Marine had a fairly unusual name, and a personality that went with. Her moods ebbed and flowed: when she was stormy she was both magnificent and terrifying, and when the sun shone she was sparkled and charmed. In the right light, she could be deep and calm, but when the clouds came down, she was sullen and foreboding.

“I will deal with you later.”

These were words that I dreaded, ones that took me back to my childhood.

“Just wait until I get home; then you will see what you have coming to you!”

What had made her decide I was too loose (or promiscuous, as she put it) on the blogosphere, I can only surmise; I was never good at covering my tracks. Bookmarks, breadcrumbs, history and cookies; if the technology didn’t beat me, then the will to cover my tracks most certainly would have.

“No touching without my permission.”

I had got the message loud and clear earlier on in the week. She had printed out a picture and and left in my place at the breakfast table before she headed out to work. If the image didn’t convey the message, the words she had printed on the bottom in her feminine script certainly did.

“No touching without my permission.”

The trouble with denial is that it makes the urges stronger and the alternate activities more perverted and childish. Everything takes on a sexual meaning and you hear the innuendo in every phrase. I was on the hook to make dessert for the special evening that Marine wanted to have with me that night; I knew that pecan nut pie was one of her favorites.

Google never fails to satisfy.

“pecan sexual” <enter>

Urban Dictionary: making pecan pie

  1. Female masturbation, due to the resemblance of the female genitalia to pecans and to the sweetness of the pie.
  2. Two females having sex
  3. A female getting a hand job/being eaten out

My curiosity was aroused and I clicked the next link:

Urban Dictionary: Pecan Sandies

Other than a cookie, it’s a sexual meaning…

“We gotta trick the moms into letting us bop with ’em” -Frank Reynolds

I went to the store, but they were out of Pecan Sandies, so looks like you and I are going to make our own…if you know what I mean...

I was absorbed in the world of Pecan Sandies when Marine walked in. She was in one of her sunset moods, where the sun casts a magical glow and the world at the water’s edge becomes a mass of seething sexuality. Bronzed bodies, samba music, swaying hips, clothes that display rather than hide. Margaritas on the beach, intoxicating fragrances, body language that leaves nothing to the imagination. 

She was the color of warm pecan wood and warm to the touch. As her lips closed on mine and her hand found its way between my thighs, I knew that my sentence of abstinence had come to an end. As she danced me into the bedroom room, I had one last, fleeting glimpse of a pecan on my laptop’s screens. Marine must have seen the same. With that teasing grin that drives me wild, she pinched my clit hard.

“Oh my……is that a pecan I feel in your pants?”

The Masturbatrix

The Masturbatory Itch

I hate all the euphemisms for masturbation: jilling, wanking, and so on. They all seem so tawdry and perverted. Even the word masturbation seems so far removed from the wonderful feelings and sensations that the activity creates. An act of masturbation – how depraved does that phrase sound?

Any writer should be able to identify with the process of erotic story creation: a trickle of ideas that swirl around like slowly falling snow; ideas that coalesce, merging into a more compelling form, driving the writer to take note and possibly jot down the ideas; and finally, fingers delicately grasp a pen and a pad, or perhaps  manicured nails pull a keyboard up close, the writer reveling in the creativity as the story is told There is a frantic rush to get it all down, to capture its essence, scribble out a mind blowing climax before the inspiration is spent.

I found my masturbatory act often seems to go just like that! The beginning of a masturbatory itch is easy to sense. Like any irritation, it can start with a physical discomfort: irritated skin that needs to be massaged or perhaps an itch in an area down below.

More often though, it starts at a much higher place in the body; way up  in the brain, where the ideas and images form, in the same place that a writer loves to dream.

The Search for Pleasure

It was the blogosphere that did it to me that Monday morning. Those wonderful esoteric writings that initiate the itch, stimulating the mind, massaging the brain. As everyone knows, where the mind goes, the body soon follows; the memes that are designed to bring the writers’ creative juices to flow, the inevitable consequences as their readers’ procreative juices flow in response.

It was a wonderful way to start that day, as I read through the erotic blogs that I followed, and clicked through a number of the links on the blogrolls displayed. It was a most pleasant feeling that I am sure most browsers of erotica blogs experience: a slight quickening of the pulse, a tightening of the chest. Perhaps a slight flush, a delicious pleasure below.

There comes a time where the itch becomes very apparent. Its a time when you know that you either have to walk away or make the effort to prepare. It was a morning that I was happy to be working from home; my partner at work, myself all alone. My schedule was light; no meetings to cancel, no calls to put on hold, no deadlines in sight.  It was one of those mornings where the erotica draws you in, and you realize that the itch will just have to be scratched.

I went back to my bedroom and changed my clothes for the day; something more appropriate even though it was just me in the house. It is not what you might have imagined, nothing outlandish at all. I have long since discovered that when the itch is at hand, that clothes providing access are the  most practical to have on.

A short skirt that could roll up gave easy access below, a spaghetti strapped tee shirt from which my breasts could pop out. My high heeled courts which turn me right on whenever worn, a gold chain for my ankle because I am just kinky that way.

My preparations didn’t stop with the purely practical clothing I wore; anyone who has satisfied the itch knows the mess that ensues. I covered my desk chair with a soft hand towel; leather sticking to my butt cheeks and snail trails on chair seats are distractions I have learned to avoid.

With the blinds drawn and the door closed, I once again settled down to read the erotica on tap. Much fun is made of one hand typing these days, but when reading the sites, there is not much typing to be done. There is a wonderful position that I adopt when reading like this, one that enhances the delicious sensations that flow: thighs together, squeezing in rhythm, ankles splayed to the sides of the chair. The high heels caused a delightful tenseness in the calves, a glance down from the screen showed the gold anklet circling my skin in a sensual way.

With my fingers squeezed inside my clenching thighs, I could feel the arousal building, my labia engorged. A subtle change of angle, and my clit came in to play, the juices flowing freely, the slickness enhancing my sensitivity and my pleasure down there. A gentle rocking in my chair, increasing the pressures, changing the sensations I have come to love.

In need of a climax

Like the sensations it causes, erotica is sublime; words that conjure up beautiful images that delight, phrases in poems and script that are crafted to please. There is little harmful, its usually about pleasure, conjuring up scenes for the imagination to nuzzle, in a magical ride to transport the reader elsewhere. Bodies and organs that glide and slide in harmony, fragrances and scents that arouse and inflame. The poetry I read was lovely, the stories pleasing, yet there comes a time when pure pleasure is simply not enough.

It is the time when the mind needs porn and not erotica, when the gears change and gentle caresses need to be replaced by pain. It is the time when the masturbatory itch needs to be scratched with a fury, when you sit on the cusp and your body demands its release. Your thighs tense and relax, your rubbing on the towel becomes more urgent, your state of arousal seems to be there just to taunt and to tease.

On that day, as on many others before, I knew that I would need more than erotica to achieve my relief. It’s without shame, because I am in my own space, that I fired up my browser and entered the search terms that I knew would take me there.

“Xhamster F/F caning brunette” <enter>

As I sit here typing, it all comes back to me again. I close my eyes and dream it again.

The Dream

The scene is familiar, the actors are now my partners; I put myself into the place of the girl to be caned. The skirt stays bunched and  twisted up tight around my waist and my chair is pushed back out the way to give me the room that I need. From past experience, I know exactly which sandal to use, one that will sting like the blazes but leave no tell-tale bruises or marks. It’s my bum-smacker I call it when no-one is around, it’s a shoe I will cherish for the rest of my days.

I bend over, mimicking the girl on my screen, trying to feel her tension, the turmoil in her mind. I feel the cool air on my own bare bum, feel my strained calves and thighs as I bend over in sympathy with her. I watch the cool, calm woman who is going to cane her backside, wishing that it was me in the room, that it was me who was at fault and about to be punished.

I watch riveted, joining the movie, playing out my own part; with each crack of the cane on the girls bottom, I slap on my bum-smacker down on my bottom’s right cheek. I know the pain is just a hint of what that poor girl must have felt, but I empathize with her and wish it was me bent over in that office taking her place.

The rhythm picks up and she is caned with a few more, and with each stroke I add to the heat on my own rear. My left hand works the space between my thighs, my fingers plunging and stroking, rubbing myself on, desperately scratching the dreaded, masturbatory itch.  I can feel my own breathing rushing on in deeper gasps and I find myself getting reluctant to hit myself again because it hurts so damn much.

When my climax comes, the video clip still has many minutes to run, but I hurriedly click it off in case anyone should walk in. The house is still quiet, but my body is alive; it feels like a million dollars after a workout in the gym. My thighs are sticky, I feel like a slut, but the masturbatory itch is gone and replaced by a much more primal need.

I know that tonight, my partner really  has no chance. I will be bathed and smelling fragrant when she walks into the house at the end of her day. There will be no doubt in her mind about what will happen when we head to bed, but the fact that my  masturbatory itch set me off, is a secret of mine.



The first thing I noticed on arrival in Tampa, Florida, was the ubiquitous presence of ladies’ bare legs! Coming down from Canada, where the snow still lay thick on the ground and where jeans seemed to have been been standard uniform for the last six months, the sight of the bare skin sent a tingle down my spine. It was not that all the legs were perfect, in fact far from it!  The fact is that there were legs on display: bronzes and whites and browns, shaven and lasered and depilated, sporting sandals and courts, flats and heels. Golden chain bracelets circled the ankles of the sophisticated women, the tiny links glinting in the sun; beads and plastic braids, leather and colored string ties circled those of the carefree.

My flight had arrived late, so it was a quick meal in my room and straight to bed; room service has rarely been tipped as badly as by me! I got up early the next morning, bathed and dressed. I sat at a table by myself in the breakfast room, then caught a taxi to the offices where the sales meeting was to be held. What a pity, I thought, to be locked inside on a day where the sun shone and temperatures were above zero, in a climate where naked skin is the best form of dress.

Sales meeting

Sales meetings are notoriously dull; hours of enablement, account planning sessions that go no-where, coffee breaks shared with people with whom you have little in common. By the afternoon of  the first day I was exhausted and bored. The presenters droned on listlessly, barely making any effort to inject energy into an event that seemed to have run its course. Side conversations drowned out the presenters, the presenters retreated even deeper into their charts. For those in the room that survived, death by PowerPoint seemed to be a likely outcome.

The meeting room was set up with nine or ten rows of tables. The rows were separated in the middle to form an aisle. I sat in the aisle seat towards the back of the room; I never was a front-of-the-class type of girl!

My head was propped up on my hand and my eyes scanned around the room. I was looking for some visual stimulation, anything to catch my interest and keep me awake, but my eyelids were feeling ever so heavy, as if they were weighted down with lead. My brain was slowly shutting down with the delicious prospect of falling asleep, allowing me to catch up with some desperately needed rest.

I recall that she had introduced herself as Tess during the interminably long and boring set of introductions that kicked off the meeting;  I make it a priority to remember certain name/face combinations when the chemistry looks right! She was sitting towards the front of the room, on the opposite side of the aisle. Dressed for business, she had a dancer’s body that belied her middle aged years. There is something about the Florida weather though, that makes even the most stern women soften their imag; Tess’s business jacket was worn over a silky floral blouse, her skirt was tight and rode above her knee, just long enough to be modest.


Her legs were like a mirage in the desert; a touch of the unexpected, the promise of the exotic, something to slake my imagination’s thirst. Her skirt rode high on her thigh, framing the top of a perfectly shaped leg. She had it bent back slightly to the side of the chair; it was the only thing visible in that aisle between the tables. A dancer’s leg; long and slender, perfectly toned.

The angle and tenseness of the muscle in her calf was accentuated by her heels. Some might have characterized them as ‘Fuck-Me-Shoes’, but they bordered on the elegant and were evidently worn by someone of discerning choice. Stiletto heels, delicate straps, alternating shades pastel shades of marine blue and white; the package was Tumblr worthy, erotic to the max.

I am a selective admirer of tattoos, my attraction dependent on where they are placed, how delicate the work, how they enhance.  As sexy as her feet were, it was her ankle on display that set my heart racing and woke me from my dream. She showcased a delicate rose bud and stem that while simple and elegant, was drawn to perfection. Ostensibly tying the stem to her skin, was a narrow rainbow telegraphed which way she swung. To top it all of, a simple, gold chain looped around in a delicate swoon.

Her legs made a dramatic statement; they said: “I am toned and in control, I have class and taste. I have creativity and passion, self confidence and flair. I have it, I flaunt it, I wear it with pride.”


There was the inevitable team dinner that followed that interminable day. The venue was in Ybor City, a funky neighborhood in Tampa that featured wall-to-wall bars (many with outdoor patios and most with music), cigar lounges and other small businesses that you could imagine would thrive in a neighborhood like that.

The meal dragged on, and after the main course, I excused myself and went outside to breathe in some fresh air. My head was heavy from too much wine; perhaps the marguerittes contributed to that state as well! I was standing outside the restaurant, watching the activity in a tattoo parlor, when I felt a presence at my side. Her perfume, unmistakably Black Opium, mixed with the wonderful aroma of cigars that drifted across the streets, to create an intoxicating blend that at last, brought pleasure to the day.

The heady scent combined with the Caribbean music from the bars and my own state of light inebriation to create a wonderful space where any dream was within reach.  I had been speculating, in my own head, what the customer in that parlor was asking for: a delicate tattoo to be placed on the top swell of her breast, or perhaps a rose for the bare shoulder on which her tank-top straps trailed down. Or, perhaps a piecing? Would that be for her face, her torso, or perhaps even lower down?

I had become obsessed recently with those more intimate forms of piercings, reading the blogs and looking at Tumblr sites.

“Do you know that a clitoral piercing can you more sensitive, make it easier to cum?”

Tess’s comment hit me like a sledgehammer; how had she know that I had been thinking about that? She couldn’t have seen my flush; it was too dark for that!

“Come, let’s go back inside! I want you to sit beside me for dessert.”

She took hold of my upper arm, and led me back into the restaurant; as happens in these types of dinners, people had mingled and we could sit wherever there were two empty chairs.

It is an extremely intimate experience to share a dessert: eating off the same plate, intimate glances, intimate conversation. Watching lips wrap themselves around nibbles of cake, jointly delighting in the exotic sweetness of the creamy, chocolate liqueur sauce. Her thighs burnt like the blazes when they pushed against mine; it became apparent very soon that this was by design rather than accident. Tiny little rubs of her calf against mine, a surreptitious squeeze of my hand under the white table cloth.

Tess left the restaurant alone; I followed ten minutes later, convincing myself that none of the others had noticed the relationship that had just blossomed right there.  I had her address in an SMS though, and I knew she would be waiting for me; the hotel she was staying at was just a short cab ride away.

The Hotel Room

It was a hotel room like any other hotel room that a company allows their sales team to stay: not seedy but not plush, a king size bed and a small desk. I felt very self conscious standing at the door and waiting for her to answer my knock. What on earth was I doing here, what was I expecting, what good could come of a meeting like this?

It seemed like an eternity had passed before Tess opened the door. With every second that I had waited, my resolve had waned, and a hurried retreat was at the top of my plans. When she did open it, she just stood there and eyed me up and down, assessing me, undressing me with her eyes.

“Well come on then,” she chided me, “don’t just stand there!”

She took me by the wrist and led me in; once the door closed behind us, her inhibitions dropped. Her arms wrapped around me, me clutching me in a tight embrace. The wonderful fragrance of her perfume drew me instantly back into the bubble of femininity that enclosed her, secure in her presence, submitting to her control.

Her lips found mine, and I was swallowed up by her passion, trying hard to control myself, but being swept away on her tide. I was in a daze of lust, submitting to my submission, overwhelmed by her control.

I don’t recall us shedding our clothes or getting ready to have sex, but I strongly recall those strong fingers of hers once again wrapping around my wrist and steering me towards the bed, using delicate pressure to make me lie down. It flashed through my mind that the covers had been pulled back, that I was lying face down on crisp white linen, my breasts bunching beneath me, my face turned to it’s side.

“You like tattoos, do you?” her voice was husky with lust, her hand rested heavily on my back.

I had lost my voice; I didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I am going to tattoo your bottom; fulfill your dreams, give you what you need.”

I was suddenly awake and in control of my senses; surely she couldn’t really mean that! I made a move to push myself up, but her hand remained heavily on my back, pushing me down and back into place. I felt a rush between my legs, the floodgates had opened. Submission does that to me; in a set-up like this, I really had no control.

Her free hand started to massage my bottom; it felt warm and loving. I wanted to respond to show how much I loved her warm touch. I mewed with pleasure, parting my thighs, willing her to let her hands wander.

Her barrage of smacks brought me back to reality. They hurt and I had to protect myself somehow! I whipped my hands back to cover my bottom, twisting aside to avoid the blows. The weight on the bed next to me shifted, and felt Tess straddling my legs and pinning me down. She must have done this before, she was so strong and nimble; a white terry-cloth dressing gown belt was wrapped around my wrists, tying my hands behind me, leaving my bottom unprotected, my legs immobile beneath her weight.

It wasn’t her hands that stung my rear this time, it was the leather sole of a slipper. Firm yet somewhat pliant, it stung like the blazes, driving heat into every nerve of my skin; yet at the same time, she had a hand in between my thighs, feeling and palpitating my swollen labia, squeezing them together, pummeling my clit.

At last the slippering stopped and a delicious warmth spread across my backside, burrowing it’s way down to join up with my cunt. Her hands never let up, massaging my rump and my sex, driving me ever deeper into a wonderful state of arousal. It  felt so wonderful to be restrained, helpless to defend myself, helpless to respond. I was at liberty to enjoy her attentions and  bask in my submission.

I groaned in frustration when Tess climbed off me, leaving me hanging, my juices flooding the bedding beneath.

“Roll over, now!”

I felt clumsy rolling over, my hands tied behind my back. They felt uncomfortable beneath me; I was even more helpless than before.

Tess straddled my legs again, her dancers body looking lithe and taught, her breasts perfectly round, perfectly proportioned. She settled back, her weight resting on my lower thighs. As if by magic, a pair of nipple clips separated by a two foot silver chain, materialised in one hand.

“You want to feel what it likes to be pieced?” she asked, “well try this for size first!”

My nipples were erect, aroused and waiting. She opened what looked to be an elaborate clip, and gently released it onto my left nip. I felt my eyes close and my entire focus transferred to that little nub, as the pain rocked through it, unleashing an incredible flash that I thought would never die and never be eclipsed.

A second clip on it’s own chain was dangled in front of my eyes, and before I could realise what had happened, my other nipple was trapped in that vice of pain.

I was still struggling to understand what had just transpired, when Tess raised the chains and fastened the clips on the other side of the chains to her own nipples. We were joined in a chain of pain, my left nipple to her right, my right to her left.

The look of pain on her face excited me, her gasps aroused me. I was helpless beneath the weight of her body as she her eyes screwed up and her forehead furrowed as she welcomed  the exquisite agony that flowed through her body and fueled the fires of her lust.

With her one hand stimulated herself and  her other finger fucking me, we performed in an exhilarating choreography of pain and pleasure. With every sway of her torso, with every swing of her breasts, our nipples were tweaked into paroxysms of sweet pain. When my sex was probed, I knew that her other fingers were deep into her own, and when my nipples were afflicted, I knew that she was suffering the same torment as I.

She cuddled me afterwards and gently rubbed out all of the sore; the release of the clips brought a whole new wave of pain of its own. She was surprisingly tender and dried my eyes, holding me tight until my sobs had died down. She knew instinctively though, that they were not just sobs of pain; they were tears of release brought on by the devilish concoction of the kink of her ways.

My hands were not released until it was time for us to get up, to prepare for another session of sales planning and teaming. We knew our bodies would once again be imprisoned for the day, but it was a day where our spirits soared, for we knew that we had both found an unlikely match. Drinks in the evening would not be with the team that night; something more intimate was bound to take place!

The Voyeur


Monday Evening 8pm

Our backyard neighbour’s house also looked out over our garden at the back. Her’s was a leased house, and I knew from the ‘For Lease’ signs that had gone up that she would soon be gone. We had never met the women who now rented there, but had seen her walking down the street.

Tall and lithe, I had only seen her dressed smartly for work. She favored trench coat styled overwear, long and tailored, flaring out with panache, displaying the slender body that it clothed. Her long auburn hair dropped down straight onto her shoulders, and then curled up in an alluring way. Always presentable, always chic, she projected the aura of a successful business woman as she went her way.

When we had first seen her in the neighborhood, Andi had nick-named her “Trenchcoat” on account of her style. Whether that was fair or not, I cannot say, but it did give her an air of mystery, a potential spy in our midst. We had never seen her standing at the windows at the back of her house, but we had seen her shadow flitting around the rooms as she drew the blinds or entered the rooms. I was not then particularly concerned about our privacy; nothing ever untoward had been noticed before.

I was standing in our bedroom’s bay window looking down at the lit-up fountain, when Andi walked in. I had just had a hot bath and felt fresh, if not somewhat flushed. My hair felt clean and fragrant, and the scent of the bubble bath lingered on my skin. There was still a chill in the air, and despite the heaters, I could feel the goosebumps on my upper arms. Where my gown had slipped apart, one of my nips peeked out, responding coquettishly to the teasing cold; it was succulent and erect, just waiting to be tweaked.

Andi snuck up from behind me, and pulled a soft scarf across my eyes.

“You are my captive now,” she teased, ever bubbly, always looking for mischief. I played along, letting her fasten the blindfold, standing stock still as I waited for her next move.

The Silver Topped Box

Tuesday Evening  8pm

Andi found the small gift box that had been left in our post box the next day when she got back from work. With a navy blue base and a sliver top, it was perhaps a couple of inches square and half an inch deep. A beautifully tied blue ribbon sealed it closed, and a card with a feminine handwriting was attached to the lid.

“An erotic performance! Thank you!”

Andi brought it into the lounge and looked at me quizzically; I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. No idea!

When she opened the box, a pair of clover leaf clamps lay inside.

“Well sweet pea, what do you think?”

I had a glimmer of an idea.

“I think the timing is right; let me go and have a bath. I will see you upstairs in half an hour,” I responded.

My heart was racing this time around. My nipples were as erect as they had been the previous day, but this time around, it was more from anticipation than from cold. I welcomed the blindfold that Andi wrapped around my eyes and swooned as her arms embraced me and she gently cupped my breasts. Her hands felt warm, her fingers light. It was as if a spigot had been opened between my legs; as she gently rolled my nips, the juices flowed.

Andi gently eased the first clamp apart and trapped my nipple; the pressure increased and I heard myself involuntarily cry out.

“Pant, baby ,welcome the pain.” Her voice was silky, hypnotic and reassuring.

I felt my jaw hang open and my breathing deepen. I was panting furiously by the time the second clip was attached. My moans were of pain, passion and submission. Andi swung me around, and kissed me deeply, a hand of hers driving unapologetically down into my swollen cunt, frigging me urgently as she drove me on.

I heard myself squealing, brushing my nipple clips against her top, desperately trying to knock them off, trying my best to cope with the pain.

I was crying tears of agony and arousal when she freed me at last; flashes of pain coursed through my breasts as the blood flowed back, accompanied by a throbbing need between my thighs, which her fingers drove on. We collapsed onto the bed to finish it off, for her to kiss the pain away and to make it all better.

The Dream

Tuesday Night 11pm

My dream that night was soft and arousing, one of the kind that you never want to end. It went something like this, although the sensuousness of the experience is hard to relate.

We were in a large room which was practically bare of furniture except for the boudoir chair in which Andi sat. A curtain of some diaphanous material sectioned off a piece of the room at the side.

Andi was dressed in a long flowing silken shift, a silver hilted riding crop flexed between her hands. She looked regal and domineering, yet compassionate and sensual.  She was looking down at me, an enigmatic smile playing across her lips.

I was kneeling in front of her on a brightly patterned Persian matt that provided my knees with a cushion from the hardness of the glossy marble floors. My thighs were spread, my back was straight, my breasts were thrust forward and my head was up.

Andi laid down the crop on a table at her side and picked up a book. It’s glossy cover had a beautiful picture of a Gorean slave kneeling in the same position that I had now assumed. She flipped through it slowly, her eyes absorbing the exquisite photographs, each one erotic, each one beautifully posed.

“Ready for show-time?” she asked in that silky voice.

Andi snapped a finger and a light behind the curtain came on. It revealed a figure kneeling on a large cushion behind, her posture was very similar to mine. I recognised her in my dreamlike state; she represented the “Trenchcoat”, the willowy women who lived in the house behind ours.

Unlike my hands, which were turned up and resting chastely on my thighs, hers were active, the one buried between her thighs, the other massaging her breast, tweaking her nipples, stroking her flanks. While my eyes were cast down submissively, hers were devouring us, using our interaction to fuel her desire.

We were the actors, she was our audience.

Nadu, Bara, Lesha, Bracelets. I moved as gracefully as I could, changing position at Andi’s command. I was desperate to please her, to win an approving nod of satisfaction. I was also aroused, constantly aware of our audience, cognisant of the sexual appetite I was feeding, deeply aroused to be the stimulus that was driving her lust. The chain from my collar dragged across my skin with every move, a pleasant reminder of the shackles I wore. I knew that in every position I opened myself up for display, showing my bits, exhibiting my subservience.

I could see Trenchcoats’  thighs tensing as she struggled to cum, raising herself up to increase the flex. Her fingers plunged inside herself, furiously at work, her breathing was hard, a contorted smile seemed to play on her lips. Her eyes were furrowing and  her body trembling, and I could sense the relief she was striving to get.

I had never before considered myself an exhibitionist; it excited me now and I could feel my body respond.

Andi flicked her fingers. “Lights!” she commanded.

The light behind the curtain veil extinguished, and once more it was just Andi and I in the room alone, our privacy assured, our voyeur banished to another realm.


I assumed the position bending position, and waited breathlessly for Andi to approach, the sliver hilted cane once again flexing in her hands.

I didn’t want to wake up when Andi drew the curtains in the morning. The sun flooded into the room, dust motes dancing in it’s unfiltered beams. The dream had been so real and I didn’t want it to go away; I wanted to just lie there and make it go on and on, to believe it was a reality for just a little while more.

The Cane

Wednesday Evening 8pm

There was a cardboard tube in Andi’s hands when she walked in from work, the type that is used for transporting maps or posters. She was rattling it; definitely not maps or posters protected in there!

When she drew out a cane from the one end, its handle beautifully bound in leather, a wrist loop curving out from the base, we both instinctively knew who it was from; Trenchcoat was upping the ante. I could feel my breath quicken; submission, not pain, was my kink. She was somehow tapping into an unknown yearning; perhaps being an exhibitionist was a character flaw I should add to my list.

I found myself standing on a low coffee table next to the window that night; Andi didn’t want the window sill to obstruct any view. The lights across the garden were off, but I sensed that she was there, watching our performance, taking perverse pleasure in my pain. Andi giggled as she pulled out a stepping stool to get her to the right height; it may well have seemed amusing if you were on the right end of the cane!

I had never been swished before and could not have imagined how painful it would be. The performance I put on is not something I am proud of at all; I never was the was the greatest stoic.

Andi took it slowly, making sure that she extended the show. A myriad little flicks that seemed innocuous at first, before they united into a fierce storm of pain that I battled to weather.

She slowed the tempo down as she picked up the force, and with every stroke I put on a show. It was not a show of pleasure, nor one that I intended to impress; it was pure reaction to a growing distress. My hands would shoot back to protect my backside, only to be tapped away by a quick rap on my knuckles. I could feel by backside swaying in a desperate attempt to alleviate the pain, could feel it pull in each time the rod made its mark.

I cannot say how long that performance went on, but when Andi hugged me afterwards, I could smell the earthy scent of arousal on her skin. We were standing in front of the window with my head snuggled on her shoulder, and I could feel the tears drying, tightening the skin on my cheeks.

Unbelievably, the light in Trenchcoats’ window came on for a moment; she was standing watching, the top of her naked torso framed for us to see. She looked at us for a few seconds; even at that distance I could sense a touch of sadness in the expression she wore. Then she raised her one hand, and wiggled her fingers at us. It was a tentative gesture, perhaps even wistful. Rather than the sadistic, domineering women I had imagined her to be, she suddenly seemed lonely and vulnerable. My heart cried for her as the light flicked off.

All I was left with was the ghost image etched in my mind. Once again, Andi and I we were alone.

We realised the next morning that it was a farewell wave we had received; the moving truck was outside her house and we never saw her again.

Andi and I were more circumspect about our privacy from then on; the people who moved in were not the type we chose to invite in.

The Exhibitionist

I am the embodiment of sexual contradiction, being at once submissive and dominant. I admit to being an exhibitionist but am turned on by playing voyeur. I have masochistic tendencies, yet watching another being whipped arouses. I consider myself to be a mature, calculating adult but my activities are often, at best, those of a hormone driven adolescent. I am in a satisfying heterosexual marriage, though I am driven to indulge in the fruits of a lesbian relationship.

In short, I am a therapist’s worst nightmare, yet a Pandora’s Box of wonderfully conflicted material for an inquisitive psychiatrist.

I enrolled at Fullsome Hall for a week of their school regression program. I longed to experience being back at a high discipline, girls only institution and to take full advantage of the experiences available. As a teenager, I had attended just such a school, and taken the line of least resistance; I regret that to this day.

The Matron

I arrived early and was shown to the dorm where I unpacked my bags. The quarters were Spartan, just as I had remembered from my school days:  a narrow, steel locker to hang my clothes, a small steel bedside table with a single drawer, a steel  bed with a thin fiber mattress, thin blanket and threadbare sheets. It was enough to throw a cloud of despondency over an occupant; for me it was heaven, offering the harsh accommodation experience I so craved.

Ten minutes later, I found myself standing naked in front of the matron in her cramped office, being processed for intake. I had been weighed, measured and photographed. The physical had been demeaning as she called out her findings in a dispassionate tone for the nurse to record on my chart: “Breasts – saggy, no lumps; vagina –  lubrication present, evidence of arousal, deflowered; rectal – no evidence of hemorrhoids or anal tears…..”

And so it went on. I felt at once violated yet stimulated, humiliated yet aroused.

The questions were as invasive as the physical, her probing questions reaching where her fingers had fallen short.

“Are you sexually active?”

“Not at present.”

“Do you masturbate?”

I looked at her dumbstruck; what type of question was that!

“Do you practice self abuse, girl? It’s a simple question….do you or don’t you?”

I flushed.

“No, Matron”

The answers were noted on my chart, her incredulous look spoke volumes.

My processing complete, I struggled into my schoolgirl uniform, one I am sure had been deliberately issued a couple of sizes too small. My breasts strained at the thin white shirt, threatening to pop the top buttons; my hips pushed out the plaid mini-skirt, leaving it smooth where the pleats should have folded neatly. White, knee high stocking dug into my chubby calves, black Mary-Janes left my feet feeling flat-footed and frumpish. I twisted my hair into two neat little pigtails and substituted my contacts for clear, black framed glasses. Now, suitably attired, I made my way back to the headmistress’s office for my interview.

The Headmistress

She did not rise from behind her desk when I entered; she simply glared at me over the top of her rimless reading glasses. Her eyes travelled up and down, settling for a few disconcerting moments on my straining shirt, tut-tutting at my slovenly appearance, muttering under her breath that this was one she would need to pay particular attention to.

The office was gloomy; a typical principals den. Her desk was old and wooden, the inkwells serving as a holder for pens and pencils. A couple of straps and two tailed tawses hung neatly from hooks at the side of a wooden coat cupboard; a few canes lay on the high window sill where they had been dropped after their last usage.

She reached across the desk towards me and held out her hand; her manner curt, her voice brittle. I would not have thought she was much older than me; early forties perhaps. Despite her harsh manner, she had a sleek figure, wore a tailored jacket over a white lace-trimmed blouse, and somehow exuded a bouquet of a character which perhaps matched mine for complexity.

“Chart!” she snapped.

She practically snatched it from my trembling fingers as I handed it across the desk. Her eyes skimmed down the pages, absorbing the information, forming instant opinions.

“I presume you sneaked a peak at this report on your way over to the office?”

I nodded gloomily; who wouldn’t have done that?  The words announced the state of even my most private parts; it was the photographs the matron had snapped which provided the color. Somehow, being an exhibitionist was different when you were anonymous; in person it was humiliating and base.

“Well, do you have anything you want to add?”

I shook my head; what more could be said?

“Or …perhaps ….anything you wish to change or correct?”

Again, I shook my head; they had captured it all.

“Miss light-fingers,” she addressed me sternly. Her tone was grave, her look was accusing. “I don’t appreciate lies; I deal with liars harshly.”

I couldn’t even start to fathom what she was going on about yet my nerves were on edge.

“I conducted a locker inspection while you were having your physical, missy, and what do you think I found?”

Once again, I shook my head blankly

The headmistress reached into her desk drawer, and dangled an object over her desk. She held it between two fingers, distaste and disgust written over her refined features.

“I am sorry, Miss, I didn’t know we were not allowed to have those on school property,” I stammered.

“Well you aren’t; you should have read the school rules. For that misdemeanor, you will be punished.”

She flipped the report open and ran a manicured nail down the text. I knew then where she was headed.

“…but the Matron has documented here that you said you don’t masturbate. So, please explain to me, what is the purpose of this vibrator?”

I had nowhere to go, no answer to give. I wanted to sink into the floor, to rewind the clock, to suffer that humiliating physical all over again so that I could undo my error.

“You lied to Matron, young lady, and you lied to me again.”

The headmistress moved like a predator; with cat like grace she risen from behind the desk, a strap in her hand, a scowl on her face. A hand clamped around my wrist and expertly twisted my arm. I had no option; there was only one way to relieve the pressure and that was by bending across her knee.

I have heard it told that the preliminaries and preparations are all part of the punishment. There was none of that with this headmistress. Her movements were economical, her intentions clear. She did not need to dwell on pinning up my skirt; in my bent over position, it barely covered my plump bottom as gravity helped draw it along my back. My white panties barely complained as they were dragged down my thighs, in fact, in retrospect, I surmised that they were probably keen to get out of the way of that threatening strap.

I was not asked to count the strokes, nor would it have been possible. All I was aware of was the blistering heat that seared across my bottom and thighs. It was relentless; scorching every surface, sending eddies of pain into every nook and cranny. Somewhere in my consciousness, I became aware of the sounds that accompanied this terrible inferno; my feet drumming on the wooden floors, the splatt as the leather connected with my flesh, the wailing and sobs that emanated from my mouth but seemed to come from a long way off.

At last she stopped, and I felt her fingers start to explore; stroking the inflamed flesh, tracing the wheals, probing my entrances. I wiped my eyes, and looked at the world from my upside down position; her polished toenails, strappy heels, slender ankles.

And then I gasped, not out pain, but in surprise, for there was a little tattoo marked on the outside of her right ankle and the picture was one that I was intimately familiar with.

“Carlotta Danger!” I hissed under my breath.

The effect couldn’t have been more electrifying. I was dumped unceremoniously onto the carpet and the headmistress shot to her feet.

“What did you just say?” she growled.

I scrambled to my feet, oblivious of my pain, the scent of blood in the air.

“Carlotta Danger!” I shook my head as I struggled, at first to comprehend, and then to plot a scheme.

Carlotta Danger

The Headmistress had retreated back to behind her desk; I waddled painfully to the window and selected a cane. To say that I swished it through the air theatrically would have been an overstatement, yet it did feel good in my hands. It had a satisfying bounce when I flicked it, and the sudden power exchange made me feel charged and alive.

“It’s a secret, you can’t tell! Promise me you won’t tell!” she bleated, her eyes looking up at me pitifully, her fingers doing a dance of apprehension.

“Get up Carlotta! Drop your skirt to your ankles, panties to your knees!”

Her hands shook as she complied; her eyes welled up with tears. As the panties descended and exposed her neatly trimmed pubis, another tattoo came into view, the same design as the first. A mermaid sat on a pile of rocks, a mirror in one hand, a whip in the other. It was a tattoo I had seen displayed in a number of the voyeur web sites I had frequented; the signature was that of Carlotta Danger. I had seen it transmitted as a grainy webcam image as Carlotta showed her wares. Recently, she had upped her game and sexting had become her poison; a high quality image of the tattoo and surrounding flesh sat safely on my smartphone.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Carlotta. Listen carefully so you don’t break the rules. For the next week, while I am a student at your institution, I will play the schoolgirl role I signed up for. However, at ten o’clock each night, you will report to me in this study, and the roles will be reversed. You will have a two hour detention in which we will review the lessons of the day. Do you understand me?”

“And then my secret will be safe?” she whispered.

As she bent to grasp her knees, the cane provided her with the answer she sought. A set of vivid red lines sprang up across her cheeks, lighting fires between her thighs, creating a painful furnace that matched my own.

There is only one way to subdue such fiery heat and as we rolled around on the luxurious rug, our limbs intertwined, our tongues probing, we succeeded in turning the pain to pleasure, the dominance to equality, the heat to delicious warmth. Her secret was safe, and my lie was undone, for I never did need to use that vibrator during that week.


Chapter 1 – Ankle cuffs

I had been going through a period when the thought of chains dominated my sexual yearnings. I go through fetish phases, and this was my phase of chains and steel bracelets, ankle cuffs and leg irons, perhaps a steel collar with a chain attached thrown in for good measure.

It had all started innocently enough; I had been flipping through images on Tumblr and had somehow been presented with a photo depicting the lower half of a pair of ladies legs; shapely and slender, each ankle was cuffed by an elegant silver anklet and then they were linked together by a short hobble chain. The image was actually very tasteful; the model’s feet were sexy (did I ever tell you about my foot fetish phase?) and her toe nails were manicured and painted a vibrant red; an elegant pair of strappy, silver, high heeled mules were suspended by her toes.

It was the ankle bracelets that did it for me; they were narrow yet artfully designed: shiny silver rims with a brushed steel inner ring. The image was classy with no hint at all of the tawdry side of bondage. Silver anklets against toned and slender ankles, comfort without freedom, fetters without shame.

I loved that image and stared at it for ages, wondering what would have been going through the model’s mind and body while she wore that unusual ‘jewelry’.  Was she as turned on as I was by the harshness of the steel attached firmly against her delicate and very feminine ankles? Was she energized or subdued by her loss of freedom? Did the chains express unwelcome captivity or were they rather the ultimate expression of her voluntary submission?

I was aroused by it, and wanted to be her, to feel the physical restraint that she felt, to experience the submission that she may have offered.

I surfed and searched, looked at images and read erotica. One Internet session at a time, I became obsessed by chains. I looked at photos of models wearing wrist cuffs, ankle irons, collars, nipple clamps joined by silver chains.

I think it was the unforgiving nature of chains that really got to me; once they were on, there was nothing short of a key that could really get them off. When you submitted to a key-holder, you really were at her mercy; the chains would stay on until it was at her pleasure when they got to be removed. She decided when they could come off; she decided when you would once again get your freedom. They couldn’t be cut off like a leather cuff; they couldn’t be sliced like a rope or a plastic zip-tie.

In my mind, there was more to the key-holder’s role than just a route to freedom: she would decide how long the chain would be, how restricted my movement would be. In my mind I imagined orgasm without the freedom to stretch and flex, without the ability to tug at my nips, without the ability to adopt a position of my choice.  I thought of the key-holder’s power to make me pee in a bucket rather than in the loo, to lock me in position in order to receive a punishment of her choice.

I found it all very arousing, fodder for countless day-dreams and yearnings. Through it all, there was always the stark contrast of cold, hard steel against warm, female flesh; that erotic contrast drove me on to look for an experience that was deeper than the imaginings  which my mind could create.

Chapter 2 – Chain Links

Stedstor was one of those General Dealers that you find in smaller towns; they stock everything from household cleaning supplies to electric goods, beach clothes to fishing supplies, bird seed to camping equipment; they had it all! A superstore crammed into two small storefronts; merchandise stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling, narrow aisles where customers could not pass, the unexpected available at any random spot.

I know in retrospect it sounds childish and somewhat eccentric to go into a shop like that to see what a length of chain would actually feel like, but that is exactly the way it happened. I found the shelf where there were reels of chains of different thickness rolled up; a pair of bolt cutters leaned idly against a yard-stick attached to the shelf.

I stood wrapped up in my own little world, playing with the ends of these chains, feeling the weight, thrilling to its unyielding nature. I wrapped the end of one chain around my wrist, feeling a sense of warmth rushing through my tummy, a deep and satisfying dampness developing in my panties.

It was really a magic moment; the steel felt so cold against my skin and my wrist bones jutted up to meet the hard, unyielding metal with a pleasurable discomfort.

A general store is a strange place to have an erotic flight of fancy, but right there and there, while I played with the chain that I circled around my wrist, I wondered what it would be like to have that chain circle my waist, its heavy links resting on my soft and padded hips, balancing seductively on the top of my bum.

My mind raced on, oblivious of my surroundings; what I thought would it be like if a chain was pulled between my legs and locked to the link around my waist chain, trapping me in a makeshift chastity belt? What would it feel like to have those shiny links drag up between my pussy lips, pushing against my clit, glistening with my juices, lubricated by my wetness.

Erotic fantasies are designed to do one thing, and one thing alone: to put you in a state of arousal, where you neck flushes, your nipples strain against your bra, pushing out like nubs through your T-Shirt, dress or blouse. Your breathing becomes more pronounced and perhaps your fingers are not as calm and steady as you are accustomed to having them be. In many cases your musky odor punches through the ambient smells, your voice becomes husky when you have to respond

Erotic fantasies are fine when experienced alone but in a public space the symptoms can cause alarm bells to ring.

Chapter 3 – Synchronicity

When I thought about it later, I put it down to synchronicity; I had no idea that I would pick a general store where the sales assistant was so darn adept at reading my behavior. Perhaps I was behaving less discretely than I should have, but then there again, who would ever have imagined that the Stedstor General Dealer would be a fertile meeting ground for a dominatrix-in-waiting?

I didn’t quite know how to respond. The sales assistants question shattered my day-dream, dragged me back to a very embarrassing reality.

“Did you find everything you are looking for? Do you need me to cut a length of that chain for you?”

I fell back to my default answer: “I am fine thanks; I am just looking.”

She seemed to eye me for a moment longer than I felt comfortable. I felt the color rushing to my cheeks in a way that even overpowered the color from my self-imposed arousal.

The sales assistant was perhaps thirty five or forty years old, similar in age to me. She had the body of someone who takes aerobics very seriously; she was trim without being lean, her sandy colored hair was cut in a slightly severe bob.  Her complexion was darkish for someone who had fair hair; it was healthy and fresh with a lovely matt finish; whether this was due to well applied foundation or a healthy lifestyle, I couldn’t really tell.

Her appearance was so wholesome and feminine, yet there was no doubt that she was not a wilting daisy. Her glasses were oval and feminine, her blue eyes were set off with beautifully blended bands of blue, aquamarine and grey eye-shadow; she seemed to be able to look straight into my own eyes – and then drill in even deeper to read my mind.

Despite the fact that we were both wearing jeans, our clothing style really set us apart. Her skinny cut jeans showed off her tight bottom, her well toned thighs and an athletic pair of calves; my designer jeans were high waisted and cut for show. Her utilitarian powder blue knit top clung to her gentle curves; my feminine blouse was white and lacy, blue ribbons chastely lacing the embroidered V. She wore white athletic shoes, comfortable and functional, built for speed and not for show; my high heeled sandals clicked on the floor as I followed her, now seeming too stylish for this general dealer shop.

Her hand reached up to the shelf and she picked off a pre-cut, shrunk-wrapped length of chain. I looked at the label: “3 meters, suitable for domestic use”.

“This should do you for starters!”

The sales assistant paused, gave me a long, hard stare as if sussing me out, using those blue eyes of hers to read my mind. I swear she was clairvoyant; she turned back to the shelf and picked up a few lengths of chain off-cuts that lay around.

“Come, let me show you some carbineer clips, shackles and locks.”

She spun on her heels and walked away, confident that I would follow, already exhibiting her natural understanding of her own dominance and my submissive ways.

At the word ‘shackle’, I felt an instant flood down below; how well I had conditioned myself over my past few weeks of being a perv?

We passed through the aisles with me in tow, my heels clicking relentlessly on the hard, tiled floors. The chains that she carried were soon joined by a selection of padlocks, some small and some heavy; carbineer clips and shackles were dropped into a baggie and joined the pile.

I thought we were finished and heading to the checkout, when the Sales Assistant stopped suddenly at the kitchen goods section, reached up and added a couple of heavy, plastic clips to the pile of hardware in her hand.

“I think we will need these.”

The ‘we’ left me confused but before I had a chance to ask what she meant, the assistant had moved on, knowing from the click of my heels that I was not far behind. The Pets’ Section was near the till, and she reached up to take a heavy dog’s collar off the spike on which it hung. I was a bit confused, but assumed she was collecting items for a phoned in order.

“That should do us for now; come let’s go to the back.”

I was definitely very confused now and followed her to one of the two doors marked “Staff Only”. She might have been clairvoyant, but I am certainly not!

Chapter 4 – The Store Room

The sales assistant flipped on the lights when she entered the shop’s store room and I followed her in, well away from curious eyes.

She dumped the items that she was holding onto a workbench that stood at the side of the room. I looked around and took it all in; the room was about five by ten meters, quite spacious compared to the heavily stocked shop in the front. Steel racks with merchandise lined three sides of the wall and the workbench took up a good part of the length of the fourth. The roof beams were quite low and yet more items hung from hooks in the beams at the far end of the room. It was the floor however, which gave the room its dungeon like feel: bare concrete, cold and austere.

My confusion grew as I watched the assistant lock the door and pocket the key; why on earth was I here and why was she securing the door?

Her voice was quite matter of fact when she turned to address me again.

“I don’t know who you are, but I know what you are. I am pretty sure I know what you need.”

She paused for a moment, leaving me stunned and breathless. I watched as she dangled the door key from her index finger.

“You can leave now if you like, and this incident will soon be forgotten, or, you can strip now and fold your clothes, and leave them in a neat pile on the table over there.”

I just stared at her, stunned and speechless….and then the wellspring between my legs seemed to turn on by itself. I had forgotten the dampness from earlier on, but now I was again soaked, embarrassingly producing the juices of arousal once more. I felt her eyes once again boring into me and then ever so slowly I reached up to loosen the blue lace on my blouse and I slowly pulled the garment up over my head.

I was down to my bra and panties and reaching down to slip the sandal straps from behind my heels, when the assistant, who had been keeping an eye on me while she sorted the chains, broke the verbal silence and spoke to me again.

“Oh, you can keep the sandals on. Nice heels, I like them! The panties and bra, they need to come off.”

I flushed, partly at the praise of my choice in footwear, partly in shame.

“Oh, and the watch, that must come off as well, please.”

She gave me that piercing look again; those blue eyes of hers seemed to be constantly appraising me, constantly reading my mind. They were gorgeous, so blue, so calming, yet so probing, always seeming  to look through me, to understand me  a bit more.

“By the way, my name is Emmeline as you can see on my tag; I will simply call you ‘Girl’.”

I had barely finished stacking my clothes neatly on the table when Emmeline gave me my next instruction. Her voice was actually quite soft, quite matter of fact, but it carried an authority that I didn’t even consider to buck.

“There are two concrete blocks in the corner over there; please bring them to the center of the room.”

My goodness, they were heavy. About a foot square and three inches high, each had a steel ring set into the center of the base. I hauled each back to the center of the room with difficulty, setting them down under her guidance some six foot apart.

I stood exhausted as Emmeline wrapped a chain around my left ankle; she used a heavy padlock to close the loop and hold it in place. She quickly locked the loose end to one of the concrete blocks; I was chained, naked and at her mercy.  She had given me about four foot of movement  with that off cut of chain; there would be no walking around (except in circles!), no going to the loo, no walking out when I had had enough.

My head was spinning, I was still in shock. It could only have been a half hour before that I was driving into the parking lot in an irrational investigation of the things of my dreams; now here I was locked up and I had offered no struggle, no plea!

“Like a modern day version of the old ball and chain, isn’t it?”

She was so right; she was also the keeper of the key.

Chapter 5 – A touch of pleasure, a pinch of pain

Emmeline selected another short length of chain off the table, and I watched her approach me with some feelings of unease.


I knew what she wanted; I held out my arms and offered both hands. She looped the one end of the chain around my right wrist, and locked it in place.

“Hands behind your back, please.”

I obeyed, and seconds later she had my left wrist secured to the other end of the short chain. I was manacled, hands behind my back, about six inches of movement in play.

Emmeline turned back to the table to select her next item; in a bit of a panic I wondered what would be next. Would she chain my other ankle, perhaps my wrists or my waist? What had I let myself into, should I scream or was I really safe?

I watched warily as she selected the plastic clips that she had picked up in “Household Goods”. She held them out in front of her with her fingertips, taunting me, stoking my fear, opening them, only to let them snap closed again;  threatening movements, ominous  clicks .

“Now what do you think these are for, Girl?”

I took a step backwards, and then came to an abrupt halt, my darned ankle chain preventing any further retreat.

Emmeline laughed softly, and then when she reached forward to me, it was to hug me rather than hurt! She wrapped her hands around my neck and leaned right into my space.

It was at that moment that I knew ‘we’ were meant to be. Her blue eyes seemed to soften as I watched; they became compassionate and misty, dreamy and half closed. Her breath was sweat, her lips were soft and I could feel the warmth of her body as she hugged me close

She broke momentarily from our embrace and whispered in my ear; her words were soft and hypnotic and I longed to please.

“Do this for me, my sweet girl. Your shackles are my freedom, your submission my pleasure, you need to know that your arousal is the key to my release.”

Her words excited me and her presence inflamed me. I could sense my nipples hardening, my clitoris trying to burst. Emmeline placed the clips onto my swollen nips, releasing slowly, luxuriating in my pained response. I breathed in slowly, cherished the momentary agony that I felt quickly subside. I lowered my head, savoring the sensations, desperately trying to breathe in her wonderful scent.

Emmeline kissed me chastely and looked at her watch; it was quarter to four she announced. Store closing was at six o’clock. With a wicked grin, she bade me farewell and said she would be back after the store was closed up.

She didn’t lock the door this time – I was going nowhere; physically and emotionally, I was imprisoned by her spell.

Chapter 6 – The Spatula

At first I had loved it; it was a dream come true. The chain was heavier than I had expected;  it was as unforgiving and uncompromising as I had expected it would be. I enjoyed the feel of it as it snaked down my ankle to the floor, delighted in the clinks on the concrete when I moved around, took pleasure in the absolute resistance when I tried to draw away.

Things changed after a while; I never was a good judge of time without being able to see a watch. My feet were starting to ache; high heeled sandals and concrete floors are not a match that is designed for comfort. I had considered sitting down, but the floor seemed too austere; not dirty, but dusty and unforgiving. The novelty of being chained had rapidly worn off; there was no mirror for me to admire my plight in, no one else to take satisfaction in my shame.

I had been in awe of the clips when she first put them on but now the pain from the clips on my nipple was relentless. Initially, in that moment of passion and intense arousal, the painful sensation had been wonderful. There seemed to be a direct line between my nipples and clit, a line that burnt through my belly joining the pure pain with un-adulterated pleasure; pain without humiliation, pleasure without sexual release.

The initial sharp pain had given way to a throbbing that just never eased up, but with my hands chained behind me, there was no way of clipping them off. The thought of lying on the ground and trying to rub them off on the floor did cross my mind, but I did not wish to debase myself in that way; I resolved to carry the discomfort she had inflicted with pride, to succumb to whatever torment that she wished.

It could not have been more that twenty or thirty minutes before the door edged open again. Emmeline came in and greeted me with a lovely smile; despite her slightly severe hairstyle, she really was very pretty! She was carrying a spatula which she brandished gleefully in her right hand.

“Look what we forgot to pick up on our way through Household earlier”

There was that infernal “We” again; I had not forgotten to pick up anything in Household!

The passionate and hypnotic Emmeline of before had reverted to the Sales Assistant, friendly and interactive, at home with her wares. She put the spatula down on the workbench and approached me with the keys, another length of chain swinging gleefully from her hands.

“Hands , Girl!”

I stared at her blankly for a minute, not sure how I could present my hands when they were locked behind my back. I looked deep into those wonderful eyes of her, looking for further instruction, waiting for inspiration. It dawned on me that there was only one way to comply: I turned around, and showed my back.

“I said hands, Girl! Present them!”

The penny dropped, I knew what she wanted. I bent forward, pushing m hands out as far as I could, aware that my bottom and pussy too were protruding, presented as well. The lock to one wrist was opened, the encircling chain released.

“Stand  up, Girl. Hands again, please.”

Emmeline shackled my hands again, in front of me this time.

“We need to keep them out of the way,” she smiled, “I would hate for the spatula to hit them by mistake!”

With one simple statement, she had made clear what the spatula was intended for, but that would come later as she had something else on her mind. She efficiently removed the clips from my nipple, paying no thought to the after effect. She did it with the efficiency of a nurse who pulls off a sticking plaster – one rip and it’s off. The blood flowed back with astonishing speed, the resultant pain was quite a surprise.

I was still kneading my tender breasts, trying to regain my composure, when I felt her circle the my free ankle with another length of chain. I now understood the reason for the second concrete block; my four feet of freedom had been reduced to just one or two. It was the perfect setup now for Emmeline and her spatula, my hand were locked out of the way in front of me and my movement was restricted; there was no way that I could not turn away from the strokes.

She popped me twice on the left cheek with the spatula using a short flicky stroke; it depended on speed rather than force to make itself felt. I could not turn to see the effect, could not reach back to protect myself with my hands. The noise of the smacks was quite loud in that small storeroom, and I am sure I squealed a rather vocal  ‘ouch’ to add to the noise.

Emmeline paused and leaned in to me again. Once again I was overcome by her closeness, that bewitching perfume, her sultry breath.

“You are making me so aroused, so hot! You want to pleasure me, don’t you? You want to offer me your submission and pain? I am so proud of you!”

He voice was hypnotic, mellifluous, sultry and pure. I longed to please her, to feed her desires.

She drew back and smacked me again, alternating on each cheek with barrages of two, driving pure fire into my burning behind. I stamped my feet, hearing the sandals beat a tattoo on the floor, whimpering with pleasure, crying with pain. And when it was over, I felt her soft hands massage the heat away, stoking a new fire that burned lower down.

The massages with her palms turned to strokes with her fingertips, the strokes with her finger tips turned to traces with her nails. Lines that burned with a pleasant scratch, up and down my flanks, welts of passion, lines of transient pain. Nothing brutal, nothing vicious, but a sensation with an edge of passion, a hint of what might be.

The fingertips returned, changing their course, moving inwards, drawing little circles in the small of my back. I arched backwards, desperately trying to increase the contact, pushing my bottom out, and spreading my thighs. I so wanted her to move between my legs, to drive my arousal on, to play with my sex to satiate my desire.

It was not to be; it was tease and denial. Emmeline moved in close from behind and wrapped her arms around my top. Her fingers flicked at my nips, traced circles on my breasts, I felt her breath on my neck, her gentle nibbles on my ear lobes. Givenchy mixed with musk, shampoo with body mist. Her scents tantalized me, her closeness a cocoon of estrogen and aphrodisiac to enchant.

With a swift smack on my rump, Emmeline disengaged, and once again with that signature chaste kiss, she touched my cheek and withdrew.

“Bye for now, Girl, don’t run away. I have customers to serve, I will see you later.”

She was gone before I could recover my equilibrium, but I stood there quite still. My ankles were both chained, my wrists shackled together quite close. I raised my hands to cover my eyes, to re-live in my mind her passionate embrace; then I stood stoically waiting, knowing that in her own time she would re-appear.

Both the balls of my feet and my slightly spread thighs ached and I knew that there would be no respite. Reluctantly and very carefully, I settled down and eased myself into a sitting position on the concrete floor. The chains held my ankles apart, and the slickness between my thighs turned at first to stickiness and then, thank goodness, I dried up; wafts of my odor drifted up to me, the scent of being a slut, the lingering scent of my submission.

I was sexually frustrated yet alive, waiting in suspense because I knew there would be more. I knew know that Emmeline was capable of causing me both pain and exquisite pleasure, offering bondage without tawdriness…..arousal without relief.  Perhaps when she came in again, I might even be rewarded at last. for my unequivocal submission that she so desired.

Chapter 7 – The Barrel

It took an eternity for the door to ease open; I could never have believed that sitting down could be so darned uncomfortable; so much for a supposedly well padded bottom!

I scrambled to my feet with as much dignity as I could, hampered by my shackled wrists, impeded by my chained ankles. Do not get me wrong; I was still obsessed with the chains but perhaps a bit of the novelty had worn off !

Emmeline greeted me with a hug, wrapping her arms around me, enveloping me with her warmth. Her breath was still sweet, and that delightful fragrance she wore seemed to have matured to perfection; rather than having become stale, it had become more alluring, delighting my senses, re-igniting my arousal.

Her kiss, though, was chaste.

“Come, Girl, we have work to do! The shop has now been closed and you are all mine. There is no-one around to hear your yelps, no one around to rescue you if you decide to scream.”

It all sounded so ominous, but I trusted her by now; I was sure that I would not be harmed and perhaps my release was in store.

She pulled a set of keys from her jeans pocket, and moved across to the one of the concrete blocks, to open the padlock that tethered me there.

“Feet together, Sweet Pea!”

The term of endearment was not lost on me, although it did carry a certain ominous tone. I pulled my feet together and looked down with interest to see what would come next. Emmeline locked the two ankle chains together, leaving me hobbled with about only two foot of play. She released me from the other concrete block, and with a playful pat on my bottom, she pointed across the room.

“Bring that barrel back here, Girl…quickly now, move it!”

I started to shuffle across the store room to the other end where a blue water collection barrel stood under the shelf. It was about three or four foot high, and wider than I would have been able to circle with my arms, I couldn’t figure out why she wanted it, but was certain that time would still tell.

I shuffled across the room under her watchful eye; it felt awkward with the hobble grabbing at my ankle when I stepped out too far. Perhaps it would have been easier if I had not been wearing high heels, perhaps my chained hands threw me slightly off balance. The excess chain from each of my ankle restraints dragged on the floor behind me, clinking and jangling with every step.

I did not even hear Emmeline approach from behind and did not feel the sting of the strap before it cut into my bottom. I yelped and instinctively tried to reach back with my hands; with my wrist shackled together in from of me, I did not get very far. The strap set a raging fire across my bottom’s right cheek, the tip of the leather cutting into my crack.

“Move it, Girl, we haven’t got all night for this.”

As I struggled to regain my physical and emotional equilibrium, I also struggled to figure out what had just happened to my poor derriere! It was probably the leather dog collar she had used as a strap; it was a far more painful experience than I would ever have guessed. I shuffled on faster, terrified of another blow, and reached the water barrel without her offering further physical encouragement.

Under her watchful eye, I tipped it onto it’s side, and rolled it back to the center of the room. She chose a spot midway and slightly in front of the two concrete blocks; my mind was in turmoil and I didn’t know what was coming next.

Chapter 8 – The Strap

“OK, Girl, get over it, and make sure your legs are spread nice and wide apart.”

I loved Emmeline’s way, she was both compassionate and stern; it was a strange mixture of kindness and gentle sadism that blew me away. She was mindful of my shackles, my fragile emotional state, and offered me help as I lay over the barrel. I felt a tug at my left ankle, and realized she had locked me to the concrete block once again, moments later my right ankle was pulled across and secured in a similar way. My hands just touched the floor in front offering me the support I needed to stay over the top.

Emmeline squatted down in front of me, lifted my face, and once again our eyes locked in that hypnotic stare. She didn’t say anything, just looked into my soul, and then she reached forward and kissed me again.

I drifted into a beautiful state, the touch of her lips, the taste of her tongue. I sucked and probed in return, felt my arousal build up, drank in her sublime fragrance, relished the touch of her fingers on my cheeks. If paradise exists, then this was it; if this was lust then who needs love?

It seemed like a lifetime of bliss before she broke away, and the look in her eyes was all misty and love. She started to strap me gently at first, the light strokes creating warmth, a heat that seemed to pervade every crevasse and crack. The rhythm increased slowly, the force slightly harder, but it was a pain I relished this time; there was no punishment involved, no unbearable pain.

I did not count the strokes, I have no idea how many; they all blended into one gorgeous fire that seemed to spread all around.

When she stopped at last, she laid a mat between my spread legs. I felt no shame at the state of my sex; I have no doubt it looked as swollen, damp and ready as it felt.  Her tender fingers were tender as they grasped my whipped thighs, spreading me wider, readying me for both hers and my pleasure.

She was tender and caring as her tongue found my slit, her fingers ran around my clit in a magical way. I had often wondered what it would be like to be frigged while tied up, unable to stretch, unable to pull away. It was the most wonderful experience, one that is beyond belief, and my moans this time were of passion and lust rather than unrelenting pain from the strap.

I cried tears when I came; it’s the first time in my life that I felt such emotional and physical release. She unchained my wrists and knelt, in front of me this time, her hands clasping my cheeks, her tongue drying my tears.

It was different fragrance that enchanted me this time; Givenchy Dhalia Divin blended into a erotic scent with the juice of our sex; I knew then that while her tongue had been pleasuring me, her fingers had been pleasuring herself, my punishment and arousal driving her desire.

When we walked out the door, Stedstor General Dealer had a new meaning for me; it was the place where dreams were realized on concrete floors behind staff doors. Our fingers were locked together, but it was not with chains; it was with the bondage of passion and love,  which is the most secure bondage of all.

The pÜnk

The pÜnk Bookshop

The pÜnk was located down a quite alley in the entertainment district. It was at once cosy yet spacious; rows and rows of bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, the lines punctuated with little tables and club chairs where customers could sit and browse potential purchases before cashing out. A coffee machine offered a bottomless cup of coffee to those who loitered in the chairs, while the rich smell from the hot chocolate machine tempted customers in the winter months.

The pÜnk offered an eclectic range of second hand books that drew me back repeatedly. Whether ones interest lay in photography or parenting, you could be sure to find a gem. My particular interest that day was in all things related to sexuality and gender. I had picked out an old edition of ‘Love without Fear’ by Eustace Chesser which brought back stimulating memories. I recalled poring over pictures from this book as an adolescent; I had found a copy in the bedside table next to my parent’s bed, and was fascinated and aroused by the images and descriptions.

I was ensconced in a relatively private corner, sipping my hot chocolate and flipping through the pages of the sex manual; a copy of ‘The Pearl’, another of my fabulous finds of the day, lay on the table besides me, when the shop’s owner, Sandy, approached. Like her shop, she seemed to be the embodiment of contradiction. She was at once butch yet femme, tomboyish yet graceful. She reminded me of the female singer LiCK, sporting a platinum blond mohawk with rainbow highlights, dramatic green eye shadow, bright red lips that glowed against her peaches and cream complexion. There was assertiveness to her manner that I found disconcerting yet appealing, an inquisitiveness that was prying yet familiar.

I loved LiCK’s music! Songs of love sung to lilting melodies that made me want to sing along and cry at the same time; inspiring lyrics of hope sung with a repetitive urgent tone that motivated me; songs of rebellion sung with such spunk that they lifted any cloud, making me laugh and smile. Her voice went from plaintive and sweet to harsh and abrasive; something for every mood. Sandy not only looked like LiCK, but sounded like her – and she had the same affect on me! I lusted after her presence though I never approached her for it, fantasized of a relationship where she controlled me with the same mix of emotion that the music did. Was it just a coincidence, I wondered sometimes, if her shop’s name was so similar to that of the singer?

Two young ladies browsed the shelf together near me; it was the Lesbian Lit section and I made the predictable assumption regarding their relationship. They watched as Sandy sat down next to me and I had no doubt that their ears were pricked up; Sandy was not known for beating around the bush.

“Interesting choice today, Val” she commented.

Her eyes took in the rather staid sex-guide I was reading and then flitted across to ‘The Pearl’, where they lingered. She looked back at me, staring right into my eyes.

“Different ends of the spectrum, I must say!” she continued, “…and you started with that vanilla piece of garbage!”

I felt myself flush; I was not used to public appraisals, and to compound it, those two lesbian lovers were lurking a few feet away, their antennas up and their ears tuned in.

“Well, ‘Love Without Fear’ is a classic!” I tried to defend myself. “You know, Chesser was arrested for obscenity when it was published?” I had read that they had only sold 5,000 copies before being withdrawn, yet this now seemed a pretty lame argument.

“It’s so vanilla! If you want a classic, you would do much better to start with ‘The Pearl’. There are some delicious episodes of birching and swishing in it.”

Sandy paused to reflect.

“They could at least get you into some state of arousal as a reward for your reading efforts,” she pronounced.

I felt her eyes boring into me and my cheeks felt as if they were burning.

Sandy was on a roll, as only Sandy could be.

“Have you ever been swished, Val?”

I wished that she would keep her voice down! The lesbians seemed to have moved closer, not further away!

“I beg your pardon? Swished? What do you mean?” My voice seemed husky and coarse.

“Spanked, strapped, caned? Any of those things! Been over anyone’s knee? Been tied face down to you bed and had your bottom warmed? Bent over a chair and had it belted?”

I shrank into my chair; I had dreamed of all of those things, but done them?

“No, Sandy, I have not been swished,” I whispered

Sandy pulled herself out of her chair, and made a great show of looking at her watch.

“I am closing the shop in half an hour, Val. Enjoy your reading; I suggest you start on ‘The Pearl’ to see how it will be. I will be back to collect you here at five, at which stage you will learn first hand about what a swishing is all about.”

It was so typical of Sandy; no argument expected, not a thought that her wishes might not be respected. She bustled off back to her till at the front of the shop, leaving me feeling flustered and a little overwhelmed; the lesbians drifted off chattering inaudibly, throwing an occasional glance over their shoulders my way.

I felt like a marked sacrifice; there was little I could do to affect the inevitable. I have to admit that I put Chesser down and picked up ‘The Pearl’ and while I couldn’t concentrate, as I flicked through the old pages and picked out juicy passages to read, I felt my level of arousal grow at the same rate as my level of apprehension.

The Swishing

I knew it was closing time when I noticed the lights in the front section of the shop dim. I saw Sandy disappear into a storage room, and moments later, she was walking down the aisle towards me. My eyes were riveted on what she held in her hand: it looked like a slim, black cane, curved handle and all! I noticed with trepidation that she had a short leather strap in her other, the dreaded tawse.

“Stand up, sweet-pea! Where do you think you are….a café?”

There was menace in her voice; this wasn’t the Sandy that I knew; she was in role and it terrified and excited me.

Never has a club chair felt so low. I felt awkward and clumsy as I struggled to my feet, the copy of ‘The Pearl’ still in my hands.

“Put that down and hold out your hands…..palms up!”

I felt dazed, but complied automatically; I never was good at resisting authority.

My hands were barely out in front of me before I felt the tawse crack into the palm of my right hand. The pain was incredible, yet it was the tails that made me yelp. They crept up over the palm and bit into the tender flesh of my inner wrist, sparking a furious blaze of fire that I thought could never be quenched. I barely had time to jerk my hand away before the tawse flashed again, igniting that same terrible storm on my left hand.

I felt dazed, surprised and unsure how to cope. I shook my hands frantically, tucked them under my arms, rubbed them on my blouse, blew on them in vain.

“Now pick up that magazine and show me which scene excited you most.”

Sandy had strapped my hands and now wanted to probe my mind; expected me to disclose my most innermost feelings.

I hesitated a moment too long. With incredible speed, I watched paralyzed as she lifted the cane and flicked it. A streak of fire burned its way across the back of my calves. I hopped frantically in reaction, listening to the tap of my heels on the floor. I was stunned and felt out of my depth.

“The magazine, Val. Remember, you were just about to show me what had caught your interest?”

I looked at her blankly, in shock, but the sight of her raising the cane again galvanized me into action. I reached over and picked up ‘The Pearl’ and started to flick through the pages. The pain in my hands had started to slowly ebb away, but my fingers felt swollen and rubbery. Clumsily I turned the pages, trying to remember what I had read, desperately searching for a few words that spoke of birching or switching. My mind was blank and I knew I was not performing.

Sandy watched me, an amused look appearing on her face, her luscious red lips twisting into a sardonic grin.

“Having difficulty, sweet-pea? But I assume something did manage to get you aroused?”

She looked down to the chair that I had been sitting in; I followed her stare. The marks of my arousal were blatantly evident on the shiny, vinyl surface; marks that were now marks of my shame. I would have dropped though the floor gladly if it had opened up to swallow me; I felt ashamed and embarrassed.

“Not a nice thing to leave in a public place, is it?” Sandy was persistent; why wouldn’t she just let it go?

Sandy took hold of my upper arm. It was the first physical contact I had had from her, but I was too dazed to register. She swung me around and pushed my hand down to grasp the chair arm-rest. I didn’t need to be told what to do or what was coming; I reached forward and held the other rest with my other throbbing hand, shuffled my feet back a few feet, and bent over at the waist.

Ever so slowly, Sandy rolled my skirt up my back; it seemed to take for ever. My panties were pulled down more rapidly; a smart slap on the back of each calf had me lifting my feet so that she could pick my underwear off the floor. They were dropped onto the seat of the chair that I was now staring at so intently; stained white panties, stained red vinyl seat. I looked down at my disgrace and knew why I was about to be punished.

The whip of that flicky cane caught me by surprise. I should have been prepared for it, but I wasn’t. There was no tapping of my bottom as I had seen them do it in the video clips, no practice flicks of the cane. I didn’t hear it coming; I didn’t hear that so-called ‘swoosh’ through the air. What I did feel was an awful stroke that set my bottom on fire, the waves of pain building up to an inferno. I sprang up straight, my swollen fingers trying to massage the pain away, my yelps startling even me.

Sandy gave me no respite; she pushed me back over and with minimal fuss this time, pulled my skirt back up. She held her hand in the small of my back to prevent me rising and with the limited ability she now had to swing, she delivered a series of short sharp cuts with her  whippy little cane that sucked the last of the breath from my lungs.

“It’s all over now pet….stand up and give me a hug.”

I couldn’t believe my ears! I rose up stiffly and felt her arms wrap around me. I lowered my head onto her shoulder and wept. Despite my tears and my throbbing backside, it felt wonderful to just stand there, enveloped in the safety of her arms, intoxicated by her spicy scent. Her hands gently stroked my hair; her warm, chocolaty breath caressed my shoulders.

We stood like that for an eternity, and when we pulled away, there was a different look on her face; she was no longer the disciplinarian, but rather the romantic. Her eyes were compassionate; her lips were parted slightly in an erotic invitation. I leaned in to them, and as we kissed, I felt the heat in my bottom spread to between my legs. I pushed myself against her thigh, and felt no resistance as she too leaned forward to close any gaps.

We left The pÜnk that evening, hand in hand, and found our way down to a cozy pub. Red wines, a roaring fire, toasted marshmallows. It was the start of a fabulous relationship that saw me making my way each evening to her bookshop at closing time to explore the many scenes hiding in the books on her shelves.

Every now and again, I see that lesbian couple and I smirk; for I am sure that I have it better than they do!


The Chic Shoe Boutique

There is something intensely sexual in shopping for shoes; the ambiance of the boutique, the intimate attentions of the sales assistant, the erotic appeal of trying on the shoes themselves. It is an activity that I relish, pacing myself, enjoying the experience, loving the build-up to the ultimate release.

Antonia, who I had come to know so well, was there to help me again that day. She knelt at my feet, surrounded by boxes, being attentive and solicitous, humoring my needs. As I often do, I started this exercise by trying on sandals; later I would move on to the heels that really satisfied my need. The colors were bright and flirty, the styles free and wanton. I wiggled my toes luxuriously, enjoying the freedom, appreciating my nail color set off against the gaily colored straps.

I enjoyed the feeling of the sandal’s straps as they gently grasped at my skin, delicate yet strong, they bound the shoe to my foot. They left a light, red mark when Antonia removed the shoe, a mark that reminded me of the welt from a light whipping or perhaps the marks left after the removal of a too-tight restraint.

Antonia’s hair had a wonderful fragrance as she knelt at my feet; it reminded me of meadows of wild flowers, hand picked posies and freshly cut hay. Her fingers felt wonderful as she fitted the shoes, gentle and caressing, cool and soft. She would slip a finger beneath the straps, testing for tightness, assessing my needs. I felt myself warm to her touch as she tended to my comfort; my desire was hers to feed, my satisfaction hers to offer.

As always, it was the high heels that made my heart really race! Much has been written about the posture change they cause: hips tilting provocatively and causing them to sway as one walks. I adored the feeling of power as I strutted on stilettos around the Chic Shoe Boutique; I felt so confident, so feminine, so in control of it all.

There were boxes piled up all around when I decided I had had enough, yet Antonia tempted me with an offer of “just one more.” The shoes were to die for! A tropical shade of blue with four and a half inch spiked heel pumps that telegraphed passion and desire, but it was the ankle strap that made my day: exotic and delicate they had a small clasp from which to dangle a small trinket or token of lust.

I will never forget that smile as Antonia looked up at me from down there on the floor; it was the self-satisfied look of a woman who knew that the tables had turned. Our eyes were locked together as her fingers buckled the straps; she had no need to look down as she had obviously done this before. It was her next move that left me in shock: she dipped in to her breast pocket and pulled out two little padlocks, and slipped them into the clasps and clicked them shut.

“They are titanium,” she announced, “and so are the ankle straps; you will not get them off without the key that I hold.”

She was positively glowing with self confidence; the submissive attitude had gone. I was stunned; this turn had caught me totally unaware! I just stared at her as she stood up straight. She looked down contemptuously at the pile of boxes at my feet, flicked her hair back and walked away. I was left sitting there, looking down at those wonderful shoes that were now locked to my feet, wondering how I had landed myself in this situation and how on earth I would ever get out.

The Price of Freedom

When Antonia walked back from the store room, my eyes were drawn to the cane that she held in her right hand. I watched, dumbstruck, as she locked the boutique’s front door. She paused and started to pull at the chord that would close the blinds on the door, then she looked right at me, shrugged, smiled and walked away; she had thought better of it, leaving them open, a window for any passing voyeur.

I was still sitting in the chair, boxes of shoes spread around my feet, when she returned and stood over me, the cane still tapping rhythmically in her hand. I looked down at the courts I was now locked into, and then back up at her.

“What will it take to get these off?”

“Oh, you need to pay, of course!” Her smile was anything but angelic; it was sardonic, laced with menace.

I felt the shakedown coming, but was willing to pay whatever it took.

“How much? Fifty, a hundred?”

I was tempted to throw in a jab at how only whores took money, but thought better of it and bit my tongue.

She raised her eyebrows and gave me that maddening smile again.

“No, that’s far more than you could take.”

More than I could take? I was confused; she was the one trying to get the payment.

“I think four will do just fine; two for each lock.”

She swished her cane up and down and the penny dropped. My heart seemed to stop and my stomach churned.

“Up now, let’s have you in front of that mirror; I am sure you would love to see your own payment!”

I scrambled to my feet and picked my way to the full length mirror that covered the ends of one of the shelves. I felt wobbly on my legs now; the confidence was gone, my sense of superiority had vanished. As if in a daze, I heard her tell me to remove my top and skirt; in my own little world felt grateful that I had dressed so well that day.

My courage returned; I could take anything that this woman threw my way. Despite the loss of my outer clothes, I was still dressed to kill! My lingerie was pink and lacy; I had worn suspenders and stockings for my shopping trip that day; it was a pity that in a moment of joi de vivre that I had chosen not to wear panties to complete it all. My shoes…well, what can I say that has not already been said? Even if I could not remove them, they were killer shoes, sexy to the max.

I stood in front of the mirror and admired myself, psyched myself up, and promised myself that I could take whatever was thrown my way. I stood sideways to the mirror, and then bent forward gracefully to grasp my knees. Despite the imminent threat, I felt sexy and desirable, trim and fit. The heels seemed to make my legs look longer and slimmer, my calves tighter, my bottom more alluring.

I knew that I actually wanted this to happen, that I would push back to meet the cane and that I would welcome the pain and the warmth, the submission and the payment. I could not see Antonia in the narrow mirror but I could watch the cane tapping on my bottom. She gave me the first two strokes in quick succession; I was stunned at how deep the pain was, how unprepared I really was. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the cane digging down into my flesh, the quick rebound, and then that incredibly fierce heat that seemed to cut down to my very core.

I yelped and stood up suddenly, as if jolted by an electric prod. My hands shot back to try to massage the heat away, to dissipate it, to make it all feel better again. I watched myself in the mirror; my fingers spread across my cheeks, pushing in down against the welts, rubbing frantically, all vestiges of dignity now gone.

I felt Antonia’s hands on my back, pushing me down again, once again making me offer myself up to her cane. She tapped my heels apart with her toes, forcing me to spread, to offer her the visual stimulation that she needed for her own pleasure. I waited with trepidation, frightened that I would not be able to take the pain, to make the payment she had demanded of me.

I believe she went easier on me for the second two strokes, or perhaps I have forgotten how vicious they really were. I recall the double tap of heat that seared me once again, bruising my already battered flesh, striking welts into my skin; and then it was over, and I was walking around the boutique unsteadily on my heels, rubbing my bottom furiously, wishing desperately that the terrible throbbing would fade.

I felt Antonia’s eyes on me as I stepped away, knowing ful well that she was getting off on my pain, but I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure she was seeking, to show my vulnerability or to lose my head. At last that intensity diminished and I recovered my poise. I walked back to the chair where the boxes were stacked, and still wearing only the briefest of my lingerie set, I sat down and waited; I waited for Antonio to kneel at my feet again and remove my locks.

It was an instant role reversal that took place yet again. I watched with satisfaction as she took her position on the floor, her body between my spread legs, her hands resting lightly on my knees. I was grateful then that I had not worn panties that day, that my lower lips were free, my arousal proudly on display.

Still seated, I lifted my legs and placed them around her neck, balancing their weight on her shoulders, offering my tumescent lips for her to please. I felt her hands change position, as she grasped my inner thighs lightly and forced me wider for her better access. Her head dipped down as she bent to lap my juices; her tongue darted and stroked, probed and poked. I felt her lips gently sucking my clit, drawing me out, taunting and teasing, driving me on.

The heat from my swishing combined with the heat from her mouth, washed over me in sensuous waves of pleasure, delivering a wonderful healing warmth that pushed me over the edge. I know I cried out more from the orgasm than the caning; it was pure physical pleasure with Antonia delivering her best.

We walked back to my apartment hand in hand; the boxes had been cleared off the floor and tied away, the door blind drawn and the shop front locked. I still wore the killer heels; the straps would be securely locked until Antonia chose the time of my release. Our co-ownership of the Chic Shoe Boutique had paid dividends yet again; it was a match made in heaven. We could work and play by day or night, domme or sub as the opportunity presented, but at the center of it all was our mutual love for high heels and each other.




It should have been a dream subway train ride for me. I was dressed to attract attention and my hard work at the gym had left me proud of showing off my body.

It was not a good time to be riding the subway if you did not want to be noticed; the cars were full, but not really packed to capacity. All seats were full and anyone standing was in full view of the entire car. pretty young woman who was standing in the aisle dressed like me  and grasping the overhead straps naturally garnered a lot of attention. It felt as if all the eyes on the subway car were staring at me and they probably were!

I was wearing a white lace buster that clung to my torso and framed the undersides of my breasts; they threatened to pop out of their minimal restraints at every swing and sway of the train. My light blue denim shorts were styled as the shortest of short, they sat low on my hips and rode up high on my thighs. I was balanced on white heeled sandals; the super high heels showed off my well toned calves and thighs to their best.

But it was a trip of embarrassment and humiliation and I wished desperately that my stop would be next. I didn’t enjoy having all of those eyes resting on me; I could imagine the sniggers and sneers from the kink aware, the frowns of dissproval and the pursed lips from the prudes. It wasn’t meant to have been like this, and it was all because of the unpredictable way in which Elise had reacted.

How it usually was

I thought that I was doing Elise a favor by coming to her house dressed like that. I know that she loved my body and I basked in her glow. In those lovely sunny days of summer, we would make our way into her bedroom where the sun streamed through the windows, tinging everything that it touched in a warm golden light.

Dust motes danced in the sun beams that would settle on me like a spotlight, and I would pirouette in delight at being the focus of her attention.

“You are such a girly girl!” she would sometimes exclaim, laughing at my child-like performance as my skirts swirled out during my pirouette and my sandals shuffled in little circles on the deep, carpet piles.

She would applaud me gaily and the give me a celebratory kiss on my cheeks, rewarding me for my performance, indulging me with her attentions. Her hands would clutch my shoulders and she would draw me into a warm embrace and I would savour her favoured scent. Feminine and breezy, the signatures of summer; an ocean, a sandy beach, a hammock in the dappled light, butterflies flitting from wild flower to the next.

Our embrace would become more intimate, our lips would touch. Her hands would move to the back of my head and trace patterns in my hair. She would twist little circlets of hair and then smooth the tresses out, and then give me a gentle push and I would find myself lying back on the bed.

I would feel her nimble fingers undoing the buttons of my silky blouse, but would see nothing except the swirling patterns of the crown moldings above. Her tongue would dance its way down my arched neck sending shivers of delight through receptive nerves.

I had learned the benefits of front fastening bra’s soon after we met, and as she clipped the front fastenings open, she would focus on my breasts. Fingers dancing patterns around to tease and delight, gently rolled buds that soon demanded much more. An exhilarating brain fuck as she sucked on one nip and tugged at the other; a wonderful sensation of pain cancelled out by the heavenly bliss of her tongue.

And as time seemed to stand still, and I wished for the moment to last for ever, I would feel a hand slip beneath my skirts and creep up between my thighs.

“Skirts, my pet, have so many advantages!” she would sometimes tell me afterwards, “that’s just one reason why I love you to be my girly girl.”

I would be delightfully embarrassed that she found me so wet and ready.

“What’s this? What is the cause of all this dampness?” she would tease.

But I didn’t care! I would open for her and feel her fingers work their magic beneath my satin panties. I would feel my breathing quicken, feel my body respond. I knew that I was behaving like a wanton hussy as I spread myself wider and strained against her teasing fingers.

And afterwards, she would spoon up next to me on the bed and we would cuddle. Our kisses would become deeper, our breathing more hoarse. Hands would roam freely and the air would be filled with mews of pleasure and gasped ouches of pain.

It didn’t happen like that on that day. It didn’t happen because I was not dressed in skirts like the girly girl she loved me in so much.


I watched her chalk up the thicker of her two canes with a cube of dark blue billiard chalk. I had read about chalking a cane but I couldn’t believe it actually ever happened. My eyes were transfixed on her fingers; long and slender, they grasped the chalk block delicately, her nails beautifully manicured and enameled to show.

She slid the cane up and down the chalk stick like a violin bow, layering the powder on, ensuring that one side of the cane was well covered in blue. It looked like a stripe, against the blond wood of the cane, out of place and threatening, a viper’s tongue waiting to strike.

Her eyes flicked from the task at hand to catch my horrified stare; beautifully made up with deep purple smokey shadow, they reminded me of a pair of dark thunder clouds floating across a clear blue sky, carrying a promise of swift retribuiton followed by a forgiving new light.

I knew that something extra was in store when she picked up the lighter cane and chalked that too, yet the full implications never entered my thoughts. My mind was in turmoil, my heart beat faster, but there was no where to turn, no safe place to run.

The tenderness of previous dalliances was replaced by a brusqueness that I could never have imagined; her voice was sharp, her hand on the small of my back was firm. She steered me to the boudoir chair and pushed my shoulders roughly down.

“Hands on the seat, push your bottom out.”

She didn’t should or snarl but her tone was menacing. I complied; resistance didn’t enter my swimming head.

Elise laid two hard strokes with the heavier cane before I could even tense. They came in rapid fire; there didn’t seem to be any intent to prolong the punishment or create a sense of shame.

How wrong I was!

I was still gasping, trying to absorb the pain and collect myself when she struck me again. In that fraction of a second that it takes for the cane to connect, I knew that this one was different. The sound was swishier, the whistle through the air more pronounced. It took me a second or two to register what had happened. Elise had used the lighter cane and changed her target; my uncovered thighs lit up in pain. It felt as if a branding iron had been dragged across my naked flesh, a few inches below the crease where my thighs meet my bottom.

Elise made me stand and look at myself in the mirror before she hustled me out of the door.  Two dark chalk marks painted a tramline across my pert bottom. Should anyone be in any doubt as to how these had been made, a third line ran parallel across the top of my bare thighs. An angry red welt tinged with early blue bruising, a deep blue chalk mark deepening the hue.

She let me out the door and admonished me not to sit on the train; I knew later that was about exposure rather than protecting my punished rear.

“Come back later when you have changed into something more fitting. I will have champagne waiting on ice for the arrival of my girly girl!”

Subway stop

I felt all the eyes on my thighs on that subway train, the chalks lines telling a dramatic story of their own. It was a ride of shame offering the humiliation I thought I had escaped; it was far worse than a bare bottom spanking, a more shameful display than I had ever offered before.

As I stepped off the train into the anonymity of the platform crowd, I heard a wolf whistle from the carriage I had just left. With my face all flushed I hurried home; I knew I had to get back into my girly girl clothes and get back to Elise for a hug.

The Note

The Situation 

“The trouble with me punishing you, Caitlin” Anne-Marie opined, “is that you have become immune to it!” 

Anne-Marie was in lecture mode; I hate it when she is like that! I have to admit that she was right, to some extent. Yes, the spanking were painful, the belt and the cane so much more so than her hand, yet after a while the pain wore off and was replaced by the most pleasant of glows. It was a glow that I had come to love, one that stoked fires and spread life to nerves that should have been out of play. It was almost worth wile copping a punishment to have that pressure start to build and a fiery orgasm build. 

I was standing in front of her desk, with the back of my skirt pinned up, and my panties down around my ankles. Yet, even standing in front of her like that in what should have been a humiliating way, I felt no embarrassment, just irritation at her lecturing. She had seen me in so many compromising positions during all sorts of activities that one sees when sharing a home: being spanked, being loved, sitting in a bath, or masturbating to climax; this was hardly an eye opener. 

She put down the cane which she had been flexing between her fingers; long, strong fingers, I noted, which were beautifully manicured. I had visions of her holding a musical instrument with them, perhaps tapping rhythmically on the keys of a flute, or delicately grasping the bow of a cello. Instead, she picked up her pen and drew a notepad towards her. She eyed me contemplatively, and then wrote out a short note in her flowery script, signing it with a flourish. 

“Here, take this,” she instructed me, handing the folded note to me over the desk. “When you bring it back signed, I will punish you. Perhaps this will bring the embarrassment of punishment back into your life.” 

“Get it signed? By whom? What is the note?” 

“Get is signed by anyone, Caitlin; I don’t care who.” 

She dropped her eyes and returned to the work on her desk, dismissing me, shutting me out of her mind. I hated being ignored, being shut out like that; it was the worst kind of punishment. Dejected and confused, I left the room, clutching the note in my hand. 

The Dilemma 

Without knowing what I had to get signed, I knew I had to do it; Anne-Marie would just shut me out until I did, and I simply couldn’t live with that. Anything I had to put up with would be preferable to be being cut off behind the invisible walls she erected. 

The stationery was Anne-Marie all-over: elegant and tasteful, no expense had been spared. Her signature monogram, an inter-twined “A” and “M” in gold-edged navy blue, graced the top left of the note card, a delicate bouquet of meadow flowers was hand painted in pastel shades on the top right. 

Her script was flowing and feminine: “Caitlin is going to be spanked with a cane. She may want to tell you about it.” 

The blood drained from my face as I read these words. 

The second and final sentence on the note caused my heart to thump. 

“Please sign below to indicate that she has told you all you wish to know.” 

That was it! 

The evil genius of this tactic put me into a spin. Who on earth could I get to sign this note? I certainly couldn’t go to my friends or family; I could picture the paroxysms of laughter and ridicule that something like this would invoke. My co-workers, my doctor, my hairdresser, the librarian, the barista…… 

I spun the list through my mind, frantically searching for a person who I could go to. I drank a cup of coffee alone; I was banished from Anne-Marie’s presence until this issue was resolved. Should I go onto The Net and put a request on one of the forums, or perhaps a CraigsList encounter? Every option seemed to be too dangerous or too personal. 

Tucking the note into my purse, I headed out onto the street and down into the subway; I was desperate for inspiration. 

A Solution 

I emerged out of the subway into a part of city that I was generally unfamiliar with. It was trendy and vibrant, the people in the streets extroverted and uninhibited. It was a far cry from the genteel and reserved public displays that I was accustomed to in the suburbs. Tattered jeans, hair dyed in neon colors, nose rings and tattoos. For a wonderful moment my mind was taken away from my pressing dilemma, but as I walked down Queen Street, panic once again gnawed at my insides. 

Desperation spurs fresh thinking! I was walking past an adult shop when the inspiration struck. Canes and floggers were on display in the window, mannequins were dressed in leathers, gags and slave collars adorning their lifeless figures. One mannequin was dressed as a schoolgirl holding a leather strap, and yet another was depicted sitting a low, old-fashioned school desk on which lay a notepad and a cane. The establishment was named “The Headmistress’s Office”; quite appropriate, I noted wryly. 

The best way to describe the sales assistant was “schoolmarmish”. Crisp cotton blouse, hair pinned back in a bun, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose; she looked dry and priggish. There was barely a flicker of acknowledgement as I approached her tentaively, Anne Marie’s note clutched carefully hand. My mouth had dried up and my heart was beating. 

“Well, what can I do for you?” she inquired. Her voice was raspy, her manner taciturn. 

I handed the note across to her, and stood waiting in front of the counter, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my skirt, my eyes downcast. I had flashbacks to an incident in my schooldays when I had stood just like this in front of the headmistress’s desk. It had not gone well, and I had walked out of her office some time later with tears running down my cheeks, and pain coursing through my bottom. 

“Miss Courtney,” she said, addressing a younger, but equally severely dressed lady ,who had joined her behind the counter, “please take over for me out here. I need to go back to the office and address a matter with this young lady.” 

She opened a door, and beckoned me into her office. 

The Office 

She was sitting behind her desk, the note laid out in front of her, looking at me expectantly. 

“Well, girl, what is this all about?” 

The fact that I was a professional woman in my mid thirties seemed to have escaped her. 

Her fingers drummed impatiently on the note, waiting for me to start. I seemed to be back in that time warp; this was schooldays all over again. 

I could feel that my face was flushed and I could hear my voice trembling nervously as I began to speak. I explained my relationship with Anne Marie and how on occasion, I failed to live up to her expectations. This morning I had been particularly immature – a tantrum, a blatant disregard for the decorum of the household, a snippy comment in response to a request. 

As I spoke, I realised that deep inside, I really was still a little girl; the thirty-five something woman was simply a façade, an illusion that fooled most but through which others saw right through; Anne Marie, and this woman in front of me were two who came immediately to mind. 

I confessed to this stranger, expressed my regret at my behavior, and promised I would never do it again. 

At last she seemed satisfied, and with a disdainful look at me, she signed the note. My relief turned to panic as she picked it up and rather than handing it to me, she slid it into the desk’s top drawer. 

“Please may I have it back? I need to take it back to Anne Marie!” 

The woman stared at me, and then a sardonic grin played across her pursed lips. 

“You gave me the note. It’s mine. To get it back you will have to pay.” 

My mind rushed; this was a shakedown that I could never have anticipated! 

There was no shortage of merchandise in the office;  I had already realised why the establishment was called “The Headmistress’s Office”. The currency of payment also became quickly apparent. Moments later, I found myself stretched across the desk, legs spread wide and my skirt flipped up. Cold fingers tugged at my panties elastic, dragging them down to stretch tautly across my buckled knees. 

Her inspection of me seemed interminable and her snarky comments cut to the chase. With each comment, she tapped at the offending body part with the tip of the cane, driving her point home and putting me down. Sometimes the taps were light, sometimes she traced a pattern with the dreadful implement, sometimes she flicked me painfully on my most sensitive skin. 

I felt vulnerable and shamed, yet strangely aroused. 

Her comments were biting: “A chubby bottom you have here, girl!”; “These thunder thighs were made to take a belting!”, “Oh look, your quim is getting aroused; you really are a nasty piece of works.” 

And so it went on, no real pain administered, but a shaming the likes of which I had never previously experienced. 

Without warning, the physical punishment began. 

I had forgotten how vicious a caning felt. Strokes of pain that deepened with every second; the crack of wood against flesh; bundles of nerves that erupted into excruciating pain. Pain layered on pain. Just when the previous wave was starting to subside, a new and even more ferocious assault on already battered flesh. I seemed to be living in a waking nightmare. Tears and snot dribbling onto the desk; legs kicking uncontrollably in a desperate attempt to find relief, heels hammering loudly on the hardwood floor, fingers clutching wildly to grasp the  edge of the desk. 

I felt overcome by shame: shame at being whipped, shame at having to offer my bottom like that; shame at having my privates exposed to a stranger, shame at having my perverted arousal out on display. 

Anne Marie’s words came flooding back to me then: “The trouble with me punishing you, Caitlin,” Anne-Marie opined, “is that you have become immune to it!” 

This was different; this was someone seeing me at my most vulnerable and layering on the punishment and shame. 

I gratefully retrieved the note from that woman at last, and gingerly made my way out of the shop and headed down Queen Street towards the subway entrance. It was a long trip back to AnneMarie’s apartment on the train; I had to stand the whole way. 

On the one hand, I dreaded going back up to face her, to face the music and pay my outstanding penalty, for I knew that regardless of what had just taken place, I still had a spanking due. On the other hand, I had her note and knew that she would take me back in again, and all would be forgiven and made right again once all dues had been paid.