Further Shopping

The next stop in Blair’s itinerary requires a visit to the town centre. It’s a grubby place. The rebels of your childhood would claim to be regulars in the darker pubs of the town. You avoided it.

Having lived in a city for the last 10 years, the seediness now looks quaint. There’s no biker bars, just bars where the patrons prefer leather. The red-light district is just a few houses that keep their purpose veiled.

Blair’s destination is a sex shop. From the outside the only indication it is such is the notice telling you that patrons must be over the age of 18. The cashier is just a grubby man, who looks your way when you enter, checks you out, and then spends the rest of your visit checking Blair out. Can’t blame him on that.

Inside, the purpose of the shop is obvious. You’ve never been inside a sex shop before. Your knowledge of them is from porn videos and friends’ gossip. What you see is what you expect, give or take.

There’s still a rack of DVDs with lurid names. That surprises you, because you thought on-line porn would have destroyed DVD sales. Then there’s an array of lingerie, a few female mannequins sporting lacy and racy versions. Blair ignores them and goes straight to the back.

You pass a wall of toys. A rack of dildos, vibrators and strap-ons. Interestingly, most of them appear smaller than your magically modified implement, but then there are some that look ridiculous. Surely there’s no way a woman could get one that size inside her.

“You like pegging,” Blair whispers into your ear when she sees you ogling the wall. You’re flummoxed. You turn to say no, but you can’t find the words. “Maybe later,” she replies before you do find them.

Then she’s where she wants to be, and she’s picking up objects and passing them to you. A couple of spanking paddles.

“Why do we want two?”

“Different flexibility,” she states, waving the paddles to show their range. “Different levels of enjoyment.”

Then she picks up a whip, a small one with multiple strands. She laughs when she sees you flinch. “Maybe not straight away, but we might as well get it now.”

A ball gag, which she measures by asking you to open your mouth. A couple of blindfolds. Then onto manacles. She picks a couple. “I like your leather ones, but these are sturdier.” Then onto chains. “These should tie you to your bed.”

Next, she fusses over dog collars, until she finds one in black leather that fits you and has the words “Mistress’ pet” emblazoned in pink letters. “Perfect.”

You take your load to the counter. The cashier smirks to see it all.

“Someone’s looking to enjoy themselves.”

“Oh, I am,” Blair replies. Then she leans in and grabs the biggest tube of lube she can find. She puts that with the other items. “Until I get used to it, I’m going to need some of this. I was quite sore after last weekend. Not as sore as I expected, but that’s probably because you got my juices flowing.”

She was clearly saying that as much for the cashier as for you. He rings it all up. That’s when you realise, she’s expecting you to pay for it all.

“I don’t know if I have the money. We haven’t been paid yet.”

“Put it on the credit card. Think of it as an investment in pleasure. And we get paid this week. So, no worries.”

No argument allowed. You put it on the credit card and walk out of the shop with several anonymous plastic bags filled with your purchases.

You return to Blair’s car and dump the bags in the boot.

“Time to go home and put these purchases to use.”

Your trip home is broken by a stop at a parade of takeaways. Blair has already ordered for you. Besides the usual Indian, Chinese and chippy there’s a health store, selling falafels, salads, wraps and smoothies. Blair’s bought you a smoothy that is overwhelmingly ginger and a seafood salad.

Then back home. Carrying the purchases from the sex shop makes you feel conspicuous, as if anyone can guess the contents of the plain plastic bags. You’re relieved to get indoors.

First you eat. Blair has her own warm, chicken salad and her own smoothy. Your salad is tasty, but the smoothy does overwhelm your taste buds.

“Drink up,” she tells you. “That concoction gives you energy and you’ll need all the energy that gives you for the rest of this weekend. This is the last weekend I can spend with you.” When you look at her perplexed, she continues. “Next week the school matches start. Every Saturday I’ve got the First Team to coach. One week we’re hosts, the next week we’re away. You’d be surprised how much organising that takes. Thursday and Friday running around making certain all the players are still in and know what they’re doing. Saturday, it’s like herding cats. Sunday, sorting out equipment, players, whatever. I envy you teachers who don’t have all this rigmarole.”

“We have homework to mark,” you defend.

She’s not impressed. She leaves you, ostensibly to go to the toilet, but you notice she’s taken the bags from the sex shop upstairs, plus her own bag. You would go and investigate but she told you to stay downstairs, so you continue sipping on the ginger overloaded smoothy.