The Red Collection Read online

  ‘This client has requested a closed room for his charge,’ says Madame in hushed tones. ‘And the severe attentions of my husband. No observers … No manual pleasure to be given.’ Although I am not supposed to, I look up and see her roll her expressive eyes. ‘Just the strap. Laid on with energy. For extended periods.’

  ‘And this will be Susan’s room,’ she says a little later, conducting us into a bedroom decorated in a delicate Victorian style. There is a proliferation of chintz, a very beautiful armless nursing chair, an elegant chaise longue. It is warm and cosy, and the air is rich with the essence of quiet, domestic discipline. I already see myself in a long, white nightdress of perfect purity, my buttocks uncovered as I lie across the bed, waiting to receive what is due to me.

  The picture is so vivid, so meltingly appealing, that I long for it immediately to be real. Without thinking I gyrate my naked bottom, and my Master – ever watchful – notices the movement.

  ‘Perhaps Susan can be punished here now?’ he suggests, striding over to a dressing table cluttered with antique knickknacks. He lifts a simple wooden hairbrush from amongst the profusion of gilt and crystal, and holds it out towards Madame, whose eyes light up with undisguised glee.

  ‘Of course, Monsieur, I would be happy to accommodate you,’ she says gaily, already seating herself on the chaise and arranging her skirts. My Master catches my eye, then nods in Madame’s direction.

  Silently, obediently, I shuffle towards her, and skilfully she tips me across her lap.

  It takes just a few moments to position me correctly. Madame slides my knickers down to my ankles, but leaves them there. ‘I find that underwear left around the feet impedes kicking … Especially when tangled around high heels.’ My arms are forward, but she asks me to cross my hands at the small of my back. When I comply she firmly grips my wrists.

  Waiting, I stare at the patterned carpet, aware that my Master has handed the brush to Madame Guidetty. I smell his cologne as he sits down beside us on the chaise, then feel the gentle touch of his caressing hand as he strokes my hair.

  When the first hard blow smashes on to my bottom, I start to cry …

  That was over a week ago, and now my Master is far away, and overseas.

  I miss him, of course, but other pains are soothing the pain of us being apart. These pains are less abstract, and more absorbing; they divert the mind.

  And this is why I’m lying face down, my buttocks bare, on my chintz-clad bed.

  A little over a quarter of an hour ago, Madame Guidetty finished giving me a rigorous caning. My nightly punishment. I can still feel the savage line of each sharp cut she laid upon me; the grid of fire she worked so cleverly across my flesh. My snorts of distress are still ringing in my ears.

  I cried pathetically, of course, but my Master will enjoy that. I can just imagine his secret pleasure when he receives the video.

  Maybe he’ll find amusement in the interlude which followed too. The sight of my engorgement being resolved by Florenza’s tongue.

  So, here I am, my dearest Master, I think, mentally composing an intimate letter to accompany the tape. My bottom’s hot, and it’s caned bright red, just how you like it. But because it hurts, it reminds me of you, and I don’t feel lonely.

  That’s true. Reaching behind me, I finger my weals, their fire my solace.

  I miss you madly, but I know I’m in the best of hands …

  This Very Boutique

  ‘GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR, and welcome to The Boutique. How may we help you this afternoon?’

  Sir strolls into the showroom, then halts right in the centre and slowly looks around. His sharp gaze flits hither and thither, alighting on the various samples set out for display in a studiedly casual arrangement across the sideboard, the occasional tables and elsewhere. We offer a very personal hands-on service here in this bijou little establishment and we like our shoppers to feel as comfortable and relaxed as they would do in their own homes. So they’ll buy more …

  It’s hard to tell what Sir really thinks about the risqué items we have on show. His expression is inscrutable, mutable, and hard to fathom. The only indication of any kind of emotion is the faintest hint of super-cool amusement. But even that could be a trick of the imagination.

  ‘Please, won’t you take a seat?’ I encourage, gesturing to the most comfy armchair.

  His hooded eyes narrow, but he moves towards the seat, and lowers his tall, substantial form into it, setting the pink paper carrier bag he’s been holding on a table beside him, and making a big show of fussing with the panels of his voluminous dun-coloured raincoat. It’s not a plastic mac, thank God, or even a crumpled Columbo jobbie. But it’s not exactly an example of metrosexual man chic either, and disturbing thoughts of flashers spring to mind. Especially given the way he’s eyeballing me. His face is still bland enough, but there are lights dancing in his intelligent brown eyes.

  ‘Sir?’ I prompt, but all he seems to want to do is just sit there smiling slightly, as if he’s guarding a special, wicked secret. I get the feeling that he’s enjoying the retail experience immensely.

  ‘Sir?’ I enquire again, as he looks me up and down, those intensely gleaming eyes doing the grand tour from my boobs to my legs to my general groinal area to my face and then back around again. Suddenly my crisp white blouse feels tight and restricting across my frontage, and to my dismay my nipples choose this moment to want to pop out like organ stops. I can almost hear them go ‘Ping ping! Ping ping!’ They’re acting as if it’s cold here in the showroom, when in reality it’s already far hotter than it should be and getting hotter with every minute that passes.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sir purrs at last, focusing that sultry look of his like a technician tuning a high-powered laser, ‘I’ve got a slight problem, my dear.’ He taps the pink carrier bag at his side, the one that’s been subconsciously bugging me since his arrival. His long fingertips flick at the paper in a way that’s vaguely suggestive. ‘I bought this item a couple of days ago, from this very boutique, and I’m afraid it’s very far from satisfactory.’

  I bite my lip, feeling uncontrollable silliness suddenly bubble up inside me for a split second, and then immediately I make every effort to keep my mind on the job. I’m not behaving very much like a professional vendeuse, am I?

  Right, back to business … and, oh dear, it’s a return.

  I hate returns. They can be really tricky when you sell the sort of merchandise we do, and half the time people who bring things back are just in here to try it on. I just hope that Sir doesn’t turn nasty. Not that he looks nasty. In fact, he looks about as far from nasty as it’s possible to be. To my mind, he looks very nice indeed, with his big burly body, and his face that’s so boyishly handsome despite the silver grey in his crisp-cut dark hair. My mind goes cantering away from the job in hand like an out-of-control pony, and I imagine what it might be like to kiss Sir and waylay him for a shag.

  ‘Um … in what way is the item unsatisfactory, sir?’ My voice comes out rather like a cartoon squeak, and I cast around for a look of servile solicitude instead of the rampant lust that I’m sure is written large and obvious on my face. ‘We very rarely get complaints about our merchandise here, sir. But if there is a problem, I’ll do everything in my power to resolve it.’

  There, that sounds suitably crawly, doesn’t it?

  Unfortunately, Sir clearly thinks it’s crawly too, suitable or otherwise, and he gives me a rather stern look that induces my knees to tremble.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ he continues, and strangely, he seems to be the one who’s biting his lip now, ‘but I’m very disappointed. I don’t expect to be sold substandard goods at these prices and I’m accustomed to better customer service than this.’

  ‘I’m very sorry about that, sir,’ I murmur obsequiously, ‘please let me take a look at the goods, and if they’re faulty, I assure you we’ll replace them for you.’

  Sir hands me the bag, and his brown eyes lock on mine as he looks up at me. I can
see that he’s still trying to appear indignant, but there’s a strange tricky gleam about him, a sort of smile that’s not a smile, and I get a distinct feeling I’m in for big big trouble with this one.

  I open the top of the bag and look inside.

  Uh-oh …

  There’s a very popular item peeking out of the nest of shredded tissue paper. A very popular item indeed, at least with me. I wonder what on earth Sir can possibly think is wrong with it.

  ‘Ah, the Spinetingler Deluxe, one of our best-selling lines … We don’t usually have any complaints about these. They’re usually completely reliable and satisfactory.’

  The Spinetingler Deluxe is made of sturdy pink silicone, very thoughtfully shaped and very generously sized. It reminds me of another sturdy, thoughtfully shaped and very generously sized item. One that’s always completely reliable and so satisfactory that it has a tendency to make me feel as if it’s about to blow the top of my head off … It’s also pinkish, after a fashion, but more of a flesh tone.

  ‘I’d better test it, I suppose.’ I glance at Sir, and notice that he looks remarkably keen on this idea. His big brown eyes are as bright as two stars, and his nice, rather reddish mouth has now curved into a smile. It appears that the severe demeanour of a moment ago was just an act, and one he’s already as good as forgotten.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ he concurs roundly. ‘It may just be that the young friend I purchased it for isn’t using it correctly, so you’d be doing us all a service if you could just show me how it works. Unfortunately it didn’t come with a user manual’

  I take out the Spinetingler and set the bag aside, conscious of Sir’s eyes following my every move with minute attention. He obviously doesn’t want to miss a single detail.

  I twist the bezel at the end of the Spinetingler.

  It buzzes like a box of angry wasps.

  I give Sir an encouraging look.

  ‘Well, it seems to work perfectly … Did your friend try twisting the knob?’

  I give said knob another twist, and the wasps get – angrier.

  ‘Of course,’ he replies, a frown pleating his fine broad brow. ‘Are you implying that my friend and I are stupid?’

  ‘No! Of course not! But this Spinetingler seems to be in perfect working order, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes, but is that all it’s supposed to do?’ His glittering eyes narrow all of a sudden. ‘As I pointed out, there weren’t any instructions in the bag with it, and it’s not immediately obvious how one is supposed to use it.’

  That’s true. Items like the Spinetingler aren’t generally supplied with an operating manual. But then again, any red-blooded woman – or man – should know almost by instinct what to do with it. I get the feeling that Sir is just being deliberately obtuse. You get characters like this in the retail trade all the time, and it’s usually best for business to try and play along with them.

  The customer is always right and all that stuff, don’t you know?

  ‘Perhaps a brief demonstration would help?’ he suggests, in anticipation. For a moment he purses his lips, and seems to find it difficult to meet my eyes. But then his broad face straightens again, and he gives me a long, almost imperious look.

  ‘Of course, if you think so …’

  ‘Oh, I know so,’ he confirms with great authority, settling his large form more comfortably in the chair and tweaking at his long unglamorous raincoat again. He seems to be making certain that it fully covers his lap.

  ‘Well, usually a young lady would tend to use this sort of item at night, in the privacy of her bed, or perhaps in her bath in the case of the waterproof version.’ I twist the bezel again, for effect. ‘But sometimes, of course, an armchair will do just as well.’

  ‘Do you often use it in an armchair?’ Sir enquires.

  ‘Um … yes. Sometimes.’

  ‘And what about bed? Do you sometimes use it there too?’

  ‘Er … yes, that too.’

  ‘Which is best?’

  ‘I don’t have a preference.’

  ‘Well then …’ He gives me an encouraging nod, then snags his full red lower lip with his snowy white teeth again. He’s sitting very still, but somehow he seems as full of dynamic energy as a tensioned spring at the same time.

  Setting the Spinetingler down on the chair arm, I take a seat. This is very embarrassing, but – showing immense presence of mind for me – I manage to get a grip on myself. Reaching beneath my neat grey shop-girl’s skirt, I fish around and find the elastic of my panties.

  Sir’s dark eyebrows lift.

  I tug at my pants and slide them down my thighs, over my knees and off.

  Sir blinks, his rather beautiful eyes widening

  I wriggle in my chair to get comfy, just as Sir has, and he nods pointedly at my skirt, which is still covering the aforementioned groinal area.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry,’ I apologise, then hitch up my skirt so he can see my demonstration.

  ‘No problem,’ he murmurs, sitting up in his chair all of a sudden, and leaning forwards.

  I pick up the Spinetingler from the chair arm. ‘Well, some young ladies rather like to … er … insert the Spinetingler, but others prefer to use it externally.’

  I suppose I’m stalling for time here, but this is rather a personal matter, and it’s the first time I’ve ever had to demonstrate an item for a customer in this way. Furthermore, it doesn’t help that I keep getting the distinct feeling that Sir actually does know everything there is to know about the use of Spinetinglers and other similar devices, and is actually just sitting there, large as life, and silently laughing his head off as he dares me to make an exhibition of myself.

  ‘Which would you recommend?’ he asks, grinning.

  ‘I … I usually start off using it externally.’

  ‘Perhaps you could you show me that then?’ he suggests.

  I twist the bezel and the Spinetingler buzzes loudly. Too loudly, in fact, so I back it down a notch.

  ‘Sometimes it’s best to start off gently and build up.’

  ‘That seems sensible enough. Please continue.’

  I close my eyes, and guide the pink silicon tip of the device to the target zone.

  When it touches me I can’t help but let out a gasp.

  The Spinetingler really is an excellent product, and its vibrations are right on my frequency. The buzzing and thrumming makes me pant for breath and compels me to wriggle, but I try to stay as still as I can so that Sir can see exactly where the stimulation should be applied.

  ‘And how does that feel?’ he asks, his voice suddenly low and silky.

  ‘Um … v-very nice,’ I stammer, aware that I’m not really going to be much good as a demonstrator. I tend to get pretty inarticulate pretty soon in situations like these.

  ‘You know, I can’t really see all that well,’ he complains suddenly, although it’s not so much a complaint as an observation that comes out in the form of a stifled laugh. ‘Perhaps you could open your legs a bit wider? Put your thighs over the arms of the chair, maybe? I’m sure that will provide a much better view.’

  I’m sure it will, you wicked old pervert, I want to say to him, but he is the customer, after all, and I’m here to serve. So, trying not to lose my place, I hitch and hutch my bottom around in the chair, and tilt my pelvis so I can drape my thighs across the arms.

  The resulting position is not unlike being on a gynaecologist’s couch with all my bits on display for Sir’s perusal.

  ‘That’s so much better. Please proceed,’ he remarks cheerfully.

  I apply the Spinetingler to my sex again, keeping my eyes closed so I can’t see Sir’s avid face. With the vibrations on low I play the naughty silicone widget up and down, to and fro, and side to side, expertly goosing my sticky, swollen folds and all my sexy little hot zones.

  All except one, that is … Because if I go there too soon this entire demo is over and done with before we’ve barely even started, and I don’t want any more complai
nts from Sir that I’m not doing my job right.

  ‘Is that usually how you use it?’ he asks, his voice sounding rather closer than before. My eyes fly open and I find that somehow, moving lightly and silently for such a sizeable man, he’s sneaked out of his chair and he’s sitting on the carpet right in front of the one I’m in. He’s no further than a yard away from the Spinetingler and my cunt, and when I almost fly up out of the chair, he places a large warm hand on the inside of my knee, as if to calm me.

  ‘I do hope you don’t mind,’ he says blithely, a look of feigned innocence on his stocky face, ‘but I really couldn’t see all that well from over there.’

  ‘N-no, it’s all right. No problem,’ I burble, not sure what to do next. The Spinetingler has slipped out of place and is noisily buzzing to itself.

  ‘Do go on,’ Sir encourages. ‘This is all extremely instructive.’

  As I prepare to comply, I notice that his hand stays where it is.

  I circle the buzzing tip again, around and around my entrance, up and down the length of my sex, carefully skirting my swollen clit. My eyelids flutter down again because I can’t cope with the intensity of his gaze.

  ‘Ah, I see what you’re doing now,’ says Sir, his voice not quite steady. ‘I get it. You don’t go for the obvious place straight away in order to prolong the experience … That’s very clever, my dear. You’re clearly a virtuoso with this particular item.’

  I nod my head, because I’m not sure I can actually answer lucidly.

  His fingertips curve against the inside of my knee, then slide sneakily upwards. His touch is light and almost diffident, but it encourages me. I reach for the bevel, but even before I can make an adjustment, he murmurs, ‘Ah yes … that’s good. Now show me how you execute the coup de grace.’

  Coup de grace? What is he on about?

  I need to come now, whatever the hell he chooses to call it.

  The Spinetingler seems to howl now, at least inside my head, and as I slide its slick reverberating tip towards the knot of nerves that craves it, my thighs flex and my bottom rises from the chair.