What follows is a blur to me.
I remember the chunking sound of chairs being pulled into the open area. I hear Katya say to Maria she isn’t sure she wants to watch but will sit in the back for some of it. Electrician Steve is saying to someone, “This should be good.” People are invited to refill their drinks. Ms. Yuan talks with Master McKenna, saying she doesn’t want to stay for it; Master nods his blessing to go. I hear Alex saying to someone he has been “looking forward to watching this,” which makes me more aware this party has been planned for some time. Mr. Galli and Mr. Jeffers are talking together in the corner, perhaps reminiscing about that previous corporal event witnessing me. People start sitting down. Maria pulls out the tub of coconut lard.
I have my afternotes, remember snapshots of the scene, and write this account from them. As people assemble themselves into an audience area, no one talks to me, and I stand alone the middle of the open space. Jacky and Mr. Jeffers sit in front, along with Alex, whom I have always felt has a dominant streak and wishes he could do things to me. Standing behind them are Mr. Galli and electrician Steve. Katya is standing in back and to the side, positioned to leave at a moment’s notice.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have questioned why this ragtag assemblage of persons was there, should have sensed something was up. I didn’t, and now it all came together: Master M had this in mind way back when he had called me in Pennsylvania. Even then, he wanted to create an audience for his corporal artwork. Over my naked body.
There is no silent signal for this, but our experience together without words carries over: I look at him, and he slowly raises and lowers his head, a single nod that quietly communicates, You know what you must do.
My audience is hushed but for occasional murmurs and stray hollers. I feel all eyes upon me. I cannot myself look back at them, only at Master and Maria. Maria gives me a slow nod and a warm smile that I take as encouragement.
In a way, the hardest part of this experience for me is undressing in front of a crowd of people. Being whipped is, well, its own humiliation, but I can’t do anything about it. Undressing publicly like this suggests this is my choice, my agreement, my consent to the act that’s about to be done to me. It’s my own revealing of myself, not what someone else does to me.
But undressing is such a deeply personal thing. It’s an act in which I take off the image I wish others to know and strip down to my raw identity, what I really am nakedly. Doing it in front of a number of people, especially people I know in some way, is a uniquely embarrassing thing to do.
This crowd of eight men and women certainly know some of my identities, certainly as Master’s slave, but also as the woman in a business suit who goes to work each day. Perhaps they have also heard of my courtesan life with couples and Master’s colleagues. But those versions of me are distant, like hearsay. This is first-hand.
As I begin to unbutton my shirtdress, I look away. Parts of my body have been seen before by one or another. But that makes this no easier. Every time is new and virginal. I am stripping in front of a crowd.
My eyes focus on the back ceiling, so I don’t have to look into people’s eyes. I undo the buttons of my bodice, and my dress begins to pull to the sides, but I pause to unbuckle the thin red belt around the waist of my dress. I pull the belt through, and Maria steps to my side to take it.
My undressing is slow and reluctant, and people can tell this is difficult for me. Still, they burble ums and sighs, occasionally murmuring a comment or two about my body. I unbutton my dress down to my waist. I remember feeling how I want to get this over with, but like in some dream, I cannot speed it up. My stripping in front of these people feels slow-motion, and their crowd sounds seem spaced out in some warbled memory. I hear Mr. Jeffers say, “Wait to you see these.”
I slip one arm out from my dress sleeve, then the other, and the whole top of my dress pools around my waist. I stand for a moment motionless, facing the crowd, my breasts now bare, now jutting out into the space between me and my audience, now made un-private. As my breasts settle into view, I hear someone say “Jesus!”
Maria steps toward me and catches my eye, and I know she wants to help. I nod, and she slips my dress over my hips and slides it down to my ankles. I step out of it, and Maria picks it up, folds it, and sets it over on the four-poster bed.
Having slipped out of my shirtdress completely, I stand in my high heels, collared as the slave I am, completely naked in front of some eight or nine people. Someone whistles loudly. They now can see my true identity — or identities, plural — who and what I am in the flesh.
It’s as if I can feel their thoughts of me, how they now think they understand me through my naked body — seeing my naked breasts as the playground of couples, my bare pussy as the sporting event for gentlemen clients, and my exposed ass as the target practice for McKenna with the flogger. They see on the landscape of my flesh where others have been.
Yes, indeed, this is the hardest part of all — my undressing for a crowd and how I feel them in their minds reducing me to it, resolving the mystery of what I am, and inserting their lusts into their various opinions of me.
Instinctively, my arms extend above my head. Master McKenna lowers the T-bar. Maria brings him my wrist cuffs. He takes his time executing the business of stringing me up. Apparently these mechanics are fascinating to this audience.
As I remember the sequence of events, Master McKenna begins to speak. “They way we do this,” he says, “is to coat Shae’s body with some sort of lotion. We use coconut oil.”
As Master speaks in his teacher voice, Maria pulls out the tub of coconut lard. She twirls me around on the T-bar so that I’m facing away from the audience. She spreads some of the coconut lard on my back.
Master M teaches: “This prepares Shae’s flesh to be resistant to the breaking of skin. It doesn’t mitigate the pain, but it protects against cutting and slicing. I want to whip her hard but I don’t want to damage her tender flesh.”
He pauses. Then to my chagrin, he asks, “Would anyone care to apply the coconut oil?”
Oh god.
My eyes are closed so I don’t see how this unfolds. Later, Maria will tell me that Mr. Jeffers had started to raise his hand to volunteer. But Jacky, ever effervescent, jumps up and said she wants to. She takes the tub of coconut lard, and soon this becomes more of a sideshow than I had hoped.
Maria has me turn around so my backside is facing everyone. My back and ass are not my best features, but I am relieved I don’t have to look at anyone. Under Maria’s direction, Jacky learns how to apply the oil-lard to my naked flesh. There’s a skill in it — not so much so it gets sloppy, enough to make the application even.
Maria turns me back around. My breasts and pussy are now facing forward. I look down and away, leaving my body subject to everyone’s attentions. Maria gives Jacky more instruction about coating my pussy, and I feel both of them with their fingers massaging the oil over my labia and into my folds. From the crowd, I hear murmurs and words that I don’t want to remember.
After they have oiled my pussy and legs and thighs, they massage the coconut cream over my breasts, Maria instructing Jacky to “get it into her cleavage” and underneath “into her creases.” Jacky daubs some oil-lard on the tops of my breasts, taking her time to smooth it, rolling my boob-flesh with the palms of her hand. Someone makes a comment, and I remember Jacky saying with a cackle, “It’s hard work but somebody has to do it!” People laugh.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the group watching my humiliation — the uneven semi-circle of people in chairs in front and people standing in back, one or two farther back and to the side. The men seem easily voyeuristic in the experience, even the electrician Steve who is relatively new to our lifestyle, though he’s had glimpses. He is the one standing in back making the most comments. Well, he and Alex. Alex is an eager commentator too.
Katya is the one I wonder most about. She has always been intrigued by my humiliations and not judgmental, but empathetic to me, perhaps putting herself in my shoes and feeling it all vicariously. Now I see her at the edge of the crowd, nearest the exit, yet she is watching attentively. In a brief moment as I look over, our eyes meet, and I give her a slight nod. I want her to know I’m okay. Katya nods back at me, managing a relieved smile.
Jacky gets done with me, and I stand naked, collared, and well-heeled in front of an unlikely audience, my flesh glimmering with a matte sheen of oil.
Master McKenna picks up a flogger and continues in his teaching voice, explaining our ritual. I will realize later that this is the only thing that ties this together, unites this rag-tag group of people, and makes my corporal humiliation make some sense — the Master presiding over his classroom.
“You all are curious about what we do in our lifestyle,” he says. “This is one of them.”
He walks around me. “Shae is a woman who needs submissive discipline. It is humiliating to her, as you can see, but she thrives on it. Meanwhile I am a dominant man who finds deep satisfaction in providing that discipline.” As I hear his words, I feel it’s a perfectly accurately explanation of what we do. I just don’t want to do it in front of a crowd.
Master M pulls his flogger to the side and swings it across my body with a thwack.
I inhale sharply, though the impact is light. Someone in the group blurts out “Oh!” in reaction to my being hit. We in the BDSM world forget how outrageous it is for a man to hit a woman.
“Corporal, Master continues, “is not the only form of discipline we do. BDSM involves many different activities, forms of control and discipline. But corporal is the one I’m showing you today.”
And with that, Master proceeds to flog me repeatedly, my naked body absorbing the slaps of the falls, my flesh jostling and jiggling to his rhythm. I keep my eyes focused on a spot of the far ceiling, far above the crowd of people, whose silences are as humiliating as their occasional words of leering disbelief.
For now, he wields the light flogger, telling the audience how important it is to rose my flesh all around to give it “resilience” for the harder treatments later. He puts the rose finish on my breasts, teaching about how the art of corporal is actually about restraint and precision. “Her body is a canvas,” he says, using the very analogy I often invoke. “I could go all out on her, making her bleed, damaging her skin, but then I’d be tearing up my canvas.” He pauses his flogger and his words. He chuckles, “I want Shae to live for another day.”
People laugh. His confidence and bearing have a way of reassuring people. He doesn’t have the “one-on-one woo skill” that Mistress Amanda has, but he possesses something different — the ability to sway a small group of people into his way of thinking. This event for him is, in a sense, another board meeting.
As I replayed this in my mind later, it would seem Master said certain things to ease the minds of some of those watching who may have had qualms about my being hurt, who were worried about how violent it might become. I imagined Katya being somewhat eased by what Master said, maybe also Mr. Jeffers, who has a tender fondness for me — or at least for my breasts.
Master now picks up the heavier flogger and begins to show off his new skill of wrapping the wide tails around each of my breasts separately and making one dance apart from the other. I recall someone saying, “Will you look at that?”
He soon does the flogger twirl from underneath, between my legs, making the leathers flick my pussy and make my extruded labia tremble. “God” someone says in a hushed voice, and I can see, out of the corner of my eye, Steve walking around from the back to get a better look.
There is more that Master says which I cannot recall. The whole demonstration takes forever long, it seems. As my boody is flogged, I tune in and out, sometimes daring to look at those watching me, mostly looking at the corner of the south wall ceiling.
In time, Master M pulls out two whips, one in each hand, and takes a moment to explain the different types of implements. He explains force and sharpness and says the floggers he has been using have weighted force while the whips he will now use are sharper and make a sting on my body. He starts with a “quirt,” one of the two-tail whips, and he says it has an effect between force and sharpness.
I remember Master warning people that he will now be using these whips on me, and inviting those who are squeamish to step out of the room if they want to. No one does, not even Katya.
As he starts to whip me with the quirt, it seems to me that all his detail about the tools of his trade is probably lost on the audience, who only want to see this bizarre spectacle and how I absorb and endure the humiliation of it. At the same time, it occurs to me there’s method in Master’s madness, as he’s again reassuring them about the art and science of his doing corporal on me. This isn’t just some angry man flailing away on my body. It’s not, he is sort of saying to them, what it sometimes looks like.
Still, it is very much what it feels like. I feel it, all of it — the tactile hurt of the whips, the humiliation of my sexual exposure, and the shame of being seen as a woman who gives herself to this. They all know what I am, and they’ve sometimes seen glimpses of what I am, but here, now, in the flesh, they see what I am in its fullness.
I writhe, naked and reddened, in Master’s striping of my body.
In truth, Master holds back, spares me from the harsher whippings he sometimes gives me. Actually, he is sparing his audience from the worst. He wants this to continue like a demonstration and not become his corporal beating of me. As he sometimes does.
I think he must be nearly done, but Master asks if anyone “would like to take the flogger to Shae.”
Almost before he finishes his words, Alex raise his hand and jumps up form his chair. “I would.”
Of course, he would.
Alex is our newest mansion staff member, even newer than Steve, if you count Steve as a part of the mansion crew. Alex is twenty-two, looks even younger, is thin and wiry, with black hair kept long and uncombed. He looks like a kid who just emerged from a dark gaming room. But for all of his wild appearance, Alex is a cracker-jack cleaner, excellent in keeping our rooms immaculate.
Alex also has shown signs of having a dominant streak. He seems well aware of BDSM and seems taken with it. Famously, in my first introduction to him, with him already knowing of my slavery, he boldly told me I should call him “Sir Alex.” I pushed back, taking it as his being playful. But he wasn’t.
Now Alex, looking hardly eighteen, is standing with a flogger beside my naked MILF-ish body. Out of the corner of my eye I see on his face his adolescent lust and devilish grin. As he draws back the flogger, I wonder who, really, he is taking out his anger upon.
He thrashes me with full force. It lands with a heavy splatting thud on my midriff, making me scream. Some in the audience gasp, another cringes out a throaty, “Ohhh!”
Master is surprised by the force of Alex’s blow and jumps in, “Whoa! Be careful.” He proceeds to instruct Alex on a more nuanced flogging of me. “We want to enjoy our toys,” Master says, meaning me, “but we don’t want to break our toys.” People chuckle at his wording.
Alex has at me again, this time more restrained, building to the harsher swings, but nothing like that first one. At a point, he asks Master M, “How do you do that thing with her tits?”
While it’s the least of my humiliations now, I don’t need a boy talking about my “tits” in front of the crowd. But Alex doesn’t have those social limits. To him I am a slave-MILF with good tits. Master, a bit too eagerly, shows him his technique for making my breasts dance, and Alex tries it himself.
He catches on, and eventually his flogger is able to grab my breast and pull it outward. My breast swings back. Alex is beaming. He continues on me, get the knack of it. People in the audience clap at hs success.
Alex flogs me with the heavy flogger for way too long, managing to put the “Sir” into “Sir Alex.”
In time, Master McKenna does a final flourish on my flesh, leaving me with rosed horizontal swaths across my torso, breasts, and, I presume, my back. It is his artwork, and he wants people to see his craft. Later, I will hear him receive compliments, but I don’t think “art” is mostly what’s on people’s minds.
It’s over.
Master steps in front and says a few closing things. Meanwhile, Maria lowers the T-bar and detaches my cuffs. She produces a white robe and helps me into it, and I stand to the side like the nude model who has finished her posing.
Master now is taking questions, and he happily goes further into his professor moment. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember what was asked or answered.
Instead, my mind goes to the question of what this really was, how this audience perceived what they’d just watched, how they perceived me, and what they thought.
It occurs to me that these witnesses had taken this in as a kind of performance, even like some play. Master presented this as a “demonstration” of our lifestyle, and it led the group into seeing this as maybe a kind of circus act or stage revue. To them, it wasn’t real, in a way. It was acted out as an entertainment.
I will think later that some who might not otherwise had the mettle to watch my being whipped were more accepting of it because they could see it in this way, as a kind of pantomime of what our kink life is like. They could think (or could prefer to think) that we were just going through the motions of demonstrating our “Fifty Shades thing” for them — even though my whipping was very real, made me yelp and moan, and created very unpantomimed red stripes across my body.
I don’t claim to understand the group dynamics of such a thing. This event would seem to be inappropriate to the season, to the Christmas party spirit, yet here they all were, enthralled by my sexual disgrace, making comments and hooting freely.
Maybe they all had too much of the spiked eggnog.
Truthfully, as it ends, I want to crawl into a hole. But I sense I need to make nice as people leave. Maybe they need to know I’m okay. I’m also aware that Master would value my participation here at the end of things. It confirms for people this this has been consensual (although that’s a complicated reality).
It also seems people want to say something to me as they go.
Somehow, I wind up in the atrium as people wander out. I am wrapped in my white terry robe, a faux image of innocence. Master and Maria are there too, saying goodbyes and Merry Christmases.
I didn’t know what to say to people. “I’m glad you were hear” is simply not true. Should I say, “it was a pleasure stripping for you”? Or, “Glad you enjoyed my humiliation and pain?” There’s no etiquette for a reception line after a corporal whipping.
Steve said to me, “Jeez, that was really something! Honored to be included. Hope you’ll do it again sometime.” And I managed to reply, “Well, it’s good, Steve, you could watch what we do.” Other goodbyes were sort of like that.
Jacky embraced me, gave me a kiss on the lips, and said, “You did great, Shae.” Mr. Galli shook my hand and said something that referred to a conversation we’d had some time ago: “What you just did, wear it with pride.” If I said goodbye to Alex, I don’t remember.
Mr. Jeffers had a big grin for me on his way out. I said to him, “You’re seeing too much of me these days.” He replied, “Never enough.” I gave him a warm smile.
Then there was Katya. She came up to me and gave me a hug. I expected her to ask “Are you okay?” No, she’s not judgmental of me, but she disapproves when my lifestyle might be hurtful to me. It’s a “why do you do this?” sort of thing. This demonstration was certainly that. So, I expected her to wonder if I was hurt or if I needed care. But no.
Instead, she said, “Shae, you were beautiful.”
slave shae 