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.

my life in spreader bars, Saturday

When I came to her a week ago Friday night, she put me in a spreader bar, and kept me “spreadered” for much of the weekend. I suppose it was Mistress Amanda’s way of reclaiming me into her dominance after our long time apart.

Spreader bars are not new in my slave life, but their use is rare. And I don’t believe either of my owners have ever kept me in spreadered bondage for a couple of days straight.

Like Saturday and Sunday.

Saturday morning at 7:15, I stand outside the kitchen bearing a tray of coffee and scones for my mistress. This is our daily ritual. She emerges from her bedroom at around 7:45, having intentionally made me wait, as she usually does. The tray becomes heavy on my arms, but I endure.

Perhaps it’s because we’ve been apart for such a while, but she looks ravishing in her tight jeans. She wears a white long-sleeved tee, knotted to the side to draw the cotton around her curves. Amanda always dresses elegantly, even when she dresses down for a Saturday.

Mistress pours her coffee from the tray. “You look amazing,” I say, and she fumbles a slight smile that makes me think she has hoped for that reaction.

“Well,” she replies, “yes, glad you noticed… and you look nice too, though as usual, you’re over dressed, but we’ll fix that soon enough… Grab yourself some coffee while you can… I have a surprise for you.”

She goes to the hallway, pulls out from the bed chest a pair of leather wrist cuffs, and puts them on me. From the front closet, she emerges with a long bar, a steel spreader, some five feet long. This is new.

Mistress tells me to take off my top, which I do, rendering my breasts out and naked in the drafty air of the house. Soon she has fitted the spreader with carabiners, and mounted my wrists to it.

Some shoulder spreaders are a bit shorter and render one’s arms bent at right angles — making the victim look like she is lifting weights. This one stretches my arms straight out as far as they can go, giving me the unholy look of a topless crucifix.

Mistress steps back and scans me. He head starts to nod as if his was the look she had imagined. She is enjoying this to no end.

She walks close, and takes my breasts in her hands, squeezing them like melons in the grocery store. Bound as I am, I can’t do anything about it, though I wouldn’t want to anyway.

“You know,” I say with sass in my voice, “if you simply wanted to play with my boobs, you could have just asked me. We don’t need all this hardware.”

She again flickers a smile but doesn’t smack me, which is a sign she’ll be tolerant of my sarcasm today. With her, I sometimes do this — use a bit of my sauce to test her level of tolerance. We’ve been away for so long, she wants to hear my voice. Maybe also my cheeky wit.

Mistress still is cupping my breasts, and she replies, “It’s more fun this way.”

“Fun for you,” I say.

“But that’s the point, is it not?” She tweaks my nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, making them tingle and grow.

“It is. But if I am to be your fun, there are other ways.”

“I have missed these,” she says, as if my breasts were a pair of long-lost slippers. She fondles them some more. “What other ways?”

“A normal person,” I say cheekily, “would just take me to bed. In fact — maybe you hadn’t heard — these days a lot of normal people are taking me to bed. It’s all the rage.”

Mistress laughs. “When ever, slave girl, did you think we were normal?”

“Point taken.”

“My fun is to see what you can do wearing this.”

Which becomes the agenda for the morning.

I find I can situate this long spreader either in front of me or in back. In front, I can rest it on the top slopes of my breasts; in back behind my head, I can bring it down onto my shoulders. My arms, thankfully, don’t have to bear the weight all the time. But still, it’s heavy.

What you learn quickly is that in such a long spreader, you can’t just walk through a doorway. I have to slide through it sideways. You also soon realize that this arrangement prevents your hands from touching your body in any way. I cannot relieve an itch or blow my nose with a Kleenex. In this crucifix, there’s no way.

“You’re going to be in this awhile,” Mistress says ominously, “so you best get used to it.” She gives me time to walk around through the house and learn how to navigate doorways and furniture, sit and stand, figure how to do the simplest of tasks.

In the kitchen, I manage to pour myself a cup of coffee, but it requires me to angle myself, and in so doing, behind me I nearly shatter the glass on the front of one of the cabinets. It’s tempting fate for her to put such a natural klutz like me into a long spreader, and in such a small space where there’s glass.

I find can lift the coffee pot with my arm extended almost three feet away. But I have to eye the distance to my mug, so my pouring isn’t pretty. And, once my coffee is sloshed into the mug, I realize I have no way to actually drink it.

Mistress Amanda watches me adapt to my bondage, enjoying my frustrations. She sees me try to drink my mug of coffee by setting it at the edge of the kitchen island, leaning my head down to it, wrapping my lips around the brim, and slurping it up. She picks up a towel and wipes the dribbled coffee from my chin.

“See if you can serve me a mug of coffee,” she says.

I figure it out: I stand sideways to her, judging the distance, take the coffee mug from her hand, and set it on the counter. As before, I take the coffee pot and pour, this time without slosh. I’m able then to pick up the mug and return it to her waiting hands.

She says: “You can’t serve yourself, but you can serve me.”

I reply: “That’s your wet dream, isn’t it.”

She asks me to serve her a scone, and I repeat my process with the pastry and a small plate without doing structural damage to the house. I feel the awkwardness of my spread-bound arms in some kind of induced rigor mortis.

We settle into the living room, and I kneel on the floor before her, my arms helplessly extended.

“I think this is a success!” she says, beaming.

“For you, maybe,” I reply. “By the way, I have to go to the bathroom. You gonna help me with that too?”

Amanda does not just free me from the spreader to use the bathroom. She transfers me into the short spreader. This separates my hands about a foot apart. In the short spreader, there’s nothing much that I can’t do — it’s just more awkward and takes more time. I can manage in the bathroom. I can fold towels or scrub the floor. And in the short spreader I can eat food, although not if it requires cutting something with a knife and fork in opposite hands.

We own three spreaders, now four, of different lengths. You’d think this suggests our use of spreaders is a common thing, but it’s not. This is an very occasional kink of Mistress Amanda’s. She likes this kind of bondage because I am mobile in it, which makes it potentially public and social. In fact, I have served tea to neighbors in the short spreader. They seem to find it very entertaining.

Mistress also owns an adjustable spreader that has holes and a spring pin like a curtain rod. Its various lengths allow Mistress to restrict me for specific purposes. However, she doesn’t like this particular one because, well… it looks like a curtain rod.

Actually we have a humorous story about that. This is our second adjustable spreader bar. This was a couple years ago. The first one I broke.

When I later reported this to Master M, he was incredulous: “You broke a spreader bar?!” He had visions of a solid steel spreader that somehow I split in two with my amazing superpowers. I winked at him and, with a flip of my hair, reveled in the moment.

But soon enough I had to explain that it was the curtain-rod spreader made of cheap aluminum and that I’d simply broken off the spring pin.

Mistress Amanda bought another adjustable one, this supposedly being a bit better in construction. She doesn’t like this one either but finds the adjustable feature of the bar useful.

A third spreader she owns is a three-foot solid stainless bar, which she uses in various ways and times. More on this later.

By end of morning, Mistress has kept me in one spreader or other the whole time. I realize now that she intends to keep me in spreaders all day and maybe longer.

This weekend is going to be an ordeal.

Saturday afternoon, Amanda has invited Dayna, her lifestyle domme friend, to join us and to enjoy me in the new spreader bar.

“I have a client,” Amanda explains to Dayna, “who knows a guy who does machine tool work. Has a shop. I approached him and described what I was looking for — solid steel, thick and weighty, five-and-a-half-feet long. I asked if he could create something to those specs. He did. Was ready when I returned from my trip.”

“Couldn’t have been too hard,” Dayna observed. “Just a steel rod, right?”

“No, but I wanted O-rings at various intervals. As you can see. No, not a hard project, but it took a little of his time. I paid him well…. Dayna, would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be good.”

“Come into the kitchen with me. I’d have Shae serve us, but in the spreader it just take her too damn long. And not for the faint of heart.”

The two of them go into the kitchen first, then have me follow. Mistress wants Dayna to watch me angle in sideways.

“Interesting,” Dayna says. “But not very functional.”

“Not at all. I like that, though. It makes Shae utterly useless.”

Which it does.

For me, the experience of being in a spreader bar is different from being put into bondage with chains. Usually chain bondage of me has me bound in bed, for obvious purposes. In that humiliation, though, I feel there’s a point, a goal, as lowly as it might be — for another to enjoy using me for sex without my participation.

Spreader bondage of me is more a humiliation of idle purposelessness. The shorter spreaders, as I’ve said, still allow me to be functional. But this long steel spreader makes me incapable of doing anything.

Dayna says, “Nothing she can do but stand there with her big tits out.”

“It’s a portable bondage,” Mistress observes. “Shows everyone what her life is. They imagine her like this all the time. They must wonder why she submits to it.”

“And question the kind of woman she is for doing so,” Dayna adds.

I remain silent as they talk about me. I know some of it is hyperbole, the two of them spinning a scenario of would-be humiliation for my sake. Dayna’s presence always tends to evaporate my sass.

Dayna asks about the machine-shop guy: “Will he become another Blake? Seems this should be the benefit for all these craftsmen you hire, Manda. Maybe this is their payment. Does he need his cock sucked as well?”

Mistress Amanda chuckles, settling into a twisted smile.

Soon, Mistress says she really wants to take me for a walk around the neighborhood. Just like this, to show off the new spreader. But it’s too cold outside. She and Dayna brainstorm the idea of having me bundled up but wearing the steel spreader bar. But Dayna says, “What would be the point if her boobs aren’t exposed?” And Amanda agrees.

Interesting to me that they deem the only purpose for taking me on a walk is to show off my tits.

Dayna stays through supper, which for me is a twenty-minute reprieve from my bondage in the long spreader, although I’m switched into the short “hands” spreader again. Mistress seems determined to keep me spreadered non-stop all day. I begin to wonder what my night will be like.

It’s just a nosh, a spread of leftovers and whatever we all want to pull out of the fridge. Dayna doesn’t really talk to me, just rambles on with Amanda about various things.

After our supper, Dayna says she has to be going. Mistress implores her to stay another hour, wants to show her something.

Mistress has me sit in the easy chair and directs Dayna to sit on the sofa across from me. I am put back into the long spreader, which she situates to rest atop the slop of my bare breasts.

And now she pulls out the three-foot stainless spreader bar, with ankle cuffs. She affixes it to my ankles, spreading my legs and thighs apart. And Mistress finishes the spectacle by pulling my skirt up around my waist.

Mistress sits beside Dayna, the two of them eyeing me.

Dayna quips, “Manda, I don’t know why you have her wear the ankle spreader. As it is, she spreads her legs for everyone in the neighborhood anyway.”

In time, Dayna, mercifully, leaves. Alone with me, Mistress thanks me “for putting up with her.” She knows I don’t like Dayna, but I abide her presence.

I think Dayna is sort of an alter-dominant ego for Amanda. Mistress isn’t at all like her, but there’s something in Dayna’s postured dominance, her harsh “cool” and biting verbal arrows, that Mistress enjoys as a fantasy variation of herself. She doesn’t want to be Dayna, but likes her stoic pretense somehow. Seems that Mistress aspires toward Dayna’s more acerbic dominance.

I say, “Well, one good thing about her. Dayna makes me glad that you own me.”

Mistress Amanda grins. “You may not feel that way when I tell you what I intend for you with the spreaders.”

“I was hoping you’d gotten all this out of your system.”

“Not so much. How do you feel about servicing me tonight in bed? Wearing the long spreader.”

a Sunday hodge-podge — March 1

Miscellaneous tidbits and random updates from my strange life…

I’ve had more than a week back with Mistress Amanda, and I’m reminded of the pleasures of my dual life between her and Master McKenna. It’s also a serendipity that they each have different dominant styles, both of which I submissively need in various ways at different times.

A weekend ago, Mistress did some things with me in spreader bars, quite the experience, which I will write about separately. I realized that she does a kind of “custom-design” dominance of me, creatively inventing clever bondages of me, physically and psychologically. It’s a kind of interior decorating, which she invites friends and neighbors to see.

Master McKenna, on the other hand, is much more about power and force and the brute strength of physical chains. He has controlled me into silent submission with signals, humiliating me in a full-frontal way. His dominance of me is about construction elements like Lego bricks and nipple springs.

I service both styles. I like both. I need both.

I had in previous posts suggested the possibility of making public on this blog some of the direct emails I’ve received from the gentlemen I’ve been with as their courtesan escort. They’ve given me permission to post these here, and in one case urged me to do so. Yet I’ve been conflicted about doing this, feeling both pros and cons. I’ve received some good advice from you readers and followers and friends.

In this particular moment, I’ve decided not to post these emails.

I wish to make clear that my choice in this is not about avoiding the airing of explicit moments that the gentlemen write about me. Of course, I write those myself, but it really is a more revealing experience when someone else writes about you that way. I am not trying to dodge the exposure and possible embarrassment in that.

I suppose the argument for posting these is to give you all a different perspective — for you to see me through others’s eyes and feelings. For some reason, I long for you to know that, even if it’s embarrassing for me.

As you can see, I’m still conflicted. I reserve the right to change my mind in the future, but for now, ixnay on that.

Speaking of the gentlemen, my next experience will be with Mr. Jenkins in two weeks. He’s attending a business conference in Denver, and I will accompany him. The event is held during the week, and he intends to participate only for a day and a half, but is booking the hotel for the two of us for two nights. (I’m not sure if that includes the night I arrive, the first-night opening of the convention, or what.)

I’m not nervous about these things ahead of time, though I get some butterflies in the couple of hours before meeting with the man himself. Of course, all of the men have seen (a lot) of me before at Master’s functions. And I know a little about each one of them already. So it’s not like each one is a total stranger.

Yet the nature of the experience is of me as an escort to him, so I am thrust into a kind of intimacy with a man I only “sort of” know. It’s different, and he is a stranger to me in that way.

More about the “gentlemen schedule.” Originally, Master McKenna tried to set a gig for me once a month. He wanted everyone to “have the experience with me” by the end of 2025 so they all can get into the future plan, which is for the men to more randomly schedule me for occasions that suit them, and “Manage their tokens.” To all of them, I’m an escort but this is also a game.

That end-of-2025 schedule proved to be too aggressive for everyone. For one thing, the intention is for me to entertain each man in a business-social context, at least at first, and the men do not always have a business event to take me to. But also, there have been these other complications with the men who are still married — Mr. Garcia and Mr. Reilly. Their circumstances are getting resolved now, but the result is that the schedule has been relaxed to every two to three months.

This suits me just fine. I personally think of my gentlemen gigs simply as dates. While I accept my status to them as an escort and I understand they are in some way “buying me,” each is essentially a date with a man. That’s how I think about it anyway. Going on such a date every two or three months seems reasonable and manageable.

In my last post about how consent works in my D/s slavery, I knew I’d forgotten something. There is this thing called “consensual non-consent.”

By one definition, “CNC” refers to a particular kind of BDSM practice in which activities are enacted as if they are ‘forced’ upon the submissive. In the action, the submissive is “non-consenting” to things imposed on her. Of course, beforehand, the submissive and dominant secretly agree that she is consenting to being forced to submit to something as if it’s against her will.

So, it’s a roleplay, not real non-consent. The idea of it is to recreate the experience of forced BDSM activities and sex — while actually being consenting.

I have a few thoughts on this. Just my opinion.

I have long been a bit critical of roleplaying in the BDSM lifestyle. It just seems rather pointless to me. Maybe I need to have a better appreciation for “pretending” games. But to agree to “pretend to do this or that” doesn’t make much sense to me. Further, “to pretend that the thing pretended is non-consensual but really is consensual” really confounds me.

But it’s a particular kink, and it works for some people. Who am I to judge? And, of course, I support the ultimate goal of ensuring consent.

Truth be told, I always understood consensual non-consent in a different way, based on my own situation of a trust-based lifestyle. As I’ve said, my slavery does not have lists of rules. And so, my trust-based consent allows my owners to do things to me that I might not like. It’s not exactly “against my will,” but it’s “against my preference” — yet I have offered blanket consent to them on all those things. I consent to a bucket filled with things I might individually not consent to.

Here’s an example, particularly demeaning: both my owners know (from their “database of Shae”) that I dislike being peed upon (being made to submit to golden showers). Yet, they also know that experience can have a profound submissive effect on me, demeaning me into the lowest (and perhaps richest) level of submissive feeling. It’s useful for them as a punishment or a corrective to a haughty or defiant attitude. They don’t do it to me often, and it’s always something I would vote against, but in my lifestyle I don’t get to vote on such things. My stated consent is for my dominants to do with me as they will. And that includes something I dislike and am against. That includes Master or Mistress drenching me in their yellow, acrid urine.

Now I could say no, and they would stop. But I don’t, observing my blanket consent. It’s not quite the same as the other definition of consensual non-consent, but it gets close. And it’s not a roleplay. I really don’t want to be peed on. Yet I submit to it.

And now you have that lovely dripping image of me…

how my consent works

In my last post, I mentioned the subject of consent and promised a short piece about how it works in my submissive life.

It seems to me there are basically just two models of consent — rules-based and trust-based. There’s a place for both. Some need rules, others prefer the trust approach. Further, I see those two models as two ends of a spectrum, and I think most subs and doms practice a blend of the two, some leaning into the rules side and others leaning into the trust side, with combo variations in-between.

I’m at the far end of that spectrum, living in a trust-based consent. I have given my owners blanket consent for everything. I trust them to conduct my slavery as they wish. That’s not a badge of courage, nor any pinnacle of slavery to attain, nor “a better way,” nor an invitation to extreme practices. It has advantages but also disadvantages. But it has worked for me. It’s what I live in.

In this model, my slavery is not about what I like or don’t like, never about my “preferences.” My dominants don’t check first to see if something is on my no-no list — I don’t have one. There’s something important in this: it creates a submissive life in which I am not always comfortable. It doesn’t feel like a coddled kink in which I am “forced” to do things I simply want to do. It feels like a real slavery.

Again, I’m not saying this is the more virtuous consent model. Other ways — even that “coddled kink” approach — have advantages and may better fit the kinds of wishes and opportunities that exist for many. In a life where you have perhaps one night a month to explore BDSM, you want it to be enjoyable not difficult, and you hope it isn’t a night wasted on experiences you dislike. But my life is an immersive, 24/7, submission: if Tuesday night is “uncomfortable,” I know some other night will be more to my “liking.” Again, this is not a better model of consent, but it is one that has time to unfold. It fits my circumstance.

Let me make a further point about my “likes and dislikes.” For me, there’s a larger submissive pleasure (a bigger “like”) that my slavery sometimes leads to. Call it a subspace or a submissive fulfillment, a D/s nirvana, whatever, but it’s an experience that’s greater than the discomforts of the individual “dislikes” I’m made to endure. I don’t “like” the feel of a whip cracking my flesh, but somehow I do like the feeling of submitting to it becausae of the resulting headspace it puts me in.

Trust-based blanket consent also means that my dominants must be responsible to ensure that my slavery overall is to me meaningful, satisfying, and pleasurable. Since I don’t have a say about anything, they must be careful not to just beat me down eternally, making me so depressed or abhorrent of my life that I seek to leave it. They want me to continue in my slavery to them. And they want me to thrive in it.

The key word in that is “overall.” My dominants don’t need to make every little thing pleasurable to me; they don’t ask “if it’s okay” for them to do this or that. Their job isn’t to make me happy. It’s to use me for their pleasure to an extent that brings me into that larger submissive pleasure ultimately. In trust-based consent, they “manage my slavery” so that I am fulfilled overall.

Mistress and Master “check in” with me periodically. Mistress A will ask me (days, weeks after) how I felt about something she made me do — say, being exposed to people in the park. I reply honestly, saying it humiliated me deeply, but also excited me. She may follow up by asking, “Was that good humiliation or bad humiliation?” We both understand what that means. I’ll say that it was both, and detail a little of how I felt on both sides.

She is not asking my permission to do that to me again. Nothing I tell her will necessarily deter her from anything. And that’s important to me too, for I never want to be in control of my slavery. I don’t want my dominant to cater to my feelings and preferences. But the check-in gives her some information about how I respond to certain things. She sometimes refers to it as her “database of Shae.”

Now, I have no idea what’s in that database, but I believe it’s more than my likes and dislikes. It’s about how my submissiveness ebbs and flows in certain experiences, how I respond to various orders, when I start to feel fatigued, what combinations of slave experiences affect me. This is really just the working space of any relationship, how a human connection develops and matures in people’s mutual knowledge of each other. Except ours is an alternative relationship of dominance and submission.

Again, I’m well aware that many submissives and dominants do not “live lifestyle” and don’t have time or opportunity to develop this kind of relationship. This kind of trust-based consent model takes time to grow.

When I talk about my slavery being a trust-based blanket consent, inevitably people wonder “what if’? They tend to imagine extremes.

So it goes: “If you will obey your owner-dominants in anything, would you jump off a tall building if they ordered you to?” I answer, “No, of course not.” And they reply smugly, “You see, you do have limits.”

Of course I have limits, and so do my owners. Trust-based consent is not a life without boundaries. It’s just a life in which I trust my owners not to order me to jump off tall buildings! More seriously, my trust is in their ensuring my overall safety, health, and well-being — as they use me for their pleasures.

Now, yes, there are some practices which are more, let’s say, extraordinary, which could conceptually be above and beyond my blanket consent. These are special cases. “Sharing me with others” is a kind of special case.

My owners discuss with me such “special cases.” Years ago, Mistress said it would be her dominant pleasure to share me with neighbor couples. It wasn’t a request, not a specific permission she was asking me to grant her. She was simply exploring the scenario with me. I said it would be a new experience for me, that I would be nervous — but I would do it.

Likewise, this was true with Master McKenna in sharing me as an escort with his friends, the gentlemen buddies. He hinted at it several times, then openly posed it as a “what-if.” Eventually, Master and Mistress sat down with me to discuss the scope of what would become my courtesanships and how that would include the gentlemen. I agreed to it, but we all knew it fit my slavery.

I didn’t feel coerced to say yes, and I suppose I could have said no. But part of this has to do with the type of slave I am to Master and Mistress. If I said no, my slavery to them would be a certain thing of a certain character, and they’d be okay with that. If I said yes, though, it would delight them in a bigger, fuller way and fulfill what we all believe I am meant to be.

In some part, a dominant sees his/her dominance in terms of “being able to do anything he/she wants with a submissive girl” like me. There’s a dominant thrill, a rush, in that. My consent to these sharings meant that I would do even this for them. It was, in a way, my gift to them, even as it was a more extreme special case for me.

Note that point: trust-based blanket consent can work both ways, as that which is required and that which is provided. In this mutuality, it can become a kind of relational treasure.

This raises the question of the ability to say no and the use of safe words.

Honestly, those are to me rather insignificant in the practice of my slavery, incidental in the kind of trust-consent model I live in.

Yes, I can say no, and I do have a safe word (“bubble”). But I’ve rarely said no to anything or used a safe word. When I have, it’s been because I’ve felt physically ill. A safe word is useful for that, but I don’t know it’s really essential. Usually one can simply say, “I feel physically ill.” Sometimes the practice of D/s jis ust common-sense, not so cleverly “special” as a secret safeword.

But again, this has much to do with the kind of trust-consent I’m in. For others who do BDSM occasionally, and with dominants they don’t know so well, the safe word is not only a safety net, but it requires a discussion between dominant and submissive, and a tacit agreement, always good.

This is getting off track, but it always bears mentioning: another sort of “no” is the ability to walk away from the scene or even the slavery itself. This “no” is in the event of real threat to health and life. No submissive should be in situations of harm or rampant abuse that theatens her safety. She should always be able to walk out the door.

The question of how consent works in my slavery came up in conjunction with my being provided to Master Sanderson. Being shared with a stranger-dominant is another extreme practice in some people’s eyes, and prompts questions: Does the guest dom have the same freedoms with me that Master McKenna has? How does consent work for me under him?

Well, again, it starts with my trust in Master McKenna to do the right thing with the property of me that he owns and cares for. I never was told what limits Master M required of Master Sanderson, but I expected there were some. I still don’t know. I had to trust Master Sanderson by proxy of Master McKenna (and Mistress Amanda, whom I knew had recommended Master Sanderson for this with me).

Not to say that being shared with a guest dominant wasn’t a nail-biter. I had my moments of nervousness beforehand. I was less nervous during the two days, though he kept me off-balance. But ultimately I was able to trust that, in the situation, Master Sanderson was safe for me.

Ultimately, again, it came back to my trust in my dominants.

In my case, there was only one time in my D/s history when I didn’t know if I could trust my owner. That was when my first dominant, Master Michael, sold me to Mistress Amanda (and Kevin).

I suddenly was handed over to a woman I didn’t know. I had to somehow entrust my body and mind to her, a stranger. I suppose I might have assumed that my trust in Master Michael was transferable to the person he trusted to take me. But there was such trauma in the sudden act of being sold, and that shook my fundamental trust even in him. I was at sea.

It was, by his own admission, botched and mishandled in the moment, and Michael and I have since made our peace. That’s a subject for another post.

I could have walked away. But I went with it, choosing to trust in Amanda. Within a few months my trust in her (and Kevin) grew. Once again, the trust-based model was working.

But that experience becomes a caveat in this discussion. My life situation, I know is rare. Consent depends on relationship, and a mature dom-sub relationship takes time to develop. Many BDSM practitioners do not have that time nor that relationship.

I’m just sharing here how my consent model works.

I’m sure there’s more to say, but I’ll wrap this up. Our blanket trust-consent model isn’t perfect and there are loose ends if not black holes in it. But I find it an easier system for me to live in, as opposed to the rules-based model. But that’s just me. Others’ mileage may differ.

I welcome questions, things I’ve missed.

Sunday hodge-podge — February 22

Sometimes my posting dates don’t immediately follow the events of what I’m reporting — it takes time to write things. My climax with Master McKenna, literally and figuratively, happened a week ago and I posted it Sunday.

The rest of my week with him was not so personal, you might say, nor did I expect it to be. I am his submissive not his lover, and I am not dreamy about my place in his life. Yet once in a while that happens, and he fills me up — again literally and figuratively — and gives me the fuel to “go without that” for maybe another year.

The next morning before I left for work, I said to him, “After last night, you know I’ll do anything for you that you want.”

He replied, “You already do.”

“I know.”

The rest of the week my life devolved back into my sexual objectification and humiliation, but I was still on a cloud from his Tuesday lovemaking of me.

Friday night, I returned to Mistress Amanda, whom I hadn’t seen for quite a while, and we had a bit of a “reunion,” literally and figuratively.

All to say, I’m a really happy girl these days…

I’ve had some further conversations with Jenna at the collective about my D/s lifestyle. I had come out to her before about my D/s life — the PG-rated version — sharing about my slave life, our polycule, and some of the dynamics of it. Last week she probed me more about it.

Jenna’s actually been away for awhile, from before Christmas to just a week ago. She traveled to family, then took an extended winter vacation in California. She has some personal things going on that she needed space to figure out, things I won’t go into here. But upon her return a week ago, we got caught up, and she got into asking questions.

I found myself telling her about my “transition” each day from the collective back into my slavery — my required toplessness, Mr. Jeffers meeting me at the east garages, my entrance back into the mansion, and my return presentation to Master M. In talking about these things with a progressive-minded person like Jenna, I’m never sure what to expect. I’m often judged by traditionalists for my sexual promiscuity and by progressives for submitting powerlessly to male authority. To her credit, Jenna did neither, but she was curious about how I felt standing topless before Mr. Jeffers.

I have asked her to keep my BDSM lifestyle to herself, not share it with others at the collective. It isn’t that I am ashamed of my life, but I just don’t want it to become the focus of my identity in the creative workplace. I think Jenna will keep that confidence, but I expect this has already gotten out.

Later, on my drive home, I wondered about something else. I realized that she knows about my slave life, but I have never told her about my courtesan escorting — my sexual engagements with couples and the gentlemen.

It’s just interesting to me that now I find my escort life harder to explain than my slave life.

I am in two “side conversations” these days — happening through individual comments and emails from some of you, as well as chats with Maria. I think I’ll open these up to the larger community…

One side conversation has to do with personal letters I have received from the gentlemen I’ve been an escort to — Gerald and William. These are private email letters, though I have permission to post them. Yet I’ve been reluctant to.

There’s been a rule of thumb for people who engage with me intimately and also know about my blog — they aren’t supposed to intrude on the blog site in comments. This is to avoid a situation in which they and I engage in back-and-forth private conversations in front of everyone. This blog is for my writing, the expression of my lifestyle, and for an online community (you all) to engage with.

The neighbor couples I’ve been with and the gentlemen in Master’s circle have pretty much observed this rule of thumb. They don’t comment on my blog. They would like to. But they don’t… so thank you.

But I do receive private emails from them thanking me and sharing some of their personal experiences of me, much as I wrote about them in my blog accounts of my nights with them. The question is whether I should publish these emails as blog posts. In a way, they are continuations of my accounts of what we experienced. In these emails, in a much more brief form, they are expressing how they experienced me.

I don’t resist posting these because they are personal and intimate and sometimes excplicit. I think others would agree that my blog is always personal and intimate and frequently explicit. I’m used to that. Now, I suppose I would cringe a little when these emails are laudatory of me; I don’t wish to seem self-praising in the act of posting them. But really, my hesitation is whether actually posting these emails sets a precedent. I don’t wish my blog to become an “inside conversation.”

I’ve had this side conversation with Kimberlyann and Jeremy. They both say they’d find these emails interesting to read.

I’m thinking about it. Open to others’ thoughts…

A second side conversation is the idea of a different kind of “dom-sub event.” Maria and I and Jane (online) have been brainstorming this. Before anyone gets too excited, this isn’t real yet and may never be, so don’t write me and ask “Where do I sign up?” But it’s fun to imagine it.

I think this started when Jane emailed me about how she would feel being a submissive in my “Master Sanderson” situation. She explained she’s a single mom with teenage boys and has no time to explore her submissiveness in real-life. She wrote, “I do wish there was a ‘submissive for a week’ type experience I could go to in the meantime to fully immerse myself, if only for a short time.”

That intrigued me. I shared it with Maria, and immediately, being the planner she is, she started brainstorming with me the logistics.

Of course, Maria and I have helped Master McKenna conduct his beta retreats. Those are instructional, involving demonstrations and teaching. Master has also talked about a “school for submissives,” which I have written part of a curriculum for.

But this idea is not a “learning seminar.” It’s more of a vacation getaway, an adventure in dom-sub relationship. We’re envisioning it almost as a spa experience for a number of days (not sure how long). We are thinking of separate “tracks” for single doms and subs as well as for committed couples who are exploring the dom/sub experience for the first time. It would be for newbies primarily and would cater to those people who normally cannot live the D/s experience in their daily lives. But people have vacation time, so we’re thinking.

Each track would have a kind of program, some optional and light instruction perhaps, a kind of guided path through various kinds of D/s equipment and experiences.

For singles, there would need to be an intro time to meet each other, a mixer of sorts opening night. We’re brainstorming how doms and subs would be matched with each other. That’s an interesting problem — we think for many, that’s a scary thing up front yet also the true adventure of the “vacation.” But, you don’t want a submissive to be paired with someone she doesn’t like, and vice-versa. And is someone “trapped” in their pairing for the whole time?

Yet, Maria and I don’t want this to become a swingers’ retreat — that’s another kind of experience.

So we’re brainstorming it. Open to ideas…

Every so often, maybe once a year, I hear a little voice in my head suggesting I should re-emphasize the critical importance of consent in D/s lifestyle.

So, a reminder here: all BDSM and D/s practice must be consensual. No one should ever be forced to do anything she doesn’t consent to. This is true in session play, part-time submission, online BDSM, and lifestyle 24/7 slavery like my own. Anything that is not consensual is illegal.

I think this is all the more needed now in the age we live in. The one thing that separates us BDSM-lifestylers from those in the horrid headlines of sexual abuse today is consent. We in BDSM “play life” a certain way, but everything we do is legal and consensual.

Now, there are legitimate conversations about how consent is achieved and communicated, as it’s done in different ways. I will \write separately about how consent has worked in my slaveries from the beginning, which is more of a “blanket trust model,” meaning that we don’t formally do an “ask-and-consent” routine in every new moment and experience. So, sometimes consent is hidden, embedded in the relationship.

But, however it’s done, BDSM practice must be consensual.

By the way, I might point you to a blog post by Kessily Lewell: “THERE ARE NO HARD AND FAST RULES.”

She likewise makes the point about the absolute need for consent in BDSM life, but she also pushes back on a few common assumptions in this lifestyle. It goes to a difference between rules-based practice and trust-based practice (my terminology). Well worth reading. Her blog is “Musings of a Chaotic Mind.”

It’s been lovely being back with Amanda, but she has not lessened up on her social humiliations of me.

A neighbor came to visit Sunday afternoon, and I served tea. (I won’t identify who this was.) Somehow, she and Amanda got to talking frankly about sex toys. Our neighbor mentioned a particular sex toy that “actually licks and slurps.”

As they chatted, I was sitting quietly to the side, collared, my nipple barbells poking through my thin sweater top.

Soon Amanda was saying that she has some toys but rarely uses them. “I have Shae,” she said seriously, “who’s very good at licking and slurping when I feel the need.”

I blushed a deep red.

Our neighbor then asked, “Do you rent her out by the hour?”

I think she was serious.