The Red Collection Read Online Free Page B

hushed tones. ‘And the severe attentions of my husband. No observers … No manual pleasure to be given.’ Although I am not supposed to, I look up and see her roll her expressive eyes. ‘Just the strap. Laid on with energy. For extended periods.’
    ‘And this will be Susan’s room,’ she says a little later, conducting us into a bedroom decorated in a delicate Victorian style. There is a proliferation of chintz, a very beautiful armless nursing chair, an elegant chaise longue. It is warm and cosy, and the air is rich with the essence of quiet, domestic discipline. I already see myself in a long, white nightdress of perfect purity, my buttocks uncovered as I lie across the bed, waiting to receive what is due to me.
    The picture is so vivid, so meltingly appealing, that I long for it immediately to be real. Without thinking I gyrate my naked bottom, and my Master – ever watchful – notices the movement.
    ‘Perhaps Susan can be punished here now?’ he suggests, striding over to a dressing table cluttered with antique knickknacks. He lifts a simple wooden hairbrush from amongst the profusion of gilt and crystal, and holds it out towards Madame, whose eyes light up with undisguised glee.
    ‘Of course, Monsieur, I would be happy to accommodate you,’ she says gaily, already seating herself on the chaise and arranging her skirts. My Master catches my eye, then nods in Madame’s direction.
    Silently, obediently, I shuffle towards her, and skilfully she tips me across her lap.
    It takes just a few moments to position me correctly. Madame slides my knickers down to my ankles, but leaves them there. ‘I find that underwear left around the feet impedes kicking … Especially when tangled around high heels.’ My arms are forward, but she asks me to cross my hands at the small of my back. When I comply she firmly grips my wrists.
    Waiting, I stare at the patterned carpet, aware that my Master has handed the brush to Madame Guidetty. I smell his cologne as he sits down beside us on the chaise, then feel the gentle touch of his caressing hand as he strokes my hair.
    When the first hard blow smashes on to my bottom, I start to cry …
    That was over a week ago, and now my Master is far away, and overseas.
    I miss him, of course, but other pains are soothing the pain of us being apart. These pains are less abstract, and more absorbing; they divert the mind.
    And this is why I’m lying face down, my buttocks bare, on my chintz-clad bed.
    A little over a quarter of an hour ago, Madame Guidetty finished giving me a rigorous caning. My nightly punishment. I can still feel the savage line of each sharp cut she laid upon me; the grid of fire she worked so cleverly across my flesh. My snorts of distress are still ringing in my ears.
    I cried pathetically, of course, but my Master will enjoy that. I can just imagine his secret pleasure when he receives the video.
    Maybe he’ll find amusement in the interlude which followed too. The sight of my engorgement being resolved by Florenza’s tongue.
    So, here I am, my dearest Master
, I think, mentally composing an intimate letter to accompany the tape.
My bottom’s hot, and it’s caned bright red, just how you like it. But because it hurts, it reminds me of you, and I don’t feel lonely
.
    That’s true. Reaching behind me, I finger my weals, their fire my solace.
    I miss you madly, but I know I’m in the best of hands
…

This Very Boutique
    ‘GOOD AFTERNOON, SIR , and welcome to The Boutique. How may we help you this afternoon?’
    Sir strolls into the showroom, then halts right in the centre and slowly looks around. His sharp gaze flits hither and thither, alighting on the various samples set out for display in a studiedly casual arrangement across the sideboard, the occasional tables and elsewhere. We offer a very personal hands-on service here in this bijou little establishment and we like our shoppers to feel as comfortable and relaxed as they would do in their own homes. So