Escapades Ch. 05

Spring 2012, part 2

After Amie and I left the shop on Friday, she suggested that we go sit down so that I could decompress. I was still dazed and she understood that state of mind very well from her own history, so she directed me to a little tropical juice shop where I had a cool lime drink made of margarita mix with no alcohol. (Virgin, but still tasty. How appropriate!) I told her parts of what had happened but not everything. I can't recall exactly what I said. I was still buzzing.

After our drinks, we stopped off as planned at a casual nightwear shop, La Vie en Rose, to get lighter pajamas, since the nights in her place were so warm that I was finding what I'd brought with me too hot. I tried on and purchased a low-cut, strappy sky-blue nightdress with a pattern of white daisies, while she got a turquoise check-print tank top and boy shorts set. I'll admit, we spent longer than we meant to looking around. We were supposed to meet my sister Cara at the train station around 6:15, but somehow the next time Amie checked her phone it was 6:25, and Cara had already texted twice saying she'd arrived. We'd have to make a mad dash for the nearest metro station.

At this point, I was beginning to get anxious. I was supposed to text the corset-maker at 7:00, but my phone had less than 5% charge left. I meant to go back to Amie's place, change out of my soaked panties, and charge my phone, but now there was no time. Also, I had to use the washroom very badly all of a sudden. Amie reassured me that everything would be alright as we waited for the train, and I restrained the tears that sprang to my eyes in my still-emotional state. The train ride seemed to take forever.

When we got to the station at around 6:50, I spotted Cara right away and gave her a big hug in greeting. Then I said I needed to go to the washroom. She also needed to go, so we went directly to the metro station washrooms. I pulled down my sticky panties and relieved myself. Then, still sitting on the toilet, I fished my phone out of my purse and texted the corset-maker, telling him that he made me feel "AMAZING" and thanking him for the experience. I said we were on for Sunday. To my infinite comfort, I got the message sent at 6:56 and I had a reply within seconds confirming it.

Giddy with relief, I was able to enjoy the evening with my sister and my best friend. We went out for dinner and took Cara on a scenic walk home (if a "dépanneur" carrying dozens of kinds of craft beer counts as scenery). Back at Amie's place, we had some drinks and talked until I got so drowsy that I had to call it a night. Cara and Amie stayed up talking some more out on the balcony. Even with earplugs in I could hear their voices carrying, so I couldn't fall asleep easily and didn't sleep that well throughout the night. Fragments of my erotic experience swirled in my brain, restless and stirring.

The next day was Saturday, and first thing in the morning I had a message from the corset-maker asking if I'd had dreams about him. I replied that I did have sexy dreams and was a little wet. When he asked for a picture of my pussy, though, I had to demur and say photos were off-limits. He accepted my decision and let me go for my morning shower. Before getting in I asked if I could play with myself in the shower, and he replied that I could tease but not cum. I stepped into the shower feeling excited and delightfully naughty. I opened my labia with my fingers and even through the shower's flow I could feel my own hot, thick juices. I ran the nubbly-textured handle of my razor between my slippery lips until I was gasping with desire, then stopped myself just in time. It was a quicker tease than I would've liked because I couldn't spend too long in the shower without seeming suspicious, but I couldn't deny my body's reaction.

As the day went on, however, my excitement began to be tinged with nerves. Just as we were heading out the door, I got another message from the corset-maker asking me what time I could come to the shop on Sunday. I held up my phone to Amie so she could read it, and she silently mouthed "two" and held up two fingers. The decision was so sudden that I felt pressured. I almost texted him "I don't know now, I'll let you know tomorrow," but Amie was nodding and making little gestures to assure me that 2:00 would work, so I sent him that time. I got a message back immediately saying that 2:00 was good, and I was to come to the shop in a dress with no panties underneath. At that moment, two things happened: my sex flushed wide and hot in excitement, and my stomach twisted with nerves. I knew I was in for a bigger scene than anything we'd done yet and I didn't know what was coming. I spent most of Saturday waffling between aching desire and anxious rumination. Still, I tried to put it all aside and enjoy the rest of the day with my best friend and my sister.

The next morning, we saw Cara off at the bus station around 11:30 am, then went back to Amie's place for a light lunch and a change of clothes. I managed to get down a strawberry and spinach salad despite my nerves. I changed into the only other dress I had with me, a flowy, colourful number with an asymmetrical high-low skirt. I tried to spice it up by accessorizing with red leather open-toed heels and a red leather bow belt from Japan. It still didn't exactly scream BDSM, but it was either that or the same dress I'd already worn, and I didn't want to show up in the same clothes twice.

As we walked to the subway, my nerves miraculously began to calm, and a joyful anticipation rose in me. Now that I'd committed to go, I felt eager and curious. In a moment of clarity, I exclaimed, "I'm excited!" And I meant excited in both senses of the word. My lack of panties in public really contributed to the experience. Running down the stairs to catch the metro, my thighs chafed my clit and almost made me moan aloud. I felt humiliatingly aroused, but oddly sexy and confident. Being without a bra somehow felt more natural and comfortable to me than wearing one. Maybe I should go out braless more often!

Amie came with me to the door, but she didn't go into the shop this time. Instead she went to run a few errands of her own, with the agreement that I'd text her when I was done in about an hour. As we approached the door at five to two, she said to me,

"Ok Robin, now I'm going to let you fly. Time to go solo!"

"I can do it!" I replied. And in I went.

The corset-maker was once again working at the front, and greeted me warmly when I came in. He showed me to the back, but had to run out front again quickly with a stock number for a leather hood. A few times that afternoon he glanced out into the shop front, checking to make sure everything was ok and no one was coming into the back. It was a bit annoying to have his attention off of me, but at the same time, I felt like he was keeping watch for us, making sure we wouldn't be seen, which was comforting and made me feel protected.

When he returned, he first of all gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and asked me how I was doing—a very warm, personable greeting. I admitted that I was both excited and nervous. I also took this moment of preparation to tell him my safeword, the old standard "red-yellow-green" system. He nodded and assured me that people very rarely have to use their safewords with him.

"No need to be nervous," he said. "You're in good hands."

To begin the session, he put my leather collar and cuffs on, linking the wrist cuffs together in front of me with hooks. He squeezed my throat in his hands again, letting me feel his power over me. He also dug his fingers into the hair at my temples, pulling my head back by the roots firmly, but not too sharply. He felt my body through my thin dress approvingly. All these little gestures marked his control over me and my vulnerability to him. It turned me on a great deal.

The first thing he suggested we try out that session was nipple clamps. He had several pairs with black rubber tips that could be easily removed and washed or replaced. I liked the look of the blunt-nosed clamps, but he suggested that I also try tweezer clamps, which he said are easier on beginners and stay on better too. He demonstrated by drawing my left breast from my dress and fondling my nipple to hardness, then putting a blunt-nosed clamp on it. With a brisk tug he yanked it off, a sensation sharp enough to make me whimper and squirm with pleasure. Next, for comparison, he put a tweezer clamp on the same breast. It didn't hurt so much, and in fact it came off when tugged just lightly, so that he had to adjust it a bit. Once he did, however, the clamp held firmly, with a slight pressure on my nipple, and didn't come off. He pulled my right breast out of my dress so that he could arouse and clamp my budding nipple. A chain linked the two clamps together so that he could pull and guide me by my breasts. After preparing me in this way, he smoothed my clamped breasts back down under the front of my dress, so that they wouldn't be visible "in public," he said. I thought about telling him he could clamp them on harder, but decided against it because I didn't know where in "public" he would make me go with them or how long I would have to keep them on. Besides, it felt pretty good when he tugged on the chain. So I obediently accepted it and put my confidence in him.

Once I was clamped, he asked me to raise my skirt so that he could check if I was naked below as he'd ordered. Trembling slightly, I raised my leg and placed my foot on his thigh as I had the day before, this time pulling my skirt up to my hips. His eyes gleamed approvingly at what he saw there, so I peeked too and saw the glistening strands of my pleasure laced between my thighs, stretching nearly a quarter of the way down.

"You're leaking," he chided me. I blushed and stammered to be seen so visibly aroused. He seemed to like that a lot.

Next, as if recapping a lesson, he put the hood on me again and flogged me, this time with a cat o' nine tails, which created different lapping sensations depending on whether the tip or full ends of each braided cord were being used. As he did it, he told me that the next time I come to Montreal, I should get a hotel room for a couple of days and we could really play, more than we could in the shop.

"Ok," I whispered.

"What?" he said

"Ok!" I affirmed louder. I wondered if I should've said "yes, Sir" or even "yes, Master" but he hadn't told me to address him by any particular title and he didn't push me, not that way. Instead, he got me good and warmed up by flogging me until I was practically dripping, then told me "No," no orgasm, and pulled me back from the edge.

Laying down the cat, he moved on to a more personal form of punishment. He took me in his arms and laid me over his lap, still hooded, then spanked me with his bare hand. He was holding me very close to him, pressed sideways against his body, and I could feel his heat growing. He made me turn and grind my ass against the crotch of his jeans, which was bulging. Then he began to stroke me through my skirt, pressing and rubbing just at the entrance to my vagina very fast and forcefully. In fact, it was rough enough to hurt—not enough to make me use my safeword, but right at the threshold. He was similarly rough with my clit. In a very masochistic way, I liked the idea of being used hard by him, just for a moment. And like a true pro, he quickly alternated that rough treatment with gentleness and pleasure. He held me again face to face and had me put my hands on his chest to feel its rise and fall, so that I fell into his rhythm, breathing with him. Slowly, my panting gasps of pleasure and pain subsided into relaxation. He took the hood off of my head, looked into my eyes, and asked me how I felt. I said it was incredible.

"Well, look what you're doing to me!" he said. I could actually see the outline of his hard cock straining against his jeans.

"Touch it," he said. "Feel it in your hands."

I approached and used my still-cuffed hands to grip his cock through his pants.

"Harder," he instructed.

I rubbed harder, harder, until—

"Enough."

He stopped me without cumming and pulled me close against his chest again.

"I know you want to fuck me," he whispered into my ear. I made a wordless "mmmm" sound, not wishing to contradict nor exactly affirm this. "And I want to fuck you. But we won't. We won't do that. Isn't that right?"

My "mmmm" was more enthusiastic this time. I still hadn't told him I'm asexual and not interested in actual fucking. I couldn't think of a way to explain it convincingly, given how obviously aroused I was by the way he treated me. So I just looked down coyly, playing shy like I always do. He gave me another squeeze and unhooked the wrist cuffs so I could move more freely. Then he told me,

"Now, I'm going to get you to do something in public. That should give you a little thrill."

"Ok," I agreed, though I was slightly worried about going into the front of the shop or even the street so wet. "Does it show through my dress in the back? My...wetness?" I asked, trying to look at the seat of my skirt.

"No, I'm very careful about things like that," he replied.

This calmed my worries. I felt like he was thinking ahead and had everything in hand. And in fact, he didn't have me do anything in too public a place. What he did was take me to the back aisle of the shop, behind a display of whips and capes, in front of the mirrored dressing room doors. Daylight from the shop entrance filtered in, but I don't think anyone could actually see us because of the way the display case was positioned and how he placed me behind it. I could see him checking the front very carefully, watching for when it was clear. So I just let go and gave myself to him.

Behind the whip display, there was a large leather couch. He had me sit on the very edge of the couch, draw the front of my skirt up and spread my legs. Selecting whips and canes from a rack, he began to demonstrate them on me, and not just on my arms this time but on my spread inner thighs. I recall being caned particularly well, because he slowly moved down my thighs to finally strike me lightly right across my spread sex, making me moan with pain and pleasure. Then he ordered me to masturbate for him. I slipped a finger in, pulled it out dripping wet and held it up for him to see.

"That's very bad of you," he remarked playfully.

"I'm a bad girl." I agreed, equally playfully. Then I opened my legs and began to caress myself. I stroked up between my labia to my clit. As I did so, he ordered me to look at myself in the mirror, to see myself displayed that way.

"This is visual play," he explained. "First we had you in the hood, for feeling. Now, you're going to see it."

"I like it. I'm a very visual person." I confessed. Incredibly turned on, I pressed the middle finger of my right hand deep into my hole.

"Yeah, I want to see it all the way in," he said. I pressed in up to my knuckle.

"Now two fingers."

I slipped my ring finger in.

"Now three fingers."

I tried to get my index in, but it was tight and my long nails hurt me. Still, when I looked in the mirror I could see all three fingers pressing into my own sex.

"Now I want you to cum for me. Can you do that?" He asked.

"I usually can't just from fingering myself," I admitted with genuine embarrassment.

"I almost always need a vibe to cum."

"Ok," he said. He considered for a moment, then said, "I'll use my Hitachi on you."

He helped me up by my hands, carefully avoiding my wet fingers, and took me back into the enclosed harness room. First, he had me stand and hold my hands out for him, which he flogged hard with the cat, telling me: "Bad girls get their hands spanked." The sensation was very different and unique, like holding a double handful of prickly, moving, vibrating things that stimulated my palms and fingers, leaving them tingling. While my hands were still alive with this peculiar sensation, he had me feel his cock again. This time I thought I felt a little bit of damp coolness—not enough of an ejaculation to show indecently, but enough that he was clearly enjoying this.

Then he began once again to massage my back, neck, and shoulders with the Hitachi magic wand through my dress. I moaned and leaned into it with pleasure.

"Shhh," he said. "If you cum, you can't make too much noise, ok?"

"Yes, Sir, I'm good at staying quiet," I said.

Then he ran the vibe down my spine and between my butt cheeks.

"It's good in the ass too," he whispered in my ear. It did actually feel very good, especially on my tailbone, and when I said so he found the spot I'd indicated and pleasured me there. Then he moved around in front of me and held the vibe to the top of my cleft.

"Tell me where," he said in that low soft voice of command.

"Lower," I replied. And again, "Oh, lower..."

"Spread." He commanded me.

I spread my legs and he pressed the end of the vibe up between them over my skirt, so that I was straddling the ball-shaped tip of it. It hit the sweet spot and I began to moan again. He put his hand over my mouth, warning me to be quiet. My breasts were pressed to him, my entire body arching, my head thrown back and eyes closed as I straddled and thrust myself on the vibe, feeling my crest come on. As the climax came my hands raised up, fingers flexing in pleasure as if I could pull the coursing lines of my desire out of the air and weave them together over us. The entire position, with my body arched to his and my mouth covered and my voice reduced to tiny sounds deep in my throat as I held my breath, was so deeply erotic that I came hard, almost painfully, but with an immense sense of release—all without moving. He held the vibe rock solid and still running high against me as I began to find my words, starting with "ok," then "Ok, I'm done," and finally falling into profuse, gasping thanks.

"You came? So quiet?" He asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes," I said. And only then did I begin to really pant hard, saying "oh, oh!" and laughing with tears in my eyes as my emotional release took me.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes," I gasped. "It's just that after I cum I sometimes get emotional. When it's really good. Oh, you did it for me."

I thanked him again, or at least, I hope I did. In return, he said he'd give me one more thrill. I turned to him eagerly when he commanded it. When he had me positioned, he reached into my dress top with both hands, seized the clamps that were still gripping my breasts, and in one move he tore them off and pinched my nipples hard. I gasped with the pain of it and shivered with the pleasure.

"Ahh, it hurts when they come off!" I said, my voice still weak from my exertions.

"That's the blood rushing back in," he told me. "Now look at yourself."

I turned to a small hanging mirror he pointed out and saw that my nipples were like little pink pearls, all rounded by the clamps but still warm and healthy. I think I even said, "They're like little pearls!"

He asked me if I wanted him to take a picture on my phone, just for myself, but I said no, I'd rather there not be any pictures at all. I just wanted to keep the image in my mind, or at most in my written words. Once again, he accepted that without pushing me any further, for which I was very glad.

That may seem like the end, and it was the conclusion of the scene proper. But after that, he took me out to the couch and sat me there to cool down, and we got talking about BDSM, and more things continued to happen.

First, he had me look at my sex in the big mirror again to see how swollen it was. He talked about it, how beautiful it looked, which was a thrill. Then he described the sensation play toys from his own personal collection that he had used on me while I was hooded and couldn't see. He brought some of them out from the back so I could appreciate them. The most intriguing one was the soft/hard toy he'd used on Friday, which turned out to be a paddle with one leather side and one furry side, allowing the user to switch back and forth almost instantly between sharp and soft sensations. As he brought things out of his kit, he noticed more he hadn't used and decided to show them to me as well. I don't remember the order now, but I do recall that there was a "flywhisk," a flogger made of real horsehair. He demonstrated how it feels by gently drawing it across the bare skin of my opened legs, alternating between caressing and flicking my inner thighs and still-wet pussy. It felt especially good when he trailed it over my clit and I said so, telling him he would get me going again.