Wednesday Afternoon

"Clothes shopping for a girl!" I thought gloomily as I left the house, collar in tow. I did not really know where to start looking, but there was that shop in the arcade with the white window-display dummies. It had caught my eye before, so maybe we could begin there.

Except for the collarserve it was empty. This was surprising at 3.00 pm on a weekday, but I suspected it was not crowded at the best of times. Anne stopped as we walked in the entrance, eyes wide. "So, what do you need?" I asked. "Go on, choose what you want."

"Anything, Sir?"

"Yes — well, I have a hundred to spend, so try not to go over that." My mother had charged my fone with the money before I left; she was that anxious to give me no excuse. What puzzled me was that she trusted me to dress up the collar at all. Perhaps she was going to take it all back and exchange it as soon as I got it back to the house? On my side, I had realised that for any chance to sell this thing at a good price, I needed to make sure she was decently presented.

"A hundred pounds!" she whispered in a tone of horror and awe. "Sir, you must not spend that much money on clothes for a collar!"

"Fair enough, then, let's aim at fifty" I smiled "but I have no idea where to start. You must know what you might wear — just pick something out."

So off she went, her little face glowing, glancing at me every now and then for approval and becoming a little bolder at my every nod. She was endearingly worried about my money — even though it was really my Mother's — and the only garment that could in any way be regarded as an extravagance was the fluffy woolen beret. I cannot say I understood all the undergarments, except that there seemed to be a lot of straps, and that none of them were bigger than a handkerchief. On the other hand the few outer garments she picked out seemed both attractive and sensible.

However she came to me after a bit, with a concerned face. Obviously there was some sort of problem. "Sir, I don't think they have much in the way of collar clothes in this store. There are no dresses."

"Of course there are!" I pointed to the display racks of summer dresses and long skirts that occupied most of one wall.

"Oh, no Sir. I couldn't possibly wear one of those!"

I walked over to inspect them, and realised what she meant. There were no short dresses anywhere in the store.

It was funny, but I had never thought about it before. We all knew the clichéd cry of the irate father to a daughter 'going out' in a short skirt. "You are NOT leaving this house looking like a collar!" But similarly, you would not be forgiven for dressing your collar up to look like a lady. Just as fixed as the unwritten rule for ladies to hide their knees, was the requirement for collars to display their thighs. Collarwaits, collarserves, collarsecs - all wore miniskirts or dresses slit to the hip.

That of course was the strange thing about the switch in clothes for girls at school, I mused. Schoolgirls, like collars, showed off their legs, but hid their emerging chests. But on the day of their sixteenth birthday they were suddenly in long dresses and competing to see who could display the most cleavage.

Proles, on the other hand, did not seem to care much. Prole girls did not wear a uniform to school anyway, and even the grown women seemed to wear nylon stretchy stuff to show their figure, rather than bare flesh. If they had any focus I supposed it was on going see-through, or an exposed midriff.

Very interesting, but this was not going to help us here. We would obviously have to pick a dress and skirt for her elsewhere.

It was when we got our pile of pickings to the till that the trouble started. The collarserve, perhaps in its twenties with one of those painted faces that seemed de rigueur in a swanky clothes shop, stood immaculate behind the till. "This one must ask, sir, for whom the purchases are intended," was delivered in a voice managing to be both servile and disdainful at the same time. The 'serve had presumably been following our progress around the shop — there was not much else to watch.

"Ah ... it's all for my collarmaid here, of course."

"Then this one regrets to inform you, sir, that it is not the policy of the establishment to provide garments for ... restrained persons." It took a moment to get over my amazement at the scorn in the voice, before the meaning sank in.

"What!" How could it stand there and speak to me, a Master, about serving collars when it was one itself? Suddenly it was very hot and airless in there. "You little... !" I spluttered, and then nothing mattered as much as wiping that supercilious expression off its face. My hands, groping blindly, grasped the edge of the display unit next to us. A glass case, full of perfume bottles on little glass shelves. What sort of noise could that make! One wrench and it would be all over the floor and ... and I would throwing a tantrum again, like I used to before I turned sixteen.

I stood stock-still for a moment, collecting myself. "I take it you would have no objection to showing me where this policy is displayed?"

It seemed discomforted for a second. "It ... it is not displayed, but it is in the Mistress's instructions to this collar-serve."

"And the Mistress is where?"

More discomfort. "The Mistress is momentarily absent, sir."

I stared at it for a second, and then smiled. The 'serve did not seem to like the smile.

"Usually out on Wednesday afternoons, is she?" The 'Mistress' should not have left the collar alone, and such rules were not only to prevent an unattended collar from making mischief. They were also to protect the collar itself. The collar's stricken face said all I needed to know.

"Anne, slip over to the door, will you? There is a small sign hanging on the inside. Just turn it around so the side that reads 'CLOSED' is against the glass."

If the shop's owner chose to return in the next ten minutes I could get into trouble. On the other hand, I got the feeling that this absence was a regular Wednesday afternoon thing, and that whatever was going on here, I might not be the only one interested in not making a fuss.

Silently, I moved around the counter. It made a move as if to prevent me, but did not dare. However, what I needed was not on the shelf under the counter, nor in the drawer.

A little drunk on that sense of power that comes from abandoning care to the winds, I looked around. The office door was at the back. The door was locked, but the architrave showed a dirty smudge at the left-hand end of the top. The key was actually just to the right of there.

"What do you think?" I asked Anne in a conversational tone, as I opened the door and sauntered in. "I would go for the desk, top right-hand drawer." The drawer key was plainly visible in the pen tray but the drawer was not even locked. And there we were. Right first guess.

I hefted the zapper in my hand as I returned to the counter. It was a utilitarian model with a cheap steel case. The look of dismay on the collarserve's face was very satisfying.

"Now, you have been very unpleasant to my collarmaid here, and I think you should make amends."

It collapsed to its knees. "This collarserve is very sorry to cause offence, Master."

ZAP. It was only a one, just a tickler, but the way the 'serve flinched was impressive. "No, not me, her. Her name is Anne, and despite being restrained, she is also a person."

It turned slightly on its knees to face Anne. "This collarserve is very sorry to cause offence to the Master's collarmaid Anne."

ZAP. One again. I sighed. "Not quite what I had in mind." This was going to be fun. "I'm beginning to think this needs to be a physical apology, something real." A bizarre thought occurred to me. "Anne, how clean are your shoes?"

Anne looked puzzled, but the 'serve knew exactly what I was talking about, and without a murmur, bent down with an extended tongue. Anne jumped back in alarm.

"What is it doing?"

"Just making amends."

"But I don't want my shoes licked! — Oh! Sorry, Sir." This last was obviously in contrition at objecting to my idea.

"Hmmmmm. What about your feet?"

"I ... whatever you say, Sir" said Anne, reluctantly but obediently, and kicked off her shoes.

I nodded at the 'serve, and without a word it bent down to extend its tongue over Anne's left foot. I watched in amazement as it actually washed over her nylon clad toes.

"Ew, my stockings are getting wet!" cried Anne, but now she was giggling, not complaining. Interesting.

"Perhaps this one could take them off then?" suggested the kneeling collar in a strangely tense voice. I nodded, frowning but fascinated. Anne reached down for the hem of her skirt, but I blocked her hand and shook my head at her.

The collarserve paused and stared for a moment at her long slender legs, then slid its hands up to the top of Anne's thighs to unclip her stockings. A pretty flush spread over Anne's cheeks as the fingers disappeared under the hem of her dress, but she said nothing to object as the 'serve slowly stroked its hands up and then down Anne's legs, pulling the stockings with them. It seemed to take a particularly long time in clearing the folds of nylon from her feet, while Anne watched, fascinated. Finally it took one foot up to its mouth and without hesitation licked between her toes. Anne turned to me with a question on her face, but it never got out. She shivered, and I looked down to see that the 'serve was now sucking the little toe and running its tongue around it.

Suddenly, it was very still in there. I could hear a tiny slurp as it finished with one toe and went on to the next — and the faintest of moans from Anne. She was now slumped back with her elbows on the counter, her mouth open but her eyes closed, while the 'serve was bending to its task, not with disgust, but with enthusiasm.

I was not sure what was happening. This is not what I had expected. Hesitantly I opened my mouth to stop what was going on, and then shut it again. The only thing that could tear my eyes from the vision of that wet mobile pink tongue was the sight of Anne's expression. I turned away from them to adjust my underclothes.

"Oh, Master!" whispered Anne, between her panting.

"Enough!" I commanded at last.

There was a pause. And then "My Mistress makes me kiss her bottom," suggested the 'serve, quietly. "French kisses."

Amazingly, I realised Anne was considering the idea seriously.

"Come, that's enough." I repeated, my voice hoarser than I had intended. Whatever had taken hold of these girls, we needed to get out of there. "Anne, get your shoes and stockings back on. Now you, we will just take these items and let us have no more nonsense."

The 'serve rang up all the clothes and took my fone to charge the order without meeting my eye. But before turning away, I reached up and lifted up its chin. "Why? You were never going to get away with that behaviour. Why did you refuse to serve us?"

Amazingly its eyes filled with tears. "The Master's maid is so pretty, and the Master was getting all those lovely things for it. This one serves its Mistress with all its heart and she never buys it anything. This collarserve was ... was jealous. It is so sorry, Master, it is so ashamed."

It now looked so forlorn, I almost wanted to hug it, or kiss it better. A different idea occurred to me. "You are forgiven. Anne, come and give our 'serve here a kiss good bye."

Anne stepped round me to the serving girl with a reassuring smile and leant forward to give it a kiss on the cheek, but it twisted to catch her lips on its own mouth, and I watched in amazement as their lips melded for a second. Wide eyed, Anne pulled away and stared. Then she reached out to touch the tips of the other girl's fingers. "Bye," she said softly, and as we walked out with our parcels her head was twisted over her shoulder, her eyes locked on the other girl for as long as possible.

We were strangely reserved going round Woolworths to purchase what we had missed — which, frankly, was most of it. We got a suitable maid's uniform for her, and a couple of other outfits, then picked up the few missing bits and pieces she needed in the department store over the other side of the High Street.

It took me all of the journey home to muster the bravado to broach the subject with my collarmaid. "So, what was going on, back in there?"

Anne was silent for a moment but did not pretend not to understand. I waited her out. "It was as if she liked me the way you like me, Sir. She looked at me just the way you do. It made my tummy go flip-flop inside."

"That's silly, what, you mean like a boy likes a girl?" The notion was ridiculous — but the image of Anne's face as the collarserve's tongue writhed around her toes was with me still.

"I have heard of that happening, Sir. And..." she fell silent.

"Well, spit it out, you have to tell me the truth remember."

"I have just thought, that at the school, Sheila used to look at Honey like that. I mean, we all knew they were really close friends, but sometimes they would really kiss. I mean, properly, like a boy kisses a girl. Not that I would know, Sir." She finished in embarrassment.

Girls kissing girls like... ? This I would just have to store away and deal with later.

After tea, Anne was fidgeting so much that I had to ask her to sit still. "What is the matter with you?

She looked embarrassed. "Sorry, Sir, I did not notice I was doing it. I will be still."

"Yes, but why were you wriggling?"

"I could not possibly say, Sir."

"Arrgh! Yes, you can. That is the whole point, I want you to be honest with me."

"But Sir, it didn't concern you. I was just impatient. It was a thing I was looking forward to doing, and I was just being childish."

"So, ask. Hmmmm. I know what. We are going to have a rule that, while you are in this house, each day you get one favour or chose one special thing to do. No exceptions, every day you have to think of something to ask for, understand?" In a way I was being mean, but the thought of testing her determined servitude was irresistible — and she did deserve a treat every now and then.

"Oh. Yes Sir, if you say so Sir. But what if I can't think of anything, Sir?"

"Then you must try, or earn my displeasure." I pretended to frown severely. "So, what is it to be for today? Why not the thing that had you fidgeting?"

"Well, it's just, if you would let me, Sir, it would be such a treat to be allowed to try out my new clothes."

I could not help laughing at the magnitude of the favour. "Fair enough. Upstairs then."

In my room, surrounded by wrapping paper and bags, she tried so hard to remember to be polite and respectful, but I could not help grinning to myself when she forgot. It was like watching a child open her Christmas presents.

"These are for going out in," she explained, picking up and displaying a smart but conservative blouse and short skirt.

"And this — if you wanted to show me off somewhere. Is it too much? What do you think, Sir?" and she slipped her dress off over her head before putting on a silk cheerleader's skirt and halter top, in yellow and bright blue. It certainly showed her off all right, although I was not sure I would have the nerve to take her out on the street like that.

What was it with this girl? I thought, as she pirouetted in front of me and the pleated skirt flared out to flash her pretty little knickers. It was like she had this unconscious desire to display herself for me. But as I admired her curves I realised that it really did show her off to good advantage. If I was going to sell this little collar, a few pictures of her decked out like that would certainly not get in the way.

Then there was the maid's costume she intended to wear around the house — I just hoped the Geoffrey had learned its lesson — and then finally the nightwear. She modeled it over her underclothes, and then, blushing, seemed to find it necessary to ask my permission to wear it without any underwear in bed.

All right, I had seen her naked. I had even rubbed a towel over her naked body for Christ's sake. But each time she coyly slipped out of one outfit and hunted for the next she seemed to be much more, I don't know, flexible than usual. And, although I could understand that she was happy and excited, I could not recall as much giggling going on when she was dressed in more clothing.

Nice as it was to play the audience for dressing up games, the alarm on my fone reminded me of my appointment up the High Road. If I missed my slot with my Father's tailor, my Mother would roast me alive.

To say I was in a bad mood when I returned from my abortive trip to the tailor's would be putting it mildly. Even worse was finding my Mother waiting for me.

"I have just come off the fone to Grieves and Robertson," she trumpeted, and I bowed my head down to let it wash over me.

All right, maybe I did blow up in the shop, but if you had seen the things they were trying to get me to put on, anyone would have. I may have shouted, but how could I ignore the way they spoke to me? Obsequious condescending bastards. The arrogance! After all it was my ball, my money, and my dress suit. If they didn't want to do it my way, then why were they pretending to be helpful? And I didn't throw anything around. A few things might have got knocked over on my way to the door, but it served them right!

"Do you want us to freeze that trust deed? There is plenty of time for your Father to do it before Monday's meeting at the lawyers." That got my attention — but maybe not in the way she intended.

"Go ahead, see if I care! I don't need money from dead people."

"Your Father and I are hardly dead yet, whatever you might wish, and I had hoped you held your late Grandfather in better regard than... " she remonstrated but I was in no mood to be lectured.

"You think you can control me just by dangling that over me — well, you can't! I am going to make my own way in the world. I'm going to earn my own living! Proles do it, and they live free, like people should. This is all bullshit! Christ, I despise it, your whole stuck up pretentious life. Inheritance! You can stick it!"

Before I knew it I was on my back on my bed again, with the room door quivering. I sighed to myself. So much for my determination yesterday, not to ever end up sulking in my bedroom again. But they were going to find out that I was not to be ignored.

Saturday's ball. It was going to be a formal "Coming Out Ball". These had really come back into fashion in that last few years. The idea of a dance or party to celebrate your sixteenth birthday was as old as the status of sixteen as the age of majority, but these days it was more, much more. This "Ball" was going to be where my parents displayed their newly adult son to the world for inspection and approval — and, as I had no doubt, for sizing up as a prospect in marriage. Any notion that my few friends or I would have FUN was a long way down the list.

For a start, Rob and Liz would not even be invited. Well, I sort of understood why that was the case, but neither would my Mother bother inviting those few of the gentry that I actually liked.

Which made it all the more suitable that the Ball be the setting for my revenge. The next half hour was spent in a very satisfying daydream, involving ever more bizarre ways of humiliating my ridiculous parents and their stuck-up friends and offspring. But, I realised, even if I abandoned my more extreme flights of fantasy, there was still a lot of scope.

A further half hour was spent sitting with my fone at the screen, constructing much more plausible plans. The ingredients for stink bombs turned out to be very easy to get hold of, while causing a blackout by cutting the fuses to lights seemed too simple, to say nothing of the ease with which one could set off the fire alarm and sprinklers. Then to do it all in sequence within the same ten minutes? Perfect!