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THEY were the worst of enemies - but before long she would ensure they were the best of friends. On her terms. Night after night, the banging upstairs of riotous parties seldom ceased. Having just turned 50 years of age, Joyce only needed a few hours sleep these days before she began a day's work on the perfume counter at Farmers, the city's most affluent department store. But since John, a 19-year-old student, had moved into the maisonette flat above two weeks ago, she felt more and more a prisoner in her own home. Tonight, she would attempt a great escape. She had been laying on her bed trying to read herself to sleep when a few minutes after midnight, she could take no more. She sprung up, stormed out of the bedroom, out of her flat and walked the few yards to John's front door. As Joyce waited for someone, anyone up the stairs to hear her knocking, the cold night air outside the maisonette began to bite. She was wearing only a sheer chiffon nightdress, admittedly ankle length, but in her anger, she had forgotten to take with her a coat. One last rap of the knuckles and she could take no more - but then suddenly John appeared. "Do you know what time of night it is?" she demanded curtly but as the cold began to get the better of her, she moved back to the comfort and warmth of her own front door. John was truly dismayed by her chagrin. "I'm really sorry," he started and moved to follow but Joyce did not stop, making her way inside to the refuge of her hallway. In an instant, John was there but Joyce had disappeared into her bedroom. "It's not fair!" John could hear his downstairs neighbour call out and as he turned the corner, he saw Joyce sitting on a huge double bed, lined in silvery satin sheets and pillow cases to match. "Can you hear the racket up above John?" she asked, rhetorically. Of course he could. The noise was deafening, the trample of feet in the kitchen and the drunken stumbling of students attempting to dance compounding the din of heavy rock music. "I'm sorry," John blurted out but the alcohol was getting the better of him now he had met fresh air with the warmth and alluring cocktail of this scented bedroom. Joyce could see his giddiness and jumped up off the bed just as he staggered and fell face first into her pillow and onto the satin sheets. This was a situation she had not expected but as she perused from up above the teenage youth, slightly gangly but slightly good-looking, she was determined to make the most of it. Coolly, efficiently, she undressed the comatose young man until he was wearing only boxer shorts. She brought up the satin bedsheet around his shoulders and tucked him in. "Sleep tight, darling" she cooed and she knew he would. Ten minutes later, the party upstairs had dispersed, thanks to Joyce's urgings. "John has left for the night and he has told me to lock up," she lied to the gathering upstairs. "If you are not gone in five minutes, I shall call the police or get you all to clean up." The latter threat did it and Joyce, now with a pale blue raincoat for protection, was left alone to nosey around the flat. Her first stop, naturally, was the bedroom. If only she could find something there to hold over John? Moving pile after pile of dirty and unwashed clothes, she finally found it. Two magazines, one called Relate the other Accord with front covers of Amazonian-style women dressed in rubber capes and macs purring over victims who were mostly bound in the most constricting corsets and girdles she had ever seen. Intrigued, Joyce flicked the pages and found to her amazement, more of the same inside. Two particular stories, both illustrated, took her eye. One concentrated on a lecherous male boss who was kidnapped by the typing pool. The women had lured the boss to an apartment with the promise of sex but instead he was drugged and dressed in women's clothes by eight or nine ladies who all seemed to take great delight in dressing him. "Oh, he must wear this pretty red and white polka dot frock Marge," one of the ladies said while another offered her PVC coat, tied with a belt around his arms and waist, to transport him back to the office. The plan was to tie him to his desk whereupon he would be discovered the following morning by the early staff. Of course, he was by now gagged and secured tightly while several layers of taffeta and net petticoats were layered beneath his frock, exposing the suspenders and stockings and foundation garment that lay beneath. The other story concerned the owner of a lingerie shop who heard the rustling of silk on nylon as a male customer walked in. In cartoon strip form, the story depicted how the shop owner took the hapless male home and overnight forced him to become her male maid, dressed in apron, cap and a black swishing taffeta maid's outfit. Joyce was transfixed, fascinated by the subject matter - and in truth slightly aroused by the possibility of dominating a man so completely. She had been married once, long ago, to a brute of a man and although there had been a few dalliances since then, she was not fond of male company and seldom missed the uncomfortable ritual that sex had become ever since she first married. She grabbed the two magazines, left the flat in the mess it was in, locked the front door with the key from John's pockets and then locked herself in her own apartment. John was still fast asleep, as she knew he would be considering the amount of alcohol he had clearly drank. Her mind was racing. She had a plan but for now she was tired. She waltzed into the spare room before enjoying the soundest sleep she'd had for well over two weeks. XXXXXXX When John awoke, his head was thumping. His face felt as if his skin had been pulled tight around it. His mouth felt disgusting. He was disgusting. But just as he was about to pull himself out of bed, he realised he could not. His arms were secured to the iron back rails of the bed; each one stretched to its full length, tied tight by a combination of silk scarves and rope. He was unable to budge an inch. Beneath his head, several satin pillows had been plumped up to make him sit up in bed. He could just about feel his legs beneath the silk sheets and bedspread but otherwise he had no idea what on earth was going in or if indeed, he was alive. "Morning John," a voice came from behind him as it wafted through the bedroom door. In his position, he could not turn around to make out who it might be although he quickly recognised it to be that of his neighbour. "Mrs Slack, is that you? What's going on. The last thing I remember was talking to you in this room." Joyce moved closer to the bed but still partially on John's blind side. "Is that all you remember John?" she said, rather teasingly. "Why, what else should I remember Mrs Slack?" "Oh please, call me Joyce, darling. For now anyway." As she spoke, she moved into his eyeline and walked seductively to the dressing table and mirror a few yards from the bed. John was aghast. He had never seen Mrs Slack fully made-up in any sort of finery but the image before him now moved him to focus his bleary eyes. All morning, Joyce had been refining her skills, honed for years on the Farmers perfumery counter, to make herself up. As a result, her lips were a glossy pink that oozed gorgeous lipstick, her eyes were perfectly illuminated between eyeliner and false eyelashes and her whole facial demeanour was perfection for a woman of her age. Her friend at Farmers, Jean, who worked in ladieswear, had taught her many times about the art of dressing to thrill and the lessons had paid off today. She wore a black satin pencil skirt just below the knee that accentuated her legs and calves while distracting from the plumpness of a middle- aged figure. The skirt seemed to go on forever and each time she walked, it appeared her thighs, encased in black nylons, would burst through the tight confines of the material. Six inch high heels, black and immaculately polished and gleaming in the bedroom lights, lifted her physique and appearance while she had chosen a navy blue satin blouse with high collar and bow fastening at the front, to finish the outfit. It was a classic style but more importantly, she knew, the materials would drive John mad. Little did he know that the skirt had a taffeta lining and that she had pulled on a black full slip, made also of rayon taffeta, to add a further rustle to her movement. Poor John was spellbound as Joyce minced around the bedroom, coyly smoothing her satin skirt at the front, then after a few more paces, checking the seams at the back and removing a phantom speck of dust from the hem. Each step was a deafening roar of satin and silk on taffeta and nylon. And Joyce knew it. That hissing swish of nylons moving in a restricted skirt was electrifying; John, watching her every movement entranced, was becoming aroused. And he was becoming aroused in a satin pair of long panties. "There, there, John, are you feeling all right," Joyce asked moving towards the bedside before sitting down. She crossed her legs meaningfully and touched the hem of her skirt as she settled into place. She moved back the bedspread and sheets to reveal John's pleasure, tightly bound in the satin panties. Her fingers, edged off with polished nails in inviting pink to match her lips, gently stroked the satin sheets beside John's body. "Is that nice John?" she pouted and laughed a little. "Don't be shy. I think you have a secret to tell me, don't you pet?" John's jaw had dropped. Closer to him now, he could smell her fragrance, a heavy, stifling but intoxicating perfume. Her manicure so near to his body; her clothes so close and her neat coiffure, blond and slightly permed, topping off a rounded but pleasing face, adorned with such grace and two small but effective pale blue earrings. "Mmm, do we have a secret John?" "No, no?o, not really Mrs Slack. I do wish you would let me go now." "Let you go," the tone of Joyce's voice was as imperious as it was incredulous. "I can't do that John. Not until we have had a little chat about your behaviour, and your little secret. Now can we?" She stroked her skirt once more, the movement releasing another hiss and rustle from the nylons and underskirt friction. She smoothed the top of her thighs idly, knowing her young captive would be mesmerised. He perhaps wanted to see if she was wearing suspenders but the cunning silk ribbons on the top of the eight metal clips that held hers stockings so taught served to hide the suspenders and not spoil the outline of the satin skirt. Lingerie and foundation garments were just exquisite, she thought, as she contemplated how she had struggled into a black, open bottom girdle earlier this morning. Its satin front betrayed a garment that nipped and tucked like no other, but the high waist combined with the matching black long line bra had produced a magnificent contour for this 50-year- old woman. Sitting here now snugly beside John, she felt no discomfort. She felt nylon and taffeta. She touched silk and satin. She felt sexy. She felt in control. XXXX "I have a little treat for you John," Joyce said, uncrossing her legs and rising from the bed. "For god's sake Mrs Slack, I have a lecture to hand in this morning. What time is it? If I'm late, old Godber will be furious." Joyce was unmoved by his plea. It was 10 o'clock on Saturday morning and she knew John would be going nowhere. "If you don't behave, you won't get the treat. Naughty boys don't get treats, do they John?" Her tone was teasing, but thick with innuendo as she moved towards her walk-in wardrobe. Inside she opened two of a myriad of draws and rummaged inside. John looked on, nervously. He noticed her pose bending over the drawers, the seam of her stockings rising from her high heels and disappearing beneath the satin skirt, with its small vent at the back to allow just a modicum of movement for the sheer nylons, but not sufficient to prevent them touching each time the clip-clop of Mrs Slack's heels propelled her forward. "Ah, here we are," said Joyce and walked back towards the bed. She was holding a pair of black nylons that she fondled from the inside, stroking the material through the ultra sheer material. "Mmmm, just the job pet. Now hold your head up and still while Joyce pops one of these over your darling little head. That's it, didn't hurt did it?" As it happened, the stocking fitted snugly over his head and down over his neck. Joyce smoothed the nylon into place, snatching up a dainty garter that adorned her dressing table. It was a purple garter, very lacy, the sort brides expose on wedding days with two tiny satin bows around the outside. Joyce pulled this over John's head with some difficulty but once over, it acted as a tight dog collar around his neck and secured the stocking in place. "Gorgeous," Joyce explained as she applied the finishing touches, gently stroking the stocking over John's cheeks and forehead.. "What's going on, Mrs Slack, let me out of here, please," he began to bleat. "Oh stop being a fusspot. I'm tired of you chattering all the time," and with that she loosened the grip of the garter and rolled the stocking up above his nostrils. It was a brief respite for John for within seconds, Joyce had forced a pair of silk panties into his mouth, blue silk with black lace. The more he tried to repel them, the more Joyce pushed them in, taking great delight with each new piece of the material that entered John's mouth to act as a muffler. "There, there," she said, pushing the final piece of satin into his mouth. "You won't be wanting to do much shouting anyway in the next few minutes." With that, she took hold of the other stocking and tied a knot in the middle before slipping it over and around the panties and John's head. She fastened it at the back so the gag was now complete then pulled the other stocking down and securing that once more with the purple sating garter. John was now utterly immobile and helpless. He could still see Joyce through the black nylons albeit faintly; he could hear well enough, hear her talk and hear that taffeta swish in her skirt as she walked. But try as he might to plead his case, he could only manage a ridiculous muffled cry. "That's so much better. Now for one of my favourite petticoats, a black taffeta underskirt. That should do the trick." Joyce again took the garment from her wardrobe drawers, caressing the half slip with relish as she moved towards the helpless John, tied and gagged on the satin sheets. "Now let's slip this over those wonderful ladies' stockings shall we darling." And she did, the taffeta petticoat tightening its grip at the top of John's head with its slightly elasticated band and side zip. It immersed his head, flowing down over his neck as the lace trim brushed against his upper chest. Joyce quickly got to work, leaning over her victim and whispering in his ear through his taffeta and nylon prison. "Imagine your head is my thigh, sweetheart," she said, moving her hands over the underskirt to generate the feeling of movement. Inside his prison, John could hear her taunts, smell her perfume as she nestled close and hear that familiar rustle of taffeta on nylon that drove him to distraction. "It must be lovely just being my thighs for a day, darling. Being caressed in all the beautiful feminine finery, encased in nylons then brushing up against my taffeta slips and skirts. And all the time, those gorgeous lady's nylons clipped into place by eight suspenders clips draped in satin ribbons. Doesn't that make you jealous, my darling?" John could not concentrate now. Mrs Slack's gentle hands smoothed the skirt so skilfully that each rubbing of her fingers felt as if he were indeed imprisoned beneath the lovely satin skirt she was wearing. From time to time, she would remove one hand and check progress down below where his throbbing member was on the verge of capitulation. "Is it time for milking yet sweetie?" Joyce purred. But she knew the time was not right just yet. There were other sensations that John must feel to complete his feminine experience. The day was young; she had not begun to start wearing her satin evening gloves yet and she was determined that, before too long, John would obey her obediently, meeting her every whim and dressing her as she required. He would do so in reverence to her. Joyce leaned over and gently kissed John on his cheeks through the taffeta and nylon. "Would you like me to put my other satin skirts over your slip darling?" she asked John playfully. "It would make it more authentic and add another layer of taffeta lining. Mmm, would you darling?" Just then, he gave out a huge long moan and his body shuddered. Down below, in the confines of his silk panties, he had exploded amidst the relentless torrent of Joyce's talk and the sensation of nylon and satin clasping his head. Oh, this was going to be a long weekend Joyce thought. XXXXXX Totally spent and with Mrs Slack continuing to stroke the taffeta slip over John's nylon-encased head, it was not long before John was snoozing like a little baby once more. Mrs Slack acted quickly. Smoothing her skirt into place as she stood up, she removed the black slip from John's head and returned it to her wardrobe. Next, she pulled on her white overall dress that she used for work. A crisp, rayon material with large blue buttons that fastened down the front, accentuated lapels and a dainty row of three blue buttons down each cuff. It was the sort of garment often used on the make-up counters at Farmers. White signified a senior make-up artist while the more traditional pale blue meant a young girl making her way in the world. Now, this garment signified someone very much in control. Mrs Slack then moved into the kitchen and slid on a pair of pink rubber gloves from the sink. Her next task was to remove the silk panties from John and wash his genital area clean. It was not a job to be performed with satin opera gloves! It didn't take long before John was washed and clean again. In her younger days, Mrs Slack had volunteered for nursing work at the city hospital so she was well versed in the art of a bed bath and washing down even the most stubborn of male patients. In this instance, John had hardly stirred. In fact, as she squeezed and caressed his spent member with a sponge and soapy water, she was amazed how malleable he became. The more she lathered his docile penis, the more he seemed to relax into a deeper sleep. On a couple of occasions, she had crossed her legs and the crisp nylon overall had swished dramatically against her skirt and stockings, a noise that coincided with John suddenly becoming slightly aroused. It was a subliminal message. Mrs Slack thought how easy it would be to train obedience with such methods. A swish of stocking equals obey; a rustle of taffeta means fall at my feet and suck my heels. Like Pavlov's dogs, there would be a reward. The opportunity of watching Mrs Slack smooth her nylons and skirt while enslaved at the point of her high heels. "Mmmm?," Joyce pondered as she laughed to herself and gently massaged more soap into the groin region. "The possibilities are endless." It was Saturday lunchtime now. Joyce had washed and dried her young captive and attired him once again. This time, she dressed him a pair of longer, wider satin knickers, coffee coloured with lace trim at the legs that were elasticated to tighten around the plump flesh of his teenage thighs. Mrs Slack knew John would be waking shortly and had herself undressed to her foundation garments. For John's benefit, she had removed her stocking from his head and the silk scarf that gagged his moans and groans and he trembled with ecstasy earlier in the morning. "John, John darling,?." Mrs Slack cooed from just outside the bedroom. To greet his awakening, she had already sprayed several liberal squirts of perfume above his head and around the satin sheets of her bed. Slowly, with a sense of benign contentment, John awoke from his slumber. He inhaled the sensuous perfume, felt the satin of the sheets around his calves and the more intense gripping of the same material around his groin. Morning glory, as it was called, never felt so stiff or so good as this, he thought. But just as he moved to enhance and enjoy his erection, his felt his hands still immobile. No longer were they tied so tightly or so high above his head. The handcuffs had been removed, replaced by silk scarves and stockings, expertly knotted and threaded through the iron bed railings and posts to make escape impossible. Even so, his hands had been lowered to be level with the bed and the plumped up silky cushions and pillows made him feel much more comfortable. "That's it, how are we feeling now John?" Mrs Slack entered the room. She was wearing the most extravagant housecoat that draped around her shoulders and onto the floor. John remembered seeing such things in 1950s movies, often worn by women who never seemed to leave the boudoir for the entirety of the film. It was made of heavy satin, a voluminous pink with puffed out sleeves that closed sharply at the wrist by means of huge fluffy ribbons and buttons. The satin lining was stiffened so that the back and front appeared like a full skirt while five sweet buttons kept the housecoat shut from waist to bust. Inside, Mrs Slack's ample boobs were heaving out of the garment, encouraged by her black long line bra that jutted our her breasts while maintaining control around her ribcage. She tottered imperiously on pink high heel mules that exposed her red painted toenails beneath the sweetest strap and buckle decked out with a blue ribbon and lace. "The thing is sweetie, I have a lunch appointment. If it's not too much trouble, I need to get dressed in here. You don't mind, do you darling?" John, hearing the nylon swish on the satin-lined housecoat, was mesmerised once more. But still he protested for his freedom. "Mrs Slack, I don't know what you want of me? Why are you keeping me here." "I want you to talk to me John. Tell me your secrets and promise to be a good boy from now on, that's all." John was about to reply when Mrs Slack disrobed. She turned around to see John's jaw drop beyond redemption. In front of him, he gazed upon the majesty of Mrs Slack's long-line girdle and bra, stunningly black with matching panels frosted in lace at the front. At the back, a distinctive satin panel coursed down the magnificent girdle. It was tucked here and there with zips and clinchers with its main zip running down the right side of the garment. John was gobsmacked. "It's the sort of thing you see in the back pages of ladies catalogues, or at least you used to. Not so much demand for them these days," Mrs Slack observed. The eight suspenders, with each clip covered by a shiny black slither of taffeta, dangled freely from the girdle. Mrs Slack had deliberately kept her legs bear to demonstrate the art of slipping on stockings and attaching them to suspenders to her captive audience. She reached for an unopened packet of Aristoc stockings and delicately removed the wrapping. John had not been able to take his eyes off the dazzling corsetry until Mrs Slack snuggled herself beside him on the bed. "They are the most wonderful inventions aren't they John," she teased him. "They restrain you so tightly but so fit so snugly and sheer around my body." She laughed as she unsealed the package and smoothed her hands and wrist inside the 12-dernier stockings. "Oooh, but that feels soooo good. Yes?" Spellbound, John could not reply. If he had been compelled to do so on risk of life, he could not have said a word at that moment. His lips were dry, the back of his throat was a rasp of anticipation and awareness. He felt paralysed from the neck up although his sensations of touch, smell and hearing had been heightened beyond all previous levels by this charismatic woman sat next to him. Mrs Slack could see the spell she was casting. She almost thought she saw John drooling for a moment. Inside, she was ecstatic. The night before he had been an unruly, rowdy runt of a teenager in need of acquiring courtesy and manners. Now she was just the person to teach him how to treat a lady; how to behave in her presence. And how to pleasure her in every conceivable way. "I do so like Aristoc. Me friend Jean in lingerie says there are no finer, more sheer stockings on the market. And she should know." As she spoke, she glided the stocking up and over her ankles and calves before fastening the darkened stocking top the four suspenders on the right side of the girdle. Each clip was a work of art. She caressed the inside of her stocking before looping the clasp over the outside and connecting it to the little bobble beneath her stocking stop. With each attachment she ran her red-fingernails inside the stocking to check the connection was firm and true. When all four were in place, she stood, up and smoothed the seam of her black nylons down - just a little but enough to raise the temperature considerably inside John. "Would you like to feel my stockings John?" She moved her right leg upwards, allowing John's bound hand a fleeting touch of the nylon. He readily stiffened his fingers in anticipation and as she smoothed her stockings over his palm, he felt dizzy with emotion. "Is that nice, pet? Wouldn't you like to dress me always, laying out my wardrobe and helping me in these gorgeous stockings. Would you darling?" John, still groping with the senses overload, nodded. "Mmm? remember that sweetie, won't you?" Mrs Slack was meeting Margaret for lunch, a well-heeled divorcee who ran her own property business. The lunch was at Tasca's, an upmarket bistro that required its ladies to dress up for just a swift cocktail, never mind a full blown luncheon appointment. Mrs Slack complied with the dresscode - while driving John to distraction. She grabbed a black tailored satin slip and pulled it up lovingly over her hips. When she had finished brushing its sleek outline, she closed a tiny zip on the side that brought a further feeling of confinement inside the delicious material. Mrs Slack had a favourite frock for Tasca's. A lush green figure-hugging one, a mixture of heavy rayon, with taffeta ruches around the skirt and hem. She did not even bother to look at John as she worked her way into the tight bodice and tugged the taffeta-lined frock up her stockings and satin slip. The swishing noise was deafening as the entire frock worked its way upwards with Mrs Slack struggling to contain her plump figure inside it. Eventually, she wriggled her bottom sufficiently and the frock was on. She deftly guided her hands behind her back and fastened the zip with great dexterity. The hiss as she moved her hands over the frock was electric. She smoothed her rayon posterior and tugged at the taffeta ruches to keep the skirt taught around her thighs and bottoms. She was nearly finished now. And so was John. She had chosen a green satin pair of high heels with a pretty bow on the toe to finish her ensemble. Sitting down gracefully on a stool opposite John, she crossed her legs one way, then the other, ensuring her nylons touched and hissed as she pointed her toe to slip into the heels. Standing up, she moved slowly towards a full length mirror and admired her reflection as she smoothed her frock lovingly around a body made even more curvacious by her foundation garments. "I do think you have to make an effort, don't you darling," she said but John was in dreamland. "I'm going to have a chat with Margaret about your flat upstairs. I think it would fetch around ?200,000 in today's market. Do you agree?" The amount of money broke John's reverie. "?200,000? For what?" "Your flat of course sweetie. If you are to come and serve me here, which is what you said you wanted, then it would be foolish to have both apartments. It wouldn't make sense, would it?" John could see the logic but couldn't quite see how he had been manoeuvred into this situation. The flat had been given to him as a present from his wealthy parents, a place to study and mature in. He could not possibly give it up now. "I'm sorry Mrs Slack, there must be some misunderstanding. That flat is a gift from parents, I can't sell it." "There's no need darling. Margaret can take care of all that for you. Your parents need not know a thing about it and best of all, you can pocket the money for yourself. Wouldn't that be a hoot." "I'm not so sure Mrs Slack?" But Mrs Slack would not take no for an answer. She minced over to his bedside once more. "Would you like me to play dress up with you again darling? Would you like auntie Joyce to make you feel all nice again? Don't you want to hear my nylons smoothing up against my taffeta skirt anymore sweetie?" She crossed her legs seductively and pouted her glossy red lips as she demanded a response. She did not wait too long, however. Without speaking she arose from the bed and selected a pair of coffee coloured satin gloves from her bedside drawers. They were elbow length and contrasted vividly with the vibrant green frock that rustled relentlessly as she squeezed around the bedroom. "I must go now John. Perhaps we can talk later when I get back." Her voice was irritated now, petulant as only a woman can be when she feels she has not been paid enough attention. Of course, Joyce knew the reverse was true but this was a good time to start alternative mind games. She stroked her nylons with the satin gloves and fixed her lips one more time so that they shone as sheer and as inviting as her stockings. She then donned a royal blue satin mackintosh that she belted at the waist and fluffed her collars up above her large silver earrings that dangled provocatively from her lobes. John was beginning to feel faint again. The apparition before him was one of the most perfect mature women he had ever seen in his short life. The erection inside his panties suggested there was more than just friendship and admiration afoot here. "I'm just not sure Mrs Slack?" he murmured. "Perhaps if you let me go I might think differently." Nice try, Joyce thought. "I can't do that just now, sweetie," she said, rustling towards him in her satin mac and taffeta frock. She sat now on the bed, caressing and stroking his face with her satin gloves, one finger beneath his chin to train his gaze upon her. "I'm sorry for snapping. Can you forgive me?" She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead, then the nose, then fully on the lips, allowing her tongue to entwine with his. The passionate but delicate embrace lasted for around a minute by which time John was utterly in lust, utterly erect and utterly helpless to do anything about it. "You see I do think we have a future together John." Joyce was busily re-applying her lipstick as she talked into her powder mirror from her handbag. "We'll continue this when I've had lunch with Margaret. In the meantime, don't be a naughty little boy will you?" With that, she gestured a blowing kiss and stood up, tidying her mac and feeling for hidden pieces of fluff on her stockings. "Just one more kiss," John pleaded. "I really must go, it would be rude to be late." She glanced sheepishly back at John as she headed for the bedroom door, all a-rustle and a- hissing. A blue headscarf, to match her mac but finely polka dotted, adorned her perfectly groomed hair. She was completely immersed now in satin, silk, nylon and taffeta. Joyce knew it. More to the point, she knew John knew it. She would blow his brains out when she returned from lunch. Then the flat, or at least the ?200,000 proceeds from it, and the undying servitude of her teenager in taffeta torment, would be hers. All hers. John didn't know it yet, but that was how it was going to end. He could no longer control his destiny. Only Joyce could do that for him.