EXTRACT FOR
Under the Female Yoke
(Miranda Birch)

"Get stripped, run me a bath, then unpack." Annabelle's orders were as curt and direct as ever. 



"Yes, Mistress..." Roger meekly uttered the very words that earlier, under different circumstances, had earned him half a dozen painful cuts from a switch of willow. He hurried to obey, stripping quickly naked then scurrying to the bathroom. 



Ten minutes before, they had arrived at Winchester. Here Annabelle Bentley had business to attend on to the following day. They had checked in at the best hotel, which Roger had previously booked. Annabelle had a suite, Roger a small room adjoining, with a connecting door. This was the customary procedure when they travelled as 'boss' and 'personal assistant'. 



Having run the bath, Roger returned to the bedroom and started unpacking. Miss Bentley was sitting before her dressing table mirror, removing her make-up. She was naked but for her suspender belt, sheer nylon stockings and high-heels. As ever, Roger was excitingly conscious of her superb dark-haired beauty. The beauty that was constantly before him, yet which he was constantly denied. At least, in the way that a free man might enjoy it. 



Day in, day out, Annabelle Bentley displayed herself to him in the most intimate ways, with complete unconcern. She acted in his presence as if there were only a pet animal in the room. Such an attitude was galling to Roger almost beyond endurance. Yet, of course, it had had to be endured, and would have to be endured. 



Despite this, and despite his natural dread of the power Annabelle Bentley now had over him, Roger had to admit to himself that he viewed her with a certain respect. More than respect, indeed; almost adoration, despite everything. At the back of his mind always lurked the hope that, by some miracle, one day he would be vouched the most supreme privilege that he could imagine: full physical access to that magnificent body. He knew this was ridiculous, for there was never the slightest sign or hint of any such thing. But, to preserve what vestiges of manhood he still possessed, it was still necessary to hope. 



Annabelle Bentley, of course, gained great pleasure from flaunting her body at her slave in this way. For her to deny was a far greater delight than for her to grant. It proved her power. And the exercise of power was the supreme pleasure in her life. The more Roger Hargreaves lusted after her, the more she liked it. Which did not prevent her for punishing him for such lusting... 



She rose from the dressing table stool and Roger saw her full, firm breasts bounce and swing. His eyes wandered over her creamy-white back down to her luscious buttocks, which quivered softly as she moved, in unison with the rhythmic stride of her long thighs. She walked across the room and entered the bathroom. 



He wondered, as he completed the unpacking and putting-away of the copious wardrobe which she brought on even the briefest of trips, including many exciting intimate garments, whether he would be summoned to the bathroom to attend to his Mistress. That happened quite frequently. He was then literally a body slave. He had to attend to that magnificent body: to soap it and sponge it, to dry it and powder it. That was an ordeal in which heaven and hell seemed to be equally mixed. He would tremble and ache with frustrated lust, as he submitting to her vicious cuffs and disdainful vituperation. It was a service which filled him equally with intense desire and intolerable frustration. 



As it turned out, on this occasion he was not summoned to attend at his Mistress's toilette. Instead, having completed his duties, he stood rigidly at attention in the bedroom, a posture he was required to adopt whenever he was not busy carrying out his owner's orders, awaiting any new order he might receive. In due course, Annabelle emerged from the bathroom, fresh and scented and of course still utterly naked. Infinitely desirable, and infinitely contemptuous of Roger's presence.