HOME | DD

Description
We’re poking about down the city’s medieval back streets and we find a dusty little curiosity shop. She’s got a bored already look on her face and I can see her think do we have to? But it’s just the sort of place for rummaging through a few steampunky trinkets for some home made gothic jewellery later, up and coming fancy dress project for the use of. The shop is full of junk, it’s wonderful so yes, we have to.

There’s loads of stuff left over from someone’s sporting country life and it’s all tweed and green wellies. While she’s looking at musty moth eaten jackets and leather stuff I trip over a box of mostly ancient iron game keeping tools, if that’s what they are. I’m surprised to find a dog training shock collar in it and I burst out laughing. I’ve read her kinky stories, I know what goes on in that little freckled brain of hers and I pull the collar and its little black box out of its case to show her as a joke. “Hey Ali, check this out.” I call across the shop.

It’s funny and she smiles knowing I know what it means to her. Nothing else in the box looks interesting and I drop the collar back in, forget it and browse my way along the counter towards the till. A handful of metal buttons, a tie pin and what could be a knackered clock mechanism cost me £3.20. I’m pleased with that.

Out in the street, she isn’t yet. Despite her earlier reluctance she’s seen something and I watch her through the clutter in the shop window, still inside paying for something. There seems to be some reticence on the part of the shopkeeper to sell it to her, making it interesting. “What did you get?” I ask as she leaves the shop. “Nothing.” she says. Obviously that’s not true and as she marches off to gain some distance between herself and the shop I pop back in to check the box the dog collar was in and it’s missing. I thought it would be!

“What are you going to do with that?” I shout at her, waiting for me a hundred yards away by now. I get an up yours middle finger as an answer. It’s apparent for the duration of the rest of our afternoon something’s distracting her.

I let her get away with not telling me for a while then on the way back to the car I accuse her of trying to buy that dog collar furtively. That’s exactly what she did and denying it is futile. “Why?” I ask. She’s a hopeless liar and the wordless shrug she attempted to deflect me with is all the confession I need. “You wanna play with it!” I laugh. “Shut up Kate.” she snaps.

When we get to the car she throws her shopping onto the back seats and we take our places, it’s her car, she’s driving and soon we’re out in the traffic on our way home. While she drives I think about winding her up by asking her about the role of the dog collar in whatever debauched fantasy she’s thought of but instead I heap negativity on it by telling her the collar’s bound to be broken. I amuse myself by trying to pour scorn on her expectations. “You’ll only be disappointed.” I tell her, knowing how excited she’ll be while she’s trying to charge it up, and how deflated she’ll be when she discovers it doesn’t work. A moment later I wish I’d kept quiet.

She hasn’t said much so far. Apart from smile at me laughing at her she’s been ignoring me. Out of town she pulls off the main road and drives up a narrow lane, “Where are you going?” I ask then she stops in a field entrance without answering me. She reaches round her seat to find the collar in the bag of shopping in the back. “I’m just going to test it.” she says. Now? She says she needs to know if it works. Needs?

There aren’t any instructions but it’s all ominously familiar to Ali who holds the button on the shock unit down until it bleeps at her. What does that mean? “It’s charged!” she cries, happy about that. Worse, one of the buttons on the other box makes a tiny blue light come on. I’m not sure what to make of what’s happening and memories of all the trouble and strife we’ve been involved in come flooding back as she shouts “Ow!” and drops the shocker, violently shaking the hand she held it in. She’s shocked herself and yes, there’s nothing wrong with the bloody thing at all! Why do I suddenly have this profound sense of foreboding?

Ever had that feeling when you thought you were kidding but the universe makes sure you weren’t?

“Kate?” she asks, the inflection in her voice means I should be ready for the important question to follow, “I want you to help me.” Given our current circumstances I’m almost scared to ask her what with, so I don’t.

Even though we’re in a quiet country lane it’s not quiet enough and she looks round to count the frequency of cars passing us. Maybe it’s because someone will notice if she puts the collar round her neck that she wants to put it somewhere else?

Oh my goodness, seriously? I can’t believe her! Her husband should be doing this, why can’t she wait until she gets home? “Sorry, I gotta try it.” she says to convince me impatience is necessary as she slips the box off the collar itself. Since she saw it in the shop she hasn’t been able to think of anything else, apparently.

Unfortunately I’m as fascinated as I’m outraged and it takes me longer to lie that I’m not interested than it takes her to undo her jeans and wriggle them off her hips. She gives me the transmitter so she can use both hands to fiddle the shock unit into the gap between her jeans and her……..? Has she put it inside her underwear! I’m astonished while she squirms it into place. “No.” I tell her. “Forget it.”

This is stupid, I remember the risks we took in the past and I’m not doing all that again. It’s a classic case of the addict’s temptation raring its ugly head and I know such an addict should never go back, not even once but she’s sitting there waiting for it like it’s going to be the wildest thrill ever, just like she used to, the silly cow.

“Please Kate, please." she pleads, shaking in anticipation and reaches over to select minimum power while I’m holding the transmitter. “Just a little tingle.” she says, “I just want to feel it.” I decide that rather than argue with her the fun option is to nip this in the bud and seriously hurt her to teach her a lesson, knowing if it doesn’t hurt enough I’ll only be encouraging her. However for the sake of our future tranquility this risk is worth taking. I wind the power dial up to max and hit the button expecting her to leap out of her seat and squeal like a tortured pig, but nothing happens.

As I look down at the control box to see why it didn’t work she asks me what I’m doing and I tell her it must be broken after all and pretend to want to chuck it out of the car window. “No!” she screams, “Show me, which button did you press?” When I give her the transmitter she sees the power setting and looks at me horrified. “You arse!” she curses and I think yeah, so? Her hands are shaking so much she can hardly hold the box still enough to turn the power down again.

You have to activate the shock by pressing the buzz button first, to give your dog some sort of warning and an opportunity to behave before you punish the bitch. It’s been so long I’d forgotten that.

Breathing in short sharp breaths she foolishly gives me the transmitter back, obviously deeply excited, telling me “Please, you know what I want OK?” urging me to be sensible.

I press the buzzer and we hear it loud and obvious enough although the sound is muffled because she’s actually sitting on the shock box, on the electrodes presumably. “Oh fuck.” she says, knowing the box is perfectly placed and she’ll get shocked next. Then I wind the volume knob back up, she shouts “No……!” as if she wants to complain about it but I zap her so quickly she wails in agony instead.

I hold the button down watching her scramble frantically under the steering wheel to get between her legs, desperate to rip the shock box out of her knickers, screaming at me to stop with tears welling up in her eyes. I can’t help crying with laughter.

“Happy now Sponge Head?” I ask. She’s absolutely furious. That’ll do me!

While she’s extricating the shocker from her crotch, trying not to touch herself with its metal pins, because I still have the transmitter, she launches into an angry tirade about my failure to play the game properly. Her language is colourful and unguarded. “You did that on purpose!” she shouts at me. Of course I did.

I call her a selfish brat in order to point out what I think of her child like self interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snorts and blames me for deliberately and maliciously hurting her even though I knew what she wanted. I did that too. “I thought you’d understand.” she complains and throws the shocker onto the back seat in disgust. I do understand.

“We used to have loads of fun.” she whines as she snatches the transmitter out of my hands and that too gets lobbed over the back of our seats. We did but it all went tits up, doesn’t she remember that?

After she wriggles her jeans back on properly she starts the car, reverses into the field entrance to turn round and heads back to the main road huffing and puffing her disappointment. I hope she feels ashamed of herself.

“Why couldn’t you do just that one thing?” she wants to know a little later. After which I’d have to take care of her dirty secret forever of course, no pressure then. Just that one thing? Yeah right! I realise she’s gifted me the perfect opportunity to explain my position. “Try that again and I’ll tell your husband.” I tell her.

We almost drift into the oncoming traffic while she glares at me indignant at the gravity in my voice. I really mean it, I will. I tell her I’m going to tell my boyfriend about her behaviour anyway, I have no secrets from him, I’ve no qualms about that at all and there’s nothing she can do to stop me. “I thought we were friends!” she growls. We are, the point exactly.

“I thought you were cured.” I tell her. She looks at me wondering what I mean. “You’re not then?” I ask.

Description
We’re poking about down the city’s medieval back streets and we find a dusty little curiosity shop. She’s got a bored already look on her face and I can see her think do we have to? But it’s just the sort of place for rummaging through a few steampunky trinkets for some home made gothic jewellery later, up and coming fancy dress project for the use of. The shop is full of junk, it’s wonderful so yes, we have to.

There’s loads of stuff left over from someone’s sporting country life and it’s all tweed and green wellies. While she’s looking at musty moth eaten jackets and leather stuff I trip over a box of mostly ancient iron game keeping tools, if that’s what they are. I’m surprised to find a dog training shock collar in it and I burst out laughing. I’ve read her kinky stories, I know what goes on in that little freckled brain of hers and I pull the collar and its little black box out of its case to show her as a joke. “Hey Ali, check this out.” I call across the shop.

It’s funny and she smiles knowing I know what it means to her. Nothing else in the box looks interesting and I drop the collar back in, forget it and browse my way along the counter towards the till. A handful of metal buttons, a tie pin and what could be a knackered clock mechanism cost me £3.20. I’m pleased with that.

Out in the street, she isn’t yet. Despite her earlier reluctance she’s seen something and I watch her through the clutter in the shop window, still inside paying for something. There seems to be some reticence on the part of the shopkeeper to sell it to her, making it interesting. “What did you get?” I ask as she leaves the shop. “Nothing.” she says. Obviously that’s not true and as she marches off to gain some distance between herself and the shop I pop back in to check the box the dog collar was in and it’s missing. I thought it would be!

“What are you going to do with that?” I shout at her, waiting for me a hundred yards away by now. I get an up yours middle finger as an answer. It’s apparent for the duration of the rest of our afternoon something’s distracting her.

I let her get away with not telling me for a while then on the way back to the car I accuse her of trying to buy that dog collar furtively. That’s exactly what she did and denying it is futile. “Why?” I ask. She’s a hopeless liar and the wordless shrug she attempted to deflect me with is all the confession I need. “You wanna play with it!” I laugh. “Shut up Kate.” she snaps.

When we get to the car she throws her shopping onto the back seats and we take our places, it’s her car, she’s driving and soon we’re out in the traffic on our way home. While she drives I think about winding her up by asking her about the role of the dog collar in whatever debauched fantasy she’s thought of but instead I heap negativity on it by telling her the collar’s bound to be broken. I amuse myself by trying to pour scorn on her expectations. “You’ll only be disappointed.” I tell her, knowing how excited she’ll be while she’s trying to charge it up, and how deflated she’ll be when she discovers it doesn’t work. A moment later I wish I’d kept quiet.

She hasn’t said much so far. Apart from smile at me laughing at her she’s been ignoring me. Out of town she pulls off the main road and drives up a narrow lane, “Where are you going?” I ask then she stops in a field entrance without answering me. She reaches round her seat to find the collar in the bag of shopping in the back. “I’m just going to test it.” she says. Now? She says she needs to know if it works. Needs?

There aren’t any instructions but it’s all ominously familiar to Ali who holds the button on the shock unit down until it bleeps at her. What does that mean? “It’s charged!” she cries, happy about that. Worse, one of the buttons on the other box makes a tiny blue light come on. I’m not sure what to make of what’s happening and memories of all the trouble and strife we’ve been involved in come flooding back as she shouts “Ow!” and drops the shocker, violently shaking the hand she held it in. She’s shocked herself and yes, there’s nothing wrong with the bloody thing at all! Why do I suddenly have this profound sense of foreboding?

Ever had that feeling when you thought you were kidding but the universe makes sure you weren’t?

“Kate?” she asks, the inflection in her voice means I should be ready for the important question to follow, “I want you to help me.” Given our current circumstances I’m almost scared to ask her what with, so I don’t.

Even though we’re in a quiet country lane it’s not quiet enough and she looks round to count the frequency of cars passing us. Maybe it’s because someone will notice if she puts the collar round her neck that she wants to put it somewhere else?

Oh my goodness, seriously? I can’t believe her! Her husband should be doing this, why can’t she wait until she gets home? “Sorry, I gotta try it.” she says to convince me impatience is necessary as she slips the box off the collar itself. Since she saw it in the shop she hasn’t been able to think of anything else, apparently.

Unfortunately I’m as fascinated as I’m outraged and it takes me longer to lie that I’m not interested than it takes her to undo her jeans and wriggle them off her hips. She gives me the transmitter so she can use both hands to fiddle the shock unit into the gap between her jeans and her……..? Has she put it inside her underwear! I’m astonished while she squirms it into place. “No.” I tell her. “Forget it.”

This is stupid, I remember the risks we took in the past and I’m not doing all that again. It’s a classic case of the addict’s temptation raring its ugly head and I know such an addict should never go back, not even once but she’s sitting there waiting for it like it’s going to be the wildest thrill ever, just like she used to, the silly cow.

“Please Kate, please." she pleads, shaking in anticipation and reaches over to select minimum power while I’m holding the transmitter. “Just a little tingle.” she says, “I just want to feel it.” I decide that rather than argue with her the fun option is to nip this in the bud and seriously hurt her to teach her a lesson, knowing if it doesn’t hurt enough I’ll only be encouraging her. However for the sake of our future tranquility this risk is worth taking. I wind the power dial up to max and hit the button expecting her to leap out of her seat and squeal like a tortured pig, but nothing happens.

As I look down at the control box to see why it didn’t work she asks me what I’m doing and I tell her it must be broken after all and pretend to want to chuck it out of the car window. “No!” she screams, “Show me, which button did you press?” When I give her the transmitter she sees the power setting and looks at me horrified. “You arse!” she curses and I think yeah, so? Her hands are shaking so much she can hardly hold the box still enough to turn the power down again.

You have to activate the shock by pressing the buzz button first, to give your dog some sort of warning and an opportunity to behave before you punish the bitch. It’s been so long I’d forgotten that.

Breathing in short sharp breaths she foolishly gives me the transmitter back, obviously deeply excited, telling me “Please, you know what I want OK?” urging me to be sensible.

I press the buzzer and we hear it loud and obvious enough although the sound is muffled because she’s actually sitting on the shock box, on the electrodes presumably. “Oh fuck.” she says, knowing the box is perfectly placed and she’ll get shocked next. Then I wind the volume knob back up, she shouts “No……!” as if she wants to complain about it but I zap her so quickly she wails in agony instead.

I hold the button down watching her scramble frantically under the steering wheel to get between her legs, desperate to rip the shock box out of her knickers, screaming at me to stop with tears welling up in her eyes. I can’t help crying with laughter.

“Happy now Sponge Head?” I ask. She’s absolutely furious. That’ll do me!

While she’s extricating the shocker from her crotch, trying not to touch herself with its metal pins, because I still have the transmitter, she launches into an angry tirade about my failure to play the game properly. Her language is colourful and unguarded. “You did that on purpose!” she shouts at me. Of course I did.

I call her a selfish brat in order to point out what I think of her child like self interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snorts and blames me for deliberately and maliciously hurting her even though I knew what she wanted. I did that too. “I thought you’d understand.” she complains and throws the shocker onto the back seat in disgust. I do understand.

“We used to have loads of fun.” she whines as she snatches the transmitter out of my hands and that too gets lobbed over the back of our seats. We did but it all went tits up, doesn’t she remember that?

After she wriggles her jeans back on properly she starts the car, reverses into the field entrance to turn round and heads back to the main road huffing and puffing her disappointment. I hope she feels ashamed of herself.

“Why couldn’t you do just that one thing?” she wants to know a little later. After which I’d have to take care of her dirty secret forever of course, no pressure then. Just that one thing? Yeah right! I realise she’s gifted me the perfect opportunity to explain my position. “Try that again and I’ll tell your husband.” I tell her.

We almost drift into the oncoming traffic while she glares at me indignant at the gravity in my voice. I really mean it, I will. I tell her I’m going to tell my boyfriend about her behaviour anyway, I have no secrets from him, I’ve no qualms about that at all and there’s nothing she can do to stop me. “I thought we were friends!” she growls. We are, the point exactly.

“I thought you were cured.” I tell her. She looks at me wondering what I mean. “You’re not then?” I ask.