He lived in London.  I lived in Southern California.

It was exciting, glamorous and romantic.  We would meet in exotic cities across Europe and in the US.  Paris, Berlin, London, New York, Washington DC, to name a few.

It was also depressing, frustrating and difficult.

But in the midst of the ups and downs, disappointments and thrills, I experienced what few have.

Twelve Perfect Hours

This story must be told in three parts because there was a beginning, a middle and an end, and each deserve their own post.

London.  Late morning.  October – Rain!

Driving in His sexy BMW Roadster, twisting and turning through endless streets to the outskirts of London, I knew something was afoot.  He had suggested as much in His subtle half smile, and once or twice I caught Him staring at me with a look I could not decipher.

The rain had lessened somewhat when we pulled to a stop in a narrow one way street.  Taking my hand and walking swiftly through the drizzle, He refused to answer my questions as He led me towards a one story concrete building – no windows – just a large, foreboding black door sporting a rather formidable black iron knocker.  But He didn’t rap – just pushed – and the door squeaked open.  I found myself staring into a very serious BDSM supply store.

I had never seen anything like it (not that I had been to many BDSM supply stores) and haven’t since.  It had anything and everything imaginable – from specialty furniture items to clothing to all manner of vibrators and dildos – in one very large open space.  Two muscled, tall, leather dressed men stood behind a counter, arms crossed, smiling but clearly not to be messed with.

In the center of the room were a number of circular racks each offering something different, but I  remember the contents of only one.  It held nothing but paddles and straps.  Every shape, size, thickness and color.  He placed his arm around my waist and guided me towards it.

A warning bell went off in my head.  I sensed, I knew what was coming but couldn’t quite believe it…

“Place your hands on the chrome pole, please.”

He couldn’t mean to…

“Please don’t make me repeat myself.”


Curling my fingers around the cold polished steel I could feel my pulse hammering in my temples.   My mind flashed back to the morning when He had picked me up at my hotel.  I was in jeans and He had told me to change into a skirt and boots, insisting on thigh highs.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time —  !!

“Close your eyes, please.”

I could hear the high pitched scraping of hangers.

Oh my God – he’s selecting

I held my breath.  I felt my skirt lift – the air whispering against the back of upper thighs, my black lace panties exposed for the gaze of any pair of wandering eyes.  My face flushed furiously as I  imagined the burly men across the store, standing behind the counter watching, enjoying, then hoped frantically that they were still there and hadn’t wandered silently over to see the view from another, more intimate angle.

“Let’s try this one shall we?”

He was so calm – so controlled – so –

– and it hit, the sound sparking through my ears as the sting bit my flesh.  I clenched my teeth and gripped the bar with all my might.  I did not want to yelp – to cry out – to make a sound.

“Not quite right.”

How long… oh God not again?

Scraping of hangers –

“This looks better.

The wide paddle touched my backside before He rose it in the air and let it land with a thud – a different, heavier pain – a different, heavier sound.  I grunted – and stamped a foot.

“No.  The first one I think.  What do you think, Maggie?  The first or second?  Or would you like me to try a third?”

“First,” I stammered, though how I was able to speak I still do not know.

The skirt fell.

“Stay there.”

Was I embarrassed?  Mortified? Oh yes!

Did I feel incredibly alive?  Tingling? Excited?  Oh yes!

Was there anywhere in the world I would rather have been?  No, no, no!

Moments later I heard Him talking softly, conversing with the deep voice of, I assumed, one of the men.  I waited.  And waited.  I could hear noises, other people talking, giggling – were they giggling at me?  Standing there, slightly bent over, holding the pole?

“You may open your eyes.”

Relief flooded through me as He put His arms around my shoulders.

“Come with me my sweetheart.”

Next stop – a dressing room.  Inside were three corsets, each a different style.  White, black and purple.  He lovingly helped me try each, accidentally on purpose touching between my legs, brushing a nipple or stroking down my back, until a selection was made.  The purple.

Standing at the counter as He made the purchase I couldn’t stand still.  The heat from the paddles had permeated my sex and my being was itchy for attention.  Mr. Muscle caught my eye and a brand new scarlet flush traveled up my neck and across my face.

He saw – He smiled – He took my hand and we left.

I think about that place often.  And those men.  I think about that short 45 minutes – how absolutely perfect it was.  How I wanted to circle the store and touch everything.  How I wanted to provocatively position myself on the various pieces of exotic furniture.  How I would have gladly stayed and stayed, and asked those men a million questions.

And I recall how I had no idea it was just the beginning …