Over the weekend, Stephen thought about what Miss Lucy had said. No touching himself. No playing. “If I call, you will come running and you will be ready for me.” It was a joke, wasn’t it? She didn’t mean it. All the same, all weekend when temptation struck he resisted. He didn’t know why, but he did. I'm a man, he thought, we are not slaves of women. On the Monday he expected her not to mention it. Or to make a joke of it. He expected this problem to go away. “So,” she said first thing, standing over him at his desk. “Have you been a good boy?” Something exploded in his brain, an impulse, a surge of emotion, some kind of craving. But for what? She called him boy. Asked if he’d been a good boy. It was so patronising. Humiliating, even. He was older than her. “Have you been a good boy?” she repeated, more crossly this time. “Yes, Miss,” he heard himself say. Why did he say that? Why did he call her Miss? “Good boy,” she said and walked away. She barely spoke to him for the next two weeks. She would nod at him in the corridor but nothing more. Once, as they passed outside the staff room, she raised an eye quizzically. He knew what she was asking. Have you been a good boy? He nodded. She smiled. They went out a couple more times on weekends. She made him take her to Tannhauser at the Royal Opera House. Leopoldstadt at the Wyndham’s Theatre. “These are so obscure,” he whined. “No-one’s even heard of them.” “Well, I have,” she said, and he bought the very expensive tickets as instructed and sat with her through the performances and understood nothing of what was happening but he knew she enjoyed the shows and that was sufficient. “Good boy,” she said as he escorted her to her front door after the theatre. She stroked his cheek and he felt a surge of anticipation. Now? His reward? “See you on Monday.” On Monday she sat on his desk and stared down at him. Her proximity thrilled him beyond measure. He could smell her perfume. If he reached out he could touch her. “So,” she said. “Have you been a good boy?” “Yes, Miss,” he replied. “Honestly?” “Yes, Miss.” “So you haven’t?” “No, Miss.” “Haven’t what?” “Touched myself.” “In how long?” “Six weeks and one day.” “And you expect me to believe that?” “It’s true.” She stood up and walked away and he watched the sway of her hips, the gracefulness of her gait, and he wanted her more than ever. That night, alone, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He wanted to touch himself. Desire was driving him insane. Three times he came close to cracking. Three times he got up and walked into the garden, let the cold night air calm him. “Miss, I love you,” he said to the stars in the night sky. And, without touching himself, he went to bed. On Friday at work he was disappointed when she did not make any plans for that evening. He had anticipated escorting her somewhere but, at five o’clock, she said goodbye and walked off. He bought a pizza and went home, disconsolate, and played Grand Theft Auto most of the evening. Again, the temptation to masturbate tormented him. Again, he went into the garden to resist it. He succeeded, but only just. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up. He wouldn’t survive the weekend. At ten o’clock, the phone rang and his heart leapt in his throat when he saw it was her number. “Get over here. Now.” “Yes, Miss,” he stammered and slammed down the phone. This was it. She had said, one day I’ll call and you will come running. Ready for me. And he was. How close he had come to blowing it. He brushed his teeth and put on his jacket and drove to her house. He knocked on the door and waited, anticipating her smiling face as she opened the door. Would she be wearing lingerie? Would she kiss him there and then? Would she lead him to her room? She opened the door and looked at her watch. “Thirty-five minutes to get here? Couldn’t be bothered, I take it?” “I came as soon as I could.” “Unfortunate choice of verb.” She turned and walked inside and he wasn’t sure if he was meant to follow. Eventually he did. When he entered the living room she was seated on the settee, her legs coiled and feet tucked beneath her. She looked sensuous, alluring, beautiful. Stunning. He shifted uncomfortably as things began to stir, hoping she wouldn’t notice. From her disdainful expression he knew she had. “So you’ve been chaste?” she said. “Yes, Miss.” “But you’re still thinking dirty thoughts?” “It just happens.” “No, it doesn’t. You make it happen.” He didn’t reply. “Don’t you?” “Yes, Miss.” “So. All this time you’re chaste, because I’ve told you to be, you’re still thinking about it. Wanting it. Is that right?” “Yes, Miss.” “And you think maybe you’ll get it?” “I don’t know, Miss.” “But you hope?” “Yes.” She shifted her position her hand stretched over the edge of the settee as though she was waiting for a glass to be put in it. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal. I’m telling you now, categorically, that there is more chance of a live tyrannosaurus rex getting in my bed than you. But...” She nodded towards the fridge and he understood that she did, indeed, want to have a glass placed in her hand. He went to the fridge and poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “But,” she repeated, as though nothing had taken place, “but maybe if you remain a good boy, maybe if you do everything I tell you, when I tell you, without complaining or talking back or trying to explain anything to me, maybe the impossible could happen after all. What do you say to that?” Stephen thought. What was he getting out of this? Realistically, absolutely nothing. She’d made that as plain as she could. More chance of a t-rex... But... But... She arched her eyebrow. “Well?” “I could do that, Miss,” he said finally. “People have a term for what I’m proposing here. Do you know what it is?” “No, Miss.” “Have you heard the word ‘Pussywhipped’ before?” “That’s an ugly word, Miss.” “It certainly is. I’m glad you realise it. I never use it. I prefer another word.” “Yes, Miss?” “ ‘Friendzoned’. You’ve been friendzoned by me. You play the way I want you to play, and we’ll get on wonderfully. You won’t get to indulge your filthy fantasies but you do get to spend time with me. How does that sound?” He took a breath. This was not what he had anticipated. Or wanted. Worse than that, Miss Lucy was clearly telling him that everything he did want was destined never to happen. “So?” Miss Lucy said. She sipped her wine and smiled at him. “Do you want to be friendzoned?” Stephen realised his erection had subsided. And he knew that was a good thing. Respectful. Befitting. Right. “Yes, Miss.”
A wonderful and sophisticated story of Female Authority, Mistress. Thank You for sharing it. I've enjoyed it a lot, Madame.