The Whipping Post
The Mint Julep Cafe was bubbling with conversation. The table was full of slim, tan women, who all sported the same hairstyle and pastel clothing. It was the Spring Book Club Luncheon. I was on their tennis team and at that time, one of the few social activities I engaged in since we moved to the South.
My quirky ponytail, black top, capris, and little heels are subtle ways I keep true to myself. Chicken salad, crumpets, and sweet ice tea, were not for me, and I just sat picking at it. I hate chicken.
There was a pale woman with maroon colored ringlets, sitting in the corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. She had the same bored look on her face that I did. There was an empty chair next to her, so I moved.
"Hi! My name is Nikki."
"I'm Tanya. Nice to meet you."
"Are you a new member of the tennis team? I've never seen you before."
"I don't play tennis," she laughed. "I just do hair, their hair. They've invited me to these luncheons so many times; it seemed rude to miss out on this one."
The Stepford wives took turns sharing their opinions on how the book affected their lives. It was fiction for cripes sake! Soon, we were chatting away in spite of the disapproving looks. We just didn't care.
"You didn't read the book either, right?"
"Well, it's not a book I would have picked," she deadpanned.
"What book would you have picked?"
"The Story of O," she said matter-of-factly.
I sensed a fellow kinkster.
Should I tell her?
"Can you keep a secret?"
She laughed, "I'm a hairdresser!"
"Well...I write dirty stories."
Both of us realized it would be wise to switch to a more conventional topic, like hair.
"Long hair is great in the summer. I just pull it up and clip it, but, the pressure is on to 'update' my look."
Tanya suggested I see her husband Sean.
"He's was an artist with hair. The scissors are his paintbrush," she said and handed me her card.
Was it cosmic coincidence that we would meet each other at a luncheon like this? What did I have to lose? I made the appointment.
A week later, I walked into the upscale salon and it appeared deserted. The stations flanking each side of the shop were empty. The phone rang a few times and no one answered.
"Hello? Is anybody here?"
There was no answer, but, as I turned to leave, I heard an echo of footsteps. A thin giant appeared from the back of the salon. He had a mass of hair but, his broad shoulders rather balanced out this visual paradox. Scowling, he wiped his ruddy forehead.
"Can I help you?"
His fly was open.
"I'm your ten o'clock. Nikki."
He scanned the appointment book and marked off my name.
"What are you having done?"
"Cut only," I replied.
"What happened to your hair?"
That sounded snippy!
"What do you mean?"
Blood rose to my face.
"I don't think I can do anything with it."
How dare he!
Tanya said you were an artist with hair."
He moved closer and touched it here and there.
"Let's go see what this artist can do," he laughed. "My name is Sean."
As Sean walked me to the back, I saw the reflection of a woman adjusting her underwear through her skirt, most likely, the receptionist.
I put on the plastic cape and placed my neck onto the shampoo bowl. It felt like heaven as he gently massaged my scalp, working up a nice lather, and then rinsing it with warm water. When he finished toweling my hair, he gestured toward his workstation.
Carved Dragons flanked the full sized mirror. The chair was positioned atop a mosaic of flames. It seemed as if he walked me from heaven into hell. There is a point during a visit to the hairdresser when silence can be a blessing or a curse.
"Where's Tanya today?"
The receptionist straightened like a rod was shoved up her ass.
"She should be in soon," he said roughly pulling the comb through a tangle.
"Tanya said you're trying to conceive another child."
Have you ever seen someone who looked like a deer caught in the headlights? It's not a good idea when they are cutting your hair.
"We ARE trying to have another kid, but, I have to get my vasectomy reversed."
His cell phone rang.
"I gotta take this," he apologized.
"Yeah baby. I miss you too. Coming by the shop? Yeah, she's right here in my chair. Did you tell her I was an artist with hair?" He paused, "Love you baby. See ya soon."
The phone call cheered him up and soon the conversation turned to a monologue of what HE liked. How boring. I changed the subject.
"How did you and Tanya meet?"
"We met at Chippendale's. I was a stripper there."
My eyes registered surprise.
Sean's chest puffed out like a peacock.
"Yeah. Those were great times. There were girls sticking money in my pants, trying to cop a feel of the boys."
"I thought most male strippers were gay," I said innocently.
Gee, I felt so bratty. It was great.
His ruddy face turned purple and he grabbed a handful of my crowning glory, snipped it off, and dropped it on my lap. While he worked in complete silence, my hair was lifted in hanks and slashed. I watched it float down onto the floor of flames. The chair went round and round, swiveling like a potter's wheel until finally, it stopped in front of the mirror where Sean stepped away to admire his work of art.
I liked the cut! It was short, spiky, and had attitude.
"Tanya's going to like this," he said with pride.
"Yes, I like it," said Tanya who was suddenly standing behind us.
As she swiveled the chair so that I faced her, my heart was beating fast.
"Call me when you are ready to talk about coloring your hair red. With those green eyes and fair skin..."
Her voice trailed off as she ran her fingers through it then looked into my eyes, straight to my soul. We hugged tightly and promised to get in touch soon.
It was a pivotal summer. I continued to write smut, but it took a decidedly darker tone. As my exposure to different permutations increased, so did the variety of characters and plots. The heroine(s) in the stories explored domination, submission, sadism, and masochism.
Then, I met an online master who schooled me with discussions, tasks, and then, training. For example, I learned why I get a rush and very wet between my legs when humiliated in certain ways. I came to embrace pain, because through it, I experienced a type of euphoria that made sexual orgasm an accidental bonus. He was handed temporary power, domination over me, in exchange for making me do things I didn't want to do. The acceptance of submission is doing those things because I need to. It really is hard to explain. This type of play became a need and the urge to pursue it, persistent.
The domme's revelation fermented ideas for stories. The female dominants that were spawned resembled the mysterious and imperious Tanya. Picturing those long legs standing over a helpless me, painting my backside with a flogger gave me the shivers. I'd drift and then find my hands in my panties instead of the keyboard.
I needed some help to process this journey and acquire more knowledge. As luck would have it, Tanya and I ran into each other at the grocery store and agreed that we were due for a reunion. While dispatching emails like peashooters, I shared with her that my writings have included elements of BDSM. Next thing I know, she called me on the phone.
"Nik, if I admit something to you, will you keep it to yourself?"
"In my other life, before I became a wife and mother, I was a Domme."
I was too speechless to answer.
"Nik? Are you there?"
"Did I freak you out?"
My heart whispered 'submissive.' My mind heard the whisper.
"No." I felt a grin spreading across my face. "You made my day."
We made an appointment for lunch on Tuesday. She ordered me to show up without my panties and wearing a skirt. I got a dizzy feeling. Was she serious or playing with me?
I dawdled around the house and procrastinated until the last minute. There were butterflies in my stomach. There were three outfits on the bed and I couldn't up my mind. The clock was ticking. Finally, I decided on a tank top, fitted skirt and little heels...AND, of course, no panties.
Oops, I was going to be late. Would she would be annoyed enough to spank me? I was wet at the thought of receiving discipline in one form or another as I raced to the café. Would there be a telltale spot on my skirt?
It was twenty minutes past our appointed time and she wasn't there. My cell phone was still on the charger! I felt remorse. Was she was playing mind games with me? Did I engineer my fate? God, what should I do?
If Tanya was a real domme, she had me by the short hairs already. Oh, wait. I didn't have any! My bearded clam was denuded with laser treatments last year. She'd SEE that, would she? I'm jumping to conclusions. Nevertheless, the off-chance possibility of further humiliation made my hoo-hoo throb.
As I sat in the cafe, a trembling bundle nerves, the door opened. In walked the tall, thin, wisp of a woman who approached to wrap her bony arms around me in a gentle hug. Flowing red hair and dressed all in black, she carried a heavy, black, leather purse with bullet sized silver grommets. She was a commanding presence.
"You are late, missy."
"Yes, I am. There was no gas in the car."
"You sound like a kid whose dog ate his homework," she laughed.
Tanya sat down across from me and we ordered lunch.
"What are you wearing under your skirt?"
"I...uh..." Oh, how I stammered and turned a million shades of red. "Nothing."
"Nothing, MA'AM," she said correcting me.
Ma'am smiled coldly as she ordered me to lift the hem of my skirt and spread my legs.
"Your actions were disrespectful and further instances will not be tolerated."
I nodded apologetically.
"Touch that pussy and tell me if it is wet."
Tanya held control with her eyes as I reached under the table to touch IT.
"It's wet, Ma'am," I stammered.
"Just as I thought. Sluts are always wet."
Her words stung. My online Master says that often when we play, therefore, I must be a slut.
Mortified, I watched her reach for the black leather bag, the one that was big enough to carry handcuffs and a small flogger, perhaps a ball gag, too. Would she tease me or further embarrass me?
Then, to my utter horror, she pulled a Bible out of it. I wanted to cry. Alas, my hopes of talking openly with her about BDSM had gone up in smoke. However, the intense experience taught me about real life public humiliation. Strangely, I wanted more.
Meanwhile, my development as an online slave had progressed to the point where my limits needed pushing. My Master sent me a questionnaire along with instructions to fill it out and send them back to him. He also filled one out and sent it to me. What was the questionnaire? It was a checklist of all sorts of kinks. Each one had a numbered scale next to it to indicate level of interest. It was very confusing. I'd had to redo it several times. So, I called Tanya for help.
We agreed to meet at a busier spot. She reminded me not to wear panties.
"But it's cold..." I objected!
"And..." she retorted?
As usual, I was running late. The phone rang at 11:20 am. I had just hopped out of the shower, looked at the caller id, and saw it was her.
"Have you left yet?"
"I'm about to go get some gas. I'll be there by noon," I lied.
The bustling lunch spot had lots of tables. It was a perfect location for interviewing the domme. This time, Tanya arrived after me, and, as usual, in black attire. Her steel-toed black leather boots each had a chain wrapped across the top and under the heel. The purse from last time made a return appearance, hopefully without the Bible.
Although her bearing was regal, she had tropical blue eyes that could turn icy at the snap of a finger. The phrase 'be careful what you wish for,' that was running over and over in my head, was an understatement.
Tanya ushered me to a table against a wall that buffered the noise, but did little to shelter us from the close proximity of the other diners. At most, the closest table was seven feet away. Once we placed our order for soup and sandwiches, our eyes connected. Tanya smiled evilly as she handed me a brown paper sack across the table. I felt a cramp in my stomach.
"Go put these on. The restroom is over there," she pointed.
I peeked in the bag and saw a brand new pair of undies.
"While you're gone, show me what'cha got."
"Um," I coughed. "Here's that questionnaire. Can you explain some of these things?"
As she glanced over the papers, her head nodded.
"Make it quick, Nik. Our food will be here any minute."
I went into the stall and pulled a pair of white panties out of the bag. A tiny, flat vibrator was sewn into the crotch. The word SLUT was imprinted on the back in big black letters.
"Son of a bitch!"
I was excited and scared at the same time. What was she going to do? With the device ensconced against my clit, I teetered back to the table. The food was already there. I saw the remote control in the palm of her hand. Nothing more needed to be said.
"This is a fetish questionnaire. Both of you ranked your interest in them on a scale,: she noted.
"No. That's his."
I felt a pin pricks on my beaver. She had engaged the remote.
"It's evident he likes boobs and pussy, foot worship, no mystery there...oh..."
She pointed to another question, "Yours?"
I nodded. The panty vibe switched from tingling to oscillating pulses.
"It says here you dislike public humiliation. Is that right?"
I nodded again and said, "Yes, Ma'am."
"It looks like something WE can work on," she grinned.
Her comment made me fearful. The vibration stopped. "Let's go over the rest of these..."
For about an hour, we went through the questionnaire and during that time, I experienced every dial on the remote. Tanya covered all the kinks and explained how the dominant would interpret the interest levels. I could not concentrate. When my eyes would get that 'faraway look,' she would press the remote again.
Finally, she hoisted the leather bag onto her lap and casually placed a studded, black leather collar in front of me, in full view of everyone. With hands shaking, I swiped it off the table, but it fell on the floor. As I bent to pick it up, my silverware dropped on the other side of the table. My efforts to be casual were anything but and the patrons around us stopped talking to look. Her grin gaped from ear to ear.
"Is this for me?"
"I love to make you turn all shades of red like that," she said beaming.
Then, the lady domme whipped out a baton style flogger with thin leather strips and laid IT on the table. My eyes glazed over. I didn't know what to say.
"That's for next time."
Tanya looked at her watch and said she had to go. Lunch was over.
"When you get home, take those panties off and put them aside for when I ask you to wear them again.""
I don't know how I managed to drive, but the NEED to rub my needy pussy was overwhelming. I stuck my hand down my pants, and sped like a demon to get home. Whether the lunch was a fantasy or not, the slave collar was real. I put it on and strummed my pussy feverishly until cream was all over my hands. I imagined her ordering me to stick my fingers inside my mouth and lick them clean. I wanked close to the edge of cumming, just to ride it, backed off and then, started all over again. Oh, what a desperate cum slut I had become.
One day, she succeeded in talking me into coloring my hair red and I made an appointment.
"Don't wear panties. I want to have some fun."
"Ok," I gulped.
As usual, I was very nervous when I arrived at the salon. What would she do today?
The greeting came from a couple of my tennis friends whose hair Tanya had just finished styling. We made some small talk and shortly thereafter, they left.
I remember being attentive but quiet when she put her hands on my hair to shampoo it. As she tugged on my wet mane, my face wore a grimace, but I melted like ice cream on a hot day.
"That's better," she said.
Oh, wow! I felt her nails on my scalp, lathering, then pulling, then caressing my head as she rinsed my hair.
"Your look quite spankable today, girly."
I love it when she talks dirty to me.
"At your service, Ma'am."
Once those words crossed my lips, I knew my ass was grass. She pointed to the back room and I almost skipped there.
"Pull down your slacks to your ankles and lay over my knees. Now!"
I wasted no time. Seconds later, I was counting aloud and thanking her after each spank. The first blow connected with a resounding 'slap' and it stung. My nasty pussy was getting wet.
"One. Thank you Ma'am," I said quietly.
"A little bit louder, girly."
"Two. Thank you Ma'am."
She rubbed my buns, waiting. The soothing touch combined with the sting felt so good, I forgot to count.
"Three. Thank you Ma'am."
And so, it continued, until at last, I had wet her lap with tears. Her fingers reached between my thighs and pinched my pussy lips...very hard. I burned with shame.
"What a wet slut Nikki is. She likes to be my plaything."
Yes, I did. The pain became tolerable and I slipped into another zone. When the spanking session was over, she pushed me off her lap onto my knees. I apologized for being in such a state. Oh, how I hoped she'd do it again.
"Thank you Ma'am."
"You can go now."
That hair appointment was a turning point. I was addicted to her. What could I do to see her again? Lunch! So I called to set it up.
"I was just thinking about you," said the Domme Tanya.
I sounded confident and chipper.
"Of course," she said.
I called to make sure I had the time right, but, she was annoyed.
"Something came up. I have to go get my son from swimming and bring him to art camp."
She declined my offers to reschedule.
"What do you suggest, ma'am?"
I didn't mean to sound cheeky, but I was disappointed.
"There is a small window of opportunity, about an hour or so. Find something to do until I call."
"I expect you to arrive at my door wearing the studded collar."
What was she thinking? Too bad, she didn't see the color of my face. Upon reflection, she was right to demand that. After all, I am a slut.
Tall, heavy headed, sunflowers guarded the door to her house. I sat in the car, too mortified to get out. Peeking from her window, Tanya beckoned me to duck inside.
"Don't you look cute," she mocked.
No, I didn't think I looked cute at all. Strange, though flustered, I felt redeemed.
She led me into her large living room. It was neat as a pin with everything in its place. The sun was streaming through the windows and I could see the pool outside. As Tanya disappeared to fetch her equipment, I was left me to work my way out of the fog that was my mind.
Before I knew it, she was laying an assortment of toys on the coffee table. On the floor was a metal pole, about three feet wide, with eyehooks on each end. It was a spreader bar. I'd never seen one up close. Tanya, on the other hand, was busy testing the objects. The 'baton' was a short, black, riding crop made of fiberglass. It was quite stiff. A longer crop, the thickness of a walking cane, whistled through the air when she popped it on the couch. Ironically, a harmless looking, whippy, little flogger would sting the most. Then I saw IT. My eyes were glued to the heavy flogger that I hoped to hear and feel. The falls were long and wide. She'd have to step away from me in order to swing. I wished I could hover overhead and watch the scene unfold.