The Antique Shop
I had only known Sandy for a few weeks before she invited me out for a drive. It was a Sunday at its summer best; sun that warmed both body and soul, sunlight that sparkled on the water, yachts that wafted effortlessly across the bay. Strappy sandals, Bermudas and t-shirts were the order of the day. I had never been in a soft-top before; ‘my cabriolet’ she called it. With the roof down and the wind ruffling our hair, it was a truly exhilarating experience as we cruised along the tree-lined country roads that wound their way alongside the lake shore.
Sandy’s dark glasses were in sharp contrast to her platinum blond, spiky hair and peaches and cream complexion. I loved the stern and mysterious effect they offered; it provided an assertive touch to her otherwise rebellious look. We drove along with PiNK’s album blaring and Sandy belting out the lyrics to ‘So What’:
I got a brand new attitude and
I’m gonna wear it tonight,
I wanna get in trouble,
I wanna start a fight
Our first stop was a quaint antique shop on the water’s edge. Sandy was in her element as she browsed her way around the displays, fiddling with whatever she could lay her hands on. She was like a kid taking a trip down memory lane; Brownie Box cameras, Dinky cars, fairy tea sets and a silver handled vanity mirror found their way into her itchy hands.
It was when she moved from play into purchase mode that I began to get worried. It became obvious where her sights were set, and with every new item inspected, it became a taunt to my sensitivities.
She picked up the butter paddle and giving me the most impish of grins, she smacked it against her own rump. It must have stung; the crack gave the old woman who was manning the till reason to peer out from behind the checkout to see what had been broken. Sandy beamed at her before replacing it with a flourish and opting instead for a stout, long handled wooden spatula.
Her eyes simply gleamed when she spotted the razor strop and cut-throat. The leather was heavy yet pliable, its dark surface polished by years and years of intimate use. I wondered how many bottoms it had stroked. Images of plump, red bottoms, glowing from the not-so-tender caress of the strop, flashed through my mind. I could picture the young women bent over, hands on their knees, their mouths forming perfect O’s as the yelps escaped from their luscious red lips. My introspection was broken as Sandy gave me a sharp nudge in the ribs. I could practically see her purr as she gave the razor a few practice swipes up and down the leather strop before handing the barbers’ set over to me to carry; she needed her hands to try out the next prospective purchase.
Although not antique, they were certainly old! A pair of fiber-glass children’s fishing rods, green and red with little black plastic handles. I held my breath as she picked one up and waggled it tentatively, before giving it a more positive flick. I cringed inwardly, wondering how that would cut into my poor bottom. She examined one carefully, running her hands up and down the length, flexing it experimentally, noting in a not-too-soft voice, how easy it would be to remove the reels in order to make a cane.
Right next to the checkout counter, she found a heavy, leather belt. Her fingers practically danced along its length as they traced the embossed patterns; bucking broncos, cowboy hats, spurs and boots. She didn’t even look at the price tag, and simply dropped it down on the checkout counter, alongside the precariously balanced rods, the heavy spatula and the razor strop and blade. It didn’t take much to imagine what she might do with that wicked collection and I was relieved when she paid and we could leave without additional implements being added.
At the marina
We sat on the stone-clad banks next to the marina, watching the pleasure boats tie up and depart. Every now and then, when she liked the looks of one of the boaters, she would spring to her feet and offer to help; I never did figure out what her selection criteria was.
One craft, crewed by two slightly elderly, rather formal looking men, drew up, their peaked yachting caps perched on their silvery heads, the brass buttons on their blazers glinting in the sun. They were priggish and crass, establishment and entitlement written all over their smarmy faces.
In retrospect, her reaction was quite in keeping with her character, but at the time her move caught me unaware. I was eying the two boaters, when I felt her arms snaking around my shoulders, and her lips reach forward to mine. We indulged in a deep, salubrious kiss; one that caused me instant arousal despite the strange circumstances.
As the two shocked gentlemen pulled their craft away to look for more genteel moorings, we heard the one comment: “Gosh! I think they are lesbians!”
The response didn’t reach my ears; it was drowned out by Sandy’s peel of laughter followed by a raucous rendition of PiNK’s ‘Blow me one last kiss’:
I think that life’s too short for this, I want back my ignorance and bliss
I think I’ve had enough of this, blow me one last kiss.
The rods lay on the ground between us untouched.
“Do you know how to fish, Sandy?” I asked at last, curiosity getting the better of me.
Her look was one of despair, one that made me feel really hopeless.
“Val, we are just out for a good time. Why on earth would I need to know how to fish?”
She broke into another round of PiNK:
I got a brand new attitude and
I’m gonna wear it tonight,
“It’s just for the look, Val! Don’t you get it?”
My blank stare obviously told her everything; no, I am just a dumbo and I do not get it.
“It’s just for the look, Val. They make us look sporty.”
As if to prove her point, she beckoned over a couple of kids who just happened to be walking by, probably a brother and sister, about eight or nine years old I would have guessed.
“Here kids, would you like these rods? You can have them if you want. Take them to your boat and tell your daddy to teach you how to fish.”
The kids were delighted; I was relieved. It was as if a huge cloud had been lifted off my shoulders as I watched the rods being carried away. I hugged my arms around myself,
“Come Sandy, it’s time to go.”
I wanted to be out of there before the rods had any chance of re-appearing!
An evening at home
We arrived home at Sandy’s apartment and I was very relieved to see her take the purchases into her room. She reappeared with the spatula, and waved it menacingly in the air. I was so preoccupied by what I expected her to do with this nasty little paddle, that she had to ask me twice to start peeling a couple of apples and oranges and a pineapple. She seemed to be in her element in the kitchen; not a Sandy that I could have imagined!
The spatula was soaped and scrubbed, a bottle of vodka miraculously appeared, and before I could realize that my bottom was no longer in jeopardy, she had chunked the freshly peeled fruit and dropped it in a large glass bowl. A liberal helping of vodka and a carton of fresh orange juice were poured in, and she set the spatula to work, stirring this wonderful concoction.
It was a gorgeous summer evening, and we sat out on the tenth floor balcony of Sandy’s apartment sipping the punch and reliving the highlights of the day until the sun set. I was still very aware of the unused portion of shopping spree, so was not surprised to be led into her bedroom. To say that I was nervous would be an understatement; I had not forgotten the rather harsh swishing I had suffered at her hands in The Punk Bookstore.
Sandy’s bedroom was just as you might have expected it to be, a mix of chaos and order, child and adult, femininity intermingled with punk. A giant Pink Panther, probably won at an amusement park, sat in a delicate, velvet upholstered boudoir chair; a tawse lay on her dressing table amidst delicate perfume bottles, a silver manicure set and collection of garish nail polishes.
It was the music though, that signaled a change of mood; the other-world tones of Enya seemed to mingle with the heady perfume from the deep red candles that provided the subdued lighting to create the heady atmosphere of an opium den. I felt no shame as I shrugged my clothes off and lay on the bed and watched in a detached way as Sandy dragged her new belt slowly from the loops on her pants.
“Your hands; hold them together out in front of you, sweet-pea.” I was used to this term of endearment from Sandy by now; it usually preceded a swishing or two.
I held my hands out, and watch with interest as Sandy wrapped the belt around my wrists. The bonds were tight and by the time she had buckled it, there was no chance of escape. She pushed me back onto the bed, and I lay on my back, my arms stretched up together over my head, watching her for the next move. My legs were tightly closed; I could feel the welcome and familiar arousal begin to build, a warmth that spread from my crotch to my belly. The haunting music and scents were overpowering and mixed with the buzz from the cocktail punch, I felt a feeling of wantonness and lust wash over me.
The newly acquired leather strop materialized in Sandy’s hand; she rubbed her hands up and down its length sensuously, a beautiful implement of power and seduction, an appendage to assert her dominance. As I watched her fondle the leather, I wondered how it would feel as it lashed my hinds; would it cause me to cry out in anguish or would I rise to greet it with pleasure? Would I have to roll over so she could take me from behind, or would she lay it over my spread thighs from the front in her passion?
Sandy put aside her strop, and advanced towards me with a velvet blindfold in her hand. With the light cut off, I could only sense; sense her look of lust, imagine her predatory movements. I heard a rapid stroking, the cut-throat razor being honed on the strop. The cool foam applied to my pubis made me start and cry out.
“Lay still, sweet-pea, you really don’t want to move.”
Sandy’s voice was husky, her admonishment chilled me to the core.
She began to scratch at my pubis with that deadly blade; I felt it glide smoothly over my skin as I lay there in fear. She worked from the top down, centimeter by centimeter, working closer and closer to my engorged and lubricated nether lips. I held my breath, lay absolutely still, felt the warmth of her one hand holding my thigh, firmly without pain, control without duress.
I survived the ordeal, and as my breathing returned to normal, I sank back into the peace that the darkness and sensual music offered. I ticked the purchases off in my mind; the rods, the spatula, the belt, the strop. She had teased me; I hadn’t been swished.
The spanking she gave me was the most sensuous experience I have ever been given. I was rolled over with my hands still bound, my bottom on offer for whatever she chose. Her hands ignited every nerve on my skin, a series of slaps followed by caresses that were designed to arouse. I did indeed push my bottom up to meet the smacks, but there was no pain, only pleasure, no harshness, only passion. I came with her one hand massaging the warmth, the other tucked between my legs exploring my new found silkiness.
She kept my hands bound for the rest of the night, deaf to my pleas for release so I too could please.
“A slave has no need for her hands, Sweet-pea; a tongue and your submission are all I need to get off.”
When we parted to go our separate ways at the start of the next day, it was with promises to meet later in the evening for a drink and a meal. Her exuberant personality gave me reason to smile but it was her sense of the unpredictable that had me on the hook for her style.