This morning I found myself deep in conversation with Stacy, as we prepared to receive our first guest of the day, none other than her college professor, Professor Longstaff. I explained to her that I am not feeling at my best today.
“Last night was quite extraordinary, I was awake half the night.” I explained. “In the early hours of the morning I was woken by a terrific banging!”
Stacy smiled and giggled. Honestly, some people seem genetically disposed to take the wrong end of the stick at every opportunity and poke themselves in the eye with it.
Stacy’s youthful looks and seemingly innocent demeanor often lead people to think she is almost innocent, or possibly recovering from a recent lobotomy.
“It was that new garage door,” I explained. “It was opening and closing automatically, the sensor having gone on the fritz yet again. I need to have it serviced. And the warranty has just expired.”
I was particularly annoyed as it would cost a pretty penny to service and I hadn’t budgeted anything for the maintenance of the system.
“Not to worry,” said Stacy, as the doorbell rang. “We should have a little party for some of the clients. We can charge them something, and cover it that way.”
Stacy is not just a pretty face. Her idea was quite inspired and I gave it some thought. As she buckled the hapless Professor Longstaff to the wall and fitted a hood over his head, I resolved to invite several of my favorite clients and charge them a nominal fee to attend.
As Stacy and I readied ourselves, in the room adjacent to the studio, I mentioned it to my young assistant.
“How nominal a fee?” Stacy asked, drawing out some rubber gloves from a supply cabinet.
“A hundred and fifty dollars seems reasonable. That way we’ll only need a few,” I replied.
“It’s practically a gift!” she replied, pulling on her long black boots.
As we returned to the studio, I said to Stacy, “I think a nice touch might be to send invitations written in blood.”
“That would be dramatic!” agreed Stacy. “Tasteful.”
I noticed Professor Longstaff, his hooded head looking this way and that in curiosity. He had heard and was obviously intrigued.
“Yes, an invitation written in blood and hand delivered by a school child. How wonderfully perverse.” I mused. “Perhaps we can get some of the boyscouts to deliver the invitations. They’re always asking to do a few errands to raise money.”
I drew a few sheets of the finest vellum notepaper from my writing desk in the corner of the studio and located my favorite fountain pen. I could not help noticing Stacy standing by the cabinet in which we keep various tools of persuation, picking up a pair of sharp scissors. She opened and closed them, and they gave a satisfying snick, snicksound. Stacy picked up a small glass bowl usually used for the collection of more fertile bodily emmissions.
She walked over to Professor Longstaff, working the scissors as he shifted nervously, unable to see what she was doing, but clearly very agitated by the unfolding events.
“Writing the invitations in blood is truly inspired,” said Stacy. “Very artistic. Would you like me to cut
something off?” she said, prodding the professor.
Professor Longstaff stiffened in fear. “No, No,” he gasped. “I’ll give you a better mark. Anything you want… Please, Mistress!”
“I thought, just a little prick would do,” I replied absently to Stacy, whilst preoccupied, looking through my desk for some matching envelopes. I knew I had some in there somewhere.
I looked up slowly, a moment later. To my surprise Professor Longstaff was hanging in his bonds unconscious, having feinted, and Stacy was removing his underwear, and muttering, “That really does seem a little extreme, mistress….”
Sometimes Stacy really is the limit.
I hope you enjoy the weekend and that you are practicing the standards of subservience that I demand. After all, we wouldn’t like anything untoward to happen to you. And remember, don’t run with scissors.
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