Down Boy, Down
It was deeply humiliating for both. Mrs Weston was not a lady much used to seeing the human body en dishabille. Far less the body of an overweight 60 year old man chained to a bedhead by a pair of handcuffs, especially when the enslaved was her employer. In turn, Mr Tweedy, stark-bollock naked on the bed, his penis shriveled up like an oversized walnut, had the mortifying task of (a) trying to explain his predicament, and (b) issuing instructions about the key which he believed the little minx had tossed into the dog bowl.
"I think she hoped Buster would eat it," he explained with feigned joviality to his bewildered cleaner.
Mrs Weston eventually found it in a bowl of olives. She uncuffed him with the minimum amount off fuss. Indeed Tweedy was struck by how dignified she was. After all it can't have been easy for her to clamber across his bloated torso and figure out the handcuffs with a face so imperturbable. Especially when the light kept bouncing off his wedding ring, dancing around the room like Tinkerbelle, reminding them both that he was married, and a very naughty boy indeed. (He knew how fond she was of Louisa.)
It didn't help that Buster had leapt up on the bed and was nudging his chewed-up, slobbered-on ball into Tweedy's ribs. "Get off, Buster!" Tweedy snapped. "Get the hell off!"
"Down Buster," Mrs Weston quietly admonished, "Down boy, down."