This work Copyright (C) 2000, by Caitlain McCarren.  I reserve
all rights of distribution not otherwise expressly granted 
herein.

Should you like my works and wish to add my story to your 
collection, you are at liberty to do so for personal use as 
proscribed by the Berne Convention and U. S. Copyright law 
pertaining to fair use.  In addition, electronic distribution
is allowed through BBS or the Internet as long as the text 
retains my by-line, copyright data, and signature, and no 
fee for this transmission is charged or required by the 
transmitter.

Transmission or distribution by all other modes; print, 
duplication to optical or magnetic media, and such other 
modes as may be currently or ultimately provided, are 
expressly forbidden.  I, Caitlain McCarren, retain all rights 
to such transmission.

In addition, this is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to 
or association with persons living or dead is coincidental.  
I describe situations, which without proper care could cause 
bodily harm or injury.  Fiction is best left as such.  Don't 
attempt any of what is described herein without providing 
utmost care and consideration before the fact.

To close, this story, while work of fiction, describes adult 
situations.  If you are not yet of the age of majority, or if 
accessing, reading, possessing, or distributing material of 
this nature is illegal in your community; or if such material 
offends you, I invite you to leave now, before you begin.



























A Tale of Woe

It's been six months since my last summons.  I'd made plans-
a date.  Our agreement is, she calls, I come.  Well, she
called at three O'clock.  I'd made plans; plans I had to
break.  She lives three hours away, and... I'm late.

Somehow, I know she'll understand.  She's got this complacent
air.  She's always composed.  She never looses her cool, very
controlled.  That's her real power, the cool indifference,
like she doesn't care whether I'm before her or not, but, I
care!  And she set me up to disappoint her, again.  The
epitome of control.

I'm late,... and she'll make me pay.  That, too, is a part of
our agreement.  I pay back every second I make her wait at a
factor of 168 to one.  One hour of tardiness costs one week
of silent, compliant, obedient, submission.  According to the
Mistress, comply, submit, and obey are a woman's bye words.
I try to be a good woman and a good slave.

I'm late,... ten minutes now.  It's going to cost me a day of
dreadful silence.  I'm not allowed to speak in her presence
while I owe her time.  It's just another way to control me.
No begging, no pleading, no mercy, no quarter asked, and none
given.  She won't concede a glance to my entreating eyes.
I'll feel small, like a six year old caught in some misdeed,
only, I won't be permitted the luxury of lying about it.

I'm late,... fifteen minutes,... and a five minute run to her
door in my tennis shoes.  Only, I'm not allowed to wear
tennis shoes, not here, not in her domain.  Our agreement
explicitly requires me to wear skirts and heels in public,
probably because I never wore them in my other life: my life
before all this.  I won't manage skirts this trip, just not
enough time to change, and, I'll pay, too.  For that offense
she will pick my torment.  No possibility of a lenient
selection from the jar.  The jar is her way of involving me
in my own torture.  There are two jars really, torments in
one, duration in the other.  If I select from the jar there
is a possibility of a short duration, except, not this time.

We'll I've managed to park the car.  I'll slip into heels and
start the long march to her door.  I'll lock the keys in the
car as always.  Not much need for them here, and she has a
set to let me back in, if and when she is ready.  I'll try to
keep a perfect rhythm to hypnotize myself with the staccato
clicks of my heels.  I'm late, 27 minutes now.  It will cost
me... 4536 minutes... three and fifteen one hundredths
days...  three days, three hours, and thirty six minutes, so
far.  Damn this controlled parking, there's just no way to
get closer.

Exiting the elevator, I run down the hall in a panic, to her
apartment door.  Arriving, I take just a moment to straighten
up and compose myself, and check my watch.  Late 29 minutes,
the last two will cost me an additional five hours, thirty
six minutes of torment.

With more than the usual trepidation, I've never been this
late, I knock...

************************************************************
*                                                          *
*  Implied                                                 *
*  Subjection, but requir'd with gentle sway,              *
*  And by her yielded, by him best receiv'd, --            *
*  Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,              *
*  And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay.                    *
*                                                          *
*        Milton's Paradise Lost, book iv, Line 307.        *
*                                                          *
*  Something to say from the submissive's point of view?   *
*  Hard to find the "right" words?  Want it in a story?    *
*  Tell me about it by mail at caitmccarren@yahoo.com.     *
*                                                          *
************************************************************
