This story was submitted for the 2010 Winter Fetish Contest. Please be sure to rate read and rate each story. When you're finished, visit our sponsor by clicking the banner above. (They have lots of cool stuff!).

Author's Note: A story written some time ago (A camera with film!) that I found recently and still enjoy.


"I can't believe I agreed to wear this," you say to yourself. The skirt is short, barely covering the curve of your bottom. You feel the thong pressing between your legs, never letting you forget it is there. The halter top, the bolero jacket. All do their jobs--barely. The heels are the last element of the outfit--high, curving your legs deliciously.

"Brrrrrrrrring." The sound startles you. You jump, dropping the note you were holding in your hand. The note that led you to this phone, in this busy train terminal. "Brrrrrrrrring." It HAS to be him, you know, so you answer. You hear, "Pick up the note." You start to bend your knees and hear from the phone, "No, bend at the waist. I can see you." You flush, knowing you are exposed, not sure which pair of eyes holds the other phone. You bend over, feeling the skirt ride up, knowing you are revealing more than you thought you would. You straighten, and hear, "Good girl, mostly. Now, close your jacket." You do, holding the phone to your ear, wondering. It covers to your midriff, but leaves a bare stripe of skin until the skirt starts. You move the skirt down involuntarily.

"Now, untie your halter and slip it off," the voice says and you blurt out, "WHAT!?" into the phone. "You heard me, do it. We agreed, you obey, completely. Now, untie the top, then the back, and slip it from under the jacket and unbotton all but one button of the jacket." You nervously look around, then snake one hand to the top, untying it, then under the back, wondering if anyone is paying attention. You murmur into the phone, "OK." And you hear, "OK, what?" And you stammer, "OK . . . Sir."

Tsk tsk tsk, comes through the phone, "Bad girl. Slip out the halter and wipe your brow with it, like it was a hankie." You hesitate, but have no choice. You agreed, the email was explicit, but promised what you wanted. You do it, wiping your brow, then holding the halter in your hand as people move by, mostly ignoring you, but one or two men looking you up and down. "You can put it away." The voice surprises you, but you comply.

"Now, pet, look to your left." You look right and here a voice snap, "Your OTHER left." and you snap your head left. "See the maintenance closet, in the corridor." You murmur, "Yes, Sir" and hear "Good, go there. Inside is a saw horse. Bend over it and wait. Leave the door ajar, leave the brick blocking it, or you will be locked in."

The line dies. You look around, nervous, looking at the door. Looking for me. You move slowly, towards the darker corridor, it seems mostly empty, but the door is 10 feet from the busy main lounge. You approach the door and you hear a voice say, "Hey, you can't go in there!" You stammer, looking blankly at the cleaning man, who looks you up and down and shakes his head, murmuring, "Make you money somewhere else tonight, honey." He winks, then moves on, looking back over his shoulder. When he disappears, you move to the door, slipping inside. It is mostly dark, lit by the dim light of the corridor. You grope your way back and feel the saw horse. Taking a deep breath, you lay your body over it, knowing it will expose your bottom again. You wait.

Time drags--it might be minutes, or more, but you wait, listening to the crowd outside. Suddenly you hear someone at the door, and you scent something, the cleaning man, his strong, cheap cologne. He's at the door! You panic, holding tight to the horse, knowing you are caught. He seems to put something in the closet, and you hear the door shut, the scrape of the brick on the floor, the lock CLICK loudly, and you sigh with relief. Until you recall what the voice said. The door would lock! You're trapped.

You rise, and grope to the door, and suddenly you hear, "I was going to compliment you, but I did not tell you to get up, slut." Oh my God, you think, he's in the room, the voice, the man on the phone! "Sir, I'm sorry! I . . ." Tsk tsk tsk, "You did not trust me. Back to the horse." You grope your way back, bending over again. You feel my presence behind you, my hands run down your legs, moving them out, then cuffing them to the horse. You panic, knowing you are stuck. My hand slips to your arms, cuffing them.

You smell me, hear me, but do not see me. A blindfold slips over your eyes, and you hear a match strike. Your skirt has ridden up, you feel the cool air on your bottom. "30 spanks, pet." You are shocked, "But it was 10, Sir!" I laugh, "Yes, it was, before you screwed up, twice. Once getting caught coming here and once getting up off the horse."

My hand caresses your bottom, lifting up the skift, running my fingers over the patch of cloth on your labia, touching you intimately, finding you wet, labia swollen, clit sensitive as I skim across it. You moan and blush, your lust getting the better of you. I press the g-string into your sex, rubbing you, listening to you moan, "You like it, don't you, my little slut." You nod your head, shamed, wantonly hungry, testing your bonds. I rip the g-string from you suddenly and you cry out again, then my fingers are in your hair, and the g-string, soaked with your juices, is in your mouth. I find the halter you took off and bind the gag into you, and I say, "I was going to make you count, but I think you are too noisy."

Without any warning, the first five spanks land, one side then the other, progressively harder, the last more in the middle. I say, "Is this what you wanted?" I spank five more times, same pattern, harder. You squirm and squeal through the gag, tensing with each blow. Five more, all on the right, one harder than the next, compounded by being in the same spot, then five more on the right, your ass is burning now, tears welling in your eyes.

"I have pictures of you, slut, in the terminal." You hear the autowinder, "And ones from here. Maybe I'll scan them and show them to you. Your red ass, your face blindfolded, breasts spilling out of your jacket." Only then do you realize how exposed you are. You feel you mind yield to the dominance, you body give itself over, "You're mine today." The words ring in your ears. You are here, in a strange place, a stranger having tied you, life going on outside the door. You are surprised to feel the erection pressing against you, entering you, with no choice. You shudder, feeling taken, yet craving the fullness.

I speak, "Ten more, slut, and I want you to make me cum before they are done." The first one lands with a loud CRACK. You jump, then realize I am not moving. The second one lands and you try to move, hard though it is, feeling impaled, bent over and fucked like this. The third blow, harder, the fourth. You fuck this stranger, not knowing what will happen if you fail to make him cum. Five, six, harder, the pain buzzing across your flesh, your wetness seeping around my cock, I grunt at the heat of you, the wetness. Seven, eight--I thrust with the blows, then stop, holding myself deep inside you, landing the ninth blow.

Your body buzzes, you are taken, helpless, but euphoric. Your mind finally yields and it as though the floor has dropped from beneath you. You sink, deep, down into sub space. You feel the tenth blow, then the command, simple, direct, "Cum, slut" and you do, gushing all over me, driving me to the edge, I can take no more and let loose a torrent into you. Your body is wracked with orgasm as I fill you, pounding deep into you. My orgasm subsides, and I slip from you, and again you hear the camera. The blindfold is taken from your face, and you are blinded by the flash and then find darkness as the candle goes out. You feel your mind rising out of the deep subspace and hands gently caressing you, "Good girl. Thank you," I say.

You feel soothed, but your body still tingles. I continue, "You will in the station for at least an hour. In fact, I am going to get these developed. Two sets, one for me, and one for you. I will leave them on the bench next to the phone you used at exactly 5 p.m. Don't look for me. It will be busy, and I don't think you want these pictures in someone else's hands." I slowly untie you, then say, "Count to 50. Leave when you are done, I'll leave the door unlocked. If you disobey, some lucky stranger will get your pictures, and mine will go up on the internet by tomorrow. Your choice." I slip out, and you begin to count . . . 1 2 3 4 5 . . . .