Escapades Ch 03

Fall 2011

Oh.

Oh wow.

Montreal, you present so many possibilities!

I'm back in the city again to spend Thanksgiving with Amie, and today we went to That Shop again. I had an objective, another secret desire in my catalogue of fantasies to fulfill: I wanted to find some cuffs. Leather wrist-cuffs, black of course. Since I got my first slick black corset back in January, my explorations in self-bondage had been growing more intense. I imagined having them around my wrists while I played with myself, or maybe even going outside with them on under my close-fitted grey wool coat and walking around while feeling their pressure, and that fantasy turned me on to no end. So I set out to find cuffs, and I found them. That, and a great deal more.

My first few days in Montreal were spent helping Amie with Thanksgiving preparations and then celebrating on Sunday with friends. After a late night of partying, we slept in and then spent an easy morning at Amie's place, just lazing around surfing the Internet and watching silly videos on her laptop. I wasn't even sure we would go shopping for cuffs that day, so I dressed casually at first. But when Amie suggested I call to ask if the shop was open on Thanksgiving Monday, and I found out that they were, I quickly changed into a low-necked black-and-blue blouse that ties under the breasts and skinny jeans with knee-high, high-heeled black boots over them. I selected black dangly earrings and did my makeup with care. Underneath, I was wearing a black lace bra and zebra-striped panties, thin silky ones so that I could feel it if and when I got wet. I wanted to be presentable in case something happened. I did it all knowing I would write down everything that happened afterwards, and that thought alone was exciting to me.

We took the subway and then walked slowly a few blocks to the shop. Our walk took longer than usual because Amie had broken her foot a few weeks back and was using crutches to get around outside. Still, it gave us time to window shop, and gave me time to work up my nerve. We even stopped into another store we passed along the way that had platform stripper heels and body stockings in the window, but it was small and tawdry, so we didn't linger.

By the time we got to the corset-maker's shop Amie's foot was bothering her, so she sat down in the front of the shop to rest it, leaving me to talk to the shop keepers on my own. Just like the last time, the woman working at the cash asked me if she could help me with anything. I'd grown braver and more self-assured since my previous visit. Calmly and clearly, I said yes, I was looking for cuffs. She said, "Right this way," and began to show me their selection.

At that moment, He came out. It was the man who fitted me for my corset, the man I knew to be a Dom. He asked the woman if he should take over, but she said she had it covered so I went with her, just a bit disappointed. She showed me to a separate room off of the main shop, chock full of cuffs, harnesses, masks, and collars, all worked in soft, high-quality leather. I said I wanted cuffs that I could take on and off myself, and which would fit my unusually small wrists. She selected two pairs of cuffs from the rack: one a slender, smooth leather band with Velcro closures and a D-ring, and the other a wider, thicker pair with a buckle. She gestured me over to a glass-topped counter, and I murmured,

"I should take off my coat, it's in the way."

She agreed. I slid it off and draped it on the counter.

Instructing me to place my right hand on the counter, she slipped the first cuff, the slimmer style with the Velcro, on and tightened it, not too tight, not quite tight enough. I could see that it would close tighter, and so I redid it myself, cinching it until it felt good. I agreed that these were very good cuffs. Then I let her try the next pair, the buckled ones. They were far too thick and bulky on me. I could tell this pair would snag and prevent me from holding my hands flat to a wall, if it should ever come to that. So I said that although there was something appealing about the buckle, I liked the Velcro ones better. Everything seemed to be going well, if in a rather tame and business-like fashion.

Just then, however, the corset-maker came into the back room. He asked me if my server was being good and deserved a raise, to which I nodded yes. Then he said he would take over, since this was his department.

"Cuffs are your department?" I asked in an innocent tone.

"Anything fetish is my department," he replied.

Then, he held my hands out between us and put the cuffs on me again. Unlike the cashier, he pulled them tight enough to make me feel it without cutting off circulation. Just the right pressure. He told me they would hold up to force, and to illustrate, he slipped his finger through the D-ring and jerked my right hand up and towards him. I agreed that they seemed strong. Then I asked politely,

"Is there anything I can use to hook them together?"

Immediately, he ordered the woman behind the counter to get a pair of clip-hooks. He snapped one to each D-ring, then the clips to each other, so that my hands were bound before me. He explained, as I stood before him getting increasingly excited, that it was better to get two clips, so that my arms could be spread and each hand hooked up separately. I also said I liked having both because it was easier to unclip them. I tried to do it, to demonstrate that I could, and with a bit of fiddling got the two middle hooks undone from each other. (I realized after trying it a bit more at Amie's place that it's much easier to unclip one hook from the D-ring of the opposite cuff, but he didn't comment on my struggles, or maybe he enjoyed them.)

I said I would get the cuffs, and the corset-maker sent the female cashier up to the front register. But I said I would like to look around a little more, and he said he would stay to answer any more questions I had. So I put my coat back on and walked around, commenting on the items. As he showed them to me, we began to talk, with him asking me questions such as whether I "play" (I said I was very new to the scene) and what I do for work (I told him I'm a teacher). He showed me a lovely red leather harness that crosses between the breasts and around each thigh, so that, he pointed out, if my legs were spread there would be no straps blocking "access" to me. As he showed it to me, he adjusted the snaps on the harness down as if fitting it to my size. I began to worry that he would ask me to try it on, which suddenly seemed daunting to me, pushing my limits. But, as if sensing my slight hesitation, he added that he was just re-sizing it because someone had set it too big. I was relieved, but also at the same time a little bit disappointed. No, not disappointed. More like curious. I regretted missing an opportunity to try something. I resolved to open myself up a little more to experience.

Next, we walked out of that room to the back of the store, where there was a display of floggers, whips, and canes. I shyly mentioned that I had been thinking about getting a flogger "just for self-flagellation." Eyeing me thoughtfully, he began to show them to me. He held each one up and ran his hands down it, pulling his fingers through the falls. Then invited me to do so as well. I brushed my hand through the black-and-purple flogger he held before me.

"No. Slowly." He ordered.

I slowed my quick brush-through into a more lingering caress. Now I could feel the contrast between the glossy-smooth faces of the falls, their sharp corners, and their rough raw edges. The scent of leather was already rising from them, clinging to my hands. I breathed it in deep and felt the warmth flush between my legs. Maybe he noticed the effect it had on me, because he told me about the leather they were made of and held the falls to my nose so that it was all I could smell, overwhelming and primal.

Next he showed me the flogger's perfect balance by resting it, unfalling, across a single outstretched finger. Then he began to flick the air with masterful grace. Along with the leather one, he also showed me a rubber flogger that made a distinct, thrilling "swish." Almost at the same time, we both remarked on the sound: how the very sound of it in the air could work on someone's mind. Then he said,

"Why don't you take your coat off and I'll show you, just on your arm."

"Yeah," I said just a bit too eagerly, my voice going breathy.

"'Yeah,'" he imitated me mockingly. "You're pretty nasty. A nasty teacher."

He took me to the back of the room, where there was an aisle free. I took off my coat again and set it down, this time on a couch. I glanced towards the distant front door, intensely aware that another customer could walk in at any time. But I was caught up in the moment. I had to let him do it.

He took my right hand and turned it palm up, baring the tender underside of my arm. He said,

"Look at me."

I did it.

"Now close your eyes."

I did it.

He began to whirl the flogger in the air so that I could hear it, but not tell how close it was or when it would strike. Then, suddenly, the edges of the rubber fronds began to lick my arm. The blows, not hard at first, increased, building a stinging heat. It seemed like barely a moment before he stopped. I half-opened my eyes, thinking he was done. I saw him reaching to stroke me and I closed them again as he ran his fingers slowly, sensually, up my arm. It felt hot, tingling, alive.

"You're sensitive," he said.

"I am." I admitted, head bowed and blushing.

He could see me trembling, breathing hard, and asked if I was alright. I said I was.

"You," he said, "are a very good submissive."

"Thank you," I breathed, soft and deep.

He showed me a few more whips then, cracking a bullwhip at a mannequin and demonstrating how to just touch it so as not to slice the skin. He said he actually teaches classes in whipping and bondage, as well as making the instruments. I praised his skills and his craftsmanship. As he had me smell another leather flogger, he leaned forward and wrapped it around my face, reaching halfway around my head and holding me pinned, hard, with the straps around my mouth for four or five seconds. I felt myself go still, but not stiff. It was an obedient stillness. A luxurious single moment of surrender, so short it was over before I could think about it.

"I do that on purpose," he said with a wink when he pulled back.

"Yes, I can tell," I came back lightly.

We settled into some more general conversation as we wandered to the front. I remember him asking me if I'd come in to his shop because of the Fifty Shades of Grey boom, which he claimed to find too "vanilla." I admitted that I'd never read the books because I don't like romance and prefer to write my own kinds of stories. He seemed skeptical but didn't push me on it. Then, he said to me,

"I'll give you my card. If you're ever in town again, come see me and we'll do a scene together."

"Thank you." I said genuinely. "But you know, I'm still very new at this." Also, I added mentally, I'm asexual. How do I handle this strange contradiction in myself?

"Well, small steps," he said, as if reading my mind.

He got me his card and wrote his name on the back, telling me I could reach him at the shop any time during opening hours. Then he escorted me to the front, where I met Amie again and paid for my cuffs. I told Amie they were only 35.00, well within my budget, and he added, "Yes, I've kept her within her budget."

As I went to leave the shop, he leaned over to me and said in an enigmatic tone,

"Remember."

Amie stared at me, giving me a 'what was that all about?' look. But I just smiled and said "I'll remember."

And so we left to talk everything out. I was wet, embarrassingly wet once again, but absolutely elated with my latest escapade. And now, I had a guaranteed way to meet the corset-maker again on my next trip.