Claude rushed around to open my door, but he didn't presume to offer his company for this excursion.
I said ominously, “If I'm not out in half an hour, send in a search party.”
Claude found this very amusing, and his chuckle super-sized itself to a wheezing laugh that was more cute than sexy.
As I approached the shop, I wondered how he knew of the place. Did his wife shop there when he was in the city? Or… had Mrs. Wittingham, Smith's ex-wife, shopped there? I still knew nothing about her, and thoughts nagged at the back of my mind, like mice chewing their way into sacks of grain and scattering everything.
I pushed back my curiosity and the first tingles of jealousy, and walked into the store.
The place smelled like cherries—not real cherries, but the artificial flavoring—and the music sounded like monks chanting, intermixed with ladies' moans of pleasure. The combination was not unpleasant, actually.
I stepped into what appeared to be a pet-supplies corner, but all the leashes and studded leather collars were Mastiff-sized. I ran my fingers over the chunky stitching on a harness, smiling at the memory of the giant Mastiff who'd lived down the street from the place where I'd grown up. What was his name? Mittens? Marcus?
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 c**k 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 h*ps 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.”