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.