EXTRACT FOR
Petticoated Polly
(Miranda Birch)

Carol Saunders sat up in bed and yawned. She looked at her bedside clock -- just ten. At that moment a light knock sounded at the door. "Enter," she called lazily. the door opened, and in came Polly with her breakfast, right on time. 



She watched him (yes, reader, `him') lazily, eyes sill half-closed, as he minced over to her bedside, moving very carefully so as to ensure that his frock did not ride up. To her gratification, she distinctly heard Polly's girdle creak as he bent stiffly over to place her breakfast tray on the bedside table. He straightened again, curtsied, took a few steps back, and stood at attention in the way she had taught him -- head up, back straight, arms by his sides, the hem of his apron pinched at either side between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and held out to the side exactly six inches, feet together -- waiting to be dismissed. 



Carol ignored him as she drank her tea and ate her toast. But she watched him from the corner of her eye. When she saw his fingers nervously rubbing the edges of his hems, she called out "stop fidgeting, Polly!" and the movement of the fingers stopped. 



Finishing her tea, she turned to look at him. She liked to check his uniform at random times throughout the day. For Polly was, as always, in full uniform. This morning, it being the weekend, he was in his special `display' uniform. All his uniforms where frilly and skimpy and girly, but this one -- well, let's describe it, shall we? It consisted of an ultra-short frock coloured a delicate shade of powder blue, and lavishly trimmed with white lace. The skirt reached not quite to mid-thigh, with three built-in layers of frilly lace petticoats beneath making it stand out at an angle. A pretty little white apron was tied about his pinched-in waist. Polly's arms were covered with satin elbow gloves of the same delicate blue as his frock. Under the frock, Polly wore nothing but a very tight girdle, starting just above his breastbone, where it was heavily under-boned so as to push the flesh of his chest, and so his nipples, up and out, giving him a sweet little bust; and ending below at the hips. His plucked eyebrows had been replaced by two bold streaks of the mascara pencil; his lips were an extravagant cupid's-bow executed in pale pink lipstick. White stockings were on his slender legs, with a pretty blue garter high up on his left thigh. 



Carol loved the display uniform. She liked to think of it as her own design, though her dressmaker June had helped her with the technical details. It was not really practical for everyday wear, especially not with the risk of being seen outside such as when hanging the washing. So during the week Polly wore a slightly less revealing uniform -- though goodness knows, skimpy and frilly enough! -- but Carol insisted that Polly always wear the display uniform on the week-ends. She loved the easy access it provided to his body. She liked to wander up as he stood at the sink washing her scanties, and casually grope under the skirt, fondling a bum cheek, stroking a thigh, or cupping a pair of very full and heavy, though now hairless, balls... or she would bring her hands round and stroke his nipples through the thin fabric of his frock. She had to be careful not do this too often, since it inevitably resulted in her needing relief from Polly's servile tongue. It was not unusual for Carol to enjoy half a dozen `quickies' in the course of a single Saturday or Sunday; that in addition to the long, slow, leisurely love-making she enjoyed before going to sleep. For a quickie, she simply pulled her knickers down, not even bothering to wait for Polly to do it for her, sprawled into an arm-chair or sofa, had Polly kneel before her, draped her big, shapely legs across his shoulders, and closed her eyes and surrendered herself to pure pleasure as he put his tongue busily to work. Oh, yes! Pamper weekends were heavenly! 



"Clear those things away," she said, yawning. "I am soo sleepy still, I think I shall stay in bed this morning. Wake me at eleven." 



"Yes, Ma'am," Polly responded in a low, controlled voice. He had to be very careful not to show the slightest sign of sulkiness or discontent. He came forward, collected the breakfast tray, and minced carefully towards the door. Carol watched his bottom wiggling in the tight blue frock, and noticed with approval how careful he was to keep it from riding up. He had to be careful. It was just possible to keep `decent', as Carol delighted in calling it, but it took constant care and attention. If he did not take that constant care, pay that constant attention, his owner's voice was sure to ring out in mocking reprimand: `tits, bits and bum, Polly!' In the early days, when this outrageous costume was brand-new, those words had rang well-nigh constantly in his ears.