WaterWay -- Chapter 9
A Woman's Place is in the Mall
By: WaterLuv@etzine.com   Copyright 1996, by ET!zine   All rights reserved

Miami is a shopper's paradise.  That's true whatever the target of your buying.  Be it the mundane; a new spring wardrobe, back to school supplies for the kids, sporting goods: or the exotic; a fully equipped dungeon, latex fashions hotter than fire, a live love-slave; Miami's got it.  Of course, it has illegal attractions of all kinds, to boot.  Rashad and his friends must surely know their way among those vendors.  But such was not our target.  Unusual items, yes.  But nothing illegal was on today's shopping list.

As we headed into town, we had a moment to talk further of our plans for the taming of Jazmand's tormentor.  I asked Jazmand about him, collecting all the details I could about his habits, strengths, weaknesses.  She showed us a picture of him still had.  He was a tall, handsome man with dark chocolate skin, muscular, but quick and agile looking.  His bearing suggested something feral, black-panther like.  I could easily see why Jazmand was attracted to him.  He was casually leaning on the front of a black BMW 735, and yes, it had darkened windows.  He was wearing a white muscle tee; tight, black stone-washed jeans, and black-leather belt and wrist band with gold, bullet-tip studding.  And speaking of studs, even in this quiescent state, a very distinct bulge reached across his groin and snaked its way down one pant leg.  The picture exuded cockiness, power, danger and raw animal sexuality.

"You know, Mary," I said in an aside to you, "I'm beginning to share your excitement about bringing Rashad under domination.  This is not just going to be a good deed done for our sweet Jazmand's sake.  It's going to be high sexual adventure.

"Yes," Jazmand answered, "if we pull it off.  If we don't, we better move to Siberia quick."

"OK," I allowed, "what about that.  I mean, what kind of threat are we up against in Rashad."

"Well," Jazmand mused, "I think he can be violent at times.  He's tough as nails.  He's got some powerful connections in the gang, I guess.  And he's got enough money to hire any kind of help he needs."

"I know that," I countered.  "Those things are quintessential to his line of work.  But what's he likely to do with his resources?  What I'm getting at is, will he know he needs to hire some help?  Take, for instance, tracking us after the charter flight.  Ten to one he doesn't know how to do it himself without so much violence the cops would be all over him.  Is he the kind to hire a detective agency?  Or would he just wait till we get back in town?"

"He won't hire detectives," Jazmand replied confidently.

"Good!" I answered.  "Score one for us."

"That reminds me, I should tell Tony to keep the investigation very discreet.  If we have the advantage of hired help, let's not let Rashad find out we've got that edge.  He might reconsider his loner approach."

I dialed Tony's private number on the cellular.

"Tony, this is Jim.  About that little search I asked you to conduct.  I want it done real quietly."

"You mean you don't want Mr. Banton to know you're asking about him.  I'd taken that for granted."

"No," I answered, "I mean I don't want him to know that ANYBODY is asking about him.  Can you handle that for me?"

"Uh . . . sure.  It may complicate it a bit.  Slow things down, you know.  We won't be able to use paid informants.  But we can do that."

"Then do it.  If it costs more or takes longer, that's OK.  Hey, and I really appreciate your help with it, Tony.  I owe you."

"De Nada," Tony chuckled.  "I'll remember to collect."

"That I don't doubt for one minute," I laughed in return, and signed off.

The taxi was pulling up in front of our first shopping stop.

"Master," Jazmand said, remembering my instruction to slip into our D/s roles while we shopped.

"Yes, Jazmand," I smiled, rewarding her for her obedience.

"I was just thinking that I have my 'Rashad Record' on my computer.  It was a diary I wrote about him.  I had just gotten my 486 when I met Rashad, and I learned to use Windows Works by writing a kind of blow-by-blow account of our relationship.  It isn't near complete.  I'd skip days or even weeks, then write when I had something interesting to say.  But it might give you some more details you can use."

"Excellent," I said.  "You will be rewarded for thinking of that."

With that, we turned our attention fully to our browsing and shopping excursion.  We were at a moderate sized, exclusive lingerie shop, awash with muted eroticism in its decor and displays.  Greta, the store's owner, knows Jazmand well.  Greta's collection of classy to trashy undies is superb.  There is no fetching window display in this shop.  This is not a store designed to lure the casual passerby.  It is rather an event among Miami's erotic cognoscenti.

At this stop, we would purchase starter corsets for you and Jazmand.  Not the Sears & Roebuck variety, but true binding tools for turn-of-the-century corset training -- the kind that laces to produce an impossibly small waist -- accentuating every curving pleasure zone of the feminine form.

Greta asked you to remove your dresses so she could get accurate measurements.  I'm certain the tape would not have been thrown off by the thin material, but equally sure that Greta does her best work if given the incentive of female flesh to caress.  It was a delight to see her suck in her breath as both of you, facing the lusty lesbian, slid your dresses off, revealing your bare pussies to her hungry eyes.  Without missing a beat, professional that she was, Greta lovingly measured the two of you, letting the back of her hand just brush across the sweeping curve of brassier-cupped breast, silky midriff, almost tracing the rim of Jazmand's navel.  Greta had spent quality time feasting at Jaz's charms in the past, and feeding her own sex back in return.  There was a wistful, not pained, but sad look on her face as she touched the beautiful black woman.  It was as if she knew that, in leaving Jazmand to go her merry way, she had lost her grip on something precious beyond words.

Greta finished her measurements.  She would need no more than two days to make the corsets.  She had her own shop, and could thus deliver custom foundation garments overnight instead of the usual 4 to 6 weeks for mail-order houses.  

We knew Greta wanted to spend some private time with us.  However, we had other stops for the morning.  Tempting though her huge breasts were, we had to move on.  Before we left, though, she asked that we take just a moment to look at something new.   From under the counter, she brought out a box.  Opening it and unfolding the delicate white tissue covering its contents, she showed us a pair of silk panties.  

"They have a very airy, lace front," she said.  "And look, from a distance you'll see that the pattern is a yoni.  And for comfort, behind the lace there is an incredibly sheer panel of open-weave silk." The rear panel is perfect for ass lovers like you three.  It is of the same see-through silk.  And the crotch is double thickness silk.  It is a tight weave, very absorbent and feathery to the touch.  After a day of wearing these, your puss and panties will be so fragrant you'll think you douched with estrogen," Greta said, giving you a knowing smile.  

"Here, Mary," she whispered, "step into these." 

Holding the panties open for you, she knelt before your naked sex, close enough to feel your heat.  The flush that reddened her cheeks suggested that, indeed, she did feel it.  You stepped into the leg openings, and Greta slowly pulled the lingerie up your limbs, letting her hands caress your smoothness as she went.

"They're sexy beyond belief," I told Greta, as she grasped your full, silk-encased hips and pirouetted you.  The front view showed just a hint of bush through the thin gauze separating the lace from your skin.  The yoni floated like a divine watermark just above the silk panel covering your vagina.  The rear view was equally arresting.  The diaphanous back-panel gave just enough of a view of the cleft between your buttocks to make me want to see more.  I could follow that darkening valley down to within a centimeter of your anal opening, but my eyes were denied the true treat by the bottom panel, soft and absorbent, already steeping in your fragrance.

"What colors do they come in," I asked.  

Greta smiled, knowing she had a sale.  I suspect that, if I had refused to purchase them, she'd have bought them for you herself.  After turning you, ostensibly for me to better see the way the lingerie enhanced your beauty, her upper lip was actually trembling.  Jazmand was, though dear, used merchandise to her.  Greta was always on the prowl for new conquests, as if each new notch on her bedpost somehow renewed her worth.  She had been close enough to your hot body to smell your female scent, and she was now shaking with desire.

Too bad.  She'll not have you, I thought.  We bought two pairs in black, and two in white; matching sets for the two of you.   I told Greta that, regretfully, we had other appointments to keep.  She helped the two of you back into your dresses, then I asked her to remove your panties and repackage them for later.  This, she most willingly did.  I told her that I thought today's lingerie and latex treasure hunt would be far more fun with the panties stored in their tissue wrapping.  At each store, we could delight in the clerk's surprise as they helped you try on clothing and discovered your bare bottoms.  And where underwear was required for a try on, the clerk could always help you into these.  Greta flashed an approving smile, a token of her lusty thoughts.

Our next stop was a more conventional lingerie outlet in Bayside Marketplace.  From the more outr of their collection, we choose for you a flare-leg brief in white satin-weave nylon.  It had cute scalloped leg bands, but the only thing that set it apart from other undergarments was the fact that it had a split in the back.  This provided sufficient modesty, but could easily be opened so that anything from a douche nozzle to an erect penis could enter your nether hole while you remained fully clothed.  

We were alone as we tried it on you.  I slipped behind you and whispered "I will slide my hard cock right through that opening and fuck your pretty ass so good.  While I'm pumping in and out of your rectum, I'll let my hands play in the wetness spreading through the front on your briefs.  I can almost feel my arms wrapped around you, cuddling up under your breasts, hands flying over your nylon-covered pussy.  The back of your neck open to be kissed.  My flesh buried to the hilt in your hot ass, feeling your rectum milking me." I wanted to keep on, to tell you all the sexy thoughts your presence demanded.  But I knew that we must move to our next destination.  These delights would have to wait.  And so these panties were also stored for later use, and, naked beneath your clingy knit dress, juices sticky on your inner thighs, we pressed on in our treasure hunt.

Not far from the Bayside Marketplace, and still on Biscayne Boulevard, Omni Mall was our next stop.  Here, we visited Fredericks.  We were after a bustier.  We did not find quite what we wanted.  However, a charmeuse camisole and tap set caught my eye.  It had a matching mid-thigh robe.  It wasn't on the list, but I knew it would look stunning, and I couldn't resist getting one for each of you.  

I chuckled, "And most women complain they can't get their men to go shopping with them.  They could if they shopped for the right items."

There was also an illusion-silk nightgown and robe set -- accented with lace -- black -- elegant beyond a dream.  This was a must.  To be dressed in such regal fashion and then put in bondage and made to submit to all manner of sexual invasion.  To know how utterly sexy you looked as you submitted your body to training and enlightenment.  Just thinking about it sent shivers up my spine.  My cock had been straining against my pants so long now it hurt.  I, too, was wet to the core.  What sweet agony, this waiting.  As each minute passed, my need to have you increased.  New ideas flooded into my mind.

Back in a taxi, and en route to what we hoped to be our last lingerie shop, we again were in quest of the bustiers we'd hoped to get from Fredericks.  My mind was by now filled with a storm of erotic images and thoughts.  The two of you seemed caught in the same mood, and we nestled in the back seat of the taxi, occasionally kissing and teasing.  I thought for a moment about Rashad.  Is he yet trying to find out where we went?  Will he soon be here in Miami, stalking us with his ugly Uzi?  Thank God I had Tony put a tail on him.  I was startled from this reverie by the ring of my cellular phone.  Besides the shock of the sound, the possible threat it might indicate immediately quickened the pulse of the three of us.  But it was just Tony checking in and telling me they hadn't found much on Rashad yet.  My heartbeat began to slow to normal again.  I hung up, wondering why he would call to tell me they weren't finding much.  I made a mental note to later ask Tony why he thought that worth reporting.

We pulled up before our next stop, a store off Flagler Street in the heart of the downtown shopping district.  It was lunch time now, and the store was nearly bare of customers.  The manager, an attractive woman with distinguished silver-gray hair, choose the three of us to chase away her boredom in this quiet hour.  "I'm Madame Brighton," she said in a crisp British accent.  "May I be of assistance?" She extended her hand to me.  

The gesture was so formal, I  could not resist the proffered parody.  Grasping her hand, I bowed deeply and took it to my lips in a lingering kiss.  I was amazed to smell the wondrous, familiar scent of woman on her fingers.  Had she been playing with herself, or with one of her customers?

"Well, my word.  You are the formal one, aren't you?" 

Ignoring this in what I hoped was British fashion, I carried on.  "Madame Brighton, allow me to present Lady Mary and Mistress Jazmand, my two servants.  I will need some very special garments to outfit them for their ministration." I figured this little charade would either get me in with this commanding lady or get me thrown out of the store.  Either way, we win -- that was my take of it -- a newfound friend or some high merriment.  Fortunately, the jest caught Madame Brighton in high spirits.  She seemed quite willing to play along.

"Well, then, what is it these servants need?" she queried.  

"I have been shopping all morning for new uniforms for them," I replied.  "I have found the most elegant panties, and a wonderful charmeuse camisole and tap set, and the most royal of nightgowns.  I've ordered corsets for waist training.  They'll be in Monday.  We still have an array of latex items and some leather to find, but just now we are in need of some really fine bustiers.  If you could help, I'd be most grateful," I told her.

I had thought this would be grand sport.  A little diversion to cut the pre-lunch boredom.  

Madame Brighton, however, was not easily derailed.  She took my entire soliloquy in stride.  She simply said, "Perhaps you've brought these young women to the right place.  Please follow me." She led us out the back of the shop, through a hallway, and into an adjacent building.  

I was stunned.  I'd thought I knew the D/s scene in this area, but here was a fantastic collection of exotic lingerie, leather, latex, and bondage gear.  Every fetish was represented.  And I do mean every fetish.    

The collection ran from the light-hearted toys an experimenting suburban couple might choose to the heavy-metal weapons that gay bikers embrace.  Along one wall were cat-o-nine-tails of various sizes, leather slappers, paddles, whips, canes.  There were leather, Velcro and even steel restraints of every kind.  In one alcove, she had a huge collection of enema gear.  There were 4 quart bags, Bardexes, colon tubes from the size of enema hoses to the size of fire hoses, custom nozzles including a wonderful strap-on mounted on a latex panty.  Of course, there was the usual collection of dildoes in every size, configuration and color.  There was even bondage furniture, stocks, a rack, pillories, whipping benches, an examination table with stirrups, several SCAT potties, and a specialized latex waterbed designed for enema administration.  

The collection was indeed impressive.  As I always do in such settings, I felt my insides begin to churn as I looked at certain of the items.  With some, I was thinking how I would use them on you.  With others, I was recalling their use on me, and the quivering mass of responding nerves and flesh I'd become at the touch of such instruments of pain/pleasure.

I knew the moment that I looked around that this would be the last shopping stop of the day.  I saw the look in your eye, Mary, as you watched me admiring the four-quart clear-latex enema bag with its giant hose and enormous, flesh-like nozzle.  I knew that, soon, I would dress you in the panties with the split rear, slide this huge cock-nozzle into your waiting, trembling rectum, and enema you till you ran clean and your sex stopped steaming.  

It was all too much.  I needed to get out and clear my head before deciding what to purchase.  It was, after all, lunch time.  Perhaps that would provide the needed break.

"Madame Brighton," I said, "I can see that we must spend a great deal of time shopping here in your specialty section.  However, we should have some lunch before making such demanding decisions.  Would you care to join us.  Somewhere close by, so that we can return quickly."

"Why, I'd be delighted," she said.  "There is a Mexican restaurant near here.  The food there may make these ladies more appreciative of things to come."

I thought that Madame Brighton's eyes had followed ours to the enema gear.  I could now see that she was a perceptive woman, probably a domme of some ranking.  I wondered how she had come to be here without my knowing of her.  That, I would probe over lunch.

For the next few minutes, Madame busied herself giving directions to her help and setting things in order so she could leave the store.  This completed, she led the way to El Rancho Grande.  She ordered for herself, and I ordered for the three of us, instructing the waiter to provide a large helping of refried beans with your tostadas.  A round of Dos Equis Mexican beers, and we were ready to settle in and talk.  I knew that neither you nor Jazmand had recovered your natural bowel function after the large enemas of Friday afternoon.  With the gas and bloating this lunch would pile upon the load already in your intestines, you would be begging me for enemas by the end of the day -- a request I fully intended to fulfill.

But enough of gastroenterology for now.  Time to learn a bit about this stately woman we'd just met.  I asked Madame Brighton how it could be that a woman of her bearing and obvious interest in the D/s community had escaped my attention in my own back yard.  

She simply smiled and replied, "That's the result of my being too busy for my own good this past year.  You see, I'm from London.  I had a fetish shop there for years, but I've always longed to live in Florida.  So, I purchased the lingerie store a little over a year ago, along with the adjacent building where the fetish showroom is now.  The place was run down, particularly the adjoining building.  I had quite a job before me planning and supervising its renovation, putting in the connecting hallway, and so forth.  And I had a terrible row with your customs agents about bringing the stock from my London shop into your country."

We chuckled at this image . . . Madame Brighton standing before a somewhat cowed customs officer, demanding that he immediately release her racks, pillories, whipping benches and cane collection.  I don't doubt that the customs officials were wary of pushing this woman too far.  Whatever the motivation, they did eventually release the entire shipment, and M. Brighton was able to get on with outfitting her store.

"I'm finally getting the shop on an even keel," she went on, "and I'm quite anxious to get back into the social whirl.  I miss my friends in London.  I haven't played this whole year.  That's why, when the three of you came in, and you, Jim, began to tease with your courtier's bow, I decided to invite you into the inner sanctum without any appointment.  You see, I've been keeping a very low profile with that part of the shop -- only letting in people know to me.  I wanted to learn the local customs and sensibilities before I became too open with such potentially disturbing wares."

I was truly taken with the charm and bearing of Madame Brighton.  She kept the three of us in gales of laughter with her stories of her brushes with customs, and with tales of some of the more eccentric requests she'd had from British customers and lovers over the years.

By the end of our lunch, we felt that she was a close and trusted friend.  I gave her two names, and some phone numbers so that she could contact local organizers in the D/s scene.  I told her that there was a munch scheduled for a week from next Wednesday, and I invited her to attend.  She said she thought she would.  "Good, I said.  We'll plan on being there too."

Before the luncheon ended, I wanted to ask directly about the scent of sex I'd detected on M. Brighton's delicate hand.  I felt I knew her well enough at that point, but still tried to come at this in as delicate a fashion as I could.  She was, as I'd expected, completely comfortable fielding my inquiry.

"Just more evidence of loneliness, my dears," she said.  "That, and the fact that the new issue of Skin Two magazine arrived today.  It was quiet this morning, and I slipped into the bath to glance at the magazine, and I'm afraid things got . . . Well . . . Out of hand, you might say."  Her smile kept us totally at ease with the discussion.  "I do hope you're not disappointed.  You might have expected a more sordid story from a woman of my reputation," she teased.

Small talk continued for a moment, but was interrupted when the waiter approached with our check.  M. Brighton deftly grabbed it from his tray before he so much as reached our table.  Try as I might, I could not prevail on her to let me pay for lunch, or even to make it a Dutch Treat.  

"Absolutely not.  I've been starved for attention too long.  You're not going to deny me the opportunity to buy three such charming people lunch," she insisted.

"Very well," I relented, "let's get back to your shop, then, and give you a chance to recover some of what you've just spent."

Recover, she did.  I bought a black-latex catsuit for each of you and a masculine version for myself.  I got a clear-latex skirt for both of you.  I found a harness in black leather, an affair that left its occupant hanging from the ceiling with all their most vulnerable spots completely exposed.  We ordered a copy of the special latex bed, the waterbed equipped for enema use.  It, and a whipping bench I arranged to have delivered to Key West.

Next, we turned our attention to the enema gear.  I knew by now the beans would be having their desired effect on you.  You know the old rhyme:
     Beans, beans, the musical fruit,
     The more you eat, the more you toot,
     The more you toot, the better you feel,
     So let's have beans with every meal.

I slipped a list of additional items to M. Brighton, then brought you over to the enema gear, leading you by the hand, Jazmand following.  "Mary?" I said.

"Yes, Master," you responded, loudly enough for M. Brighton to easily hear.

"What enema set do you want used on you for your next big event, dear?" I asked, savoring your embarrassment before this elegant, matriarchal woman.

You blushed beet red, gazed down at your feet for a moment, then murmured, "That one, Master."

"What's that, Mary?  I didn't hear you.  Which one do you want?"

You looked up, an air of delicious resignation on your face, tinged with just a bit of pride.  You would shout it from the rooftops if need be.  This was, after all, what you wanted.  Your mind was sealed.  Almost as if it were coming from a ventriloquist, you heard a your own firm voice saying, "That one up there.  The big four-quart clear-latex bag with the enormous, cock-sized rubber nozzle.  I want you to give me enemas with that one, Master."
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