propose to add a new round to the competition. We’ve seen how the competitors interact with a handler. Now let’s see how they interact with each other.’
I see Phoebe’s eyes flash with mischief but before she can act, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all day: I pounce on her, knocking her flat on her back. She yelps in surprise but quickly recovers, rolling on to her front and preparing for the counterattack. I retreat a few steps and she launches herself at me, pinning me down and licking my face. I struggle beneath her, not with any real effort, and she eventually lets me up so we can trade places.
As we tussle my imagination goes wild and I fantasise that we’re outside in the garden, frolicking in the grass, in the sprinkler, in the mud, getting filthy. We wouldn’t be allowed back in the house then. Not without a bath. I can see us sitting together in a big metal tub on the patio, splashing in the soapsuds and the spray from the garden hose before being roughly towelled dry by our masters.
Someone tosses a foam toy into the ring and I grab it first, scampering away with Phoebe in hot pursuit. When she catches me she wrestles me to the floor and we tug it back and forth with our teeth, quickly reducing it to a scattering of fluff. I have never felt so free. By the time I finally capitulate and let her win, it’s no longer about the game. Or the show.
I’m too exhausted to resist when Phoebe finally pushes me down, breathing hard from more than just the physical exertion. She fixes me with her beautiful gaze and caresses my face, drawing her hands lightly down my throat and over my breasts. I tremble and urge her on with a look. She hesitates only a moment before obliging. My sex is begging for her touch.
Phoebe strokes my silky wetness and bends down, covering my mouth with hers. Her kisses taste like ginger. As we surrender to our mutual attraction, I hear her tag jingle against her collar like a bell.
I arch my back and see my master standing nearby, watching us, smiling. I know I’ve made him proud even though I didn’t win. But I imagine he has some more rigorous training in mind for his little pet. At least I hope so. For now I’m more than happy to let the winner have the spoils.
The Usual Dress Code
Elizabeth Coldwell
The e-mail arrives in her inbox without warning. ‘Meet me at the Windsor Club for lunch tomorrow. One o’clock sharp. Be sure to observe the usual dress code.’
Even that simple message is enough to have her juices flowing as she reads and rereads it. So the lecture tour’s over and he’s back in the country, is he? So like him, she thinks, to arrive with no prior notice and expect her to fall back into their usual routine. But he knows she’ll be there. She doesn’t have plans for tomorrow lunchtime and, even if she did, she’d cancel them to be with him.
Though the work is stacked high on her desk, data needing to be inputted from a pile of forms, it’s hard to concentrate on anything now she knows she’s going to be seeing him again. Thoughts of him, and what he’ll require her to do, push everything else to the back of her mind.
‘The usual dress code.’ Those four words contain the essential truth of their relationship: that he gives the orders and she willingly obeys them. From the day they met, he recognised the submissive heart of her, the part she’d never revealed to anyone for fear of being misunderstood. Even now, she still dreads the reaction from some friends and colleagues if they were ever to find out about the things he makes her do. To them, submissive means weak, easily trampled on, a personality lost and submerged beneath another’s. She knows the truth: submitting makes her stronger, allows her to explore desires that would otherwise go unfulfilled. And the rules of the game are simple. If she says ‘stop’, they stop.
He’ll love the outfit she bought in his absence, she thinks, giving up any pretence of work for the afternoon. His dress code is weirdly specific. If pressed, she’d define it as ‘slutty 1950s secretary’, fantasy fodder for the older, highly educated gentleman. Underwear that nips in her waist and thrusts out her breasts, giving her an exaggerated hourglass figure she suspects no real woman has ever possessed. Tight pencil skirts that give a wiggle to her walk, blouses with a fussy pussy bow at the neck, and gorgeous but impractical stockings. He likes them so sheer as to be practically invisible, with a fully fashioned heel and a seam running arrow-straight up the back of her legs. The straightness of the seam is very important – she’s learned that over the years – and leaving them crooked is the quickest way to earn a couple of hard swats to her barely clad backside. If feminine intuition isn’t a myth, it must have compelled her to spend time browsing her favourite vintage lingerie site, snapping up a couple of pairs of stockings in her size in preparation for his return. The parcel sits in her top desk drawer, delivered to her this morning by the office post-boy, who doesn’t have a clue about her secret life but would probably nurse his erection for the rest of the day if he knew she was planning to truss herself up in seamed nylons and a six-strap suspender belt for the delight of a man who loves to see her wearing nothing else.
Every minute will drag till she’s in his company once more. Her pussy is already wet and swollen with need but, from the time she receives his written instructions to the time she meets him, playing with herself is forbidden. He’s very insistent about that. Once, he made her wait from Monday till Friday, four whole days spent stewing with frustration so acute she could barely stand it. She’d never be able to properly explain why she obeys him to the letter in this regard. All she can say is that if she disobeyed him, he’d know. He always knows.
The Windsor Club belongs to a bygone world. It is set on a quiet side street just off Piccadilly, a place where men can eat and doze and chat, away from any kind of female influence. Although the staff who fetch drinks on silver salvers and serve generous portions of nursery food at tables covered with crisp white cloths are all pretty young waitresses, she can’t help but notice.
Arriving a couple of minutes before one, she announces herself at the front desk. The black-jacketed flunky looks her up and down, regarding her from tight blonde chignon to dizzying four-inch heels. Clearly not the usual choice of dining companion for the club’s members, but he responds with a polite ‘Ah, yes, Miss Culver. Professor Matlow is expecting you. Please come through.’
The club’s main room is almost soporific in its warmth, after the February chill of the West End. He’s sitting in a wing-backed leather armchair, reading this morning’s copy of The Times. All she can see is the top of his head, dark curls shot through with more grey than she remembers, and his long legs in faded olive corduroys, crossed at the ankles. Just that glimpse causes her heart to lurch and a thin trickle of juice to seep into her black silk French knickers.
Robert Matlow, professor of English at one of the country’s most respected universities and a world-renowned authority on the work of John Donne. Not that she ever addresses him by his given name. To her, he is never anything other than ‘Sir’.
Hearing her approach, he folds his paper and lays it on the table in front of him, next to the inevitable glass of twelve-year-old single malt. She wonders whether his instructions to the waitress as to how it should be served are as precise as the ones he always gives her. Two ice cubes. No more, no less. He requires his whisky to be chilled, not watered down. Nothing should impair its subtle, peaty taste, as he so often tells her. Perhaps one day he’ll realise she’s sometimes careless with the number of cubes simply to earn herself an extra stroke on her final punishment. Perhaps he already knows, and indulges her. Though she doubts that. From her experience, he is very seldom indulgent.
‘Matilda. Punctual as ever, I see.’ For the second time in a minute, she is scrutinised from head to toe. Where the door flunky looked at her with politely concealed lechery, this is a very different kind of inspection.
