ONE DAY AT A TIME

by Stella



"Come on, Millie. It's just a game." Charlotte looked imploringly at her friend across the table in the corner of the cafe.

"Not my idea of a game, being someone's slave for the day." Millie sipped at her coffee, wrinkling her nose as she did so.

"It's for charity," Charlotte insisted, her own coffee untouched in front of her. "It's not even a day, really... eight hours."

"Ten," corrected Millie. "I saw the notice too, remember? Twelve until 10 at night."

"Okay, but it's not a real slave thing."

Millie raised her eyebrows. "And how do you know what a real slave thing is? Bryan puts you in chains or whatever they do in the harem? I can see you in see-through baggy pants."

"Knowing Bryan, I wouldn't get much housework done if I was made to go round like that." Charlotte grinned. "But seriously, it's nothing like that. We just go up for auction, someone theoretically buys us and all the money goes to charity. Something in Africa."

"Famine Relief. Yes, I got that bit." Millie leaned towards her friend, dropping her voice. "And what if you get someone who doesn't just want all their polishing and cleaning done? Or rather, they want more polishing in the bedroom?"

"For goodness sake, Millie! This is the local church that's organising this: you think there's anyone among the congregation who does things like... like that?"

"Not sure about old Mr Garton. I reckon he'd bid a hundred pounds just to have you wander around in your underwear." Millie laughed. "Two hundred if you were in a harem outfit with chains on."

Charlotte pouted. "The vicar says we can refuse if we don't think it's anyone we feel comfortable with."

"I still don't get why St George's is doing this. Usually, they'd just wave a few collecting tins round, or have a bring and buy sale. Or a coffee morning." Millie sighed and toyed with her cup. "Reverend Lewis must be desperate for some thrills."

"No! It's just fun. Anyway, I don't think the world can take any more of Mrs Jenkin's heavyweight fairy cakes. I think we have to support the church, and Africa."

"Big project. But there's a lot of things the Church could do." Millie raised her eyebrow. "I mean, we could all play strip poker, right?"

"You're not taking this seriously, Millie." Charlotte sounded offended.

"Okay, okay... If it keeps you happy I'll join in this ridiculous slave auction idea. But I better raise at least one hundred pounds or I'm not doing it. I am certainly not working my rear off for some minimum wage scandal. Agreed?"

Charlotte smiled and finally started on her coffee. "Agreed," she said.

* * * * * * *

"Two hundred and fifty pounds," said Mrs Delavere as she opened the door of her house to the caller. "I do hope you're worth it, Millie." She said it without much of a smile.

"I hope I'm worth it too," said the younger woman, stepping into the house. "It was very good of you to give – I mean bid – so much. I am sure it will help a lot of children in Af–"

"Yes, yes," the middle aged woman waved the point aside. "Charity should be generous and beneficial. But then, it should also begin at home."

Millie nodded, looking round at the house from where she stood in the hall. Lots of polished wood, a few carpets, plenty of pictures on the wall that obviously would need a dust, flowers in vases that definitely needed to be rearranged or replenished. Yep, she thought, plenty to do here. "Where do you want me to begin?" She asked, trying not to sound too resigned.

Mrs Delavere looked at her. "Begin?"

"Yes... um, the things you want me to do here."

"But you aren't dressed for it," said the middle aged woman.

Millie stood in her jeans and sweater, complete with comfortable old trainers and wondered what the older woman meant. This was the perfect outfit for cleaning out anyone's garage. "I'm sorry," she said, staring blankly. "I thought I was here to clean."

Mrs Delavere smiled. "And what gave you that idea?"

Millie had no idea what gave her that idea, other than Charlotte and the way their conversation had gone. She had assumed that was what was on offer, that was why people like her and her friend stood on the stage in the church hall and let people from the local community make bids. "But... What else does a slave do?"

"I would have thought something more interesting than pushing a hoover round, wouldn't you?" The older woman paused. "Millie, I chose you as you were by far the best of the women on display. If I wanted someone to dig the garden I would have picked that young man, Bryan whatever his name is. Your friend's husband."

"I hadn't planned on digging gardens," said Millie. Actually, she hadn't planned on doing anything outdoors, though her wellington boots were in the car.

"Then what do you want to do? You really want to spend the next however many hours cleaning my house? I have a woman who comes in to do that, for which I pay her. As my payment for you is now with the vicar and hopefully earmarked for Africa, I feel I can do whatever a slave owner does."

A strange chill settled over Millie. "Mrs Delavere, you said–"

"Please, I insist on you calling me Mistress."

Millie's jaw gaped. "M-mistress?" she managed to say.

"Of course. Can you think of a better way of defining the difference between us? No, I thought not – so tell me the point you were going to make."

The chill in Millie got colder. She found it hard to say the words. "The b-best on show," she said weakly. "Y-you said I... I was the best one there."

"Most attractive I meant. Listen, slave, if I have to look at you I want someone I like looking at. Now, we are wasting time. As the terms of our deal say, I own you. And as you are dressed entirely inappropriately, you can go upstairs and find your slave outfit on the bed in the spare room. Please change and come down. I will be in the living room." With that, Mrs Delavere turned on her heel and left her stunned slave-girl standing in the hall.

* * * * * * *

Whatever Millie expected, a harem outfit wasn't it. Yet there on the bed in the spare room was exactly the sort of outfit Millie had teased Charlotte about. See-through baggy pants, gathered at the ankle with a leather band and a cropped see through top with a high neck and long sleeves, again gathered at the wrist by the same type of leather band. Bands, she noted, that fastened with a small gold buckle.

The sort of mock sex-play outfit you might see being sold in Soho. It even had something that looked like a gauze veil that hooked over the ears and sat on the bridge of the nose.

Millie sat on the edge of the bed and didn't know what to think. This was outrageous – she knew that. She felt a mixture of anger and helplessness at what had happened: a simple charity event had turned in to some sort of humiliation. Women like her didn't dress up as nurses, policewomen, nuns or anything. And certainly not some ridiculous outdated idea of a female in a harem.

She resolved that this little venture was over. She stood up and walked to the door. if there was any problem over this the church could give the money back to the crazy Mrs Delavere.

At the door to the bedroom, Millie stopped. It would be easy to walk out, probably no problem for the vicar to hand the money back. On the other hand, two hundred and fifty quid was a lot of money. It would do a lot of good in Africa. If this Mrs Delavere was willing to pay so much to get Millie here, and into this silly outfit, perhaps she could be persuaded to pay some more. She wasn't short of money and just maybe she would write a cheque for more. In fact, she could damn well double it. Millie smiled.

She went back and peeled her clothes off. This would cost Mrs Delavere, she thought with a grin.

* * * * * * *

"I can see your underwear," said Mrs Delavere from where she sat reading a book, as Millie presented herself. "As far as I know slave girls don't wear a black bra and pink knickers."

Millie blushed. She had hardly come prepared to display her underwear, and there was no way she was going to do this with nothing on underneath, a point she explained.

"My good girl," said Mrs Delavere. "The clothes are see-through for a reason, and you are here to show me what a good slave you are. I would suggest you go back upstairs and remove your all-too-obvious underclothes. They spoil the look."

The younger woman stared as if the older one was mad. Then she remembered the money angle, the charity. "Okay, I will go and take them off, but it will cost you."

"Really?" It was said in such a way that suggested she didn't think so.

"An extra �100," said Millie, faltering a little under the woman's stare. "Then I will do it."

The older woman sat on the sofa, then sighed and put her book down carefully. "You seem to be forgetting I am the Mistress and you are the slave. I have paid, I own you, you obey me. What part of that don't you understand?"

Millie felt a burst of rage and she clenched her fists. This wasn't going the way she thought it would. "If I go back upstairs then I take this off and I put my normal clothes on and I go home." She said it sharply, as if there was no argument.

"Then I suggest," said Mrs Delavere in her infuriatingly level and untroubled voice, "you take them off down here."

"I don't believe you know what you are saying," fumed Millie. "Who do you think I am?"

"A slave," said the older woman curtly as she went back to her book.

Millie stood there for a good two minutes, trying to think what she could say as a retort. Finally she asked: "And what do I do when I am your slave?"

"Nothing," said Mrs Delavere without looking up. "Slaves aren't required to do anything."

Millie gulped. This surely was some bizarre joke. "So I take my bra and panties off here then, in front of you?"

"Bra and knickers," corrected the woman without looking up. "I am rather old fashioned about these things. But if it helps you, I won't look while you take them off."

"Help me? How does it help me to take everything off and parade around naked?"

"You aren't parading naked as you call it. You will have clothes on." The response was flat, as if the truth was undeniable.

"Haven't you noticed, you can see through this," snapped Millie.

"Yes, and it would look so much better without that mismatched set of underwear." The woman pointedly went back to her book. Discussion over.

Millie hovered, feeling both ashamed at her poor choice of underwear that morning and annoyed that she was in this position. She ought to turn around and walk out of this crazy woman's house, but instead – propelled by the feeling she didn't want to back down – she took off the thin layer of gauze she was wearing (though not the thin veil) and took off her bra and pants. Then she pulled the harem trousers and crop top back on. "Satisfied?" she demanded of the woman who, good as her word, hadn't watched any of it.

"I have a name," said the woman still not looking at her.

"Satisfied Mrs Dela–" Millie stopped herself. "Okay. Satisfied then, Mistress?"

Mrs Delavere looked up finally, a thin smile on her lips. "Of course, but no need to be angry. You really do look so much better without your underwear. Now please tidy them up and come back here."

Millie was furious, and also not a little embarrassed. Although the older woman hadn't looked at her naked breasts and her dark bush of hair through the gauze, Millie's charms were all too obvious. Not sure what to do about any of this, she scooped up her discarded clothes and stalked upstairs to put them with her jeans and top and trainers in the spare bedroom. For a moment she toyed with the idea of putting everything back on and leaving, but that she told herself would be admitting defeat. She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth and went downstairs.

"Now what?" she said, then added quickly with just a hint of derision, "Mistress."

"Good, you are learning," smiled Mrs Delavere. "It is amazing what a little re-orientation of the mind can do, isn't it?"

"I never wanted to be a slave," said Millie, feeling her face grow red under the veil. The older woman was looking at her breasts, the way her nipples poked at the thin material. I must be cold, thought Millie, if they are so hard.

"But you did," smiled Mrs Delavere, now gazing at the mass of black pubic hair at Millie's lower belly. "That's why you entered the auction. You wanted to serve."

"I wanted to help the church," protested Millie, feeling herself tremble a little under the other woman's relentless gaze.

"Of course," said her mistress indulgently. "Don't we all." She went back to her book, quite comfortable with the younger female standing there in front of her.

After a few moments Millie asked: "Now what, Mistress?"

"Now nothing. You can stand there or, perhaps better, kneel in front of me. I will give you instructions later."

Millie felt annoyed. "I can't just kneel."

"Can't kneel what?"

"Can't kneel, Mistress."

Mrs Delavere sighed and closed her book. "There is still this insistence on your part, slave, that you can't do what you are told. You can and will do whatever I tell you." She shook her head. "So much pointless resistance to change. You know, I thought it was supposedly us older people who disliked change."

"But I don't want to change!"

"Yet you have, slave. You have come here and submitted to me, almost without question." She looked Millie up and down. "You have shed all your old clothes and put something new on, something that exposes you. Yet you still think you aren't a slave. That you have free will."

Millie's eyes blazed angrily. "You keep calling me Slave. I have a proper name!"

"Not," said Mrs Delavere with a suppressed hint of annoyance, "while you keep fighting this. Do as you are told and there are benefits. Rewards."

"Rewards? Like what?"

The woman reopened her book. Again, discussion ended.

For five minutes Millie stood her ground, refusing to move and determined not to do anything else. She stared hard at the older woman, who was quietly enjoying her reading. Then, bursting with frustration, Millie knelt in front of her. Knees together and hands in lap.

Mrs Delavere looked up for a second. "That's better. Hands behind back, please, in my presence."

Angrily Millie snapped her hands behind her, not worried now that her hard-nippled breasts were even more on show as they thrust forward. A silence settled on the room for a minute or two before the older woman said quietly: "Knees apart. Wide apart."

Millie felt like screaming. She had done everything this woman wanted and it wasn't enough. Now she had to open her legs as if she was some slut who didn't care whether her sex was displayed, the pink of her innermost place on show. She was ashamed and oddly aroused, feeling her clitoris swell. But she did what she was told and kept her eyes down, mostly to hide the tears that formed in the corners of her eyes.

* * * * * * *

Quite how long Millie remained on her knees in this exposed position, hands behind her, she had no idea. She wasn't sure if there was a clock in the room but in any event she didn't dare look up, keeping her eyes down on the carpet. Her knees were aching and her back was feeling the strain of one position, but as much as she wanted to move she didn't.

It must have been an hour at least. And all she could do was think about her place.

Putting aside the obvious humiliation of her position and the fact that she was so much on show, Millie began to understand how liberating it was being like this. She had started out resenting everything this woman had made her do, but as she knelt in her subservient position she began to realise that like this she had no cares and no responsibilities. She didn't have to toil or be concerned she was doing a good job, didn't even have to worry if anyone liked her or approved of her.

For the first time in years Millie could simply be. All she had to do was what she was told, and if she wasn't told anything then she simply had to wait. True, she was virtually naked in front of a stranger and, indeed, she had no say in what was being done to her. But she was free of any cares, because she had no responsibilities. Everything about this was telling her to not resist, just to accept it all.

A slow, warm feeling of happiness, a contentment she hadn't known since she was a small child spread through her. She began to cry with the release of this mysterious inner joy.

"Stand up, slave," said Mrs Delavere quietly. She had put down her book and was looking at Millie. The younger woman got to her feet but kept her hands behind her, legs slightly apart, tears of happiness coursing down her cheeks and soaking the thin gauze of her veil.

"I'm sorry, Mistress," Millie said.

"Sorry, slave, about what?"

"This. My crying."

"I have no objection to you doing so, but do you know why you are crying?"

"Yes Mistress, I think so." Millie sniffed back her tears. "I remember what it was like when I was a little girl and had to do... sorry, this is silly."

"Far from it. Continue."

"Mistress... When I was a little girl I could be happy, just doing what I wanted. Having no cares. Not being worried or anxious." Millie paused. "Getting approval for just being me."

"I haven't given you any approval yet."

"No, Mistress," Millie felt a wave of sadness, but she tried to smile. "Yet you do approve of me, being like this."

"Hmm, perhaps," Mrs Delavere pursed her lips. "Why, slave, do you think you came here?"

Millie shrugged. "Charity," she said unconvincingly.

The older woman shook her head. "A good and worthwhile excuse, but no. Now, what would happen if I told you that you could go? Put your own clothes back on and leave. Your slavery over."

"Mistress, no–" began Millie and then felt foolish and blushed a little. She was struggling within with something she had never considered before. "I... I would be sad."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Nonsense, you know full well. Say it, slave!"

Millie gave a small gasp and looked distressed, consumed by doubts and thoughts that she had never experienced. Her voice when she spoke was faint but honest. "Sad because you haven't... You haven't used me."

"At last," said Mrs Delavere as she stood up, looking pleased. "We are beginning to get somewhere."

"Mistress?"

"Slave, you have come to the conclusion as all submissives must, that you need to be owned and used. I own you, but I haven't used you yet. I won't until you are totally liberated from all the burdens that weigh you down."

"Mistress, I don't understand."

"Of course not, because you still think you have some freedom of choice." The older woman smoothed down her skirt slowly and deliberately. "I want you to follow me upstairs."

Millie's heart leapt inside her chest, and her sex tightened with a pulse of excitement.

Mrs Delavere in her sensible skirt and jacket with flat shoes and pale tights, looking nothing like a dominant woman might do, led the way. Millie gripped her left wrist in her right hand behind her back and hurried along behind, feeling both terror and hope suffuse her whole being.

The older woman led the way to the spare room where lay all Millie's clothes and shoes. She gestured to them and then to a wooden box against one wall. A box with nails half sticking out of the top and a hammer beside it. "Slave, you will put your clothes in that box and use the hammer to nail the lid down. Then you will carry the box downstairs and put it outside the back door, next to the rubbish bin."

"Mistress!" gasped Millie.

"I'm sorry," said the woman curtly. "Was my order not clear enough?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then do it. I will wait for you downstairs." Mrs Delavere turned and left the room, leaving Millie standing in a state of shock and confusion.

* * * * * * *

"I have done it, Mistress," said Millie, presenting herself before the older woman, hands as always behind her back.

"Good, now push your chest out more," said Mrs Delavere without looking up from her book. "Be proud of your tits, slave."

"What? I mean... I beg your pardon Mistress, but–"

Mrs Delavere looked up. "Oh dear slave, still that pointless resistance to change. That petty objection to a word as necessary and as simple as 'tits.' And I was so hoping you were smarter than that. So, what do you suggest I do now?"

"I don't... Mistress, I thought you wanted to use me?"

"Only when you are ready to be used."

"But the old clothes! I did it. I nailed the box shut and put it outside."

"So? That wasn't a difficult thing to do. You want praise for something as basic and as simple as that?'

"But Mistress, they are my clothes."

"Were, slave. They were your clothes. You don't need them now that you have something better to wear." She went back to her book. Then she said quietly: "You seem to have forgotten how to kneel."

Immediately Millie dropped to her knees on the rug and spread her legs wide. Perhaps a little wider than before to show she really was subservient, and pushing her breasts – her tits – out even more.

She knelt like that for half an hour in that pose, feeling the pain in her knees and the insistent pulse in her sex, while the Mistress read her book. Then Mrs Delavere said: "Do you know what I'm reading, slave?"

"No Mistress."

"It's a book about how to make a woman submissive. How to make her want everything that happens to her, even – would you believe – how to beg for more." Millie's cunt spasmed afresh at the idea of asking for more. "So how do you think your submission is going?"

"I... I don't know," said Millie, feeling confused.

"Come now. You must know, slave. You are the one submitting to me, so tell me how you feel."

Millie swallowed hard. "Please, Mistress. I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"That you might reject me, that I'm not good enough." Millie felt fresh tears in her eyes.

"And why would I do that, pray?"

"Because I don't do what you want, Mistress. Because I resist." Millie felt shamefaced as she said it, that she might not be good enough. She felt even more excited by the idea that she wanted to be good enough.

"If I tell you what to do, and you do it, then how might I reject you then?"

Millie swallowed hard, trying not to break down in tears. She had seen the photograph on the table beside where the older woman was sat. A pretty blonde female with a thin gauze veil. She really had tried hard not to think about it, but she knew she had no choice. "You might reject me Mistress because..." Her voice cracked and tears fell. "You have someone else who obeys you more than me."

"Of course." Mrs Delavere was triumphant. "Of course there will be someone else. There was someone else before you and there will be someone else after you. Did you really think being my slave would be forever?"

"No Mistress," said Millie miserably. She felt terrible at the prospect of being abandoned, that some other woman – younger, prettier – would try on this harem outfit and kneeling with legs apart and tits thrust forward learn to gaze in awe at her Mistress.

"The life of a slave must always be a little fearful, a little unsure. This is not a marriage. Not a situation where we seek balance or equality. Trust me, we are not partners or even soul-mates." Mrs Delavere was sitting forward now, the whole of her attention on Millie. She wasn't a handsome woman, but she exuded that inner strength and certainty that made Millie want to worship her. "You are here to serve me as my slave," she continued, "and will continue to be my slave as long as I want. You will dress how I choose, display yourself as I say. Your whole being will be focused on me and my needs, even when you are alone and waiting. But you will never be sure."

"But Mistress, what if I love you?" Millie was shocked at hearing her own words tumble out.

"Love, ah yes... The emotion that solves all ills." The older woman chuckled. "Such an empty-headed notion. You see, your love is of no interest to me. Dear slave, I do not want love. I want strict devotion. I want you to serve me, fear me, worry about what I will do to you next. I want you to tremble every time the phone rings in case it is your replacement calling, fear that answering the door will let you see for the first time the woman who will take your place."

"But she won't love you like I do." Millie had finally abandoned all pretence at independence, at holding back.

"Perhaps not, but I don't want her love any more than I want yours. I would have thought that was obvious from what I've said."

Millie bit her lip under the veil. "How can I show you that you don't need another slave, Mistress?"

"If only you knew, but you don't. There will be a day when I will tire of you, or an opportunity will come along when I acquire someone with bigger tits that haven't started to sag, a firmer arse that hasn't lost its shape, a narrower waist, fuller lips and clearer eyes. I may even put the local vicar up to the idea of a regular slave auction charity event." Mrs Delavere's eyes twinkled. "Wouldn't that be fun? Perhaps your friend Charlotte–"

"No, please! Not her!" Panic gripped Millie and she clenched her hands tight behind her.

"My my, slave. You were so defiant when you arrived, so sure of yourself, so strong! And look at you now. Open and submissive and ready to please me." The Mistress reached forward and stroked the slave's face through the thin veil, feeling the wet tears run down her face. Millie closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek on the soft, cruel hand.

"Please Mistress. I know I was slow, but I can learn."

"Oh I never doubted it. You had the look of a slave-to-be from when I first saw you. Believe me, this was nowhere near as difficult as it might have been." She sighed. "I just wonder why so many young women today don't recognise that they need to be dominated. All this feminism nonsense, I expect, clouding their minds. Not everyone can be the one on top: someone has to be underneath."

Millie nodded, not wanting the hand to leave her face. "Perhaps Mistress, they never had a woman like you to own them."

"Perhaps," laughed Mrs Delavere. She stopped stroking her slave's pretty, tear-streaked face, leaned in and planted a kiss on the lips through the veil. A surprisingly tender kiss full of promise.

"Oh Mistress," said Millie as fresh excitement plunged through her whole being. "Please, again."

"Dear Slave Millie – there, you have regained your name – I will kiss you again, but only through your gauze veil and only when I am ready." Her hand had come up and rested on Millie's tit, feeling it through the harem top, and the younger woman shivered. She said please, please and pushed her breasts forward, wanting them to be caressed and her hard nipples teased.

"Oh Slave Millie, such a silly girl." The Mistress hadn't let go of her kneeling captive's breast but she wasn't doing anything, not caressing or pinching or stroking. "If I pleasure you, slave, you will think I care about your emotions. You will focus on your needs and not mine. You will think about me loving you and get confused. You are here to serve me, that's all. So tell me."

"I am here to serve you, Mistress," repeated Millie. And then she added in the barest whisper, "but may I dream of making love to you?"

"You may dream and hope your dream comes true one day. But only I know the certain outcome." She settled back in her chair and picked up her book, returning to reading more about how to dominate a female.

Millie felt a burst of pride that she had been selected to serve, that she might just have a chance of the older woman's hands on her and deep inside her. She tried to get her legs wider apart, her shoulders back a little more. She had been chosen for today and that was all she could expect. All she could do was hope that this slavery was for more than one day, that she would serve tomorrow as well. If she was very good and completely open, then perhaps the day after too.

But she had to take it all just one day at a time, as her Mistress demanded.


* * * * * * *

One Day At A Time. Copyright 2007 Stella Engle. Return to Stories List