Darkstorm – Part III – Switches

Before reading this post, you may like to read:

 Darkstorm Part I  ;   Darkstorm Part II

Office Renovations

It was the first time that Catherine had requested me to come to her office over a weekend. It was a gorgeous morning and summer had just arrived. When I opened the door, I was a bit taken aback to see the renovations that had started.

Towards the end of the office, near the cupboard, two beam support posts had been put in place a few feet from each side of the office. There were solid pieces of steel pipe, with iron handles sticking out like handles towards the top; handles that were used to jack the top of the support up and fix it firmly in place to the underside of the ceiling beam through pressure. ‘My’ platform’ had been moved to the base of the one beam post, and a step-ladder was propped against and attached firmly to the other.

In front of Catherine’s desk, my little platform had been replaced by one that was much larger.; it was at least four-foot square. A short, low, rustic wooden bench had been placed on the platform; I guessed it would be a place for me. It promised to be hard and uncomfortable; anyone forced to sit on would have their dignity stripped away. A small theater spotlight was attached to the one wall and aimed at the platform, lighting it up like a little stage.

Catherine watched me eye out the changes, a sardonic smile playing across her lips.

I looked back at her and noticed a small pile of publications sitting on the corner of her wooden desk; I recognized them all as I had checked them out for Catherine from the library the previous day. The Pearl, Miss Coote’s Confession, The Yellow Room, Justine.

Catherine stood up abruptly and before I could ask any questions, she took me by the elbow and led me out of the office.

“Come Anne, it is a lovely day outside, let’s take a walk down to the flower market!”

The Flower Market

We were not the only two taking advantage of the gorgeous weather. The market was in a park that bordered the lake front; visitors and flowers and stall owners came together in a riot of color to create a vibrant event. Summer clothes, bronzed limbs, excited voices; it was a carnival atmosphere that was infectious.

I held onto Catherine’s upper arm as she threaded her way through the crowd, letting her guide me to wherever she was heading. It felt wonderful to be at her side This was companionship without domination, two friends, lovers perhaps, enjoying each other’s company, soaking up the mood of the market, breathing in the heavy scents of the blooms.

A florist stall caught Catherine’s eye, and she led me across the path to it. It was a covered stall with a heavy wooden workbench set in the middle at which the florist stood making up arrangements. Willowy and graceful, she wore a green apron over her clothes. I watched mesmerized as she crafted a bouquet in a vase:  asters and zinnias in all shades of pink, wild verbena filling in the gaps. Her hands were slender and graceful; dexterously, she inserted the stems into the perfect spot, stripped off unwanted leaves, snipped stems to the perfect length.

Eventually she sensed that we were watching her, and she straightened up and looked our way.

“Beautiful day out here, isn’t it?” she greeted us. Her manner melted me; even Catherine’s perpetual scowl was replaced with a responsive smile, like a flash going off in the midday sky. I felt myself drawing myself closer to Catherine, enjoying the proximity, loving the mood.

“How can I help you, ladies?” the florist asked.

“I would like a little nosegay for Anne here.” Catherine responded.

The pieces started to fall into place in my mind. The post, the step-ladder, the nosegay. I had only ever read the word nosegay in certain context and it was in the context of what had been described in the publications sitting on the corner of Catherine’s desk. I felt a shiver run down my spine and goosebumps rise on my arms. It was a curious feeling: fear tempered by excitement, apprehension by eagerness, dryness by dampness.

The florist did a double take, and then a smile crept across her lips. She looked me up and down, and then nodded her head knowingly.

“Oh! Sure, I think I can make up just what you want.”

She was like a dancer moving to a pre-choreographed routine, graceful and practiced. A rosebud was selected, the most delicate of ferns added, the stems coddled in a damp piece of cotton wool, a cellophane wrapping applied, all tied up with a blue bow around the stems. Artistry in the making, the purpose now clear in everyone’s minds.

She looked directly into Catherine’s eyes, anther smile playing out on her lips, her eyes twinkling with the most mischievous of looks.

“I have just received a fresh stock of rods that may be of interest. Many people place them in a tall vase for that country cottage effect. The bamboos may be a bit green for what you have in mind, but the willow twigs are wonderful!”

She was off to the side of her stall before Catherine could even answer, and was back a few moments later with a bunch of willow branches; the base of each was about as thick as her smallest finger.

Catherine gave her that mega-watt smile again.

“Oh, those are wonderful! Just perfect! I think a dozen will do.”

“Would you like me to peel them for you? Perhaps tie a few together with a ribbon? Six together makes a super switch!” The florist was all caught up in the moment.

“No thanks,” Catherine responded, “don’t you think it is right that a girl should peel her own switches and make them presentable? Anne here has nothing better to do this morning.”

It was humiliating how they were talking about me and my fate; I was there, but being studiously ignored. I dropped hold of Catherine’s arm and I felt the blood rush to my face. My suspicions as to what lay in store for me had been confirmed, and the fear settled into my chest, rushing like a dark cloud across the sky.

Stripping and Peeling and Binding

I sat on the low stool on my platform peeling a switch with a little red handled paring knife that Catherine had produced. The rest of the of switches lay in bunch at my feet.

“Be careful!” she had admonished me, “Any piece of stalk or greenery that falls on my floor to litter it, will result in additional strokes.”

The stool was low, the spot light on me was bright and Catherine’s glare was ominous; it all made for a nerve-racking experience. I was sitting down at near-floor-height, my knees bent upwards like a child, the bare wood hard on my bottom. My fingers trembled as I carefully stripped off the leaves and bark, letting them drop into my skirt. The bouquet, or nosegay as Catherine had referred to it as, was a mark of my pending swishing, rather than something I could feel good about. It was there to satisfy Catherine rather than me, to make me look proper in her eyes. It irritated me, rather than made me feel special. It weighed uncomfortably on the fabric, and rather than being satisfying, I found the scent overpowering and irritating.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finished my task and received permission from Catherine to bring it around her desk to drop the shavings into her bin.

“Don’t drop any!” she warned.

With the front of my skirt raised and bunched up to hold the mess I had created under her watchful eye, I did my best to stand up with some dignity; it was a losing battle. I had learnt my lesson from a previous engagement with Catherine, and was consequently wearing just the barest of underwear; a lacy suspender belt does not offer much in the way of protection. Despite my humiliation, I was aroused, and I knew it showed. A flushed neck and quickened breath were my instant giveaways. My cleavage was showing, and now glowing red; she liked it that way. Whether she could detect my swollen and lubricated cunt, I cannot tell, but the walk around her desk was a lesson in humiliation. I came to realize then that being partially clothed was even worse than naked!

“Well now, a dozen beautifully stripped switches,” she remarked thoughtfully, I don’t think I need that many to make you dance! How about this; you take six of them and bind them into a birch rod; think that makes sense?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but reached into her drawer and pulled out a roll of pink ribbon and a pair of scissors. Glumly, I took them from her, and made my way back to my stool.

She paused for effect, before continuing: “Pay close attention to the handle. I like the handles to be especially pretty! I must warn you Anne, if the rod comes apart, I will whip you with each switch until you bleed!”

I did my best to make the rod handle presentable: I wound the ribbon a few times around the base, and then managed to create a cross hatching up the stem for a few inches, before wrapping around again at the top of the binding. Inwardly I felt proud of my handiwork; the purpose didn’t leave my mind for even a second.

“Two foot size inches, Anne. That’s how long I like my rods.” She handed me a dressmakers’ tape measure.

I trimmed the switches in the rod to an even length, and once again I made that nauseating trip around to deposit the ends in her bin. I knew my job was done and my punishment was about to begin.

 Switched

The bottom step of the ladder dug into the arch of my foot and the nosegay was pushed by another rung into my breast; they were uncomfortable, but I knew it was the least of my problems. Catherine must have done it before; her movements were too practiced, her technique to precise for this to be her first time.

She tied my wrists to the side of the ladder first; coarse rope that bit into my skin, tight knots that wouldn’t shake free. Yet she left a length of dangling rope hanging from each rope; it was obviously a slip knot for an easy release.

Her silence was frightening; no comment, no chatter, no consolation. It was all business like and efficiency.

My ankles were secured, and it was then time for her to prepare the target.

“Move away from the ladder Anne – push your arse out!” It was coarse language for Catherine, I had never heard her express herself like that

I felt my skirt being rolled up and pinned. Once again it struck me that being partially bared was far more demeaning than being fully naked.

I heard the rustle of the rod, the squeal of her shoes on the floor, the ticking of the huge grandfather clock that stood in the corner behind her desk. The scenes written in Cootes rolled through my mind. It was one of the first that I read that had made the greatest impression: poor Rosa being tied to the ladder and having her bottom whisked by her Grandfather, Sir Eyre with the help of the maid Jemima and Housekeep Mrs. Mansell. Sir Eyre’s constant badgering, words that could hurt almost as much as the rod.

There was no admonishment from Catherine, however; I had not been a bad girl. She was going to whisk me for her own pleasure, nothing more and nothing less.

The blows started lightly and for just a moment, I wondered what all the fuss about birching was. It was a warmth though that rapidly grew, firing up into an unbearable flame. She swished me lightly but rapidly, stoking the flames, driving me crazy. I could feel the blood rushing through the veins, burning with heat, a tingle turned into torment. My bottom was soon swinging wildly, gyrating lewdly in response to the punishment. I was out of control and felt myself pulling back wildly against the coarse ropes, the step ladder frame bumping into my shaking body.

My cries were pitiful; cries of pain and pleas for her to stop. Tears coursed down my cheeks, my makeup smeared.

Mercifully it stopped at last and I slumped against the steps exhausted, my bottom a quivering cauldron of pain.

I would never have thought that Catherine had any tenderness within, the capacity to love, the power to heal. Yet when she let me down, her arms wrapped around me in a hug, her voice soothed me, her compassion calmed me. As her lips came to mine, I felt her hand insinuating it between my thighs, and I opened myself up to her passion.

The six birch rods that lay unused on the floor slipped from my mind as I succumbed to the power of Catherine’s lust.

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Darkstorm – Part II – The Bijou

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

Catherine’s  Office

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Expectations not met

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

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

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

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

“Yes Catherine.”

“Take your dress off. Just drop it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her voice was sharp, her tone unforgiving.

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

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

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

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

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

The Bijou

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anne, get on the platform and wait!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another flush of humiliation, and frisson of lust.

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

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

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

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

I nodded, warming to her manner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank her, Anne!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Note

The Situation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dilemma

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it!

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

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

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

A Solution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Office

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

“Well, girl, what is this all about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt vulnerable and shamed, yet strangely aroused.

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

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

Without warning, the physical punishment began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Traveller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chloé’s Appartment, Knightsbridge, London

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good! That’s what I intended!”

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

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

The smile flashed across her face once again.

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

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

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

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

A touch of pain, a hint of sadism

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

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

Her voice was mellifluous, her smile enchanting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voyeur

The Voyeur

Watched

Monday Evening 8pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Silver Topped Box

Tuesday Evening  8pm

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

“An erotic performance! Thank you!”

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

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

“Well sweet pea, what do you think?”

I had a glimmer of an idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Dream

Tuesday Night 11pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 We were the actors, she was our audience.  

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

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

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

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

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

“Discipline!”

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

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

The Cane

Wednesday Evening 8pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pecan

Some of my readers and followers (both of you!) might have noticed the new look on my blog. It’s brighter and cheerier, part of the spring rejuvenation after a brutal winter here in Canada. As part of my emergence into the new world, I may just start tweeting if I can get any kind of following on Twitter. My sights are low though, so it will only take 15 followers to get me going. So follow me on #GailFae and we’ll see if it takes off.

Today was one of those rare and wonderful, low pressure work days. I decided to to pick up Felicity’s Flash Friday challenge on Dark Night Chronicles. 

So here we go, and no prizes for guessing the theme!

Abstinence

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

“I will deal with you later.”

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

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

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

a

“No touching without my permission.”

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

“No touching without my permission.”

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

Google never fails to satisfy.

“pecan sexual” <enter>

Urban Dictionary: making pecan pie

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

 My curiosity was aroused and I clicked the next link:

Urban Dictionary: Pecan Sandies

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Masturbatrix

The Masturbatory Itch

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

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

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

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

The Search for Pleasure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In need of a climax

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

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

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

“Xhamster F/F caning brunette” <enter>

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

The Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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