Homage To Emma

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

It was a whole week before I got to see Kirsty again.

We had the house to ourselves but Kirsty had stipulated I had only one hour and that included packing my things.

‘You’re lucky I didn’t rip them to shreds,’ she said.

I thought about Emma’s garden bonfire and reckoned she was right. At least I would have a change of shirts and underwear and another suit to alternate with the one I was wearing. I was sick of washing my shirts in the sink. Emma didn’t offer to put them in the washing machine with her stuff.

Kirsty paced about in the living room instead of sitting down to talk properly. She looked as if she was struggling with the urge to mount another physical assault.

‘We need to talk,’ I said tentatively,

‘There’s no point,’ she said.

‘I thought that was the purpose of this meeting.’

‘It’s a chance for you to take your stuff. Less clutter for me. Clear out the lot.’

‘That’s all? You’d no intention of talking over the situation?’

‘You’re not coming back here, Martin.’

‘I didn’t say that but let’s discuss it properly.’

‘I expect you’re shacked up with Mary, Mary. She has to be contrary to take you on.’

‘I’m not with Mary as a matter of fact.’

‘Turned you down, did she? Sensible girl. I imagine there’s some poor woman looking after you. I can’t see you fending for yourself for more than five minutes.’

I knew how surprised Kirsty would have been if she’d known how things were between Emma and me. She’d have been amazed by the fact that I was cooking and doing the housework but I wasn’t about to tell her. If she’d known I had a landlady she’d have assumed the woman would be waiting on me hand and foot.

‘How are you really?’

‘I’m fine without you. Don’t start now to pretend you’re a concerned husband. It’s way too late for that.’

‘I’m not pretending. You can’t honestly believe I feel nothing for you. I want us to meet and discuss things in a civilised manner. It’s not as straightforward as you make out.’

‘The facts are very straightforward,’ she said. ‘You decided you preferred the office bicycle to your wife. I don’t suppose the Headmaster knows what’s going on. I’ve a mind to put him in the picture.’

‘I don’t see what that would achieve.’

‘He should know about the shenanigans going on in his school, fine example you are. I think I’ll write him a letter or drop in to see him. He’ll probably sack both of you.’

‘And that will make you feel better?’

‘Damn right it will.’

Suddenly she flew at me again and managed to scratch my face before I was able to defend myself; a long scratch down my left cheek.

‘You f*****g little s**t! You utter bastard! How dare you? You cheating little toe rag!’ Her nails clawed the air inches from my face.

‘You’re mad,’ I shouted. ‘Demented!’

This added to her fury. ‘I’ll show you f*****g mad.’

Her hands scrabbled over the barrier created by my horizontal arm and she scored another scratch, this time on my neck. The pain was enough to make me retaliate by pushing her over and she caught her head on the wooden arm of the easy chair.

‘Sorry, Kirsty. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you all right?’

I reached down instinctively to pull her to her feet but my felicitations did nothing to calm her. I was driven upstairs with her screaming at me to take my case and go.

It was another humiliating exit from my own house. I only hoped none of the neighbours were watching behind the lace curtains.

When I undressed in my room the first time I did Emma’s housework, I bottled out at the last minute and came down in my boxer shorts. She called me into the living room where she was watching television, still in her uniform, and kept me waiting so that I had to stand there looking acutely embarrassed. Eventually she took her eyes away from the screen and indicated with a wave of her hand that I should stand directly in front of her, obscuring the TV. It struck me that I was being lined up to replace the entertainment on the box.

‘Why have you left your shorts on?’ she demanded.

‘I feel a bit embarrassed Emma, sorry.’

‘I suppose you’re embarrassed about the size of your c**k,’ she enquired. ‘It is very small?’

‘Yes.’ I said, feeling it was the required answer.

‘Perhaps I should be the judge of that. There’s a reasonable bulge there. Don’t you like the idea of being naked in front of me, Martin?’

‘It’s not that,’ I said.

‘Don’t you like the idea of being my slave?’

‘Your slave,’ I parroted.

‘You’re remarkably slow on the uptake for someone who’s supposed to be intelligent.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just a bit surprised.’

‘We’ve got the house to ourselves. We can play any games we want to play.’

‘Are you into that sort of thing? You certainly look the part in your uniform.’

‘Which part?’

‘The dominant woman…the dominatrix.’

‘Miss Whiplash?’

‘Yeah,’ I said foolishly.

‘That’s a bit obvious don’t you think?’

‘Probably. Sorry.’

‘There you go again. You’re always saying you’re sorry. Being a dominatrix is a lot more than wielding a whip.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘It’s more psychological than physical. Most women know how to control a man even if they don’t resort to whips and canes.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Stand closer.’ She raised her right foot and rubbed the toe of her shoe against the bulge in my boxers. I stood there not knowing where to look, feeling the blood rush to my face and neck, sweat breaking out in my armpits. She used the toe of her shoe to pull my shorts down an inch or two but then couldn’t drag the cotton material down any further.

‘Get them off,’ she ordered. ‘A slave should be naked or should wear whatever his mistress tells him to wear. I told you to come down naked and you disobeyed me. Hand me those shorts.’

I stepped out of them and handed them over. The rubbing with her shoe had produced a semi erection and she looked at my c**k with a critical gaze.

‘Hmmm! I’ve certainly seen bigger.’ She leaned back on the sofa with the air of a judge at a horticultural show delivering a verdict on a pumpkin or courgette.

I found myself on the verge of apologising for its puniness but stopped myself just in time. First, it wasn’t that tiny (I’d always judged it about average) and second she said I apologised too much.

She must have seen how disappointed I was by her assessment of my virility because she said, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Martin! Guys and their d***s. It does the job, I suppose.’

I suppose I still looked crestfallen

‘Okay then,’ she said, ‘I’ll be honest. It’s probably the smallest I’ve ever seen on a grown man.’

The fact that my c**k was under the spotlight as it were (along with Emma wearing her prison officer uniform) caused it to twitch a few times and begin to rise higher. Emma watched it climb to about forty five degrees.

‘I didn’t give you permission to get a hard on, such as it is,’ she said.

‘Sorry,’ I said again.

‘Sorry isn’t good enough,’ Emma said. ‘Getting horny without permission is disrespectful. It shows you see women in only one way, as s*x objects. And with that tiny apology for a c**k you’re in danger of being laughed at anyway. You’re holding yourself up to ridicule. Control it.’

She obviously knew the more she demanded self-control the harder it was for me to obey because when a c**k gets attention it swells with pride. c***s are like naughty boys, grateful for any attention even if it’s negative, a telling off is as good as praise. There was something very stimulating about the way she was humiliating me.

Predictably what happened was my d**k got even more disobedient and stood fully to attention.

The foot came up and the shoe began to rub again, this time on the underside of my upright c**k. ‘I’ll just call you little d**k- one of the less fortunate members of the tribe, deficient in the hatchet department. Did Kirsty or Mary ever complain about the size of your weapon?’

‘They didn’t, honestly.’

‘Well then. Malcolm’s was considerably longer, about eight inches, but he wasn’t that good in bed. He was done before I’d even noticed he’d started. Are you going to be my slave?’

‘Do everything for you?’

‘Of course, why else would I want a slave? You know the old saying, smart women don’t do housework, variation on why keep a dog and bark yourself? What’s the point of men if it isn’t to wait on women?

There were tingles up the length of my c**k by now and my balls had bunched up. I wasn’t that far from coming over her shoe.

‘And would I have to call you Mistress?’

‘Mistress or Madam. Mistress Emma. Goddess Emma, Empress Emma, that sort of thing. You need to show your respect, little d**k.

I tried to smile but Emma continued to look serious.

‘I’ll probably draw up a contract for you to sign- something binding. That way you’ll know exactly where you stand.’

She stopped rubbing my c**k as if sensing I was going to spurt all over her shoe.

‘Anyway, pretty boy, you’ve got work to do.’ She tossed back my crumpled pants. ‘Use these as a duster. You know where the rest of the stuff is.’

And I just got on with it while Emma watched TV.

At one point she called for a cool drink with a straw which was a bit rich because I was the one needing refreshment.