Whips and Chanis

by Celeste Fall

  “It’s fifty miles to Silverton. But we’ll take time to pull over and take some photos, relax, enjoy the view, and smell the wildflowers.”

  “Sure,” Tracie murmured. “Enjoy the wild flowers … and the out-of-the-way places to … uh … rest.”

  “Right,” said Jamie, momentarily distracted. With an effort, he returned to the route.

  “Silverton is really isolated,” he said. “It sits in a glacial valley surrounded by 13,000-foot high mountains. The town has only five hundred residents. It i’s 9,200 feet above sea level. Winters are rough. They get at least 300 inches of snow. Summer is high tourist season and the roads are busy.”

  Tracie was only half listening as she played with Jamie’s belt buckle.

  “Your first sight of Silverton is from a crest high above it. You descend to the valley floor and drive down a wide main street. It’s just like the set of the old TV show, ‘Northern Exposure,’” he noted, showing her a picture.

  Tracie looked at the photo, but continued to run her fingers up and down Jamie’s arm. She smiled seductively when she noticed a bulge tenting his leather pants.

  “When we’re there,” Jamie continued, “we can have breakfast in the Grand Hotel.”

  “That sounds … grand,” murmured Tracie. “Will they have rooms to rent at the Grand Hotel?” she asked.

  “If they don’t, we’ll improvise,” Jamie promised.

  “Can you show me how to improvise now?” she asked.

  “Lucky for you, I am up to the task,” whispered Jamie, taking her clothes off.

  Chapter Seven: Problems in Paradise

  “Right on time!” Lottie commented as she waved Tracie over to her table. Lottie had chosen to meet at the Capital Grille inside the Capitol building on Paces Ferry Road. The attractive restaurant was full of business men having lunch. Clearly, Lottie was a regular, judging by the location of her table and the fact that staff and clientele stopped to greet her.

  “I hope you don’t mind my choosing the restaurant,” Lottie said. “I hate eating dishes I can’t even pronounce, from menus I can’t even read.”

  “It will be nice to dine on dishes I recognize,” agreed Tracie. “Jamie takes me to places where I have to guess at what he has ordered for me.”

  “Herb and I used to eat here when we were in the area,” Lottie commented. “I miss discussing ranch problems with him.”

  “Did your husband run the ranch before he passed away?” Tracie asked.

  “Not hardly,” Lottie replied. “Herb was a rodeo star. His prize money bought the land, but Herb had no head for business and no interest in the running of an operation that is several thousand acres of prime ranch land. He liked to come home to the ranch between shows. He loved to show off the place to his rodeo friends. But beyond that, he left the day-to-day running of the place to me and a bunch of ranch hands.”

  “So, is it a cattle ranch, Mrs. Chambers?” asked Tracie.

  “Please call me Lottie,” the big woman said, tossing back her bourbon and branch and signaling the waiter to bring two. “We have several hundred head of Herford cattle. but the big money maker is the quarter horse breeding business. Do you ride, Tracie?”

  “Well, Mrs.—Lottie—I never have. , but I’d love to learn.”

  “Then you come on out to the ranch. Quarter horses are the nicest little mounts. They’re smart and they’re hard workers. Like a good hunting dog, they aim to please.”

  “Sounds like a great combination, Lottie,” Tracie said, raising her drink and taking a generous mouthful. She sputtered and coughed.

  “Pace yourself, girl,” Lottie cautioned. , giving her a healthy slap on the bagback. “That’s Kentucky bourbon. It’s meant to be sipped. “What say we order and then we can talk?” she suggested, straightening her jacket. She raised a finger and a young, handsome waiter appeared.

  “Two of the usual, Miss Lottie?” he asked.

  Tracie stared at Lottie’s outfit. This one was red suede. Lavish silver embroidery decorated the sleeves, lapels, and yoke. Rhinestones sparkled up and down the cuffs. Hand-tooled red leather boots and a matching red Stetson completed her ensemble. “You look wonderful, as always,” Tracie commented.

  “I don’t go in for girlie outfits,” Lottie commented. “Herb and I were cowboys—with glitz. It was part of his rodeo personality, and I always felt more comfortable in cowboy attire. I know there has been all sorts of buzz about Audra and me being a couple. And we are—a couple of old broads having adventures and a few laughs together. If that makes people gossip, then so be it. We’ve got the money and the good health to do as we please. I know our friendship drives Marilyn to distraction. She has pointed out to her mother-in-law on several occasions what the rumor mills are saying. Pay Marilyn no mind. She’s got a reindeer up her butt.”

  “Well, I’m not at the top of her popularity list either,” Tracie admitted, taking a careful sip of her drink. “She has condemned me to the ministrations of Avril Steele. I’m sure they both think there’s no hope for me.”

  “She dressed you today, didn’t she?” Lottie said, eying Tracie’s prim navy suit and matching pumps.

  “Do I look like a school marm or a nun?” Tracie asked.

  “Pretty much,” said Lottie. “Let me guess. They wanted you to look proper when representing the business with an important client?”

  “That’s exactly what I was told,” Tracie agreed, laughing.

  “Well, tell them the men all ogled your schoolgirl costume.”

  “I think I’ll just save that information to share with Jamie.”

  “You do that. That precious boy could use a laugh or two. His parents are too intense, and they expect so much of him. He walks a narrow tightrope trying to keep them and the clients happy. And that brings us to the reason for my asking you to lunch.”

  Lottie took a stiff drink and continued. “Audra and I have been talking. She can’t be seen as airing family laundry, but I can. We think you need a heads heads-up. We both like you and think you’re good for our boy. We’re shocked that he’s had the good sense to choose a quality girl, after the bimbos he ha’s dated. So we don’t want Marilyn to scare you off. And she will try. You see: , Marilyn has Jamie’s wife all picked out. She has the right look. She’s been to the right schools. Her parents have money, and she has the proper background. Marilyn has merely been waiting for Jamie to sow his wild oats so she can get on with the marriage.”

  “Oh,” breathed Tracie.

  “She’s not Jamie’s choice. Remember that. Your paths will cross, and we want you to be prepared.”

  “Thank you,” Tracie whispered, taking another sip of her bourbon.

  “And there’s another thing,” Lottie continued. “Spellman Financial is not on solid ground as an investment business. Alan is not the astute investor his father was. He has made some bad deals. Audra and I are keeping a keen eye on things. Remember this: Spellmans will go to any lengths to save the business and uphold their reputation. Don’t let them throw you to the wolves.”

  “I—uh—I’ll keep that in mind,” Tracie stammered.

  “Just remember,” Lottie said, cutting up the final morsel of her rib eye and popping it into her mouth, “Audra and I have your back. If anything seems not quite right, you tell us. And let’s make plans for you to come out to the ranch and go riding real soon.”

  With a wave, Lottie crawled into her classic Cadillac convertible and was on her way. “She’s larger than life and a good person to have your back,” Tracie said to herself as her car pulled up.

  Chapter Eight: Whips and Riding Boots

  Tracie strode from the bathroom. She stood tall and foreboding in her four-inch stilettos, the leather of her thigh-high boots shining in the moonlit bedroom. Her breasts swelled out the top of her leather bustier.

  “Is this really what you want, Jamie?” she asked, picking up her whip.

  Jamie could scarcely speak as he gazed up at his wife. His taut muscles bulged as he strain
ed against the fur-lined handcuffs that he’d insisted Tracie use to bind his wrists and ankles to the bedposts. The Terminator tattoo on his chest seemed to writhe in pleasure as Jamie strained in anticipation of what was to come.

  “I’ve been a bad boy,” he whimpered. “Punish me! Make me your love slave.”

  Since Jamie raised the fantasy of femdom—Dominatrix dominatrix sexual fantasy, —Tracie had done a lot of reading. Jamie had had a lot more sexual experiences than she had, and his fantasies were a great deal more lurid than hers.

  Last night, he’d indulged her wishes, with the agreement that tonight was his night. Her mind travelled back to the evening before. Jamie had sprinkled rose petals on her bed. He’d approached her dressed only in an apron and a chef’s hat and proceeded to create a sundae on her bare torso. When he’d topped the whipped cream with thick dark chocolate syrup and a cherry, he’d proceeded to lick off every ounce of the rich concoction—including some areas she was pretty sure that hot syrup had never penetrated. Then he had bathed her in bubbly, icy champagne and sucked up the residue.

  Finally, they’d made wild, passionate love until the wee hours of predawn, falling to asleep in a mass of tangled legs and arms. Tracie’s core still tingled with the memory of the chilled champagne cascading over her burning body.

  Now it was time for Tracie to make Jamie’s dreams a reality. She hoped she was up to the task. What she’d learned from her research might not be equal to actual experience, but it would have to suffice.

  She’d gotten strange looks at the bookstore when she’d purchased Henry Spencer Ashbee’s Index Librorum Prohiibitorum. But it revealed how the dominatrix existed as far back as 1877, in its first printing. The librarian was shocked when she checked out Anne Norris’ The History and Art of the Dominatrix.

  Always curious about the unknown, Tracie immersed herself in the book. She discovered that the author was no teller of steamy romance. Born in the Antipodes, Norris received her MA degree in comparative art and archaeology. She presently worked as a historian, consultant, and curator on ancient and contemporary art. Norris took on clandestine training in one of Australia's leading dungeons, receiving instruction from fifteen dominatrices over a four-year period.

  Tracie decided that this was as close to first-hand instruction as she was prepared to get. She discovered that “discipline” by physical punishment had religious connections. She also learned that disciplining religious impulses became eroticized in feminine dominance. The term dominatrix first appeared in the writings of Hroswitha Hrosvitha of Gandersheim in the 1600s. Medical research on human anatomy showed evidence of libido-lifting buttock- beating. The image of the whip-wielding mistress painted female sex as a major erotic twentieth-century image.

  In other references, Tracie found evidence of both the term dominatrix and evidence of female-dominated sexual punishment as far back as the middle Middle agesAges. Canoness Hroswitha Hrosvitha lived from 935 to 975 in Gar, Dersheim. In a late tenth-century manuscript, she outlined dominatrix techniques. The history of the dominatrix was argued to date back to rituals of the Goddess Inanna in Roman times. However, Tracie was most interested to learn that domination was showing a resurgence, particularly in the Western world.

  Perhaps Jamie’s fantasy sex isn’t so far-fetched after all? she mused. Realizing that knowing the history of dominatrix wasn’t getting her any closer to becoming good at it, Tracie turned her research to techniques.

  Not wishing to attract more attention and gossip by visiting the library, Tracie turned to the Internetinternet. She soon discovered others in her position who were eager to share their knowledge.

  She made a list of things she’d need to acquire:

  1.Vinyl gloves. She learned that—for presentation—the preferable color was black. She also discovered that you could add “shine” by slicking these with Vaseline. Besides making your character look completely “hot,” the gloves would help keep her manicure untouched when she got into some gnarly body orifices. This information gave her pause. Somehow, she figured being a dominatrix was all about ships and handcuffs.

  2.Next, she learned that she and Jamie needed to have a safety word or phrase. Her domination needed to have limits. Although their first encounter might be gentle, experienced couples who chatted with her told her things would most likely become more intense as they progressed. They warned her not to go too far at first and to establish a safe word or phrase she and Jamie would be able to remember and recognize as “the safe word” in the heat of the moment.

  3.Then she needed to investigate restraints. Couples told her these were a great way to start off. Jamie had given her fur-lined handcuffs. But zip ties, ropes, silk scarves, and ties were also suggested. She decided to start with the handcuffs and experiment with other things later.

  4.Tracie’s research also outlined the use of clamps. Many couples hated these things that she could clamp to Jamie’s nipples or his scrotum. She was squeamish at the very thought, but Jamie already had a nipple ring—unbeknownst to his parents. So Tracie figured the idea of clamps might be something for down the road. Couples who used clamps said clothespins worked well, for starters. But she could also get metal clamps at any sex shop or online.

  5.The next thing she looked into was gags. These might be as simple as duct tape or a silk scarf. If they wanted to use them, they could get a ball gag or a bite gag at any sex shop. Some couples advocated no gag, as the screaming and pleading were a turn turn-on for both members.

  6.Candles were also a must to consider. Dribbling hot wax across Jamie’s tattooed chest appealed to Tracie—as long as it didn’t leave blisters he’d have trouble explaining at work.

  7.Jamie had given Tracie a short whip with multiple switches on the end. Each had a metal end. Some couples advocated using a cat o’ nine tails—a long whip with nine long lashes. Others liked to use an actual riding crop or paddles. They all told her buying real leather whips or paddles was worth the money. For the time being, Tracie decided to use the long whip Jamie had given her.

  8.Down the road, Tracie was told, they might like to consider a dedicated room or “dungeon” for their sexual fantasies. If this were the case, they said a closet or coatrack containing things like floggers, ropes, chains, whips, and gags was a must. For the time being, Tracie decided the dark corner of her cavernous closet was just fine. “Nobody ever goes back there except me,” she said to herself, forgetting about her maid, who hung everything up and kept her clothes in good repair, and Avril, who combed her hangers for the least objectionable outfit for Tracie’s social obligations.

  Tracie looked at pictures of some couples’ private dungeons. She saw cages, walls with chains, and restraints. One looked like actual medieval dungeon. Another was centered around an Inquisition-style cage in a room lined in red velvet and satin brocade. Another had walls and ceilings of mirrors. They were all aimed at creating a fantasy world, cut off from reality.

  For the time being, Tracie focused on how to use her costume, whips, restraints, and words to achieve Jamie’s sexual fantasy. She was nervous because she knew dominatrices had been part of Jamie’s sexual history, so they weren’t novices in this S&M venture, exploring and growing together. She had to be good right out of the box.

  Knowing this, Tracie took a deep breath and called a number she’d been given for advice in becoming a competent, convincing dominatrix. She was given an address and a ten ten-o’clock appointment.

  The woman who answered the door of the unassuming bungalow on a quiet, tree-lined street was a complete surprise to Tracie. Rosie was a petite, strawberry blonde with an hour-glass figure. Dressed in black tights and an oversized T-shirt, she looked like a college freshman and moved like a ballerina.

  Tracie explained her dilemma to Rosie. “You’re smart to do your homework,” Rosie said, offering her a large mug of coffee. “Let’s see what I can add to what you’ve already learned. First, any kind of sex—including S&M—isn’t a performance art. It’s a shared ac
tivity. You’ve already shared a bed and sex, so you’re in an enviable place. Much of the jitters will be gone. Remember: your anxiety will be obvious. You’re trying something new. But you know it’s something your partner wants, and he knows you want to help him realize his fantasy.

  “So it’s all good if I’m not as good as the dominatrices he’s had before?” Tracie worried.

  “Don’t worry about them. Having you as his dominatrix is his fantasy. Having you wear the costume he bought you is part of his sexual dream. This isn’t a contest. Relax and enjoy the shared experience.”

  “Jamie is my first sexual partner,” Tracie admitted. “For me, sex is a whole new world. I spent my teen years avoiding sexual overtures from the hormone-crazed boys in my neighborhood and at my high school. I saw how premarital sex ruined the lives of the girls around me and trapped them in Skunk’s Hollow forever, pregnant and poor. I vowed I’d get out of there. Avoiding sex was one of the things I did to protect that goal.”

  “I can see where you’d get that attitude toward sex,” Rosie said, idly fingering the sparkling diamond in her nose. “But things have changed. Now, sex should be fun, an adventure. Your future is secure. You’ve got a partner who is intent on pleasuring you and who shares his sexual appetites with you. Sex isn’t good or bad,” she said. “It’s just something you and your partner choose to do—like eating out or going dancing or surfing. Forget about the morality or monogamy issue. Just have fun exploring new horizons together. Don’t get hung up on the fact that your partner has had other sexual partners. ‘Not experienced’ should not even be a part of your vocabulary. I’ve never flown a plane but ‘’not a pilot’ is not how I describe myself. Sex, like horseback riding or playing tennis, is just something you and your partner opt to do together. Drop all those bullshit hang hang-ups. They’re giving you performance anxiety.”