Part 1 of a story for my online Sir

A Song for Sir
I was nervous. There was nothing for it but to admit that this was hell. It always was, but I had carefully side-stepped that thought when deciding to go ahead with the concert. Because the music was so bloody wonderful, so exciting to sing and I had thought it would carry me along. But a week to go, and the agony set in. It was like entering a tunnel. One you just have to accept you are in and wait to come out the other side, unscathed hopefully. But it had been a long while since I had experienced it, and forgetfulness is a cruel master.
I woke up after a bad night the Sunday before the big day. Another 4 in the morning rehearsal of the whole programme before I could get back to sleep and I was knackered and tetchy. FUCK IT, why did this have to be so hard? Who needs bloody ART anyway. I longed to be let off, but it was all booked and sorted. I could just see the faces of the audience as they smiled expectantly and warmly at me. Fuck off – just FUCK OFF!
I was due to rehearse at the venue later  – a sweet little church in the City, holding its own amongst the skyscrapers – and I had to get myself together. Wearily, I went through the motions, wondering if I would be able to muster an appetite for breakfast, whether there was even any point in trying to eat for the next few days. Nothing but remembering the words and music mattered. I sat at my computer randomly typing things into google as I drank a cup of tea. “Save my life”. “Overcoming panic”. “Therapy for nerves”.
I wandered absent-mindedly back from the loo to find a website I’d clicked on as I rushed off, suddenly desperate for a pee. “Need help with your fear? I have an unorthodox approach to calming nerves but if you have tried everything else, why not come and talk to me?” Central London.  Just that, and the picture of a sweet, unthreatening-looking man smiling. And a phone number. Well what the hell, I’m desperate enough, it can’t hurt to call – even if it’s just a cry to the universe, I thought. I dialled and left a message and my number with an answering service then promptly forgot all about it.
Coming out of the church that evening I felt much better. I always feel better when I sing. It’s the surest way to put all of me back together, getting absorbed in line, tempo, dynamics, expression – and the wonderful creations of others just as passionate as me. Nothing else matters, my happy place. The fresh air seemed friendly and I walked along rehearsing the tunes in my head, feeling alive, excited. A pang of hunger made me stop at a shop. As I was paying for a random mixture of wine, wotsits, milk, bread and bacon, my phone rang. Nice, someone loves me…
I got back, dumped my stuff, poured a glass and sat with my new-fangled phone that I had only just got. I listened to a startling message. “Hello there, John Hammond here. I got your message earlier. I guess it’s a big deal performing again. Perhaps you’d like to come and see me tomorrow and we can talk about getting you ready. I spank people to help them with their nerves. It’s only fair to tell you now, that if you come, that’s what will happen. And then you can make up your mind if it’s effective. Go and visit my website tonight (there followed an address) and text me in the morning to let me know if you want to go ahead.”
I just sat there dumbfounded. What the fuck! I threw the phone down. That’s all I need. A weirdo to help me. Great. I went to bed furious, outraged and a little shaken by my stupidity in ringing this crazy.
In the middle of the night, I woke up, in that awful hour when it’s ages till dawn and there is no respite from hellish thoughts of exposure and humiliation on stage. But instead of running my songs through, I began to think of that phone call. Annoyingly, miserably I had to admit that I was turned on by it – the thought of being spanked. Old memories of films and TV programmes I’d seen as a child flitted across my mind and got caught into half-dreaming vivid scenes, aching longing. I tossed and turned, awake enough to know what I needed and not awake enough to do anything about it. Finally, I must have fallen asleep as it was 7 before I was conscious again, light coming in the window.
It was going to be a busy day. Work in the morning and evening, teaching other poor hapless people who wanted to do what I do. I banished all thoughts of my contact with John Hammond, focussing on being the proper thing for others. It wasn’t a bad morning. It’s nice work. When I don’t have to do the singing…
Around lunchtime, it all came back. I was taking off my jeans to put on something more comfortable and the sound of my belt buckle as I cursorily undid it, broke my night-time thoughts into consciousness again. I stood stock still. Oh blimey! This was going to happen. It had to happen. I was transfixed. I didn’t care about the concert, that was the best part. I didn’t care about anything other than finding my phone and dialling that number. I moved as two people. One saying – and is it bacon for lunch then? What time is Sarah coming? – and the other riveted to finding my phone. I did, shaking, and dialled his number before I had time to stop myself.
Click – ‘the offices are closed between 1 and 2, please call back after this time or leave a message’. ‘Ah, hello… um…. this is a message for John Hammond. Er… you called me yesterday, thanks. Um…. I would like to come, I mean book a session with you, if that’s still alright. Actually I’m free today if you have any slots”… I trailed off, and quickly ended the call.
I sat in a daze, wondering and blushing at myself and my throbbing, pulsing pussy. What ON EARTH was going on? I laughed out loud. Suddenly all the songs I was singing in my head crashed in and I started to sing. I felt strong. And I desperately wanted him to ring back. I decided to practice till he did. It was the only thing that would get me off the tenterhooks of anticipation. I put on the recording my accompanist had made of the songs we were to perform and sang, full volume, full passion.
Suddenly, as I was totally caught up in the work, a rude noise interrupted. Bloody new phone with it’s hideous ring tones, must buy a new tune from Booseys. I picked it up, managed the new swipe manoeuvre and said hello.
“Hello, John Hammond here. You rang me earlier”.
“Oh yes….yes, thanks for calling back.”
“So, you would like to see me today?”
“Er…. ah, yes…. I really would…”
“I could see you at 4 o’clock if that’s convenient. I presume you have looked at the website and know where to find my practice”.
“Yes… yes, of course, thank you” I lied.
“And you are happy about the terms of our meeting?”
My mind raced. Was I? What the fuck was I doing? Was I doing this, really? At the same time as my mind veered from the certainty that I was, after all I could just not turn up, I found myself saying “Completely”.
“In that case, I’ll see you later. Please wear white panties and stockings, suspenders, not hold-ups. I look forward to it.” He rang off.
BLOODY HELL! was my first thought after that. My second thought was, who in God’s name calls them ‘panties’. A huge blush of shame swept up and down me. Clearly he did. And clearly I would from now on, judging by the reaction I felt in my knickers. I looked at my phone. It was 2.30 pm.
I fumbled around on google maps to work out my journey, feeling underwater. What to do first? Plan the route, see if I had any white pan… knickers, stockings oh fuck, when was the last time I wore them. And what do you wear on top when you know it’s largely irrelevant. Oh God!! Why am I even having this thought…. I’m NOT going to take my clothes off in front of a complete stranger. Am I?

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