Megan dusted her hands off on her jeans and looked over the small, cheap apartment she shared with her husband Trip. The small apartment in a dirty, dingy building was brightened by four Affixia brand decor hangings--pastel colored triangles and other geometric shapes that somehow seemed to liven their livingroom and kitchen. She wasn't sure how the hangings accomplished that--but it was like a subtle positivity leaked out of them to the surrounding area.
The kitchen floor's old linoleum gleamed like new thanks to the Affixia FloorShine(™) and the Affixia Suction Scrubber (™) which she'd used on her hands and knees (wearing Affixia knee pads--in bright pink). She wouldn't have believed it if someone had told her cleaning the house could produce such a strongly relaxed feeling in her: The actual cleaning had been normally wretched--but despite herself, she felt a sense of accomplishment. Even the degrading feeling of cleaning on her hands and knees (kitchen floor, bathroom, toilet) felt like it had washed over her and now, the apartment fairly sparkling with the spare pieces of decor seeming to elevate the place to... well, not an upscale flat--no--but... not the dump it had been for months after her marriage to Trip (at the county courthouse) five months ago.
Yes: feeling an almost unwelcome lightness from the act of cleaning the apartment from top to bottom, she removed the knee pads. She had to get changed before Trip got home: Friday was her maintenance night. He was going to spank her.
# # #
2 Months Ago: The Stolen Box
Trip worked as the deputy department manager at the ChargeMart Super Store. That (barely) paid enough for them to scrape by (and that was with Trip borrowing some from his mother that he really needed to pay back). The problem was two-fold. The first was that he was slotted into baby clothes where the other employees--all women--didn't take him seriously. He just didn't really know anything about baby clothes. The ChargeMart General Manager, also a woman, was constantly looking over his shoulder.
Hefelt it was humiliating--and it was absolutely necessary that he keep the job no matter what. That was the second problem: she couldn't work. Two years ago, she'd gotten caught for shoplifting. It was only a Class C misdemeanor--she'd gotten time served (a horrible three days) and six months of probation--but it was still on her record and everyone was checking those these days.
She'd been driving around after her latest failed interview. They'd even called her in on the pretense of meeting the hiring team to scold her for lying on her admission form. She was angry and found herself driving through an upscale neighborhood and she channeled her wrath at the smug, successful people in the big homes with tidy lawns and scrubbed SUVs. At home her flat was a darkened dump with dirty dishes overflowing the sink, a near empty refrigerator, and piles of stinking laundry she needed to do.
She felt an ambient fury and, as she drove through the suburb looking out at mailboxes in pastel stucco, going for subtle sophistication. She was looking for a delivery box. She'd spotted it positioned perfectly on the welcome mat before the door and she'd been an idiot. In their little apartment, they didn't have a doorbell camera, but surely all these people did! No matter, she'd parked, slipped out of her car, and wearing her best interview dress, hurried up the path from the sidewalk to the door, picked up the box. Then she'd rushed back to her car... and driven off.
At home, she'd opened it. It had all sorts of flaps and lock-tabs that marked it as a luxury product casing--like something made by Apple. When she lifted the final top cover, it had a magnetic closure device and came away with a satisfying little tug. Whatever was in the box, only marked with a cursive "Affixia" was clearly expensive--designer--high end!
What was inside had utterly confused her. Everything was set off in little dividers in a very dark rose color. The items... the items... were confounding. A thick box in blues was clearly feminine hygiene pads. She set them to the side. Other than the Affixia logo, the writing was entirely unclear. There were little sections on the side of it that had pictures of the thick pads being placed in the user's panties. A clock icon showed a "6hr" time. She smelled a faint hint of 'scent' that wrinkled her nose. She couldn't place it--but it was unmistakably "intimate."
Next was a box of what looked like pregnancy tests, except the small, wordless pamphlet showed pictures of a line drawing of a girl's sex in different states of arousal and a finger near, or touching, her clitoris.
There was a clear bulb of plastic or glass with a small metallic ring inside with a little jewel-like LED on it. The (again wordless) instruction pamphlet showed the user putting the flat end to her clitoris and pushing to signal that it was to attach--pierce--the clitoral hood and attach itself. She balked at the idea of that getting anywhere near her!
There was a carton of "Wax Powder" which she might have used if she could afford a full body wax. There was a little rainbow of lipsticks in a wash of pinkish hues. The pamphlet showed the line-figure girl applying one to her lips--and then to her nipples and labia. She'd dropped it back in the box.
There was a slick, silicone plug--an anal plug. It had a QR code to download a phone app. The picture showed a line-drawing man, using the phone, while a shapely female bottom contained the plug. Some kind of sex toy. She thought Trip might actually like that, but... no.
Realizing she had intercepted someone's very-private order she blushed and felt tendrils of shame within her--but the woman who had ordered this stuff was likely rich, probably holding some attractive, bullshit job like "realtor girl" and clearly had money to burn on designer sanitary pads. She needed to go to the store and spend money she didn't have on them anyway.
So she used the Affixia pads.
They were awful. The pads were thicker than even "heavy flow" pads, and had a slightly mushy feel to them. Somehow the thing was somehow even more "noticeable" than the thick size alone would suggest. Just a few minutes of wearing it gave her light chaffing and... it itched.
The itch was awful: it felt almost 'strategic,' with a dull little 'puddle' of itchiness around her clit and urethra. Thin lines of "sparkling" points of itch down and even into her labia. Even her anus sometimes itched 'brightly' in the stupid thing. It was wretched. It seemed to adhere to her skin, making getting out of it a chore. Fortunately, she was basically at the end of her period so she didn't need to use the stupid things. She threw it out--and then, smelling what seemed like the crazily amplified scent of her sex, tied off the garbage bag and took it out to the dumpster. She was still walking a little funny when she came back in.
If Affixia had a website, they would definitely not be getting a good review. She was going to throw the whole box out when she realized there was another compartment in the pirated box. A long, thin one. She opened it--it was a paddle. At 18" long, it boasted a silicone sleeve grip molded to perfectly fit a hand. The slapping surface had black and dull-pink lines like warning stripes. There was a recessed rubber-coated dial that could select numbers 1 to 7 where the wield's thumb would sit.
It had a small icon of a heart at the end of the striking surface. It came with a little booklet. She paused and opened it. It showed a young woman, done in line drawing, but perfectly capturing her kneeling demurely and contritely before a line-drawing man, shown from the waist down. The girl wore pajamas and held out the paddle out to him as his finger was shown with lines for it wagging--he was lecturing her.
Then she was bent over a bed, the man positioned to the side holding the paddle she'd presented to him. Her pajamas were down showing a bare bottom, her sex depicted as hairless and, given the abstract nature of the material, quite anatomically detailed. A close up showed the man's thumb selecting "3" and then applying it to the girl's buttocks. The line drawing was shaded pink on the paddled orbs. A circular "cut out" showed her face with her mouth open in an 'O' of pain. The drawing showed the skin of her bottom compressing under the stroke.
Weepy, the girl, bottoms still down, planted a kiss on the heart icon on the tip of the paddle and then did 10-minutes of standing in a corner depicted with a clock icon. The line-drawing girl had her hands on her head, the pajama bottoms puddled around her feet, the pink color still persisting.
It didn't end there. The little picture had her over his lap again as he applied some kind of cream to her rear--and then, shockingly, her pajama bottoms still on her ankles, she knelt with her head between his legs. The man wore trousers--but she was clearly sucking his cock.
Little wavy lines showed 'sensation' from her buttocks.
Megan dropped the pamphlet.
Two things struck her: the first was that even the fairly 'clinical' instruction booklet presentation was still somehow, kind of hot. The second was that she knew for a fact that Trip would enjoy that 'role-play' and she would definitely not!
He wasn't a particularly good or experienced lover. She was, if anything, even less experienced--but she was pretty sure that if he saw the pamphlet and she agreed--or just didn't disagree strenuously--he'd probably like seeing her subjugated like that! She had to throw all this stuff out!
She looked at the "pregnancy test" things again. They had shown a girl in various levels of "heat." There were little thermometer icons next to each picture. She wouldn't have said she was "turned on" right then--but she definitely felt... bothered. She pushed up off the floor and took one of the slim little plastic test stick to the bathroom.
