I lose my nerve, feel a panic attack coming on, and run back out the front doors...

...catching my short wraparound skirt on something on my way out the door, feeling it fall free from my body with the sound of velcro tearing. Velcro I had no idea had somehow been secretly stitched into a very flimsy seam. I briefly wonder how many other clothes I own that have been strategically modified to be more likely to expose me unexpectedly. My heart swells even further at the thought of how incredibly cared for, seen, known and cherished I feel in my connection to Buxom. They suggested this game 6 months ago, and every single time I hear my phone chirp since, a panoply of profoundly meaningful, loving feelings and memories fill my mind and my heart.

I used to be terrified of being branded "depraved" because of my desire to be exhibitionist. I expected to find myself on a sex offender register, or (I'm not sure which is worse) the nightly news...actually, scratch that, I'd *love* to be on the news. I can feel an erection beginning to stir in my pants, as I get carried off into fantasy once again: I'm playing out a ficticious news report in my head, with detailed footage of my escapades, followed by a curious reporter asking me (indirectly, in 6 different ways) why I choose not to blindly accept societal norms that say I should be ashamed of my sexual desires.

Inexplicably, despite finding myself standing naked, explaining myself to numerous police officers and security guards over and over in recent months, the conclusion of each of those sphincter-clenchingly embarrassing conversations is somehow always an affirmation of my courage, some statement or other about "this being far more common than you think", and an admonishment to consider slightly less public venues for future exhibitionist adventures. One rather delicious looking male officer even gave me his phone number once, after furtively checking his partner wasn't watching. Their partner turned up at my house later that day. I'm beginning to think {other_name} knows someone on the inside.

When I said above that I feel seen and cared for earlier, I'm referring to the way that, after initiating our game, every single instruction I have since received from Buxom, every humiliation, every thrill, every dilemma that the instruction brings up feels precisely crafted specifically for me. Over and over Buxom has taken notice of some passing comment I made about a fantasy 3 weeks ago, or something I spoke about that I love about me, or something I'm ashamed of and find humiliating. More than once the instructions Buxom crafts for my benefit give rise to situations that are brutally uncomfortable. They have the effect of baring all of my fragile, insecure, **** parts, things known only to myself and Buxom, for the whole world to see. After the feeling of desperately needing to melt into the ground beneath me subsides, the outcome (so far) has always been a newfound acceptance of that previously "hideous" part of me. It's edgy, it runs the risk of genuinely causing harm to my psyche, but this is the core of the game: I am explicitly choosing to trust that Buxom is caring and skillful enough to keep me safe, emotionally.

Many of the predicaments Buxom designs have multiple layers of meaning. Perhaps they tie together previously separate desires, thoughts or curiosities which were the subject of some thrilling conversation or other. Often they reference past tasks; this often feels like Buxom saying to me "You thought *that* was intense/scary/humiliating/edgy. You thought you couldn't do it. I believed in you. Now I want you to stretch your skills even further". It's deeply fulfilling for someone to back you like that.

A few times I have received a demand that seems naff, unchallenging, or boring, with little relevance or significance that I can see to my Self. These are humbling moments. The first time it happened I got a little pouty at Buxom, coming home unable to express my disappointment that my task had been so "lame". (That word is no longer part of my vocabulary, after the "corrective action" that was required of me to make reparation for such an insult. I am too embarrassed to tell you about that, even now. I hope Buxom doesn't make me. Fuck, do they read this?)

As if all of that is not exquisite enough, I need to tell you about coming home to Buxom afterwards, the adrenaline and tension giving way into a dawning appreciation of the meaning behind the experience Buxom crafted for me. I babble excitedly about it all, and the joy, the love and the carnal desire on Buxom's face is one of the most ecstatic things I've ever seen. Often this debrief involves poring over my descriptions of my adventures in the finest detail I can, examining the audiovisual evidence I was required to collect (sometimes they make me ask a bystander to video me, and twice I had to obtain the CCTV recording from my latest performance from a security guard). During each debrief, that feeling of being known and loved, my gratitude at the what Buxom has created as a gift to me, having past shames give way to loving that bit of me, my admiration for them grows and grows. I regularly expect the intensity of all these feelings to overwhelm me. Instead it appears to ratchet up my self-worth and resilience. Every single time I am **** to get my dick out, tell a stranger a secret, or any of the other instructions I have received. The perverse irony of this fact is yet another layer of the richness it provides.