humiliation is best served hot

Two days after a caning at the hands of one boyfriend, the other decided he was in the mood to play. Now, D. isn't really a spanking man. He likes power, control, humiliation. And his sadistic streak is a mile wide, but his tastes run more to the BDSM side of things, although he'll indulge my need for straightforward CP on occasion. But his main kink is dressing up. Or rather, dressing me up. Ridiculously, painfully high heels; stockings (holdups and suspenders; sheer if possible); latex; schoolgirl uniforms. Most of my fetish wardrobe was picked out by D. The rubber nurse dress, the see-through harem girl costume, the dresses that are more hole than dress - even the ones he didn't choose himself were strongly influenced by his tastes. I do, after all, have a very strong desire to please.

I'm in the habit of texting him, before I visit him, to ask whether he'd like me to bring anything to put on once I get there. (Sometimes he doesn't. Yesterday, his reply read

*smiles* Just your lovely self this time. *kisses*

which had me purring before I'd even left the house.) And sometimes he does. Last Friday, he asked me to bring my white slinky night-dress and thigh-high leather boots.

I packed them, and once I'd arrived at his place we chatted and caught up with each other's news. Until he, sitting at his computer desk, asked me, "So what do you want to do, then?"

"Well," I said, shy but determined, "I thought I could maybe put on my pretty boots?"

He smiled at me, the appreciative little half-smile I covet every moment I spend with him. "What a good idea. Why don't you go and do that."

I returned while he was still at his computer, and knelt by his feet, nuzzling his thigh as he finished composing an email. When he'd finished he spun his chair around and looked me over, his eyes glowing with lust and love. A hand trailed lightly up my satin-clad body and I shivered, smiling back at him. He took my hand, helped me to my feet, and led me out of the room. I was a strange mixture of self-conscious and exultant, self-conscious yet basking in his approval.

We stopped in the hallway and he kissed me. Nothing in the world is like his kisses. Melting, feather-light, teasing, promising. Unseen energies seem to entwine as our mouths meet. By the time he released me I was light-headed with arousal. He looked into my eyes, a complex, luminous look of love and joy and desire, and touched a finger to my bottom lip. "Wait here." He disappeared into the bedroom and I rested a hand against the doorframe to steady myself.

He came out carrying a ruler I bought for myself a couple of years ago, and gave to him last summer. It's smooth and unmarked, with rounded edges. Satiny feel of sanded wood. He likes to alternate smacking me and caressing me with it. He told me to bend over right there in the hallway, with my hands on the doorframe supporting my weight. My bottom stuck out at a right-angle, lifted by the high heeled boots. I arched my back and tried to keep my balance as I felt the first stroke of the ruler.

It was pure eroticism: me poised there for his pleasure and mine, teasing me with sensation. Sometimes he likes to torment me more with pleasure than with pain, awakening my inner masochist and then tantalising me by withholding the severity I crave. This time, he wanted me to feel it. I gasped as the ruler struck my bottom and upper thighs again and again, each stroke a quick, sharp flare of pain that left my skin warmed and tingling. Every so often he paused to run a hand over my reddening flesh, resensitizing my skin with the delicate caress. Then he started using the ruler in earnest, a series of hard, quick strokes. I remember being surprised by how hard it was, how relentless. I was torn, simultaneously wanting to arch back towards it and flinch away. He slipped his hand up to my breast and his fingers lightly teased me through the satiny fabric, suspending me between pleasure and pain. I whimpered, completely helpless under his skilful touch.

Later he moved me through to the kitchen. (He likes spanking me in the kitchen.) I put my hands on the edge of the sink and bent over, forced on tiptoe by the heels. He paddled me, alternating firm spanks on each cheek with his thin wooden paddle. After that, I'm afraid my memory gets a little vague. He might have used the ruler again. He certainly pleasured me with his fingers, teasing me and leaving me desperate for more. We moved back to the living room and he proceeded, slowly, and deftly, to take possession of me. The play had left me reeling, dizzy, compliant and utterly his. As he took his pleasure from my willing body, he took full advantage of that fact.

He was rewarding me for my obedience, letting me sit astride him until I'd achieved my own pleasure, when the doorbell rang. He stopped me deftly, lifted me to my feet and started buttoning his jeans. I was bewildered, aching from the release I'd been denied. I'd only been moments away. He grinned at me, reminding me that we'd ordered food about an hour ago. "Go and answer the door, then."

So it was that I opened the door and paid for our delivery while dressed in thigh-high black leather boots and a white satin slip, bottom and thighs recently spanked, blushing hotly from tousled hair to trembling breasts. My humiliation was complete - and, with it, his possession of me. I don't know if I was more flushed from embarrassment or from our recent activities. I made as little eye contact with the delivery guy as possible, grabbed the food boxes, shoved the money at him, mumbled my thanks and slammed the door shut. I was back in the living room when the doorbell rang again - he'd forgotten to hand us one of the items. D was merciful enough to answer the door and collect the extra box, but it was small relief. His grin when he joined me in the lounge was positively sadistic.

He did let me achieve the release I needed, though. Twice, in fact. Our dinner was cold by the time we finally got round to eating it, but I don't think either of us minded.