Obedience Day

Kate wakes to her radio alarm and the announcer's familiar tone: "Here is the seven o'clock news for Thursday the 24th of April..." Still half-asleep she begins the day with warm-up exercises, serenaded by the coffee machine bubbling in the kitchen. Once the caffeine has cleared the cobwebs from her brain, Kate showers and then checks her diary to find a puzzling entry: 'Obedience Day'.

Adrenalin runs through her veins as she recalls its significance. An arrangement made one wine-fuelled evening, a promise to be kept. Will he remember? Can she possibly go through with it? They've role-played before, but this could be their most elaborate game to date. Alternatively, no one is forcing her; a late change of mind wouldn't be catastrophic. But why settle for a humdrum life when she has a chance to live on the edge?

The familiar sound of the letterbox interrupts Kate's thoughts and she hurries to the front door, excitedly examining the post, anxiously discarding bills in search of... Yes! It's her master's handwriting: Nothing complex at this hour, just a few sartorial rules, I'll monitor progress and send further instructions later.

The clothing requirements are simple: some of the scantier items from Kate's dress-to-thrill lingerie drawer, stockings instead of the customary tights, short black dress in place of her usual business suit. All guaranteed to kindle a male fire. She baulks only at the last edict. High heels are fine for wiggling across the bedroom, or between taxi and theatre doors, but a full day at work, no way. She owes it to her toes and calves to compromise and wears ballet pumps instead.

Forty-five minutes later, chestnut hair shining, makeup impeccable and season ticket in hand, she enters the London Underground.

"Morning, miss," says the ticket inspector at the barrier with a glance at her travel pass and a longer appraisal of Kate, "sure you haven't forgotten anything?"

"Definitely not," she declares confidently and boards the train.

At the office, the day gains momentum, with messages to answer and a meeting to attend. Throughout the morning Kate tugs down her dress when sitting lest she treat male colleagues to a glimpse of stocking top. Until engrossed in discussion, she forgets. Quickly correcting her posture, she notices a good-looking young graphic artist avert his eyes. When he next looks up Kate holds his gaze, her thrill of naughtiness enhanced by his obvious discomfort.

At lunchtime, a courier delivers flowers directly to Kate's office on the top floor. Spacious and airy, it contains a sofa in addition to the usual PC and desk. An extravagance, but what the hell, she owns the company. With the rest of the staff at lunch, the bored young temp downstairs in reception is the building's only other occupant.

Kate is about to reprimand this errant junior for allowing the man entry when she notices a card accompanying the bouquet. The motorcycle messenger waits diffidently while she reads the message and is immediately embarrassed by its contents. The courier seemingly already knows more than Kate wishes to reveal.

"Hurry up, I've other calls to make, really must get on," he says.

"You know what the card, contains?" Kate enquires.

"Of course," he replies easily, sitting on an upright chair, "come here." Meekly she obeys, the wording on the card is, after all, brief and to the point: Oh dear, falling at the first hurdle. Did you think you'd get away with those shoes? Later you'll shop for replacements, for now, Rufus will reprimand you more directly and effectively.

"Lift your dress, please," Rufus commands softly, and mesmerised like a rabbit caught in a headlight beam, she does so. Grasping Kate purposefully he pulls her across his knee.

"You won't take my knickers down, will you?" she pleads, intensely vulnerable yet desperately aroused; what if her colleagues return early?

"I won't need to," answers Rufus, tugging the skimpy fabric tightly into her cleft and setting to work. No stranger to the art of spanking, he applies firm methodical slaps to alternate cheeks leaving no part of Kate's bottom untouched; ears deaf to the entreaties that soon betray her initial vow of silence. Five minutes later Rufus stands and sets Kate onto her feet, clutching her blazing bottom, eyes brimming, voice full of emotion.

"Oh, that's so sore," she complains.

"Face the wall, hands on head, no rubbing"' he says producing his phone. Within seconds the recipient the snapshots will delight at the contrast between white silk knickers and crimson skin. "I'll let myself out," said Rufus. "Your next instructions will soon follow." Kate sits at her desk, and immediately regrets it - ouch! Instead, she stands to brush her tousled hair. Calmed by this mundane task, she shoves the flowers in a vase and reluctantly attends to business matters.

Try as she might, Kate can't concentrate; an hour later little work had been done and beneath the clinging dress her hot bottom still smarts cruelly. Suddenly it dawns on her. The phone hadn't rung in ages. Furious at her stupidity she buzzes the temp.

"Why haven't I had any calls?" she demands testily.

"You said not to disturb you," replies the girl, with sulky self-justification.

"I said no such thing," retorts Kate.

"No," agrees the girl, "not in person, but the courier gave me the message on his way out."

"Well, put any calls through immediately from now on, please," Kate demands, petulantly replacing the receiver.

Half an hour until the office closes. During that time two calls make her jump, anxiously grab the phone, struggle to contain her disappointment, then force her voice back to normal and speak with a client. Eventually, with five minutes to go, habitual bright professionalism reduced to the anxious state of a teenager suspecting she's got stood up on a date, Kate hears his familiar voice at the other end of the line.

"Took you a while to catch on," he chuckles. "Now listen carefully. There's a little shop on Poland Street called 'Mata Hari'. Go there at once. You'll be shown some shoes, given further instructions, and something to think about. Oh, and Kate, this time just do as you're told." With a click, he's gone, and the only word she got in edgeways was a slur on his parentage. Fortunately, her anger gradually dissipates, replaced by a buzz of anticipation as she makes the short walk along busy city streets.

The sign on the door of 'Mata Hari' claims it to be closed, but having grasped the rudiments of this game she knocks firmly and with a brief rattle of bolts is admitted. Situated in a trendy part of town the shop is owned by the son and daughter of an enfant terrible designer of the 1960s. Their stock in trade is exotica; a niche market where fetish wear and original '50s glamour merge to produce a look beloved of style magazine editors. Kate absorbs the surroundings; a clothing cornucopia, original 'New Look' dresses scrounged from the flea markets of Europe vie for attention with high-heeled fluffy mules.

"Have a seat," says the young assistant who let her in. "May I get you a drink - red wine perhaps?"

"No alcohol, some fizzy water please," replies Kate, who's no desire to blur her senses, reality is thrilling enough. The assistant disappears into the rear of the shop; Kate is admiring a beautiful, full-length 1950' s cocktail dress when she returns, glass in hand.

"Gorgeous," she said in an American-accented voice, "but you're here for shoes."

"That's right," confirms Kate, sitting down, "Some have been put aside for me?"

"Indeed," agrees the girl, "he was very specific, very good-looking, too," she adds with a mischievous smile. "All the same I'd better check the fit. I'm Jo-Jo, by the way." She crouches at Kate's feet and slips them into the new shoes with practised skill. Worried about what to expect - Westwood platforms, dominatrix spike heels? - to Kate's relief, she's shod in classic black courts with a single strap across the instep.

Jo-Jo's hands linger, tentatively tracing the contours of Kate's nylon-covered legs, fingers softly sliding up towards her knee. A sensual touch that sends a shiver of guilty desire through Kate, who sighs and parts her legs a fraction, mutely permitting the girl's caresses.

"Gorgeous," says Jo-Jo as Kate observes her closely for the first time: mixed race, petite and pretty. Dark shoulder-length tresses, several silver rings in each ear. Small, firm breasts, intricate tattoos circling each upper arm and another just visible at the top of her cleavage; a narrow waist to die for, tight leather miniskirt and bare legs. Kate enjoys the voyeuristic pleasure of viewing the small triangle between Jo-Jo's thighs, feeling her sex dampen as the girl's hand strokes her upper thigh. Then, abruptly, Jo-Jo holds out a hand to help Kate to her feet.

"Try walking in them," she instructs as if the last few minutes had never happened. Nonplussed, Kate makes an experimental circuit of the shop floor and discovers the shoes surprisingly comfortable. "They look good," confirms Jo-Jo. "I helped him choose," she adds impishly.

"Thank you, how much...?" begins Kate.

"Oh no, the financial side is sorted. But I do have to punish you?"

"Punish me?" gasps Kate. "But I've already been..."

"Spanked, I know," the Jo-Jo cuts in. "By the courier, lucky you."

"Then why?"

"Because you're arguing with me, for a start. And because of your rudeness; your master says to tell you his parents were married when he was born." Kate ruefully recalls her ill-advised telephone insult and his subsequent threat.

"Time's passing and I don't want you missing your train. Stand there against the wall, hands above your head and lean forward," commands Jo-Jo. "It'll make a change to dish it out for once," she adds enigmatically, lifting Kate's dress to her waist. "Now, where's my hairbrush?" Kate bites her lip in apprehension then inhales sharply when Jo-Jo yanks her knickers down to her knees. "Hmm," observes her tormentor, "things are getting a little hot and damp down there."

Kate's stance positions her pert posterior perfectly as Jo-Jo dispenses the spanking, allowing time between each expert flick of the wrist for the smart of the previous impact to be fully absorbed. Gradually her bottom pinkens as the wooden brush hits the same spots multiple times. Stealthily Jo-Jo's fingers caress Kate's pussy, each subsequent impact forcing her throbbing sex closer to these digital explorations. Gasping and moaning at the conflicting sensations pulsing through her lower body, Kate's movements lewdly echo those of more conventional sex, pushing out her burning buttocks to meet the next punishing impact, then thrusting her vulva forward to enjoy Jo-Jo's glorious touch.

"Oh, that hurts," whimpers Kate, caught between hurt and ecstasy, "oh yes, my clit, oh don't stop."

"Let yourself come," cajoles Jo-Jo, "you've been wanting this since that courier took you across his knee." With a shuddering gasp, Kate climaxes. "Boy, you make a noise," observes Jo-Jo. "I don't make half so much fuss."

"You get punished as well?" Kate enquires, taken aback.

"Don't be fooled by the piercing and tattoos, I'm usually sub, not that seeing to you hasn't turned me on, says Jo-Jo. "Look," she tugs up her skirt to reveal a behind liberally striped with red marks, shivering at the memory. "Mind you, it was worth it; he screwed me senseless afterwards."

A car horn sounds outside. "Better get your stuff together, that's the taxi," Jo-Jo steers Kate towards the door.

"Where am I going?" Kate asks, apprehensively.

"To the station" responds the cabby and, flustered and bewildered, Kate is on her way. "You'll just about be in time," he says, skilfully threading through the early evening traffic.

"But I haven't a ticket, and I don't even know my destination," Kate complains. Without taking his eyes from the road the cabby hands her an envelope.

"One single to Oxford," he said brusquely. "A car will take you on to Melton Towers." A large Georgian pile a few miles from the 'Dreaming Spires' where she'd attended university, Kate recalls. In fact, the railway line runs right past it. The cab reaches the terminus and hurrying across the platform Kate catches her train with two minutes to spare.

The coaches are curiously old-fashioned, with a single corridor along one side with compartments leading off. Each has a sliding door and plump moquette-covered bench seats facing fore and aft. Faded posters of 1930s seaside resorts adorn the walls, and leather straps fasten wooden sash windows. Kate locates an empty berth, grateful for the chance to collect her thoughts. As the train clatters through suburbs and into open countryside, she produces a compact and refreshes her make-up. Viewing herself in the mirror, Kate blushes at the memory of her recent sexual abandon - and with another woman too...

She's startled by a knock on the door. "Sorry to make you jump, miss," says a pleasant voice. "May I see your ticket, please?" Kate returns his smile and reaches for her bag.

"Hang on,' she says, 'haven't I seen you somewhere before?" "Shouldn't think so," replies the uniformed man. "Not unless you travelled up to town on this line this morning." `

"No, I must be mistaken," Kate replies, but as she hands over the ticket a half-remembered image suddenly clicks into focus. This morning, the ticket inspector, but how...? She's about to pose this question when he speaks sternly.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this ticket is incorrect."

"Wrong?" Kate is puzzled. "A single to Oxford, with today's date. How can it be?"

"Because you're going to Melton."

How could he possibly know that? wonders Kate. "Yes, by car from Oxford."

"Oh no miss, the train's stopping at Melton."

"But this is a through service, no stops after Reading, what on earth is going on?"

"Not normally," agrees the inspector. "But it will today. And since that's your destination you need a ticket to Melton, not Oxford."

"But Melton is nearer than Oxford, so the journey is paid for anyway what difference does it make?"

"No need to get angry, miss," the inspector is implacable, "by not producing the correct ticket you've broken the law. Magistrates and a hefty fine, I should think."

"Look, I didn't even buy the ticket, you can't punish me for something I haven't..." Kate pauses for a moment, realisation dawning. "But you can, can't you? That's what this little melodrama's all about. A neat little set-up to ensure my comeuppance."

"Astute of you, miss," grins the inspector, "and absolutely correct. Fortunately, there's an alternative penalty, subject to you obeying my instructions."

"And it was you at the tube station this morning," Kate continues, barely acknowledging him, "which is how someone else knew about the shoes... "

"A very bright girl indeed," nods the inspector, somewhat patronisingly, "but if we might conclude the immediate business before we reach Melton..."

Kate hesitates for a moment, "I - I think I can guess what's involved."

"Excellent, sensible as well as intelligent." The inspector shuts the compartment door and draws the blinds. "Pity there's no lock, we'll just have to hope no one comes in." His manner becomes authoritarian, "kneel on the seat and hitch your skirt up please."

With a sinking feeling, Kate obeys.

"Reach up and grasp the luggage rack," he orders. The inspector fastens the hem of her skirt clear of her hips with a safety pin and tugs her knickers down to rest tangled about her knees. "Mm, a peach of a bottom," he says, running his hands over the twin globes, "and already dealt with today, if I'm not mistaken." Gritting her teeth, Kate is annoyed to discover her body unilaterally responding to his touch. Risking a glance over her shoulder she glimpses him remove the well-worn strap from the window and slap the leather experimentally against his palm.

"A dozen strokes with this beauty should teach you not to cheat the railways." Arms raised above her head, bottom bared, defenceless, and about to receive its third thrashing of the day Kate's reply is succinct if not subtle. "Just get on with it."

The inspector does, delivering six scalding stokes, alternating from forehand to back, determined to tame this shrew. Kate gasps and squirms as her bare backside is methodically strapped. Inevitably the initial smart becomes a deep-seated glow, and with another need now uppermost in her mind she grinds her yearning sex against the coarse fabric of the seat. Making no concessions to either modesty or appearance, Kate's on the brink of an orgasm when the inspector intervenes.

"Quite enough of that miss, thank you," he admonishes. "We'll have no such dissolute behaviour. He applies the leather harder, cutting diagonally across the earlier stripes; another half dozen strokes ensure her buttocks blaze with heat. Most humiliating of all, Kate has tears in her eyes. Gradually the train slows, rhythmic clatter changing tempo as the brakes are applied. "Ah, Melton, your stop." The inspector's voice is once again congenial. "Let me assist you, miss." Her knickers are pulled up, feeling strangely tight and chafing against punished skin. "Don't forget your bag, miss," said the inspector, carefully guiding Kate by the elbow, across the corridor and off the train. "Thank you for travelling with us, we do hope to see you again."

Trembling and angry, Kate stands on the deserted platform. Walks gingerly towards the exit warily rubbing her ravaged rear, she's not altogether surprised to discover a large car waiting. A familiar figure opens the rear door of the limousine. Kate climbs in appreciatively, wincing as she sits, grateful for the luxury of cool leather upholstery. Carefully negotiating the narrow country lanes, the chauffeur watches Kate shift restlessly, soreness and frustration doing nothing to improve her mood.

"I can see you aren't sitting comfortably," Rufus says at length, receiving no reply. "Don't worry, I've something here that may help." Halting in a lay-by he reaches into the glove compartment, and a moment later is sitting next to Kate on the capacious rear seat stretching his legs across the deep-pile carpet. "Allow me,' he suggests, drawing her down across his lap as Kate protests.

"Oh no, you're not going to spank me again," she says plaintively.

"Think of it as first aid," Rufus reassures, lifting her skirt. Resigned to her knickers coming down yet again, Kate meekly lifts her hips.

"Oh dear," he murmurs reprovingly, "the inspector got carried away," Rufus tentatively strokes the crimson flesh. Kate sighs deeply as he expertly massages cold cream into hot, sore buttocks. Moaning contentedly, she pushes her pubis against his muscular thighs, letting his hands soothe away the pain.

Blissful minutes pass, and Kate's breathing increases in response to Rufus's adeptly probing fingers, occasionally straying, as if by accident, into her moist cleft. Instinctively Kate's hips undulate urgently as she tries to attain the release forbidden on the train.

"Oh no," intones Rufus, firmly bursting her bubble. "Much as I'd delight in making you come, that's the master's prerogative. You'll have to wait a little longer, I'm afraid." He returns to the driver's seat leaving Kate, comforted but unsatisfied, struggling to contain her disappointment. Fortunately, when they reach Melton Towers, Kate is welcomed by another familiar face.

"Jo-Jo!" she exclaims, surprised and delighted.

"Welcome, madam," the maid's formal tone makes it clear they must keep to their allotted roles, but the twinkle in her eye immediately revives Kate's spirits. "I'll show you to your accommodation; you've an hour to shower and change before meeting the master." Kate follows Jo-Jo through the imposing portico and up a grand staircase to an enormous room, dominated by a four-poster bed and bay windows with a view across carefully manicured gardens.