There is a pause in the texting as we finish the movie’s final sequence. The warrior returns home to proclaim her village free from threats. She gets a parade, a victory speech, and a welcoming man back home who sinks to his knees before the end titles roll.
My clit throbs, so I stand up suddenly, yanking up my pajama bottoms to crush into it and deaden the reaction with a bit of pain. Luckily, I’m not a switch, so that always does the trick for me.
I glance back down at the next text message. Time for another one?
I look at the clock and gauge the time, run through the titles on the streaming queue, and think of something cold. Ice-cream break, then next movie, I text back.
I head to the kitchen and get out a pint of brownie bliss. It sits open to warm up to the way I love it as I open my journal and take a seat. Amazons, bossy men, fight, and boots, I write down quickly. I glance up the page over the other words I’ve been inspired to jot down.
When I return to the couch, ice-cream pint in hand, spoon sticking straight up from it, I snap a photo of the dessert, only my hand visible in the image. I send it to him.
In a moment comes his return photo, showing him putting a spoonful of his frozen treat into his grinning mouth, making me smile. I want to send something back to tease him, to make him think about Saturday, but I don’t. The week is for me to prepare and for him to merely speculate.
Instead I type out start, then hit send a moment before I hit play on my remote.
“We have a few new items you might be interested in,” the store owner I always talk with tells me as soon as I enter the thrift shop after work on Friday. This has become my routine.
This isn’t about him. I could just cycle through the same three outfits, mixing up pieces from them, and he’d react like it was something I just bought that cost a hundred bucks or more.
I like to find something new so that when I look in my mirror I’m inspired. Doing that for most Saturdays would make an expensive year, but this place makes it doable without guilt.
This shop is known for being more eccentric about what you can bring in for them to sell, so the clothing and accessories vary. Last week I bought a pillbox hat and lace gloves, so we had a twisted tea party. A month ago it was a bit for a “tiny horse” that got us out into my fenced-in yard for an hour of pony play.
Tonight the proprietor takes me to the same dressing room where she’s laid out a half-dozen things for me to look at and try on. “Two funerals last week resulted in some unwanted items from a grieving family, and I pulled these, thinking they might interest you. I’ll give you a few moments to look at it all.”
I wait until she steps out, then hang my clutch on a free hook so I can thoroughly look at the items laid out on the bench and hung on two other hooks. I look at the clothes first, my eyes pulled to the flapper-style cocktail dress in a sparkling red color. Some of the beads are missing, but it looks like it might fit. Then there is a nearly transparent gray shawl hanging next to it. I think back to the movie’s Amazons, to my colleague’s trousers, and to my friend’s rapid breathing. I feel my clit twitch, and I smile.
The items on the table include a fan with a green bamboo design that I quickly dismiss because I have three fans already. There is a string of pinkish beads that might be from the same era as the dress, but the color feels off to me. I’m just not a pink sort of gal. There is an elaborate ring with an elephant on it, but it slips around on my finger a bit too much for comfort.
I smile when I recognize the final object. The narrow box has faded from its original black to gray, and the ends show signs of wear, but inscribed is a row of little starbursts that make me glance back at the dress.
In twenty minutes I’m back in my car with three new tools beside me. I take out my journal and jot down power, mystery, punishment, and shine before driving home.
A couple of hours later I stand in the door frame of my dedicated dungeon room that my realtor called a “craft room” when I bought the house. I’m in cutoffs, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, my hair up in a ponytail. I’m breathing a bit too loudly, so I close my eyes for a moment.
I breathe in and out, channeling the strain and drain of setting things up out of my limbs. I take the journal from my back pocket where I stashed it and a pen. I hold them in front of me like an offering. I shake my head once, then open my eyes.
I look over the layout and check off the words from my journal. Dark. Skin. Fabric. Boredom. Sound. Embarrassment. Sexism. Pets. Amazons. Boots.
I let my mind go through the setup, the plan, the possibilities. Each second warms my mound, making me slick, speeding up my breathing, until I’m almost kneeling before the elegant chair I’ve set up on a platform.
“Wait,” I whisper. I breathe in and out. I unclench my fingers, loosen my grip on the seat, and bite the side of my mouth just enough to dampen the desire. In a few seconds I pull myself up and look down at the chair draped in shimmering scarves. With one slow deep breath, I make myself turn and descend the two steps.
I glance down at the attachment point a couple of steps away and pinch my arm to keep my focus.
I shut the door behind me and lock it without looking back.
I want to just lean back and slide down the door, one hand between my legs, but I march back upstairs to take a cold shower.
“Oh!” he exclaims when I slip the blindfold over his eyes as soon as he shuts out the light the next morning by shutting the front door.
“You can’t sneak into our city, seed giver,” I snarl at him.
He swallows and drops the backpack he brought with him while reaching up with one hand to push the blindfold off. He gasps when I snap his backside with my riding crop.
“Any attempt to escape will result in a fate worse than death,” I warn him.
He works his jaw for a moment as I wait to see if he’ll follow my lead or try to steer things. I strike at his ass a handful of times to clear his head until he’s promising to do what I want.
My clit is already warm and wet, but I kick aside his backpack and focus on the scenario. “Take off your clothes. All of them.”
It takes him a while to shed what he’s wearing, because he always comes well dressed. He was once horrified to discover that my plans started with dinner at a fancy place in town; he had to borrow a tie and jacket from a miffed maître d’. I urge him on by holding tightly to the back of the blindfold and snapping any covered skin with my crop. By the time he’s naked, his breathing is heavy, and I silently run through my mantra to keep mine steady.
“Move it, pig!” I order with a push toward the basement door.
“Hands out to your sides; grip the railing,” I command once we are at the top of the ramp leading downward, a bonus feature I was willing to pay more for on the house hunt years back. I watch his careful steps, his grip on the railing, the clenching of his firm ass as he walks down.
“May I?” he gets out before I cut off his words with another swat of my crop.
His groan makes me shudder, but I breathe in and out, focusing on each step as we keep moving.
“In here!” I grab one of his wrists and pull him into the space and along to the spot I have prepared. “Kneel! Good boy,” I growl at him as he goes down onto the thinly padded floor with a pained grimace. He pauses then leans toward me, so I crop him across the chest, forcing him to straighten up to move away.
“Don’t move, or you’ll lose something valuable,” I tell him as I step to the side and snatch the wide collar from the nearby box I’ve covered with black cloth. He still flinches a bit as the leather touches the front of his neck but relaxes when I put two fingers between it and his flesh before locking it on. I reach down and bring up the chain I had set in the attachment point on the floor so I can fix it to the D-ring in front. I give it a good yank to demonstrate that he can lower his head but can’t raise it much farther than a formal presentation kneel allows.
“Wait and be silent. If you say anything, I will gag you!” I snarl into his
ear before I stand up and step back.
I count my breaths in and out, roll my neck, flex and relax my hands, and watch him try to be obedient. I can see every muscle and bulge of his body, lightly tanned from his work at a nursery and landscaping company. I recall every scent, hair, taste, and movement I’ve enjoyed with that body, but I channel that desire up and into my role for the next several hours. I know he turns toward the sound I make as I move away, but he doesn’t make a sound.
I go into the attached full bathroom and slip out of the shorts and T-shirt I’m wearing. I look at my nude body, tracing my curves from muscle and fat, feeling the smoothness of my skin, and I smile watching my nipples pucker when I think of what I’m about to do. I slip on the garter belt and flesh-tone nylons. I pull the black riding boots on and run my hands up their leather to the silky fabric to just brush my trimmed mound. I let the heat descend slowly from my mind downward but keep breathing.
I put on the lacy black bra, adjusting my breasts to rest in each cup, tracing the straps and band to ease out any fold or crease. I run my hands under the cups and move them a bit more to give just a hint of skin. I breathe out jaggedly, closing my eyes for a moment, pinching a nipple when my clit throbs to turn the heat down.
I slip the flapper dress over me. The underslip is silky smooth, cascading across my shoulders and torso to fall just above my knees and the boots. I pull the left side of my hair back, clip it with a simple barrette, and adjust my curls so they fall over my shoulders.
I don’t wear much makeup, and when I do it is always very natural, so when I pick up the kohl pencil and make marks around my eyes, it is dramatic. I add a few spots of sparkly red on the outer edges and feather it outward to my hairline. I put one blood-red dot on the center of my upper lip, making the crescent dip more pronounced. Finally I add some glitter powder over my cheeks, neck, chest, and shoulders to create an unearthly appearance.
I walk back out to the main room, and he turns his head toward me again. His mouth opens, then snaps shut. Even in this role of captive he is innately submissive, but I say nothing as I climb the two steps to the chair. I turn to face him and frown.
His blindfold is still on, but it has slipped a bit or perhaps he peeked. “Bad boy!” I growl out, and he jerks back.
I stomp down the steps, grabbing the gray transparent shawl as I go. “Do not remove this!” I order as I drop it over his head so it falls down to his waist, covering him further. I stomp a few steps away, then move as quietly as possible back to the chair.
I lift the edge of the dress then sit down, my butt on the edge. The cushions I placed help me keep my pelvis tilted slightly upward as I spread my legs wide. I reach out to the thin wand vibrator I’ve placed nearby and hold it on the edge of my labia for a few seconds.
I look at him and count out several heartbeats before I speak in a calm, regal tone. “Remove the blindfold but nothing else. Put your hands behind your back. If you do anything else, I will stop and my guards will take you away.”
He brings up both hands and fumbles with the shawl, then finds the edge and moves under it so he can pull the blindfold simply down to his neck. I hear him gasp as he looks up at the queen seated above him two arm lengths away, even if he strains at the chain.
“This is my queendom,” I tell him. I flip on the vibrator and the switch to the built-in stereo, the buzz blending into the drumming. I let my breath go and ride the week of ideas into orgasms over and over until I let the tool fall to the seat.
“Clean me up,” I order him.
He quickly releases the chain but keeps the shawl over him as he crawls forward. He looks up at me, eyes wide, but makes no move to remove the fabric. “Down,” I dictate.
His tongue through the fabric over my clit and lips adds enough variety to help me come until I’ve surpassed the times I’ve denied myself throughout the week.
I’m alone on a Sunday morning.
THE JOY OF SOCKS
Elizabeth Coldwell
When was the last time I treated you?” Suzanne asked.
I glanced from the array of fancy cakes and finger sandwiches on the stand in the middle of the table to the glass of prosecco in front of me. “I thought this was my treat.”
“Oh, Poppy, I love it when you play the innocent.” She laughed. “Darling, you know exactly what I’m referring to.”
“You mean, when did you last buy me something for the chest?” I reached to help myself to an egg and cress sandwich before correcting my behavior. “Pardon me, Miss, but may I?”
Suzanne nodded. “Of course.”
She didn’t say anything more, but I knew from the look in her eye that by asking for her permission I’d just avoided a demerit mark. Not that it mattered. If she wanted to punish me, it wouldn’t take her long to find some other fault in my manners. She always did.
I took a bite of my sandwich and considered the matter of the chest. It was a grand name for what was, in truth, a box that once held a rather nice pair of kneelength leather boots. I’d covered it in purple wrapping paper and decorated it with an array of gold and silver stars. Inside it I kept the various things Suzanne had bought me over the years we’d been seeing each other. Belts, a wooden-backed hairbrush, a string of chunky plastic beads. All innocuous enough on their own, but the uses they could be put to when she wanted to tease and torment me…
“Excuse me.” The voice at my ear was polite, with a distinct Eastern European accent. “But is everything all right with your afternoon tea?”
Interrupted in my musing, I turned to smile at the waitress. “Yes, thank you. It’s all delicious.”
“Can I get either of you ladies anything else?”
“No, we have everything we need, thank you.” Suzanne’s tone was polite but dismissive, making it clear we didn’t want any further interruptions. The waitress nodded and walked over to check on the nearest occupied table.
“The service is very good here, isn’t it?” I said. “I hate it when you’re in a restaurant and they wait until you’ve got a mouthful of food, then they come over and ask you how you’re enjoying your meal. It’s like they’re totally aware of the moment you start chewing.”
Suzanne sipped her tea. “The chest, Poppy…”
“Oh, yes. You wanted to know about the last thing I got for it. It was that silk scarf, the green one you said matched my eyes.”
We’d found the scarf in an exclusive store on Bond
Street, one of those places where unless you walk in dressed in a mink coat and dripping with jewelry, they treat you like something they’ve scraped off the sole of their shoe. Suzanne always looks the part, in her neat knee-length skirt suits and designer heels, but as for me—well, I have a bratty side, and when I’m with her I dress to emphasize it. I like skirts so short they threaten to expose my panties and thin white blouses with a black bra all too visible beneath them. Today, I’d made a concession to my surroundings and opted for a demurelooking tea dress, but somehow, in the rush to get out of the house in time to meet Suzanne, I’d forgotten to put on any underwear. If she had noticed the outline of my nipples pushing hard against the floral chiffon, she hadn’t said anything.
The day of our last shopping expedition, I’d been favoring the overgrown schoolgirl look, with my hair in pigtails and a wad of bright pink bubblegum in my mouth that I’d chomped with loud smacking sounds as we’d taken the escalator to the second floor. I’d behaved well—or well by my standards, anyway, as Suzanne had asked the snooty assistant to show us a selection of their most expensive silk scarves.
“Which one do you like, Poppy?” Suzanne had asked. The assistant had looked on as I’d pawed at the filmy scraps of material. Her face was a mix of conflicted emotions, most of them caused, I’d guessed, by my choice of eye-watering neon-yellow nail varnish. “This one’s pretty,” I’d said at length, holding up a plain, moss-green scarf.
“A good choice. Very discreet,” the assistant had remarked, fixing me with a look that clearly said thou
gh
you wouldn’t know discreet if it bit you. She’d wrapped the scarf without further comment, and Suzanne had charged it to her card, not even blinking at the threefigure price tag. But please don’t go thinking that I’m only with Suzanne for her money. I may be a brat, but I’m no gold digger. Suzanne has the ability to deal with my sulky behavior and occasional public tantrum better than anyone else I’ve ever met. Not only do I like to have my desire kept on a slow burn, I need to be treated with a firm hand. And she knows just when and where to apply it.
From the department store, we went straight back to Suzanne’s apartment in Holland Park, where I wore my present for the first time. She wound it around my wrists as I lay facedown, clutching her ornate wroughtiron headboard. Once she’d knotted it, allowing just enough give for me to wriggle, she administered a hard spanking that left my bottom red and sore. Every time I opened the chest and admired that scarf, I recalled the feel of those firm, relentless swats on my bare ass and the way I’d writhed against the bedcovers and begged for her mercy.
“Yes, the scarf.” Suzanne’s voice brought me out of my pleasant reverie. “And thinking about it this morning made me realize I haven’t treated you for quite some time. So, once we’ve finished our tea, I intend to put that right.”
“Thank you, Madam,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice that my good manners had been a diversion while I helped myself to the last of the petits fours.
***
After the genteel hush of the tearoom, it was a shock to step out onto the busy shopping street. Suzanne wove her way through the knots of dawdling pedestrians, with me half a pace behind. I had no idea of our eventual destination, but I assumed she was heading for one of the expensive department stores she favored. Instead, I was surprised to find her walking up to the doors of a shop selling discount sporting goods. The windows were plastered with huge red-and-white banners announcing, SALE–EVERYTHING MUST GO. Bass-heavy pop music blared from hidden speakers as I followed her inside.
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