I was wincing a little. He got to ten before he asked again “How many slut?”“Ten” I answered confidently.“And what do you say, slut?”“Thank you Danny” I whimpered.The next ten were harder and I was getting really uncomfortable, starting to get scared. I was squirming. He stopped to ask “How many?”“Twenty, thank you Danny”“Good. I don’t want you to move an inch. These next swats are going to be hard and if you move I swear I’ll start over, do you understand?”I groaned inwardly, my heart racing “Yes Danny” I braced myself and dug my fingers into the seat of the couch. The next FIVE took my breath away but I stayed still. “How many”“Twenty five,” I was practically sobbing, but not quite “Thank you Danny”“Good girl” he purred and rubbed my jean covered ass. Before I knew it he was reaching under me and was unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. He explained “Twenty five more, on the bare. Got that slut, do you understand?”My insides were panicing, my mind racing, swirling, I tried to think. Besides, it's a lot more fun to watch you get done up for me this way. My panties are drenched."We met Paul and Kitty at their booth in the mezzanine-level vendors' area at the Hilton on South Michigan Avenue. As we came up the escalator, Angie and I both gaped at the far-flung assemblage of fetish apparel and gear; booth upon booth, row upon row, extending throughout the mezzanine and into the ballroom where the pageant would be held. Paul escorted us towards the backstage area while Kitty took charge of the booth.As we traversed the vendor area, there was a seemingly-endless array of leather and rubber clothing, shoes and boots, whips, paddles, chains, restraints, dildoes, butt plugs, vibrators, bondage furniture, even medieval-style iron cages, up to and including an honest-to-goodness 'iron maiden' — minus the spikes. Paul's was not the only booth featuring corsets, but as far as I was concerned, it might as well have been. All of it was brand-new and for sale. The vendors were.
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