Saturday Afternoon

My Mother had arranged a final dancing lesson for me, a special one-to-one session just to polish up my technique. (The things that woman would do to make sure I made a good showing tonight!) It was just old Moxley, though, at the school, so I did not mind too much. And I could take Annie — just for someone to practice with, of course.

I already knew that Annie could handle herself. I had given her a spin yesterday, up in my bedroom with my bed shoved to one side. The drawing room was easily twice as big, but there was no way that I was going to shift the museum collection in there, so we made do in my room. At least I had a decent sound system attached to my screen, and a good list of suitable music on my fone. Waltzing around the rug and bouncing off the walls, we tripped up a couple of times, but I could see that the description in her accomplishments specification was easily justified — she knew what she was doing.

It was far from my first visit to school outside hours. I had once endured two terms of tortuous violin lessons on Saturday mornings, before my Mother accepted that I was never going to charm anyone's ears. But I had forgotten that Annie had never been in the place before. As we marched down the half-empty school corridors, she gazed around her with wide eyes, and it was entertaining to see how easily she was awed by the shabby grandeur of the place. I suppose that compared with her old haunts at Berkhamstead, it must have seemed quite impressive.

"Mr. Pilsbury. Pleased to see you get here on time for once," cried Mr. Moxley from the far side of the gym as we opened the door. For some reason I had always liked the old geezer. It might be his dry sense of humour, although it was usually directed at me. He knew all too well that my Mother had forced me into taking Dance as an option, and so always teased me when it looked as if I was enjoying myself.

Just in time I remembered not to introduce Annie to him. "Ah, I had to bring a collarmaid, Sir — there was no one available for a partner at short notice. It does have some dancing experience though."

"Never mind. Is it wearing decent shoes? Yes, those will do." He turned his back and fiddled with his fone, setting it up to drive the sound system. Gershwen flooded out through the speakers, and I took Annie's hand in mine.

"Well? Off you got then." There was no more to be said. We were off.

What I had not expected was having fun. Yes, I had a fair idea that Annie was competent. But I had not anticipated the fluid grace of her movements, or the uncanny way she anticipated my every change of direction. Perhaps I should have expected the unrestrained grin on her face as I swung her around. She was having a ball, and it showed in every step.

And whether it was having a partner that actually danced with me, as opposed to next to me, or just having a good teacher give his undivided attention to my every step, by the end of the hour, I was really flying. He even showed us a few exhibition moves — just the sort of thing to wow the crowd. As we packed up and headed for the door, I was feeling physically tired but mentally elated. Whatever else tonight had in store, at least I need not disgrace myself on the dance floor.

I bounced in through the front door, a cheerful whistle on my lips, only to screech to a halt when I saw the Smithers in the hallway, and heard the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Jones filtering through from the drawing room. I had forgotten about luncheon with the Jones'.

Even worse — when I looked around for Penelope it appeared that her parents had left her behind. It was not as if I was looking forward to seeing her — quite the contrary — but at least it would have been a little more interesting with her around. Now the prospect of luncheon loomed flat and boring as they apologised for her absence. She was preparing for the Ball, and apparently it had all fallen behind schedule so she could not be spared even for this social occasion. Lucky her, I thought glumly.

Of course there was no way it could be avoided, so I did my social duty with as good a grace as I could muster. My parents and the Jones' had a lot to talk about with tonight in mind so the whole affair was strung out even more than usual. It was difficult to share in their animation, and I escaped as soon as the coffee was served.

I headed for the screen in the drawing room, wanting to check if Rob had replied to my message. He had, and he had asked me to ring him at two fifteen.

Contacting Rob could be a bit tricky at times. Liz and her Mum at least had a fifteen-inch portable tucked in the corner of the kitchen. It was only portable in the sense that if you had ten minutes to spare and could remember where you had put the instruction manual, it was possible to pack it up in its suitcase, but they were cheap and reliable, and most prole households had one. Rob's mum, on the other hand, refused to pay the rental, so if he wanted to use his fone he had to go out to the box on the street corner or down to the café.

Did you know, by the way, that cafés are called that because of the coffee they serve? In fact in the old days, before they sold screen time, that's all they were for, and café is the old French word for coffee!

Knowing that he would be plugged in somewhere, waiting, I never liked to be late, so I gave him a buzz bang on the nail of quarter past. It was good to see his face.

"James, my dear chap! How spiffing to hear you!" His imitation of a stiff was not getting any better despite the time he dedicated to it, but I could not help grinning.

"Knock it off, you deadbeat. I've had an afternoon of that stuff already. So, shall I come over to your place or shall we meet down at the Dead Duck?"

His face dropped. "Uh, James, maybe we should give it a miss this week."

"What? What about Liz?"

"Yeah well, she's the reason, really. She came over to mine and we 'ad a little 'eart t' 'eart..." for a second my heart was in my mouth, wondering what that might mean, but then he carried on with, "and she told me all about letting yer pick out a girlfriend tonight."

"Does that girl tell you everything?"

"Well, ya know, she don't bother hidin' much. Look Jay, it's just ... yer were soundin' like ya were 'avin second thoughts about Liz, an' if you screw 'er around..."

"Rob, it was her idea! And you know I would never do that. But ... sometimes things aren't what we want. I'm not going to give up on Liz. And whatever happens, I'm not going to give up on knowing you either. I'm just won't let that happen. But I can see that in future it's going to have to be different."

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, thing is, she's not as tough as she pretends, an' she's bullshitting like it wouldn't matter to see you getting' all prettied up to put yourself out there and pick up some bit o' fluff, but it was cuttin' 'er up, I could tell."

"But does that mean you're not going to see me today? Neither of you?"

"Well this is all getting a bit fuckin' weird, an' I think we should give each other the day off."

"Oh ... All right. But look, let's make it a date tomorrow, lunch at the Dead Duck. You, me and Liz; and I can fill her in on what happened at the Ball, and you can ride shotgun so I don't upset her. And then we can talk about how to work this out, for the future."

"Fair enough. You jus' do wot yer got ter, an' me an' Liz 'll see yer at the old joint tomorrer, midday like."

So now my day was as flat as mud. It really sucked not to be spending Saturday afternoon with Rob and Liz. This was the time we usually spent hanging out down the canal, throwing bread at the ducks (yes, 'at', and with those rolls they had better duck) or swinging along the High Street, swapping rude comments on the fashion victims passing by. But here I was, abandoned at home, with nothing to do but get ready for my big occasion tonight. Or more likely get psyched-out and worried sick, I grumbled to myself as I paced yet again across the drawing room carpet.

We were not due at Mrs. Haversham's for the final fitting until three o'clock. I wondered where Annie was. Maybe another massage would do me some good. Or what about a piece of that scrumptious cake she had baked yesterday? I headed decisively for the door and almost banged into her as I jerked it open. It was only with an impressively acrobatic save that she rescued her tray.

"Oh! Sorry, Boss. I thought you might like a cup of tea and some fruit cake, so I was just ... Oh!" This last squeak was as I slipped my hand up her skirt and gave her little cotton-covered pussy a friendly rub. Well, she was mine, wasn't she? And with both her hands occupied by the tray she was too tempting a target to resist. The feel of her shaved mound through the cloth was warm and soft and promising; and suddenly the world was a brighter place.

It was amazing how her presence had turned my sombre mood on its head. "You know you are a mind reader, don't you?" I said, sitting back on the sofa.

"Yes, Boss. Where do you want the cake?" she said, recollecting her composure.

"In my mouth. Feed me, slave!" I cried out in an imperious voice, lay back and opened my mouth wide. Smiling even though the joke was against her, Annie broke off a piece of that scrumptious moist cake and popped it in. It was when she picked up the teacup with a glint in her eye and threatened to follow the cake with a draft of the hot wet stuff that I decided that discretion was the better part of valour. "Enough! I can manage that myself."

"Boss?" Her expression as she knelt to attention was more serious now.

"Yes, girl."

"Would you ... would you call me slave again?"

"Annie, I was joking. You know I would not have said that to you in seriousness."

"But I really don't mind, Boss. It ... it gave me such a nice feeling when you used the word just now. After all, I am your slave, aren't I, and I'm proud of it."

"Maybe, but you know we can't say that in public, And I'm afraid I don't think I could talk to you like that with a straight face even in private. Maybe we could pretend-play at it sometime, if you wanted."

"I suppose so, Boss. But it wouldn't seem the same if I had to ask you for it." Then, with a slightly odd expression, she asked, "How does the new zapper feel, now it's on your wrist?"

"It's comfortable enough Annie, but don't worry. I won't be using it. You know what I think of those things. Besides what are the chances of me needing to discipline you, of all people?"

"No, I suppose not, Boss. I will just collect the things." With that, she rose gracefully, and picked up the teacup and plate. I admired her movements, thinking of the practice and effort she must put into the way she acted around me. It was magic how she was always just there when needed, but never in the way when not.

Having said that, right now she was standing there, with the china in her hands, just staring at me. Her face had this strange frown, almost as if she was struggling with something. Then she grimaced, and dropped the teacup.

It was extraordinary. One moment it was safe in her hand, and the next, pieces of cup and saucer were scattered across the carpet, while the crack echoed round the room like a bombshell.

"Annie!" For several seconds, she was frozen, with this determined, no, defiant, look on her face. Then as if her string was cut, she collapsed to her knees.

"Master, I'm so sorry,... sob ... I didn't mean... sob ... how could I..." she gasped out incoherently in between the heaving of her chest. There was nothing I could do except kneel down next to her and wrap her in my arms. For several minutes I held her against me until the crying subsided, and then lifted her to the sofa, keeping my arm around her shoulder.

"Boss,... gulp ... I should not be sitting ... huh ... here with..." she struggled to get out.

"You sit where I put you, alright? Now just stay silent until you can manage to talk coherently." She nodded and rubbed her eyes on the hem of her skirt. It hardly reached, even though she bent over, and despite the situation, I could not help feeling a thrill at the glimpse of her white panty-clad mound. Now we were side-by-side, with my arm around her shoulder, almost like boyfriend and girlfriend. How odd, that this should be unusual. It was not, after all, unpleasant.

"I'm sorry Boss. You know I would never really disobey you, don't you?" she whispered eventually.

"Yes, and when you feel like it, you can explain what just happened."

"I was so silly. How could I risk upsetting you, just for..." she shook her head angrily, apparently at herself. She turned and looked at me. Even when red in the corners, her eyes were so pretty.

"It's the discipline thing, Boss — the riding crop. I'm dying to feel what it would be like for you to use it on me." She sighed and sat back in the sofa. "But you never would, would you — not unless I did something extreme, and I don't think I could manage that."

I stared at her for a moment, and then laughed. She looked put out for a second. "So you did that on purpose? To get me to punish you, and you did not think of just asking?"

She hung her head. "No."

"Have you asked for your favour yet, today?"

"Do I still get a favour, Boss, now I am going to stay?"

"Yes, of course, if only to stop this kind of nonsense. Now, what are you going to ask as your favour for today?"

She looked up at me, shifting away on the sofa to see my face properly.

"What, you mean I could ask you to... ? Would you still do that for me, Boss, even after... ?"

"Yes, I would, my strange and twisted little collarmaid. Even though I don't understand, it is obviously important to you."

Eyes wide, she nodded. "I'm sorry, it's like an itch. I just can't get the idea out of my head." She straightened up and said firmly, "Yes, please, Boss, I would like you to cane me, if you don't mind."

I shook my head in wonder, and considered my options. Curiosity and, yes, a sneaking arousal, made up my mind for me. "Very well. Off you go and get it, then. Bring it up to my room."

It was with only a little trepidation that I waited for her upstairs. I was pretty sure I knew what to do. I fished out some dressing gown cords; presumably some sort of restraint would be required, and as I looked around I could see that my leather wing chair could be pressed into service.

I did a double-take when she walked into the bedroom. She had removed her skirt and panties. Although above the waist she was still in the proper formal attire of a bedroom maid, between the hem of her blouse and her stocking tops, her fresh little pussy was gloriously naked. The effect was indescribably erotic.

"Come prepared, have we?"

"Yes, Boss." She had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed, but I could see there was a fair amount of excitement in there as well.

"Annie, are you sure? This is not a toy, and if we do this, I am not going to hold back."

"I have to know what it will feel like, Boss. Maybe we will never do it again, but for just this once, I am sure."

"All right. On your head be it." I refrained from adding, "or rather, on your bottom." "Well, I believe six strokes is traditional. But maybe we should only do one or two on the first time. And do you remember your 'safe' word?"

"Of course, Boss, it's 'strawberry.' But I am sure I won't need it. And ... and I want all six."

"Fair enough. Come on then, over here." I led her over to the armchair, which I had turned around, and bent her over the back of it. With a bit of fiddling, I managed to tie her wrists to the front legs quite securely, and I wrapped another cord around her waist and the top of the back. The last job was to lash her ankles to the back legs of the chair. While I was doing that, my eyes were necessarily only inches from her pert bottom cheeks, and of course the pink labia that were peeking out from below them. They were definitely more swollen than usual, and that unique aroma attacked my nostrils. It was one that I was beginning to recognise by now.

Her flawless golden skin looked so soft and female against the brown leather of the old button-pattern armchair, and I was painfully aware of how gorgeously immobile she was; held completely open and available to me. I could not help it, closing my eyes, I ran my hand up the back of one warm thigh, trailing fingers from the stretched nylon up onto the tender flesh above the stocking top. I didn't want to do this. How did I get into these things; why was I holding a riding crop in one hand instead of plunging my cock into that hot waiting pussy?

Right. Self-control, I thought. This is important to the girl.

The riding crop itself was a beautifully made thing in its own right, from the little ivory button on the handle end to the carefully stitched leather loop at the other. I gave it a few experimental swishes through the air to get the feel of it.

Now, how did I do this? How hard? The last thing I wanted was to cut her skin, leaving nasty white lines like that poor thing of Murdoch's. Although it was interesting that I was not feeling the same revulsion I had done, when it came to doing this with poor Hortense for Mrs. Haversham. Presumably knowing how much the girl wanted it made a difference.

"Ready, then?"

She just screwed her eyes shut, and nodded. I whirled it through air and it made a most satisfying whack. Right on the leather arm of the chair, next to her shoulder.

She gasped. "What? Master!"

I chuckled. It had been mean of me to tease her, really. "Just getting the feel for it, little thing. Now, hold on tight!"

Whack

It sounded different on human skin. Sounded and felt quite, quite different. The pale line across her left buttock, just off horizontal, suddenly turned red, and she cried out aloud.

Whack

"Aaaaaaagh! Master, stop!"

What? I frowned. Almost by itself, the crop whistled again.

Whack

"Oww ... Master, please I don't want it!"

"Then you know the word to use. If this was a mistake, just say it."

"Oooow I... sob ... I can't, Master."

"Can't or won't?"

Whack

"Oooh, no, Master, never ... Huh ... Please, I have changed my mind! I don't want any more!"

"You have not been honest with me, have you my little collarmaid?"

Whack

"Oww ... Master, please..."

"You wanted something, and wanted it badly enough to pull this ridiculous stunt, yet did not tell me. Are you ever going to do that again?"

"Noooo ... huh ... never, Master. Please stop!"

"How do you feel me now?"

Whack

"AAaaaaagh, I love you Master, always!"

I paused, panting.

"And that makes six."

"Huh ... thank you ... huh ... oh, thank you, Master."

I stared at my right hand, still holding the stick that had been so carefully crafted to cause pain to horses and women. The thing dropped to the carpet. Annie's round buttocks now showed six raw red stripes across them, three to each side. It seemed impossible that my hand could have been so neat, so methodical. I shook myself and the iron mantle that had enveloped me fell from my shoulders. What had I done?

"Annie, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?" I scrambled for the knots at her wrists, not able to see them properly, filled with remorse.

"Master, no, don't!"

"What? I..." I paused, confused.

"Master, please, ... huh ... finish me off."

Staring at her face, so close to mine, I saw her eyes screwed up — not with pain, but with something else.

"Please, Master. Don't make me ask for it."

"But I must," I replied slowly. "Tell me exactly what it is that you want me to do." I was not sure, but I was beginning to catch on, and getting her to say it would confirm the bizarre suspicion. "Beg me."

"I need you to fuck me, Master." She said in a shuddering voice. "I need you to push your prick into my cunnie and shaft me until you cum inside me."

Moving back behind her I knelt to inspect her gorgeous behind from close up.

She was alternately clenching her buttocks, and then pushing her back down onto the chair to raise them as far as possible. The action made her swollen labia move apart and then together, almost appearing to open in anticipation. The insides of her thighs were wet near the top, I noticed, slick with something shiny and slippery. I slipped my fingers over the skin, less than an inch from the yearning lips, but as good as a mile away.

She sobbed quietly. "Please, Master, please. I will do anything."

"Yes," I confirmed. "Yes, you will." I knew I was going to make her wait. "Now hold still."

With an effort she stopped rocking, and her buttocks showed only the smallest quiver. They were glowing, pink all over, not just where the crop had kissed the surface, and the red lines were raised as proud welts above the skin. Very, very softly, I kissed the end of the nearest one.

"Poor thing," I whispered, and licked along its length slowly and tantalisingly. The skin was hot and inflamed beneath the cooling tip of my tongue. Despite her best intentions, I could see her bottom muscles clench slightly. "Stay still!" I repeated, gathering saliva in my mouth so I could do it again on the next one.