Sixteen of the Best

by Sarah Veitch

  Alan went directly to the implement cupboard and threw it open. He withdrew a black satin blindfold. She gasped, to see it. Being unable to see had always been her worst fear. Blindfolds had been on her 'red' list, the things she did not consent to. Apparently, that list was not in play this evening.

  She shivered as she felt him tie it behind her head. She felt him check to be sure she couldn't see around the edges. Then he took her hand once again.

  'Come here.'

  He led her several steps, then stopped. She felt his hands slip under her skirt and pull down her panties. He hesitated at her ankles, and she knew he expected her to step out of them, which she did. In the next moment she felt herself upended, her skirt lifted.

  She had expected a spanking. She'd been spanked this way often for minor offences, but usually in the living room or bedroom, not the 'extra' room. Knowing that the location could only mean much more to come, she resolved not to make too much of a fuss over just a spanking.

  But the moment Alan's hand struck her bottom, her resolve vanished. Alan's spankings always hurt, but this one hurt as if he were using the paddle even though she knew he was only using his hand. He stung her bottom hard and fast, with no respite to catch her breath as he did in play. By the fifth blow, she was in tears and by the tenth nearly hysterical.

  He spanked on and on. Unable to restrain herself, she began to wiggle and kick. He spanked her all the harder until her cries became one long scream.

  Finally, he stood her up. She felt him wipe her face with a tissue. Then invisible hands unbuttoned and removed her blouse, her bra, pulled her skirt off over her head. Naked now except for her high heels and stockings, she waited for his next move, trembling both from the spanking she had just received and what more was to come.

  'Wait here,' he said.

  From his footfalls, she knew he had gone to the implement closet. The clink of the buckles told her that he was taking out the restraints, though she could not tell what other items he might be taking from the cabinet as well.

  'Come here,' he said, as he took her hand and led her through her personal darkness to the bed. She felt the edge of the mattress against her thighs and waited for his command.

  'Climb on.'

  This wasn't easy since she couldn't see, but she managed to feel her way to the right position and waited once again for his order.

  'On your belly - for now.'

  She lay with her face on the pillow.

  'Spread-eagle.'

  She stretched her arms out to the sides and spread her legs as far as they would go. She felt his hand push up on her right hip from below, telling her to rise up for her cushion to be placed. When that had been done, she felt him attach the cuffs to each wrist and ankle and secure them to the posts.

  There she lay for what seemed like an age, anticipating what he might do next. So far, he had done nothing that they had not done before, but she had never been punished while lying in this pose. The thought of what he might do now that this was not play left her trembling with anxiety, wondering if it would hurt so much more that she couldn't bear it. Would he stop if it became too much? Something deep inside her subconscious, felt rather than thought, knew he'd never give her more pain than she could withstand.

  She felt his fingers caressing his handiwork from her stint over his lap. It didn't hurt much anymore, just felt warm, glowing. No real damage had yet been done.

  'OW!'

  She cried out as the first crack of some implement she had never felt before struck her ass. What the hell was that?

  Before she could breathe it struck her again, directly across the center of both cheeks. If she hadn't been tied she'd have bucked right off the bed. She felt one of her acrylic nails snap off from the force with which she clutched the pillow beneath her.

  'Oh, Alan, please! I trust you. I won't do it again.'

  The blows didn't stop.

  Alan spoke with labored breath.

  'I know you won't do it again, Karen.'

  Three stinging swats fell in quick succession as he continued.

  'The question is do you really trust me?'

  The strap continued to descend, despite tears, screams, and any pleading she was able to manage between breaths. Burn fell upon burn, searing new layers of flesh each time it hit. Still she dared not cry out the words that would make it stop.

  He had moved the dreadful tool down her body so that it now connected with the tenderest area of her bottom, the place where it met her thighs. From time to time it wrapped and struck her pussy with a sting that resulted in a blood-curdling scream. This seemed to be very satisfying to Alan, because after he had done it a few times, he did it several times in a row, obviously on purpose. Her screams shook the walls, or she imagined that they did.

  When her last shattering scream ceased, she realized she had stopped screaming. The pain continued, but she felt it on a different level, as if it had submerged into a farther corner of her mind. She felt her body relax, her flesh move in waves with the blows. She felt very, very quiet and lay in a state of profound submission even after she realized he had stopped.

  Momentarily she felt his hand moving over her bottom, spreading something soothing. She realized it must be the aloe vera gel she kept on hand for burns. The cooling effect was immediate.

  'Good girl,' he said quietly. 'That's my good girl.' He kissed her shoulders and the back of her neck then began to release her from her bonds, finally removing her blindfold. He carried her to their bed and laid her on it, helping her to get under the covers. He turned to go.

  'Alan!' she called after him.

  'I thought I'd give you some time to recover.'

  'I'm fine, Alan, better than I can remember being for a long time.'

  'Still, I think...'

  She held out her arms to him.

  'Come here.'

  How Not to Manage Debt

  Jean Roberta

  'WE'VE had a problem with theft,' Charlotte told me. She was showing me around the old confectionary store that was being refurbished as the Kinky Teachers Club. Needless to say, we weren't planning to replace the old sign with one of our own. So far, we were an informal group of two dozen primary and secondary school teachers who had to meet in secret for mutual protection. None of us wanted to lose our jobs.

  'Theft?' I asked. I realized that I probably sounded naive, but I could hardly believe it. 'Who would steal from our group?'

  'Former members,' she answered grimly. 'Naming no names. A certain married couple, Master and slave, conveniently moved away last summer and then we discovered two-hundred dollars missing from the bank account. He was our treasurer.'

  I knew the couple she meant and I felt slightly nauseous. 'That's disgusting. I can't imagine why anyone would trade their good names for such a small amount.'

  Charlotte, who rarely smiled at anyone, gave me a long, approving look. She was a straight-backed woman in her forties who identified as a switch, but she carried herself like an authority figure. Her dark eyes were clear and penetrating, but her lips were full and soft in a face characterized by a strong nose, cheekbones and an olive complexion. Her mane of long black hair was shot through with silver, and she usually wore it pulled back in a simple tail that swayed when she walked.

  I had often been told I was cute and wholesome-looking, with good taste in clothes. I kept my reddish-brown hair short, not having the patience for a dramatic coiffure. I was vain about my girlish figure and the willpower that enabled me to keep it under control in my late thirties. Compared to Charlotte, however, I felt like a small vanilla wafer.

  'This is where we're going to put the sling and the horse.' She switched on a dim lightbulb that hung from the ceiling of a back room that looked as if it had been used for storage. It was empty except for several large boxes.

  'Will there be enough room?' I couldn't bring myself to ask how elaborate the scenes in this room were expected to be. How many lucky victims would be beaten or fucked in here at one tim
e, and by how many tops? Would a symphony of gasps and screams echo off the walls, or was I just a gullible novice with too much imagination?

  Charlotte grinned at me. 'It'll be cozy,' she said, watching my face.

  I almost hoped the room was going to be left in its current state of slightly ominous shabbiness, as though the ghosts of the family that lived over the store in the 1940s still lingered. I imagined a teenage daughter of the store owner backed against a wall by the delivery boy who had finally worked up the courage to kiss her, to stroke her hair and then her breasts. And when she almost fainted in his arms instead of pushing him away, he would raise her skirt and work his fingers into her hot, secret, virgin cunt. And when no irate parent or bolt of lightning came down on their heads, they would feverishly pull off enough of their clothing to fuck like dogs in heat.

  'The guys are coming on Tuesday afternoon to refinish the floor. Someone needs to let them in.' Charlotte was looking at me. I had been too lost in my fantasy to catch her drift, but I knew she wasn't making idle conversation.

  Like one of my brighter students, I guessed I was being given an assignment: Charlotte was going to give me a key to the place so that I could let the workmen in. She knew I was still on compassionate leave after my father's death, so I had free time during the day.

  'Will you do it?'

  'Sure,' I answered. I felt as thrilled as though she had asked me to walk through a door, literally, into a place of honour and respect. 'No problem.'

  She pulled a large, rusty key out of her purse and dangled it at my eye-level. I held out my hand to receive it, and she looked at me until I realized that I looked like a naughty child waiting to get the strap across my palm, back in the day when such discipline was not only legal but customary. I blushed, and she grinned.

  'Guard it well, Emily,' she told me, dropping the key into my palm.

  I guessed that she wanted to see whether I could lock and unlock the front door. Keys and locks, as I knew from experience, could be as quirky as people.

  We walked to the front door and out to the sidewalk. I pulled the door closed behind us, inserted the key, turned it until I heard a click, then tried the handle to determine that the door was locked.

  'Mm,' muttered Charlotte, almost inaudibly. She seemed satisfied that she had chosen the right person as gatekeeper.

  She gently touched my shoulder as I slid into her expensive car, which still smelled like new leather. Of course, Charlotte and her husband Keith (who was also her Master) had two incomes between them, but she seemed like the kind of woman who would have found a way to get the things she wanted, even without help. Faint shivers ran through my body from the place where she had touched me. Something about the way she drove gave me the impression that she would have preferred to have both her competent hands on me than on the steering wheel.

  'I'll see you later, dear,' she told me as we sat in front of my apartment building. 'Let me know how it goes with the workmen.' The word 'dear' sent a jolt all through me. She had never called me any such thing before, and it sounded much sexier from her mouth than from my grandmother's. Charlotte meant so much more than she was saying. I knew (or hoped!) that she wanted to own me in some way, but she also wanted to make sure I would make her proud.

  'Oh yes, Charlotte,' I told her, hoping I didn't sound like a high school girl on a first date. She smiled slyly as I climbed out of her car to return to the solitude of my apartment, a rat's nest full of papers and books.

  Bisexual, I thought as I mindlessly straightened the mess, as though for inspection. I am bisexual. The word hardly seemed big enough to cover all my desires, although I knew it would have shocked my parents down to their bones. That thought made me flinch.

  I remembered that my father could never lecture me again, and my mother was unlikely to confront me about anything I did, since she had always tried to keep the peace between her husband and her children, and that didn't leave much room for her to develop firm opinions of her own. My brother and sister had moved away years before.

  I had loved and resented my father. I was grieving for him, but his death left me feeling like a free adult.

  When I awoke the next morning, the empty clubhouse for the kinky teachers was calling to me. I have always had relationships with particular places, and I wanted to feel the atmosphere of the old store when no one else was there to distract me.

  I drove to the rundown neighbourhood where the building stood on a corner lot. For a moment the front door lock refused to yield, but I had come prepared with a bottle of light machine oil, and I anointed my key with it. 'Come on,' I muttered, almost like a lover, as I jiggled the handle and twisted my little tool in the rusty lock. The door opened.

  I walked from room to room, noticing the faded roses on the old wallpaper on one wall, and the cracked oak baseboards. I knew that oak was the wood of choice for local antique collectors. Someone had probably lived in this building at one time. Someone had taken care of it.

  I almost felt stroked by invisible fingers as I pulled open the top drawer of a splintered wooden bureau. The drawer contained police-style handcuffs, a ball gag, a blindfold, a hood and a few items I didn't recognize. The second drawer contained a flogger, a cane, a riding crop and other implements that I didn't dare touch, knowing that they belonged to someone else.

  An unmarked envelope, tucked into a corner of the drawer, looked more inviting. There was nothing in it to indicate its owner or its purpose, but it was stuffed with ten chocolate-brown Canadian hundred-dollar bills. I felt as if I were being tempted by the Devil.

  I had gone into debt for my father's funeral. I knew that Mum couldn't afford it, and no one else in the family had offered to help. No one seemed to care whether I could meet my own living expenses.

  I had a week to wait for my next pay cheque, and then I could replace the money from the envelope. I would never steal, I thought, but everyone I know borrows money from somewhere, especially when coping with emergencies. By the time this building is fit for play parties the money will be back in its place.

  I left the envelope where I found it and left the building with the cash tucked into my wallet. I told myself that the only reason I didn't leave a signed IOU note in the envelope was because I hadn't brought any paper with me.

  During the next few days I spent money on sensible things: overdue bills, groceries, a credit card payment. Then I bought myself a set of black lingerie: bra, panties and garter belt, plus a pair of sheer stockings. I told myself that I needed such things for when I would play (blush) semi-publicly with other members of the club. I didn't want them to be repelled by my old cheap underwear which was never meant to be seen.

  Anxiety kept me company, day after day, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that I was not a thief. I looked forward to Tuesday when I could welcome the workmen into the new clubhouse as though I owned it, and supervise their work.

  The two guys cheerfully introduced themselves as Frank and Joe. 'Who bought this place?' asked Frank. 'Church group, is it?'

  I couldn't think of a glib answer, so I muttered 'um.'

  'I heard there's a bunch of perverts in town who bought an old store so they can have orgies in there and do sick stuff like whipping each other where no one can hear them,' said Joe. 'You're not involved with that, are you, honey?' He seemed to be studying my breasts.

  I broke out in a sweat. I was outnumbered by two physical labourers who could easily overpower me. 'It's a teachers' club,' I said too stiffly.

  Frank plugged in a machine without pausing for breath. 'I thought the teachers' club was over on Slate Street,' he remarked. I didn't respond.

  The men refinished the floor with impressive speed and covered it with a protective layer of varathane. Joe straightened up and looked at me expectantly. 'You're paying us, right?'

  I felt faint. 'I thought you'd send us an invoice,' I tried to say firmly.

  'Nah,' said Joe. 'The lady who hired us said she'd leave money in an envelope where you'd
find it so you could pay us in cash. No one gave us an address where we could send a bill.'

  Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, Frank stood up, looked around the walls and the ceiling, then snickered. 'You've got some tight security in here,' he told me, staring up at a corner. I followed his gaze and saw the tiny surveillance camera. For once, I had no idea what to say.

  Somehow I managed to convince Frank and Joe that they would be paid for their work within a month. To show them how trustworthy I was, I wrote my name and telephone number on the back of a business card that Joe handed to me. I didn't want to give him the name of the school where I taught. When Frank asked for my home address, I didn't see how I could refuse. I wrote it next to my phone number. I might as well have added, 'Available any time.'

  I returned home, feeling sick with dread. I had thought of my apartment as my cozy nest and the old store as a haven from the ignorant, vanilla world, but now I couldn't feel safe anywhere. For a few moments I seriously considered leaving town, at least for a while.

  Charlotte phoned me while I was trying to eat a salad. I had no appetite for anything heavier. The sound of her voice brought me a kind of horrible relief.

  'Emily,' she started with no preliminary pleasantries, 'I think you have something to tell us.' The plural pronoun increased the turmoil in my stomach, if possible.

  'Yes.' I couldn't find any other words for her.

  'Several of us have discussed the situation and we've decided to have an emergency meeting at the clubhouse in half an hour. You'll be there to let us in.' It wasn't a question.

  'Yes,' I repeated. 'I'll be there.'

  'Emily...' She paused. 'I am very, very disappointed.' She sounded hurt, and I could feel an answering lump in my throat. 'I can't imagine how you could justify what you've done.'