She put the big flannel shirt sheslept in beside her and removed her bra. She felt asudden moment of embarrassment, as if she hadexposed her breasts...to a stranger, but, of course,there wasn't another human being for at least threemiles. She put on the night shirt and then reachedunder it to remove her jeans and panties. Again,she felt strangely embarrassed, for no reason at all. She wasn't possessed of undue modesty. Just toprove to herself, she took off the night shirt andstood, stark. “Ouch!!!! That really hurt!” I exclaimed.“You forgot to count or say Thank You, Madam, so that stroke will be given again.” Connie said.I felt the tapping again, heard the whistle, and felt the severe pain, again. “One. Thank You, Madam.” I said.“Very good,” Connie said.Then I counted as Connie administered two more strokes of the cane. Now it was Jane’s turn. Her strokes hurt as much as Connie’s. Before Jane’s last stroke, Connie said, “Give his last stroke in this area.” I felt her. She, M. was in her early 20s, a student at the local University, white, about 5’5”, with short, boyish, black hair and dressed in pretty ordinary clothes: Tight jeans, loose top with a heavy-duty brown jacket with huge, fur-lined lapels. She wore high-heeled ankle-boots and surprisingly little make-up. A small handbag and a mobile phone was all her hand luggage. They chatted for a bit as K. drove down the whole length of Boris Avenue once more.After the usual pleasantries he asked what she. More often than she would like to admit. And with John spending nearly every night in that damned garage, doing whatever, she found their bouts of intimacy coming fewer and farther between. After confiding in a friend that sex was sparse these days, her friend suggested a massage wand as a vibrator. She remembered being so ashamed when the store clerk across town smirked as she bought it. But it had become an important part of her life, to be honest. That vibrator had become her primary source.
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