A Lesson In Good Manners

I’m going to tell you about the day I taught George Hitchcock some manners.

But, first, you need to know about our shop.

Our tiny boutique could be found on one of those exclusive side streets that ran off Oxford Street in Central London.

You know the kind: The road was full of other high-end establishments which, whether they be clothes shops or art galleries, never displayed the prices of any of their goods in their windows. After all, although money talks, it doesn't always feel the need to speak to everyone.

Obviously, our clientele were all rich; minor royalty, bankers, moneyed foreign oligarchs - the usual. All of whom could afford to spend five hundred pounds on a neck-tie without even flinching.

And they all knew where to find us. We didn't advertise. My family had owned this shop for over a hundred years, steadily building our reputation into what it is today.

Even I had done my bit.

As my parent's only offspring, I'd had no choice but to consider any other career except the family business. I always had the sneaking suspicion that my father would have preferred a son. For over a century, no female had ever appeared on the payroll, and, although my father is ordinarily a kind man, he is also a traditionalist. I think he would have liked things to stay the way they were.

However, my mother gave him a daughter, and he had to make do.

I'd started working here as a teenager; my weekends had been spent organizing the poky stock room. After leaving school I was promoted to 'Assistant' status. Later, I juggled studying Business at university, with shifts here. Initially, my father never saw the point in higher education; after all, he'd left school at 16 with no qualifications, something that hadn't hampered the shop's continued success when he took over the running from my grandfather a decade later.

However, after graduation, I not only joined the small team full-time, I had also managed to double our profits within two years. He never again said another disparaging word about university education.

Now, although my father was, nominally, still the proprietor, I was, to all intents and purposes, the manager. To be honest, I rarely saw him nowadays; just as he was this week, he was more likely to be found salmon fishing in the Lochs of Scotland than in our small establishment. He was in his late fifties, and gradually stepping back: Within a few years, he would inevitably, and officially, pass full ownership over to me.

However, the fact that he was supposed to be here right now, and I was the one who should've been somewhere else, having booked this period off months ago, probably played a part in what happened on this particular day in question.

I'm not going to lie: My father's pulling of rank, and simply ignoring my holiday request, and then vanishing off into the Highlands, had irked me. Greatly.

Not least as I had largely planned to use my time off to try and get laid. It had been six, long, arid months since I'd had sex; I doubt if there was a hornier woman in the whole of the UK than me at present. Honestly? Right now I would've settled for fucking a tramp just to release some of my prodigious pent-up sexual tension.

However...

I was essentially the boss now. Which meant sacrifices had to be made. And, for as long as our shop stood here, it was now my job to ensure that our customers continued to think the same thing they'd thought for a century: If you had money, and you required a tie, you went to King's.

And that's exactly what George Hitchcock did.

"I was told the stripy one would be here," he whined.

"I can only apologize, sir," I said, doffing my imaginary cap. "Issues with our supplier which are utterly beyond our control."

"I don't give a shit about your suppliers," he spat, placing his palms on the glass counter between us.

Thank you, you conceited dolt, I thought. I'll have to polish that later.

George's father had been an investment banker and a staunch contributor to the Conservative Party. At some point in the dim and distant 1980's, the Prime Minister had knighted him (whether this was due to his generosity regarding campaign finances, or his ability to make - and then grow - money, is a question that will forever remain unanswered).

A few years later, George's dad slid further up the Honour's List when he became a Lord. I don't think he bothered going through the trouble of ever involving himself in our democratic system by actually going and sitting in the House of Lords.

But, he did buy a run-down, stately pile in the barrens of Cornwall, and call it Hitchcock House. So, that's okay, then.

Hitchcock Senior was, by all accounts, an odious man.

Arrogant, rude, and corpulent - I've seen the photographs; I've observed more svelte whales. As for his son? In addition to his father's fortune, George inherited all of his dad's other defining characteristics.

Except one.

Whereas the ancient Lord Hitchcock was fat, balding, and had the sexual magnetism of an eraser, his son was... well, quite frankly, George was stunning.

Absolutely stunning.

The twenty-six-year-old stood six feet in his bare feet and had the chiselled body - and cheekbones - of someone who spent far too many hours in the gym.

His mother was of Mediterranean descent, and George took after her. His naturally darker skin tone was only accentuated by the six months of the year he spent at his Ibiza bolt-hole/mansion. His thick, dark, wavy hair was tousled...

That is, it had the impression of being tousled; any hint of unruliness had more to do with the several hours every week George spent in his hair-stylist's chair than an absence of vanity. Even dishevelment was an affection. For, George Hitchcock was definitely, unequivocally, vain.

He was also an arrogant cock, and unquestionably the rudest man I'd ever encountered.

Unfortunately for him, he chose the wrong day to unleash his lack of manners on me.

My father's impromptu vanishing act had already set my patience levels to zero, which were further compounded by my utter lack of sex since the beginning of the year; George's latest visit only accentuated my piss-poor mood.

"I came into town especially for that tie," he said with his trademark petulance. "I have a party tonight. And I wanted to wear that fucking tie. It was fucking cool!"

Cool? At thirty-one, I may not have been 'down' with youth slang. But even I knew that people weren't still calling things 'cool.' Typical trust-fund brat; utterly out of touch with the world.

"I understand it must be upsetting to you, sir," I said, calmly. Inside, though, I was broiling.

Ordinarily, I could tolerate these hissy-fits. I'd started working in the shop before I'd learnt to shave my legs; I'd had a decade and a half of being shouted by the rich, and (not-so) famous.

However, today...

"Yes, it's fucking upsetting! I wanted the stripy one!"

"I am aware how vexed you are, sir. However, I am happy to show you a selection of our other neck-ties. And, due you having been inconvenienced, I am likewise happy to provide you with one of your choosing, free of charge."

"It's not about the money, you imbecile. I could buy this shitty shop a hundred times over."

Yes, you could; with your father's money, you jumped up little prick, I thought.

"Very true, sir," I said instead.

"I wanted that tie!" he droned.

I was bored now. In addition to my father's disappearance, and my bridled libido, it was also an incredibly hot day, in a the middle of a scorching July, and our ancient little shop did not come equipped with air-conditioning. If he didn't shut up soon...

"Not something else from your pitiful selection."

Keep talking, Georgie-boy. Please; keep talking...

"That tie."

Go on...

"I wanted that one!"

I bloody dare you...

"The fucking stripey one!"

"And I wanted to come into work today, and not be shouted at by a spoiled child."

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The shop fell into a (very) awkward silence. Although I knew my heart was still beating - I'd be dead otherwise - I couldn't feel it working. It may not have actually stopped, but it felt like it.

Slowly, George lifted his hands off the counter and took a step back. He looked shell-shocked. As if someone had just informed him he was down to his ten million pounds.

"What... what did you say?"

Right: Decision time, Juliet. Brazen it out, or apologize. What to do?

Oh, fuck it.

"You heard me," I said, placing my own palms on the counter, and leaning towards him. "I called you a spoiled child."

I felt my heart working once more, furiously pumping blood around my arteries. I was tingling, buzzing off the adrenaline.

"I could... I could...." he spluttered. For someone who'd grown up never hearing the word 'no', it was understandable why my lack of compliance had rendered him speechless.

"What? Get me sacked? You're not the only one with paternal influence, George. My dad owns this shop. He also knows what a rude, obnoxious wanker you are. Trust me - I know where his loyalty will lie."

"I'll... I'll..." he stammered.

"What? Badmouth us? We've been here for more than a century. Jesus, Dukes and Earls patronize us," I said. Now my heart was beating like a drug-fueled drummer pounding away on a snare drum. But I kept my voice calm, icy. "Do you honestly think the murmurings of someone who's never worked a day in his life, and lives off his daddy's money, would make a difference?"

He continued to stare at me.

"You're just a rude, jumped-up twat," I said, slowly. "A twat who should be taught some fucking manners."

Silence, again. But this time the atmosphere was febrile. There was something happening, something appearing, in the air between us.

"You haven't got the balls," he said. His tone was half-sulky, half-provocative. Was he challenging me?

Screw it: In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Are you baiting me, George?"

"What if I fucking am?" he sneered. His earlier arrogance was seeping back.

Without speaking, I straightened up. Deliberately, I walked out from behind the counter, and over to the front door. I flicked the lock, and spun the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.' I lowered the dark, green blind, thereby closing off the inside of the shop from prying eyes.

I turned, knowing that I was either about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

Or...

"What are you...?" he started.

"Shut up," I said, calmly. "And take your clothes off."

The words were out of my mouth before I had the chance to edit them. When this little dance had commenced, I had no idea where it was leading to. However, George getting naked seemed an obvious escalation.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to teach you some manners, dear George," I said, moving towards the counter. "So undress."

"You can't tell me what to do," he said, weakly.

"I can. And I am. So strip."

"If I don't...?"

"If you don't do as I say, then your lesson will be that much more strict," I said, calmly, and professionally. At this moment, I still didn't really have a clue what form that lesson would take. I was improvising. But, so far, so good. "So, fucking take your clothes off. I won't ask again."

If I had any doubts about his willingness, they dissipated when he slowly lifted his hands and began unbuttoning his light-blue, cotton shirt.

"Good boy," I said, leaning against the counter, and crossing my arms.

He undid the final button and dropped the shirt to the ground. As expected, his chest would've shamed David Beckham. Pleasingly, though, he had none of the footballer's tattoos. I've nothing against them, they just don't float my boat. But George's solid, sculpted torso did.

As I stared at him, I knew I could no longer deny it: It wasn't mere adrenaline propelling me - I was aroused. This pantomime had turned me on. As I accepted this, I felt a bolt of electricity slalom across my pussy.

"Trousers, please," I said. "Now."

George reached down, and undid his (undoubtedly expensive) belt. He unfastened the top button of his dark blue chinos, and pulled the zipper down. He let the trousers slide down his thigh, calves, and around his feet. His erection was visible too, and pushed against the fabric of his white jockeys.

"Pants too," I said.

Slowly, he lowered his underwear. His vanity even extended to his nether regions; he wasn't a stranger to a bit of manscaping. His pubic hair was trimmed, and only emphasized the size, and girth of his hard cock. In addition to his wallet, I now could see what all those vacuous blondes regularly pictured hanging off his arm saw in him.

I spent a few seconds admiring him. It was lecherous, but with a body that like that no-one could blame me for looking. And if he minded me studying him, he didn't show it. Far from being shy, he stood there, boldly, obviously enjoying my eyes explore him. But, what next? Where did I take this...?

For fuck's sake, Juliet, look around; you work in a tie shop. There's only one place I could take this.

"Kneel down."

I turned, and walked to the display rack that stood to the left of the counter. There was a mirror in the top-half of the display unit; in it, I could see that George remained standing.

I turned around, and returned his stare.

"I said, kneel." There was a steel in my voice I liked.

Slowly, he lowered that perfect body of his, and knelt - naked - in the middle of the shop.

"Good boy," I said, turning back to the display unit, to decide which ties I would be employing. So, so many choices...

Perfect, I thought, lifting a tie that was festooned with navy-blue, and bright-yellow stripes. After all, George had been so adamant about stripes.

Next, a woolen, burnt-orange tie; one of my favorites.

After that, I picked a deep-black, silk number; perfect for a funeral. Or party, in today's case.

Lastly, I selected a powder-blue tie, crafted from Japanese silk. It was the single most expensive item we stocked, retailing at seven hundred pounds.

However, if I was going to do this, I may as well do it with a bit class.

I draped the four ties over my arm, and slowly turned to face George.

"What are you going to do with those?" he asked. His voice was dripping with excitement.

"I'm going to tie you up, you idiot."

He looked at me, lust seeping from every pore. Yes; I was going to enjoy this. But, his face told me he was going to as well.

"Hands behind your back," I said, walking towards him.

He didn't move. He just sat there, immobile.

I quickened my step, and, taking a detour around his gorgeous, naked body, came to stop behind him.

"Do it," I barked.

Still, he showed no signs of obeying.

I dropped the ties to the floor. Reaching my right leg around his torso, I dug the heel of my shoe into his bare thigh. I felt my pussy moisten further as I watched the flesh on his upper leg give under my heel.

"Hands. Behind. Your. Back," I commanded, digging my heel in further. "Now."

Finally, he acquiesced, and did what I had asked. He reached his arms behind him, and the backs of his palms rested against his firm buttocks.

I removed my heel from his thigh, and knelt down, squatting behind him.

"I can see why you wanted a stripey tie so much, George; it really does suit you," I said, wrapping around it his wrists.

I'd never tied someone up before. Had I wanted to to? Well, let's be honest - who hasn't?

However, despite my outward display of confidence, this was my first time. Given how aroused I was, I was undoubtedly going to be doing it again. And, moving forwards, I could learn how to do so more efficiently. For now, I was just wanted him bound, and at my mercy; it wasn't the time for aesthetic niceties.

I wrapped the end of the tie around his right wrist, and tied a knot. After winding the rest of the tie around both wrists three times, I yanked it tight, causing him to emit a tiny 'yelp.' Fuck - that turned me on.

I tied a crude, but sturdy, double-knot, and let his bound hands drop, where they nestled above the crack of his beautiful arse. Jesus - I was actually doing this! I was really tying up one of the wealthiest, and most handsome, men in England.

And it was glorious.

I inched backwards, and picked up another tie; the understated Japanese item.

Roughly, I pulled his feet together, so his ankles were touching. After tying, and knotting, one end to his left ankle, I wrapped the tie around him three times, and - just as with his hands - pulled it tightly after the final circuit. Another 'yelp'; another explosion of lust pin-balled around inside of me. Again, I fastened a knot that would make escape impossible.

Reaching behind me, I picked up the black, silk tie. I wrapped one end around his bound wrists, and tied a big, fat juicy knot. I uncoiled the tie, stretching it towards the one binding his feet. I threaded the end through the small gap above his ankles, and pulled.

George's spine arced backwards as physics took over, and his bound hands moved closer to his bound feet. He gave another moan, and my pussy clenched even more.

The sadist in me wasn't satisfied though; I pulled the black tie again, and George's back bent even further. A cry of pain accompanied his contortions.

"Shut up, you big baby," I hissed, as I tied the black tie to the one binding his ankles.

I stood, admiring my (crude) handiwork.

I now had one of the most beautiful men I've ever witnessed hogtied. And at my mercy. It was - not to put a too finer point on it - fucking amazing.

I bent down and picked up the final remaining tie; my cherished burnt-orange number. Leisurely, I walked around my captive, until I faced him.

Without saying a word, I bent down, and draped the tie around his bare neck. Calmly, professionally, I lifted one end over the other, and began tying a Windsor knot, the King of tie knots. As my fingers worked, I could hear his fevered breathing.

Which, co-incidentally, matched my own.

Finally, the knot was complete. With one hand holding the knot, I tugged on the dangling length of the tie with my other hand. Smoothly, the knot ascended, and nestled against his Adam's apple.

I stood, holding the end of the tie. Like a leash.

I gave it a hard pull, and George's face peered up into mine.

"There's a good doggie," I said, mockingly.

I tucked the tie into the small pocket on the front of my pencil-skirt, and slowly moved my hand towards the top of my left thigh. George's eyes greedily watched as my fingertips came to a stop by the small button on my waistband. With a calmness I was not inwardly feeling, I grasped the button, and pushed it through the small hole. I removed the end of the tie from my pocket, and, with my other hand, pulled down my zip.

My skirt fell to the floor in the same way his trouser had a few minutes before. My suit was bespoke, tailored especially for me. It was sacrilege to let it merely crumple over my shoes. However, the blasphemy was going to be worth it.

Using my free hand, I lowered one side of my pants, then the other. Once they'd fallen past my hips, I gave a little shimmy, and they joined my skirt.

My shaved, naked pussy was at George's eye-level.

His eyes darted from my groin, to my eyes, to my groin, and back to my eyes. No, no, no, Georgie; I couldn't have that.

"Look at it," I spat, firmly tugging on his 'leash.' "And don't you dare turn your fucking head away from my pussy again."

George lowered his head, and stared at my cunt.

I inched forward. Involuntarily, George inched backwards. I rectified that with another hard pull on the lead. He head jerked forward, and - if he'd wanted to - he could have craned his neck just a little bit and wrapped his lips around my clit.

"Kiss it," I said, pulling him closer.

He resisted, and tried to lean back. I wasn't having that.

"I said, kiss it." I pulled on the tie once more, and his warm lips touched the folds of my pussy. "That's it. See, you can do it."

I let his mouth massage the outer folds for a few seconds, before tugging on the leash again. "Inwards, George. I want to feel your lips on my clit."

Carefully, delicately, his tongue traveled towards the center of me. With each dainty peck, my arousal grew.

I was torn between reaching down and beginning to wank myself off, and wanting to 'play' more. Ultimately, although the instant gratification would have been fulfilling, this 'game' was just too succulent and decadent.

I wanted more. More.

"Tongue," I said.

George opened his mouth, his tongue flicked my clit. Another burst of that fizzy, bubbling electricity washed over me. Instinctively, I rammed my groin against his mouth. He spluttered, and tried to push himself away using his tongue.

I pulled away, and - quickly - knelt in front of him. I tugged on the leash, and, as George's face bobbed forward, I slapped him across his right cheek.

"Don't you ever try to push me away again, bitch."

I stood, and pulling on the leash with one hand, and grabbing a handful of his lustrous hair with the other, I roughly thrust my pussy forward. George's tongue plunged deep inside of me. He spluttered again, but this time I held him firm.

"Stop whimpering, and caress it."

Keeping a firm grip of his hair, and the leash, I began to rhythmically grind myself around his mouth. And tongue.

I rammed myself against him more firmly, holding him there, his tongue deep inside me. Any struggle he attempted was cut short by the leash, and the handful of hair I held of.

Then, I released my grip, resuming the leisurely movement from before, grinding myself against him. But, again, before he could get comfortable, I'd thrust myself firmly against him.

"Have you got anything you want to say, George?" I asked, relaxing my grip, and letting him breathe.

Although his tongue was extending outwards, exploring my clit, he still tried to form words using it. But, before he could, I rammed myself against him again, holding him there.

"Sorry - can't hear you," I said. "I repeat - do you have anything to say?"

Once more I released him. But, as soon as he was on the verge of trying to say something, I propelled my hips forward.

"Still can't hear you," I mocked, before repeating the action again. Release, then ram. Release, then ram. Release, the ram. On and on I face-fucked him. Denying him the chance to speak.

I was close. So, so close....

I pulled him out one last time.

"What do you have to say, George?" I asked. I let go of his hair, and reached down. Using the fingertip of my index finger, I started massaging my clit. Back and forth... Back and forth... "Well?"

I yanked on the tie, forcing him to look at me. His lips, and chin, glistened with my juices.

"I'm sorry for being rude," he screamed.

No sooner had the words left his lips, than I came. I've never been a squirter, but part of me wished I was. I would have loved to have coated his handsome, and willing face. He had never looked so divine.

I dropped the leash, and, closing my eyes, I let the post-climax convulsions wash over me. Finally, I reached repose. And, when the dizziness had passed, I looked down.

To see a smiling George Hitchcock.

"I'm coming up to London next Tuesday," a now clean George said, twenty minutes later. I still thought he looked better with my juices decorating his face, but he now had to venture out in public, and that look just wouldn't do. "Will you be here?"

"I'll be here," I replied. "Always am."

"That's good. I can't be certain, but I think I might need to come tie shopping."

"Might? Dear George, there’s no might about it,” I explained. “You will be here at two o’clock, next Tuesday.” That would be after the post-lunch rush, which meant I could close the shop for a short time. “Don’t be late.”

“And if I am?” he asked, provocatively.

“Tardiness is as bad as rudeness, George. If you’re late, there will be another lesson.”

“Will that stripey tie be here?”

“It shall be, “ I replied.

And, given that I just knew George would be late, I was already thinking how it would look around his bare neck, whilst his mouth was clamped onto my pussy.

Until next week, George.

Until next week…

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