Buying A Riding Crop
In the movie 9 1/2 Weeks, this is just a throwaway scene, but it’s quite a bit hotter in the book:
We are both laden down with packages when he says, “I have to get one more thing.” And hails a cab. We end up in Brooklyn, at a small, obscure hunting store. There are two clerks, one dignified and elderly, one in his teens, no other customers. He is pricing insulated vests, the kind to be worn under windbreakers.
I put my parcels on a chair, walk around, get bored, sit down on the edge of an old mahogany desk, pick up and leaf through a three-year-old New Yorker, which miraculously looks brand new.
“This one, I guess,” he says. I look over at the counter, he is looking back at me. He is holding a riding crop.
“I’d like to try it out.” There is a peculiar shift; from one second to the next I have become disoriented, I am on alien territory, in a foreign century. He walks a few steps to where I am half-sitting on the desk, one foot on the floor, the other dangling. He pulls my skirt up over my left leg, which is resting on the desk, steps back, and strikes me across the inner thigh. The searing pain is an inextricable part of a wave of excitement that robs me of breath and speech and the ability to move; every cell in my body is awash with lust.
It is silent in the small, dusty room. The clerks behind the counter have frozen. He slowly smooths down my skirt and turns to the older man, who is wearing a suit and still looks like an accountant, though a deep flush is spreading upward from his shirt collar.
“This one will do.”
Thanks to Hermione’s Heart for typing it in.
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