The Work Shower

To say that Howard was worked up when he walked the few steps from Patricia's driveway to her front door was an understatement: he was a nuclear bomb with a hair trigger, alert level defcon five, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

Fortunately for him, when Patricia finally answered his knock, she greeted him not with the pleasure he'd expected, but with the scorn of disappointment instead.

Stepping inside, feeling like a disobedient dog, Howard got down on his knees and clasped his hands behind his back, while Patricia shut and locked the door behind him.

"What took you so long," she hissed.

"Mistress—I'm sorry, mistress."

"That's not an answer!"

Howard recoiled from the viciousness of her assault.

"I'm sorry, mistress, the traffic was awful, and—"

Patricia swung her arm in a wide arc, but stopped just short of slapping him across the face.

"Don't lie to me," she said, lowering her hand but not her gaze.

"Mistress?" Howard said, genuinely confused. "I don't understand. I didn't lie to you. There really was bad traffic."

This time she did slap him, a quick one-two across one cheek and then the other. Not hard enough to really hurt, but just enough to humiliate him.

"No," Patricia hissed, "you didn't. You disobeyed me and went home to shower, didn't you? Didn't you!"

"I did not!" Howard protested, flabbergasted by this latest development. "I did exactly as you asked—I went in and showered at work."

"How come, then, you arrive on my doorstep at exactly the same time you would if you went home first? Huh? I did the calculations with Google Maps. It's exactly the same time."

"Mistress, I swear to you, I swear on everything that matters, everything I've ever done for you—I did as you asked."

Something in his tone, or perhaps the way he looked (as if he wanted to throw himself upon her and prostrate himself at her feet, or even wrap his arms around her legs and hold tight, like a clinging child to a distracted parent), gave Patricia pause. She stared at him, uncertain.

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn't," she said, and pointed at the door that led down into the basement. "Either way, I'll find out the truth in a few minutes, so for your sake I hope you're not lying to me."

"No, mistress, I swear."

"All right, then, sissy. Downstairs you go."

Howard looked up at her, she nodded, and away he went, crawling on all fours like he'd been taught.

Howard heard her retrieve something from the steps leading to the second floor, and a second later he felt the first kiss of a riding crop on his denim-clad bottom. He picked up the pace, eager to get undressed and on with his punishment, if only because it meant he would be able to exonerate himself sooner...

The entirety of Patricia's basement was devoted to kink, from the exposed toilet in one far corner, to the wide range of bondage benches, a St. Andrew's cross, a cage, and on the walls were racks that held every kind of pain and pleasure toy imaginable. Howard had simply stopped and stared the first time she'd led him down, his eyes wide, his cock straining against his boxer shorts; it was better than his wildest fantasies, and he was there with the woman of his dreams.

Now, on hands and knees, he crawled into the darkness, navigating by memory alone. Patricia chased him, whacking his ass, the soles of his feet, as she walked. Casual with her cruelty, choosing moments when he was distracted and most exposed to inflict an encouraging blow.

"You know the drill," she said, when the came to a stop on a portion of the floor next to a large wooden chair, which sat perched high upon a makeshift dais. "When I get back, you'd better be ready."

"Yes, mistress," Howard said, and knelt with his head down until he was certain Patricia had left the room. Then he got to work.

Stripping off his outer layers, until all he wore were the red panties and, beneath, his chastity device, Howard retrieved leather cuffs from a nearby chest, which he then fastened over his wrists and ankles. Such cuffs could be attached to a variety of restraints built into the roof and walls, as well as several pieces of furniture.

Howard had, he recalled, been bound with his arms stretched overhead, and whipped mercilessly on one occasion, while on another he'd been restrained against the St. Andrew's cross while Patricia, standing close enough for him to feel the heat of her body but remaining just out of reach, had brought herself to a thunderous climax with a plug-in vibrator. He'd had a lot of good times here—not just as a slave, either—and a few bad, too, where the pain inflicted had brought all sorts of bad memories flooding back.

Howard hoped today would be of the latter sort, though he was a bit worried about his mistress's mistaken assumption about his shower.

He was in position by the time she arrived, resplendent in sheer black stockings, black high heeled shoes, black latex panties, and a black corset. Black elbow-length gloves covered her hands, within which she held her favorite riding crop, and as Howard watched, Patricia slapped it against her palm and nodded her approval.

"Good slave. Now, take off your panties and give them to me."

Howard obeyed.

Patricia took the panties and held them beneath her nose. She sniffed, closed her eyes, and thought for a long moment.

"I don't know, slave, these smell like your expensive girly soap to me."

"Mistress, I swear, I—"

"Turn around, face down, ass up."

Howard hurried to obey, feeling the familiar mix of shame and fearful arousal as he exposed his intimates to her scrutiny. Howard could feel her gaze upon him, searching his hairless body for any imperfection she could use to justify further punishment—not that she needed a reason, it just made things more interesting for them both if one existed.

The crop impacted his buttocks, sending a jolt of pain coursing through him, and causing him to cry out.

"Stop ... fucking ... lying to me ... you ... little ... sissy ... bitch!"

Each word was punctuated by a blow. Howard's ass burned with incredible heat, and, dangling between his legs, his chastised member began to leak.

"Mistress, please," he whined, "I swear I did as you asked!"

Patricia hit him again, twice, three times, continued to hit him, in fact, until his pleas dissolved into inarticulate cries for mercy, then stopped.

"Mercy, huh. He wants mercy. Okay, sissy, get up and on the bench. Hurry now, or I'll be forced to show you how merciful I really can be."

Howard scrambled to obey.

It's funny, he thought, climbing onto the padded bench, extending his arms and legs towards the latches that would connect to his wrist and ankle cuffs, how something as simple as laying on a bench becomes difficult when you're under pressure. Howard's weak knees and shaking hands were a dead giveaway—if he'd actually lied, he would've had no hope—he knew this, but more importantly, Patricia knew this as well. Why, then, she persisted in punishing him, he didn't know. But he would rather die than ask.

Patricia quickly secured first his wrists then his ankles, effectively binding him with his arms and legs spread, rendering him helpless and completely at her mercy.

Cooing appreciatively, Patricia used her riding crop to prod her captive sissy's plastic-clad member. Howard whimpered, feeling sick and elated, not ready to believe his mistress would actually hit him there, but not willing to rule it out, either.

"You know," Patricia said, walking out of view in the direction towards his head. "If you really did use the shower at your work, that would make me very happy."

"Yes, mistress."

"You've come a long way since we first met, when you were almost too scared to admit your love of pretty, girly things to me, afraid I might turn you away like your parents did."

Howard swallowed. It suddenly felt as though he had a lump in his throat.

"Yes, mistress."

"Now you're wearing panties on a daily basis, and not only that, you've taken the biggest step a sissy can take, before she decides to out herself and live life as she was meant to."

Howard's cock twitched involuntarily, and Patricia laughed.

"How long has it been since you last had an orgasm?"

"Mistress, it's been ... I don't know ... at least two weeks."

"Almost exactly sixteen days. Not long, in the grand scheme of things, but for a beginner, it's quite impressive. Are you used to peeing sitting down yet?"

"What? Oh—I mean, yes, mistress."

Howard's cheeks flushed bright pink. He'd hoped she wouldn't know about that—that it wouldn't occur to her because she didn't know what it was like to pee standing up, only to have that ability taken from you, and forced to sit and let your urine dribble humiliatingly out of the little plastic tube encapsulating your penis.

"Good girl."

Howard shivered.

Patricia ran her fingers—the nails long, sharp, and painted bright crimson red—along the line of his jaw. She caressed his lips, forced a finger between his lips, and he obligingly sucked.

"You're good at that," Patricia mused. "Have you been practicing?"

Howard, not wanting to break suction, nodded.

Patricia withdrew her finger and he let out a disappointed moan.

"Yes, all in all, I'd say I'm rather pleased with you. You listen, you do what I tell you, and, more importantly—most importantly, actually—you are aware of yourself. You know how to set realistic goals for yourself, and that makes things so much easier, and much more pleasant, for me."

Howard hear a metallic jingling and immediately tried to raise his head.

Of course he couldn't see anything, but his heart leapt into his chest as his mind leapt to the only logical conclusion.

"Mistress?"

"Yes, sissy?"

"Is that—are you going to unlock me now?"

"I might," Patricia said, sighing. "Then again, I might not. I still haven't quite made up my mind yet."

Howard whimpered.

"If you give me a good enough reason, not only will I unlock you, I might actually let you cum. Would you like that, sissy? If I let you cum?"

"Yes, mistress!"

"Then tell me about your shower. Give me details, so I can imagine it for myself. Right now all I can see is a pretty little sissy with a locked up clitty in a vacuum. Make it real for me, slave."

Howard did, to tried to—the more his mind attempted to focus, the hazier his recollection became. Was it Lyle who'd seen the panties and found him in the shower, or Jackson? How long had he spent in there, fumbling with the hot and cold valves, looking for what passed for shampoo in the prison-like shower? It felt like a bad dream, if he were perfectly honest with himself, and in remembering what he'd been through, he felt the anxiety return full force. His pulse quickened in a decidedly unsexy way, and a sheen of sweat broke out across his smooth, petite body.

So caught up was he in the discomfort of memory that Howard, still talking, blubbering details like a torture victim in the inquisition, was unaware of his Mistress as she moved between his legs. There was a click, and she held the open padlock before his astonished eyes. Howard stared at it in stunned surprise for a moment, a word half formed in his gaped open mouth, then his dick—sissy clit—caught up with the rest of his body: it sprang erect, pushing the various components apart like a sprung trap.

Patricia laughed.

"You didn't really think I disbelieved you, did you, sissy?"

Howard swallowed hard.

"No, mistress."

But it wouldn't take a trained interrogator—which, to a certain extent, Patricia was—to recognize the deception—mixed with barely concealed excitement—in his tone.

"That's okay, sissy. I don't blame you. If I suffered what I subjected you to, I wouldn't believe me either."

She moved around him, a vague shape which he traced by the sense of movement and the faintest hint of her perfume, which followed her like an obedient dog. She was at the far side of the room when she next spoke, her voice muted by distance and the sound dampening material in the walls, ceiling and floor, which prevented it from carrying.

"I'm still going to hurt you for it."

"Mistress?"

Howard tried to sit up and found the limit of his bonds. He desperately wanted to see what she was doing, if only so he knew what to expect, but she moved deliberately out of his line of sight.

"You heard me, Howard. I'm going to beat the shit out of you—I'm going to make you cry, scream, and bleed."

"But mistress, why—?"

"Why?" Her response was punctuated by mocking laughter. "It's simple, Howard, so simple even you should know without having to ask."

Howard blushed red, but said nothing.

"I'm going to do it because I want to, and because I can. Now, be a good girl and get ready. Here comes the pain."

***

When it was over and Patricia was finished, Howard's entire body was crisscrossed with red welts, covered in bruises, and punctuated by love bites. She had applied to him, in no particular order, a vicious caning, a brutal beating, raked him with her nails, and then, periodically, stopped to taste with her own mouth the exquisite flavor of his fear. Howard, meanwhile, had screamed himself hoarse, and now lay, unbound, covered in sweat, in a drugged kind of stupor, his erect, un-chastised member plastered limply to his toned lower belly.

"You're such a good girl," Patricia cooed, kneeling to put her mouth level with her tortured sissy's clit. "You're beautiful when you suffer."

Howard, who was unable to raise his head, whimpered.

"Thank you, mistress."

"Would you like your reward now—for being so good?"

"Yes, mistress."

Patricia ran one of her nails along the underside of his abused organ, and laughed when he cried out in anticipation.

In a move neither she nor Howard would have ever predicted, Patricia took a position above Howard and, guiding him against the moist opening of her slit, slowly lowered herself onto him.

It didn't take long, both of them being as close as they were, and soon Patricia, who rocked back and forth with savage force, grinding herself against Howard's firm body, threw back her head and uttered a sudden scream of unbridled passion, which in turn triggered a sympathetic response from the slave beneath her.

Howard's orgasm, coming after so long a period of denial, was intense.

He felt as if his whole body were being drawn up, into the vacuum like suction of his mistress's cunt. He jerked, grunting, and tried to hold on, but it was like trying to ride a wild horse, intent on bucking him off. Howard's pleasure skyrocketed, launching him out of his body and into that strange place we all go for a split second every time we come. Rather than continue unabated, however, just as he reached the peak of his pleasure, Howard felt, then saw his mistress climb off of him.

Howard cried out as his orgasm immediately ceased, transforming itself into a series of perfunctory contractions that resulted in his

Laughing, Patricia said:

"You didn't think I would really let you cum inside me, did you?"

Howard pouted, but said nothing.

"Listen to you—you think you'd be grateful. All that cum trapped in those poor balls for so long, I give you the release you've been craving and where's my thanks?"

"Mistress," Howard gasped, "please, forgive me. I forgot—"

"That's okay, sissy, I know just what to do with you."

Scooping up his cum, Patricia offered her covered palm and sticky fingers to her exhausted slave.

"You know what to do."

Howard did.

When he was finished, Patricia helped him up, and together they went into the shower, where they washed one another and, afterwards, Patricia applied ointment to his wounds. She took every opportunity available to praise Howard for what he'd done, and tell him how pleased she was with his obedience.

"I never once doubted you," she said, toweling him dry. "You're such a good little sissy, so obedient and eager to please."

"Thank you, mistress," Howard replied, beaming. His joyous expression faded a little when he saw her retrieve his freshly washed and air-dried chastity device, but he did not otherwise protest as he locked his—for now—soft member back inside its familiar, plastic prison.

"You've come a long way in your service to me," Patricia said, the padlock giving an audible click as she closed it, locking the device in place. "But you have a long way to go yet."

"Yes, mistress."

Patricia caressed his cheek and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"You know orgasms are bad for you. They make you forgetful and weak. I need you to be strong for me. Can you do that, Howard, stay strong another three weeks for your mistress?"

"But mistress," Howard said, unable to help himself, "last time it was only two."

"Did I say three?"

Howard nodded.

"Oh. Well I meant four. Come and see me next week, so I can check up on you, and remember to send me daily picture updates. Other than that, get out of here. I need to get things ready for the next sissy."