Lunch with Mistress Katia
By N.T. Morley
Thank God no one happened to be in your office at 1:45 when you unzipped your nylon lunch bag. You reached inside for your tuna sandwich and juice box, and found a pair of panties.
See, Katia packs your lunch every day, as she’s been doing since she became your Mistress three months ago. She likes to control what you eat, when you eat it. she’s deemed that you eat lunch at 1pm, not before or after, and she feeds you what you like, or what you don’t like, based on her own whims and whether you’ve pleased her properly the night before with your mouth and your cock and your ass and your whimpers of pain and pleasure. You accept it, because she owns you.
And sometimes Mistress Katia leaves you treats in your lunch. There was the time she left a picture of her foot, on which you were instructed to jerk off. There was the tuna sandwich she implied in her note–you still don’t know if it was true or she was just fucking with you–that she’d made with your own cum. There was the spicy red pepper paste she instructed you to either wear or eat; you opted to wear it, slathering it all over your balls until your cock swelled hard and tears poured from your eyes. There was the butt plug.
In short, Mistress Katia has a very perverse sense of humor, as well as a demented idea of what appropriate relations between men and women are, which is why you love and adore and fear her, and why you pop a hard-on just about every damn time she deigns to amuse herself by manipulating your sexuality.
Which is what happens today: Folded atop the brown paper bag presumably holding your sandwich, nestled next to the liter bottle of water, you find a pair of slutty little pink panties with a note pinned to the front, right up against where your dick will soon reside: “Here’s a nice pair of slutty pink pretty panties for a pretty pink slut. Wear them the rest of the day, Tiffany. You’ll be wearing lace all weekend long.”
She calls you Tiffany because you told her, about three days into the relationship, that you had no desire to cross-dress, that you didn’t have an inner female, an inner slut, that you didn’t need a girl to be topped by her. She just laughed and said, “Oh, you’ll have an inner slut by the time I’m done with you, Tiffany,” and has used that name for you ever since. It took you a long time to get used to the cross-dressing, but Mistress Katia’s training is not something you’re able to resist. Now just the sight of lacy, frilly underthings and you’re hard; you’re hungry for humiliation, desperate for Mistress Katia to make you put the things on, and observe what a sexy little slut you are.
She’s prone to this, your Mistress, prone to the kind of sexual adventure that comes by divine fiat, giving you orders and knowing they’ll be obeyed despite extreme discomfort and humiliation.
Your overwhelming desire to please her isn’t why you’ll obey her, either. That’s no fun for her, because it’s too easy; you learned early when you were punished hard for being too eager to please. She’d ordered you to lick her shoes and you did without protest; she made you pay for that, and now you know that obeying too easily is as big a mistake as not obeying at all. As Mistress Katia put it once: “The last thing I want is a little bitch: If I wanted a bitch, I’d get some little twink. You’re a man, which is why I get so wet making you do what I say.”
No, you don’t do it because you want to please her; in fact, you don’t want to please her at all, you want to displease her so she’ll make you please her so she won’t punish you for pleasing her without being forced. It’s all very complicated, and makes your cock so fucking hard you can’t fucking see straight.
But it’s not just a matter of disobeying to obey; it’s because your cock, already hard, goes aching and tight and practically ready to shoot when you think about what happens when you lie to her. She knows; she always knows. When you lie to Mistress Katia, even over the phone–especially over the phone–she knows, immediately, always. You don’t know if it’s some tone in your voice, some hidden message in the words you choose, but Mistress Katia reads your mind and informs you that you’re lying, and punishes you for doing so, even if you’re miles apart.
And when Mistress Katia reminds you that she owns you, you feel the leash running from her hand to your balls more acutely than ever; feel how tightly she holds your nuts and your guts and your soul in her grasp, and how it amuses her to toy with them.
This is why you lie when she calls you at 1:50, because you’re already hard and ready to play.
She sighs a musical little laugh. “Have you eaten lunch yet, Tiffany?”
“Yes,” you lie. She always gets pissed when you don’t eat on time, because it lowers your stamina in the evenings. She wants you ready to fuck when you come home, and if you eat too late you get sleepy. “I’m wearing them,” you say, your voice trembling slightly.
She laughs. The sound is cruel. “You’re such a bad liar,” she says. “You almost make it pointless to punish you for doing it. Almost. Now put those panties on. Put them on right now, Tiffany.” She says the name firmly, with impossible cruelty.
Your cock’s throbbing, now, as hard as it gets. You say “Yes, Mistress.”
“And then eat your lunch. I think you’ll find it tasty. Be sure to drink all the water, too. The whole bottle.”
She hangs up on you. You get up and lock the office door, pull the blinds, and quickly kick off your shoes, lower your trousers, slide off your jockey shorts and wriggle into the panties, which are thin satin with lace and a padded behind that almost builds your ass into a feminine one. The fact that you’re shaved from balls to ankles makes the feel of the lace sliding up your legs even more erotic.
The front of the panties, of course, is not built for a man with a hard-on. It’s very hard to tuck yours into the tightly stretched fabric, and you know it will keep popping free. You want to jack off so bad. You could jack off, all right... just haul it out of the panties; you wouldn’t even need to haul it out, just let it pop free. Then a few hard strokes would have you shooting on your desk or maybe into your jockey shorts or even into the panties.
But she’d know, of course... she wants you hard and aching when you come home, and she can always tell how much you’ve thought of her all day, and whether you’ve jerked off. The punishments in this case would be extraordinary. Your cock pops free. With a trembling hand, you shove it back in your panties and try to stretch them over the top to hold them there. The think pink fabric darkens at the tip of your cock, which is leaking pre-cum.
You put your slacks back on, lace up your shoes, and stuff your jockeys into your lunch box. You sit down, crack open the bottle of water, take a sip. You open the paper bag, thinking you’ll find your sandwich.
Instead, inside the paper bag there’s a small Tupperware container of... something. You know what it’s going to be, or what it’s going to look like, before you even open the container. You read her note:
“Don’t you ever wonder what I do all day? I was going to let you go hungry, Tiffany, but you had to lie to me. Eat your lunch. All of it. After all, I do believe in recycling.“
You know what you’re going to find, but you still feel a cold wave go through you as you open the container. You know what Mistress Katia does all day: She beats and whips and ass-fucks men all day, which is why you’re so impossibly lucky that she still wants to do it to you at night. She also, if they’re very, very good, lets them jerk off; if they’re incredibly good and it pleases her to do so, she might jerk them off herself, as she’s very occasionally done to you. And that’s what you’re staring into–maybe–you can’t be sure. There’s a container of what looks like gruel, only it might not be gruel. You’ll never know until you taste it.
She’s given you a cheap plastic spoon. You obediently take a spoonful of your lunch, feeling your cock swell and throb against your panties. You know the taste from when Mistress Katia lets you cum on her hand, and then feeds it to you. You know the taste well–too well. This tastes like that. You’re sure it’s gruel she’s somehow flavored to taste like cum... Mistress Katia loves you. She would never make her cherished little slut Tiffany eat the cum of strange men for lunch just to humiliate her at work.
Would she?
You finish your lunch, feeling a strange peace come over you as you wash it down with most of the water. Your cock throbs as you relax. It goes from hard to half-hard, but never quite to soft, as you do paperwork for two hours. You can feel the gruel, or cum, or some combination thereof, warm and swelling in your belly, reminding you of your status as Mistress Katia’s slut.
Your bladder, too, begins to swell. You’re afraid to get up to use the bathroom, because Mistress Katia has long since forbidden you from ever using a stall; you’re only allowed to use a urinal.
Your cell phone rings at 4:30. “I’m wearing them, Mistress,” you say, your voice low and meek and as feminine as you can make it.
“And?”
You lower your voice even more. “I’m hard,” you say softly. “Mistress.”
She laughs again. “I bet you have a piss hard-on, don’t you? And you’re afraid to use the bathroom at work when you’re wearing your pretty pink panties, because I won’t let you use a stall like the girl you are. Is that right, Tiffany?”
You writhe in your chair; your nipples feel hard against your cotton-poly shirt; your tie feels tight around your throat.
You say “Yes, Mistress.”
“Remember how you lied to me, Tiffany?” she purrs. “You lied to me and I punished you by making you eat strange men’s cum for lunch. Or did I?”
“It might have been gruel,” you blurt, immediately regretting it.
She laughs softly, obviously very pleased with her game. “Would you like to piss, Tiffany?”
Your belly aches, your hard-on hurting from badly needing both to piss and cum. You say, “Yes, Mistress.” You redden. “Please, may I piss? In a stall?”
“No,” says Mistress with a small but audible yawn. “I think you’ll use the urinals in the basement.”
You swallow. “The basement?”
“Do you need a hearing aid? Yes, Tiffany, use the urinal. Unzip your slacks, haul your hard cock out of your panties, and point it at the urinal. Then piss.” She laughs. “Of course, you’ll have to lose your hard-on first... will that be a problem?”
“I... I can’t do that.” You’re not even sure yourself if you’re saying it because it makes you hot to say it, because you know for sure she’ll make you, or because you really think you can’t.
She just laughs and says musically, “If you can’t, you can’t.” Her voice is smiling. “But I think pissing on the street is going to be a lot more conspicuous.”
“The street?”
“That’s your other choice,” she purrs. “Either one’s fine with me. Though if I were you, I’d prefer the urinal.”
Your voice is lost, now, floating between hunger and surrender, desperately begging for mercy without daring to beg, wishing she didn’t know how to fuck with your mind so completely. It’s all alive, now, with violent tingles, every inch of your body, especially the parts she fucks or fondles or punishes: ass, asshole, mouth, throat, nipples–and most of all your cock and balls, which are a mess of stretched and swollen pleasure and agony, your cock soaking panties with pre-cum and your balls tucked up so high and tight with their swiftly growing agony that you think you’re going to explode.
“Yes, Mistress,” you say, feeling your bladder swollen and pained. She hangs up on you and you obediently get out of your chair, ready to humiliate yourself utterly because she told you that you’re going to.
At first you don’t know how the fuck you’re going to even get up a floor without parading your hard-on in front of everyone in your department, but you manage to get your blazer buttoned in such a way that it only shows a slight lump. You walk quickly and make it to the elevator, and breathe easy until several small groups of people get on. You try to look casual. Instead you sweat and breathe hard, ever more aware of your cock and your balls and your panties.
Everyone disembarks at the lobby, and you continue to the basement. A casual listener might have assumed that Mistress Katia is being kind by allowing you to use the basement pissoir. She’s not; Mistress Katia is rarely, if ever, kind. The basement is where the delivery drivers park their vehicles; there are many dozens of them, big burly guys who smell of cologne and sweat and look down on office workers like you. They parade in and out of the bathroom all day long.
The basement is mostly empty, a small mercy. You slip into the men’s room and go up to the urinal in the far corner, leaning in close. You unzip your slacks, reach in, and free your straining cock from the slutty pink panties. The front is soaked with pre-cum. You haul your prick out and point it at the urinal, trying to turn your body so the panties, at least, aren’t visible from the door in case any truckers walk in.
You strain; you struggle; you try to think of unsexy things but all you can imagine is Katia’s voice, rich like chocolate, telling you how you’re going to humiliate yourself by eating cum and pissing in a urinal with your cock hanging out of panties soaked with pre-cum. Your cock, if anything, gets harder.
Your bladder swells in agony as you try to piss. You bite your lip. Nothing changes except a slight swell in your cockhead when you strain, and a thick dollop of pre-come slipping free of your slit and dribbling down on to your hand. You can’t stop yourself; you bring your hand up to your mouth and lick it off. It reminds you of the taste you can still sense at the back of your throat–cum, or something that tastes like cum. You ate a whole container of it, Tiffany. You’re a slut. Your cock throbs. It bounces there, free, utterly refusing to go soft even a little bit. You fight the urge to stroke it. You’ve finally decided you’re going to; just a few strokes, it’ll feel good, you won’t tell her, she’ll never know. Then you hear the door pulling open.
You’ve got your blazer closed and you’re across the restroom in seconds. Before the two chatting delivery drivers make it in the door, you’re seated in a stall, pants around your ankles, cock jutting up out of the pretty pink panties.
The two guys jaw about football while they sidle up to the urinals and piss. One of them farts loudly. The other one compliments him on it.
You struggle to think about something unsexy–these two blokes are a good start–but all you can do is make your cock harder when you strain. The two guys leave without washing their hands, and you’re left their panting, you cock in your hand.
Your cell phone rings. You fish it out of your jacket and answer it.
“What do you know?” she purrs. “It works in the basement.”
“They have extenders.”
She laughs. “So you are still there. I guess that means you haven’t been able to lose that hard-on.”
“You’re right, Mistress,” you say.
“Well,” she sighs. “I guess you’re pretty screwed, then. If you can’t think of something unsexy, you’re going to be stuck down there all day. On the other hand, if all you can think of is my mouth... sliding down your cock... my tongue all over it... mmmm... licking the cum out of you...”
“Mistress,” you squeak. “Please don’t.”
“Mmmmmm... my mouth swirling all over your cock... licking you... tasting you... gliding my lips down to the base and then sucking the cum right out of you...”
You know you can’t cum–you just know it. Your bladder is too full; you’re in too much pain; it’s too humiliating. Besides, you’ve been trained to ask for permission every single time, and it’s almost never granted. This time, though, you can’t stop it. She purrs in your ear as you feel your hand beginning to move.
“All over your fucking cock,” she says. “And sucking the cum right out of it.”
“Please, Mistress,” you gasp. “May I cum?”
“All right,” she sighs with a laugh. “This one time.”
She says it just in time; if she said “No,” you were about to disobey her and face the consequences.
You groan as your cock begins to shoot; you don’t even care that it’s coating the front of your suit. You shudder all over as you finish cumming; the orgasm is particularly powerful with the pressure from your bladder. It’s so powerful it hurts; you let out a pained squeak as the agony explodes through your lower body. Pleasure and pain: Mistress Katia’s favorite cocktail.
She laughs a soft chuckle. You let out a soft breath of relief as your cock begins to soften; you breathe hard, point it toward the toilet, and begin to relax. Finally, you’re able to piss.
She stops you with a sharp clucking noise before you can let your piss go. A tiny dribble leaks out as she growls “Permission rescinded, Tiffany. You may not piss.”
Your eyes go bleary, your breath coming tight as you struggle to keep the piss inside you.
“Didn’t I say use the urinal?” she purrs.
“Yes, Mistress,” you say, with relief. She’s going to let you piss at the urinal; now that you’ve cum, it won’t be too bad. You can do it fast and have your cock tucked back into your cum-soaked panties before any of the truckers wander in and discover what you’re wearing.
She sighs with evident pleasure. “Save it for the urinal at the movies, Tiffany. Meet met at the Blake Street Cinema at 5:30. We’ll enjoy a movie, and then maybe we’ll talk about letting you piss.”
Your throat tightens; you feel dizzy. Blake Street Cinema is the downtown porno theater, famous for its sleazy clientele and rough trade in the bathroom.
“It’s Friday night,” she says, “so I imagine it’ll be pretty lively down there.”
Katia chuckles softly at your long silence.
“See you soon, Tiffany.”
You clear your throat. “Yes, Mistress,” you say.
With a tiny whimper of pain, you stuff your cock back into your panties.
