The embarrassment of kink

This kinky business has landed me in more than a few embarrassing situations lately. Usually when I have to interact with vanillas when either preparing for a kinky adventure or having just returned from one.

There was the trip to Marks&Spencers a while back to buy school shirts and socks. I definitely don't look old enough to have a daughter aged 16, and as young as I may sometimes look, I certainly don't pass for 16 myself. The embarrassment I felt was heightened by having to go back to the shop and return the shirts for a size 13 instead. I felt like such a pervert!

Or my wax appointments. I go to the same girl every time. I like her a lot cos she causes me as little pain as possible. As much as I can handle a great deal of pain in a scene, in vanilla situations I turn into a wimp!

The first time I got caught out was just after my first Nimhneach. I hadn't even thought about the fact my bottom was completely black and blue until she gave a horrified gasp and asked what happened to me. Going bright red I mumbled rugby and she oohed and ahhed at me for the rest of the appointment. Now I have to remember to pretend I still play rugby when she asks, even though I haven't played for years.

So after that I got much better at scheduling appointments before play scenes. But sometimes, like lately, there's too much play going on for that. Hence I found myself stripping off earlier this week hoping that a) she wouldn't notice the cane marks on my bottom or b) that if she did she wouldn't say anything. In the end she didn't say anything but I don't know if that was cos of the former or the latter!

And as for the saga of shortening the school skirt for Lowewood; it was probably the most mortifying of all. I'm blushing just thinking of it. I had pinned it up to the desired length. And yes that turned out to be quite a short length indeed, just barely covering my bottom. But I wanted a school uniform that was more grown up to contrast with my very proper knee length skirts and pinafores.

So off to the dressmakers with me. The one I usually go to is in a very lively part of Dublin and the people working there are your typical down to earth Dubs who have no problem saying what they think. They were horrified by the proposed length and asked several painful questions.

'Are you sure you want it this short? Is it for you? But it'll only go to here (demonstrating by putting it against me). That'll barely cover your arse'. I had to utter several assurances that it was indeed what I wanted before making my escape.

Only to have to go through it all again when collecting it. 'Oh you're the one with the skirt, very short it is, very short' said one, holding it up so the rest of the staff could see. Cue much nodding of heads and tutting all round. Finally, I was allowed to take my skirt and my leave, but not before I was warned I'd be sure to get pregnant if I went outside dressed like that!