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. * * * ************************************************************