
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 11 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 

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Chapter 10 - Saturday Afternoon



My Mother had arranged a final dancing lesson for me, a special
one-to-one session just to polish up my technique. (The things that
woman would do to make sure I made a good showing tonight!) It was just
old Moxley, though, at the school, so I did not mind too much. And I
could take Annie — just for someone to practice with, of course.

I already knew that Annie could handle herself. I had given her a spin
yesterday, up in my bedroom with my bed shoved to one side. The drawing
room was easily twice as big, but there was no way that I was going to
shift the museum collection in there, so we made do in my room. At
least I had a decent sound system attached to my screen, and a good
list of suitable music on my fone. Waltzing around the rug and bouncing
off the walls, we fell over at least twice, but I could see that the
description in her accomplishments specification was easily justified
— she knew what she was doing.

It was far from my first visit to school outside hours. I had once
spent two terms of tortuous flute lessons on Saturday mornings, before
my Mother accepted that I was never going to charm anyone's ears. But I
had forgotten that Annie had never been in the place before. As we
marched down the half-empty school corridors, she gazed around her with
wide eyes, and it was entertaining to see how easily she was awed by the
shabby grandeur of the place. I suppose that compared with her old
haunts at Berkhamstead, it must have seemed quite impressive.

"Mr. Pilsbury. Pleased to see you get here on time for once," cried Mr.
Moxley from the far side of the gym as we opened the door. For some
reason I had always liked the old geezer. It might be his dry sense of
humour, although it was usually directed at me. He knew all too well
that my Mother had forced me into taking Dance as an option, and so
always teased me when it looked as if I was enjoying myself.

Just in time I remembered not to introduce Annie to him. "Ah, I had to
bring a collarmaid, Sir — there was no one available for a partner at
short notice. It does have some dancing experience though."

"Never mind. Is it wearing decent shoes? Yes, those will do." He turned
his back and fiddled with his fone, setting it up to drive the sound
system. Gershwen, flooded out through the speakers, and I took Annie's
hand in mine.

"Well? Off you got then." There was no more to be said. We were off.

What I had not expected was having fun. Yes, I had a fair idea that
Annie was competent. But I had not anticipated the fluid grace of her
movements, or the uncanny way she anticipated my every change of
direction. Perhaps I should have expected the unrestrained grin on her
face as I swung her around. She was having a ball, and it showed in
every step.

And whether it was having a partner that actually danced with me, as
opposed to next to me, or just having a good teacher give his undivided
attention to my every step, by the end of the hour, I was really flying.
He even showed us a few exhibition moves — just the sort of thing to
wow the crowd. As we packed up and headed for the door, I was feeling
physically tired but mentally elated. Whatever else tonight had in
store, at least I need not disgrace myself on the dance floor.

I bounced in through the front door, a cheerful whistle on my lips,
only to screech to a halt when I saw the Smithers in the hallway, and
heard the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Jones filtering through from the
drawing room. I had forgotten about luncheon with the Jones'.

Even worse — when I looked around for Penelope it appeared that her
parents had left her behind. It was not as if I was looking forward to
seeing her — quite the contrary — but it would have been a little
more interesting with her around. Now the prospect of luncheon loomed
flat and boring as they apologised for her absence. She was preparing
for the Ball, and apparently it had all fallen behind schedule so she
could not be spared even for this social occasion. Lucky her, I thought
glumly.

Of course there was no way it could be avoided, so I did my social duty
with as good a grace as I could muster. My parents and the Jones' had a
lot to talk about with tonight in mind so the whole affair was strung
out even more than usual. It was difficult to share in their animation,
and I escaped as soon as the coffee was served.

I headed for the screen in the drawing room, wanting to check if Rob
had replied to my message. He had, and he had asked me to ring him at
two fifteen.

Contacting Rob could be a bit tricky at times. Liz and her Mum at least
had a fifteen-inch portable tucked in the corner of the kitchen. It was
only portable in the sense that if you had ten minutes to spare and
could remember where you had put the instruction manual, it was
possible to pack it up in its suitcase; but they were cheap and
reliable, and most prole households had one. Rob's mum, on the other
hand, refused to pay the rental, so if he wanted to use his fone he had
to go out to the box on the street corner or down to the café.

Did you know, by the way, that café s are called that because of the
coffee they serve? In fact in the old days, before they sold screen
time, that's all they were for, and café is a corruption of the French
word for coffee!

Knowing that he would be plugged in somewhere, waiting, I never liked
to be late, so I gave him a buzz bang on the nail of quarter past. It
was good to see his face.

"James, my dear chap! How spiffing to hear you!" His imitation of a
stiff was not getting any better despite the time he dedicated to it,
but I could not help grinning.

"Knock it off, you deadbeat. I've had an afternoon of that stuff
already. So, shall I come over to your place or shall we meet down at
the Dead Duck?"

His face dropped. "Uh, James, maybe we should give it a miss this
week."

"What? What about Liz?"

"Yeah well, she's the reason, really. She came over to mine and we 'ad
a little 'eart t' 'eart..." for a second my heart was in my mouth,
wondering what that might mean, but then he carried on with, "and she
told me all about letting yer pick out a girlfriend tonight."

"Does that girl tell you everything?"

"Well, ya know, she don't bother hidin' much. Look Jay, it's just...
yer were soundin' like ya were 'avin second thoughts about Liz, an' if
you screw 'er around..."

"Rob, it was her idea! And you know I would never do that. But...
sometimes things aren't what we want. I'm not going to give up on Liz.
And whatever happens, I'm not going to give up on knowing you either.
I'm just won't let that happen. But I can see that in future it's going
to have to be different."

"Yeah, maybe. Anyways, thing is, she's not as tough as she pretends,
an' she's bullshitting like it wouldn't matter to see you getting' all
prettied up to put yourself out there and pick up some bit o' fluff,
but it was cuttin' 'er up, I could tell."

"But does that mean you're not going to see me today? Neither of you?"

"Well this is all getting a bit fuckin' weird, an' I think we should
give each other the day off."

"Oh... All right. But look, let's make it a date tomorrow, lunch at the
Dead Duck. You, me and Liz; and I can fill her in on what happened at
the Ball, and you can ride shotgun so I don't upset her. And then we
can talk about how to work this out, for the future."

"Fair enough. You jus' do wot yer got ter, an' me an' Liz 'll see yer
at old joint tomorrer, midday like."

So now my day was as flat as mud. It really sucked not to be spending
Saturday afternoon with Rob and Liz. This was the time we usually spent
hanging out down the canal, throwing bread at the ducks (yes, 'at', and
with those rolls they had better duck) or swinging along the High
Street, swapping rude comments on the fashion victims passing by. But
here I was, abandoned at home, with nothing to do but get ready for my
big occasion tonight. Or more likely get psyched-out and worried sick,
I grumbled to myself as I paced yet again across the drawing room
carpet.

We were not due at Mrs. Haversham's for the final fitting until three
o'clock. I wondered where Annie was. Maybe another massage would do me
some good. Or what about a piece of that scrumptious cake she had baked
yesterday? I headed decisively for the door and almost banged into her
as I jerked it open. It was only with an impressively acrobatic save
that she rescued her tray.

"Oh! Sorry, Boss. I thought you might like a cup of tea and some fruit
cake, so I was just... Oh!" This last squeak was as I slipped my hand
up her skirt and gave her little cotton-covered pussy a friendly rub.
Well, she was mine, wasn't she? And with both her hands occupied by the
tray she was too tempting a target to resist. The feel of her shaved
mound through the cloth was warm and soft and promising; and suddenly
the world was a brighter place.

It was amazing how her presence had turned my sombre mood on its head.
"You know you are a mind reader, don't you?" I said, sitting back on
the sofa.

"Yes, Boss. Where do you want the cake?" she said recollecting her
composure.

"In my mouth. Feed me, slave!" I cried out in an imperious voice, lay
back and opened my mouth wide. Smiling even though the joke was against
her, Annie broke off a piece of that scrumptious moist cake and popped
it in. It was when she picked up the teacup with a glint in her eye and
threatened to follow the cake with a draft of the hot wet stuff that I
decided that discretion was the better part of valour. "Enough! I can
manage that myself."

"Boss?" Her expression as she knelt to attention was more serious now.

"Yes, girl."

"Would you... would you call me slave again?"

"Annie, I was joking. You know I would not have said that to you in
seriousness."

"But I really don't mind, Boss. It... it gave me such a nice feeling
when you used the word just now. After all, I am your slave, aren't I,
and I'm proud of it."

"Maybe, but you know we can't say that in public, And I'm afraid I
don't think I could talk to you like that with a straight face even in
private. Maybe we could pretend-play at it sometime, if you wanted."

"I suppose so, Boss. But it wouldn't seem the same if I had to ask you
for it." Then, with a slightly odd expression, she asked, "How does the
new zapper feel, now it's on your wrist?"

"It's comfortable enough Annie, but don't worry. I won't be using it.
You know what I think of those things. Besides what are the chances of
me needing to discipline you, of all people?"

"No, I suppose not, Boss. I will just collect the things." With that,
she rose gracefully, and picked up the teacup and plate. I admired her
movements, thinking of the practice and effort she must put into the
way she acted around me. It was magic how she was always just there
when needed, but never in the way when not.

Having said that, right now she was standing there, with the china in
her hands, just staring at me. Her face had this strange frown, almost
as if she was struggling with something. Then she grimaced, and dropped
the teacup.

It was extraordinary. One moment it was safe in her hand, and the next,
pieces of cup and saucer were scattered across the carpet, while the
crack echoed round the room like a bombshell.

"Annie!" For several seconds, she was frozen, with this determined, no,
defiant, look on her face. Then as if her string was cut, she collapsed
to her knees.

"Master, I'm so sorry,... sob... I didn't mean... sob... how could
I..." she gasped out incoherently in between the heaving of her chest.
There was nothing I could do except kneel down next to her and wrap her
in my arms. For several minutes I held her against me until the crying
subsided, and then lifted her to the sofa, keeping my arm around her
shoulder.

"Boss,... gulp... I should not be sitting... huh... here with..." she
struggled to get out.

"You sit where I put you, alright? Now just stay silent until you can
manage to talk coherently." She nodded and rubbed her eyes on the hem
of her skirt. It hardly reached, even though she bent over. Now we were
side-by-side, with my arm around her shoulder, almost like boyfriend and
girlfriend. How odd, that this should be unusual. It was not, after all,
unpleasant.

"I'm sorry Boss. You know I would never really disobey you, don't you?"
she whispered eventually.

"Yes, and when you feel like it, you can explain what just happened."

"I was so silly. How could I risk upsetting you, just for..." she shook
her head angrily, apparently at herself. She turned and looked at me.
Even when red in the corners, she had such pretty eyes.

"It's the discipline thing, Boss — the riding crop. I'm dying to feel
what it would be like for you to use it on me." She sighed and sat back
in the sofa. "But you never would, would you — not unless I did
something extreme, and I don't think I could manage that."

I stared at her for a moment, and then laughed. She looked put out for
a second. "So you did that on purpose? To get me to punish you, and you
did not think of just asking?"

She hung her head. "No."

"Have you asked for your favour yet, today?"

"Do I still get a favour, Boss, now I am going to stay?"

"Yes, of course, if only to stop this kind of nonsense. Now, what are
you going to ask as your favour for today?"

She looked up at me, shifting away on the sofa to see my face properly.

"What, you mean I could ask you to... ? Would you still do that for me,
Boss, even after... ?"

"Yes, I would, my strange and twisted little collarmaid. Even though I
don't understand, it is obviously important to you."

Eyes wide, she nodded. "I'm sorry, it's like an itch. I just can't get
the idea out of my head." She straightened up and said firmly, "Yes,
please, Boss, I would like you to cane me, if you don't mind."

I shook my head in wonder, and shrugged. "Off you go and get it, then.
Bring it up to my room."

It was with only a little trepidation that I waited for her upstairs. I
was pretty sure I knew what to do. I fished out some dressing gown
cords; presumably some sort of restraint would be required, and as I
looked around I could see that my leather wing chair could be pressed
into service.

I did a double-take when she walked into the bedroom. She had removed
her skirt and panties. Although above the waist she was still in the
proper formal attire of a bedroom maid, between the hem of her blouse
and her stocking tops, her fresh little pussy was gloriously naked. The
effect was indescribably erotic.

"Come prepared, have we?"

"Yes, Boss." She had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed,
but I could see there was a fair amount of excitement in there as well.

"Annie, are you sure? This is not a toy, and if we do this, I am not
going to hold back."

"I have to know what it will feel like, Boss. Maybe we will never do it
again, but for just this once, I am sure."

"All right. On your head be it." I refrained from adding, "or rather,
on your bottom." "Well, I believe six strokes is traditional. But maybe
we should only do one or two on the first time. And do you remember your
'safe' word?"

"Of course, Boss, it's 'strawberry.' But I am sure I won't need it.
And... and I want all six."

"Fair enough. Come on then, over here." I led her over to the armchair,
which I had turned around, and bent her over the back of it. With a bit
of fiddling, I managed to tie her wrists to the front legs quite
securely, and I wrapped another cord around her waist and the top of
the back. The last job was to lash her ankles to the back legs of the
chair. While I was doing that, my eyes were necessarily only inches
from her pert bottom cheeks, and of course the pink labia that were
peeking out from below them. They were definitely more swollen than
usual, and that unique aroma was drifting into the room. It was one
that I was beginning to recognise by now.

Her flawless golden skin looked so soft and female against the brown
leather of the old button-pattern armchair, and I was painfully aware
of how gorgeously immobile she was; held completely open and available
to me. I could not help it; closing my eyes, I ran my hand up the back
of one warm thigh, trailing fingers from the stretched nylon up onto
the tender flesh above the stocking top. I didn't want to do this. How
did I get into these things; why was I holding a riding crop in one
hand instead of plunging my cock into that hot waiting pussy?

Right. Self-control, I thought. This is important to the girl.

The riding crop itself was a beautifully made thing in its own right,
from the little ivory button on the handle end to the carefully
stitched leather loop at the other. I gave it a few experimental
swishes through the air to get the feel of it.

Now, how did I do this? How hard? The last thing I wanted was to cut
her skin, leaving nasty white lines like that poor thing of Murdoch's.
Although it was interesting that I was not feeling the same revulsion I
had done, when it came to doing this with poor Hortense for Mrs.
Haversham. Presumably knowing how much the girl wanted it made a
difference.

"Ready, then?"

She just screwed her eyes shut, and nodded. I whirled it through air
and it made a most satisfying whack. Right on the leather arm of the
chair, next to her shoulder.

She gasped. "What? Master!"

I chuckled. It had been mean of me to tease her, really. "Just getting
the feel for it, little thing. Now, hold on tight!"

Whack

It sounded different on human skin. Sounded and felt quite, quite
different. The pale line across her left buttock, just off horizontal,
suddenly turned red, and she cried out loud.

Whack

"Aaaaaaagh! Master, stop!"

What? I frowned. Almost by itself, the crop whistled again.

Whack

"Oww... Master, please I don't want it!"

"Then you know the word to use. If this was a mistake, just say it."

"Oooow I... sob... I can't, Master."

"Can't or won't?"

Whack

"Oooh, no, Master, never... Huh... Please, I have changed my mind! I
don't want any more!"

"You have not been honest with me, have you my little collarmaid?"

Whack

"Oww... Master, please..."

"You wanted something, and wanted it badly enough to pull this
ridiculous stunt, yet did not tell me. Are you ever going to do that
again?"

"Noooo... huh... never, Master. Please stop!"

"Do you still love me now?"

Whack

"AAaaaaagh, yes Master, always!"

I paused, panting.

"And that makes six."

"Huh... thank you... huh... oh, thank you, Master."

I stared at my right hand, still holding the stick that had been so
carefully crafted to cause pain to horses and women. The thing dropped
to the carpet. Annie's round buttocks now showed six raw red stripes
across them, three to each side. It seemed impossible that my hand
could have been so neat; so methodical. I shook myself and the iron
mantle that had enveloped me fell from my shoulders. What had I done?

"Annie, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?" I scrambled for the knots at
her wrists, not able to see them properly, filled with remorse.

"Master, no, don't!"

"What? I..." I paused, confused.

"Master, please,... huh... finish me off."

Staring at her face, so close to mine, I saw her eyes screwed up —
not with pain, but with something else.

"Please, Master. Don't make me ask for it."

"But I must," I replied slowly. "Tell me exactly what it is that you
want me to do." I was not sure, but I was beginning to catch on, and
getting her to say it would confirm the bizarre suspicion. "Beg me."

"I need you to fuck me, Master." She said in a shuddering voice. "I
need you to push your prick into my cunnie and shaft me until you cum
inside me."

Moving back behind her I knelt to inspect her gorgeous behind from
close up.

She was alternately clenching her buttocks and then pushing down onto
the chair back to raise them as far as possible. The action made her
swollen labia move apart and then together, almost appearing to open in
anticipation. The insides of her thighs were wet near the top, I
noticed; slick with something shiny and slippery. I slipped my fingers
over the skin, less than an inch from the yearning lips, but as good as
a mile away.

She sobbed quietly. "Please, Master, please. I will do anything."

"Yes," I confirmed. "Yes, you will." I knew I was going to make her
wait. "Now hold still."

With an effort she stopped rocking, and her buttocks showed only the
smallest quiver. They were glowing, pink all over, not just where the
crop had kissed the surface, and the red lines were raised as proud
welts above the skin. Very, very softly, I kissed the end of the
nearest one.

"Poor thing," I whispered, and licked along its length slowly and
tantalisingly. The skin was hot and inflamed beneath the cooling tip of
my tongue. Despite her best intentions, I could see her bottom muscles
clench slightly. "Stay still!" I repeated, gathering saliva in my mouth
so I could do it again on the next one.

With infinite care and tortuous patience, I meticulously traced the
line of each of the cruel marks from my crop, while the involuntary
quivering of those glowing buttocks increased with every touch.

I stood back.

I could not believe how big her labia were, how long, hanging wet and
swollen from beneath her. I had never seen her like this. But when I
undid my buttons to work my penis out of its confinement I don't think
I had ever had an erection like this, either. To delay was to torture
myself as much as her, so I offered it up and grasped her hips.

Bliss.

"Masteeeeeer," she groaned. Like a hot knife into butter, they said,
didn't they? It seemed such a long, long way as I slowly extracted it
again, and she rocked back, furiously trying to keep it deep in her.
She could only move an inch or so, but she was throwing her back into
it, grunting like a pig in the effort.

"No," I commanded. "Stay still." And although it must have been
torture, she managed it. "Good girl. Here we go," and I pushed back in.
She stayed frozen, but now she was panting in short sharp breaths. Only
slightly faster, I withdrew and penetrated her again, pushing my pubes
right against her hot marked bottom.

"Ha... Master... ha... I can't... ha... mustn't... ha... cum... ha...
before you... ha..."

That's what you think, girl, I muttered to myself. My hand slid between
her belly and the leather chair back, and searched carefully. I centred
on the little button high up in her folds, and lovingly, firmly,
pressed it against her pubic bone.

How strange that the scream when she orgasmed was so much louder and
longer than the ones from the crop. I clutched her tummy to me with my
other arm to restrain her through the bucking and twisting that shook
her. The feeling of her torso convulsing on my prick was almost more
than I could stand, but somehow I held on until it was all dying down
before I finally allowed myself to empty into her, in thrust after
thrust pushing against her buttocks. The mental release was as great as
the physical — it was if I was pouring myself into her.

When I had recovered enough for conscious thought, I found myself lying
over her back. "Sorry, Annie," I whispered, as I lifted myself up and
kissed the nape of her neck. Stroking her back and limbs lovingly, I
walked around her to undo the ties. If we ever did this again, I
realised, I would have to come up with something better. The knots had
pulled very tight, and her wrists were marred by raw red marks.

"Why didn't you use the word, you silly girl?" I asked softly, ten
minutes later, toying with her hair as she sat at my feet with the side
of her face resting on my thighs.

"I couldn't," she whispered eventually. "You know I love you so much,
Boss. It hurt — oh, God, so much more than I expected, and I wanted
to, but it was as if... I would have failed you. I just couldn't."

I glanced down at the silk cushion she was half-sitting on. There was
no blood and clearly I had not broken the skin. "Mr. Weller was right,
you know. This is not a thing we should get into lightly."

"Lightly? Oh, no, Boss, not lightly. But I would sell my soul for this.
I know you can't understand — I'm not sure I understand it myself —
but to feel like this, with you afterwards... I would go through it all
again."

I shook my head. "Fortunately that isn't necessary." A thought struck
me. "Annie. What would you do if I offered to give you your freedom?"

She gasped, lifted up her head and looked at me in horror.

"No, I am not going to. I would never give you away unless you wanted
it. But hypothetically, if I gave you the chance to go free with enough
money to set you up somewhere, where would you go, what would you do?"
Her green eyes observed me gravely for a moment, and then she smiled.
"Turn it down, of course, Master."

I smiled ruefully and sighed. It was indeed the answer I had expected.

My mind floated as we sat on the bus to Mrs. Haversham's. Or rather, I
sat while she stood. I suspected it was going to be a day or two before
she was sitting on anything firmer than a feather cushion. I didn't know
what to think of what had happened, of what I had just done. But
amazingly, I did know what to feel. I felt ten feet tall. I had just
behaved in the cruelest way, frankly almost worthy of Murdoch, and yet
pure elation still filled me. Her scream in ecstasy at the end still
echoed in the far corners of my memory.

Shit, suppose my Mother had heard that? Never mind her, the whole house
must have heard it. I grinned to myself, and glanced up at Annie, who
immediately looked back with an expression of adoration. Hell, I
couldn't analyse why, but right now I could take on the world.
Tonight's little shindig was going to be a picnic.

Mrs. H welcomed us with a flourish and a curtsey.

"Ah, Monsieur Pilsbury, and 'is 'lady'! Eet is good to see you, come
in, come in."

As she led us inside through the shop, I saw ahead of us that amazing
dress, hanging on a dummy, and my suit laid out on a cloth-covered
table.

"Now, mes amies! Eet is all ready for you! Come, let me look at you —
Ah, what is zis around 'er neck! Ze collar, eet is perfect! Where did
you come up with such a thing, so much better; we will not need zis
clumsy thing!" She tossed aside the beautiful chiffon scarf in her
hand.

"Do you really think it will be alright, Mrs. Haversham?" I was still
not sure we were going to get away with Annie in a collar, no matter
how pretty it was.

"Ah, mais oui — it is better zan alright. And it 'as a ring — do
you 'ave ze lead?"

"Well, yes, but..." I reluctantly brought the thing out of my pocket.
Annie had actually wanted to wear it on the bus, but I had lost my
nerve at the last minute and tucked it out of sight.

Mrs. Haversham caught her breath at the sight of it and held it up to
the light. "Parfait, parfait!" She clicked open the clip and turned to
Annie who immediately knelt in the position and held back her head. The
Madame smiled at her and then passed it back to me, carefully, almost
formally, with a small bow. I took it as carefully, and bowed back. She
need not say anything. I knew what to do.

The excitement of leaning down and fastening that silly bit of chain at
her throat got me again. It must be the symbolism, I thought, but it
just filled me with pride and joy, that this beautiful girl wanted to
be on the end of a lead I was holding.

"But do you really mean we should use this at the ball? Then it will be
obvious that she is restrained, even if her neck collar does not look
like one."

"Ah, non, mon ami. Eet will be obvious that you 'ave a pretty
girlfriend pretending to be ze collarmaid — playing at ze
submission." The dressmaker swirled off and waved at one of the less
ostentatious display pieces around us, a pantomime milkmaid's outfit.
"Someone asks me for a milkmaid's dress, do zey want a thing of rough
cotton with a sackcloth apron that you could milk cows in? No, a
pretend thing is what people want, and zat collar is so like a toy I
could not 'ave done better myself!"

She touched Annie's shoulder and gestured to her. The girl rose
obediently and stood so we could admire her.

"Just imagine, you 'ave a girl, one of ze little trollops from your
school perhaps, and she ees into bondage games, and you want to shock
the world by showing 'er off in public. What do you choose? A real
collar of nylon and steel? Or a piece of silver lace, just a choker to
let everyone know what it represents? And ah, the daring of it, the raw
sex of it! Yes, we are going to make an impression tonight, my boy!"

Despite my apprehension, I was convinced.

The final fitting itself was a bit of an anticlimax. Both outfits were
perfect, and although Mrs. H. fussed around for what seemed like ages,
there was in fact nothing to change and nothing to alter.

"'ORTENSE! Where is zat girl?" she cried, much too close to my left ear
for comfort. The collarserve popped up by her side, and she grabbed it
by the arm. "Zey are complete! Start the packing — carefully,
carefully, now!"

Hortense meticulously packed up the clothes in tissue paper in
cardboard boxes while Mrs. H. bustled off to the back of the shop. As
it worked I saw it glance up at me, but when I caught its eye it ducked
its head and concentrated on the tissue paper. I was going to have to
say something.

"Hortense, about the last time I was here."

The collar paused in its work and gave me its full attention, while not
actually looking at me.

"I didn't know how you felt about men. If I had known, I would never
have forced you like that."

"Oh, no, Sir, it was just punishment for taking advantage of your sweet
collarmaid like that. And... and maybe I have changed my mind about men.
Or just one man, anyway..."

I could not help laughing. "Are you always this cheeky?"

"Only when I know I might get a shafting for a punishment, Sir," it
replied, its grin finally breaking out of hiding.

Mrs. Haversham reappeared like magic, frowning, and I had no idea if
the frown was real or even if she had heard any of our conversation.
"Enough idle chatter!" she declared, glaring at her poor collar. I felt
emboldened to come to its defense.

"My fault, Mrs. Haversham. I just wanted to make sure it was all right.
And perhaps I could ask for the personal assistance of your collarserve
in dressing, next time I come to have something made?"

The dressmaker stared at me for a moment and then chuckled. "Of course.
For the Beau Brummel, anything. You 'ave made the impression on my lazy
collar, you know. I zink zat you are good for each other — you may
'ave 'er whenever you wish!"

Wondering vaguely if that invitation was as open as it sounded, I
decided it was time to wrap things up. "Very good, Mrs. Haversham,
thank you. We will be on our way, then. I want to say how much I
appreciate what you have created for me here. Thank you so much, and
goodbye."

"Mais non! We 'ave so much still to do!"

I stared at her, puzzled, while a torrent of her French accent poured
over me. (Why was it that every sentence she uttered ended in an
exclamation mark?)

"Shoes! We must start with the shoes. Mr. Snodgrass, three doors along.
Just tell 'im I sent you. Tell 'im two and a 'alf inches for ze girl's
'eels, not an eighth more! Then ze manicures, Miss Sawyer on ze other
corner, 'er shop has ze pink awning — don't forget ze toenails, even
for you Mr. Pilsbury. If it feels good, you will look good! Then ze
'air, two streets down, Mr. Nupkins for both of you, but when you get
there, ask for Colin for ze girl — 'e 'as such talented 'ands! Off ze
neck of course, but 'e will not need telling! And a corsage, you will
pass by ze flower shop on ze way to Mr. Nupkins, but give 'er time to
make it up — she will need 'alf an hour. White, with a touch of
lilac, and no green, not even a fern leaf!"

Beneath the amazement, a sinking feeling was tugging at me. "Mrs.
Haversham, I... I don't know how much all this will cost, and I..."

"Nonsense! Just tell them I sent you! It will cost you nothing. For
tonight, everyone is on your side!"

"I don't understand. I mean it's very good of you but..."

"Phish! For the new landlord, nothing is too good! We will sort it out
later if you must, but now you 'ave no time! Go!"

I let her usher me half way to the door, then stopped, feet planted
firmly.

"What do you mean, 'landlord'?"

She stopped talking for once, and regarded me quizzically. "You mean
you do not know? This cannot be!"

"Know what?"

"That you are our landlord. I assume so — we all signed ze new leases
last week. Our landlord is ze Pilsbury Trust. Zat is you, n'est-ce pas?"
My face must have betrayed my bewilderment. "Mr. Pilsbury, you do know
what eez in your Trust Fund, do you not?"

"Yes, of course. It's about two hundred and forty seven thousand."

She whistled. "Whew! As much as zat, eh? But zat is not what I meant.
What is it made up of, eh? Money is not just ze pound coins you know,
not large amounts like zat. Zere might be gilt bonds, loan notes,
company shares — and property investments."

My mind reeled, and I thought of the three-page letter from Ellis and
Baker that I had skimmed so hastily on my birthday four days ago, the
letter with its list and tables that had sat unread in my bedside desk
ever since.

"I'm not sure. So... I own this shop, and you pay me rent?"

She laughed, for some reason delighted. "Zis shop, zis parade of seven
shops, and I believe many others of za best addresses in town! Welcome
to your investment, Mr. Pilsbury."

I was stunned. "I suppose it is all handled by agents?" I asked
hopefully.

"Za boring stuff, ze rent collection and ze accounts. But Mr. Pilsbury
has always taken a great interest in every one of his tenants." She
frowned at me, as if worried I might not be who she had assumed.

"Why do you think zis is such a successful parade 'ere, eh? It used to
be a dump down 'ere, and when Mr. 'Aversham and I started it was all we
could afford. But your father personally selected every incoming
business, not just on whether zey could pay ze rent, but on what zey
would add to ze street. It made za parade what it is now. And 'e keeps
it smart, from za flowers on ze lampposts to ze new roofs. And if ze
people were good, but ran in to difficulties, 'e always gave them a
breather to get back on their feet, and not just because he is
generous, although 'e is. It made sense for 'im too. Zere is a queue of
years for a shop lease in this parade, Mr. Pilsbury, and all 'is stuff
is like that. We all know why 'e is one of ze richest men in this
town."

Once again, I realised, I had never thought. I had never wondered where
all the money came from. "Investments" is such a vague word. Now I
realised that it meant actual things: shops, maybe houses, maybe
businesses, and certainly people — people like Mrs. Haversham, and
for all I knew, Mr. Weller or Liz's Peter. I wondered how many people,
and who they all were. Quietly, I determined to find out.

"One of the richest men in this town," she had said. I wondered how
rich. He must have got a decent whack from his position as Alderman,
but I suspected the job was more about power than money. And it would
have been an expensive post to buy into, even with the good start he no
doubt enjoyed from Grandpa. It was the pride of every man to pass on to
his sons a Trust Fund bigger than he himself had started with, but most
balanced that with what they kept for themselves and the rest of the
family. Of course it did not always work — something had obviously
gone badly wrong with Mr. Jones' plans for his offspring. But somehow I
suspected my Father had been rather more skilful than that over the
years.

Perhaps it was not so frightening. There would be agents and there
would even be solicitors and such, but I need not be frightened of
them. After all, in two years they were going to be working for me in a
way. And I had a feeling that they would be only people my Father
trusted. While a week ago that thought would have filled me with scorn,
now it was one of reassurance. I had all that time to get to know what
was going on, and there was nothing to stop me asking questions now if
I wanted. It was going to be all right. Indeed, strange as might seem,
I was almost looking forward to it.

"So 'ow did you think I knew your Mother?" carried on Mrs. Haversham.
"We go back a long time, 'er and me. 'Er custom, and 'er word around ze
town did a lot when we were getting started. And now..." she laughed
conspiratorially. "I get the chance to repay the favour, and I am
looking forward to 'earing every detail about what 'appens tonight!"

The rest of the afternoon passed in a whirl. There were so many people
to fuss over us, and so many things to be done. But I remembered the
lesson from that horrible dinner at the Marsden, on the evening of my
birthday. If I acted as if people were going to do whatever I asked,
then somehow they just did, even though I was only a sixteen-year-old
lad. My Father's influence went a long, long way, I discovered, and I
was beginning to see why he treasured it. Even more important was the
discovery that if I smiled at people first, they smiled back. All the
time I was pushing at open doors — they just wanted an excuse to like
me and be helpful. I was more than willing to oblige.

We grabbed something to eat back at home. It was like a high tea, but
after six o'clock, and at my request, Geoffrey served both Annie and
me, so she did not even have to step in the kitchen. Both my parents
would eat later, and I got her out of the way upstairs so I would not
have to explain her new appearance, but Geoffrey's eyes bulged.
Fortunately, I knew I could trust him.

Then in came my Mum like a barely-restrained whirlwind, bullying and
wheedling on the fone until the world was dancing to her liking. It was
as if I were a ship that the family was about to launch, and all hands
were put to the task. For once I did not resent the attention and just
went with the flow.

Sir William Tite FRIBA OBE, who according to the stone plaque in the
vestibule had designed the Crickelwood Assembly rooms in 1873, had
apparently enjoyed either a sense of humour or a taste for the theatre.
Or both. Whatever his excuse, the front of the building was a
monstrosity of Victorian High Gothic, and the entrance hall with its
twin dogleg staircases was an amazing cacophony of brown marble
columns, ornate stone cornices, and surprised statues.

I could not resist a peak into the actual Ballroom on our way up the
stairs. The pair of doors was enormous, but one of the handles turned
easily enough in my hand. The creak of the great door echoed across the
empty floor, and the two collarwaits on the far side looked up from
their tasks at the interruption. The room with its mock medieval
stained glass windows and imitation hammer-beam roof seemed vast and
forbidding. I gulped. It seemed impossible that in less than an hour
that space was going to be filled with people collected just to see
Penelope and me.

My Mum had booked a tiny dressing room up on the second floor for me,
and Annie and I were in there by eight o'clock. Mrs. Haversham had been
there for ages, laying out all the kit, and she seized on us as soon as
we appeared. Under all the accented twittering I realised that she was
almost as nervous as I was. Still, she knew what she was doing, and in
less than half an hour she had me looking like the King's favourite.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The watch and zapper set looked
clumsy on my wrist, so I slipped them off — they would be safe enough
locked in here. Mr. Armani's understated design was inspired, I decided.
But it was not just how the clothes themselves looked. It was how they
made me stand. And the reason I could stand like that, looking (despite
my inner turmoil) relaxed, poised, and — yes — just faintly
arrogant, was because of how they made me feel. This was me.

"Now, outside, mon ami, while I complete ze touches to your fair
escort." I opened my mouth to object, then thought better of it and
stepped out into the corridor.

I knew my Mother was downstairs with Mrs. Jones. They had, no doubt,
finished haranguing the caterers, and would be welcoming the first
guests in a few minutes. As was traditional, Penelope would enter the
ballroom after the guests had arrived, and I could make my entrance any
time after that. I had decided on a quarter to nine.

The corridor was a short and boring floor to pace, and the view out of
the window was of the back of the municipal service yard. I almost went
down to see how my Mother was getting on, but remembered in time that
she had not seen my getup yet. It would not do to blow the surprise
before it was ready.

At last, the creak of the door told me someone was coming out, and I
twisted eagerly to look.

It was Annie, by herself — and yet not her. Not at all. The woman
standing there had her hair up, pinned by a silver clasp, but she had
no other jewellery — or none but the choker shining at her throat and
the silver lead lying in her outstretched hand. Her elegant silver mask
hid only the top half of her face, but the immaculately painted lips
below it were just as inscrutable.

The woman wore — that dress. She took two steps towards me; and with
every movement, colours shimmered, and subtle creases in the fabric
leapt to emphasise the curves of the beautiful body that was so poorly
concealed. Every fleeting crease shouted, "Look here! Admire this!" and
my eyes, being only male, had no choice but to obey. My voice failed me.

My little collar was a film star.

Silently and gracefully, she lowered herself to her knees and held back
her head in the gesture I had begun to recognise. As silently, I
fastened the lead to her collar and held out my hand to help her rise.
Together we went down the corridor, and down the stairs. The noise of
the crowd swelled up and enveloped us as we walked around the corner to
the great double doors that stood open at the head of the staircase down
into the ballroom.

It was time.

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

Chapter 12 is at http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Old-Softy/The_Collar_around_the_Heart/The_Collar_12.txt

Chapters thirteen and fourteen will be posted Tuesday 20th Nov 07
