Life is full of boundaries and borders and I like to straddle and confuse them. Where is the divide between sexy and slutty? Between fashion and fetish? And between a collar and a necklace?

 

I love how this beautiful thing blurs the boundary between a piece of decorative jewellery and a symbolic device of repression and subjugation. Like a necklace it is daintily narrow, only sixteen millimetres wide, but the polished stainless steel from which it is made is fully three millimetres thick. Enough to give it great strength and complete rigidity. It’s plain, shiny surface and rounded edges give it an expensive yet utilitarian look and its snug fit around my neck keeps it high up off the tops of my shoulders and reminds me of its presence whenever I swallow. It is made up of two separate halves that fit together with almost invisible joins and are held by tiny hidden screws which need something that’s apparently called a number nine security torx tool to undo them. Without that tool there’s no taking it off. In keeping with its ambiguous character it speaks of subjugation and control by having a substantial looking ring hanging from a little outstanding lug under my chin, but it also claims territory in the jewellery landscape because the ring provocatively frames a large red ruby that is set into the collar behind it. And it’s real ruby too. A blood red, four carat, oval mixed cut Burmese ruby that’s worth a lot more than my husband’s car, and could make a serious hole in our mortgage if I sold it. I don’t think my grandmother’s spirit would approve if I did that though. Whether she’d approve of it being set in such a controversial piece as my collar is open to question, but I like to think she would.

 

To further confuse the issue I have a pair of matching earrings. They have the same substantial looking rings as the collar which dangle from my ears, but these are made from thin-walled hollow tube to keep them light and floaty, and prevent them stretching my ears. The rings hang on little chains that are long enough to allow them to clink against the collar if I shake my head a little. I find it a most exciting and erotic sound, but people on the other end of my mobile phone say it’s deafening and they can’t hear what I’m saying for it.

 

If I wear my collar out for an evening, I like to keep it as exposed and visible as possible. I like to team it with something like a little, low cut, off the shoulder dress that keeps acres of bare flesh between the collar and anything that might obscure it. It drives Kendra, my occasional lesbian lover wild with lust when she sees me like this, and it has a pleasing and rewarding effect on my husband too. But I also sometimes wear the collar during the day and it looks fabulous peeking out from behind the upturned collar of a leather jacket. In the winter I often team it with a scarf that could oh so easily cover it up if I wanted to, but of course I keep it loose enough to show my shiny metal companion to the world. And the world always reacts when it sees it. Nobody is ever quite sure what to make of it and I can always see the unspoken questions in their faces.

 

It all fits with the image I like to create of myself which I suppose could be summed up as ‘provocative’. I like to think I’m a rather sexy woman. I have a figure with a slim waist, but bigger above and below, and my sticky-out bits all stick out nicely in the right places. I’ve got long hair on the red side of ginger which I usually help just a little with some dye to place me on the border between obviously fake and possibly real. I have a normal and pretty face except for a large scar that runs down the side of my left cheek, the result of a childhood accident. If I have my hair loose it is almost covered up, but it’s very noticeable if I tie my hair back. I suppose most women would regard it as horrible disfigurement and rush to a plastic surgeon to have it removed or disguised, but I rather like it. I think it makes me look dangerous and mysterious, a vestige of some implied hidden and dodgy past, or a wound received in a heroic adventure. And if I didn’t have it I might look too perfect, like a woman designed by a computer, bland and flawless. My scar was always a source of some amusement to me when I used to do dating. Watching my date trying not to stare and never asking how I got it could be quite funny. Sometimes I would be blatant and ask them what they thought just to make them uncomfortable. “What scar? I hadn’t noticed one,” was the usual uncool and insincere reply. Dan was the coolest. He just shrugged and said “Beautiful woman with a scar is still a beautiful woman.” From that moment on our first date I knew he was the one.

 

I suppose growing up with my scar has had some effects on my personality. It was tough being a teenaged girl, constantly aware of the word ‘Scarface’ on all the other kids’ lips. My self confidence in my early teens was pretty much zero. But all that changed very suddenly when I was sixteen, and it was all down to Kendra. We used to mess about with each other and play at being lovers, she knowing very definitely that she was a lesbian, and me not knowing what the hell I was. One evening in my bedroom she licked my scar. She ran her tongue along its whole length and it drove her wild. The messing about suddenly got serious and in the morning I regarded my virginity as being gone, even though my hymen was still intact. That one night sent the pendulum right to other end of the spectrum. My scar was now cool and sexy. By the time I was eighteen I was in love with my scar and flaunted it as shamelessly as the rest of my body which had turned out rather well in my new view of myself. The scar is well off to the side of my face and doesn’t spoil my main facial features, nor is it particularly horrible to look at, just a red line where I was cut. I found I liked the way I could always see the questions in people’s faces when they met me for the first time and it caused them to wonder about me and about my implied history. Perhaps that’s where my desire to create a reaction in people through the way I look got started. I like to grab the attention of strangers and then make them confused about what they think of me. I like to provoke a reaction. It’s why I dress the way I do and why I like my collar so much.

 

Today we’re going out and I’m going to be wearing my collar. And I’m going to be led around town on a lead. Although I rather fancy the idea of being led around in public with a good old fashioned chain attached to my neck, that would be far too embarrassing for Dan who is as unwanting of public attention as I am wanting of it. And no kinky Samantha and Dan outing would be complete without a bit of electric shock obedience therapy. The answer to both these issues comes in the form of Dan’s latest gadget which is something called a DecaWave. He says it’s a radio device that measures the distance between itself and a little tag thingy. I carry the tag and it knows how far away I am. The distance measurement is fed to his phone by Bluetooth and another of his devious apps decides if it matches the distance he has selected for me. If it doesn’t then his phone talks to my phone, which in turn talks to the E-Stim box and I get an electric shock to encourage me to catch up, or move further away as appropriate. We’ve tried it out around the house and garden and it seems to work pretty well, but this is going to be the first public outing of our virtual lead.

 

Now it might not sound like much of a challenge to just follow your husband around while he wanders about the shops on a Saturday afternoon, but have you ever tried staying exactly eight meters away from someone in a crowd? Not six, or ten, but eight. It’s bloody hard, even when it’s just in the garden where there are no other people about. And the threat of being fried for getting it wrong is going to weigh heavily on my mind. Well it’s going to weigh heavily on my breasts actually because we’re going to be trying out another first today, my electro-torture bra.

 

It looks like a completely ordinary push-up bra, at least in as far as anything with a Victoria’s Secret label on it can be ordinary. But glued to the inside of each of those lifting and shaping D size cups are two narrow, but long strips of copper tape. They will sit in a couple of vague spirals against the skin of any breast that is lucky, or unlucky enough to be contained within those lifting and shaping cups. Through these copper tapes, electrons will be delivered in delightful or dastardly quantities according to the will of any wicked little shock box that might happen to be connected to them. And if that’s not enough, there are also little groups of rivets fitted into the bra to act as electrodes just at the place where my nipples will be. Oh such sweet heaven.

 

So Dan says the idea is if I’m lagging behind my nipples get it. If I’m too close the meat of my breasts gets it. I get a meter’s grace either way and then the shocks will start, gently at first but growing in intensity depending on how far wrong I am and how long I have been wrong for. And he’s even shown me that he has a little slider on his phone screen and can vary my distance as we walk along, so even if my station keeping is perfect he can move the goalposts and I get zapped anyway. I sometimes think it’s unfair that I was made to be submissive, but that’s how I was made and I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to. We don’t get to choose how our brains are wired up do we.

 

And of course there has to be a little something to make life a bit more difficult, and a little more sexy for me. While Dan is wandering about effortlessly in his jeans and trainers I will be suffering the exquisite and wonderful torment of some proper high heels. Heels, like my collar are a thing I use to provoke. Up to about three inches they are just about being smart, and maybe a little sexy if they’re stilettoes. But higher than that and they become much more complicated. What does it say when they grow beyond four and onward towards five inches? Am I stupid, repressed, desperate, pitiful, a slut, or perhaps even sexy and cool if I wear such things? And if I can glide around elegantly and seemingly effortlessly on them, attracting attention with the distinctive noise that stilettoes make on the pavement, then what does that say about me? The reaction of men to my choices of footwear is usually fairly simple, but it is that of other women that I find much more interesting. Pity, envy, hatred, respect, camaraderie and occasionally even lust. Life is never dull with a pair of five inch spikes under your feet. And if I go higher than five then where is the boundary between fashion and fetish? More internal debate in the minds of those who notice me.

 

I make a point of never counting how many pairs of shoes and boots I’ve got. There’s too much danger of finding I might have a pair for every day of the year and then I would have to concede I might have an addiction. If I don’t count then there’s no hard evidence against me, and if our walk-in wardrobe resembles a small shoe museum then that’s just circumstantial. It’s mid-September and my favourite time of year is approaching. The time when it cools down enough to start wearing boots again. Boots are the ultimate in footwear. Not just your feet, but the rest of your legs can join in with the sensual feeling of beautiful leather, right up to your crotch if you’re brave enough. More opportunities to make a statement or ask a question. What does it say if my boots come up above my knees? Slut? Tart? Seductress? It’s certainly nothing to do with keeping my legs warm.  

 

Today though the weather is unusually warm, hot even, and boots are a definite no no. And there’s a second reason to be sticking with shoes today. Dan has laid “The Skirt” on the bed. He never says I have to wear it, but if he lays it out then it’s an unwritten rule that I will wear it. I made it myself to Dan’s specification. There’s nothing special about the fabric, it’s just ordinary black cotton/polyester mix although it does have a nice sheen to it. There’s nothing very special about the length either, it’s quite long with its hem at the middle of my calves, but that’s not unusual. What is special about it is how tight it is. Dan never gave me a specific measurement, but it is a requirement that whenever I walk in the skirt I have to pull it tight with every step. That means I had to choose a hem size between walking with unnaturally long strides, or accepting that it’s a hobbleskirt. Long strides are out of the question if I’m also in heels and so it’s dainty little steps and trouble with stairs whenever I wear the skirt. Once again I will be treading the dangerous and complex four-way border between stylish, sexy, fetishized and weird. And of course I’ll be struggling to keep up with Dan and prevent my breasts from feeling like they’re plugged into the National Grid.

 

And so for the unseasonably hot weather today I’m teaming my black skirt and red hair with a clingy red, almost bra-showing top and a sheer black chiffon bolero jacket, and down below a pair of Prada red suede strappy sandals. I’ll leave you to guess how high the stilettoes on them are. I can hear Dan pacing about in the hall downstairs. He’s ready to go and is getting impatient, but I think it’s every girl’s prerogative to keep her man waiting. They just don’t appreciate what we go through to make ourselves beautiful for them and I haven’t finished my make-up yet. Now what colour lipstick would go best with a ruby-displaying stainless steel collar? I’m tempted to try black, but I’d have to blacken my eyebrows, go to town with the eye-shadow and whiten my skin carry it off, and I don’t have time for all that. I want to get out there and get my tits fried before the crowds start to thin out. And so it’s deep ruby red lips to match my prominently displayed gem, and some burnt ochre eye-shadow to keep the colour palette coordinated. Then all I’ve got to do is negotiate the stairs in my skirt and I’ll be ready for the off. Time to go out and not just turn heads, but hopefully actually unscrew them.