Author: Old Softy
Title: The Collar Around the Heart
Summary: James is sixteen today, and his birthday present is pretty unusual. But the future is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
Keywords: mf ScFi rom 1st slave bd oral anal
Part: Chapter 6 of 14

Chapter 1 is at http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Old-Softy/The_Collar_around_the_Heart/The_Collar_1.txt

DISCLAIMER: This work of fiction contains sexual situations not 
suitable for children. It may not be reproduced in any way where 
readers are charged for it. Copyright reserved Old Softy 2007 
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6 - Thursday Afternoon


Mrs Haversham's establishment was at the smarter end of the High
street, but the premises were restrained, with a shop-front that was
tasteful to the point of fastidiousness. Anne and I stopped outside,
and I studied the three dressed mannequins in the window for a moment
to work up my courage before going in.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Haversham I presume?"

"Ah, Mr. Pilsbury! Nice to see zat you are above being 'fashionably
late.'" The woman who greeted me was small and intense, almost birdlike
in her movements. Her accent was strong, and even I could recognise it
as being from Normandy or one of the other French states. "Shows, no
doubt, a 'ealthy respect for your Mother — which is almost as good as
a 'igh regard for your tailor. Now, let us get straight to business.
Tell me, what do you think of zese?"

She led me to one of the dozen mannequins in the shop, and started
quizzing me on what I thought of the gown it was displaying.

I didn't want to give offence, but I was struggling to find
complimentary things to say. "Er, well, this shows very fine
workmanship. I can see hundreds of hours of nimble finger work went
into the sequins alone," I mumbled, regarding the thing — a cross
between an inverted peacock tail and a fairground attraction — with
vague horror. She moved on to the next.

"Look, what is all this about?" I asked, puzzled and frustrated after
several more of these constructions. "I am here to get a dress suit,
not a ball gown. Why are we spending all this time discussing these?
Especially as, well, they are clearly not to my taste!"

She laughed in delight. "So, you are being zo polite! But I need to
find out what you like, silly boy. Zome things I can get from 'ow you
dress, mais oui, your outfit is distinctive and singular, but I
consider ze best way to discover your tastes in clothing is to zee what
you think of other clothes, n'est-ce pas? But, you need not, 'ow you
say, pull ze punches. You just be as rude as you like!"

So I was, which was, I am afraid, all too easy for the next few
examples of ostentation. I paused and inspected the largest ball gown:
a great sweeping pink and white dome of festoons of satin and layered
lace, prominent in the place of honour on a raised dais.

I struggled for a second. "I'm sorry, It's like an over-the-top wedding
cake — all frosted sugar, covered in layer upon layer of icing and
just too sweet and sickly for anyone to eat, never mind wear!"

She laughed in delight again. "Ze 'Wedding Cake', I love eet! Do you
not know, my young beau, zat zis is ze most expensive dress I make for
anyone?"

"They must have more money than sense!" I retorted, shaking my head.

"Of course, mon ami! Zis is ze one I save for ze woman 'oo will not
take advice from 'er dressmaker, 'oo must 'ave more lace zan 'er
friends, and wants to use my dress to show she 'as more money zan Lady
Astor. Hee hee hee. 'Wedding cake'."

Then my eye caught something else, in the corner behind the "Wedding
Cake". It was on a bare torso, not the full mannequin like the others,
and tucked away almost out of sight. Shimmering grey-green silk fell
like water from the shoulders of the cloth tailor's dummy. "But what is
that, behind there? Can I get a better look?"

Without waiting of the answer, I negotiated my way around the "Wedding
Cake" to stand in front of my quarry.

Devoid of embellishment, it was cut with such subtle seams that it
appeared to be moulded to the shape beneath it. It was like one of
those amazing slinky affairs you see on photos of film stars from the
twentieth century, the sort of thing that was presumably held up by
sticky tape just for the photographer.

She watched my face as I inspected it. "Ah, but zis one is not for the
faint of 'eart. It is a toy of my own devising; I should not have left
it out 'ere. But I zee it is zis which catches your eye?"

I nodded, firmly.

"Zo. You like it simple. You 'ave the eye of a Beau Brummel. I see vat
we 'ave to do."

"Beau Brummel? I thought he was the great Pre-crash dandy, from the
nineteenth century or sometime like that. But wasn't he very ornate; I
thought he was famous for leading the fashion world at the time?"

"Eighteenth century, mon ami. And no, 'e was ze one who turned zem away
from frills to pure design. His style was austere, 'is only colour,
black; and 'e would spend two hours tying 'is cravat. I think you and
'e would have got on very well. 'Ze maximum of luxury in ze service of
minimal ostentation, ' 'e would say. So, zat is what we must look for.
Let us see what we can do."

She sat me down on the sofa and pulled out a book of photos of male
fashions and models, turning to certain pages. I had to say they were
much better than what my Father's blessed idiots had had in mind. While
I browsed, Anne gazed wistfully at the green silk creation in the
corner. Dream on, girl, I thought, but fondly.

I paused at one that particularly caught my eye.

"Zis one, eh? Zis man was called Armani. 'E dressed only ze most
beautiful and the most expensive women, and ze most discriminating of
men. 'Ow did I know it would be zis one?"

So saying, she disappeared into the back of the shop, and then returned
a few minutes later bearing a large cardboard box. "So, not exactly what
you 'ave in front of you, but... " She pulled out a dark man's jacket,
and held it up in front of me. It was clearly from the same stable as
the photo on my knees. I had never seen anything like it in real life
before.

"Try it on, eet is real — an original Armani and one 'undred years
old. A museum piece, a treasure, zat I 'ave 'idden away until zis
moment."

It felt wonderful to wear, and made me look exactly like a Pre-crash
film star.

"I 'ave never dared offer zis to anyone before, but I zink ze fashion
world is ready for a shock. Are you ready to make it?"

I laughed, and turned again to see myself in the mirror. This was
perfect, amazing and just so right. I could dress to please me, shock
my Mother, and turn up at the Ball to wreck my havoc; all at the same
time. "Pass me the trousers."

"Hortense!" she called out. "Bring my measure! Where is zat dratted
girl. Now, let me get you measured up. I can see I need to make just a
few tiny alterations. Yes, zis fabulous suit 'as been gathering dust in
a box for far too long. Time to give eet a trip out into ze wide world!"

There was plenty of time that evening to do my Electronics homework,
and instead I spent it on another trip to the Cockfosters show room.
Yes, ridiculous, it was a twenty minute bus ride each way, and it was
not as if I had not done it six times before. But for some reason, I
just had to press my nose to the glass again. I had no doubts, of
course not, but it was as if I couldn't remember what one looked like.

Maybe it is a boy thing, I have no idea about girls, but I cannot see
them feeling like this. But if you are male, you must have come across
something that was perfect. The folding knife, the camera, the fone,
that was just right; that had exactly every thing you wanted it to, but
none of the things that were superfluous. The balance just so; the
workmanship just that little bit more careful than was strictly
necessary; the attention to detail that would only be appreciated by
one who knew.

And there it was, in the window, in a motorbike. Forehead against the
cold glass, I gazed and drank my fill. It was not mine, of course; this
one was canary yellow! Who could have a yellow motorbike? Mine was going
to be red. But the solid weight of it sang; the perfect line of every
heavy beautiful machined part whispered to me and I could almost feel
the texture of polished surfaces of the aluminium castings under my
fingertips.

I dared not go in. The salesman had already given me an illicit ride on
the pillion three weeks ago, when I had admitted what my parents were
going to get me for my birthday. The memory of that ride flooded back.
The noise; the rushing of air; the feeling of drunken exhilaration at
every corner. That thing could do nought to sixty in less than ten
seconds, and I could have one next week! I was going to be firm. I
could be a man; I could resist any temptation my parents could lay in
front of me.

Yes, that girl was going back, and next week I would be walking into
that showroom with my Father's credit on my fone, and telling the
salesman he had an order.

I had decided not to take Anne with me on my visit to Penelope Jones. I
knew I was supposed to keep her by my side, but if she kept in my room
my Father would not know. It was ridiculous that I should be feeling
guilty about a collar, but, well, for some reason I did, and I had a
bad feeling about inflicting a return visit on her. Whatever I was
heading for, I was pretty sure it would be better if Anne were not
there.

She was helping me change — I was going to hit the Jones' in full
parade gear — and she was apparently keen to practise her dressing
skills. It was, I decided as I sat on the bed to let her struggle with
my shoes and socks, something one would have to get used to. A thought
struck me. "Annie, you didn't ask me for your favour today. Make sure
you think of something before I get back."

She did not reply for a moment, and I looked down to check there was
nothing wrong. I could not make out her lowered face. "Annie?"

"You did it again Sir! You called me Annie!"

"Well of course, that's your name. Oh, I see. Annie. It's the
diminutive. Like with..." like with children, or pets, I had been about
to say. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Oh, no, of course not, Sir. I... I like it, Sir." She was blushing, I
realised with some surprise.

"Hmm. Well, names are odd things. After all, I have to put up with you
calling me 'Sir' all the time."

"Sir! Oh, sorry. But... it would feel so wrong to use your first name,
Sir and... what else can I say?"

"Do you actually think of me as a 'Sir'?" I asked with interest.

"Of course, Sir." Her apparent discomfort deepened. "Well, no. You are
much more than that. You are my Master, Sir, my Boss."

"Well even 'Boss' would be better than 'Master'."

"May I call you Boss?" she asked, with a shy smile.

I could not help laughing. "Whatever keeps you happy. Talking of which,
what about that favour?"

"Oh. I did think of one thing, Boss. I was wondering about it, while I
was waiting for you. But it's a bit..." Her voice was tentative, and
again there was that pause. "Um. That thing you did earlier, in the
kitchen. That thing with your tongue."

"Yees?" I replied, encouragingly but completely mystified.

"Would you do it again?" she asked, all in a rush.

I stood up, astonished. Picking up my shirt, and donning it with
automatic fingers I walked slowly around the girl who knelt there,
motionless. She was frozen, as if uncertain whether I would hit her or
kiss her.

"Stand up" I said softly, reassuring her. "It's all right." I could ask
her why. Or I could find out. Slowly I held out my hand to brush my
fingers against her cheek, and she moved her head almost imperceptibly
towards them.

"Open up then," I whispered, and leant in towards her. Her lips opened
and the small shy tongue crept out.

My eyes closed. The rest of the world disappeared. I felt nothing, I
knew of nothing, except for the small warm wet tip that licked against
mine and then became a tongue; a tongue that wrapped itself around me
and caressed me. Without warning her tongue was in my mouth and my
tongue was in her mouth and they both belonged in their new homes. I
explored, amazed, drunk on the sensation, until urgently I was out of
breath, and, gasping, we pulled apart.

What the hell was that!

My mind a confused whirl, I gave her a few contradictory instructions
about sorting out my wardrobe, and staggered out the door. With hands
on autopilot I donned my coat and escaped out into the evening. All
right, maybe I forget the bike, I thought as I strode along the street.
But I couldn't! Oh, hell!

Wariness was warring with curiosity as the elderly collarmaid showed me
into Penelope's little parlour. I should have been nervous, but the
afterglow of that strange kiss with my collarmaid was still buoying me
up. Right now, I could take on anything, even Penelope Jones in full
steam, and the memory of my poor collar writhing with humiliation on
the day before yesterday stiffened my resolve.

I had not been in there in the evening before, and, in the glowlamps,
with just her sitting at her desk, the room seemed smaller and more
intimate than I remembered. She had let down her hair. I decided it was
good that way — it made her look half human.

She stood for me, but did not come forward for any formal cheek
kissing. "Thanks for coming," she said quietly, glancing at me but not
looking me in the eye. "Have a seat." I could not conceive of this girl
being embarrassed over anything, but she seemed oddly awkward as she sat
herself.

"How did it go at the tailors'? I am sure you have picked out something
splendid," she asked, toying with the green satin folds of her dress.

"I don't think you asked me here to compliment me on my dress sense," I
replied dryly, not wanting to explain it all.

She took a deep breath. "Very well then, about Tuesday. It was
Charlotte's idea to tease you with the collar, you know. She thought it
would be fun. And then — I don't know what got into Madeline. Well I
suppose we encouraged her, but she..."

"This is an apology?" I interrupted, incredulous.

"Yes." she said simply, head down. "We should not have treated you like
that. I'm sorry."

I was stunned. "Well... Thank you." I shrugged. "Frankly, I suppose I
should be used to it. I despise polite society and what it stands for,
so perhaps I should not be surprised if you lot are rude to me." She
looked up with raised eyebrows. "You were a bit hard on my poor
collarmaid, though."

"Perhaps we were. It was a cute little thing. But then, you didn't
really want that collar, did you?" she asked. "I could tell. Why did
they give you one?"

For the second time that day, I found myself reeling out the saga of
the motorbike and the collar. I was getting better at being
dispassionate, but it was all too close for me to succeed in pretending
not to care. For a second, she looked almost sympathetic.

"Coming of age presents," she muttered darkly. "They are not for you,
they are for your parents, and the sooner you realise that, the
better."

Now I was puzzled. "But your diamond... it's beautiful. Could I see it
again?"

She smiled wryly. "Why, thank you. It is, and no doubt it will do its
job on Saturday night. But you can't see it," she continued. "It's
locked up in my mother's jewel safe and I won't be allowed near it
until Saturday."

"Surely every girl dreams of a coming-out gift like that. The others
must be green with envy."

"Such a fuss over a bit of squashed carbon. I would swap it for a
decent dress without batting an eyelid. Go on, guess what it's worth,"
she challenged me.

I thought of a reasonable number and then doubled it. "Thirty thou?" I
shrugged.

"We have been told we need to insure it for fifty," she replied. "Not
that we have. Now guess how much it cost."

"I don't understand what you're getting at..."

"I'll tell you what it cost. Nothing. " She glanced at my puzzled face
and went on. "It has been in the family for generations. My
great-great-grandfather got it for my great-great-grand mother, just
after the Crash. I don't know how, but he could not have paid what it
was worth, and I bet the story would stand telling." She frowned at
this, which puzzled me.

"Well, that makes it an heirloom. Very nice." For some reason I felt
the need to be polite, even sympathetic.

"Exactly. An heirloom; something to stay in the family and keep for the
next generation. God forbid we could sell it to use the money now," she
growled. "What about this ball? Why do you think we are doing a two-way
instead of my own thing?"

I was unsettled now. This was not how Penelope addressed me. I
struggled vainly to answer, and eventually managed to think of it from
my Mother's point of view. "Wider selection of guests, bigger social
event, better turn out... " I trailed off, as I was obviously not
getting near the answer she was looking for.

"Less money, idiot!" she snapped. "Don't you see the picture?" She sat
back on the sofa with a sigh, and turned to look at me. "Look around.
Show me a single thing in this house which is not older than I am."
There was an new intensity in her voice, and suddenly she looked, well,
real. The terrifying social predator was being replaced by the girl who
used to throw snowballs at me so long ago. "This wonderful, pretentious
family has no money. Or, what little it has will go on my dowry, and
even that will not be enough." The frankness of this admission took me
completely off guard.

I wondered how much. As you can imagine, the subject was not one that I
had wasted much time worrying about, although if my Mother had her way,
I was going to enjoy somebody's dowry at some stage. But I could not
help knowing from my Mother's endless speculations with her friends,
that if Penny was going to catch the sort of boy she no doubt had her
eye on, the dowry ought to be over fifty grand, maybe even a hundred. I
could not ask of course, that would be completely beyond the pale.

"Alright," I said, grinning to myself, "How much?"

She gasped at my rudeness. "Ask my Father!" she retorted, which was of
course the proper thing to do. Just before asking for her hand. But she
then stood up with no warning and turned away. "No, don't ask my
Father." Her voice was different. "It's seventeen thousand, and to do
that we had to sell the last decent painting in the place." She was
looking at an open expanse of wall, and I suddenly noticed the dirt
shadow of where a painting had once hung. "I had always liked that
little horse. It seemed so peaceful in its meadow." For some reason I
felt ashamed of my question.

"When Jane got married, the year before last, her settlement took most
of my grandfather's investments. I know she did well, but now she has
moved away, and I never see her any more, and... I miss her." I had not
known her elder sister Jane well, and to be honest I had hardly noticed
her absence. I vaguely remembered that it was supposed to be a really
good match — some industrial baron from up North — but I could see
how the bride price might have been high. And second daughters were
less important, of course, for the obvious reasons.

"It's all right for you!" she continued with quiet bitterness, turning
to face me. "You've got your inheritance. You'll buy into somewhere
good, get a position lined up, and the salary credits are going to roll
in from your eighteenth for the rest of your life. You can swan around
now — every month for the next two years there will be a new batch of
lovelies for you to try, all hopeful. If you left it until the week
before your eighteenth you would still have your pick. Fun, eh? You
even get two or three bites at every cherry before you have to decide
to take her or move on." I shrugged and kept quiet. This was not
play-acting. But why open up now, to me of all people?

"Do you know why every girl hopes to meet the man of her dreams at her
coming-out? Eh?" I slowly opened my mouth but she ploughed on over me.
"Not romantic bullshit. It's because her best chance is to hook a man
on the first go. A month later she is old news. Stale cake. How many
blokes does it take for them all to think she is not even worth trying?
Less than you think. And every month that passes without hooking
someone, she's another month older and the fish are that many fewer."
She stopped marching back and forth and gripped the back of the small
wing chair opposite me. "You know what happens to girls who haven't
managed to get hitched to someone, anyone decent, by the time they're
eighteen?"

Of course I knew, but the number of spinsters was not that great, and
was it such a terrible fate? "Well, I am not sure marriage is such a
wonderful... "

"Says the man with the salary!" she interrupted scornfully. "But what
about for a woman, not fit for employment?" I muttered something about
looking after parents. Fortunately I am pretty sure she did not hear
me. She glared at me as if it was all my fault, but then her face
relaxed. "Oh God, why am I taking it out on you?" She sighed and
glanced down at me. "I know, you didn't invent it. I bet you think even
less of the cattle market than me, and you get the good side of the
deal."

She paused, then moved over and sat down in the chair opposite me,
leaning forward to look up into my eyes. It had been a long time since
I had been this close to her. "What happened to us, James? I remember a
time when I actually used to like you, and yet now the girls and I, we
put so much effort into humiliating boys like you." I could not think
of what to say.

"Then there is what you said, at the end of last night..." she went on.

"Penny, I am so sorry, I did not mean to hurt your feelings."

"Yes you did, but more than that, you meant to wake us up. Well, it
woke me, because it was no more than the truth."

She paused as if thinking about those words. "We girls are so
frightened, but we don't dare admit it, even to ourselves. You cannot
know how it feels to be so helpless. It's bad enough being a child,
beholden to your parents for everything, but at least for you that ends
at eighteen. For us, we just get handed over to husbands, along with
everything we own. In six months or a year, I am going to ask a husband
for my pocket money. At least I know how to deal with my father."

Her sigh was heartfelt. "I guess in the end you will have all the
power, and, somewhere inside, we know that and hate it. I know it's no
excuse for being bitches but there it is."

I considered her words and shrugged. "I am not sure it is so unequal.
Controlling the money is not everything, you know. Not every guy is an
unfeeling bastard, and most women seem to be pretty good at getting
what they want somehow. My Mother, for example, or yours. No-one could
ever call them victims!"

"Maybe," she replied, as if unwilling to be reassured. "Anyway, I am
afraid my apology — well, I have an ulterior motive." She frowned and
looked at me seriously with those direct blue, blue eyes. "I know what
you're like. Maybe that's why you fascinate me." (I did? When did that
happen?) "You are going to get your own back, aren't you? On me, on us,
on your Mother, on the whole thing. Even if I can't guess what you've
got planned for Saturday, I just know that I am not going to like it."

I opened my mouth to deny it, but then snapped it shut again. How the
hell had she found out?

She threw out her hands and sagged, as if the fight had gone out of
her. "James, this is really difficult. I know you don't think much of
me. I know on occasion I have treated you like... well, maybe you
deserved it sometimes." She shook her head helplessly. "I am really,
really sorry for everything I have done. But I am pleading here; please
don't ruin my ball on Saturday. If you have any decency, please don't
destroy the rest of my life."

Her eyes were cast down, and I suddenly realised what was glistening at
their corners. Could this all be just an act? No, this was real; it was
the deb that was the act. The immaculate makeup, the breasts, the gown,
the hair; they were all just the crab-shell hiding a helpless girl with
big eyes, begging me not to kick her.

I reached out and touched her cheek. She looked up in surprise.
Normally it was she who was in control, who knew when to go for the
kiss on the cheek. But now, outside the rules, she was as lost as I
was. Her skin was warm and smooth, and I let the back of my fingers
rest there for a second longer.

"All right, what about a truce?" I suggested gently. "A non-aggression
pact. You treat me in public as if I was human, and for you, I'll
behave. No stink bombs, no blackouts and no fire alarms." I smiled to
see her look of alarm at what I might have done. "I am not promising to
pretend to be Prince Charming, but I won't ruin your ball. And," I
added, looking into her eyes, "I know that every boy there will want
you, dowry or no dowry."

She smiled weakly and whispered "Thank you. Of course I accept." We
both stood. Strangely, I did not feel embarrassed. Continents had
shifted, but I rather liked the look of the new landscape. She did not
shrink from my gaze, but neither did she challenge it.

"Well, shall we join my parents, Mr. Pilsbury?" she suggested. "Perhaps
you would care for a glass of port before you go."

"Why not," I replied, and offered her my arm.

When I got home, the house was dark and quiet. It was late, and
everyone was in bed, including Anne. I slipped in the room without
turning the lamps on, but in the light from the window I could see she
was on the floor at the end of my bed again.

"Hey, I told you to sleep in the bed," I whispered with mock
strictness, taking up her arm. She rose with immediate fluid grace,
which betrayed that she had been awake, presumably waiting for me. She
gathered the blanket in one hand, revealing her completely naked body
as she moved towards the bed, but stopped when I caught her elbow.

"Should I put my nightdress on, boss?" she asked.

"Not just yet," I smiled, and reached up to brush the side of one
breast with the back of my hand. She dropped the blanket on the floor
by her side, and turned to stand there, motionless, for my inspection
and attention. Shit, she was lovely. There was something so simple and
so right about the shapes and shadows in front of me. The way her neck
dipped into her collarbone; the slope of that shoulder; the sweet curve
of the outside of a breast — it all just reached out and grabbed me;
not just my prick, but something else inside of me.

I had been with Liz only last night; my first time with a girl, and I
knew I should not be thinking about this. I shouldn't get involved; I
would have to get rid of her. On the other hand, I could not let her
sleep on the floor, and she was my collar. Why shouldn't I touch her if
I wanted?

I rested my hand on the flare of her hips and ran it slowly up her
side. She caught her breath. "In the bed then."

So she climbed in, and lay back, watching me with glowing eyes as I
undressed and folded my clothes on the chair, and for some reason it
was all right — in fact rather nice — to watch her gaze at my naked
body, and so I did not bother putting on the pyjamas which were lurking
under the pillow.

Tonight she was somehow with me in the bed, not on the far side of it.
As we lay side by side I ran my hand over the curves of her hip and her
flank. The skin was warm, smooth and downy under my touch. Her head
drifted forward and she nuzzled my collarbone, then wriggled forward so
she could reach into the hollow of my neck and tentatively brush her
lips over the throat under my chin.

The spectre of Liz's face floated in front of me, bearing the
expression she would wear if she ever heard of this. Shit, I was going
to have to tell this lovely little thing to keep to her side of the bed
— then my hand fell across the hot little tip of one soft mouldable
breast, and I was lost. What the hell, I was getting rid of the collar
on Sunday, and everyone knew that sex with a collar didn't count. Until
Sunday I would just have to make sure that Liz didn't find out.

"You know this thing where you keep offering me sexual relief?"

"Yes, boss," There was an interesting catch in her voice.

"Well, I have to admit to a certain tension right now."

"Yesss, pleassse, boss!" she hissed.

There was no pressure; it was all just easy and comfortable. Whatever
happened, I realised, I didn't have to try and impress this girl
because to her I could do no wrong.

"Come here," I whispered, and gathered her to me. Somehow she wriggled
and holding my shoulders, slipped under me so that her hot little
nipples were pressed against my chest. She reached up her mouth and
searched for mine. As her soft lips tentatively felt their way across
my face I remembered the scene in the kitchen. "No strawberries this
time," I whispered into her mouth.

"Sweeter than strawberries," she moaned, and started to lick the
underside of my tongue.

Her arms were wrapped around my neck and shoulders, and I could feel
her heels pressing in the back of my legs as she clung to me. She
rubbed herself on me, under me, as if determined to get into my skin,
and all I did was lie over her and suck and touch and explore where I
liked. My hard-on was having fun, too, rubbing up against her front,
when suddenly it was rubbing her inside her lower lips. It was so
straightforward. Before I could wonder what was happening I pushed
myself right inside her, impaling her soft slippery innards, and she
groaned in amazement.

I tried it again. I pulled back and pushed in once more and it felt so
good that I wanted to do it again and again. Then somehow my legs and
pelvis just took over and seized control. My cock sought more, reaching
deeper. My brain faded, floating far behind. A deep, long stroke.
Another. On my elbows over her, I trembled. Below me, Anne moaned. She
hissed in amazement, "So full!"

Mentally I just sat back, riding this thing out while the bottom half
of me drove into her. It was effortless, as some ancient part of me
hailing from before we came out of the trees, pounded away in an
unstoppable rhythm.

But it didn't just stay there, and as my hips built in excitement and
pressure and tempo, I heard her gasping at the feeling of what I was
doing to her. It still caught me by surprise when without warning she
froze and gripped me hard enough to stop me. Silently, without moving,
Anne orgasmed. She gasped; then her arms and legs spasmed and her hips
thrashed once, twice, sliding down and up my prick. I stayed still
while the waves rolled over her. I'd never imagined the feeling of
having a girl come, under me, with my cock stiff in her. She almost
spoke but all that came out was a small keening noise.

I adjusted my weight and continued stroking my knob gently in and out
of her. It was my turn now, and her pussy, no, her cunt was squishy
with steaming heat. I banged into her without restraint, and she
grunted with delight at every stroke. Finally and unstoppably the
fireworks arrived, and we clung together as we stiffened then convulsed
and shuddered into each other.

When the waves had faded I collapsed next to her and pulled her against
me. Her cheeks were wet with water, and I delicately rubbed my face over
hers, drying her skin with mine. It was a while before she moved, and
then she asked me, almost inaudibly, "What... what happened? Was it
supposed to be like that?"

"Mmmm, yes, of course. Go to sleep," I reassured her sleepily.

"I didn't know," she whispered in awe. "Why didn't they tell us? I just
didn't know." I wondered vaguely what she was talking about. Then she
was quiet and we were still.

It seemed a long time later when she stirred again. "Can I get my
nightdress, Boss?" she asked, "I can't sleep without it," and she
slipped out of the bed to return a moment later wearing the thing. I
was pleased to see that it hardly covered her bum and did not get in
the way as I slipped my hand up between her thighs, to where it
belonged. She sighed happily as the back of my thumb settled down in
the warm slick junction of her torso.

So, I had finally given in to this soft little collar. It was even
better than the time with Liz — magic somehow — would it keep
getting better?... Maybe I could go along with what my Mother had
planned and pretend to be interested in girls... And now I had a deal
with Penelope Jones — would that work out?

Hold on, I mused to myself, dozily. If Anne can't sleep without the
nightie, then why was she naked under that blanket when I came in
tonight?... Mmmm can wait... tomorrow... 

My sleep that night was full of dreams. I don't normally remember
dreams but these were of Flopsy, and I don't think I had dreamed of my
old rabbit for a long time. I can't remember the plot — we were on
some adventure but everything kept changing all the time — and the
thing, or was it animal, we were chasing morphed into a monster so we
had to run away from it, and then we had to hide curled up in a burrow
together. Flopsy changed too. He became bigger, almost human-sized, and
for some reason, was dressed in a short girl's cotton nightie. In the
dark I put my arms around him like I used to, but now the shape was
smoother, and rounder, with curves that I could not quite recognize,
and the landscape under my fingers was so soft that I could not help
stroking it. In the dream, I fell asleep, and then the sleep was real
and deep, a sleep I had not enjoyed for longer than I could remember.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------

If you liked it so far, drop me a line to 
'oldsofty  @  hotmail.co.uk' (don't forget to remove the spaces)

Chapter seven is at http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Old-Softy/The_Collar_around_the_Heart/The_Collar_7.txt