Sunday Spanklet - Novel purchase

Spanklet  (n.) - definition - a very short story where an individual is spanked or caned.
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"Looking for something in particular ?"

"Just browsing thanks." I smiled at the young man behind the counter.

"Well don't forget that we are here to sell you know, not just to provide shelter from the rain."

"I won't," I replied cheerily, moving around the room.

The shop front had been dark, not really advertising what was inside. I had found the address from the web and I had some time to spare in that area of Oxford street so I searched it out. I know most of the sex shops to the south of Oxford street, in the Soho area, but had never discovered this one, which was located more in office and hotel land.

There was no mistaking the fact that it was a leather emporium for gays, both men and women.

 I am not homosexual, or so I  keep telling myself, but I have had homoerotic experiences as a teenager and I do like wearing ladies knickers so maybe there is something as yet unrevealed in my psyche.

The rubber-wear on the racks did not appeal and the leather bondage gear was not something I could see myself taking home to my wife and Mistress. (Here darling, can we try this tight harness tonight? - I don't think so.)

I dallied a while at the strap-on and dildo section. Some of the dildos were like super-sized and I have no ideas how those are accommodated. I gazed longingly at a nice light strap-on assembly, wishing that my Mistress would indulge me in that fantasy. She is happy to occasionally insert a vibrator but says she will not get into the gear so to speak.

When I arrived at the BDSM area of the shop there was more to interest me. Handcuffs, wrist restraints, leather paddles and so on. As I lifted a very nice long crop with a silver topped grip from its hook on the wall, a voice behind me made me jump.



"Try before you buy, if you like?"





I turned to see the young store assistant only a few feet away. He reached forward to take the crop from my hands.

"Receive or give?" he quizzed, as if he was asking for my shoe size.

"Er, receive I suppose"

"Well things are quite right now. Drop your trousers and bend over."

"What?"

"Do it."

I put down my briefcase and unbuckled my belt underneath my suit jacket. As the trousers fell to the floor I turned away and assumed the position, half bent forward from the waist and hands on my outstretched knees. I felt the jacket being lifted behind me and the cool air on my bare thighs and pants.

The crop landed hard across my cheeks. Harder than I had ever been hit before in fact.The pain ripped through my bottom and into my brain. I gasped a breath.

"Like it?" he asked.

"No, yes, no I don't know. Its tough".

"So take another one."

He struck again, low down this time and I nearly tipped forward into the display.

"You chose an expensive one.This is hand braided leather on a lexan nylon rod. Very good craftsmanship."

The third stroke hit the fold between the top of my legs and the curve of my bottom.

"How much is it?" I asked between gritted teeth.

"Fifty pounds." He struck again. "Or you can have a discount if you buy something else as well."

Twice more he lifted the crop high and crashed it into my bottom.

"Fifty pounds!", I thought to myself. My wife would go mad but it did feel good, if you like the pain.

"OK, OK yes. I'll take it"

"Sort yourself out then and I'll wrap it for you. If you see anything you like, bring it to the till."

I rubbed my bottom and pulled my trousers up.

There was nothing else I wanted to buy right then and I probably did not have the money anyways, so I made my way to the till. A girl walked through the shop door just as I was reaching for my wallet. She came up to the desk to talk to the owner.

"Mmm, nice whip," she said, admiring the crop as the young man wrapped it in brown paper and taped down the edges.

"He seemed to like it," he said, nodding in my direction.

"Ah I see, you had a test run. Well I could always give you some more if you want to come downstairs."

"I think I'm OK thanks." I rubbed my bottom. "What's downstairs?"

"Just a bit of dungeon space. For private parties or special guests."

"It's a nice idea,"  I said, as I keyed in the pin numbers of my charge card, "but I don't really have the time. I've got a meeting."

"Shame.Come back afterwards if you want. I'll be here all afternoon now until seven.". 

I picked up my parcel and briefcase and turned to make my way out.

"Have a good one," the girl gave me a cheery goodbye. "And don't forget to come back."

I set off for the train station. I didn't really have another meeting, I had just made that up.

As I sat down in the train I wondered about that dungeon affair and resisted the urge to pick up my stuff from the rack above my head and head back to the shop. 

"Better not," I thought. I already had some unexplained marks on my bottom which I would have to keep to myself for another day or so. That meant that I had to keep the crop under wraps as well, because my wife would surely want to use it and might see some evidence of the beating.

I would save it for special occasion. Maybe that holiday we are planning in the Lake District.

Still, it would only be a couple of weeks before I would be back in London. Maybe I could find time to visit that shop again?

As the train pulled away from the platform, I settled back into my chair appreciating the tingle in my bottom as I slid down and stretched out my legs. I closed my eyes, day dreaming of a return visit to the shop.