“Follow me,” he says abruptly. He turns away from me and I hear the sound of the front door being locked.
We brush past the racks of clothes, heading toward the back of the store. My scalp aches from where, earlier, he had pulled my hair fiercely, and I know that the persistent customers have frustrated him as much as me.
Now, with the shop emptied, it’s just him and me – and the knowledge of what happens next.
He pulls aside the curtain to the dressing room, and I step inside. A mirror, a shelf, a chair. Him. “Show me your breasts,” he tells me, and I slide down the straps of my top, and free myself from my bra. He looks satisfied, and hefts them, twists them, tugs on my nipples.
Taking me by the shoulders he turns me away from him, facing the wall, then grasps my hair and pulls my head back hard. My throat is exposed, my eyes wide, and pulse leaping. He growls in my ear, calling me a whore, a whore for liking this, a whore for wanting this. He’s right, too.
I can feel my cunt welling over, full and hot and wanting. He can feel it too, as he slides his hand beneath my trousers, and under my knickers. He fondles my arse, making me tell him all the slutty things I like to do, and want to do.
Removing his hand, he pushes my upper back, leaning me down until I am holding the back of the chair. Without warning, he yanks down my trousers, and they slither to rest at my ankles. My knickers he pulls down until they rest below my arse.
I know that if someone pulled aside the curtain they’d have a grand view indeed. A view that would undoubtedly only be improved as his hand connects hard with my right cheek. I yelp, and rise on my toes. He repeats it, but on my left this time. Back and forth, solid weighty smacks against my flesh.
It feels wonderful.
“Stay there.” He opens the curtain, steps outside. I wait. I wish there was someone watching us.
Shortly, he returns, and pulls the curtain again. Something makes a swishing sound, and there’s an intense crack against my arse. I bellow – no mere yelp this time – and stand abruptly. My mouth remains open in a silent wail as all I can focus on is the narrow line of fire along my buttocks.
“Do you know what that was?” he asks me. I shake my head. The sound it made was like a wooden ruler, but the sensation was entirely different.
“Have a look,” he offers. I turn my head, and see what he’s wielding – a black plastic coat hanger. I remembered that he had indeed promised to spank me with it, and, remembering, I grin at him and bite my lip.
“Oh, yes.” My response is rather faint, but my eyes are sparkling and I can still feel the line across my flesh. I don’t object as he pushes me back down over the chair, and I hear the swish before a new line of fire erupts across my cheeks. And another.
Too soon – although I have no idea how long it has been – he suddenly stops. “Put your clothes on,” he says, and pushes out through the curtain. I hear his keys jingle, and the door open and close. Then nothing.
Slowly, gingerly, I slide my knickers over my arse – hissing. Then my trousers. I clip my bra back on, although my fingers are trembling, and then slide my top back over it. Lastly, I find my glasses and put them on again.
It’s still quiet, and I open the curtain. The shop is empty, the door locked. So I sit on the chair, in the dressing room, and wait.
Originally posted October 2009.