"May I help you find something or would you just like to browse?"
"Well, actually, you might help me. A friend, Tom Hobbes, referred me to you," I said with some trepidation. "He said you have some truly special showrooms with extraordinary items." My prepared speech delivered, I hoped I would not have to ad lib to get what I really wanted.
The main gallery of the store was hardly as I had pictured this porn shop would look. No convex mirrors up in the corners. No poorly dressed men leering at the covers of slick magazines entombed in polyethylene bags. No smell of smoke or indifferent minimum wage clerks putting in another endless shift. The membership card--at $100--effectively screened out the rabble.
"Certainly," returned the mellifluous baritone voice from behind the counter. "Mr. Hobbes is one of our truly loyal customers. But if you could be a bit more specific about your interests I could take you to one of our private salons in the back. Perhaps you like the leather vests and pants and things of that nature?"
"Well, yes," I stammered, "but that's not really quite what I thought you might have."
"We have a large and elegant selection in the area of lingerie and of rubber garments," he replied, looking with some hope on his face that the guessing game might end.
"Not really," I answered. I just could not get it out but the clerk, being a true professional, gently continued to narrow things and now knew what I wanted without my telling him.
"Ah, then, of course," he said, a large smile lighting his face as he came out from behind his counter. "I should have known, with Mr. Hobbes as your reference! Please come along with me, sir, and I think you will be quite pleased with our stock and selection." (Did I really look like a "sir", I wondered?)
I followed him through the main front part of the boutique and then down a thickly carpeted hallway past several doors which led to the various salons he had been offering. In one room mannequins decked out in all varieties of French style lingerie stood stately and still staring at a wall covered with racks of spiked heels. Directly opposite the only door into this room floor to ceiling mirrors on the doors of fitting rooms returned my glance. Another salon seemed to offer every imaginable item of clothing in both latex and leather. Again, well crafted mannequins of both genders modeled the garments found on the clothing racks scattered about the room. I found myself stopping to gaze in wonder and then hurried to catch up with my guide. The third of the four salons came up and he ushered me in with a gracious sweep of his arm.
"Here you are, sir," he said. "Please take your time and shop. Should you have any questions, feel free to buzz me on the intercom: I'll be back to help you. If you are uncomfortable with other customers present you can make a special appointment to return in the evening after regular hours. We even have a 'fitting room' over there to try things out if you wish." He pointed to a door in the far corner of this gallery through which, at the moment, one of the two customers in the room was disappearing.
"Or if you like, I would be willing to give any potential purchase a try on you before you make a decision. As you wish." And then he disappeared leaving me alone in the room.
This was something for which even my lurid imagination had not prepared me. The room was large, open, and well lit with glass display cases placed about as one might find in a museum gift shop or well designed jewelry store. Thick carpeting, expensive furniture, and modern abstract paintings completed a warm but exciting decor. The one customer still in the room paid no attention to my intrusion into his heretofore exclusive domain and was studying the goods in one of the display cases on the far side of the room. His companion, a young man about thirty-five or forty with a model's figure and high fashion clothing had disappeared into the silence of the fitting room alluded to by my guide. There were just two doors in the room--the one by which I had entered and the one by which he had left. I stood in my doorway absorbing this unexplored treasure.
He saw me, smiled, and then took from the case before him a highly polished wooden paddle, much like those we used to get with a rubber band and ball attached when we were kids--but a bit larger. After giving it a good long look, he lifted it and smacked it down on his open palm.
"What do you think? Worth a try?" he asked, looking to me for advice. "Should do the job, no?" The accent was British bastardized by a few years of living in New York. Again, the smile.
"Yes . . . sure," I replied, not quite certain what to say but returning his smile.
"Oh, now here is one even tastier," he said, returning the first paddle to the display case and taking another. This one was a bit longer and narrower, also thicker; somewhat like a fraternity paddle but thinner and with a satin ribbon wound round a padded handle. It, too, was highly shellacked and polished.
"Looks devilishly nasty to me," I offered as I walked over to the case in which he was appraising the paddles offered for sale. A small round sticker was attached to the back of the paddle announcing its price, in this case thirty dollars. "That 'should do the job', as you say, quite nicely."
"Think so?" He again gave his open palm a sample. "Oh, yes, indeed. This one deserves a trial." He disappeared through the door to the fitting room.
Some gremlin somewhere turned on the music and a queer combination of jazz and reggae danced through the room. The case before me offered a magnificent selection of fifteen or twenty different types of paddles, most wood but several of leather. One looked like the oven shovels used in pizzerias, a wide oval about a quarter inch think with a broomstick type of handle set on end. There were the usual standard types found in most nineteenth-century schoolrooms, and varieties of rulers from one foot long to a standard wooden yardstick. I picked up one of the more exotic paddles which had half inch holes drilled randomly across its surface. The air whistled through these holes when I swung it.
A loud "craaack!" broke through the music and it then became clear what was taking place in the so-called fitting room. As I returned the exotic paddle to its shelf and chose another to examine, a second loud "smack" followed the first. I wondered who behind that door was on the giving end and who was the recipient. After several more whacks had resounded through the room, the man with whom I had been visiting returned through the door and I had my answer. His companion remained in the fitting room.
"Quite efficacious!" he said as he put the paddle back on the glass mount. "But I do like to shop," he added with a demonic grin, "even if Sean doesn't!". After a minute of looking over the rest of the stock, he moved on to another case which offered the largest selection of hairbrushes I had ever seen anywhere. Small, thick backed brushes, large round plastic brushes, oval walnut models, and even a few authentic antique hairbrushes.
Now drawn into this surreal scene, I followed him to this case and once again just stood there staring as he hefted first one, then another.
"My mother had one almost identical to this," I said more to myself than to him as I took one of the antique brushes from its pedestal in the case. It was a Pearson from many, many years ago, well made, fairly large, good heft. And it was marked at one hundred dollars! Boy, did this one bring back the memories. And for that price I wondered what had become of my mother's.
"Well, then, you tell me," he said. "How does this one feel when properly applied?"
"Wicked, as I remember," I said, opening the conversation meant for myself to him. "This was the basic tool with which I was brought up and the memories are still warm, I would say." Pun intended and he took it with another huge grin.
"In that case, I should like to give it a go," he said as he held out his hand. I gave it to him. Once more he disappeared through the door in the corner and I heard the unmistakable sounds of the hairbrush on his companion's backside. As a half dozen well interspersed whacks resounded from the adjoining room I moved over to yet another display case. It was impossible not to imagine in my mind's eye the scene taking place behind the closed fitting room door. In one sense there was little doubt, but my prurient curiosity wanted to know the details. Was he getting it while across his knee? Or kneeling? Or in the time honored bend-over-and-grab-the-ankles position? Was that wool suit still in place sans slacks? Or had he had to strip down to the buff from the waist? Was he playing the stoic? Were there any tears or silent pleas? And what of those magnificent buttocks encased in the well fitted slacks the last time I had seen him as he disappeared through that door? Pink now? Or ruby red? Or a deeper scarlet with dark blotches? My imagination ran through all the possibilities at lightning speed and the erotic excitement in that brief span of several minutes put a wet spot on my briefs.
As much as I was entranced with this bazaar of spanking implements I would have loved to have had the nerve to open that door just a crack for one brief peak at the scene being played out behind it. But that much nerve I did not have so I turned my attention to this third case. Serious spankers only, in this one. A broad selection of the mainstay of the Anglophiles here, with canes from a pencil thin foot long model to a thirty inch Malaccan with which two strokes could reduce the most hardened devotee to tears. There were half a dozen of the old public school canes with the crook on one end, several Dickensian switches, and to the rear of the case several bunches of birch withes tied with silk ribbons stood soaking in crystal vases. Next to the vases a stack of small, illustrated brochures printed on parchment gave instructions on keeping the birch properly moist. (Thirty-five dollars a bunch, if you are wondering, and one hundred for the vase. But then everything in the place was expensive--and well worth its price.) I took one of the more modest canes from the rack and tested it with a flick of the wrist. The hiss betrayed its modest appearance: this was not something I would be eager to experience. As I returned it to its place Mr. Whateverhisnamewas returned from his hairbrush "fitting."
"Still not exactly what I think I am looking for," he said. The hairbrush looked none the worse for wear; I doubt the same could be said for his stylish companion still caged in his voluntary prison.
"Sounds to me like it worked just fine," I said. My curiosity had erased any modesty and caution which I felt with this stranger. I would have given nearly anything just for a long look behind that door. "At least I'm glad you're trying them out on him and not me. I know what that last one feels like from personal experience and am not interested in becoming reacquainted with it."
"Don't worry about dear Sean. I've gotten it much worse than that from him I can tell you. And quite often."
Well, that was interesting. Apparently this pair switched! He moved to yet another area of the room I had not yet discovered. Once again I joined him in 'shopping.' This was my kind of case, this one. On the top shelf a nice selection of Scottish tawses, some with two fingers, one with four, one with five. I took one from the group, a thick one and stiff. It was about twenty inches long, an inch and one half wide, and was split into two fingers the last half foot of the business end. My erotic energy level rose just running it through my hands. Another was wider, thinner, and so supple it fell limp when I held it out at arm's length. In my mind I saw myself kneeling on the bed and looking back through my knees at this menacing strap as Tom took aim at my bared backside.
"Like that one, do you?" He broke into my brief reverie.
"Oh, well . . .," I stammered, my face burning pink. And quickly put it back.
A half dozen leather straps in varying lengths, widths, thicknesses, shapes adorned a second shelf. There were two razor strops, one brand new and the other a classic antique just pleading--for seventy dollars--to be taken home! In the bottom of this case a half dozen or eight riding crops. One with a three inch leather thong attached to the tip; another with a doubled leather triangle. Most were stiffened with a thin rod of some sort under the braided leather, several were the 'limp' variety. There were none which I would be interested in having Tom try on me. But I knew if he had come with me and I were in that fitting room right now he would not have hesitated to try one out.
"You choose," he said. "Really, you pick one out." He assured me with a sincere look that he actually wanted me to become part of his little playlet. There was no doubt that Sean could hear us from the next room, even over the music. And no doubt my shopper wanted to add a gentle humiliation to his punishment. "Sean won't mind, I assure you: he likes a good stiff thrashing."
"I really couldn't," I answered, blushing. But I could and I knew it. I not only could, I would enjoy the opportunity and likely come in my pants if he actually followed through with this.
"Certainly you can, sir. In fact, you look to me like a bit of a connoisseur in this, quite knowledgeable indeed. Please?"
With no hesitation I plucked that stiff, two-fingered tawse from the top shelf and held it out to him. This one was new, never used. And it was cowhide, tanned to a deep brown. A hundred times in my erotic fantasies I had imagined Tom bending me across the back of a chair for a licking with a strap like this. And now some total stranger called Sean was going to get it, stealing my fantasy. He took the strap from me, winked almost imperceptibly, and rolled his eyes toward the door which led to Sean. Then he went through that door for the third time.
"Please, Roger, no!" Sean had spoken for the first time since I had come into the salon. Very softly, but he did protest with a plea that sent a shiver through me and the shadow of a smile to my mouth. "Please don't," he pleaded a second time.
But Roger did not answer him and a silence of thirty or forty seconds followed Sean's request before Roger's reply echoed through the room like a starter's pistol shatters the tense silence at the start of the race. "Give it to him good," I thought. "Make him dance, Roger." And Roger, taking his good time, did make Sean dance for the next minute. Every fifteen or twenty seconds the telltale "splat!" of leather on bared skin added two more angry red stripes to poor Sean's already well-heated derriere. Had I even touched myself I would have come in my pants. Then the silence returned for what seemed like the longest time. Minutes later the door opened and Sean walked out toward me followed by Roger.
"You picked a beauty," Roger said. "And we'll take this one, too!" He went over to the case with the hairbrushs and took the Pearson.
Sean locked his eyes on mine with a look between hatred and haughtiness boring into me. He was once again encased in his expensive wool business suit, a regimental bow tie the only splash of color except for the flushed cheeks. I thought I saw the trail of a tear on each and wondered how he had taken that last spanking--on top of the previous paddlings--without crying out. We stood only a few feet apart locked in a visual embrace. Roger came over and handed the hairbrush and the tawse to Sean.
"Take these to the front counter and pay for them, will you, Sean?" he asked politely, handing him a credit card. "They will do quite well, don't you think?"
Sean was not speaking.
"I asked you a question, Sean," Roger said, still polite but now with a bit of an edge to his voice.
"Yes, Roger, they will do very nicely," he answered quietly, the blush on her still pink cheeks deepening. Then he quickly slipped out of the room and down the corridor to the front shop.
"Here's my card, if you think you might like to get together with us sometime." He handed me an embossed business card. An accountant with a LaSalle Street firm. We have a small group which gets together on occasion and I think you would enjoy us. And your 'significant other,' as they say, would be most welcome, too."
"Thanks." I took the card, shook his offered hand, and slipped the card into my wallet. "I shall relay your invitation to my friend Tom and perhaps he will be calling you," delivering an implicit, but clear message about my own status.
"Please do that." He then quietly disappeared.
Finally alone in this garden of delights my curiosity led me to the door behind which Sean had disappeared just a half hour ago. I opened it cautiously and peered in. It was rather spartan with just one furnishing, an elegant French provincial straight backed chair which sat dead center in this six by eight foot space. There was a hook on the back of the door on which two empty hangers swung and each of the three other walls had a floor to ceiling mirror about two feet wide attached at the mid-point. Had Roger taken Sean over his knee, I wondered? Or had Sean stood behind the chair and bent over the back to grab the sides of the seat? Or had he assumed the position Mark often required of me: kneeling on the chair, bent forward over the side with palms to the floor? Just reviewing the possibilities rejuvenated my erotic excitement level and I found myself sneaking a hand down toward my crotch: I would have loved to have seen what I had heard. And I wondered if Sean and Roger were by now engaged in an entirely different scenario.
There was still a fourth display case I had not yet explored and behind it, just inside the entrance to the salon, an antique oak buffet with a matching cupboard mounted on it. These offered a potpourri of spanking paraphrenalia and less traditional means than the paddles, hairbrushes, canes, birches, and leather straps of the previous displays. Several wood pegs on the fascia of the buffet held French martinets with menacing serpentine thongs extruding from engraved, highly polished handles. I took one from its perch and ran the half dozen narrow strips through my hand. Unable to resist, I raised it high over my right should and whipped the thongs downward at an imaginary target just to hear the hiss. No thank you; even an addict has limits. After replacing the martinet I took a length of rubber hose from the open glass case. Twenty inches long, the hose was about a half inch in diameter. One end had been fashioned into a handle by inserting a foot long quarter inch dowel inside the core and then wrapping the outside with bicycle handlebar tape. This had more promise, I thought, and remembered my dad telling me the (probably apocryphal) stories of his days in a parochial grade school where the principal employed a rubber hose to keep order. Even in his older age, he had spoken with awe of the efficacy of spankings with a rubber hose. After swatting it down across my open palm the red mark which soon appeared and the spreading sting which accompanied the rise of the welt impressed me. Quiet, effective, innocuous appearing. "This one has possibilities," I thought to myself, and checked the price--a relatively modest fifteen dollars.
The cupboard also offered a variety of side dishes for spankers (and spankees). Silk braided ropes, leather cuffs for the wrists or ankles, some common spring loaded clothes pins, masquerade ball blindfolds, black silk sleeping masks, and a selection of British spanking magazines and videos. "Caned at Chapel" screeched the cover of one color slick; "Truly Authentic Spankings" claimed the dust jacket of a video cassette; "Public School Punishments" offered an enticing photo of an adolescent appearing boy about to taste the cane from an older man dressed as one might believe a nineteenth-century public school headmaster might dress. Beneath the shelves of magazines and videos several shelves offered books on spanking, both classics and new: illustrated fiction, some anthologies, a few published newsletters of clubs and private printers. All of it tempting, but I was already well beyond the time I needed to make it out of the Loop before the afternoon rush.
Promising myself solemnly to return to spend more time--and to bring Tom with me--I found my way back down the hall to the front part of this special boutique and stopped at the counter where my 'host' sat patiently.
"Nothing for you today, sir?" he inquired. "Surely you there must be some way we can tempt you to sin with your lover?"
"More than I can deal with the first time here, I guess. But I'll return, believe me!
This conversation quickly moved from suggestive repartee to entendre and past explicitly suggestive to almost embarrassing. But it was yet one more delightful erotic encounter in this truly unusual shop.
"Thanks," was all I could say, somewhat befuddled by this conversation. "See you again."