When My Lady decides we are going on an outing together, her instructions are very clear, as she understands that I am easily overcome and frequently will go too far if not given clear and precise directions. My own nature being very conservative in dress and deportment, the fact that I can't seem to find a happy medium between frigid and crawling naked slave girl is something that I swear will give My Lady stress lines around her eyes.
We are going to the beach. We aren't bringing swimwear, because we are going for a nice romantic picnic. We are to take the bus, because she has decided we will enjoy the morning sun and relax with some ciders, without worrying about how many we drink, and possible roadside sobriety tests.
Her instructions as to my dress were quite simple. I was to wear white thigh high stockings, the better to showcase the shoes she had bought me. The shoes are simple black dress shoes with a minimal heel and an almost 1950's era proper housewife tone, that makes the simple steel strap, evocative of leg cuffs, seem all the more jarring. A proper housewife, or a collared and cuffed slave?
I was to wear the loose blue skirt she likes so much, mostly because of the way it adheres to me like so much body paint when the wind whips up, yet outwardly looks so very proper. I was to wear the raw silk crème blouse with the bone toggles. It was a fashion throwback to the 1960's, like something off a campy movie of that era, somewhere between sophisticated and barbarian in that cheerful unconcern of an age of sexual boundary pushing. It was something of a daring garment as the smaller number of larger buttons allowed the blouse to gape when I moved and went from proper to serious cleavage in one button, and outright display with two. The raw silk was itself quite good at concealing and revealing at the same time as it showed contours perfectly while technically being totally opaque to outside eyes.
My bra choice was, well when you are 48G you get what you get. In my case, they were a choice between crème, and white, so I went with crème. For panties, I left them in the drawer, My Lady wants me to be aware that I am open to her touch at all times; almost as much as I want to demonstrate that.
I was finally going to get to use the basket I had broken down and ordered online. You do not want to know what it cost! I buy very little for myself. I always put my daughters and my husband first, but it was only when My Lady took ownership of me that I ever dared to dream of buying something that I wanted. Of course, that I wanted to use it to serve My Lady made it alright.
I know My Lady finds it endlessly amusing that I am as she puts it, "the most domesticated pet" a woman can own. I love pampering her. The act of preparing food for her, the time I spend in making sure everything is presented properly, the care in what it is served on, the very act of serving it to her, and cleaning up after her are to me acts of devotion and love.
How many women can say that they can feel their temperature begin to rise in the bits the lack of underwear and breezy blue summer skirt should leave pleasantly cool because they are cutting the crusts off a selection of sandwiches, preparing containers of fresh strawberries and whipping up fresh whip crème. Adding some baby carrots and celery sticks to go with the dip, and a selection of cheeses and olives for a nice lazy picnic, I decide there is no room for the cider, and will have to bring a much less picturesque but decidedly functional second cooler.
I am early to the bus stop, waving two buses past as I utterly fail at being able to resist coming early on the off chance that My Lady might be running early. I should say that as a devoted submissive it is not my place to make My Lady wait, but I won't lie to her. If the only part of her I can have is waiting like a desperate puppy for my owner to come home, then I will be that puppy, tail wagging, begging at the door because there is NO better use of my time until she is with me.
She shakes her head when I do this, I don't know whether it is in amusement or just resignation that some things just can't seem to be trained out of me.
My Lady arrived at the bus stop as two younger men (skinny one in a Poundland shirt, and one in some sort of high vis vest) had been trying and failing to chat me up. I pushed between them, forgetting in my haste that the picnic basket over one shoulder and the cooler over the other made me a bit wider than usual, and pushing the skinnier lad into stepping off the curb to keep from landing on his arse.
My Lady reached up and cupped my face. I cupped her hands and rubbed my cheek into her hand like a kitten.
"fuckin' dykes!" I heard the somewhat overweight boy who hadn't been pushed into the street complain, but in My Lady's presence I can think of few higher titles to aspire to.
When we boarded the bus, My Lady directed me to move to the top deck. I carried the bags in front of me as the aisles are narrow and the stairs worse, climbing ahead of My Lady. I could feel her raising my skirt to check the no panty rule was being obeyed and heard some sniggering behind me as the skinnier fellow from the bus stop (in his black Poundland shirt) was apparently following to enjoy the show.
Moving to the back of the bus, we sat on one side, My Lady in the corner, and me on the seat by the aisle. I was reasonably concealed from directly ahead, but those in the first few seats on the opposite side could, if they troubled to look back, see us.
There were two Pakistani twentysomething girls with pretty gold nose rings chatting and typing madly on their phones, an older woman deeply ensconced in her book, and of course our Poundland lad who sat sideways in his seat, openly leering at us in the back.
I set the two picnic baskets on the ground so I would not block a seat, and My Lady looked out the window, her eyes hidden behind large very dark glasses, hair half covered with a scarf against the morning wind. She was the very picture of propriety, unless you were watching her left hand.
Slowly trailing up my leg from below my knee, dragging my skirt along with it. She traced the inner arch of my calf to my knee. I moaned softly, my eyes going wide, my face flushing and my breathing starting to speed up.
"I do like you in stockings. They suit your nature, a lot more of the desperate little school girl than proper little teacher in you than your students would think. Isn't there Jan?" My Lady asked, stroking the inside of my knee and feeling me spread my legs, desperate for her to explore farther.
Poundland lad was chuckling as he watched, his grin showing that he was planning on making whatever happened part of his spank bank as he pulled out his phone. The two Pakistani girls were looking at his face and beginning to glance back over their shoulders at us. I don't think they yet noticed what was going on.
My Lady was musing to herself, almost quietly, certainly not loud enough to be heard over the bus from anywhere beyond the next few rows of seats. "Stockings yes, but did you heed my instructions. I did specify thigh highs, without stays, and certainly nothing so troublesome as pantyhose. I trust you obeyed me pet?"
