by Mimi Strong
I picked up a tiny harness, muttering to myself, “What's this for? A ferret?”
Another woman shopping nearby heard this and turned to me. “CBT,” she said. “Cock and ball torture.” She had gray hair and looked like someone's grandmother.
“Ah,” I said, my cheeks reddening. “Of course,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, and I imagined her torturing someone's cock and balls. Good for her, I thought. Cock and ball torture seemed like a fine way to spend one's retirement, and it certainly beat canasta and lining up for the early buffet.
I made my way to the back of the shop, away from the wiener harnesses, and into the lingerie.
On a raised platform at the back corner, a woman with a brass name tag was giving a presentation to a dozen women, their ages ranging from my age up to Granny Ball Torturer.
The presenter sighed and explained, “I shouldn't take myself so seriously, but I just go bonkers when I see women wearing these incorrectly. The panties go over the garters. Over, ladies. Panties over garters. Do you see on the mannequin? Look at this.” She pointed to the mannequin standing alongside her. The plastic figure wore lace thigh-high stockings, clipped to straps that connected to an equally-sexy garter encircling the waist below its perfect plastic navel. The woman doing the demonstration grabbed the mannequin's panties and tugged them down, but they stopped at the stocking clips, because the panties had been put on before the garter.
The audience collectively said, “Ahhhh.”
The woman, who had chin-length curls in a variety of rainbow hues, said with a laugh, “Good luck having naughty stockings-on business with your lover if your panties are holding your legs together or cupping his balls.”
She used both hands to make a cupping gesture and everyone, including me, laughed.
She continued, “Then again, if you do want to slow things down, by all means put the garters over the panties. It's your party, and it might slow your partner, or partners, down.”
A woman near the front raised her hand. “What about spanking?”
The presenter, who was so tall in her high-heeled shoes, she didn't need to be on a platform, tossed back her colorful curls. “Thank you for asking. It's about damn time we got to spanking.” She glanced around, locking on me with her dark brown, nearly-black eyes. “For this next segment, we're going to move down to the dungeon, and we'll shut the door, so it'll just be us girls.”
Why was she looking at me? I took a step back, aware of the distance between me and the door.
And then, something happened. I followed her. We all did, including Granny Ball Torture.
Like Alice following the white rabbit into the center of the earth, we followed the sexy woman in the bustier and leather pants, through a door and down the stairs to the dungeon.
The dungeon was windowless, but didn't feel like a basement at all. The warm space smelled like sandalwood, which was a welcome change from the cherries upstairs. The walls were a rich purple, and glowed in the light of sparkling chandeliers and sconces.
Our leader with the rainbow hair stopped in front of a wall of whips and tools.
She said, “For the spanking, I can demonstrate on one of the mannequins. Or… if someone's feeling brave, we can have some fun with a volunteer.”
Granny Ball Torture turned and looked right at me. I didn't want her to know how inexperienced I was, so, naturally, I raised my hand. “I volunteer,” I said.
The group of ladies gave me polite applause and parted to let me up to the front.
“I am Celine,” the woman said, pointing to her brass name tag.
She retrieved a cute bistro-like chair from the corner of the purple room, explaining it was the perfect height for leaning over, and then asked me permission to gently slap my bottom. At this point, my heart was pounding and everything was a purple blur.
“I will not bite,” Celine said, which was not as reassuring as you might think, because now I was thinking about her biting me.
“I've been spanked before,” I said. “Not in front of an audience.”
“I can ask someone else…?”
“No!” I leaned over the chair and stuck my butt in the air.
“Good girl,” she said. Good girl? Why did that particular phrase always make me feel so bad?
What the hell I was doing, volunteering to get spanked in public?
I was the girl who talked the talk, who sent filthy text messages from my friends' phones on their behalf. My friends called me Torrid Tori, but it was all for laughs. I was the girl who joked about spankings and threesomes with my friends Rochelle and Naomi, but I didn't do those things.
Celine was still talking, and I had to slow down my thoughts so I could understand her words. She was talking about BDSM, explaining that permission, consent, and trust were the most important aspects, more important than the props.
I thought back to Smith chasing me down in the woods and the rough sex that had ensued. We hadn't discussed anything, not in advance or after. Tsk tsk. Celine would give us a failing grade for our play time.
Celine checked in with me again, got confirmation of my consent, then massaged me on the fleshy part mid-way between my hips and thighs.
She said, “After a light preparation of the area, you'll want to cup your hands like this. Too flat and your hand will sting. Don't cup your hand deeply like you're holding water, but a light cupping will help make a nice noise, like this.”
And then, the strange lady in the leather pants gave me a very polite slap on the ass. My blue dress was a thin material, and her firm hand made a satisfying noise.
She continued, “What a nice sound. This is part of the spanking, with the sound helping to engage all the senses.”
Celine checked in with me again, then demonstrated how to increase the sensation, with a level one being a feather-light touch, and higher numbers being the type to redden the bottom quickly. She gave me a couple of swats at a level three.
I moaned out loud, surprised by how pleasurable the experience was. Some of the women gathered around tittered, and I heard a touch of envy in their voices. I licked my lips, thinking about how nice it would be to spank a girl's ass. I'd enjoyed spanking Smith on his naughty butt, yet women's asses were so pleasantly soft and heart shaped.
Celine switched things up, literally, by moving to a leather riding crop. She said, “Despite what you may have seen in Hollywood movies, I wouldn't recommend a bull whip. They're designed for cattlemen to use herding large animals. Even if you have your own large animal in the form of a husband—” the ladies enjoyed this joke “—you're likely to knock over a lamp or whip yourself in the eye. Start with something you can handle, and remember that the best prop is your attitude.”
Everyone murmured in agreement, including me. Yes, attitude was a great prop, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw plenty of other intriguing options along the purple-hued walls.
Smith had said he was saving his sexual energy for his novel, but I had my own ideas. Nothing made me want something more than being told I couldn't have it, and he should have known better.
The game was going to change.
Celine kept spanking me with different implements, including a wooden spoon, but what I liked the most was her cool hand on my backside. I kept sneaking glimpses back at her, thinking about spanking her bottom, and getting myself even more turned on. The woman was wearing the hell out of her leather pants and sparkling bustier, and looked cute and sexy, leaning over with her cleavage on display. My hand would smack that black-leather ass so good.
Too soon, she patted me on the shoulder and thanked me for volunteering.
I stood up, my head buzzing with excitement, and a pleasant pressure building between my legs. I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel to Smith. Oh, Smith. With that hard body and his sweet, golden trail running down his abdomen.
Celine fixed me with her dark eyes, so unreadable and sensuous. “Would you like to try some light spanking on me? The best part is turning
it around on someone, because you're able to imagine how they are feeling. Some people prefer to be submissive, others dominant, but as long as it's consensual and respectful, lots of couples like to mix it up.”
“Oh.” I could feel my cheeks flushing. Thinking about spanking a woman's ass and actually doing it were two different things.
Granny Ball Torture squinted at me like she was trying to read my mind.
“Sure, I'd love to,” I said to Celine.
“Good.” She gave me a sly smile that made me feel more than comfortable. I felt cool. It was just us women down there in the basement, and I was grooving on the goddess energy, I suppose, because I felt like I might do anything Celine suggested.
“As before, we won't get too complicated,” Celine said. “If you and a partner are doing a scene, I'd recommend using a safe word you both agree upon, but you don't have to over-think it. For today, we'll continue to use stop as our safe word. Tori, you may spank me in front of everyone, and if I start to feel overwhelmed or unsafe, I'll say stop. Sound good?”
“Yes. I understand and agree.”
She explained everything to the audience again, in French, and then she bent over the chair, her shiny leather pants stretched tight over her ass.
Moment of truth, Tori the Torrid, I told myself. Are you a good girl or are you a bad girl?
I rubbed the back of her thigh as she had done to me, then gave her a gentle spank.
The ladies watching murmured to each other, and I saw one of them cupping her hands.
My hand was tingling, as I'd forgotten my technique and had it completely flat. I cupped my hand slightly, and the next spank had a much juicier sound.
Our audience squealed.
I spanked Celine a couple more times, trying to get maximum sound with a soft strike. The room got really quiet, and all that could be heard was the spanking and the soft sounds of the woman moaning. My body was electric, all my senses sharp. I felt like anything could happen if I kept going.
That's enough, said the voice in my head.
I stepped back, put my hands on my hips and said, “Wow, that was nifty.”
Celine got up from her bent-over position, her cheeks flushed and lovely. “Nifty? Sure.” She smiled and gave me a warm smile, which made me feel better about being a total dork and treating her rump like bongo drums. “You did well,” she said.
Next up, Celine herded us around the dungeon on a tour of the more complex equipment, including some restraints and a swinging chair that looked fun. After some small talk, we all wandered back upstairs to the main shop.
I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it could have been half an hour. My pulse quickened as I imagined Claude walking in and looking for me because I'd taken longer than the half hour I'd mentioned. I rushed around the store, grabbing some lingerie that looked cute and close enough to my size. I grabbed a bunch of adult toys, including a thing that looked like a jellyfish. As I was piling my things up at the counter, I spotted some cute purple dresses. Upon closer examination, I discovered they were vinyl and transparent.
“Who doesn't need one of these?” I said as I added a vinyl dress to my pile.
The androgynous person with multiple face piercings who was ringing through my things gave me a reassuring smile. I did not feel reassured.
“Are you in our customer database?” they asked.
“I should think not.”
My joke hung in the air with no reaction.
I realized how rude my joke might have seemed, so I quickly said, “I'm from out of town.”
The cashier grinned, revealing even more piercings. “Hotel sex is the best sex.”
“So I hear. I'd sure like to find out.”
My purchases were tucked away into discreet bags. “I think you might get lucky. Definitely wear the dress.”
As we loaded the new things into the car, Claude averted his eyes when my toys wiggled and jiggled out of the small bag like escaping aquarium fish.
We drove back to the hotel in silence.
The Hotel Le St. James welcomed me, and I was relieved to be in the air conditioned lobby after just a few moments outside. I pressed the button for the private elevator up to the room and stared at my fingers, thinking about getting a manicure. As the doors opened with a mechanical whoosh that sounded a thousand times more elegant than any other elevator doors I'd encountered, I pondered how quickly I'd adapted to luxury.
I could get used to this.
The heavy bags of clothes and shoes felt so natural on my arm.
Inside the penthouse, however, the room was looking less like a luxury suite and more like a bachelor pad. I set down my packages, then picked up some food wrappers and dirty dishes from the coffee table and brought them over to the kitchen counter.
“I've only been gone a few hours,” I said. “Yeesh, is there any surface you didn't make a mess on?”
Smith gaped at me from his reclining position on the long sofa, a remote control in one hand.
“Tori?”
“Yes?”
“Just checking,” he said, turning away. “For a minute there, I could have sworn you were my wife.” He clicked a button to change channels. “Oops, I mean my ex-wife. The nagging is not attractive on you.”
Nagging? At his mention, the words I'd said upon entering reverberated through my head on playback, and I heard it.
“Shit,” I said. “I'm channeling my mother. That's something she must have said to me a thousand times growing up. 'Is there any surface you didn't make a mess on?' Hah!”
“Shut up,” he mumbled.
“What? Did you just tell me to shut up?”
“Of course not.” He twirled one hand around in the air, his eyes on the TV, not me. “By all means, do carry on. And on. And on.”
“Are you trying to bait me into fighting with you?”
“Are you trying to nag me to an early grave?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Yes, Smith. I am trying to kill you with my nagging. Five more days and I should have you in a coma.”
He didn't respond.
I said, “Really? I'm boring you now?”
He acted like he couldn't hear me, like I was in some magical container—like a doll in a box, that he could take out when he wanted to play and ignore the rest of the time.
I was still near the kitchen, and I grabbed the dishes I'd tidied up. I would just return them to the coffee table as a peace offering. It would be a statement of how little I cared about the tidiness of the penthouse.
As I approached Smith, however, I could feel the aggressive energy radiating from him.
My anger took over, and I dumped the tray of leftover salad and pasta sauce right on his lap.
He jumped up, his eyes flashing, and he came at me.
I started to run, a nervous smile and squeal on my lips.
I didn't even make it to the dining room before he caught me.
He seized my arms and held them behind my back, then he walked me, slowly and deliberately, to the master bedroom.
I didn't complain about his tight grip on my wrists.
“A lady spanked me today,” I said.
He pushed me down on the bed, my feet still on the floor, so I was bent forward with my face in the covers and my hips in the air.
In a flash, he had my dress pulled up, and he laid a stinging slap across my ass.
I winced, but didn't cry out.
“That's too hard,” I said evenly.
He smacked my bottom again, not quite as hard this time.
“Cup your hand a little,” I said. “Or you'll tire out your hand.”
“We need a gag. I could do with less talking.”
“Smith. It's important for us to have a dialog. Before acting out a scene.”
He slapped my ass again, this time with less anger, and the stinging was more bearable. He slowed down and massaged the area, running his thick fingertips up and down between my cheeks and across the lining of my panties, where I was gett
ing wet with excitement.
I thought about everything the woman at the sex shop had said about the BDSM scene, and the difference between play and abuse, or the gray areas of roleplaying. I sighed to myself. Smith was more of a gray area kind of guy.
He kept massaging my backside, his tender touches feeling heavenly in between the bursts of sensation from the spanking. Despite all my plans to talk to him, the words left me. I moaned and adjusted my posture so he had easier access to the area between my legs. I wanted him inside me, without delays.
He said some coarse things as he slipped his fingers under the side of my panties. His words became even more vulgar as he thrust one thick digit inside me.
“I want you,” I said.
“Your cunt wants me.” He pushed my cheeks apart and wiggled his finger as he went deeper. “Shush,” he said. “Just shush.”
Just shush. No, Smith Wittingham wasn't really a talk-through-the-scenario kind of guy. But did I care? His finger slipped out and found that hot button, the spot that had been aching for his touch since before we landed in Montreal. My eyes rolled up with pleasure, and I surrendered to the moment. All that talking business was about building trust, and I did trust Smith. I'd known the man for barely a week, but I knew what kind of man he was, or so I thought.
But did he know me? And could he know how far I was willing to push him?
“You didn't answer my question,” I said, my voice muffled by the bed.
He grunted in response and yanked down my panties so hard, I could hear the thin fabric rend.
“Question,” he muttered. “What question? Spread your legs wider so I can see all that pink.”
“Is there any surface?” I asked, channeling both my mother and the Goddess of Nagging, whoever that was. “Smith Wittingham. Is there any surface you didn't make a big, dirty mess on?”
He smacked my bottom again, as hard as the first time.
I gasped. “I can't leave you alone for more than an hour!”
Another smack.
I didn't hear his clothes his the floor, but I felt the heat of his naked skin, of his erection between my bare legs.
