words from friends and lovers

I’m not sure this post will “work” per se, as it’s a little different. But I’ll try it. Bear with me if it’s a mis-fire…

Some of you readers and followers, as well as others in my circles of neighbors and gentlemen, have been writing about me! That is, you’ve been sending me your fantasies of me (or else your actual experiences of me) in short pieces of writing.

I thought I would post some of these here (with permission), and offer some of my personal responses to what you’ve written.

I find I respond deeply to others’ imaginings of me. It excites me to read these, both emotionally and sexually — yes, they turn me on! — but more than that, I’m touched that you’ve taken time to “enjoy” me in words. Of course, words speak to my heart. And further, that you feel open to share your fantasy with me.

I have thought I might do this sort of post periodically, if I receive other such fantasies. I welcome the interaction and the intimacy with you individually.

(Note that I have done some light copyediting for readability, but these are the still the verbatim words the person has written.)

Reader and frequent commenter “Discover and Explore” (D&E) responded to an older post titled “bath.” It always warms me when readers go back to what I posted years ago — it allows me to relive those experiences and makes me feel like this blog is somehow worthwhile.

That post was early in my life with Mistress Amanda and she was teaching me how to bathe her — a handmaiden service that has continued all these years. For her, it is the ultimate in luxury, and between us it’s become a special erotic ritual, both submissive and sapphic.

“D&E” has extended the scene of that experience into a rather specific technique and climax, as you’ll see…

"Shae, I have an idea," Amanda says. "I want you to please me with your tongue."

"Oh! How?"

"I want you to put your tongue inside my pussy. ” Amanda stretches herself out onto the bed.

"Ma’am, I have never done that before.” 

"Well, that is what I want you to do now."

Her legs are spread wide, her tawny triangle on full display.

"You like, Shae?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think my pussy is pretty?"

"Yes. Very pretty."

"Get on your knees, and put your tongue in me. Only touch me with your tongue. Not your hands. I will tell you exactly what to do…"

I kneel down, and begin to slide my tongue along  her pink flesh.

"Good girl. Now go deeper. Slowly…"

She moans softly.

"Now bring your tongue higher inside me, keeping it deep."

"Now, move it side to side. Slow."

"How do I taste?"

My tongue buried deep in her, I let out a muffled, "Delicious."

"Keep going," she pants.

"Now, move it up and down as deep as you can."

I do as instructed.

"Deeper!" she pants.

My tongue strains to comply.

"OHHHHH yes. There." Her hips arch up off the bed. "Shae, you are good at this!"

"Now, move your tongue in a circle inside my pussy, and suck out my juices."

I do as she says, exploring her hot flowing aperture.

Her juices are flowing, and I let them flow down my throat, as I keep my tongue furiously moving in circles inside her.

"OHHHHHH!” she moans. “I am coming!"

I keep my tongue buried in her, even as her hips buckle uncontrollably up and down. Her orgasm lasts a long time.

After a few minutes, she catches her breath. "Shae,” she says, “you can pull your tongue out of me now."

I look up at her, still on my knees. Seeing her satisfied body covered in sweat.

"So, you suck cock and pussy!"

"Uh, yes."

"What do you like best?"

"I enjoy both."

"Good girl," she says, smiling. "I will add this to your daily chore list--bringing me to orgasm…. Now, put your clothes on, and get ready for tonight"

I;m not sure if D&E was referring to a specific technique of curling the tongue, but I actually do this with Mistress Amanda (and other women I’m with). I guess that curling your tongue is a genetic trait: some cannot do it, though many people can. It’s helpful if you’re trying to do this kind of pussy love. So, yes, I curl my tongue and slide it into Amanda’s vagina. She loves it.

By the way, I first learned to do this in my pre-D/s days when I had my brief affair with Chandra. She could do this with her tongue, and delighted me to no end. It feels like the head of a man’s cock — just its head — pushing into me. Lovely.

Thank you, D&E, for this. It pleases me that you wrote this from my point of view, first person. This way, I experience myself through anothe’s eyes.

“Mister Archie” has been a long time follower, but he’s more than that. He has whispered into my life spiritually as well as erotically. Thank you, sir.

Recently, he wrote a fantasy about coming to the mansion as a guest dominant, and mastering me for two days. It was quite vivid: because Mister Archie knows me so well, it felt crazy realistic.

One particular scene really affected me. In the context, this was on day one of his visit, early in his handling of me. He had arrived in the morning, and this particular event happened before 10:30 am — he wasted no time with me!

As people know, there’s an initial phase of a new dominant “conquering” the slave, possessing or “claiming” her. Mister Archie certainly accomplished that with me… in this way:

I attach your wrist cuffs to the t-bar, and then grab a spreader-bar from the closet and clip your ankle-cuffs to that, and then press the button to raise the bar until you’re standing a-tiptoe, your whole body straining.

I stand back to admire the effect.

Then I being exploring your body with my hands. Your back, your legs, your shoulders, your belly, your ass ( which is much more pleasing that your writing has let on), your teats, and your labia. I examine your pierced labia closely, and spend some time on your nipple rings as well.

I hear McKenna’s voice behind me, “that didn’t take long! Need help finding anything?” He’s passing through the room on his way to kitchen; this is no doubt an opportunity to check on us.”

“No thanks, I’m just enjoying the exploration.”

“So am I, Master,” you assure him. He grins and goes.

You gasp when I insert three fingers into your wet cunt, and my thumb plays with your clit.

You whimper your disappointment when I remove them.

“I intend for make you come many times today and tomorrow. But I want you to ask for permission and wait to receive it before you come every time.”

“Yes, Mister Archie. Will you punish me if I fail, sir?”

“You won’t fail, we both know that. But I do have a punishment in store for you, never fear.”

I re-insert my fingers in your cunt, and use my thumb on your clit. I use my other hand to insert a finger in your ass, and then a second. You’re very excited, I can see. I pump in and out, enjoying your helpless gasping. Soon you speak again.

“Sir, may I please come? Please sir, I’m so close!”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

“‘Come for me now, slave.”

You scream out your first orgasm of the day, and relax, limply hanging from your ankles. I notice Alex in a doorway, watching with a grin.

Of course, I am used to being strung up to the T-bar for corporal humiliation, and that’s what I expected here. But Mister Archie’s purpose was simply to restrict me so he could explore and play with my body. For me, that’s a unique (and arousing) experience, especially with a visiting dominant. Just the idea of this scene affected me a lot.

There are little thingshere that, well, tickle me in way. I had to smile at his aside about my ass (“much more pleasing that your writing has let on”). And when a man refers to my breasts as “teats,” I find that both demeaning and charming at the same time. Nice touches to the account written here.

In the context, Mister Archie arrived at 9:00 am, and has his fingers in my vagina by around 10:00 or so. Must be a world record. And he boldly sticks a finger in my ass. Talk about a man claiming me.

Of course, the big deal here is my orgasm-on-demand, the countdown, and my begging for it. In real life, as I’ve written before, orgasm control is an iffy science, more likely in fantasy than reality. But then this is fantasy.

And so, here, I scream and climax, and fall limp. And Mister Archies’ piece de resistance is to show Alex, of our mansion staff, standing in the doorway watching. And these days, that’s more likely to be real than not.

Reading that, after all of what came before, affected me to no end. As I’ve said to you sir, thank you again.

This last contribution is from one of the gentleman, Chaz, whom I just served as escort for a couple of days in Denver. I know I said I wouldn’t post email letters from the gentlemen here on the blog, but this is just a snippet. I have his permission.

This has to do with my piercings and the large half-moon shell stainless jewelry I wear in my pussy. I am asked many times how it feels to a man, and of course, I cannot speak to that. And frankly, most men have not experienced that with me — mostly just Master McKenna. And now a few of the gentlemen.

Chaz wrote me a letter recounting his time with me. He wrote in considerable detail, and I suppose it was his way of saying he had a good time with me. One short part of his letter explicitly related his experience with my pussy jewelry. So, maybe this answers those who have been asking about that…

One of the unique experiences I had with you, Shae, was when I had you laying out on the bed naked. Well, one of those times! HAH! I guess there were several!

With your beautiful breasts rising up and your legs spread. You were wearing your big pussy jewelry, the metal half-shells. My god! Gerald and Bill had told me about them, but that didn’t prepare me for how hot you look wearing them. They’re a sight to see, let me tell you.

You recommended that I lube you first and get the shells all slicked up. I will always remember the feeling of my dick sliding between those slick metal shells. They’re hard metal but also slippery. Was a feeling I’d never experienced before.

I remember pausing there the head of my dick right at your entrance. And then pushing into your cunt. You were so wet! And you felt warm and thick as I slid into you. Forgive me for being graphic, but fucking you with the shells like rollers along my shaft was really hot for me.

Well, thank you, Chaz… Although with you and the others I would rather not be known and valued for my jewelry and to be just a novelty sex act for you. Still, I know you don’t mean it that way, and I will take it as a compliment. We really did have a good time together, and you made me comfortable with you. And I’m glad you enjoyed my pussy shells! Till next time, kisses…

Again, I’m not sure this kind of post is of interest to others or if it works in any way to accomplish anything. I think I have some desire to share the intimacy that readers and followers (and lovers) have developed with me, in a more public way. In various ways, we all find closeness and connection and sexual intimacy, and it becomes special when shared in words. I guess I hope for that here.

a Sunday hodge-podge — Sunday, March 22

This week, life with Mistress Amanda has been relatively uneventful — by which I mean not so publicly humiliating. She has her dominations of me every day, but mostly it’s at home just between the two of us. Since last week, she hasn’t leash-walked me around the circle or taken me hiking topless along the ridge. This will change, as we are getting into warmer weather again, and she’ll want her exposure-fun with me out-of-doors. But this week I have been kept by her privately, and that’s been nice, its own kind of intimacy.

I am enjoying the cycle of my life these months, which feels like a kind of slow music (what’s the music term? largo?). Yes, this largo I’m in is a slow and broad rhythm: the alternating base line of Mistress or Master every month or so overlaid by the melodic rhythm of escorting gentlemen and couples. It’s a musical genre of submission and intercourse, fulfilling in its way to a woman who is submissive and sexual.

For the moment it’s a slow dance I am most comfortable in.

I do miss Master and Maria. They are ending their board meetings tour early April, and I will soon go back to be in submission to them once again.

Yes, I am conceding now that Maria is above me in position and authority, and I’m okay with that. She is at the very least Master’s dominant assistant, aiding and abetting him in his humiliations of me. And maybe it will become more than that — my being given to her alone for her own special dominance. Of course, we came close to that at one point, but they backed away, wanting to give it more time. But it’s been evolving in more subtle ways.

I have realized that my concern is not my submission to Maria but the potential loss of our mutual love together. I will submit to her leash without resistance if I am assured we can still have what we have been together.

I have come to see my sexual appointments as a particular form of “dating.”

I am escorting a gentlemen every six weeks or so and engaging with a neighbor couple once every season of the year. These are people I have met, know a little, but who are still strangers in any intimate sense. In short, they are quite like anyone I might encounter in vanilla life who finds themselves with me on a date.

And also in bed. But some dates in vanilla life also wind up in bed. Of course, mine always do, so there’s that. And there’s a lot of difference in that my liaisons are arranged for me and the implication of my being bought for the experience. But I can push those technicalities into the background and look at my escort-courtesanships as just dating.

It’s not important to anyone but me, I realize. I know it’s my internal way of avoiding the “promiscuous” label, my way of attaching acceptability to my whoredom. But for now I’ll go with it being just… dating.

Of course, Blake is part of that music I play.

He is back this next Friday, and I will service him within our new “understanding.” That is, I will be to him a kind of cock-whore. I don’t know that, even within my own euphemisms, I can consider him a casual, friendly date. I once tried to think of it that way. But, in what I do with him, it’s hard to call it anything other than what it is.

It will be interesting this next time.

Reading back over this, it feels to me this is a moment of my life where I feel particularly copacetic about what I am and do. I am a sex slave, happily so. The two parts of that mean I serve as a slave in training as well as the sexual interest of people in vanilla life.

For the moment a lot of these parts of my life make a kind of sense. I’ll savor that today, for I know there’s always tomorrow.

cock-worship: a short musing

Someone has asked me to say more about what I call “cock-worship.”

For me, cock-worship is a mindset, a way I approach my servicing of a man’s cock. It becomes a form of devotional meditation as I lick and suck a man, and spawns a feeling of awe and wonder and my own unworthiness.

True cock-worship is fairly rare for me, and only comes into play when I am submissively intimate to the man I’m with. So I worship only those men’s cocks whom I am relationally deep with already. Mostly, this is Master McKenna, though not always — it depends on the vibe and the occasion. (In the past, it was Kevin.) It is not the case, so far, with the gentlemen friends I escort. It is also not so with Blake.

The essence of cock-worship for me is not so much in what I do but what I am. That is, I become aware that I am not worthy to be submissive to Master McKenna, the whole man, but I am to submit only to a portion of him — his cock — as if his penis is my god. It is usually done with me on my knees, most appropriate — as if genuflecting, my eyes unable to see the man’s face but only his manhood shaft and balls. As I write this, it sounds like hyperbole, but I assure you the these feelings and thoughts are very real when I get into this kind of Zen.

In a way, the focus of cock-worship is not sexual. The ritual of it is more about care-taking his member, coating it in healing juices, and offering it tender caresses. Kissing his cock is an act of adoration not sex. Talking it in my mouth is an act of loving the cock that rules my life. Again, these are real feelings within me that emerge when I’m fully in the act of it.

Usually the cock-worship I do is a slower and longer fellatio. There’s no urgency, no necessary outcome. As I attend to his cock, it is as if I am outside of time, within a kind of spiritual bubble. While I do the same physical things as in other cocksuckings, my lips and mouth and tongue are experiencing each aspect of his cock with a meditative sense of awe and wonder and gratefulness. Every kiss and lick and suck is intentional and deeply experienced.

During my cock-worship of him, the man may be doing other things — reading, talking with others, reviewing reports. This emphasizes my relative unimportance to the man and the truth I am not worthy of him and just barely worthy of attending to his cock, like an acolyte. (Indeed, I have submissive entertained a possibility of not being the general sex slave that I am but being reduced to the level of a literal cock-slave, the woman kept at the edge of unimportance until my master requires is cock to be attended to — that my only purpose would be to worship this man’s cock with my mouth.)

In the end, the cock I worship may come or not. That is not the purpose, though it is a lovely epiphany. I walk away refreshed in a way, thrilled to have had this cock-god against my lips, feeling honored to be the cock-worshiper that I am.

conversations with Mistress Amanda

I’m with Mistress Amanda for a good long stretch while Master McKenna and Maria are in their season of board meetings. It’s been lovely being with her again, despite her social humiliations of me, because in her presence I feel “hers” again, which gets lost a little when she is travellng.

Having more time with her seems to prompt longer conversations. Often these are in our living room with each of us at opposite ends of the long couch, our legs propped up, the two us facing each other and sipping wine…

One time I make the mistake of saying, “I kind of miss Blake’s visits. When is he getting back?”

That opens the door for her to tease me: “Seems you’ve had a lot of cocks recently. But you’re needing Blake’s again?”

“I haven’t had a lot,” I protest.

“You had Mr. Jenkins in your mouth and now Jarret as well.”

“You always say it so quaintly.”

“You’re a cocksucker. How else should I say it?”

“Thank you so very much.”

“Blake’s back next week. You’re booked with him on the 27th. But if you can’t wait that long, I’m sure I can arrange someone in the meantime. The neighbors are talking.”

“Talking?”

“Now that Jarret sprayed his cum juice on your face, others are wanting to see you that way.”

“Again, I love your delicate use of words. Cum juice?”

Mistress ignores me: “I’m thinking that now you and Blake have settled on the fact that you are his cock-whore, that everything will be more copacetic now.”

I don’t respond. I know she is baiting me, using language to humiliate me for her private joy. I stick my tongue out at her.

Last night, we get into a discussion about vertical cages. I have written before about how I have a strong desire for one, to be in one, even to be locked in one. “I don’t know why,” I say. “It’s a submissive longing. To be contained, I think. I wish you would get one for me.”

“A vertical cage is so specific,” she observes. “You don’t want a horizontal one. So it’s not just about being caged, in general.”

“The horizontal cage is really just a kennel. As you well know, I don’t have a particular desire to be made into a pet. A vertical cage imprisons me as a human, a woman behind bars.”

Amanda nods. She also has little desire “to make me into a dog.” But she remains puzzled by my longing for a vertical cage.

“You should like the idea,” I say, trying to sell her on it. “It’s a psychological humiliation of me….

“I would have to throw a party,” she says. “I wouldn’t have much interest in just locking you up in a cage every evening just for us alone.”

“Okay, go with the party idea. How would you display me?”

She thinks a while. “Well, I would have you standing in the cage topless. You would have your hands bound to the top of the cage… I suppose commercial cages have a eyebolt for that up above. I’d invite guests to fondle your boobs as they milled about talking… On our walks around the neighborhood they often get to see your boobs, but rarely get to touch them. They’d like the opportunity…”

I nod but say nothing. She is start to imagine the scenario and I don’t want to interrupt.

She continues: “I’m not sure if I’d have you gagged or not. A ball gag to keep you from talking…”

“You wouldn’t want that,” I say sarcastically.

Mistress laughs. “No, I won’t allow intelligent conversation from you… But I think I’d have you in a skirt at first. Just a topless girl in a cage. They’’ll have fun massaging your boobs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“Does that do it for you? Give you the cage thrill?”

“I wasn’t bargaining for the party treatment, but yes.”

“Be careful what you wish for… The party idea makes it work for me,” Mistress says.

“I figured it would.”

“Maybe this summer outside in the new pergola…” Her mind is now spinning with fresh ideas. “I think I’d make a game out of it. Someone wins at a simple party game, and the prize is the key to your cage.”

“I hope the key to my cage isn’t a euphemism for something else.” I quip.

“That’s it… One prize is the chance for someones to take off your skirt in front of everyone. That shows you with your pussy laced up. A prize for another party game is ti unlace your pussy lips… Then a prize for another game is the chance to insert a vibrating egg inside you… And yes, we’ll do something with the remote…”

“Okay,” I say, “I think you can stop brainstorming now.”

Last night, Mistress tells me she has talked with some of the neighborhood couples about sharings of me that would allow her to be present. Her deepest dominant pleasure is in watching me being used and sexed by others.

So far, that hasn’t happened often. She knows it’s a significant challenge for couples to open up their marriages even for me, much less to her as well. She’s been waiting until there’s a second time around.

“Now that a number of couples have tasted you, Shae,” she says, “it might be time for me to show up and watch your fuckings.”

Again, I know she uses language for its effect on me.

“Just a head’s up,” she says. “I’ve talked with Scott and Cecilia. They want you again when they visit this summer. And they’re inviting me in. Should be fun.”

processing my experience with Chaz

As always with these escort experiences, it takes a while for me to process all the sensations and thoughts and comments that I absorbed during my time with a gentleman. I need a few days to reflect.

Also, I have come to realize that my physical body also needs, in a way, to reflect. Or to really feel what it has just experienced. After my two days with Chaz, my body-sex felt “buzzy,” like it was vibrating from him. I don’t mean this in the literal sense of feeling romantically tingly, for clearly our liaison wasn’t romance. I mean this in the sense of my flesh “knowing someone had happened to it,” and my body processing what that was.

I have referenced before a book titled, “The Body Remembers,” a psychology work by Babette Rothschild, which makes the point that our physical flesh has a kind of memory of experiences. She applies this to sexual trauma and PTSD, which is not my account here. My time with Chaz was fun and positive. But, yes, in the days after, my body has been “remembering.”

I can imagine that for every one of the gentleman who has me, he might wish to believe his sex with me has so profoundly affected me that my body still feels him days later. I can’t deny that’s sometimes true, although I’m not sure that can be attributed to a man’s sexual prowess with me. It’s not about that. I think it’s because I am — my body is — particularly impressionable.

But I wonder if my feeling now in the aftermath of Chaz is particularly “body-memorable” precisely because he was more carnal than relational with me. With Gerald and William, there were relationships growing, and my body’s sexual experience was diffused into the relational context of being with them.

With Chaz, it was pure sex, one hundred percent body-sexual. He consumed my body without psychological or relational “distractions.”

In any case, I am still feeling him.

I am accepting these days that I actually am an escort, now regularly being used for sex by various men.

This is a different kind of escorting, for sure. My clientèle is limited to the gentlemen, and my escort “work” is happening just once every couple of months, as it turns out. What I do has the “courtesan concept” in it — I am a gentlemen’s companion for their social functions, among other things. So, I still sort of think of these as “dates with benefits.”

But however I finesse the wording, others are calling me an escort now, and I myself am wearing the label. Yes, I am now an escort, I have to admit.

So, I wonder how professional escorts do this two or three times a week, maybe more. Do their bodies remember? How do they process their sexual experiences?

Probably the surprise of my escort time with Chaz is the very fact that I enjoyed him even though he wasn’t personal with me. As readers know, it’s always been my natural inclination to find a personal connection in my sexual dalliances, and “making meaning” is important to me.

Perhaps that’s because I feel I need to justify my promiscuity in a way. I know that my moral upbringing still speaks into my sexual life. Maybe I need to make a sexual experience relationally meaningful to make it “morally permissible,” in my mind at least. I’m aware of some of these inside dynamics.

With Chaz that didn’t happen. And after the first hours, I didn’t try so hard to “make meaning.” He was friendly with me, not cold or condescending, yet he clearly saw me as a “woman for sex.”

But even in that, his sex with me was not dehumanizing. It was sex not love, but he still made it our engagement in mutual pleasure. We “made sex” together, and somehow for me that was sort of a new experience.

Now, I don’t want this to become the rule, but I can enjoy it sometimes as an exception. I don’t want, perhaps like other escorts, go from gig to gig without thought or reflection or relationship or meaning. I don’t want to lose my soul.

Yet, with Chaz it was a lovely exception.

I think this is a lesson for me that each of the gentlemen will find his own way with me. Each will approach me differently, as he will, and I will need to discover his “vibe” and roll with it. With Chaz, I was able to do that. And, to my own surprise, I liked it.

I will be pleased to be with Chaz again, when that time comes.

Mr. Charles Jenkins

If this account of of my courtesan time with Mr. Jenkins is a bit shorter than others, it is in no way a reflection of my experience with him nor any commentary on him.

But Mr. Jenkins was more “client-like” with me than the others so far. He treated me more as an actual escort than as a personal girlfriend confidante. Which was fine — each of the gentlemen will have their own way with me, I know. But there was somewhat less personal context with Mr. Jenkins to report out on. I was clearly his girl-for-hire.

That leaves me with somewhat less to write about. Though we had a lot of sex.

I accompany him at a small conference at the Grand Hyatt in Denver. It is about biomedical technology, which I know nothing of, but I make it my point to be inquisitive, at least enough.

I drive downtown and meet him at the hotel late morning. I wear one of my business outfits — black skirt and blazer, white blouse, and medium heels. Modest, although I never wear a bra underneath. If my blazer is unbuttoned, my appearance is more sexual. If this is a more formal social group, my buttons conveniently control my presentation.

We enjoy a light lunch and exchange basics. He is friendly, but not as personally forthcoming as the other gentlemen, and with him I feel clearly that ours is to be a professional connection — I am his escort, bought. He comes across as confident, and seems to know how to be with me. Maybe he’s done this before.

I learn that “biomedical” is not directly his business interest but has a bearing on the kinds of devices his company manufactures. He has to keep up with what is happening in the field. He explains he really doesn’t know people at the conference, not directly, and would simply introduce me to anyone as Shae, a friend.

He is about fifty, I might guess, with salt-and-pepper hair, just a few inches taller than me, and cuts a trim, dapper figure. He has an attractive squarish face, but is a bit plain-looking, which is not a criticism, but a description. I find him pleasantly unassuming., a quietly confident man, which is appealing to me.

His name is Mr. Charles Jenkins, but he asks me to call him “Chaz.” This seems to be a kind of common meme among the gentlemen — to give me a personal name for me to call them. I like that.

Over lunch, Chaz asks how I am, about my writing, and about whether I am with Amanda or Mark at the moment. It reflects that he’s paid attention to some of my background and lifestyle details. But it’s never more than polite conversation, and though never cold or cool, feels arm’s-length distant. He is making things personable, but not personal.

After lunch, Chaz and I walk the exhibit floor. It isn’t large — two hotel ballrooms opened into each other — but it takes some time, as he stops at booths to ask questions. He introduces me as “his friend, Shae,” but I think everyone sees me as arm candy. Notably, at one point he tells me to unbutton my blazer, which I take as a gesture to show me off. More on this later.

As we stroll around, he sometimes puts his arm around my waist in back, a familiar gesture, which feels good. He explains some things about the exhibits, but not others, although I never feel he is condescending, thinking I can’t grasp it. Even though I can’t grasp it.

We finish walking the floor around 2:00. Chaz suggests he show me up to “my room.” It is actually an adjoining suite, so I have a bedroom next to his, a door between. Serviceable for his purposes with me.

He says he wants to shower and change and that should take a half hour. He will knock on the door when “he is ready for me.” He hands me a crisp, white dress shirt of his and says he wants me to wear it.

It’s just 2:30 in the afternoon. So soon. Well, okay.

When he knocks on my door, he is wrapped in a fluffy white hotel robe, looking freshly scrubbed from his shower.

I step into his bedroom wearing just his white shirt and nothing else. I’ve left it unbuttoned, and my naked breasts push it out so that it gaps open in front. I feign a pose for him and say jokingly, “Well, it almost fits.”

He chuckles, which makes me feel good.

Chaz draws me to him, slips his hands inside the shirt, and cups my breasts underneath. His hands are warm and smooth, and his squeezes feel firm but gentle at the same time.

I wrap my hands around the back of his neck, lean up to him, and kiss him softly and wetly. The kiss lasts a long time. I feel he is into me, at least in this way.

“There are certain things I want,” he says in a low voice. He’s negotiating the terms of service.

“What can I do for you, Chaz?” I whisper.

He smiles. “Words that any man loves to hear,” he says.

We are still standing in front of the bed, and he has me in his arms, his hand pressing my breast and his thumb flicking my nipple. He feels erotic to me, even though it’s a feeling of odd intimacy with a mere acquaintance. All of the gentlemen are strangers to me in these things, but Gerald and William were more relational. Chaz is approaching me as his paid entertainment for these two days — but I have to admit right now that adds to a kind of illicit excitement of my being with him.

“For now,” Chaz says, “I want to enjoy you on the bed.”

Our sex is mostly silent, but for my little moans and squeaks. He strips the white shirt off of me, taking time to visually drink in my round breasts and the little barbells in my pussy lips.

He pulls off his bathrobe, revealing a trim, tight body that surprises me. He didn’t seem like a fitness guy, but he is nicely… developed. His cock is semi-swollen, hanging a little, not upright yet. Pretty.

Chaz guides my nude body onto the bed, putting me on my back, my breasts like hills mounded upward. He arranges my legs bent at the knees and spreads my thighs apart. Usually when a man “puts me in my place” it has a dom-sub figurative meaning; here, Chaz is doing so literally, arranging my body where he wants. I submit to his posing of me easily.

He now stands between my legs stroking himself, letting his vision of my naked flesh make him hard. He is a confident man.

Somehow, he has made me a very wet woman.

Soon he kneels on the edge of the bed, leans closer, and probes the delta between my pussy lips with his cock head.

And then he fucks me.

I have written before about a man “claiming” me — that, by the sheer presence of his manhood filling me, I somehow feel he has possessed me. This isn’t true every time nor even most times. Often a man is just using me, and I know we are partaking in mutual carnality — I am just sex for him.

Other times, though, when he pulls out of me, I feel his remains, either in liquid form or as a phantom vestige. Somehow the man is still inside me. He has injected me with himself.

This is not necessarily a romantic feeling — in fact, usually isn’t. But it is a feeling of “becoming his.” I walk away feeling connected to him. Forgive me for using the analogy of my being leashed to him.

I don’t know that a man can engineer this to happen with me. I don’t think it has to do with the man’s virility or style or sexual technique. It’s a circumstance of time and mood, an alignment of the vibes.

But this happened that afternoon with Mr. Chaz Jenkins. In his taking me for his afternoon delight, he claims me for the rest of our time together. And I feel the “claiming leash” tugging me into his vortex.

He has made dinner plans with a couple of acquaintances of his, two men who worked for a firm that he did business with. Chaz asks if I have something to wear that is “more showy.” I ask some questions and get his point: he wants to show me off as the escort I am.

I come to my courtesan gigs with a small assortment of possible outfits, half of which I never wear. Part of my “job” as a multi-day escort is to dress appropriately to the various events of the conference. looking attractive and appealing without making myself look like a call girl. In this case, Chaz wants me to look like a call girl.

Still, there’s elegant and there’s trashy, and I don’t do trashy. I have with me a white mini-dress that’s revealing but can be moderated with a blazer or cardigan on top. It folds into a soft roll in the corner of my suitcase, taking up little space. I’ve never used it at these courtesan events, but I pull it out now.

It’s a tight stretchy dress, short-hemmed to mid-thigh, that hugs my curves. Strapless, it has a bandeau bodice that can be adjusted up or down to reveal more or less of my breasts. To the dinner, I bring my white cardigan but don’t wear it, leaving myself bare-shouldered showing a lot of flesh. With white heels, it’s a striking outfit. With me in it, well… Chaz seems to approve. Before we leave the room, he adjusts my bodice to be more daring. It’s a possessive gesture. I like it.

Dinner is uninteresting — business talk about medical technology — except for the testosterone vibe of my being a “working girl” seated in a booth with three men. The other two men clearly know I am what I am, although they don’t comment on it. I ask a few inquisitive questions about their line of work, and they seem surprised I have a brain.

After dinner, the four of us walk around Larimer Square, and Chaz puts his arm around my waist, quaintly protective, though I don’t feel it as a romantic gesture but as one guarding the property he’s paid for.

As we walk back to the hotel, Chaz makes conversation with me, but it again feels to me somewhat perfunctory, as if he thinks its the proper thing to do. Again, this is not a reflection on him — he just doesn’t want to make me his significant other. I don’t mean that he is aloof or cool but that he is collecting just the very basics about me and not much more.

I remind myself that this is sometimes the nature of this kind of courtesan-escort life. I cannot always hope for a deeper relationship. Perhaps I have been spoiled by the others before him who have made me more of a gentleman’s companion than a sex performer. Chaz sees me as having the latter purpose.

So we talk a little but not a lot, and mostly it’s all just on the surface, two people who feel it’s betst to know fairly little about the person they’re fucking.

This is okay by me, but it means I have to adjust my presence and expectations accordingly. He wants me a certain way. And I cannot hope for more.

That night, I wear for him a white chemise, very short, with spaghetti straps and a low lace bodice that shows my curves. I also wear the heavy-metal jewelry in my labia piercings, the half-moon stainless crescents.

He is again in the white bathrobe, and has me straddle him in a chair. My chemise rises up, and he is fascinated by my pussy adornments. He asks about how it felt to have them pierced, and what my sensations are as I wear them now. We talk about that while I’m on his lap.

Soon, we kiss. I whisper to him, “How do you want me tonight?”

He doesn’t have to think about it. “Tomorrow morning,” he says, “I want one of your famous blowjobs. And I have something for us tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, I want to play with you.”

“You have an agenda for me, it seems,” I tease.

He smiles. “Been thinking about it for a while.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

Chaz laughs. For all of his arm’s-length treatment of me, he is likable. And he seems to enjoy kissing. Which for me is always a plus.

“So what does ‘play with me’ suggest to you?” I purr.

“I want to play with these,” he says, looking at my breasts. “And I want to try out all this metal down here. Mark says it’s quite the experience.”

“So you men talk about me like that.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe not. Just curious,” I say. “By the way, I didn’t realize that my blowjobs had become famous.”

“It’s in all the papers.”

I laugh. I like that he is flirting with me. We are being coyly sexual together, and it’s kind of nice.

I lift myself from his lap, open his bathrobe, and pull out his cock. It’s already erect, and I settle back down into a straddle of him, and lay his member against the half-moon crescents of my pussy. His fingers probe me there.

“You’re already hard for me,” I say

“And you’re already wet.”

“I am,” I coo softly.

“Seems we should do something about that,” he says.

I again lift myself from him just a little, and hover my spread thighs over his hard cock. I slowly lower myself, and his cock head pushes open my labia lips, and for a moment probes my opening. It dances there until I gradually settle onto him, as his shaft slides along my metal half-moons. Soon, I feel him occupy the space inside me.

Chaz now cups my breasts, taking my nipples into his mouth one by one, making them swell and tingle. His hands knead my mounds like rounds of bread dough, and I feel my breasts become warm and happy.

In time, he leads me to the bed, lays me out, and looks at me with a smile. He takes off his robe, and I notice again his tight body, not over-muscled, but trim and firm. I know we are, in this moment, in lust with each other. It’s not an intimate knowing nor any kind of love, but the pleasure of bodies and sexual urges and carnal desires.

Chaz stretches his body atop mine, pressing his taut chest against my full breasts, flattening them. His cock is once again inside me, and he pumps his hips to move his cock in and out.

I know he is, in his own words, “trying out” my metal piercings, using me as a novelty of sensation, a sex toy of hard slick stainless and warm wet gooeyness. But somehow I feel okay with that, even excited by it. For all my usual desire to make all sex meaningful, this is different for me. I know he won’t let me do that. He just wants to use my mouth and tits and vagina for a night and a day. I can’t change that, and so I don’t try. I may feel different later, but for now, it’s actually kind of a relief to be his for a season of just casual, playful sex.

I have a come, an unexpected climax, and he holds me tightly as I shudder.

Soon, he comes too, leaving his lust inside me.

The next morning, I walk back into his room around 7:00 dressed in high heels and nothing else. I stand in the hallway a moment, letting him have his eyefuls.

“Whoa,” he says, seeing me. He’s sitting in his chair, again in a bath robe, having showered.

“You might remember me from last night,” I say.

He grows a big grin on his face. “I ordered coffee,” he says, gesturing to rolling room service cart beside him.

“If I recall, you also ordered something else this morning.”

And without further comment, I kneel on the floor before him, open his robe, and take his cock into my mouth.

It still is hard for me to initiate sexually in my escort engagements. As submissive, I’m used to being told how I am to be used. But maybe I’m learning, finding a hidden talent. And now it seems to come out more with Chaz, maybe because I sense this is what he expects. Despite being less interested in me personally, he is surprising fun to flirt with verbally. He is quick in responding to my words, clever in his repartee. Somehow all of this makes him appealing to me, even in the “escort superficiality” of it. All to say, I enjoy coming on to him, even as doing so is a surprise about myself.

I take my time with his cock, making love to it slowly. If I’ve learned anything in my slave life, it’s how to worship a man’s cock. Yes, I’m good at it. I suppose also, since he said my cocksucking was “famous,” I have to live up to the headline. So I cocksuck him long and slow.

He finishes in my mouth, which is nice, his cum coating my tongue and cheeks and glossing my lips.

As Chas subsides, he looks down at my fresh-fucked face and, with a wicked smile, quips, “Now I have to shower again.”

I say sassily, “Oh, it’s so hard to be you.”

There’s a symposium later that morning which Chaz attends. He says it’s fine with him if I take the time to walk around Denver and do some shopping. Which I do. But he says he has something scheduled for us early afternoon.

That something is a new experience for me: a couples’ massage at an upscale spa downtown.

It will take me some time to unpack the dynamics of this, and maybe I’ll go into more detail about it another time. I’ve had spa treatments and massages before, but not with a man beside me, the two of us a “couple.” I am aware couples’ massages are an advertised service for many spas, which provide a romantic room with two tables and two masseuses who do legitimate massage. Chaz has booked us for this, which points to his pre-planning and some interest in doing something different with me. I like that.

The masseuses are two women with strong hands. The massage involves infused oils and warm stones, and is predictably luxurious and wonderful. Chaz and I are both completely nude for it, under small towels, but the massages are not sexual, kept perfectly legit. There’s a dynamic of being this man’s escort, nude, in the presence of two other women, professional masseuses — but I don’t know how to capture that social feeling in words.

After the massage, we have the room for another hour. Now, I don’t know if this is normal practice for a couple’s massage or if Chaz has tipped the establishment for use of the room in the way he used it — and used me. But we had the room and some privacy, although I was aware anyone could walk in at any time.

We are in our states of limp, utter relaxation. Chas has me climb onto his table and straddle him. He removes his towel, and I for the second time today take him in my mouth. I make him hard.

He now has me straddle him, and being the good cowgirl I am, I slide down on his cock, and he is inside me for what has become countless times now in these two days.

Chaz reaches up and fondles my breasts as they jiggle up and down from my movements. A vein in his shaft emerges and strokes my clit like a bow on a violin. I feel the velvet of his cock head touching deep places within me.

There’s something about this setting — private but not entirely private, in a room of scents and oils, having a purpose for pure physical ease and pleasure — that sends me. Being here in such a Zen place with a man who has “bought” me is strange but novel. And exciting.

I come first, yet another time with him, my body shaking as he stays impaled inside me, and I gasp and moan loudly. I lower myself atop his body, our flesh slick and hot, and for a few minutes I fall asleep in his arms.

We are both spent, perhaps in different ways, and our escort date is over. We collect our bags at the hotel and have a kind of awkward goodbye in the lobby.

It’s hard to know what to say at such a moment of farewell, maybe especially with a man like Chaz. He has consumed me carnally for two days in ways that did not develop into a personal relationship. Should I simply say, “Thanks for fucking me so many times?”

Instead, I say, “I had a good time with you, Chaz. It was fun.” Which it was.

He gives me a quick embrace, and we are now just acquaintances again, two people who still barely know each other, even though he has left a lot of his manhood inside me.

a Saturday hodge-podge — Saturday, March 14

As I write this, I am in the midst of my courtesan weekend with one of the gentlemen, Mr. Jenkins. This is a small conference in Denver, which for me is not so interesting, but he has been enjoyable for me, and I hope I have been pleasurable for him as well. We have another day, and I will write about this more next week.

But I have a short time this morning to catch up in a hodge-podge.

A few words about my humiliation at the hand of Angelical and Jarret Martin.

In all of my slave life experiences, it’s hard for me to describe the dual truth of my deep humiliation as well as my submissive fulfillment. Both happen. The humiliation can be harsh, and it feels deep and shameful. As a woman of profound submissiveness, that same humiliation that hurts so bad also fulfills what I am as a slave, and there is a kind of pleasure in it.

This is what happened with the Martins. It hurts to be called a slut and a cunt. I cringe to be considered a whore by them. I don’t believe those things to be true of me, and yet I have to accept that others think they are true of me. I have to live in their reality about me.

But also, despite the way they degraded me, I ultimately felt a deeper satisfaction in “doing good at being the submissive that I am.” Walking away in shame with Jarret’s cum on my face, I found a pleasure in that I “had done good.”

What people don’t get and what’s hard to explain is that these two things — my humiliation and my submissive fulfillment — do not diminish or enhance the other. Because I ultimately experience submissive fulfillment does not reduce the deep feeling of my debasement and the shame of the humiliation. I feel both fully.

As a sex slave, I have to live with that.

In the end, I was paid for giving Jarret a blow job. That’s it’s own shame for me. To be clear, I support the business of legitimate sex work, and I don’t have a problem with someone being paid for services. But that’s not what I wish to be, or be known for.

It was unexpected. Mistress told me to take the money, and I know it was part of the vibe of the whole evening, the Martins’ desire to reduce me to being a literal whore.

Unfortunately, as a result, I have to make this statement, a caveat for neighbors: In my couples’ sharings and any other sorts of ways I may be “enjoyed,” there is no expectation of payment. Mistress does not want this one occurrence to set any precedent.

As my unusual life has evolved, I have become a number of different things to different people. These are sometimes close relationships, sometimes distant, sometimes with near-strangers. My place in their lives is sometimes submissive, sometimes a kind of companionship, sometimes sexual. I am different things to different people. And I am learning to allow those things to develop on their own, not to try to make my presence in someone’s life to be one thing or other.

In this, I am aware that I sometimes have a, let’s say, symbolic, purpose. As an escort to William, I became a kind of alter-ego to his wife whom he still misses, yet he makes me one who does things for him she would never have done. In my sharing with Roald and Theresa, I became a participant in their decade-long marriage, a sexual experience that, it seems, refreshed what they have together. With some of the women in the couples I’m shared with, I represent a chance to experiment with latent bisexuality, and I become a safe sapphic exploration. I become a stand-in for longed-for experiences.

In another way, as a sex slave in public situations, as with Angelica and Jarret Martin, I sometimes feel I have become a symbol for something they harbor within themselves. I recently responded to a comment by “VanillaW,” referring to the classic stories “The Scarlet Letter” and “The Lottery,”about small communities singling out someone for a group punishment and humiliation, shich stands in as a kind of atonement for th society. Like the characters Hester Prynne and Tessie Hutchinson, I am sometimes made to wear the mark of shame or suffer the stones of degradation. Not to inflate myself to that level of symbolic importance, but perhaps through debasing me, others find their own betterment.

I am realizing that, in some way, their insecurities and wished-for pleasures are found in me.

This is now Saturday, and I am back from my escort time with Mr. Jenkins. It was a bit different, but enjoyable. I will write about it shortly.

an unlikely cocksucking

Last week was a rather quiet for me, though with one surprise. On Monday, as Mistress and I were sitting around chatting, out of the blue Mistress says, “There’s someone whose cock I want you service.”

It was blunt and casually matter-of-fact. I looked at her with a little “wait-what?”shake of my head and a blushing smile. “You want me to service every man’s cock,” I said.

“I mean I have someone lined up for you.”

“What, are you going around and marketing me?”

“No. You don’t need any promotion, Shae. Everyone knows what you offer.”

“I don’t offer anything. You offer me, for some reason.”

“This opportunity came to me.”

“It’s an opportunity is it.” Now I’m sassing her openly.

“I think it’s important… Relationally.”

“One of your clients?” I ask this because there’s some background. One of her former clients, Joshua Kemper, had witnessed my disgrace at the infamous New Year’s Eve party. Then, about a year ago, he sat in our living room as I came home from the collective, and on that occasion, Mistress offered me to give him a blowjob.

Which makes it seem like my giving random blowjobs is the standard course of my life. It isn’t. But it did happen with Mr. Kemper.

“No, not Josh. Not a client. This will surprise you.”

“Who?”

“Jarret Martin. Actually, Angelica asked me if you would service him.”

My jaw literally dropped. As readers know, Angelica has been my fiercest critic in the neighborhood, she’s been outspoken against me, portraying me as the neighborhood slut out to seduce husbands. Above everything, she is very protective of her own husband, Jarret. So this was a surprise.

But Amanda has recently made some peace with her, and Angelica has thawed a little. She’s still icy toward me, but warm to Amanda. I think she has come to understand that my slave status demeans me, which is what she wants. Perhaps she just likes seeing my humiliations.

“Jarret?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. We have a date for Friday. It’s a teatime. And you’ll have a little more than just tea. Angelica and I will enjoy watching you on your knees giving her husband some pleasure. Should be fun.”

It was already a done deal, a dominant order, so I didn’t protest. But I had questions. I wondered if this was now going to be a pattern, a regular practice, for Mistress using me with others in the neighborhood. She has had this intention all along. Readers will remember a time when she paraded me around the neighborhood, humiliatingly knocking on doors and begging to suck the cock of the man of the house. That was a failed project for Mistress, but it has always been her fantasy.

“Do you intend to make this a regular thing?” I asked her.

“If I did, does it matter?” she answered. She often answers that way — falling back on the fact that I’m her slave and she can do anything she wants with me. Which really wasn’t my question. But, so be it.

I asked her to explain her comment about this being “important relationally” to Angelica and Jarret.

“I want them to be part of the neighborhood’s enjoyment of you. I sense Angelica wants that too now. She’s opening up to it. For the record, she asked for this. Of course, she wants to put you in your place, but in arranging it, she’s participating. I feel it’s important to provide you in this way.”

Of course, I felt conflicted. A blow job — my favorite thing. But a cocksucking engineered by my nemesis in the neighborhood?

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

Friday, it had snowed all day. What was to be just a trace of snow became half a foot. At five in the evening, Amanda and I bundled up and trudged over to the Martin’s home.

Earlier, Mistress had dressed me for the occasion, saying she had to “slave me up.” She wanted it to be clear to Angelica and Jarret that I was at the bottom of the social order, powerless, helpless to be anything other than a useful slut. That’s how Angelica wanted me.

Mistress dressed me in my dark red silk chemise with spaghetti straps, as if I was prepped for bed instead of a snowstorm. Elegant if I were in a romantic tryst but slutty for an early evening tea. I was, of course, wearing my Swedish slave collar of burnished bronze. I was fitted with all my piercings jewelry — nipple bars and labia shells under my red silks.

She wrapped me in my heavy winter coat and allowed me to wear snow boots, although she brought with her in her shoulderbag a pair of red high heels for me to put on when we got there.

Finally, with me all buttoned up, Mistress pulled out the medium spreader bar and attached it to my wrist cuffs behind my head. This is her new thing these days, and she wanted to show it off to the Martins.

As we walked through the snow, my arms were bound to the bar behind my head. Just like a slave girl.

Angelica welcomed us in, seeming to enjoy way too much my spreader-bar bondage, and engaged Amanda in friendly banter about the surprise weather. She didn’t speak to me, but I could feel this was, this time, not out of personal angst against me but rather her observance of my lower social status — in her mind, at least.

Mistress temporarily freed me from the spreader to get out of my winter coat, but soon re-installed it. I slipped out of my boots and into the dark red high heels. Their hallway was cold from the outside air, and being dressed in only a thin chemise, I shivered, my nipples underneath becoming perky through the satin.

We sat on the couch in their living room. Angelica said that Jarret was getting ready and would be out soon. She’d prepared a tea service and asked if we’d like some.

“I’d love some tea,” Amanda said, “but Shae won’t have any. She’s, obviously, indisposed.” Angelica laughed at that.

I had been told earlier not to speak unless I was invited to, and I don’t remember saying a word the whole time. Mistress wanted to control my presentation, and her words here, speaking on my behalf, seemed to please Angelica considerably. Sitting with my hands spreadered behind my head, wearing an outfit that could only be intended for sexual purposes, and now unpermitted to speak, I was easily dismissed as the slut Angelica wanted to look down upon.

They talked a while. Eventually Jarret came out to join in. He looked at me with raised eyebrows. His expression turned into a smirk of condescension.

He wore gray lounge pants and a white long-sleeved tee. Jarret is, I would guess, in his early forties and wears a stubble beard that gives him a hip-masculine look. Angelica’s fierce protectiveness might suggest he is a cuckold, but I have found that’s not really so. He has a strong virile bearing to him, and in conversation spoke confidently and forcefully. I sense he actually is the “head of the house,” but concedes certain things to Angelica. Which is, in a way, a lovely thing.

Jarret poured himself tea — a mug not a dainty teacup — and he joined in the conversation, occasionally stealing glances at me all dressed for bed. They all talked awhile about neighborhood matters. When they asked anything that pertained to me, they directed their questions to Amanda, who spoke for me. Some of the conversation was pointedly humiliating.

“I hear,” Angelica said, “Shae’s doing a lot of slutting around… with all of McKenna’s friends now.” Amanda tried putting a better spin on it, but still played into the scene: “She’s escorting, yes, with them. Just Mark’s golf friends, a group special to him.”

“How many?”

“Six. It’s a gentleman’s companion sort of thing — social, business conferences and the like…”

“No doubt she’s good at it.”

“Let’s just say she’s getting good reviews.”

I sat blushing, the exposed slopes of my breasts reddening above the bodice of my thin chemise. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jarret Martin drinking me in, perhaps anticipating my upcoming service.

“May I ask,” Jarret inquired, “How much the men pay for fucking her?” The question was, I know, intentionally pointed and sharp.

“Mark uses tokens, and he has a system for it,” Amanda replied. “It’s like his own private crypto currency. The men buy into it initially with seed money and then can trade or earn more. They wager with it at their poker parties, golf games. But I don’t actually know how much they buy her for.”

Angelica spoke up:: “So, that Blake guy, how much do you charge him for her to give him a blowjob?”

“I don’t.” Amanda sipped her coffee. “Originally, I went to him, offered her for free. I knew that Shae needed it. I’ve just continued on that basis.”

“Of course, she needs it,” Angelica said. “That’s who she is… Amanda, would you like more tea?”

“I would, thank you.”

Angelica brought the teapot over and filled her cup. “I think that’s what I didn’t understand at the beginning,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Well, Amanda, you have a slut on your hands. That’s obvious. And Jarret and I have a previous experience with someone like that. She was a piece of work. Unrestrained. But what I didn’t realize is how you much you channel your slut’s appetites into these kinds of controlled… services.”

“That makes this different for us,” Jarret said. We didn’t see her that way at first.”

I continued to remain mute, absorbing all this talk about me. That was my submissive requirement in this social situation, I knew. But as I sat there, stiffly upright at the edge of the couch, my arms shackled into a spreader bar, I realized this was conversation posed for a couple of purposes. One was for Mistress Amanda’s pleasure in hearing me talked about in a sexual way — it serves that part of her dominant desire. The other was to navigate this thawing neighbor relationship with Angelica, who needed to be assured that she herself was above me and that I was too lowly to be a credible threat to her marriage.

There was more conversation, some about me and some not. I tuned out after a while.

Angelica said, “Shall we get the party started?”

Amanda took a sip of her tea and set her cup down. “Yes, but first, thank you for allowing me to sit in and watch. This is my great pleasure, you know, with Shae. And Jarret, you assured me my presence would not be a problem. But I just want to be sure.”

Jarret offered a sly smile. “The more women the merrier.”

“Wonderful… So, Jarret, how would you like her? You have options. The spreader can be on or off…”

“I’d like to try her with it on,” he said. “And I want to see her big tits.”

“Very well. Do you wish to be standing or sitting?”

“I’ll stand.”

“Lovely,” Amanda said. She temporarily unhooked the spreader bar in order to slip the spaghetti straps from my shoulders. She peeled down the bodice cups, revealing my pale breasts to the eyes of Jarret Martin.

Mistress installed me into the spreader again, making my arms immobile and my tits subject to whatever people wished to do with them. My nipples bore the metal glint of barbells though my piercings.

There was a long silence as both Angelica and Jarret eyed me. I wondered what each was thinking. I guess I kind of knew what Jarret was thinking. But was Angelica seeing me in the light of Jarret’s lust, or was she scanning my tits with the satisfaction that my slutness was now more obviously exposed?

He did not ask to touch them, fondle me, which surprised me, but I took it to be a kind of agreement between husband and wife — a hand’s-off session.

And now Amanda surprised me. She pulled out of her shoulderbag the “liberty bells.” One by one, she removed my barbell jewelry and threaded my nipples with the loops of the hanging bells. She flicked each of them, and they pealed a soft clang.

The Martins both howled with laughter. I knew this was part of Mistress’s strategy to diminish me further in their eyes.

As I recall it, Jarret then stood up in front of his chair, and I assumed my place on the floor before him, my bells jangling as I knelt.

Angelica said, “I have my own request. I want Jarret to shoot his come on her face.”

Amanda replied, “I think that would be lovely.”

All of it was for me a social humiliation of the highest order. It was also a desire of cocksucking about to be fulfilled, as well as a submissive desire that was being attended to by the very humiliations that debased me.

Sometimes I just don’t know how to feel.

Jarret slipped his lounge pants down. His cock unfolded, falling out, and Amanda murmured a soft, low “Oh!”

Angelica giggled and said “I know.” I don’t think I ever heard her giggle before.

Jarret’s cock was long and thick. Just plain big. With my face just inches from it, it looked like a very large slab of plump sausage. My eyes opened wide. As readers know, I’m not one to over-value size, as I find every man-cock to have its own delectable wonderfulness. But Jarret indeed had a cock of impressive… presence.

Bound to the bar as I was, I could not enjoy his member with my hands — a pity. I leaned into his flesh with my face, kissing the top expanse of his shaft. I angled my mouth under his length and licked him in a long slather. I kissed the soft velvet head of his cock, tasting his salty essence.

Angelica and Mistress Amanda were seated on opposite sides of Jarret and me, with clear views, and I would learn later that the two of them exchanged looks and smiles the whole time. “She’s good at this,” Jarret said.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Angelica added derisively.

I slid my lips over his penis, and felt him grow harder in my mouth. To me, that’s always the most glorious thing. As I slid over its length, it tickled the back of my throat. He was a lot to take in, and I thought I might gag, but but forced myself to open and relax. His cock inched further in, actually down into my throat.

Like that, I swallowed him over and over, my mouth rolling back and forth over his shaft. My breast bells clanged with my movements.

“Ar you enjoying yourself, my love?” I heard Angelica ask.

Jarret breathed in deeply: “I am… she’s a good slut.”

“Good? I don’t know. But she’s a slut, for sure.”

As I sucked him, the two of them engaged in this kind of banter — which seemed to be an intimate sharing between them, their own kind of love language laced with commentary on my lower status.

I remember Jarret saying, “Look at her! It’s like she’s meant to have a cock in her mouth.” That sparked Amanda to talk about how she has looked for a particular cock gag for me: “I want one that has lifelike latex testicles hanging on the outside of her mouth Not just solid latex but pliable, hanging and swinging.”

“I’d love to see you parading the cunt around the neighborhood wearing a gag like that,” Angelica said.

“But I can’t find that product anywhere.”

“Well,” Jarret added while his cock was in my mouth, “we’ll help look online.”

“Speaking of which,” Angelica said, “Jarret, I want to see her suck your balls.”

“I heard she’s good at that too.”

“Who?”

“Roald told me.”

All the while, my mouth was wrapped around his hard penis and I was going down on him repeatedly. My bells provided the background music to my disgrace.

It’s complicated for me to express the experience of being degraded.

I accept my reality: my submissive life necessarily involves forms and degrees of debasement. I am submissive, after all, which means I am required to do things beneath me, below my natural dignity. The most basic BDSM activity of being whipped or spanked is accepted as common — yet it is a degradation. And it’s part of the point, part of the experience. Being submissive is indeed a lower level of life, a life of debasement, and I have chosen to live in it.

I know some are squeamish to read my humiliations, and I appreciate their empathy. I cannot soothe those sensitivities by saying I like being degraded. It’s not that simple. I really don’t. Like anyone else would, I feel the full diminishment of being humiliated, being treated like a slut and whore. I cringe in my disgrace.

And yet, I find submissive pleasure in it. I don’t know how to explain this. I know my dominants’ pleasure is found in debasing me, reducing me to sexual uses, putting me in situations of disgrace. To some degree, I find satisfaction in making that dominant pleasure happen — even when such things demean me.

But it’s more than that. Part of my submissive pleasure is realized in being taken beyond my comfort zone, being made to do what I wouldn’t normally do, being ordered to perform acts in ways that disgrace me. I cannot deny this.

So when I am demeaned, yes, I feel every moment deeply as my disgrace. Yet, it fulfills me in some deep and inexplicable way.

So, as I was on my knees with a neighbor man’s cock in my mouth, being watched and judged by his wife, I felt the full brunt of their very intentional degradation of me. When Angelica referred to me as a cunt, I felt reduced to that, and I knew this is what she wanted to see. For her it was a confirmation about what I was.

All the same, I was a submissive slave in her glory. If you can call it that.

Jarret’s cock was delicious. And, perhaps complicating this whole discussion of debasement, I really do so much enjoy a man’s cock in my mouth. I might wish to savor him in less humiliating situations, but I do so love it. I admit my desire, even need, for cock.

Without use of my hands, I had trouble getting my face underneath Jarret’s thick shaft and getting my mouth around his balls. But I managed, and soon I had one of his balls in my mouth. I washed it there, rolling it side to side, and sucking it. Jarret moaned, my bells clanged, and Angelica giggled again.

As I washed his other testicle, I felt Jarret stiffen, and he moaned.

“Are you ready, my love?” Angelica asked.

He grunted, “I’m close.”

“Remember, I want to see it on the cunt’s face.”

Jarret nodded. I continued awhile with his cock between my lips, sliding my mouth over it, in and out. He was as swollen as I could imagine, filling my cheeks with his girth.

In a quick minute, Jarret came. He pulled his cock out just in time, pointing it at the middle of my face. He spurted a thick shot of cream over my cheek and the bridge of my nose, then another shot into my right eye. He squeezed another dollop onto my red lips, making them glisten.

Then he was done with me.

Angelica said, “Let me see,” and I turned on my knees toward her, my bells jangling, and my arms still locked into the spreader bar behind my neck. I looked up at her in my splattered disgrace.

“You did her good, Jarret.” she said.

He walked around to look, his cock still hanging out but subsiding. He nodded at his handiwork.

His cum started to drip down my face like raindrops on glass, and I remember the odd feeling of thinking I should catch it before it stained their precious carpet. But I couldn’t — my hands were bound.

Some of his pleasure fell on my breasts.

Jarret left to clean himself up. Angelica offered Amanda more tea, as if this was a usual afternoon social. The two of them chatted longer as I remained kneeling on the floor, my arms still spreadered, my face still coated with his cum.

Eventually Jarret returned. He handed me a rolled up wad of cash. “Thank you for your services. We hope to have you again.” I didn’t want to take it, but Amanda nodded to me, and I did.

Mistress bundled me up, and we all bade our goodbyes.

It had stopped snowing but was cold. I was still bound to the spreader.

Jarret’s cum froze on my face as we walked home.

my life in spreader bars, Sunday

During the night, Mistress transfers me from the long steel spreader into the shorter hands spreader, and settles me under the covers of my own bed. She is determined to keep me in the spreader experience for the full weekend.

Sunday morning, while in the hands spreader, I manage to prepare coffee and scones for her. She is pleased I am standing there with the tray when she comes out from her bedroom.

She says nothing about our night in bed but is warm and engaging with me, which she is when she’s been satisfied. We talk awhile on the couch. Not about bondage or spreaders, but about her work and some of the issues a member of her family is dealing with.

In the hands spreader but can sip my coffee by raising both hands toward my mouth. Every different type of spreader presents a completely alternative set of challenges. I have learned to accomodate my limitations and possibilities in each.

Mistress asks me if I want to go to church, and I say yes, but I donn’t have to: “Seems we’re… in the middle of something,” I say.

“Maybe you need a reprieve.”

“I wouldn’t go just to be free again.”

“I know. I want you to be able to go.”

As I’ve said before, Mistress is not a religious person, but she respects faith in others, and she knows my church has become important for me.

And so, I go church.

I won’t belabor this, but there’s a meaningful connection between my slave life and certain religious themes. There is “bondage to sin,” and “freedom in saving grace.” Personally, I wrestle with many definitions of sin, but I do hold to the idea of human lostness and the need for spiritual grace.

The sermon this Sunday is not about any of those themes, but I can still feel where my wrist cuffs have been and remember the bondage of spreader bars. Having been bound in them so long make me grateful for this little taste of freedom — a touch of grace during a weekend of bondage.

The dissonance is that I don’t believe my slavery is a sin nor do I need to be free from it. Still, these themes pinged back and forth in my mind as I participated in the liturgy.

Upon returning home, Mistress tells me we’re going for a walk around the neighborhood.

It’s a bit warmer than Saturday, but still chilly. Mistress has me wear my dark blue cardigan to cover my shoulders, but she keeps it unbuttoned in front so my breasts can be seen bulbing out. She has me in a short wool skirt in blue plaid and dark blue heels. Then she puts me into the long steel spreader.

As we set out down our long driveway, my breasts feel utterly naked and bouncy. I have been walked around the neighborhood topless before, of course, but I never get used to it — it’s always public. And being so absurdly stretched out along the steel spreader, I feel all the more exposed and vulnerable.

It’s hard to describe how the neighbors regard this with a sense of normalcy, how they take it in stride that I am half naked walking around in public. They just do. Mistress Amanda has accustomed them to this, and it’s become our neighborhood “normal.” It’s also a result of the somewhat closed-off nature of our little development and the road that encircles it. I’ve written in detail about that before. My revealed slavery is public to our neighbors, yet sheltered from a larger audience. In this, I think neighbors like the idea of my boobish exposure to them outside, along the road, in their driveways and yards.

Being Sunday, our neighbors should be home from work, yet it seems many are away shopping or running errands. But Christopher Hawkins drives by — he’s in his car not on his bike for a change — and he honks, pulls over, and talks with Amanda about the spreader bar. On this naked walk, it’s the spreader bar that’s the topic of conversation, not my breasts. Still, Mr. Hawkins ogles me, gets his eyefuls of my round and now goose-bumpy tits. And I blush. He says he has to go and seems regretful that he has an appointment to get to.

We walk on. Theresa is working in her garden as we pass by, and Roald bounds out of the house, saying, “Haven’t seen those in a while!” They come down to the road and talk with Amanda, who expounds on the purpose and experience of spreader bars. I remain silent, thinking that spreaders have no purpose or point — which is the point.

As they chat, Roald looks over to Theresa and gestures to my breasts. Theresa forms an exasperated smile and nods her permission. Roald cups my left breast with his hand, squeezes me. He repeats with my other breast, making a joke about each of them “getting equal time.” But once he’s had his fondles of me, he engages me in an unlikely adult conversation about my writing and the collective. It’s all very odd but yet somehow how things are meant to be these days.

I can’t help but recall my night with Theresa and Roald downtown, my memorable moments in bed with them. How odd my life is, to be their one-time escort and now this slave girl on a spreader bar. But they seem to take it in stride.

The conversation ends, and Amanda and I move on.

I am actually hoping to see Stacy, but she is not around. Helen Franklin, however, is in her garage, sees us, and walks down to the road to chat. She eyes my spreader bar and soon nods to herself that this makes sense, that this is how Shae is meant to be presented in public.

Helene says to me with a grin, “I like your outfit.” Her eyes twinkle.

Standing there in my plaid skirt, high heels, and open cardigan, with my arms stretched across the spreader, I remember an old Carol Burnett line, which I adapt: “Well, I saw it in the store window and I couldn’t resist.”

She laughs.

Our chat with Helene reminds me that, despite my embarrassed exposure and “never getting used to it,” I feel a kind of comfort in the presence of our neighbors. While they have participated times ago in my humiliations, sometimes harshly, sometimes as a group, still I have come to really like each of them in individual ways. And maybe I like them because, as I am walked on a leash around their neighborhood, they accept what I am and enjoy me in it.

Mistress keeps me in various spreaders the rest of the day, well into the evening, a period of time which is uneventful. But not without mental and psychological significance.

I’m not sure when, but at some point I relinquish myself to the circumstance. That is, I accept that this too is possibly my lot in life — to live my days locked into a spreader bar. I don’t actually believe that will happen, but I do start to imagine Helene’s suggestion that a spreader is part of my outfit in a literal way. I think about selecting my outfit for the day — skirt, blouse, shoes, and a spreader bar. I wonder if there’s a way a spreader could be “self-installed” and “self-released.” I think about going to work in a spreader and taking it off in my workspace, hanging it on a hook while I write. I imagine myself shopping with Amanda while I’m spreadered, what that would feel like and how people would react. These are all a bizarre fancy, my strange thoughts, but after living two days this way, my mind goes there.

There’s also a Zen quality to being spreadered for so long, a kind of meditation space. Not subspace really, but a mindful peace that settles over me. It’s a threshold you get to in the submissive life, a moment when you relinquish yourself to the life of bondage and of being available.

In this case, by Sunday night, Iafter a weekend in spreader bars, I stop thinking about what “I can’t do,” and find comfort in the feeling of being kept.

my life in spreader bars, Saturday night

Spending time between Amanda’s luscious thighs is for me a little place of heaven. Whether in the throes of love-making or slave-serving, it’s a sweet, delectable pleasure for me. But to do so while in the bondage of a spreader bar adds another layer to the experience…

In her bedroom, she undresses me, though there’s not much to undress — just my skirt and heels — and I realize I have been topless all day. It’s not that I ever forgot that my breasts were naked to the world — I always feel my exposure, even if just to Amanda and Dayna — but tonight it is a new awareness that I have spent the whole day this way, as if being topless is my natural condition.

This undressing moment — with me standing stretched along the long steel spreader — is far from sensuous and romantic. It’s prep for an experiment in heavy metal sex, so to speak. I say to her unceremoniously, “Would love to return the favor, Mistress, and undress you, but I’d probably injure and maim you.”

Mistress doesn’t laugh, but she smirks, slipping out of her jeans and tee. She stands before me. tall and ravishingly slender, once again reminding me of the everyday lust I feel for her, a kind of always-on thrum that is the background music to my life with her.

She tells me to stretch out on the bed, face down. Since I can’t use my hands, I have to stand at the foot of the bed, kneel on its bottom edge, and awkwardly fall forward, my breasts crushing against the comforter.

“Spread your legs,” she orders.

My face buried in the bedding, I offer a muffled, “Why?” Of course, this is D/s slavery 101 — you don’t ever ask your dominant “why.” He or she should never have to explain.

She puts up with my indiscretion and goes into the other room. She returns with the medium spreader, and affixes my ankles to it so that my legs are gaping open.

I ask, “Is this when you bring in all the men waiting in the living room?”

I’ve probably used up my measure of good will with her, as she now reaches over and spanks me once, hard, on my butt cheek. It’s sharp enough for me to yelp, but I feel it’s not serious in intention. Maybe I’ve still got some tolerated sass left in her bank.

She says, “I’m taking a shower.”

I remain naked, face down on the bed, spreadered at both my ends. The heavy steel of my arm bar weighs against the back of my neck. I feel my ankle spreader exposing my pussy below to the bedroom air.

As she is in the shower, I am aware that this looks comical in a way, though some might see the sight of me immobilized on the bed to be erotic. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the supreme purpose of a sex slave as being a fountain of unlimited possibilities for a dominant, who can do anything he or she wants with me. There’s something in that unrestricted permission that’s erotic for us both.

I think about that now, aware that my spreadered figure on a bed is, while comical, the perfect icon for “unlimited possibilities.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mistress emerges from the bathroom. With my head turned, I see her sideways. Her body is pink and dewy. She sits, naked, at her vanity and puts on some light makeup, lipstick. I know this is a ritual for my sake, emphasizing the romance of the evening that I cannot really enjoy. She is so glowingly alluring.

But the absurdity that is me — all spreadered and unglamorous — prompts my sarcasm: “You know, there’s a better way of doing this.” I think it’s a funny line, suggesting a couple imagines the only way sex can be done is through bondage in steel bars.

She says, “It’s time for you to shut up.”

And so I do.

She takes her time, but eventually climbs onto the bed. Mistress centers herself, then slides her torso down toward me, bending her knees and spreading her legs.

“Lift your head.”

I do, and she slides down farther. Now her pussy is pushed right into my face.

“Service me,” she says without feeling. She reaches for a book from the nightstand, and starts reading.

So it’s going to be like this.

I start to lick her.

I cannot touch her with my hands. I cannot caress her flesh, cup her tear-drop breasts, kiss her button nipples. I cannot make love to her as I wish. I only can use my tongue upon the soft folds of her womanhood.

She is reading, so intentionally nonchalant about me below, but her labia can’t help but slowly swell from my kisses. My tongue separates her lips into long puffy rolls to either side like tender gnocchi, and I taste their pillowy and salty wetness.

I am buried in her, now literally, but my whole life is interred inside hers, covered by the earth of her being. My nose is deep inside the tailored tuft of hair above her pussy. I smell her natural moss coupled with the rose soap of her shower.

I hear Mistress turn a page of her book. I will ask her later if she was really reading, and she will say with a serious “Yes, of course,” but her mouth will turn just ever slightly, and I will know.

My lips kiss her labia over and over, and my tongue probes her folds inside. I take my time, which I know she is hoping for, enjoying the banquet slowly, waiting for the longest time to get to the dessert.

Now I hear her breathe audibly, a soft and hushed inhale.

I myself feel aroused, yes, from the tactile pleasure of my soft mouth against her soft pussy, but also from the submissive experience of being rendered as nothing more than her sex toy.

She is juicy now, her pussy an open peach dripping nectar, smearing itself over my lips and chin. I hear her moan.

She continues to read, or try to read, and I continue to lap her vulva like a puppy slurping from a dog bowl. As I say, our sex is either mutual love-making or dom-sub slave-serving, depending on her mood, and either one thrills me. This is certainly the latter, but yet another thing altogether, some new and bizarre twist of an experience. Just the novelty of it makes me tingle.

I hear Mistress put her book down. She adjusts the bedside lamp to a dark glow. We now co-exist in a sexual dusk, mutually silent but for the slicking sounds of my lips and tongue milking her pussy.

In time, my tongue slides higher, occasionally gracing her clit, randomly. Dessert.

Mistress breathes harder, more audibly, more quickly. I feel her hand on the back of my head.

And now my lips close around her clitoris, the throbbing nub of this amazing woman, and I suck it into the swirl of my mouth. Amanda groans loud, and her body tenses. This is for me forced, one-sided, submissive — but I hope she knows it still is love.

I release her oh-so-sensitive pearl from my wet lips, but continue to flick it, flick it, flick it, with my tongue. She oozes wet.

I hear her gasp and feel her hand clench my hair. I suck her clit into my mouth again, and this pushes her over some cliff.

She trembles. She releases. She goes limp.

We both fall asleep, my face buried in her sex.

My arms remain extended. Like I’m flying.