Taking a sip of his whisky, he continues, ‘Seriously, it was very productive. I’ve made some useful academic contacts, and one of the senior editors at the Harvard University Press is very keen to read the manuscript of my Donne biography, but four months on your own in hotel bedrooms grows a little wearying by the end.’
She’s about to ask him more, happy to bask in the reflected glow of his success, but they’re interrupted by the arrival of a man she doesn’t recognise. He’s around her own age, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he was another academic; he has the same dishevelled dress sense and distracted air, as though he’s not properly connected to the world around him. He pushes a stray lock of blond hair out of his eyes, before thrusting out his hand.
‘Robert, great to see you.’ The man’s grin is broad, revealing slightly crooked teeth. He smells vaguely of vetiver and shag tobacco, a combination she can’t help finding strangely alluring. If she hadn’t already found her master, she’d be curious to learn whether he was single.
‘Dan. Glad you could make it. Matilda, this is Daniel Morison. We used to work together in the English department at Leicester. He’s faculty head there now. Dan, this is Matilda.’
Nothing more in the way of introduction, which surprises her. The stranger now shaking her hand can’t possibly know she is his friend’s submissive; this side of their relationship has always been kept a sworn secret between them.
‘Do sit down, Dan.’
Daniel accepts the invitation, making himself comfortable in the one available armchair. She wondered why her master had settled himself among a group of three chairs; it’s becoming clear this is not going to be the cosy tête-à-tête she’d envisaged when she received his e-mail.
‘So, how are things?’ Daniel asks. ‘I bumped into Maurice a couple of weeks ago and he said you were in Boston …’
The two men launch into a conversation peppered with names and references to past incidents that mean nothing to her but seem to amuse the pair of them greatly. They only break off when the waitress arrives to take Daniel’s order for a glass of Merlot, before returning to the anecdote they’re sharing. All the while, she sits patiently, sipping her wine. He hasn’t given her permission to join in and, even if he had, there’s nothing at all she could add.
At last, he seems to remember she’s there. ‘So, Matilda. I believe that before Dan arrived you were just about to show me whether you’d complied with the dress code.’
He’d implied nothing of the sort. It’s another part of their ritual with which she’s becoming very familiar over the years – the raising of her skirt to reveal the tops of the stockings he loves so much, proof she’s followed his instructions to the letter – but it’s always been conducted in private. She’d make a strong objection, if it wasn’t for the fact that the thought of submitting to him in front of an invited audience is making her even wetter.
‘Didn’t realise they had a dress code for women here,’ Daniel interjects. He smiles at Matilda in conspiratorial fashion. ‘Though you wouldn’t be the first person they’d caught out, believe me. This isn’t my tie; they found it for me because I didn’t have one on when I arrived.’ He waggles the end of the tie at her. It’s a sober, black and grey striped affair that doesn’t go with anything else he’s wearing. Which makes it no different to the rest of his outfit.
Her master shakes his head. ‘I don’t think the club knows anything about this, and, if they did, they’d probably make it compulsory for all their female staff. You see, Matilda’s dress code applies to her underwear as much as to anything else.’
Daniel’s eyes widen. He grasps the implications with lightning speed, if the way he’s shifting in his seat as though his baggy trousers have grown a size too small for him is any indication.
‘So, Matilda, are you ready for your inspection?’
Her eyes can’t help but dart round the room. Fortunately, the only man she can see is some old duffer reclining on the brown leather chesterfield close to the fire, snoring gently, a crumpled copy of the Telegraph clutched to his blazer-clad chest. Everyone else must have retired to the dining room for plates of steak and kidney pudding and spotted dick.
Satisfied her little display won’t be seen by prying eyes, she replies, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good.’ As she begins to rise to her feet, he adds, ‘Don’t stand up, girl, there’s no need.’
She should find his use of the term ‘girl’ patronising and unnecessary, but it simply causes her pussy to cream more strongly. And he isn’t being kind to her by telling to remain seated. Hiking up her tight skirt the required distance is difficult enough when she’s standing; doing so sitting down is next to impossible, involving a wriggling manoeuvre that slows the process to a humiliating crawl.
Not a word is spoken, two pairs of eyes riveted to her legs as her stockinged thighs appear, inch by agonising inch. She’s all too aware of the wetness between her legs, causing the damp and clinging crotch of her knickers to slip between her lips as her backside writhes against the seat of her chair.
At last, the skirt is high enough that the thick dark welts of her stockings appear beneath its hem. Any higher, and she’ll be giving them glimpses of her suspender straps and pussy lips bisected by a strip of soaking wet silk.
‘Should have known you were a stockings man,’ Daniel comments. She can’t lift her eyes to meet his gaze, or that of her master.
‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘First thing I did when I started fucking Matilda was make her ditch those nasty, cheap tights she used to wear.’ He tosses the word into the conversation with casual abandon, knowing how delightfully shameful she finds it to have their relationship and the things they do together described in such crude terms. ‘Would you like to see what else goes with them?’
She can’t believe he’s extended such an offer, but the word that would call a halt to all of this remains unspoken. There’s no point pretending she doesn’t want this. She’s always wondered quite how far she’d be prepared to go in following her master’s instructions, and it seems to be quite a lot further than she ever believed. Why else would her fingers fly back to the hem of the skirt, ready to push it up further if Daniel accepts the invitation?
It’s Daniel who hesitates, as though he isn’t sure whether her master is joking or not. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.
‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Dan. You know me.’
Those words are all the assurance Daniel needs. With a little, jerking nod, he signals his desire to see her underwear. Taking a breath, she hitches up her skirt until it’s past her stocking tops and her partly covered bum cheeks make contact with the smooth, worn leather of the chair beneath her.
‘Oh, very nice. Very nice indeed,’ Daniel murmurs.
She looks round, cheeks flushing red. Nothing has changed. The duffer still snoozes on the chesterfield, the antique clock still ticks on the mantelpiece, the room still smells of stewed prunes and old money. But it feels as though a thick pane of glass somehow separates her from what’s happening around her. By revealing her underwear to her master’s friend, she has removed herself to a place where the normal rules of behaviour no longer apply.
‘If you’d like to take a closer look, she’ll remove those knickers for you,’ her master informs Daniel helpfully. ‘You’ve probably realised by now that Matilda and I don’t exactly have an orthodox relationship. She’s my submissive, and she follows my instructions because it makes both of us happy, even though she might look like she’s dying of embarrassment right at this moment.’ He takes a mouthful of whisky, savouring its taste, even though