Darkstorm – Part II – The Bijou

You may like to read Darkstorm Part 1 before reading this post.

Catherine’s  Office

I began to develop a comfortable working relationship with Catherine. She had suggested on one of her trips to the library that I might be interested in assisting her as a research assistant. It was to be an unpaid assignment, and one that would not interfere with my job as a librarian.

“Come to my office for an hour or two after work and before you leave for home,” she had suggested, “you just might find it rewarding.”

Reward comes in many forms; this was not to be a financial reward. In fact, as I soon found out, the gratification I received from working for Catherine in close proximity was to be the sole compensation. The work was light; she was not particularly demanding of my skills. I think it was the companionship that she enjoyed.

Every now and again, she would ask my opinion, but mostly she kept a comfortable silence. Classical music played quietly in the background; she seemed particularly keen on the soothing melodies of Brahms, the clarity of the notes played in Teleman’s trumpet concertos, and the mood inspiring works of Vivaldi’s Four Season. It was a dark yet warm office. Light spilled from a desk lamp onto her formal wooden desk, and a gas fire kept artificial logs glowing with its flickering blue flames. A glass of red wine often sat on her desk, but she did not offer me any in those early days of our relationship.

I would mainly sit in the formal chair at the side stand of her desk and occasionally she had me standing on that little platform in front of her. “I like to see you when I look up,” she mused.

I enjoyed watching her work away on whatever was keeping her busy at that time: sometimes it was marking assignments, sometimes it was working on her research project. She would look up at me from time to time, considering my presence for a moment or two, and then returning to her task at hand.

She never did instruct me to change my style of dress, but over the course of a few evenings, she made some pointed remarks which guided me on her expectations. Any sloppiness which might have been put down to having spent a long day in the library was put right before I entered her office; I freshened my face, made sure my makeup was flawless, tapped a few dabs of perfume onto my pulse points. Underwear was changed, working flats swapped for heels, a check made that my nails were neat and trim.

The semi-permanent scowl that she wore no longer frightened me. Her occasional smiles lit up her face and brightened my evening. I felt comfortable with her, loved the feeling of intense submission when in her presence, and wondered how long it would be before she once again conjured up a scene from L’Image, or perhaps from another classic work of erotica with which I knew her to be so familiar.

Expectations not met

It was in the second week of my unpaid assignment that events took a turn. I was standing on the little platform in front of her desk with my hands by my sides. Catherine was behind her desk, the stem of a wine glass twirling slowly between her fingers, the light from her desk lamp falling on one side of her face, but casting an ominous shadow on the other, exacerbating the menace her perpetual scowl.

She started to stare at me intently; her eyes seemed to be fixed on my breasts.

“Is that a black bra strap? Am I really seeing that?” She seemed incredulous, exasperated by my failing.

My stomach churned. We had never discussed a formal dress code, much less under-wear. Was there something I had overlooked from her pointed comments? What was I missing? My voice seemed tinny to me, distant and child-like.

“Yes Catherine.”

“Take your dress off. Just drop it.”

“Black..” she muttered. Her voice was filled with derision, “what sort of submissive is she if she doesn’t even know to wear white. Really!”

I hesitated for just a second, then reached behind to drag down the zip. With a bit of help from me, the dress descended and puddled on to the platform around my feet. It was worse than I could have planned for; my bra was black, my panties a pale blue. Uncoordinated, un-submissive. I could feel the fear coursing through my body. My nerves were ragged, my breathing fast.

“The rod, Anne, get it! And move that dress off the pedestal immediately, now!”

She had used my given name Anne; I slipped into my role without further thought. I could guess what was coming and knew what was expected.

My walk to the antique oak cupboard with the diamond shaped, glass panes seemed to take me an eternity. I could feel her eyes boring into my back. Yet suddenly I was there, my trembling hands swinging the door open, my eyes darting around to find the rod. Two canes hung by their crooks, one as thick as a finger, varnished brown and cruel. A senior school dragon, no doubt about that. The other was thin black and whippy, more than a toy yet its sting would be viscous. My hand hovered – which was the right choice, what if I got it wrong?

Then I saw it: the rod.  It was there, hanging on the right, a slender white stick with black, leather-wound handle, hanging from the rail by a thin leather thong. It was thinner than I had ever imagined it would be, more menacing, yet in a perverse way, more erotic, more evocative.

I closed the glass doors carefully and stood for a moment, looking at the other implements of punishment hanging inside. My own reflection caught my eye, the offending bra reflecting dully in the old glass panes. In the distant reflection, I could just see the outline of Catherine, staring malevolently at me, ghost like and threatening.

Brahms Symphony No3; an anchor that will always pull me back to that instant. The melodies, the tap of my heels on the hardwood floor, the chill on my skin, the fear that raced through my veins, my obvious arousal that threatened my betrayal.

Catherine’s outstretched hand, my attempt at mounting the platform with what little dignity I could muster; these are images that are burned into my mind. I knew what was required; I turned my back to Catherine and started to bend over. Reaching to myside tenuously, slipping my thumbs beneath my panties bands. It was a movie that seemed be playing in slow motion, a movie that starred me as the victim.

“Leave them! I never told you to take them off!”

Her voice was sharp, her tone unforgiving.

I bent again, my hands on my knees. I felt uncomfortable; mismatched underwear; a patch of damp most certainly showing.

This time it was Catherine’s shoes that I heard moving around on the hardwood floors. More of a shuffle than a click, a bit of a squeal of rubber against wood, a horror movie that seemed to have stopped in mid reel.

I could sense her behind me, could feel her displeasure radiating at my back. The pain was unannounced; she gave no warning, provided no hint. It was a streak of fire that burned across my bottom, burrowing into my flesh, setting a thousand nerves on edge. A pain that seemed to grow by the hour, yet only seconds could have ticked by on the clock. And then again, another slash that burned even deeper, taking my breath away, causing me to rear up and grab my bottom for relief. I knew I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care; I just needed to escape the terrible pain, to rub away the throbbing that threatened to overwhelm my rear.

“Stand up and get dressed Anne – you can go home now. We are finished for the evening. Tomorrow you will be dressed properly. Just remember that you will NOT wear blue panties. In fact, it is preferable that you don’t wear panties at all.”

Then she was gone; I heard her shoes moving across the floor, the door open and close. I was alone. With tears running down my cheeks, I quickly dressed and let myself out. They were tears because I had failed; I had disappointed Catherine, I had let myself down. At least there would be a tomorrow.

The Bijou

I recalled the scenes from L’Image vividly: Anne being taken into a lingerie shop; the shop assistant being told that Anne wore a garter belt rather than panties because it showed off her patch; the humiliation that she felt as she tried on the new underwear in front of the assistant; her mortification when told to thank the assistant in kind for the help received.

I knew what Catherine was expecting of me, and I dressed accordingly. I wasn’t surprised then, when Catherine stood up as soon as I entered her office the next evening and told me that I shouldn’t get settled as we were going out shopping together.

The lingerie shop was in the old French Quarter. Cobbled roads, ornate gas-lit streetlights large snowflakes drifting lazily down. Mannequins dressed in lacy underwear in window displays, a promise of seduction beyond the threshold, intimate moments to be indulged in private.

A “Closed to the public– private fitting appointments available on request” sign hung at the door, but Catherine pushed the door open and dragged me inside.

The sales assistant was just as I might have imagined her to be; she could have stepped right out of a ’70’s movie. Soft, compassionate eyes, lovely complexion; neither slender nor fat; knee length, pale beige woolen skirt and light rose pink cashmere cardigan. A string of pearls added a touch of elegance, a touch of class, a display of reserve. Her demeanor was warm and attentive, intimate without intrusion.

She greeted Catherine warmly but deferentially; they obviously had met before. She looked me up and down quickly, inquisitive without being judgmental, and then turned her focus back to Catherine.

“Madame Discret, how lovely to see you! How can I be of assistance today?” Her French accent tantalized, an erotic blend of English words and Continental mystique; sensual and seductive, a promise of passion.

“Anne, get on the platform and wait!”

Catherine took the sales assistant’s arm and guided her away. I picked up the words “gold”, “bijou”, and then they were out of my hearing.

Perhaps five minutes had passed before they were back, yet it seemed that I had been standing self-consciously, alone on my pedestal, for an age. The sales assistant carried a small jewelry box, handling it delicately, something of value.

“Anne, drop your skirts, Camille will fit you.”

I looked at Camille, perhaps for a second too long. What one earth could she be fitting me with; this was a lingerie shop! My face flushed as the realization came. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled my skirts down and let them fall into an untidy mess around my ankles.

Camille dropped to her knees onto a cushion at my feet. She reached forward and a dragged a fingertip slowly down from the top of my hair to my slit.

“Turn around Anne, so that she can see you properly!” Catherine’s voice was harsh, unconcerned that I might feel embarrassment in front of this stranger.

Mortified, I shuffled slowly around on the platform until my back was towards them. I felt a nail running slowly across my skin, gently tracing the bruises, savoring the texture. It stopped briefly where the bruise leapt across the chasm to the opposing cheek, a slight tickle, almost imperceptible, a salacious probe, and then it moved on.

“She was punished, Cami; her underwear was inappropriate. Face us, Anne!”

Another flush of humiliation, and frisson of lust.

Catherine’s voice was harsh and I felt my body respond.

“Part your legs, Anne. Don’t keep Camille waiting. You will be punished again if you stall.”

I turned and spread my legs, my face burning, my embarrassment obvious.

“Anne, do you mind I call you that?” Her voice was solicitous and sensuous, soothing my nerves.

I nodded, warming to her manner.

“Anne, I am going to fit you with a clitoral bijou; have you ever worn one?”

I shook my head; no, I had never even heard of one!

“Anne, you will love it! It will keep you so aware, so ready!” Her voice was silky, a touch of passion, a promise of sensuality with purity, no seediness in mind.

She paused; her fingers traced their way around the top of my hood.

“But Anne, I need you to be aroused to get the fit right!”
There was nothing condescending in her tone, no salaciousness, no malice.

Catherine’s had flashed out, striking my bottom, a stinging slap that left me shaking.

“You heard her Anne! Let her prepare you.”

I understood, and dropped my hands to my pubis and gently parted my lips. Mortified, I watched Camille lean forward, and then as she worked her tongue slowly around my lower lips.  I gave in to pleasure. The warmth, the proximity, the shame; it all melded into a state of arousal, one of deep hypnotic submission. My fingers circled around her hair, creating little ringlets, and pulling her gently closer, maximizing the contact, directing her focus. I could feel her tongue working gently, lapping at my offering, generating waves of pleasure that rolled through my belly, heating my breasts.

And then her fingers were working, deftly clipping a beautiful little ornament around my clit hood, brushing my swollen clit lightly, trailing her fingers for a last time through my curls. The clip squeezed my clit forward, applying a delicious pressure; a pair of gold plated weights brushed against it, threatening to send jolts of pleasure at every move.

Camille slowly pulled back and stood up, and looked straight into my eyes. A gentle smile played at the edges of her lips, slight amusement at my predicament, yet perhaps a touch of sympathy glistened in her eyes.

“Thank her, Anne!”

Camille and I looked at each other, our eyes locked. We leaned slowly into each other and I felt her hands reach up to my face, gently guiding me until our lips touch.

Her scent was sublime; vanilla and jasmin, mandarin and amber. Black Opium, sultry and rich, a lingering trace of my own arousal on lips, a sip of coffee on her breath.

I vaguely heard the shop door swing open, the tinkle of a door chime, the crisp click of heels on the tiled floors. A deathly silence, broken at last by Catherine’s voice, soothing now, but still in control.

“If you will just wait a moment, please Madam, Camille will be with you shortly.”

A smack on my bottom again; it was soft this time, her gloves barely leaving a mark.

“It’s time Anne, we need to be going.”

Camille and I disengaged. Flustered, I pulled up my skirt. Still on her knees, she looked up at her next customer, an angelic smile on her face, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Mademoiselle, it is so thoughtful for you to be on time for your fitting! I will be with you in just a moment.”

The look Camille gave me as Catherine led me out by my wrist caused my heart to flutter; I suspected that we would be seeing each other again.

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 notelette 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 Anne-Marie’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.

The Traveller

Amsterdam, Schipol Airport, Gate F52 – 10:15am

I spent my time waiting for the connecting flight to London window shopping and feeling just a little lonely. Every now and again, a fellow traveler caught my eye. I can fall in lust a dozen times a day when I travel; young ladies, mature ladies, ones with captivating expressions, ones that have that lost and vulnerable look.

I am a slightly nervous traveler; I like to be, wherever I have to be, early. I went through to my gate as soon as it opened, breezed through security and sat waiting patiently for the boarding to start.

I watched my fellow travelers come through the security check; most were docile and their faces were deadpan.

She was different! She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but she was certainly attractive. Her expressive eyes were framed by a curtain of long straight hair that was cut off straight in crisp, sharp bangs. Her body was trim, her movements completely feminine. Her style was shabby-chic: a delicate, pastel peach knitted blouse, designer jeans that fell well short of her ankles, canvas deck shoes suitable for a millionaire’s yacht.

It was her expression and easy manner that got my attention first. Her face went from serious to smiling in just a flash, and then back to that serious, concerned look again. While others were dispassionate during the security check, she submitted gracefully, raising her arms up high, smiling and conversing easily with the staff on point.

I took a deep breath when she sat down besides me; usually I get someone who I have no interest in at all. I am jealous of people who are so socially adept, striking up conversations with strangers, forming bonds with people who they have never met. My eyes were down watching her hands, her manicured and painted fingers deftly slotting her passport and boarding card into her purse.

She had that self assured and gracious nature that seems to come so naturally to people of means; class and poise, the ability to dominate without being overbearing. Within minutes she had dissected me and separated me from some of my most private thoughts: where I was going, why I was traveling alone? Why I was breaking a business trip for a few nights to be in London, what was I planning to do on my own?

Her smile melted me, her manner warmed me. It was if we were in our own bubble with no other travelers around. She was inquisitive without seeming to be prying, lent a sympathetic ear to hear me out.

She naturally boarded first; business class always gets that privilege. She tapped me on my wrist and favored me with that smile once more, and then she was gone, walking with that self assured manner; the world was her oyster.

I boarded ten minutes later, and walking down the aisle, I sheepishly looked her way. Had I blabbed too much, would she be thinking I was a bit flakey? Was there anything of my personal life that I hadn’t spilled in her ear?

She rewarded me with that smile again, and handed me a business card as I walked past.

“Eight o’clock at my apartment tonight? I so hope you can be there!”

And then I was past her, the pressure of the others boarding pushing me on. Down towards the rear of the plane, but I was already living my dream.

Chloé’s Appartment, Knightsbridge, London

She opened the door for me and invited me in. Chloé was dressed similarly to the way she had been the previous day, wedges with a floral pattern replacing her deck shoes. She looked so cool and feminine and fresh; I definitely felt overdressed! Her fragrance was gentle and feminine, subtle notes of spring flowers that were fresh and light.

Chloé placed her hands lightly on my shoulders and drew me in, instantly dispelling any lingering unease that I had. I felt that I was walking on a cloud, the soft, cream pile surrendering beneath my feet, her delicate lips locking gently with mine. Her tongue traced a sideways pattern across my lips, and as she pulled me closer, her kissing took on a more urgent tone. Her breath was sublime, her fragrance intoxicating; time seemed to stand still as I drank it all in.

Chloé pulled away at last and as she did, she gave my lower lip a hard nip. The pain startled me, and I heard myself yelp. I opened my eye to see her smile; it was mischief and lust and cruelty all rolled into one.

“Did that hurt, sweetie?” she asked, ever so innocently?

I found myself rubbing my lip with the tip of my finger, astonished, but somewhat aroused.

I had lost my voice, felt the constrictions of arousal tightening across my chest. I nodded, yes, that definitely hurt.

“Good! That’s what I intended!”

The smile left her face; I once again marveled at how instantaneously it came and went.

“Now, you know what you are here for. Get your clothes off and folded away. There is a mat for you to kneel on in the lounge; I will see you in there in just a mo’.”

The smile flashed across her face once again.

“Oh, I am going to have such fun with you! You are just right!”

She turned and walked out of the apartment lobby, that sense of self confidence once again blowing me away. Even in my shaken state, I realized that I had two options: I could walk away or I could get undressed. I slowly started to unbutton my blouse, and folded it carefully as she had told me to do.

Minutes later, naked, I walked self consciously into the sitting room, The carpet felt wonderfully luxurious beneath my feet, and the tastefully decorated room reassured me; classic furniture, delicate floral paintings on the wall, lacy net curtains that ruffled gently across the windows in the evening breeze.

A square of carpet lay a few feet in front of a pink boudoir chair; I knew instinctively that was where I was meant to be. I knelt on it, spread my knees and laid my hands, palms up, on my thighs. My back was straight, my eyes looking straight ahead; I had seen photos of Gorean models kneeling like this and had always been consumed with envy; now, at last, my dream had come true.

A touch of pain, a hint of sadism

Chloé had a way with words; the way she expressed things made it very difficult not to agree. She seemed to make the most outlandish propositions seem so reasonable and she had this wonderful ability to turn a compliment into a command.

“Your posture is so beautiful, Caitlin” she pronounced as she walked back into the room, “it is exactly the way a Gorean slave would wait!”

Her voice was mellifluous, her smile enchanting.

“I do believe that Gorean slaves are normally depilated, down there. Aren’t they?”

I think I nodded my agreement; it all seems such a blur looking back!

She led me on, almost hypnotically, making it seem so normal to be following her lead.

As I lay on my back on her bed, a fluffy white towel underneath me, and watched her face as she scraped away with a cut-throat razor, I felt a mix of fear and thrill. When the blade hovered over my clit and she scratched away at the residual strands of hair in the vicinity, her eyes caught mine and that smile lit up. I wished that she would be focused on what she was doing and not on my reaction; she seemed to be feeding on my fear, enjoying the terror that must have shown in my eyes.

I realised then how wrong I had been to type-cast sadists. She was enjoying and playing on my fear and I had no doubt that she would delight in my pain, yet she was so beautiful, so enigmatic, so feminine, so refined.

Some time later, I found myself lying across a low padded stool, my bottom waiting to receive her attention. Once again, I felt that pit of fear in my stomach, but this time it was coupled with the arousal I had expected: a tightening of my chest and a palpable warmth spreading out from my breasts. I had no doubt my pouting sex was engorged; shameless now, I didn’t even care!

Chloé had shed her shoes by now, but not her outer clothes and she padded around me in a predatory manner. She flicked the cane menacingly at times, keeping up a constant monologue designed to instil fear. She was going to whip my bottom so that I wouldn’t be able to still on the plane trip home; she was going to fuck me senseless with her largest strapon; she was going to make me feel like the worthless slave I had wanted to be.

My angst grew by the moment, fueled by her menace, exacerbated by my exposed position.

I don’t suppose the swishing I received was any more harsh than ‘six of the best’ that schoolboys used to receive on a regular basis, but the pain shocked me and my helplessness to respond or take avoiding action frustrated me. I cried after the first three cuts, and begged her to stop, not knowing how much she had in store for me.

Chloé relished my pain and predicament; her fingers traced the welts after every stroke, relishing the heat and texture of the freshly caned skin. Her fingers probed my cunt ensuring that my arousal was maintained; it was a curious mixture of sadism and passion.

“Your pain and fear excites me, Caitlin,” she offered after one of the strokes. “You do like to please me, don’t you?”

I could only nod in agreement as the tears coursed down my cheeks; the pleasure she showed in my pain actually fed my arousal.

I was invited to pleasure Chloé after my ‘six of the best’; there was no doubt that my spanking had left her in need! She had removed her clothes and sat on the velvet boudoir chair, thighs well spread, and pulled my head in tight. When my pace slowed down, she lashed me with a light flogger to urge me on.

And as much as her pleasure in my discomfort aroused me, her passion excited me even more. Her sexual satisfaction and satisfaction with my performance and submission was a prelude to a wild and passionate night, one where she dominated without causing pain, let her compassion balance her sadistic needs.

She was right: I did battle to sit comfortably on my return flights, but it was worth it and a discomfort I loved.

The Voyeur

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 of choice. 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 to our lives.

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 5 – The Symphony of Pain

The Pit

Raven returned to the tack room early in the afternoon. She did a quick inspection of the leather belt that I had been shining, and grunted her approval. That same condescending smile flickered on her lips as she held the strap up to her nose and sniffed it; the lingering smell of my juices that I had used to add the final polish was obviously evident, but not unexpected.

Moments later, I found myself mounted on the saddle that was sitting on the trestle. My hands had been shackled again, and the chain was attached with a sturdy clasp to the pommel. Raven tugged the stirrup straps tight, and pulled them as short as they would go; once again I was in that most vulnerable of positions, with my bottom high and spread and my hands pulled forward.

“I think you are becoming quite accomplished at adopting this position!” she smirked, “I heard all about it from Emmette.” My thoughts flashed back to the my visit the previous weekend, when Emmette, to my intense embarrassment, had found me abusing myself on this same saddle and had strapped me as punishment. It was a shameful episode and one that I would have preferred to have been forgotten. Instead, it seemed she had spread the word amongst the staff; I would never be able to feel secure that my humiliating secret would be forgotten.

I had come to hate that position, even though I had only known it for a week. It represented all things I despised about myself: my proclivity for self abuse, my inclination to rub myself on unsuspecting surfaces, my yearning for shame, my sordid desires, my wish for submission and my achievement of sexual satisfaction through totally surrendering control.

The position was physically degrading as well, offering unfettered access to my sexual parts, exposing my cunt’s lips and even my most private part of all: my bottom hole. My tender surfaces were exposed, where the pain of a simple pinch or flick was magnified in measures; a light kiss from the tip of a strap in any of these spots would be an agony I couldn’t bear.

Raven languidly slapped my raised backside with the strap; half a dozen strokes in quick succession that burned like hell and caused me to yelp. I felt my bottom sway in a futile attempt to wish away the pain and to avoid further contact from the strap, but there was no relief possible and no where to go. Her hands felt cool as she rubbed my agitated flesh, but when her fingers dipped between my crack and touched my pussy lips, I knew that it was for more than sensual reasons that she was stroking my skin; she was testing my arousal, seeing whether I was turned on.

“A bit engorged, slightly damp, but not very turned on,” she pronounced, “we shall have to see what we can do about that!”

I wished she hadn’t announced it so loudly, it was something I felt should be kept between her and me; I was acutely aware of Emmette, out of sight, but chained to the low beam in the room next door. That situation for Emmette didn’t last very long; I felt Raven lay the polished strap down on my back, and then with a slap on my raised rump, she went behind the mirror door. I heard the low murmurings of an exchange between her and Emmette, and then the sound of shackles being shaken and flesh being smacked.

I watched enraptured as Emmette was lead out, her hands chained in front of her, her head bowed in submission. She was taken to a second trestle about ten feet from my own, and reinforced with a vicious cut across her backside from a crop that Raven now held, she was encouraged to lean lengthways along the bar. Her tummy rested on a thick saddle blanket that lay across the top and her face was towards me, an expression of submission in her eyes. I watched  her spread her legs wide; Raven attach her ankles to the trestle legs with sets of leather straps.

Symphony of pain

Raven was the conductor, a role which she relished.

That now familiar, supercilious smile twisted at the sides of her bright red lips, and she leant forward across Emmette, as if mounting her from behind. She  rubbed the crop lightly through Emmette’s cunt lips, angles gently changing as she sought to illicit a tune. She played Emmette like a violin, the black crop moving back and forward rhythmically, tweaking out notes of pleasure, the warm up to The Symphony of Pain.

Emmette’s gasps of pleasure excited me, and I found myself moving sliding along the saddle in concert, my movements timed by the bow in Raven’s hand, my breathing an accompaniment to Emmette’s moans. I was oblivious to the shame of my arousal, the juices of my passion lubricating the saddle; I was part of an orchestra playing a score, and my soul was at one with the other participants out there.

I was in awe of the harshness of the opening bars but it didn’t slow me down or dampen my play. Raven  launched into vigorous set of three cuts across Emmette’s backside, followed by an ominous triplet of three soft taps. Emmette bore these stoically, but, perfectly timed to the luscious repeat of another bar, her sweet voice began to sing. Her cries of agony were marked on the score as fortissmo, and her solo performance didn’t disappoint; her eyes screwed tight in concentration, and her mouth opened wide in a erotic song of pain.

Raven turned to me next and played with my exposed flesh, as if it was a delicate instrument to be plucked; she pinched and released my pussy lips, flicked my engorged clit with her nails. I squirmed and struggled and tried to escape, but I knew from Emmette’s perfromance, that these were just the opening bars.

There was little burtality in the leathering I got, as she rather showed her mastery through the finesse she had developed. She carefully picked places for the strap to bite, and in a few short moments, I was howling in pain. An excruciating flick on my pussy lips was quickly followed by the strap’s tip biting into my bum crease. A kiss of the leather tongue on my bottom hole was enough to unleash howls of distress; a wickedly aimed slash across the crease where thighs meet bottom, created a welt that would ensure I would not sit comfortably for days.

The realisation struck me later, that while Emmette had dommed me into submission, Raven played a different game, getting off on her sadistic ways.

As a conductor of The Symphony of Pain, she delighted in the musical responses we offered. Our bodies swayed in rhythm to the tune, matching the beat of her baton; we were our own audience, turned on by the performance we gave.

And for Emmette and I, the other’s pain was piquant, delivering a pleasantly biting arousal, on which we would later get off.

The Final Movement

I had often wondered how it would be, if there were three in bed; who would lead and who would follow, what would the other’s role be?

While Emmette had been dominant with me, her manner in bed was always sensual. She delighted in her femininity, took pleasure in the gentle ways of the domme. Silken bonds, heady perfumes, a delicate touch to arouse, a smack to encourage compliance. When she had leathered me in the tack room that day, it had been as punishment for a transgression of mine rather than a draught to slake her sexual need.

Raven was very different, even though she was femme to the core. She got off on others’ pain; their cries were a powerful aphrodisiac, igniting a burning thirst that needed to be quenched.

The final movement of our symphony, picked up on themes from earlier that day. It was a beautiful piece that had touches of it all,  as we all had fires that needed to be put out.

Emmette’s gentle kissing and stroking was accompanied by a more brutal pounding from Raven, her animal lust driving her need to be fulfilled. While Emmette took delight in my passionate response, Raven used us like human sex toys, her sadistic power being the key to our on/off switch.

She rode my tongue hard, as she crouched over my face, the juices of her lust flowing fast and free. She was uninhibited as she wiggled around on my mouth, making sure that I pleasured her bits and satisfied her needs. When my efforts flagged, and I felt that I needed to stop, Raven would ensure that I carried on; a twisted nipple or a slapped breast motivated me while re-kindling her fires.

And while this was all happening, sweet Emmette was between my spread legs. Her tongue was gently nibbling my cunt, her thumb urgently strumming my demanding clit. I could feel her mounting my lower leg, putting pressure on her own lubricated parts, sliding up and down in a frictionless hump, desperately trying to cum on her own.

We all lay together in Emmette’s bed after that, Raven getting up only to order us a meal. 

Oh, the benefits of sleeping with the proprietor of an establishment, where room service consisted of champagne on ice and two hot bodies to slake any thirst.

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 4 – Shackled and Shamed

Down the Bridle Path

The walk down the Bridle Path to the stables was less traumatic than I imagined it would be. I did worry about being seen; perhaps a chance, off-season visitor would visit The Equestrienne Lodge, or perhaps a gardener would be out pruning the shrubs before the onset of winter. We saw no-one, and apart from the occasional tap on my rear from Raven’s paddle, the five minute transit was mercifully not witnessed.

On the few occasions that she did rap me and urge me to get me knees up, or to pick up my pace,  or to hold my head up high, or to push my shoulders back, it was more the shock of the paddle’s sudden impact  than the pure pain that surprised me and caused me to yelp. I found myself responding to her commands instantaneously, no longer trying to reach back futilely with my manacled hands. 

The sweat was pouring off me by the time we got to the stables; it dripped down my forehead, ran in streams from beneath my armpits and I could feel it dripping down from my stomach into my pubis.

Raven looked me up and down, then reached forward into my personal space. I watched horrified as she extended an index finger and then ran it from the bottom up to the top of my sweaty cunt.Tracing her way down again, she wiggled it, and then gently pushed it forward, penetrating my depths. She found no resistance; my state of arousal welcomed her in.

Whether it was by chance or design, I cannot say, but I do know that the tip of her finger rested on a most sensitive spot. Still inside me, her fingers hooked up, she started to massage a spot that nearly made me go wild. I wanted to pull away, to break free from her spell, but the urge to ride it out got stronger with each moment that passed. I felt I wanted to squirt, to cum, to whimper in delight; to my horror, my arousal grew and my juices flowed like a river, showing me up for the wanton slut that I really was.

She was looking me in the eye, a trace of a smile playing at the corner of her lips; a look of cruelty mixed with compassion, disdain with understanding. She pulled out suddenly, leaving me high and dry, with me wishing that she had finished me off, desperately glad that she hadn’t and that she had left me alone.

“Got a bit of a sweaty box, now, do we?” Raven inquired cruelly, “Well, wait until it dries out and then feel how uncomfortable it will be.”

I flushed with shame, and followed her self consciously through the stables to the tack room. I had been there before; it was where Emmette had witnessed my shameful acts of self abuse as I rode a saddle that had been resting on a trestle, where Emmette had leathered me unmercifully for using her tack without her permission, and from where Emmette had led me away at the end of a halter and down to the pools to wash off and make love under a full moon.

The Tack Room

The tack room was large by any standards and it provided plenty of space for Emmette’s debauched activities that were staged there! I followed Raven to the back corner where a pile of straw was stacked and a few odds and ends were laid out neatly along the edge of a coarse saddle blanket. Despite my being behind Raven, I kept my knees up and parallel to the ground with each step and endeavored to keep a straight posture, for who knew when she might turn around suddenly?

She pointed down at the blanket and commanded me to kneel.

“This will be your spot until I come to leather you, do you understand? You are not to move off it.”

I knelt and looked up at her, tears starting to run down my cheeks. Despite my aching thighs and tender backside, they were tears of self pity rather than tears of pain.

“Oh for goodness sake, girl, stop the blubbing already! You are so pathetic!”

She squatted down at my side, and picked up a foot length strap of leather, a shoe brush and a tin of polish.

“By the time I get back, I want this strap to be polished as shiny as a pair of soldier’s boots. If it meets with my approval, I will whip you with it. Do you understand? And do you understand the consequences of it not being mirror clear?”

I nodded glumly; I could only guess.

“What I suggest is that you buff it first with the polish and the brush in order  to get a surface, and then use the balls of cotton wool to French polish it. Spit and polish my girl, just like they do in the army.”

I tried to absorb what she was telling me to do, but my mind was elsewhere: where was Emmette and when would she come to rescue me?

A chain ran from a eye-bolt in the closest wall, and ended in a few coils on the blanket. Raven reached forward and looped the end around my right ankle; a simple padlock closed the loop and left me shackled. With my wrists manacled and now my ankle restrained, I felt a sinking feeling of helplessness. Raven pocketed the padlock key and threw me one of her supercilious stares.

“Now listen to me girl, you are not to go anywhere until I get back to punish you, do you understand!”

The craziness of this last statement was not last on me, but I was too down to respond.

She must have realized how silly she was being, or perhaps she had a momentary flash of compassion, for she unexpectedly reached down and unlocked my wrists, throwing the manacles, with a satisfying clatter, into a heap at the edge of the blanket.

And then she was gone, the door locked behind her, the only light coming from a few disconsolate shafts of diluted sunshine that filtered through the small, grimy windows.

I rolled off my knees and into a more comfortable sitting position and looked around to take full stock of the situation. My blanket, though coarse, was relatively well padded by the straw beneath it, and despite being naked and chained, I was sure that I would have privacy until Raven returned. A bucket lay at the edge of the blanket along with a pitcher of water and an enamel mug; I realized that I wouldn’t go thirsty and had somewhere to pee if necessary!

My blanket was close to the corner and a mirrored door led off to the side; something to explore later, I decided. But first I had better get my polishing task done before Raven returned.

Sighing, I picked up the tin of polish and the brush and began to shine the thick leather strap.

Polishing the strap

As I sat there, I was aware of the coarseness of the rough saddle blanket beneath my rear, the sweat from my trot down the Bridle Path that caused an unpleasant patina on my skin, and the discomfort of my tender  flesh that had been pummeled by Raven’s paddle; they all combined to create a toxic mix of physical distress. I found myself squirming around, desperately seeking relief but finding none. It was fortunate that the polishing chore gave me something to distract myself; the discomfort and ignominy of being chained naked  to the floor like some disgraced animal would  surely otherwise have brought me to tears.

I worked at the leather strap with the brush and polish and with a glimmer of self satisfaction, I started to see results. I lost track of time, hypnotized by the circles that I was rubbing in with my balls of cotton, the time punctuated at intervals as I spat onto the leather. As time moved on, I was pleasantly surprised at the gloss that I was creating.

The leather felt supple in my hands, and I stroked it appreciatively, amazed that I could see some semblance of my own reflection when I looked at it closely. What, I wondered, was it going to feel like as it lashed my bottom? Would I scream? Would it be worse than the lashing that Emmette had given me? Would Raven show any compassion or would she ignore my tortured cries?

As the thoughts flickered through my mind, I tentatively slapped the front my thigh with the strap, enjoying the the sensation, loving the warmth.I got back onto my knees, and lent forward animal like, balancing like a tripod, on my knees and my left hand. With my free arm, I flicked myself a few more times on the outside of my right thigh, trying to reach back to plant a few strokes on my bottom’s cheek. The leather burned, biting viciously where the tip dug in, and it left a set of red welts that shone brightly against my pale skin.

I looked up at the mirror and was rather taken by what I saw, stimulated by the sight of myself being chained and of the welts on my thighs. I moved around slightly to study my backside, to examine the rosy hue that her paddle had caused.

My senses were inflamed by the image that stared back: a naked girl, chained by her ankle, gently punished flesh waiting for the main event to occur. Watching enraptured, I slid the leather between my thighs and used it to massage my engorged cunt. Kneeling back on my heels, with my knees spread wide, it was as if I was watching a stranger as I began to slap myself with the leather strap.

My inner thighs reddened and started to burn with pain, and with every stroke I felt my arousal grow. Breathing hard, I looked down at my spread legs, and wondered if I could really do it, lash my own cunt. I started with a gentle tapping at first  on those tender lips. I found that as my arousal grew, I could whip myself a bit harder, the slap of the leather driving me further on.

My image continued to stare back from the mirror door, a slut on her knees; depraved and sordid as she used a leather strap on her cunt. I stopped the whipping when the tenderness became too much, and rubbed the strap across my pussy lips, carefully collecting the juices of my lust. Grabbing a ball of cotton, I feverishly polished the surface of the leather again, using my juice as the polish, an intimate act that sexually bonded my strap and I.

Feeling that I had to finish myself off, I rose to my feet and moved close to the mirror door. With the chain creating a delicious tension on my ankle, I opened myself wide, my semi-squatting position straining my thighs. As I whipped my flank with my leather strap, my left hand plunged into my gaping sex, frigging myself unmercifully in an animal like show. I did not climax quietly and like the chained animal I had become, I howled and moaned as my body shuddered to a release.

I was still standing and trembling, looking at myself in the mirror, when a voice from behind the mirror door broke the spell. It was like deja-vu; we had been there before.

“Bravo, Caitlin, that was quite the  act!”

Emmette’s voice was unmistakable; I realized then that I should have learned from my first foray into the tack room a week ago.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Caitlin, if your ankle chain is long enough, would you mind coming in here and letting me down?”

I limped across to the mirror door, the ankle chain acting like an anchor that was holding me back. Emmette was looking at me from within the room that was behind the door; her hands were chained above her to a low wooden rafter, her body was naked, her arousal was on show. Her nipples were erect, her cunt lips were engorged, and a becoming flush spread from her neck to her breasts.

“Just so that you know, Caitlin,” she explained, “the mirror doors are one-way glass.Your performance was truly wonderful; sexual deviance at its best, sordid activity when you thought you were all alone.”

If I could have reached her to whip her with ‘my’ leather strap, I am sure I would have, but my ankle chain kept us a couple of yards apart.

I limped back slowly and sat on my blanket. With the door open now, and under her open gaze, I picked up a ball of cotton wool and once again began to polish my strap. I could feel my cheeks glowing; it was a flush of anger as well of shame.  

I intuitively knew now, how Emmette had received those vicious cane marks she had been so proud to show off. I hoped fervently that when Raven returned, that it would not only be my bottom that felt the strap’s bite.

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 3 – The Walk of Shame


The night was as all nights should be: passionate hugs with kisses that were insatiable, gymnastics and innovation, cruelty and tenderness. My limbs ached from being contorted, my fingers from overuse. At the end of it, I felt used and stretched, satisfied and content.

We spent the night snuggled up to each other, Emmette’s sweet breath washing over me, our scents of arousal and sex mingling with perfume to create an exotic blend that clung to the sheets and the pillows, to our bodies and our skin.

She was gone when I woke up in the morning; despite The Equestrienne Lodge having closed for the season, the proprietor’s job was never done. There was an end of season cleaning to supervise, a skeleton staff to direct and the lodge’s account’s to manage and close off. She had opened the curtains before she left, and the sun was streaming through the windows when I finally woke up.

Moments later, the door opened, and Raven walked in; she was Emmette’s trusted assistant and I had seen her around The Lodge: she supported the staff at the check-in desk, assisting when necessary, did the books, and managed the housekeepers. She was olive skinned and slender, her high cheek bones adding to her striking looks. I had observed her at work and while her manner exuded efficiency and her presence was commanding, she was always pleasant and accommodating, doing her best to please.

The dissonance between what I knew of Raven and what I was seeing bewildered me: a pair of shiny, steel manacles dangled from her hands, a solid looking paddle hung from a clip on her belt.  I was still lying in bed, stunned, as she ripped the top sheet away from me, leaving me naked to her gaze, defenseless to her moves. Before I could respond,  I felt my wrists being grasped and shackled; I instinctively knew that this was not a game and that I was in beyond my depth.

Walk of Shame

“We are going to the stables,” Raven nformed me, “I heard you had fun there!”

There was an edge to her voice, a malice that I would never have guessed she possessed.

She gave me a slight push from behind, propelling me towards the door. I hesitated; I was naked and there would be no privacy beyond the door. While I knew that there were no guests booked in, I was sure that we would bump into the staff that remained.

“Now move it!”

I felt a sense of panic as I walked out of the room, knowing that she was just a pace behind. It wasn’t only panic though; it was with a feeling of shame for my nakedness, shame for my shackles, shame for my obvious submission.

Raven rapped my bare bottom with her paddle, not too hard, but hard enough to make me yelp. My chains rattled as I jerked aside in a futile attempt to escape any further smacks. My hands tried to reach back, but were restrained by the manacles.

My feeling of shame was matched now by a feeling of fear; I knew that the paddle was not for show and I knew that I was the only target in sight.

“Lift your knees right up. I want to see them parallel to the ground.’

I complied, feeling ridiculous. We walked past an open bedroom door; mercifully the maid who was spring-cleaning it did not look back as we passed. At the end of the corridor, I stopped.  I had two choices, left into the kitchen or right into the dining room. Stopping proved not to be the wisest thing to do. I heard woosh of air followed by a loud splat; as if on cue, a searing heat spread through my bottom. The blow from the paddle made my whole mind go numb. I frantically swung around, desperate to avoid another spank, fearsome of what might come next.

“I never told you that you could stop marching!” Raven scolded, “but seeing as you have, we will have a change of tempo. Now, I want you to trot, knees up high. You will not stop until I tell you to. If we have to stay in one place, you will trot on the spot.”

She gave my tender bottom a sharp slap with the paddle.

“Now start trotting!”

I started to trot on the spot, lifting my knees up high. Unsupported, my breasts jiggled around ferociously, seeming to build up a momentum of their own. They bounced and swung around at will, but I did my best to ignore them, focusing on getting my knees up high so that I would not be struck again with that paddle.

“Into the kitchen; I want to speak to Merle.”

Merle was the cook, a huge cheerful woman, who loved to walk around the kitchen brandishing a huge wooden spatula, laughingly threatening to spank her helpers if they didn’t do her will.

We came to a stop in front of her, and mercifully Raven told me to stand still and rest my legs. I was breathless, and felt trickles of sweat winding their way down from my armpits, seeming to pool in the crease beneath my breasts.

“Ooh, she’s a spirited one!” Merle cackled gleefully. “Where are you taking her?”

“We are off to the tack room; her backside needs a good leathering!” came the response from Raven.

Merle stepped close to me and looked me in the eye. A cheerful smile crossed her lips.

“Oh, you are going to be in a lot of pain, filly, Raven loves to break Mistress Emmette’s girls in!”

Merle seemed to delight in my indignity and revel in my impending pain; perversely, that excited me and I could feel my nipples flesh out and my lower lips begin to swell. She reached up and plumped my breasts. As she withdrew her hands, she grasped each of my nipples and twisted them at the same time. I gasped in pain, the sudden-ness of it shocking me.

“And a feathery little bush she has too, Raven! I am sure you are going to have fun plucking this little birdie.”

I flushed; the humiliation was almost worse than the pain. For a moment I wondered if Emmette would walk in and stop this torment, but then I pushed it from my mind; I did not want her to see me in this situation. I did wonder where she was, but it was a fleeting thought as I was quickly brought back to the discomfort of my own predicament.

“Well then, Merle, I must get her to the tack room and get her locked down for the morning. If you want to look in and watch her polishing the leather we will use on her this afternoon, feel free; I am sure she will enjoy your company!”

The paddle swung again and I jerked forward, my manacles chinking.

“To the tack room girl; knees up and breasts out.”

Flushed with humiliation, I pranced out of the door in front of her, and trotted down the bridle path to the stables.