Ouch! Fucking thing!
It’s my own fault. I lingered too long in the meat isle trying to choose the best looking pork loin for tomorrow’s dinner. God, this game is driving me mad. I throw the lump of plastic-wrapped meat in my hand into my trolley and move on to the dairy isle. I resolve not to dither about choosing cheese. As I round the end of the refrigerated gondola I look across and see Dan sitting in the store coffee shop. He’s watching me and waves cheerily.
“Hello Samantha, glad you’re enjoying the grocery shopping. I hope your feet aren’t too tired. Mine are killing me after all the other shopping we’ve done today, but the coffee is great.”
He manages to say all that in a smug, self-satisfied way with just a wave. Well I’m not sodding well waving back. What a bastard to leave me to face the grocery shopping alone in the state I’m in. From this distance I doubt he can make out my expression of contempt, but as I start to turn away, I see his hand go down to his phone that’s sitting on the table in front of him.
Suddenly the mild feeling of pins and needles surrounding my fanny busts into full-on agony. I double over against the trolley and it’s all I can do not to yell out and make a complete arse of myself. Is he planning to make me cum right here in the supermarket? Bastard!
Fortunately it’s a just a momentary demonstration of his power over me, and the mildly stimulating pins and needles return after only a second or so. I get myself under control and head for the cheese section before the other part of my torment gets a chance to have another go at me. My boots cop-cop noisily on the floor and seem to scream to everyone around me to look and see what sort of kinky woman is walking here.
And I am indeed quite a sight to see. The way I’m looking is all part of the kinky little game I’m playing with my husband. The more I’m noticed, the greater the thrill of course. And to make sure I’m noticed, today Dan has excelled himself with my outfit. I’ve got rather nice, red, shoulder length curly hair of which I’m rather proud, but at the moment it’s combed back tight and pinned flat so that it can hide under the most enormous peroxide blonde wig. A huge mass of garish curls covers my head and falls down my back to my waist. Even an eighties pop star would think twice about going on stage with hair this big. Under the wig I’ve got on a very short and shiny leather jacket, in eye catching red of course. It’s open at the front and reveals a clingy and low-cut white top which is teamed with a push-up bra to display some impressive cleavage. There’s a gap of several inches between the bottom of my jacket and the waistband of my skirt. It’s a black pencil style that I used to wear for work, but Dan has had me stitch up the kick pleat at the back to make it very tight, and while it’s okay walking around on the flat, even stepping off a kerb gives me a mild problem. If all of that isn’t sufficient to grab every passer-by’s attention and convince them that I’m an off-duty tart, then what I have on my feet should amount to the final proof. Coming up to just below my knees is a pair of red patent leather boots, tightly laced all the way up the front and in the true tradition of kinky fetish footwear, having no quick release zip up the inside. They’ve got slightly pointy toes and a pointless buckle and strap at the ankle, but it is of course the heels that make them what they are. A full five and a half inches of fuck-me-right-now, which with my size feet makes the laces down the front run in a completely straight line from knee to toe. Their metal tips combine with the wooden soles to produce the loudest noise when they come into contact with a hard surface and announce to all and sundry that a wanton slut is walking in the neighbourhood.
Are the boots hard to walk in? Yes you bet your arse they’re hard to walk in, even for a seasoned high heel wearer like me. In the office where I work there is a never-mentioned, but absolute dress code that says the men wear ties and never brown suits, and the women wear heels. And even though this code is never mentioned, it is rigorously enforced by tutting and disapproving looks to any who transgress. But my feet don’t have any problem with three inch stilettoes and much of the time I’m sitting at my desk anyway. Today I’ve been wearing these considerably more challenging boots for almost four hours now, and walking constantly in them while Dan dragged me round the shops. Even while he was slowly trying on umpteen different jackets, I was strutting round in circles in the shop, unable to keep still because of “The Box” and its minions.
The Box, or an E-Stim 2B to give it its proper name, is small, black, made of plastic, and quite the most devious, wicked and lovely thing mankind has ever invented. It's basically an electric shock machine, a bit like a TENS, but The Box is specifically made to be a sex toy. It can drive two sets of electrodes independently and has lots of different modes with intriguing names like “Waterfall”, “Squeeze”, “Milk” and “Throb”. Like a TENS, The Box can shock its user through electrode pads on the skin, but it also comes with what the makers amusingly call “insertables”. I’ve got a small size one up my bum now and a large in my fanny. They’re held in by an unsexy, but tight-fitting pair of sports pants that wouldn’t go well with the rest of my slutty outfit if I were to do a striptease. The Box, being an electronic thing, has a USB interface and so it can be plugged into a computer for extra fun. And if your phone is capable of being a USB host and your husband just happens to write apps for a living, then your phone can also drive you into fits of joy and/or agony and/or outrage, depending on who or what is controlling the phone.
My Box is in my jacket pocket along with my phone. Output A is connected to the insertable in my fanny, and Dan has control of it from his phone. So far today he’s just kept it tickling me and keeping me horny, with only the occasional painful zap for misbehaving. Thankfully he hasn’t chosen to make me cum in a crowded street. Yet.
Being controlled and having my cunny at Dan’s mercy is stimulating enough, but it’s output B that’s got me really wound up. It’s connected to the plug in my bum and it’s not just being used to tickle me. Tied to the laces of my left boot is a little device called a Polar Bluetooth Stride Sensor. Dan got it off Ebay for forty quid. It’s designed for joggers and fitness fanatics and connects to an app on a phone to keep track of how many steps the wearer has taken, how fast they were going and how many calories they have burned. Except in my case it’s talking to an app that Dan wrote. If I stop walking for five seconds I get a gentle reminder in my arse to get moving again. If I don’t obey, after ten seconds another reminder is issued, but this time it’s not gentle. I can hide it if I grit my teeth and close my eyes, but the one that comes after fifteen seconds is another matter. There’s no way I can endure that quietly and everyone within fifty yards is going to know there’s a crazy woman on the loose. Apparently there’s an even stronger one after twenty seconds, but thankfully, so far I haven’t suffered that.
My efforts to save my invaded rectum from electronic torture have on the whole been successful, and I’m getting very good at judging exactly when the ten seconds will be up, but it has all taken something of a toll on my feet and ankles. Forced to walk almost constantly for so long in such torturous heels, they’re aching terribly. I’ve tried standing on my right foot and swinging the left one and its sensor back and forth, but it seems to know and isn’t fooled. Proper walking is all it seems to understand. Hence I’ve had all manner of strange looks from shop assistants who can’t understand why their customer’s tarty girlfriend keeps wandering round in circles while he tries on yet another jacket.
And now we’ve finished looking at jackets and Bluray players and toy drones. Now it’s the boring grocery shopping and Dan has fucked off to the coffee shop and sent me to do it on my own. I tried to tell him what I thought of that, but a swift zap of my cunny left me in no doubt as to who was in charge. And now I’m so hot and horny I can’t even think straight, let alone remember what shopping we need. I’m just throwing one of everything into the trolley and hoping for the best. I just want to get home now. It’s not that I’m not enjoying our game, it’s not even that my feet can’t take much more, it’s that I need to cum now. I can’t keep holding it back forever, either we go home soon or I’m going to let go right here in the supermarket, and I don’t cum quietly. Hopefully I can hold on long enough for Dan to tie me up and gag me when we get home, but he might just have to fuck me on the kitchen floor as soon as the door’s closed.
I drift through the store filling my trolley and finally arrive at the wine and booze section. I’m a bit of a wine snob and can’t help myself slowing down for a browse. There’s an interesting looking Heirloom Adelaide Hills and also a Yalumba Organic. Yes, yes, I know. Five seconds, but this is wine. I grit my teeth and wait. I know it’s coming and all I need to do is walk, but I stay still, looking at the Australian wines until…
Oh, fucking hell that hurt. And I did it on purpose. I’m losing it. I need to get home before I do something stupid. Don’t wait for the fifteen seconds Samantha you stupid bitch. I drop a bottle of Yalumba in the trolley and decide to call it a day. I head down the isle towards the checkouts and then my heart almost stops in terror. Oh my god, how am I going to get through this? There’s a queue at every one.