck in the mud.

It becomes my Marisa Tomei “My Cousin Vinny” meltdown, a moment when I nearly lose it. It just seems too much to be perfectly submissive to my former girlfriend yet perhaps sort of trying to make an impression on this hunky man, but now suffering the ignominy of a muddy mess.

Mistress Maria reads my disgruntlement and turns to me. She says with a grin and in an intentionally sweetsie condescending voice, “Oh, muffin, it’s so hard to be you.” It’s a funny Internet meme we previously have shared and laughed over. Now she is using it with me in a different context.

I can’t help but laugh, and she has so quickly disabused me of my predicament.

I would later think of this as a kind of dominance neither Mistress Amanda nor Master McKenna would do with me. Maria can be dominant of me yet come alongside me in mutual humor.

She continues to surprise me.

We wind up back in the Great Room, and Mr. Beck is shown the four quadrants and how we use the space. This includes the four-poster bed, the arena for much of my slavery.

The folding chairs from yesterday’s bondage demonstration for the staff are still set up in two rows along the broad side of my bed, like seats in a theater.

“Do you do her here? Sex with her in front of audiences?” Mr. Beck asks. I wonder if he is asking hopefully.

“No, ” Maria replies, “sex with Shae is still a private experience.” She is looking at me as she answers him, and I return her gaze with grateful eyes. She is protecting me even as she is objectifying me.

Master adds, “We’ve been slowly bringing the mansion staff into our lifestyle. I employ the staff on my own, apart from my business, and I make our lifestyle clear to them before they begin work here. I tell them they can watch or not, as they wish. It’s all voluntary. So, it’s not a legal thing. It’s just a a matter of social comfort for them. So, I’ve been doing demonstrations of bondage and corporal — it’s in the form of educational content. Shae is fully naked for that. But I haven’t demonstrated actual sex with her to the mansion staff. We may already be at the edge of what we can expose them to. But we’ll see.”

“The chairs are set up,” Maria explains, “from a little event demo we had yesterday with the staff. But I think we’ll keep them here, in place. Maybe we’ll bring in more comfortable chairs, a small couch. So this whole space is our playground with her. Sometimes in front of staff… and visitors like you.”

I tilt my head slightly at her words — “our playground with her.” She is so assuming of her possession of me. And so easy in assuming it.

“She needs to be shown off,” Mr. Beck observes. “This is a great space for that. And making the bed open and public. I love the idea of the audience seating.”

This is the first I’ve heard of “audience seating” being permanent. But I continue to remain silent, as I should be.

I haven’t spoken for two hours.

We return to the conversation pit, and I stand once again at the far corner of the carpet. I have to admit that I am feeling more and more easy about Mistress Maria’s domination of me. She has been good with me, really good. She has been finding ways of playfully dominating me, preserving our girlfriend vibe while at the same time effectively humiliating and objectifying me. Granted this has been a small sample, a brief time, but what had started as my reluctant decision to go through the motions of submitting to her has now become something more. I am settling into acquiescence under her.

But this moment of relief is to be short-lived.

Mistress silent signals me to serve another round of drinks, and I do. There is now more conversation among them about another visit sometime by Mr. Beck, and perhaps some involvement in the beta retreats. He speaks about one of his part-time submissives, Emmy, as perhaps suitable for participating in the betas, and Maria speaks of our friend Jacky, who has participated before. This takes on the rhythm of a business discussion, executives talking about human resources (submissives), who could be used in demonstration seminars (as at a D/s training conference).

During their conversation, Mistress Maria flashes me the silent signal thirteen. I have nearly forgotten her designation of this new number from the day before. That feels like a lifetime ago.

I don’t respond immediately, which annoys Maria to no end. I’m not sure if I resist because I don’t want to do it or because I have forgotten it. But to her, it looks like a defiance. And maybe it is.

Now, Maria barks out my name. “Shae!!!” The men stop what they are talking about and jerk their heads around to me.

I really don’t want to do this. I also really, really don’t want to get another spanking, especially in front of Mr. Beck. I quickly try to remember what Maria had taught me as the protocol.

I finally nod to her, signaling I will obey. The men resume their conversation.

I now stride over to Master McKenna, and I curtsy, but remain standing there until he acknowledges me. He finishes his sentence to Mr. Beck, looks up to me, and says, “What?” He is annoyed at the interruption.

Now, I have no idea if Master M is aware of this new silent signal and service. Has Maria worked this out with him? But I proceed, even though I am caught between obeying Mistress and provoking Master.

“Sir, I am wondering if I might be permitted to… suck your cock.”

Mr. Beck releases a loud chuckle. Master M looks at me with a glare. I start to blush a deep red. Mistress Maria is slowly, quietly nodding her pleasure.

Master M says harshly, “This is hardly the time or place.”

“Yes sir.”

I am remembering now that there are to be three begs. God. I remain standing before Master M, wondering if I dare to continue.

“Sir, my apologies… but I really long to suck your cock. May I?”

Master McKenna turns to Mr. Beck and explains, “Shae is addicted to cock. She always wants it.” Master turns back to me: “No you may not.”

I want to run and hide. My face is on fire, my chest is blushing. Surely, Maria doesn’t intend for me to perturb Master a third time. Again, I look over to her, and she nods her prompting of me.

“Sir, I am really sorry to ask yet again… but I really, really need your cock.”

Master now returns my beg with a question: “Where do you need my cock, Shae?”

I don’t expect this from him, but I reluctantly answer, “In my mouth.”

Master looks at me and simply says, “No.” He dismisses me by saying, “Don’t beg me again. Go back to your place.”

If this humiliation isn’t enough for me, Mr. Beck asks Maria, “How much cock does she get normally?”

Maria is eager to provide a way-too-extensive answer, telling him about Blake’s weekly visits, my courtesan dates with Master’s golf buddies, and occasional adventures with some for the men in the neighborhood.

“Quite the slut isn’t she?” Mr. Beck says.

This couldn’t have played into Maria’s strategy any better. “She is, but doesn’t like to think of herself that way.”

“Slut submissives,” Mr. Beck observes, “need a lot of careful handling. You have to give them enough but control them from getting too much.”

I can tell Maria is delighted with this line of talk about me and in front of me. “Funny you say that, Joshua, but I want to show you something with Shae. You mentioned control…”

Maria turns to me and orders, “Take off your skirt and show him.”

So… I have gotten to some sort of limit within myself. My cock-begging was a deep humiliation in front of this stranger, and now she is requiring more of me. In response to her order, I do not move, and in fact my chin juts out slightly in defiance. I say “slightly,” but Maria notices.

She speaks again, harshly, “I said take off your skirt.”

I had vowed I wasn’t going to do this, defy her, especially in front of a stranger. I was going to play along, give her myself to practice on. But this is deeper shame, and it doesn’t feel like practice. I come to some point of inner tantrum.

In defiance, I don’t budge.

Without another word, Maria stands, walks to me, positioning herself between me and the room. She growls to me in a low hushed voice, “You have a choice. Obey me and take off your skirt or I will shame you to high heaven in front of Mr. Beck. You have no idea how deeply I can and will debase you.”

Her gravelly voice and determined discipline surprise me. Perhaps they shock me into acquiescence, like some sort of slave defibrillator. I suppose in my defiance I had expected a punishment, but her method of standing into my face and giving me a choice was different from what I would experience at the hand of Mistress A or Master M.

“Yes Mistress,” I whisper. I give in, not as a grace to make her dominance easier, but because in this moment she has broken me.

Maria walks back to the couch, sits. She turns to Mr. Beck and says, “Sorry you had to see that.”

“Not at all,” he replies with a smile, “it was very entertaining.”

She says to me, “Now, let’s try this again. Take off your skirt.”

This time I obey. I slide my skirt over my hips to the floor. I step out of it.

“Now,” Mistress orders me, “present your laces to our guest.”

I submissively walk to Mr. Beck and stand before him, my pussy bearing the elastic lace criss-crossing from my holes.

He looks down into my sex with amazement.

Maria says, with a flourish, “I told you that Shae has a number of assets.”

After inspecting and fingering my laced-up pussy, Mr. Beck asks how to undo my lacings.

“I’ve knotted her up,” Maria explains, “so we need a scissors to… cut her open.”

“I’d love to do that.”

“With respect, Mr. Beck,” Maria pushes back, “I’d rather you not do that to my slave right now.”

He accepted that. “As you wish. She is your property.”

Again, she was protecting me, even to the extent of saying no to another dominant. In the moment, despite the conflict of the previous minutes, this endeared me a little more to her dominance.

Mistress would later tell me privately, “I wouldn’t allow him anywhere close to your pussy with a sharp scissors.”

After Mr. Beck’s oohs and ahhs over my labia lacings, I am sent back to my corner of unimportance.

Maria pulls out of her handbag the ankle and wrist cuffs from the morning. She speaks firmly to me in front of the others: “Put these on.”

I do.

She now comes over to me and says, “Turn around so Mr. Beck can see your ass.”

I look into her eyes. She intimately knows my particular embarrassment about my ass and… such things. But this time, I do not protest. I turn around, my body fully naked and perched atop a pair of high heels.

Mistress has me bend over, and she latches my wrist cuffs to my ankle cuffs. I am now presented to the room in doubled over bondage, my laced pussy peeking through. Maria spreads my cheeks, putting my asshole ingloriously on display.

She resumes her place on the couch, and the three of them continue their conversation, now with a portrait view of my sorry rear end.

There are so many things to reflect on in what went down in this last segment of our time with Mr. Beck.

Maria had set up the cock-begging signal for the very purpose of demonstrating it in front of our guest. She knows that for me to beg Master for his cock privately, just the three of us, is not so deep a humiliation. But m y begging Master for cock in front of Mr. Beck was a sharper shame. (I would learn later that Master McKenna knew of the silent signal thirteen but was a little surprised by the timing.)

It was not lost on me that Maria chose not to have me beg Mr. Beck for his cock. In that, I felt, was a slight mercy.

Upon reflection, I was impressed with Maria’s ability to execute my slavery in front of a stranger on the fly. That is, while she had a strategy and some things planned, she ad-libbed through the entire afternoon. She followed the vibe of the social situation and incorporated her dominance of me into the conversation.

Maria has a personal aversion to corporal punishments, so she found another way to discipline me. I have no idea what shame she would have subjected me to in front of Mr. Beck, but I believed in her threat. She met my little defiance with quiet strength.

I caved, she won, and I obeyed.

In time, Mr. Beck leaves. There are goodbyes and “let’s do this again.” It seems he will be back sometime soon.

Late Saturday night, I am reading in the four-poster. Mistress and Master have headed upstairs to bed. I am left alone with my thoughts.

I am aware that during these two days something is happening. Maria and I are finding our dom-sub voices with each other. She is giving me space, space she knows I need, to be sassy and irreverent. Maria is forging with me a kind of playful dominance, one in which our banter and fun can still be enjoyed, even if couched inside a new hierarchy of dominance.

So much to say, but tonight in bed I feel hope in this.

Yes, I had tested the boundaries of her control, stepping over some edges, which she had disciplined in firm and humiliating strokes, as was her right and dominant pleasure. Some of it was hard, certainly humiliating in front of a stranger. I defied her when I had vowed to myself I wouldn’t. So there were hiccups.

And there are still concerns, still things to work through. Maybe this will fall apart still and won’t really work ultimately. But for now, on this night, I am relieved that she has not destroyed the “us” in us.

In bed, I recall something that Maria said days ago before her dominance of me got started: “Shae, you and I share what it means to be submissive, and that has meant everything to me. But I feel that dominating you is a part of you that I do not yet know. You become something more when you’re under Master or Mistress Amanda. I see it, and it’s beautiful. You become this amazing person. I just want to experience you that way too. Not just watching. From my own dominance of you.”

Lost in that memory, I’m about to turn off my reading light when Maria walks in.

She sits at the edge of my bed, and asks,“How are you doing?”

I tilt my head toward her. “So, is this TLC? Are you allowed? You still have a day to go with me.”

She flashes a smile at my sarcasm. “It’s not a time out. Even a dominant gets to ask her sub how she’s doing.”

I nod. “So… you were tough on me.”

“Good,” she replies with a faint smile. “But no more so than Amanda.”

“Maybe not. But at times you took my breath away.”

“What a dominant likes to hear.”

“I was a bitch sometimes,” I admit.

“You were.”

We settle into silence, but one that’s comfortable. It feels good to be alone together.

“You’re real good at this,” I say.

“I know I am,” she says with a confident, relaxed laugh. It isn’t ego but an assured self-awareness. She pauses, then comes back to her original question: “Again, how are you doing?”

I realize she’s actually asking how we are doing. And that starts with her taking my temperature after two days of her dominance. The truth is that I don’t fully know. How I am or how we are. “Still absorbing it all,” I finally say. “But I think I’m really okay.”

“Me too,” she adds. We again settle into an intimate silence. It’s warm, lovely, if yet uncertain. We’re each trying not to fall back into our usual girlfriendishnesss, trying to respect this new thing we are. There’s so much to say, and yet we can’t, not now, say it.

I say: “You are good with me.” I think Maria picks up that I am putting that in the present tense, not just as my report card on the day but perhaps as a characterization of our life to come.

Maria nods, again accepting the compliment as something she knows to be true. I’m not sure how she came to be so dominantly confident.

She gets off the bed to leave but turns back to me and says, “I know you really want me to sleep with you tonight.”

I take a moment, smile. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

“The answer is yes,” I explain, “but for other reasons… not for—”

“I know.”

“But we really shouldn’t,” I say.

“No, not tonight.”

I nod. “But after this…?”

“Yes. We will again.”

And when we do, it will be the same and it will be different.

an explanatory note

I’ve been away from my blog for most of this week, and some have been asking about me. Just checking in to let folks know I’m okay.

My blog reports of my domination by Mistress Maria were “interrupted” by my courtesan engagement with one of the gentlemen, Mr. Alan Devers. I was his companion to a conference up in Boulder this week, starting Wednesday evening. I returned to the mansion yesterday (Saturday).

It was especially unfortunate that I had to pause my posts about Maria, because that experience was so unusual and sensitive. I didn’t mean to leave people hanging. My courtesan gig had been scheduled, and I just couldn’t finish my last Maria post before I left.

Being dominated by Maria was difficult for me — but more in the idea of it than the doing of it. She was actually good (effective) in how she dommed me, and we found another relational space in being dom-sub. But it changed our relationship, for sure. It wasn’t as drastic an upheaval as I had feared, but we’ve had to work through some things.

Still, none of the “Mistress Maria experience” has anything to do with my absence this week. I am doing fine.

I have much to catch up on: one more entry to post on my experience of Maria’s domination and now a report on my time with Mr. Devers. Not to mention many emails and comments to respond to (forgive me for being late to answer).

shae