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

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

Sales meeting

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hotel Room

I felt very self conscious standing at the door and waiting for her to answer my knock. What on earth was I doing here, what was I expecting, what good could come of a meeting like this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Roll over, now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



I hate air travel; I find it one of the most stressful activities that I have to face up to. It starts with the bookings which take ages to make, and if you make a mistake, the change is costly. Then there is clearing the calendar, making arrangements to get to the airports, having enough cash on hand, credit cards which you know will be acceptable at the destination. Decisions to be made: how long before the flight leaves do I need to be at the airport, do I need to make allowances for traffic snarl ups along the way? How long will the queues at check-in and security and customs be and how long will I take to find my gate? Do I have a boarding pass; which pocket did I put my passport away in? Will I have an aisle seat for the long hauls, will my luggage get lost? On and on my worries churn; a personal psychiatrist would be helpful for me to have as a travel companion!

Yet there actually are redeeming features for me about international travel. I have a few proclivities of which my close friends are well aware: assertive women, expensive perfume and Islay scotch. I satisfy the first desire through the cabin staff that has that ability to bring my submissive nature right out of my shell. The uniforms, their kindly yet firm way, their sense of authority, their willingness to provide guidance; I submit to them willingly and dream of what might be. Duty Free is my personal haven for my perfume and scotch indulgences.

Duty Free

I walked around the perfume stands, spraying sampler sticks with scents from my favorite houses, holding four or five stick between my fore finger and thumb, splaying them as if they were a winning hand of cards. Around and around I drifted in an exotic cloud of fragrance, sniffing the samplers alternately, savouring their scent, delighting in the erotic bouquets. A decision made at last: a bottle of the Dahlia Noir from Givenchy, a flask of Black Opitum from Yves Saint Laurent, a set of samplers from Gucci.

Then, it was into the whiskey shop. Indecision! Should I take the Talisker Dark Storm which is only available in duty free outlets, or should I settle for a Laphroaig or Bowmore? Perhaps one of each? The prices in duty free are so reasonable! Yes, that seemed to be the right thing to do.

Ah, the joys of traveling light! There was plenty of room to pack it all into my cabin luggage. It would be easier to carry and out of harm’s way. Reluctantly, I packed up and made my way to the gate. The trans-Atlantic flight was always a bore and crowded, but at least I had something to look forward to indulge myself in when I arrived home. And perhaps I would have a pretty hostess to lust over and dream about on the seemingly never-ending flight.


Elianne was our hostess and she was all that I could have ever have wished for: refinement without pretension, elegance without affectation. Her fair complexion was set off by the outfit she wore; on others it might have looked like a uniform, yet on her it exuded style. She had silky blond hair that fell to her shoulders in dramatic bangs, framing cool green eyes into whose depths I wanted to sink. Her black, heavy framed glasses might have looked clunky on someone else, yet set on Elianne’s fair and refined face, they added a touch of glamour, a tantalising hint of severity. Her thin lips went from pursed to a sensual smile in nano-seconds, lighting up the cabin and radiating warmth.

I thought that she took an instant shine to me, but perhaps it was my over-active mind. I imagined that her hand lingered on my shoulder for just a moment extra as she reached down to check that my seat-belt was fastened. I was intoxicated by her scent: sparkling florals and sleek, sensual woods; a fragrance that was unmistakably Estee Laude. A parting tap on my shoulder before she moved on; frisson as her fingers brushed the naked skin of my neck, and her scent that lingered in the air for a few magical few moments after she was gone.

The Airport

The arrival corridor seemed endless. I dragged my cabin luggage behind me and trudged down what seemed to be miles and miles of linoleum, following the other passengers towards the customs and immigration hall, seeming to fall further and further behind with every step. My feet ached; I wished that I had not let sexy win the battle over common sense; the clicking of my heels seemed to taunt me, the painful balls of my feet chided me, reminding me of my vanity with every step.

I was all alone when I turned into what I seemed to be the final corridor. I wondered at first if it was my eyes playing tricks on me! Elianne was standing at one of those faceless doors that dot the walls of every airport corridor, holding it open and looking at me with a concerned look. She seemed so compassionate and sympathetic; I could have burst into tears on her shoulder right there and then.

“Come with me Catlin, let me help you with your bag.”

I had no option really; she took it from me, ushered me through the door into another short corridor, and led the way to another door that had an EMS symbol painted on the wall above the frame.

The Examination Room

It was a most unusual arrangement and I had no idea why I was here. The room was set up like a standard doctor’s office consulting room – an examination bed, a desk and a plain, metal table that was perhaps three or four feet long.

Elianne heaved my bag up onto the table and then turned to confront me. Her eyes had lost that compassionate look and her tone was noticeably more business like.

“Would you like to fill in your Customs Declaration Card now, Caitlin?”

This was an order, not a request.

Confused but compliant, I sat at the desk and filled in the form: nothing to declare, not over any limits, signed and dated. I picked it up and handed it to her, watching the look of incredulity grow on her face as she took it all in.

“Let’s have your bag opened, Caitlin. I could have sworn I saw you in the duty free!”

As strange as the setting seemed, as bizarre as I felt it was to be having this conversation with an air hostess, I complied. Her manner discouraged argument and I felt my own submissive behaviour flood to the front. I knew that I was in trouble and had seen the adverts discussing penalties for false declarations. With trembling fingers, I unzipped my bag and flipped the lid open. The bottles of scotch and perfume lay there right at the top in full sight, staring at me accusingly, causing my stomach to churn.

She said nothing, but one by one, as if in slow motion, she unpacked the bag, lining the offending items up side by side. She stared at them, then looked at my declaration form, stared at them again, and then focused on my ashen face.

“What else have you not declared Caitlin?”

I shook my head and whispered: “Nothing. I am so, so sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.”

Elianne moved across to the examination bed, and flicked out the stirrups. She stood facing me, one hand resting on a stirrup, the other on her hip.

“You realise what will happen to you when you go through customs and they catch you, don’t you Caitlin? They will go through your luggage with a fine tooth-comb, checking the seams, looking for what else you may have hidden.”

She paused for effect, probably taking delight in my distress, punishing me with the suspense.

“…and then Caitlin, they will bring you to a room just like this, perhaps even this very one. They will make you strip, Caitlin. Ever heard the expression ‘Squat and cough’? That will be just the start. You will be asked to lie down and spread your legs, feet in the stirrups, and you will be subject to an internal search. Perhaps you are carrying contraband, drugs, and diamonds. Perhaps you are a mule?”

The tears had started coursing down my cheeks; I could feel myself having a melt down.

“Please don’t,” I pleaded hoarsely. It was worse than I could have imagined; how had I gotten myself into this mess?

She looked at me, stared into my eyes.

“There may be a way,” she said, throwing out a lifeline. “I do have some latitude, some ways of dealing with cases like yours.”

“Anything, please!” I begged.

“Anything? You do realise that what you have done is rather naughty?”


Naughty? True, but the word seemed strangely inappropriate for an adult; the consequences for being naughty were beyond contemplation.

It was when she took a short leather strap out of her handbag that I realised that she did actually mean naughty!

I watched in disbelief as Elianne settled herself in the chair, and with the strap in her left hand, she patted her knee with her right. Her rings glittered and the marquise cut diamond showed beautifully on her slender hands. I was mesmerised and bewitched, wondering for just an instant how many bottoms had been spanked by this enigmatic woman.

Her hand snaked out and wrapped around my wrist, vice-like in its strength, unrelenting in its pressure. In what seemed like an instant, I found myself forced across her lap like a schoolgirl, my skirt flipped up, my panties tugged down. I could never have dreamed how painful a strapping would be! There was none of the warm up one reads about in erotica, none of the gentleness I could have hoped for.

Elianne started at the top of my bottom and methodically worked her way down, laying down stripe after stripe of pain until she reached my thighs. I am sure that some of the strokes must have crossed, but I didn’t care; all I was conscious of was the awful fire that just seemed to build and build, driving all thoughts out of my mind except the wish that it would mercifully stop.

I was conscious of my drumming feet, of my howls of pain, of the tears that ran freely down my cheeks and dripped onto the linoleum floor. I tried at times to struggle free, to wrest myself off her knee, but she was simply too strong. I have tried to think back as to how she could have pinned me so tightly; perhaps with her legs, perhaps it was just with her arms, but all of these solutions defy simple logic. In the end, I think that I simply submitted, knowing that I was in the wrong and really was a naughty girl that needed to have her bottom spanked.

The lashing did stop eventually; it seemed to have gone on for an eternity. I felt her hand dacing across my burnished flesh, tracing the welts and soothing the pain. I felt like a chastened child as Elianne helped me to my feet and onto my back on the examination table. My bottom burned beneath me and the heat seeped between my thighs. Elianne was vey gentle as she pried my legs apart, fanning the flames with her finger tips, breathing oxygen into the crucible with her sensuous lips.

I lay back exhausted but aroused as her fingers glided up and down, circling my clit, offering pressure without pain, arousal without shame. I could hear my own raspy breathing, throaty and measured, its cadence increasing with the rhythm of her hands. She was looking directly into my eyes when my climax came, that ready smile of hers playing across her delicate, thin lips.

It is a smile that will be forever etched in my mind; I didn’t know then quite what it really meant. It wasn’t a smile of lust or passion, arousal or pleasure. It seemed to be saying something like “I have you where I want”, a smile of the conqueror, a modern day Cleopatra at work.


I watched in disbelief as she walked across to the basin and washed her hands in a most clinical way. She sat down at the desk and ran her eyes down my declaration form, and then wrote something along the bottom with a pen from her purse.

“There, that should get you through customs. Tell them that I inspected your luggage if they ask.”

I was still lying there stunned as the door closed behind her, my body as confused as my mind with the pain and the pleasure.

I read what she had written on my declaration form during the walk to customs: “Inspected – Elianne”

The customs agent ran his eye down the form; a grin seemed to want to break out when he came down to her endorsement.

“Elianne, heh?”

My heart seemed to stop.

“Well, do you have anything to declare?” he asked.

I assumed that this was protocol, that Elianne’s endorsement was gold.

“No, I have nothing to declare.”

The customs agent took his red pen and scrawled a code across my declaration.

“Red route, Ma’am – they will check your luggage there.”

He looked at the person standing behind me in line.




The Chic Shoe Boutique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Price of Freedom

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

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

“What will it take to get these off?”

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

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

“How much? Fifty, a hundred?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dark Storm

Clipboard01Author’s Note:  “The Image / L’Image” – written by Jean de Berg, it is one of the most famous erotic novels of all time. It was produced as a movie and the scenes I watched in it have had a profound effect on me. This story puts me in the roll of a librarian who ends up playing the role of Anne in a scene with one of the library’s patrons. If you have never seen the film, I recommend it and I hope you do not become confused by the role I play. Either way, I hope you enjoy this piece of erotica and look forward to any feedback.


Narrator – The Librarian
Catherine – The Professor
Anne – Submissive in “The Image”
Claire – Domme in “The Image”
Jean – Narrator, male voyeur and dominant in “The Image”

Dark Storm

In my mind, I gave her a nickname; I called her “Dark Storm”. She moved around the library where I worked with hurricane speed, touching down at her selected shelves, leaving a trail of destruction and chaos in her wake. Her face was habitually dark and thunderous, her eyes squinting as if staring into the pouring rain, a dark and gloomy demeanor that telegraphed menace and malevolence for all that stood in her path.

There were occasions though, when she actually interacted with me and it was then that the magnificence of her nature came to the fore. Her smile lit up the darkness with mega-watts of brilliance, flashing down in electrifying forks, jolting pure white light into the deepest darkness. On occasion, the smile was accompanied by laughter; sheet lightening that seemed to ripple on and on, casting a surreal light on the scene that lasted for seconds rather than its momentary norm.

I was attracted to her dominating character yet wary of her power. She had never harmed me, never confronted me, but I knew it was in my best interests to treat her with respect and deference. It was with some trepidation then, that I watched her approach the Information Desk where I was stationed, a couple of books clutched to her breast, but obviously some unfinished business on her mind.

The Image

Catherine held a copy of “L’Image” out to show me. Published in French, it was a sadomasochistic work of erotica by Jean de Berg. The library also had a copy of the movie in its collection, and this is what she was also after.

My heart seemed to stop beating and my stomach seemed to roil when she asked me to help her locate it. I could feel the blood rush to my face and my fingers begin to shake. The truth is that I had personally removed the DVD from the library’s collection and taken it home to watch many months earlier; it was still sitting in my player well watched, the scenes that titillated me on the player’s quick-search. I was fascinated by certain of the scenes depicted in the movie and wrapped up in the relationship between Claire and Anne, repulsed by Jean and distraught by the tangle of emotional involvements between the male narrator and the two women.

In that moment that Catherine rested her arms on my desk, looked into my eyes, and asked me where the DVD was, I had instant flashbacks to the scenes that I had found so erotic:


Anne squats to pee – from “The Image”

Anne being made to squat down in a secluded area of a public park and pee under the harsh supervision of a menacing Claire; Anne selecting the whip with which the leather clad Claire was to beat her; Anne standing on a platform in a lingerie shop, bottom and thighs protected only  by a lacy set of suspenders and being made by Jean to turn around so that the lovely sales assistant could see her whip marks.

The images tumbled through my mind, haunting me with their erotic promise, leaving me at once feeling aroused and disturbed. Yet ever present in the movies scenes was Jean, an ego-centric male who I had come to detest. I loved the images that lingered in my mind for they enabled me to wipe him from the scene and replace him, when necessary, with Claire; to imagine out that which I found objectionable and refashion the images into ones that fed my deepest and dark desires.

“Well, where is it?” Catherine asked. “Who exactly has checked it out?”

My embarrassment was so obvious, my discomfort so blatant, that I could not even start to lie. It had been on the tip of my tongue to say simply that another library member had checked it out, yet I could not bring myself to say that now.

My voice sounded husky and low, a cross between a whisper and a croak.

“I have it; I took it home and forgot to return it.”

“You did, did you?”

A look of bemusement crossed her face and her eyebrows rose up as she appraised me with an intense look. I sat still, waiting for the storm to erupt, for the rain to start lashing down.

“It just so happens that I need it rather urgently,” she continued. “Now what would I tell the head librarian about this misappropriated treasure?”

My defenses were down and I was tongue tied, scrambling for a suitable response.

“I could bring it to your office this evening. I just need a chance to get straight home after work and pick it up.”

“Yes, you do that!”

She rose abruptly and dug into her purse. She found a business card and she dropped it down onto the desk in front of my screen.

Mlle. Catherine Discret
Professor – Room 69
Dept. Classic French Literature
Faculty of Arts

Catherine bestowed one of her dazzling smiles on me, one that made me feel both privileged and dismayed, turned on her heels and stormed out through the aisles. My fingers were trembling as I turned back to my keyboard, yet I felt a disturbing wetness between my thighs, a warmth and delightful tingling in my breasts, and a disturbing emotion that oscillated between anticipation and dread.

Room 69

There was a little platform rather than the traditional visitor’s chair in front of her desk; it reminded me of the dressing platform that Anne had presented on in the lingerie boutique. I laid the DVD on Catherine’s vintage desk and watched nervously as she picked it up. Her eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul, melting my insides, turning my muscles to jelly.

“Well, you’ve watched the movie, so why are you standing there?” she asked. She was back into her mood of threatening clouds, a promise of dark and stormy weather ahead. I stared at her blankly for a moment, then realized what she was demanding.

The platform was perhaps eighteen inches high and two foot square; high enough to make me feel self conscious though ridiculous was perhaps closer to the truth.

“Your skirts; lift them!”

I slowly raised my skirts, the realization that I had adopted the ways of Anne so closely, now seeming childish, most definitely immature. Beneath my floral skirt, breezy and feminine, I wore a white lace garter belt; it held my stockings in place, but provided no other modesty of which to speak. Intimate and delicate, tasteful yet coquettish, it united me to Anne in my mind, made me at one with my fantasy world.

Catherine had risen from her chair and come around her wooden desk. She rested against it and eyed me up and down. I felt like a slave on a block, chattel being appraised.

“Turn,” she commanded.

I slowly rotated, shuffling around, hearing the heels of my courts clicking on the platform, the soles rubbing on its varnished surface. I did not hear her rise, but felt the smoothness of her fingers as they traced their way down the lace straps, the warmth of her palms as she brushed them against my bottom, the wild scent of her perfume as she leaned forward to kiss the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes and breathed in as her wonderful fragrances washed over me; notes of heather and moss, ferns and a hint of lavender. I was transported into a world of French perfumeries, Paris Couture, Eighteen Hundreds erotica, boudoir secrets.

“Your bottom, it’s so perfect!” she murmured in my ear, “but still unmarked. We must fix that, you know we must!”

Her voice was smooth and hypnotic, sultry yet persuasive; she expressed no doubts that she would be completely obeyed. I felt her fingers tweak the fasteners on my dress, tease the zipper. A gentle tug and the dress fell, half draped across the platform, tumbling across to the floor at its edge.

“The whip, you know where it is, Anne; go and get it.”

I felt delirious, it all felt so right. I was Anne…she had called me Anne!

The Cut Glass Window

I stepped off the platform as if in a dream. The cupboard was directly in front of me, looking just as I had known it would be from that movie: ‘The Image’. It was an antique oak, self standing dresser; a window, its diamond shaped glass panes held in place by dull lead moldings, offered a peek into what lay behind the door.


Anne selects a whip – from “The Image”

I slowly swung the door open, lost in my own world, oblivious now of Catherine’s eyes watching my every move. A number of implements hung from the rail inside; it was exactly as I had imagined it would be. Leather straps, heavy and supple, the ends split into tongues that would cut into punished flesh. Gags and halters that look like they had come straight from the equestrian shop, the leather bits chewed and gnarled from agonizing screams. Single tail whips, some braided in tight leather thongs, others in the reds and whites and blues of corded rope.

Canes hung from the rail, rocking gently on their crooked handles as I reached in and disturbed their rest. A set of chains hung down, its links dull and scuffed; a set of handcuffs clipped loosely to the bar; a chain with shiny chrome ankle cuffs lay coiled on the cupboard floor.

I reached in slowly, selected a tawse. It felt heavy in my hand, but oddly alive and full of menace. I brought it to my lips, rubbed the dark leather across my face. It was smooth and supple, polished to a dull luster. Saddle soap and pine, tears and pain. The sensations and promise of what to come washed over in a wave, driving me deeper into my lust, further into my submission.

I replaced the tawse and watched enraptured as the chains jangled, the whips swung from the straps at their base, the canes rocked gently; they offered no hint of the pain they promised to deliver.

I selected the whip that was furthest to my right. It had a short handle, the core covered by braided leather strips; white and black, interlocked, Catherine’s dominance, my submission. The tail was perhaps a meter long; it was made of braided leather thongs that came down to a tightly lashed tip. I closed the door slowly, and turned towards Catherine. My heart was pounding and I knew now that there was no going back. Waves of submission washed over me; I knew that whatever Catherine demanded, I would be compliant; whatever pain she offered, I would accept and cherish.

The Velvet Pillow

A red velvet pillow had materialized while I had been lost in my reverie; it now covered the top of the little platform over which I was instructed to lie. It felt warm against my belly, silky and plush. By contrast, my hands resting on the hard wooden floor in front of me ached from the pressure, felt dusty and exposed. I had removed my court shoes at her bidding and my legs were now stretched out behind me, my thighs spread apart, my aroused sex on display.

Catherine stopped and reached down to my gaping sex, her fingers tracing the outline of my lips, probing my depths, circling my clit.

“You are wet, you slut! You want to be whipped!”

Her words were harsh, intended to cut and hurt; she wanted to humble me, to show me my place. I felt myself flush, abject humiliation rocking me to the core.

I watched Catherine walk around the front of me, the staccato tapping of her heels reminding me of the roll of the executioner’s drum. Slow and deliberate, she circled me twice, raising my fear level, reducing me to a wreck.

When the lash whipped down into my bottom, I whimpered, astounded by the pain and shocked by its depth. She had lashed me from the top of my buttocks across to my right thigh, a diagonal line of fury that seemed to cut right into my flesh.


Anne’s whip marks

I had watched the movie and knew what would come next; my brain barely had to register this thought before the lash hit me again. A parallel line to the first, from the top of my left thigh to the center of my bottom. Indescribable pain, as if a scalpel had been slashed across my back side. I heard myself whimper again, felt the tears running freely down my cheeks.

I couldn’t take another blow; my body and mind simply wouldn’t take it. The wild gyrations of my hips, my falling off the platform, my tears, my pathetic pleadings.

“No more, no more…please, I beg you, no more.”

None of this seemed to soften Catherine; she seemed impervious to my pain.


Anne kneels – from the “The Image”

“Kneel, now! Thighs apart! Look at me!” With teary eyes, I scrambled into a kneeling position, my knees spread apart on the hard floor. I held my hands up high as I knew Anne had done, pushed my breasts out lewdly, and looked up into Catherine’s eyes in fear. Waves of pain continued to course through my bottom and flanks, yet I knew that my aroused cunt expressed my abject shame.

She bent down and her lips covered mine, her tongue pressed between my lips, her sweet breath inflamed my passion. Once again, I became aware of her perfume, her distinctive animal scent. She did not need much time to drive me over the edge; her fingering was gentle but persistent and her rhythm exquisitely timed.

My moans were of pleasure this time and not of pain. Somehow the terrible fire that her lash had ignited, melded with my internal flames; waves of pleasure overcame me, and with my arms still in the air, I shuddered, felt my thighs spasm, felt my juices flow freely.

I came there on Catherine’s office floor, naked except for my lingerie, my bottom striped like a wretch’s, my sex on show like a common tart’s. In just one short evening, I had become Catherine’s slut, humiliated and whipped, broken and submissive. Yet rather than feeling self pity, I felt awakened, my erotic dreams had become reality, Anne’s persona had become my own.

Clipboard11It was a better outcome than in the L’Image though: it was just Catherine and I, her dominance and my submission; there was no Jean, no one to come between us, no third party to upset the balance. When the Dark Storm blew over for the evening, I knew that rainbows would arch over us and in the morning, the healing sunshine would melt the physical pain to a delicious glow.

We both knew instinctively, though, that when the conditions were right, the Dark Storm was sure to blow through the Library again.


Library Hours

In my mind, I nicknamed her ‘Squidgy’.

Squidgy! Despite this moniker, there was nothing fat or flabby about her; she was tall and willowy, graceful and poised. Long brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders in a mass of curls, bright red nails tipped off long, slender fingers. She was wearing a light, pink, cotton knit top that seemed to flow down her torso, showing off her perky breasts without clinging, curving gracefully into her waistline without constricting.

Her top fell onto the belt of her jeans and bundled gently across her hips and bottom as she sashayed gracefully through the library lobby; it was onto this part of her body that my eyes were transfixed and the name Squidgy popped into my head.

Her bottom was uniquely feminine, so appealing, so sexy. It was neither fat nor skinny, yet it filled out her jeans in a way that left me breathless. There weren’t saddlebags, nor was there any sign of flabbiness, yet the cheeks curved down and out to create this wonderful shape; a shape that swayed pliantly as she walked, that was soft and malleable, that was dependent on her jeans to constrain it. Squidgy!

I turned back to my job at hand, helping patrons check out their books, pay their fines and to listen to their small talk, yet my mind was on Squidgy; what could have possibly brought her into the library today, what books did she like to read, what interests did she have?

I watched the minutes tick by; at last the end of my shift at the checkout counter came to an end I was free to tackle the other chores: books to be replaced on the shelves, magazines to stack, computer browser histories and caches to clear.

I was pushing my trolley of books down the center aisle when I saw her standing between two shelves. She was looking up towards the highest shelf, a piece of paper in one hand, her other hand behind her, fingers splayed, resting on her bottom. I caught my breath and hurried on to do my business; it would have been unprofessional to do otherwise.

It must have been thirty minutes before I glimpsed her again; she was bending over to look at a lower shelf, her thighs tensed,her bottom pushed out seductively, her hands on her knees. A pile of books lay on the floor besides her and she seemed to have a frustrated air about her; a hand repeatedly flicked hair away from in front of her eyes, her head bobbed up and down as her eyes traversed the titles on the shelves, her shoulders seemed to sag despondently.

And then I was past her, wheeling my trolley, now empty of books, back to the drop-off station. I was torn; should I go back and help her, or would my interest in her seem too obvious? Could I help her and remain detached? Should I just return to the checkout station and watch for her to leave?

A helping hand

Time ticked by and it was my turn on the duty roster to close the library up for the night; closing time was approaching. I had flicked the lights and announced that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes; the checkout queue had dried up and the computer stations emptied. I sensed that I was now alone in the building yet I was sure I had not seen Squidgy leave and there was no way that she could have checked out that pile of books without causing a hold-up.

I walked up the central aisle of the library performing the last check to ensure there were no stragglers. It was when I got to the row with the “M”s that I found her. She was kneeling on the floor next to her pile of books that seemed to have grown ever higher. There was an air of desperation about her now as she repeatedly checked the list she still held and frantically looked back at the shelves.

“Can I help you? The library is closing now. Is there a book I can help you find?”

There, I had done it! I had approached her and spoken to her, and I had not let my childish feelings of infatuation overcome me!

Squidgy showed me her list; there was eclectic selection written down, some fiction, some non-fiction, but all would have taken an open mind to read.

She pointed at the last entry on the list.

“I just can’t find this one, I have looked under all the “M”s but it just doesn’t seem to be here.”

I read the name: “Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns: The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism; Philip Miller, Molly Devon, William A. Granzig”

I remembered this book, I had remembered placing it back on the shelves but perhaps someone had moved it. I ran my eyes along the shelves, checked the last books on the “L”s and the “N”s.; it definitely wasn’t there.

I looked down at the pile of books on the floor.

“Leave those here; let’s go and look under the “D”’s and “G”’s.

The look of gratitude she gave me made my heart melt; it was as if I had offered her the world. The book practically jumped off the shelf at me when I got to the “D”’s

“I must have misplaced it,” I muttered as I reached for it. My eyes lingered on the cover, absorbing the image of the naked women, her eyes covered with a heavily padded blindfold, her arms crossed across her naked breasts.

I turned to Squidgy as she leaned into my space; her hands came up to clutch me gently at the sides of my face and she pulled me forward to kiss me. An exotic blend of fragrances mingled to overcome any resistance I might have felt, seducing me to the core. The distinctive notes of Opium perfume: exotic florals, mandarin and coriander, mixed with her own warm, sultry breath to create its own organic scent that was impulsive and addictive, sensuous and feminine.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to her magic; her lips were soft and creamy, melting against mine, seducing my senses. Her fingers caressed my hair, her nipples brushed against my breasts. It felt as if I had fallen into a wonderful opiate dream; behind my closed eyes, warm colors formed and reformed into graceful clouds, golds and purples and deep reds mixed into orgasmically beautiful tones.

All too quickly, she pulled away, and with a delicate tap on my wrist, she headed off back to her pile of books. There was that delightful swing of her hips again, the roll of her bottom constrained by her jeans, the elegant sashay of someone who is secure and in touch with her own sexuality.

“Please come with me; there is someone I would like you to meet.”

It seemed as though I had no option; the library was now closed, the front doors locked, my time was my own. I helped her pick up the pile of books, but rather than stopping at the self-check station, she led me back towards the conference rooms in the lobby. It was a strange feeling; despite the library being my domain, she acted as if she was at home, as if this was her space and I was the visitor.

Society Meeting

We were not the first to get to the conference room; I made a mental note to check that they were empty at closing time from now on.

Squidgy introduced me to Ms. Fleur; I was not sure whether Fleur was a first name or surname. Certain women can simultaneously exude power and graciousness and Ms. Fleur was one of those. It was not just the dress or her manner and it was certainly not her physical size but rather a combination of an aura of command and dispassion, presence without threat, civility without warmth.

“You are late,” she commented, addressing Squidgy, “fifteen minutes to be precise. Well, who have we here? You brought the librarian?”

Ms. Fleur had turned to look at me appraisingly, running her eyes up and down my form, undressing me visually as I stood before her meekly. I had flashbacks to my childhood, being addressed like this by an imposing school mistress I had the misfortune to cross. I flushed but said nothing.

“I am sorry I missed your deadline, Ms. Fleur, but it was her fault!”

Squidgy pointed at me accusingly.

“She had replaced one of the books on wrong shelf. I am sure I could have made it on time, if not for her carelessness!”

Ms. Fleur continued to look me up and down. Eventually she broke the pregnant silence.

“Very well, then you will share the punishment. Two strokes each”

She pointed at Squidgy.

“You first. Get over the table.”

I was in shock; I had no idea what was going on. For the first time I noticed a long, cardboard tube lying on the table; I had seen cartons like that being used to protect posters. Ms. Fleur reached for it and flipped off a plastic cap from the one end. Slowly, her eyes locked on mine, she drew out a cane. As thick as my pinkie, as white as ash, it had a slight bend in its length; I later assumed that had been caused by repeated use.

Pieces of a puzzle began to click together in my mind: the ‘interesting’ collection of books Squidgy had been gathering, “Screw the Roses”, the pink choker necklace she was wearing with the slave ring at the front. Squidgy was about to be caned and I would be next.

My eyes were riveted to her bottom once again. Her legs straddled the corner of the conference table, her jeans were dropped and fell into a disconsolate puddle around her ankles. Schoolgirl style briefs were eased down to the middle of her thighs, her swollen lips pouted out from between the spread cheeks of her bottom. I could discern subtle movement as she pushed down onto the desk, exerting pressure on her pubis, gently building her excitement.

I flushed as the realization dawned on me that she was humping the table right in front of my eyes. The elegant movements were subtle, but the effects became readily obvious. The cane was brought to a rest across the center of her sit-spot; a gentle pressure pushed it into the flesh. I was fascinated by the sight; the threatening cane pressing ever so tenderly into the skin, the heightened sense of threat, Squidgy’s growing arousal.

It seemed surreal and seemed to be taking place in slow motion; the cane being drawn back, the flick as it was brought forward again, the splat of wood against flesh. A squidgy bottom; for just an instant, it seemed to mold itself around the cane, almost kissing it in lust. I was riveted to the dynamics and the after effects: the rebound as the cane bounced back, the redness and whiteness of the flesh, tramlines that ran across her bottom, jumping across the crack to carry on across the other side. Squidgy’s hiss and low moan; was it of pain or satisfaction? Her pronounced and prolonged pushing down onto the table corner, a clenching of her out-stretched fingers, a squeezing shut of her eyes.

I felt my own arousal building, a warmth in my breasts, a delicious pressure in between my thighs. I wanted to experience what Squidgy was experiencing, wanted to be at one with her.

The cane came down again. I had always imagined that a cane had to be drawn back fully and whipped in hard to deliver its punch; perhaps it was technique combined with this cane’s weight, but Ms.Fleur barely exerted herself. Another splat, that wonderful instant of impact when the rod sank into the pliant bottom, the instantaneous appearance of another set of lines, perfectly parallel, perfectly symmetrical.

A muted “ouch” and another sigh escaped Squidgy’s pursed lips: satisfaction or pain or both. Her right hand shot back to massage her pain, fingers spread and kneading. Her pelvis bore down onto the hard surfaces; a few ripples seemed to run up and down her shoulders, her pink knit top flowing across the tense muscles and moving joints, a flush lighting up her neck, mixed signals of exquisite pain and intimate pleasure.

I was spared the indignity of having to bare my bottom. I straddled the corner as I had seen Squidgy do, felt the delicious sensations caused by the pressure on my pubic area. Squidgy was instructed to stand on the other side of the table, her nose to the wall, her bottom towards me; time seemed to stand still for an eternity as she shuffled around to comply, her clothes at half mast but enhancing a compelling vision.

I felt as if I was drowning in my senses; the cane pushed into my own bottom now, my eyes savoring the sight of Squidgy’s fingers massaging her punished flesh, the fragrance of Opium mixed with arousal washing over me like a sensual cloud. I must have been let off very lightly although the bruises the following morning told a different story. Perhaps arousal deadens pain or perhaps pain simply enhances pleasure. I succumbed to lust and ground myself against the table corner as if I was alone and at home. Under the seemingly dispassionate eye of Ms. Fleur, I overcame my inhibitions and offered the performance of a harlot.

The hour that followed was equally strange. Squidgy and I sat at the table while Ms. Fleur lectured us on topics of lust, decadence and erotica. She drew liberally from texts made available from the books Squidgy had so painstakingly collected prior to our assembly, drawing on the whiteboard when emphasis was required; it was like an erotic version of Dead Poet’s Society, played right out in my own library setting.

I was startled at one stage when the door eased open; the library’s director popped her head through and took in the scene. To my amazement and relief, a knowing and sly grin creased her normally deadpan face. She looked directly at me.

“I forgot to tell you that Ms. Fleur had booked the conference room after hours this evening. I was going to ask you if there was any chance that you could stay late to lock up. I assume from what I am seeing that this won’t be a problem.”

Her eyes dropped to take in the cane that was now lying inertly on the desk, the open book displaying a picture of a spanking bench, a coil of rope peeking out from Ms.Fleur’s bag. They settled back on me.

“It’s a repeating booking she has requested; does this arrangement work for you every Tuesday evening?”

I had the grace to blush; I wouldn’t have given up the opportunity for the world.

The pÜnk

The pÜnk Bookshop

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting choice today, Val” she commented.

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

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

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

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

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

Sandy paused to reflect.

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

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

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

“Have you ever been swished, Val?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Swishing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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