Flash fiction: Fluffy Toys

I really should space my blog posts out better, but when I have an idea I get impatient. I've just penned this somewhat silly bit of 500-word flash fiction. I'm never likely to write a 'serious' story set in a BDSM club, but this just popped out. It's very tongue-in-cheek:

Cassie was repeating her safeword silently to herself in her mind as the taxi pulled up at the club. "Goldfish, goldfish, goldfish." But she kept her jaw locked shut to stop it escaping. She would not let this beat her. She knew she could do it. She could just imagine the look on everyone’s faces though – the shock, the sniggers. Her cheeks reddened at the very thought. These people were friends and more than friends, fellow kinksters who gathered once a month for a private play party where they could try new things, new equipment, learn from each other.

But worse than the image of their gaping was the thought that Lee was having a joke at her expense. He’d been smirking to himself since he first dangled them in front of her face at home as they’d got ready. In all the things they’d done together, laughing at her had never featured.

He helped her out of the cab and she put on her best five-inch-heels swagger. Lee liked her in heels and had perfected the art of incorporating them into her bondage. She thought he might have something of that kind in mind tonight, something that would draw a little crowd around them as he showed them where the ropework started, which knots to use, talking over her as if she were a plastic dummy.

He took her coat from around her shoulders at the front desk and handed it to the attendant. She took in a deep breath and allowed him to urge her forward with a hand on the top of her back. A bouncer swung open the door and she walked in. She wondered if she could sidle down the side of the room before anyone noticed them, but Lee had other ideas.

He steered her to a clear space in the middle of the room, a space that would become occupied later, but which, for now, had been left empty while people sat at the round tables surrounding it.

“Stay there. I’m going to the bar.”

She stood, back straight, cheeks flushed. It wasn’t the shoes that were padlocked to her ankles, it wasn’t the fishnet stockings or the tiny leather shorts. It wasn’t the tightly laced corset that pushed her tits into round globes – until someone unzipped the cups to expose them later. Not even the leather collar locked around her throat. She waited for someone to notice.

Then it happened. A hush as general chatter stopped and little whispers ran from table to table around her like a Mexican wave. She refused to hang her head. She kept her chin up and tried to maintain a serene demeanour.

She heard a woman at a table behind her. “Are they... what I think they are? Seriously? She’s wearing fluffy handcuffs? Here?” A pause. “They are. They’re pink, fluffy handcuffs. I can’t believe it.”

Cassie could believe it. Lee had surpassed himself this time. She’d never had the – was it luck or misfortune? – to be the sub of such a ruthless sadist before.

****

Flash Fiction: Under My Heels

The few friends I discuss my writing with occasionally say, 'Why don't you write the next Fifty Shades and make your fortune?' and I have to explain that I don't write like that (so many reasons it's beyond this blog post to explain). But since there is so much excitement over billionaires in swanky offices and so many books in which the heroine seems to literally stumble into the presence of these hunky chunks of Alpha male, I thought I'd give it a go. So, in a mere 500 words, here's my romance between an uber-rich industrialist and a lowly freelance designer:

Under My Heels

I shifted my booted heels on Samuel’s back. He gulped back the groan that built in his throat, beneath the black leather collar I had given him. He had the obedience on his hands and knees of a man who had spent many thousands on the most discreet dominatrixes New York could offer. I was surprised he’d never crossed my path before.

We started off like some kind of corny romance. I fell at his feet. Literally. I’d landed a meeting to discuss freelance opportunities at his firm in my day job as a graphic designer. I stumbled on a loose corner of carpet in front of his desk. Okay, so it wasn’t so much like a corny romance; his swanky offices were sorely in need of a refurb. Anyway, he rushed round to help, dropping to his knees facing me. I got up without his aid, but he stayed there, developing a glazed look as he eyed my shiny, spike-heeled boots. I mostly dress conservatively for my day job, but I can’t give up the footwear.

I knew that glassy look. Here was a man who fantasised about being on his knees at the feet of a cruel and beautiful mistress. Fortunately for him I was both.

‘Enjoying yourself down there, Mr Monton?’ I asked, shifting my toe to beneath his open mouth.

‘Um, I was admiring your boots. Sorry, Ms Anderson. You are Ms Anderson, I presume?’

His uncertainty was amusing. The billionaire founder of Monton Industries, stammering over the pointed black leather of a woman’s shoe.

‘Yes, I am Ms Anderson.’ I offered a hand and encouraged him to rise. ‘And I’m here about the design work.’

I got the contract. And an invitation to dinner. Normally I kept business and pleasure, or should I say business and my other business, separate. But Samuel Monton fascinated me. His need to submit bubbled so close to the surface it took only a woman’s stumble to have him grovelling on his worn, grubby carpet. The right woman, of course. But he could pay for the best so why was his desire unsatisfied?

I ordered the most expensive fillet steak, rare, and a bottle of vintage Barolo. He ate a very restrained Caesar salad and sipped water as though we had already entered into an arrangement of mistress and slave. He seemed to have forgotten his need for utmost secrecy, to keep his deviance out of the newspapers.

‘There’s something about you mistress,’ he said. ‘Something sensual and powerful that I’ve never experienced before.’

He wanted me to give up my other clients and work only for him as his Domme, set up in my own penthouse apartment. I refused. I refused to give up clients who relied on me and who allowed me to express myself in a way I find particularly satisfying. But I also refused his money, his apartment, gifts of clothes and diamonds. That’s how I knew. I was falling in love with this slave.

© Tilly Hunter