The Librarian – Sparkly

The Library 

I would not exactly describe the library where I worked as a warm, friendly, family environment. The Head Librarian, Mrs. Stodge,  was a battle-axe; broad, stodgy like her name, and built like a tank. She ruled the environment with a fist of iron; no talking in the library, no levity, no disturbances tolerated at all. 

We had one patron, however, who seemed to get away with murder. She had a complete disregard for the rules and seemed to flout them with impunity; how she got away with it, I never knew. In her mid-thirties, she was bubbly and vibrant, her easy-going manner paired with that self-assurance that seems to come with wealth. Her run around clothes telegraphed wealth: slim-line tailored jeans, elegant boots in the winter, high heeled sandals in the summer, embroidered white linen blouses, gold bracelets that sparkled on her wrists.  Flowing auburn hair with loose curls that drifted away from her face, caramel highlights that gave her that model’s look.  

I nicknamed her Sparkly. 

I was working the Info Desk one afternoon, when she came bouncing in accompanied by two late-teen girls. The three of them were chattering away, unconcerned by the disapproving stares that the Head Librarian was throwing their way. In a kind of exaggerated, showy way, Sparkly wound her arm around as if to throw an underhand softball pitch, and smacked one of the girls gently on her bottom.  

“Run along girls, I will see you later. Her voice was cheerful, her manner completely un-inhibited; ‘How easy it is to be like that if you are rich,” I thought peevishly. I wanted to dislike her for her sense of entitlement, but I was drawn to her, jealous of the girls that seemed to be part of her circle. 

 

The Interview 

She sat herself down in front of me at the Info Desk with a copy of “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty in her hand. She didn’t look at me at first and I wasn’t quite sure why she had chosen that seat. She read the writeup on the dustcover, and then flipped through the pages, seeming to read snippets from various places in the book. 

Eventually she looked up and smiled at me. I hated myself for reacting the way I did; I so wanted to dislike her, but I just couldn’t. Her manner sent gentle vibrations of pleasure through me; without even having being asked anything, I wanted to please and impress her. 

“So, what do you think? Is it just porn wrapped up as erotica, or is there something more to it than that?”  

I was dumbfounded; what on earth was I meant to answer. 

“Well, I don’t know. There is some artistic merit to it!” I stumbled, not sure where to take it. 

“Hmm..” Sparkly grew pensive, her manicured nails tapping on the spine of her book. “So do you think it is reasonable to submit to someone else just based on their status in life? That seems to be what was expected of Beauty and Tristan.” 

I was at a loss for words. 

“How about this one then,” she continued, now flipping through a copy of  The Pearl, a classic of Victorian Erotica, “Do you think the women who were birched in these stories were any better for the chastisement they received ?”  

I could feel the flush coming to my neck as she looked directly into my eyes. 

“I suppose so,” I managed to get out, “sometimes they deserved it.” 

“Ah, the librarian can talk! So, do you think it changed the way they behaved for the better?” 

I was distinctly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but there was nowhere to go. Sparkly didn’t seem to have any intention of getting up or leaving me alone. I knew I had to answer. 

“Yes, I think they probably did behave better after they were punished,” I responded. 

Sparkly eyed me up and down, seemingly assessing me, then suddenly reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card which she dropped on the desk in front of me. 

“Come to my office this evening at 7pm, if you can. I think you will find it rewarding.” 

She turned and walked away, self confident, not even questioning whether I would do her bidding. 

I look down at the card. It was classy, shiny black with a small line drawing of a lady birching another embossed in gold at the top. Her business name was also embossed in gold; large , ornate capital letters, AAC, with the full name, Attitude Adjustment Coaching” written underneath in a much smaller, discrete font.  Her street address was tucked away on the bottom right of the card; I knew that I had no option but to accept her invitation.  

Sparkly’s Office 

“Some clients keep coming back on their own dime well after their employee mandated coaching sessions have come to an end.”  

She paused and looked directly into my eyes, waiting for my reaction.  

“Well, some women just like to be spanked!” Sparkly continued, “Don’t you?” 

I felt myself flush, not knowing where to put myself. She was not to be discouraged. 

“Oh, come on Caitlin, you read all those books on your adult shelves, I am sure. You knew full well what I was asking about in the library!” 

She was right, and suddenly I felt that things were moving out of control. I was so attracted to this vivacious women, her causal elegance, her self assured manner, but it all seemed to be moving so fast, and in a direction that I had only ever fantasized of and would never imagine myself getting involved in real life. 

We were sitting inside her office; spacious and elegant, it took up the bottom floor of an old, free-standing Victorian style house. It was one of a number in a leafy suburban, mid-town street; a green and gold sign of the house on one side showed it to be a lawyers’ office, the clinical white sign of the neighbors was that of a cosmetic surgeon; a high net-worth neighborhood to be sure! 

Dusk had fallen, blinds had been lowered across the windows, and the office was filled with a warm, muted glow of recessed lighting. It was a cozy and private space, much as I would have expected of any psychologist’s office. 

“You might be surprised at who has been sent here by their organization for some coaching, and then stays on for personal re-enforcement of the regime. Signing the guest book is a must for all my clients; take a look.” 

She flipped a leather bound, ledger size book that was sitting in the middle of her desk, around to me, and opened it to the page with the latest current entries.  

“Oh my gosh!” I gasped as I scanned down the neatly penned page. The columns were titled and each line was neatly filled out: date, name, a reason for consult, corrective action, client signature. On the fourth line from the top, there was an entry for a person I knew so well. The writing was so familiar, the name was one that gave me headaches every day. 

“02/04/17 – Eileen Stodge – Behavior reinforcement – 6  – Eileen” 

Sparkly looked at me, an amused look washing all over her face; her eyes were alive, her lips creased into a grin, her fingers twiddled a little pattern in the air. 

I was still trying to get over my shock when the door chime sounded and the door swung open. Mrs. Stodge stood still, her block-square body framed by the door, her sullen face frozen in surprise, aghast as she looked at me sitting in front of the desk with the open ledger in front of me. If looks could kill, I would have been dead.  

“What is she doing here?” She growled at Sparkly. 

“Oh, we were just chilling!” 

A pause followed….. 

“Eileen, why don’t you go and get ready and wait for me in meeting Room 1. I will be with you in a few minutes. 

The standoff was over as Eileen Stodge harrumphed, and walked down the passage to Room 1. 

Sparkly waited for a few minutes until she heard the sound of the door closing down the passage. An infectious grin spread out across her face ,dissipating the tension, causing even me to smile nervously. 

“I think you might like to observe our coaching session, Cait. Just push the door open slightly and watch through the crack.” 

“Won’t she notice? She will throw a frothy if she sees!” 

Sparkly’s peal of laughter would even have been heard down the corridor in Room 1. Her bubbly mood and sense of impunity was so contagious; I felt myself caught up in the drama, an eager participant, loving the moment. 

“Oh no,” she replied, much more quietly this time, “I think she will have other things on her mind to cope with. She won’t notice your being there at all. No chance in hell!” 

A few minutes of innocuous chatter followed; we could have just been friends. Sparkly stood up at last.  

“I think she must be ready for me now. Give us ten minutes, and then come and observe.” 

She left me, flicking through my smart phone news feed as I waited , unsure what to expect.  

Sparkly’s Office 

Sparkly had left the door to Room 1 slightly ajar, and by standing close to the wall, I was able to get a good view of what was taking place inside. I was stunned; this was not what I was expecting. It was an austere room, standing in total contrast to the warmth of the office where we had been chatting. White walls, white ceiling, harsh fluorescent lighting. A narrow, tall free-standing cupboard stood in the one corner; it was clinical to the extreme. 

There was an old, sturdy leather topped vaulting horse in the middle of the room; the last time I had seen anything like that was in my school gym many years before.  A straight backed chair was placed near the end of the vaulting horse. 

What of the occupants of the room? Mrs. Stodge was bent across the horse, her torso lying flat along the tops, bent at the waist, and her feet just reached the floor as she stood on tip-toes. She was gripping the front horse legs as far down as she could reach  She was naked from the waist down; a sharp contrast to the top of her body which still wore her business clothes: a white blouse and formal, tweed jacket.  

Her bottom was fat and flabby, painted lightly with rapidly fading bruises. A thick bush of pubic hair pushed out from between her legs; I judged her cunt lips to be slightly aroused; it was hard to really tell from where I stood.  

Sparkly sat in the high backed chair, holding a wicked looking cane in one hand and tapping it rhythmically into her other. The bubbly demeanor had vanished; she looked all business like and stern. She was driving a conversation with Mrs. Stodge, and not seeming to like the responses she was getting. 

“The atmosphere in the library still seems so down. I really think you need to do something about it. I don’t think much has changed since we last had a chat.” 

“No. A library is a place of study. We need to keep it quiet and subdued.” Mrs. Stodge’s voice was flat and icy; she wasn’t used to being told what was appropriate for the territory she controlled. 

“We will come back to that shortly.” Sparkly uncoiled herself, and slowly walked around in a loop to Mrs. Stodge’s rear. Her route was exaggerated, the click of her boots on the tiled hardwood floor echoing in the sterile room. 

It was a heavier cane, thicker than I had ever seen before. Sparkly told me later that it did not need to be whipped in very hard in order to cause considerable pain. She kept her elbow tucked in close to her body; whatever speed she generated came straight from her wrist. Her shoulder barely turned, her wrist cocked, and then there was a solid smack right across the center of the fat slab of flesh of Mrs. Stodge’s bottom.  

The cane seemed to move in slow motion; I had expected the whoosh of the stick whistling through the air, the splat of wood against flesh, but there was none of that. It dug in deeper than I thought it would, and then seemed to bounce back as if in slow motion. A vivid, red welt sprung up immediately, belying the apparent softness of the blow. A sight trembling of the skin, a clenching of her fat bottom cheeks, and then all was still, exactly the same as before – except for the welt. 

Looks can be deceiving; Mrs. Stodge must have been hurting more than I imagined. The second stroke was lower than the first, but this time she let out an audible gasp. Her head raised up, her hands broke their grips on the horse’s legs, but moments later, she was back in position, seemingly unhurt. 

The third cut caught me totally by surprise; I guessed Mrs. Stodge was equally shocked at the pain. Sparkly lifted her elbow, wound up just that much more, and delivered a much harder stroke. I fancy that I did hear the cane whoosh this time, but I can’t be certain.  It cut into bottom right across the sweet spot; flesh quivered from the stroke, and the cane bounced back a good few inches. There was no muted gasp or ‘ouch’ this time; the screech of pain was almost primordial, the anguish palpable. She pushed her torso up with her arms, looking around wildly, a mix of anger and pain and fear written across her bleak features.  

She didn’t have a chance to say anything, before the next stroke whipped down towards the top of her bottom, framing the earlier welts that were a lovely shade of red. She collapsed onto the top of the horse, sobbing, pleading with Sparkly, begging her to stop. 

“Stop, please, no more, please, I beg you!” 

Sparkly threw a glance my way, a smile flickering across her lovely face, before she walked around the far side of the horse, and resumed her seat on the straight backed chair. 

“So Eileen, I think we need to pick up where we left off earlier. The atmosphere in the library; how about a but of music over the speakers? A relaxation of the no-talking rules? A few easy chairs for readers to settle back in comfort.” 

Mrs. Stodge looked at her blankly. 

“I can’t do that.” Was her reply. 

Sparkly got up and walked back slowly to the rear of the horse. I watched her tapping her target, wondering if she was deliberately aiming skew. The two strokes that she rained down in quick succession, were no harder than the previous, yet the effect was electrifying. Two diagonal welts now crossed the fat bottom, top to bottom, bottom to top, causing a curious hatch-mark affect on the tortured rump below. 

Mrs. Stodge’s sobs were uncontrollable; it was difficult to make out her words.  

“Yes, all that you say, music, chairs, talking, I will see to it tomorrow.” 

Sparkly threw a triumphant glance my way and waved me away, telling me to head back out of sight as the performance was complete. 

As I left, I heard her resume her conversation with her stricken client: “Now next time you come, Eileen, we will be having a little session on manners. Bursting into my office without being invited in this evening, my word!! I think we need some attitude adjustment there, don’t you agree?” 

After affects 

I walked down the corridor to the washroom, and locked myself in, sitting on the toilet seat until I heard the front door chime, announcing Mrs. Stodge’s departure. It took longer than I had expected; she had to pull herself together, compose herself, re-assemble the obnoxious character that she was. Then there was the shuffle to the office; I imagined her standing in front of the desk as she signed the guest book. This time there would be a five in the penultimate column, not a six. I was sure her signature would be more squiggly, not so self assured. 

I played the scene out again in my mind, over and over again. The slow motion of the cane, the affect it had on impact. The grunts of pain that soon became squeals of anguish. Sparkly’s masterful performance, her elegance, her control. The way that she could twist even Mrs.Stodge around. I realize that as much as I was drawn to her vivacious character, I was drawn to her dominance. The more I sat there with these thoughts twirling around, the more aroused I found myself growing. 

I realized later that Sparkly was a master of relationships. Unbeknown to me, she had been sussing me out in the library; I was her mark, the one she wanted to own. She knew how I would react, how it would make me feel. As we came together in her office, I could sense the scent of arousal on her too. Her neck was flushed, her eyes had extra sparkle.  

She led me down the corridor, but it was to the stairs that went up to her private room this time. As she opened the door, and I saw the light cane on her bed, red velvet restraints and a set of velvet twisted chords. I knew what was coming to me, but I also knew that it would be that much more sensual, activities aimed at satisfying rather than for an attitude to adjust

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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 Equestrienne Lodge – Part 4 – Shackled and Shamed

Down the Bridle Path

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tack Room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded glumly; I could only guess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polishing the strap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pregnant pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 2 – Return to The Equestrienne Lodge

In this post, Caitlin returns to The Equestrienne Lodge. For the setup to this story, read the post Equestrienne Leather

The Invitation

The invitation was delivered by courier shortly after I had returned home from my holiday at The Equestrienne Lodge. It was printed on a cream textured, card with gold text and a gold border, a hunter jumping a hedge was embossed in gold on the top right hand corner. The wording was formal, the presentation professional. It was tasteful and classy, designed to impress.

“Your presence is expected at The Equestrienne Lodge this upcoming weekend. Plan to arrive on Friday evening.”  

That was it, no pleasantries and no signature. I had no doubt it was from Emmette; it was just her style: commanding, anticipating a positive response, not even considering that her wish might not be granted. I was putty in her hands and both she and I knew it. We both knew that I would dash out of work early on Friday afternoon in a rush to beat the weekend traffic, and that by early evening, I would be announcing myself in the lobby of The Equestrienne Lodge.

The Lobby

Despite how formal and short her invite had been, she was all warmth when I walked into the lobby. She was dressed, as usual, in her riding gear: a cream, silk ruffle under a navy blazer,  jodhpurs and boots completing the outfit. Tall and slender with her blond hair pulled back in a pony, her presence was commanding yet her manner was gracious.

She hugged me warmly and her familiar scents rushed right back. The divine fragrance of Black Opium, traces of vanilla that tantalised and promised, the earthy scents of her own body after a full day’s work, the lingering smell of leather, saddle soap and wax; I melted into her neck and savored them all, anchoring myself in the present, reminding myself that this was not a dream.

Emmette’s Suite

We went straight to her private suite; I was staying as her personal guest this time. She suggested that I get undressed in her room while she ran a hot bath; she just needed a few minutes of privacy, she said, to wash her teeth and freshen up.

A few minutes later, she summoned me in. I felt self conscious, wandering around her quarters undressed, wondering how it would all play out and whether I should really have come at all. I pushed her bathroom door open slowly, and then stopped short, shocked, but somewhat stimulated by what I saw. Emmette was standing with her back towards me, her legs apart, her arms stretched up and wide, holding onto the shower curtain rail that ran above the bath.

The sight of her willowy body, the gentle curves and well toned muscles would all have blown my mind, but that is not what took my breath away. Three angry welts, vivid hues of reds and purples,  seemed to have been slashed across her bottom, perfectly parallel lines of agony, perfectly spaced.

I was stunned; a confusion of thoughts tumbled around my mind: who could have done this to Emmette, when was it done; how could such a strong women have been made to submit to this?  Did she scream when she was whipped, was she made to sexually perform? Where did it take place, did she offer herself up or was she forced? Was I jealous of the other person who must be involved, but what right did I actually have to be jealous at all?

I just stood and stared; time seemed to stand still.

Emmette broke the silence first; she must have sensed my confusion even though I was standing behind her back.   

“What do you think, Cait? Do you love them or are you repulsed?”

“Who did this to you? When? Was it after I left?”

The words burbled out in a gush of confusion, my voice sounding thick and my breathing strained.

Emmette dropped her arms and turned to face me. The glimmer of a smile danced at the corners of her lips but whether it was sardonic or one of amusement, I couldn’t tell. There was a look in her eye though that I recognized from our trysts in the stables: it was a gleam of arousal, a flicker of desire. The tip of her tongue caressed the inside top of her lip, sensuality budding and waiting to burst out.

All at once she pulled my head close, her lips meshing angrily with mine, all sensuality gone, her actions driven by a desperate need. She kissed me hungrily, forcing her way in deeply, in what seemed like a desperate attempt to quench her lust. Our breasts brushed together in a far more sensitive caress and I could feel my nipples harden as they responded to her touch.

The pressure of her hands on my shoulder became insistent, gently forcing me away and down, onto the cold, tiled floor. All thoughts of baths were driven from my thoughts as I struggled to come to terms with the sight I had seen. I felt her light touch behind my head, guiding me, edging me forward, connecting my lips to her pouting sex. Arousal hardly describes it; juices were flowing and her lips were full.

Her state of arousal was contagious and I felt own heartbeat pick up and a delicious warmth spread across my own skin. As my tongue connected with her cunt, my fingers slid up and down my own slit, strumming my own clit, feeding off her pleasure. I could feel the warmth of her taut thighs as they occasionally bumped my shoulders, sensed the tenseness of her muscles as they strained for release. Her frantic breathing egged me on, driving me inexorably on towards my personal peak. Her strong fingers twisted in my hair, twisting and tugging at me in a delicious blanket of pain. I felt myself being crushed against her, sucked up in her passion, fused to her by her rush. She came first, a wonderfully exuberant release, one that excited me and pushed me over the edge.

She was remarkably composed as she helped me off the floor, cuddling me tightly and stroking my hair, tenderly trying to put me back together again. She led me back into the bedroom, and steered me over to the bed; I watched with open eyes as she reached into her wardrobe and pulled out a dressage whip that had been hanging there.

I realised then what had caused the welts; it was with a mixed emotion of fear and renewed arousal that I watched her approach.

Tess

Florida

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.

Legs

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.”

Dinner

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!

New theme, old stories

In a moment of self delusion, I decided that some of my newer followers might be interested in reading some of my older stories. I had hidden some of these for various reasons, and over time, I may make them available again.

In order to make them more accessible, I have also changed my blog theme so that the categories under which the stories are posted are easier to find.

So for starters, Sharon’s Awakening is now once again open for reading. You can find it here or look for it under the relevant category on the left hand side of the blog.

Happy reading !