Lady Margaron - Fantasy Story 2
Promptness and punctuality and punishment: the three Ps
After the first twenty minutes or so, in which the ‘interview’ part of the occasion had taken place, I was directed to go to my quarters and to report back to her Ladyship ... let’s say here at 1.25pm precisely. So now I sat on the edge of the little bed, very shaken, and more nervous than I’d ever been before in my life, thinking how things had gone, keeping as I did a sharp eye on my watch. Her Ladyship had been relentlessly severe and unkind, so intolerant and so impatient of my efforts to answer her questions, and so contemptuous of my attempted answers, that I knew I should never have applied for the post. She gave me the most withering dressing down you could imagine. I’d made a terrible mistake, and how was it going to end? I checked my watch. Four minutes to go. Sometimes time seemed to go wonderfully slowly. I was still reeling from the sight of her and the devastating glimpses – the fetish buttons she pressed in every part of her being. It had been so intimidating being made to kneel in such proximity before her, to see her posing, nose-in-air, so crushingly superior, her demeanour so grimly haughty and severe. Then to watch her uncross and re-cross her elegant legs, her black stiletto courts with such high and dangerous heels so close to me, and once she had settled with one leg high over the other, to see the way her skirt, it was a short black skirt, rode back up her thigh to reveal one of her six broad, black suspenders, tensed it seemed to breaking point, as its horrible metal clasp secured the black stocking top, and stretched it. To think there were another five such black penile horrors yet to be revealed, all to ensure that her Ladyship’s stocking seams were at all times straight to the nearest fraction of a millimetre. I’d barely been able to cope, kissing her raised heel on instruction, kissing her heels as now she stood over me, worshiping up her seams to her hemline... It was all too much. I wasn’t sure I could go on. I looked at my watch. Two minutes to go. It still seemed a comfortable gap... I worried about going downstairs. How much time should I allow? I’d been told to report at 1.25pm sharp but I realised now I’d been to confused to raise my hand and ask where! A minute to go... Even a minute for the first thirty seconds seems an age. Then... panic... panic... how many seconds should I allow? Fifteen or ten? Then it was no good, I must go or who knew what might happen to me. I rose and down the stairs I went. I still don’t know how I got to the bottom... The house was silent and the atmosphere so intense... I checked my watch... I knocked lightly on the drawing room door. Not a sound from within. Should I knock again? That seemed far too risky. Should I enter? (ditto) So I stood, like a lamb delivered for slaughter. My watched showed it was now some seconds past 1.25pm.... Then bearing down on me from ... I wasn’t sure where... her Ladyship, in full black corsetry and fur stole, severe black no-frills panties, her suspenders adjusting, relaxing and tensing, as she catwalked along and her step subjected them to different pressures. Her Ladyship was furious. She clipped the lead to my collar and led me back into the lounge, standing commanding me to kneel, standing over me overbearingly close, flexing her crop, her eyes glaring, her mouth set hard as she surveyed me.... Another severe dressing down... and now she placed a cushion on the floor and ordered me to lie down with it under my head. Now she stood over me and I had to bear the sight of her terrifying seams and suspenders and posterior. Now she sat, facing my item, and I struggled to breathe, my hands feebly touching her tensed side suspenders. There her Ladyship sat for as long as it gratified her, watching a DVD of herself giving someone a beating...