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Chapter 7 : Clippings & Concerns
George took the opportunity of being on the far side of town to go into a newsagent’s shop in order to get the magazines and scrap book. The girl at the cash desk gave him a very odd look when he turned up with his small pile of purchases. He ignored her quizzical look, hiding his embarrassment by trying to appear as though it was the most natural thing in the world for someone like him to be buying such titles as Cosmopolitan, Hello!, OK!, Vogue and Marie Clair. He scuttled off home with them.
George parked his car outside his house. Although none of the magazines he had bought could be considered in the least bit risqué, George still felt furtive as he picked up the bag they were in and got out of the car.
“Hello George,” a woman’s voice behind him called. Startled he almost dropped the bag and span around to see Allison Callow. “I thought it was you.”
“Ah. Yes. Ah. Hello, Allison,” George stuttered. “Just – err – popped out for some – well, needed to pick these up.” He smiled and almost dropped the bag. Allison looked puzzled by his flustered manner.
“Oh, well, yes. I wondered if that last lot of tax information was all right? Or if you needed to talk it through?”
George reassured her that everything was fine and that there wasn’t anything they needed to discuss. Clutching the bag of magazines to him, terrified unless they should fall, he bustled inside leaving Allison calling after him, “Well, if you do need to chat you can always give me a call. You’ve got my number.” George nodded and waved and hurried indoors.
Back in his study he piled the magazines on his desk. He was surprised by how easy he found his task; by how many of the images in the magazines seemed capable of being interpreted from a fetishistic perspective. George soon got into the swing of things and quickly collected a pile of pictures neatly snipped from their pages. He wasn’t sure how many “Mistresses” Erica wanted him to include or how many pictures he should have of each. In the end he decided that, since the scrap book had ten double-page spreads he would use each of them for a different celebrity, collecting a set of pictures of each from the various magazine.
As he pasted the pictures into the book he realised that he was revealing a great deal about his interests in the dominant women. Many of the pictures showed women with long shapely legs, often revealed by slashed skirts. High heeled shoes and boots also figured regularly as did pictures of women with an arrogant, unsmiling or sneering expression.
He started to add the captions that Mistress Erica had asked for. The first spread was a collection of pictures that showed his chosen celebrity as she was leaving a night club, her legs delightfully on display as she clambered into her limousine and then as she leant forward to pull the door of the car shut, waving the photographers away disdainfully. He wrote underneath, forming the letters in the careful script that he usually used for form filling or writing up reports. “Mistress Victoria: On her return from her night’s exertions on the dance floor, I would bath and massage her feet so that she might sleep, relaxed and comfortable.” He went on. Elizabeth: nothing would give him more pleasure than to wait on her in her new London apartment, depicted in such sumptuous detail in the pictures. Halle: how could he wish for more than to wait with towels to dry her as she emerged from her pool. Nicole: what could be a greater pleasure than to feel himself beneath her naked feet.
He worked his way through the book, unconscious of the passing of time, only aware of the dryness in his mouth, the sensation of desire and the stiffening of his cock between his thighs. Angelina, Lindsay, Beyoncée and Scarlett took their places in the album with George fantasising about how he would serve them. The more he did, the more astonished he was that he had never thought about fantasising in such a way before. Until he had fallen under Erica’s spell his desires had never found a focus, he had been aware of women, of course, but somehow he’d never thought of himself as having much to do with them or them with him. Now, under Erica’s influence it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be imagining himself the helpless, doting slave of some movie star or model, waiting on their every whim, submitting to any punishment they might desire, possibly being allowed to serve them in the most intimate ways.
George was suddenly aware that while he was turning the pages of his scrap book with one hand, his other was gripping at his swelling cock. The book lay open at the pictures he had collected of Serena, her muscular body seeming incongruous in the long, low cut evening gown she wore. George was revisiting the fantasy he had detailed of how he would be forced to launder her sports kit, washing it by hand until every trace of sweat and grass stains had been cleaned from it when his cock gave up the unequal battle with his arousal and twitched into orgasm. George fumbled with his trouser zip, trying to pull his cock from within before the gobs of cum seeped out from under his prepuce to dampen and stain his pants and trousers. In his haste he slid from his chair, falling to the floor, still clutching at his cock as it pulsed and finally shrank within his grasp.
George sat on the floor, surrounded by discarded shards of newsprint left of his clippings from the magazines, his cock in his hand, his hand covered in the cold grey slime of his cum. Desire slumped at the instant of orgasm to be replaced by a sense of disgust and dissatisfaction. How could he be doing this, he thought to himself? How could he be cutting out pictures of women from magazines and then masturbating over them like some adolescent? And all simply because she had said so.
He got up and walked awkwardly to the toilet, his trousers around his knees, still clutching his cock, trying to stop his cum dripping on the carpet. He cleaned himself up and went back to his study. He picked up the scrap book and almost hurled it into the waste basket. Then, catching sight of the leaflet that Deanna had given him, he suddenly knew that he couldn’t ignore the drives and desires within him. He put the scrap book back on his desk and picked up the leaflet instead.
“A Guide For Slaves,” the leaflet was titled, “How To Ensure That You Serve Mistress Erica As She Requires.” George sat down, opened the leaflet and began to flick through it, barely reading the text. Slowly he was drawn into it. The embarrassment at the way his solitary sexual pleasure had overwhelmed him ebbed away and he found himself first reading and then studying the pamphlet.
Something about its insistent, assuming tone seemed to project Erica’s personality from off the page. It was as if she was sitting right next to him, spelling out her requirements in that clear, distinctive voice she had.
As George read he tried to balance the conflicting feelings that the Guide aroused. On one hand the instructions that the guide contained implied that he would be subjected to exactly the sort of treatment that he had fantasised over. On the other hand it made it plain that this treatment was not some sort of game, that he would be expected to carry out his orders to accept restraint and punishment and to expect sanctions if he didn’t perform well. The guide made it clear he could achieve his fantasy but it also made plain that the fantasy would have a very definite reality. George wondered if he could cope with it and then, as he read more, how he would cope with it.
George hadn’t slept well and he was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on his work. The scrap book which he had so carefully prepared sat in the bottom of the bottom drawer of his desk. The guide was tucked inside it. Every so often, he would take it out and read through the rules and advice it contained, enjoying the thrill that the prospect of further contact with Mistress Erica brought.
After a week, though, there had been no contact from Erica. George wondered if he should telephone her but he knew that he would need some business pretext and the more he thought about it the more he felt unable to pick up the telephone. It was during one of his “I’ll call her – no I won’t – yes, I will – no, I won’t” sessions that the phone rang.
“Hello, George.” Erica’s voice sounded as smooth and sweet as honey.
George almost dropped the telephone. Worried that he might be over heard in spite of the fact that he was alone in the office he dropped his voice to almost a whisper as he responded. “Hello, err, Erica,” he answered.
“I don’t think that’s right is it?” Erica responded sternly. “Or haven’t you read your little guide book?”
“Sorry, err,” stuttered George, looking around furtively in a way that looked all the more foolish because he was completely alone. “Err, sorry, err, Mistress Erica.”
“That’s better,” she said. “And I do hope you are on your knees as the guide requires.”
George gave a short whimper as he remembered the instructions in the pamphlet. He got to his knees. “Yes, Mistress,” he said. The tone of quiet submission in his voice was clearly audible to Erica and she decided not to bully him further.
“Good,” Erica said. “There were two things. Firstly, those tax details. I’ve found the papers that you asked for. If you would like to stop by some time, you can go through them or you can pick them up and drop them back later. Either way would be fine. I ‘m sure you’ll get them dealt with in time for whatever deadlines the Chancellor wishes us to meet.”
George was disappointed by the mundane nature of Erica’s call. Although he was on his knees dreaming of serving her, discussing tax forms wasn’t what Erica’s voice encouraged him to think of. Even so, it was, of course, what he was supposed to be doing for her. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “I could drop by this afternoon if that’s convenient. It shouldn’t take me more than an hour to sort them out.”
“That will be fine, George, thank you. It’s nice to have these things dealt with so efficiently.”
“It’s no problem. Oh and what was the other thing that you said you wanted to discuss?”
Erica was quiet for a moment as if thinking. “Ah. Oh, yes. Well if you’re coming over we can deal with it then. I just want to check that you’ve digested the contents of that guide properly. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour if you can spare the time.”
George gulped. He was anxious to experience Erica’s dominant presence again but still concerned less he should fail to comply fully with the guide. There was only one answer for him, though. “Yes, of course,” he answered.
“Very good,” said Erica. “I’ll expect you at three to go through the forms and then perhaps we can get together at four?”
“Yes,” said George, and then, more firmly, “Yes, of course, Mistress.”
George arrived at Erica’s exactly on time. The Guide had been most particular about punctuality. Neither early arrival nor lateness would be tolerated. Erica greeted him with a smile and showed him into a room that had been set aside for office work. On the desk was a pile of paper work, beside it on a tray was a steaming cup of coffee, a small jug of milk and some sugar. “I thought you’d like something,” said Erica. “Do let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
George coughed and nodded. He was a little confused. Erica was wearing a light summer dress with a floral pattern. After the more severely tailored clothes that he had been used to seeing her in, it seemed uncharacteristically, almost perversely, feminine. Her hair was tied back from her face with a scarf and she looked as fresh as the summer’s day itself, not wearing a touch of make-up. Beautiful was the word that sprang to George’s mind, although she hardly had the look of a dominatrix. She smiled as she left him and George started on the forms, wondering if he had completely imagined the appointment that he was so looking forward to in what was less than an hour’s time.
George worked away at the paperwork diligently. It wasn’t difficult; it was just tedious. Each one needed to be checked and completed with the information requested and of course the information required was never quite what was to hand. He had done it many times before. “Place the total revenue for the business excluding any grants, loans or other benefits in Box 4”; “Box 7 : Include the value of any capital allowances claimed in respect of the current year’s tax”; “Box 9: Include the costs of all income tax, insurance contributions and other staff related expenses.” By the end of the hour he had finished it. The forms were ready to go off, the tax calculated. All Erica had to do was to write a cheque for the tax due. It was the usual service he gave to all of his clients.
The payment of his fee, though, was another matter.
Erica appeared at the door. “All done?” she asked brightly.
George nodded, his mouth dry with anticipation, although Erica he was puzzled by the fact that Erica was still dressed for a summer afternoon garden tea party. Her dress was a simple shirt-waister in a pale green floral patterned silk. The skirt was slightly flared, the sleeves short and cuffed. It looked like she had stepped out of a 1950’s movie but she wore it with a confidence and self-assertion.
“In which case,” she said coolly, “I don’t think you should be sitting down at that desk, should you?”
In an instant George realised that dominance had nothing to do with dress. Erica’s commanding tone offered no opportunity for him to dispute her control over him. Remembering the instructions in the pamphlet, he stood up immediately, bowed his head and dropped to his knees.
“Better,” said Erica. “I see you read the pamphlet.” George was about to respond but Erica interrupted him. “No,” she said. ”Keep silent. If I want you to talk I’ll ask you a direct question. Otherwise you needn’t say anything.” Erica didn’t wait for any sign that George agreed or had even heard. “And this must be your project.” George assumed that she had picked up the scrap book he had left on the desk. “Well, I had better have a look at what you have done. You can stay there. Put your hands on your head.”
George did as he was told. A moment later he saw Erica’s foot swinging inches from his face. She had sat herself on the desk. As she crossed her legs her foot swung forward towards George’s head.
“This is very good, slave,” George heard her say. “A very good first effort. I’m pleased that you seem to have got the idea so quickly.” George allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as Erica went on. “However, fantasy is one thing. Actually being able to carry out even the simplest of instructions properly is something else entirely. Follow me!”
With that Erica was on her feet and almost out of the room before George scrambled up from the floor.
“On all fours, slave!” Erica snapped when she saw that he had stood up.
“Sorry, Mistress,” George apologised.
“And keep silent!”
George scuttled along behind her trying to keep up as best he could as Erica walked along the corridor and into one of the treatment rooms. She shut the door behind him as he entered.
“Over there,” she gestured pointing to the far wall. “Stand up, face the wall, and undress. When you’ve finished get back down on your knees.”
Wondering what she intended to do, George did as he had been told, He knelt feeling foolish; naked in the presence of a woman who looked as normal as he did absurd.
By the end of the hour, Erica had handcuffed his wrists, collared him and had him practice walking around on a leash, keeping close to her heels as you might train a dog. George, obediently, had followed every instruction, keeping silent as she had ordered. Erica sat herself on one of the stools. “That’s not a bad start at all, slave,” she said praising him. “You can show your gratitude.”
Erica crossed her legs extending one of her feet towards George. He was in no doubt what was required and bent his head forward to kiss her foot. “Thank you, Mistress,” he said quietly. His whole concentration was focused on the foot in front of him. The green leather of the strapping of her sandal with its darker green stitching, the fine tan mesh of the stocking that covered her foot, the glimpse of polish on her toe nails visible through the stocking; nothing else mattered at that moment as he pressed his lips to her foot.
She sat still for a moment, allowing him to worship at her feet but then called, “Enough,” and got up from the stool. She looked down at George’s expression of disappointment. “Never mind,” she said. “There will be other opportunities. But for now your time is up. I have others to deal with and you must go.” She reached forward and unfastened his collar and handcuffs. “I’ll let you know when you can come again.”
With that she took a final look at the kneeling accountant, turned on her heels and left. George kept his head bowed until he heard the tap of heels recede down the corridor. He dressed and returned home in a state of confused emotions; excitement, shame, disappointment and desire.
© Freddie Clegg 2010
Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission. All characters and events fictitious.
Email: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Web group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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