Dress Collar

His Pet had something on her mind. "It's been a very long time since you wrote me a story, sir."

Ah, he thought to himself. A whine. It was time for him to be viciously logical. They both enjoyed the Whining Game, to a point. When he'd had enough, she began her desperate search for loopholes... she didn't mean to whine, after all. It just happened. So why should she be in trouble?

She very well knew the difference between play and actually displeasing him. Sometimes she did cross the line, just by accident. A single word from him had her in tears, every time. She needed that assurance of control just as much as she needed the play.

She was, of course, correct. "Yes, it has been a long time - several months. Do you know why that is?"

She took the easy way out. "No, sir."

"Well, when do I usually do my writing?"

She remained silent, looking for the correct answer. All she'd planned on doing was whining a bit and seeing if anything happened, and here he was asking questions and being logical.

"I think of stories when I take a long drive, by myself. And when we have a chance to play together. Let's think back. When was the last time?"

She mentioned the time, and the time before, and agreed those didn't really count. And the time before, he had written a story.

"My Pet, there needs to be a point to the story, or it's not really a story. When something clicks, and I see a purpose, I'll write the story. Okay?"

"But siiiiirrrrr," she whined, "I want a stoooooorrry."

"Well," he pronounced. "I'll see what I can do. Perhaps something will come from the party this next weekend."

"Okay," she beamed. "That would be good, sir."

The party had come and gone. He reflected back on the weekend as he moseyed along the Interstate, taking his long drive home. Situation, crisis, resolution... where was the story? Yes, they had played a bit, and he had played with others a bit, and talked a lot... but where was the story?

He kept coming back to how much he had enjoyed passing on to others, what he had learned of the cane over the past year. That was wonderful, and he was smugly pleased with himself, but where was the story?

He decided to think back over each bit of play they had done. There must be something he could turn into a story... she did get spanked, and she wanted a spanking story. So where was the story?

How about when she got punished with the hairbrush on Thursday night, before anyone else arrived? Thinking about getting it with the hairbrush always made her hot... in retrospect. And he knew lots of people would enjoy reading about a grown woman getting spanked hard for real, with a hairbrush. It certainly did hold her attention - but was it a story?

No, it wasn't a story. She had disappointed them both, and now paid in full, the incident forgotten. What else, then? They did play with a cane Sunday morning a bit, she sitting there talking with her friends while he made little marks on the insides of her legs, W's and H's and things like that. She squeaked a lot, but that didn't make a story.

And there was the point she put on her hot black dress and stood for him to place her Dress Collar around her neck for the first time. It was now a year since they had first met, and she had been holding the collar in trust for that occasion. She walked in to the other room, and they all started applauding.

The moment was but a moment, far too brief for a story. But he was proud of her, and she was so beautiful in her dress collar, and it was the start of their new year together. So he decided to mention the moment in passing, as he led in to his story about learning, and teaching, and developing an art form of his own.

Fortunately, he caught himself in time, and realized the story was in the applause. These were her friends, and the story was in the instant recognition of what she had achieved.

In her Dress Collar she was beautiful, and she was mine.