My Day with Mistress Pt. 04

Literotic asexstories – My Day with Mistress Pt. 04 by cb987,cb987
Part 4

“Somewhere” turns out to be out of the city, thank God. You drive us across the GWB and then head south on 95 toward the Meadowlands, with the speakers blaring a custom playlist you’ve put together–“When I Rule the World” by LIZ, “Dictator” by REI AMI, “SIMP” by Lil Mariko, and a couple dozen other songs carefully curated to put me in my place. It’s a Wednesday night–which is a good thing, because it means there are no football games. I can totally see you bringing me to a game and buying sideline tickets to be sure we end up on the cameras, the mood you’re in today. But we pass the Meadowlands and I exhale.

“I was thinking about the Lombardi service area,” you say at last, turning down the music. I can’t tell if you’re serious or not. “But that might be a bit much, even for you, Slutty. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in sucking a real cock, more’s the pity. I’d love to see you do that for me one day.”

I swallow hard. That would be a red line. Of course, I thought being taken out on a date dressed in women’s clothing and made up like a juggalo was a red line, too. Apparently it’s not.

You glance at me. “Ah, well. A girl can dream. Maybe one day.”

Instead, you turn the music back up and we turn onto Route 17 and drive for a while. You tap your fingers on The Disciplinarian’s controller as TIMMS’ “Tamagotchi” comes on (“don’tcha love a bitch in power?”), and then you lower the volume again as you look over at me again, a devilish smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “So yeah, I wanted to see you suck a cock, but I know I’ll never get that. But then I thought, ‘You know what? I still know a way to get a big ol’ chunk of meat into Slutty’s McSlutface.'”

We pull into a parking lot for a single large concrete building. At first, all I see are the crenellations lining the top of its walls, but then I see the sign and I wince. “So come on, Slutty,” you say encouragingly. “Girls’ night out. Let’s go watch some handsome men show us their wood.”

On one hand, this is going to be awful. On the other, it’s absolutely impossible that I know anyone here. You’ve chosen the spot well. And I’ve come this far, it’s not like I’m going to back out now. Even if I really, really want to. “Yes, Mistress,” I say, closing my eyes and summoning the strength to open the door. 3, 2… and I’m out.

The parking lot is half-full, with dozens of people still getting out of their cars. In these first few moments, no one seems to have seen me. I hope that stays the case all night, but I can’t see how it could. I open your door for you and give you a hand out. “Why, thank you, pet,” you say sweetly.

And then you’re past me and on your way toward the door. “Twenty feet, remember,” you call as you pass me. *Fuck*. I’d forgotten. I hasten to catch up.

We have a moment before we catch up to the others near the door. Still, no one seems to have seen me. “You’re going to protect me, right?” I ask nervously. “If things get weird?”

You smile up at me. Your lips are still perfect, red and glossy, and your teeth are bright white behind them. Your eyes glimmer wickedly. “Now, Slutty, dear,” you say, and let out the sweetest little laugh. “Why would I ever want to do that?”

I stand there, mouth open, flushed and flustered, as you make your way to the small crowd at the door. *Twenty feet*. Holy hell. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Three seconds, four. You’re 15 feet away now. I think about running for the car. Running for the swamp. But the little test shock you gave me back in the shop hurt so badly. I’ll be on the ground if it lasts for more than a second or two. And I don’t even know what you turned it up to when you were playing with the controller in the car. I try to remember the sound, how many clicks I heard. I don’t remember.

I can’t risk it. I run after you, bolting toward the door. A pudgy middle-aged guy in a too-short, too wide green dress, leg hair everywhere, gray chest hair through the drooping chest area, cock bouncing under the dress, disastrous makeup. Running for the door.

People are laughing. My face is burning. But I have no choice. I catch up to you.

“Good decision,” you say with a smile, and tap the controller. “Smart girl.”

“Fuck you,” I say, under my breath. “Damn you to Hell for this.”

You laugh with the crowd. “Hell is where all the interesting people go, darling. Why would I want to go anywhere else? Now come on, I paid a lot for our seats and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

You take my hand and lead me past the door, flashing your phone at the ticket taker to show the QR code. “Two,” you say. “Myself and Ms. McSlutface.”

The ticket taker, a teen boy dressed in blue and white checks, cracks up. “Nice name.”

“She’s a very nice girl,” you say. I can feel his eyes in the back of my skull as we pass him.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I whine as we move through the crowd toward the rows of wooden benches. You don’t even bother responding, instead finding a hostess in a barmaid’s outfit who leads us to our seat. The hostess can’t stop looking at me as I take my seat. “Costume party,” I tell her weakly.

Electricity rips through my crotch as you look at me mildly. I jump and let out a little shriek, and barely stop myself from clutching my balls protectively.

“It’s not nice to lie,” you tell me gently. “Tell the nice hostess your name.”

I glare at you. You raise an eyebrow. I close my eyes. “Slutty McSlutface,” I tell her.

“And are you a pretty girl?” you ask. “Slutty?”

“I’m a pretty girl,” I tell the hostess.

The hostess turns bright red and rushes away as soon as she’s shown us to our seats.

“You embarrassed her,” I say.

“She’ll get over it,” you tell me. “And what a story she’ll have to tell tomorrow. Pretty soon everyone will know about you, Slutty. All her friends. All their friends. Won’t that be fun?”

I imagine the conversations and beneath my makeup I flush even redder than the hostess. “Why?”

“Because it makes me happy, pet,” you say. “Don’t you want to make me happy?”

I growl in frustration. The hell of it is… I *do* want to make you happy. But people are staring at us as we sit down on the wooden bench next to the arena floor. Pointing. Laughing. I want to die.

“I took the liberty of ordering ahead,” you tell me as a waitress comes with a tray of food and a pitcher of beer. “I do want to see that meat in your mouth, pet. Tell the nice woman your name so she can give you your food.”

I close my eyes, resigned. “Slutty McSlutface,” I murmur.

ZAP!

I jolt backward against the wooden bench as an army of soldier ants savage my crotch.

“I don’t think she heard you, pet,” you say with an edge to your voice.

“I’m Slutty McSlutface,” I say again, louder. Tears have started to gather in my eyes and there’s a lump in my throat.

“One more time,” you say, holding the controller up.

“I’m Slutty McSlutface!” I cry. “Please, just give me my fucking dinner.”

You burst out laughing as the waitress hurriedly thumps the food down on the table and hustles away. “That was very good, Slutty. You sounded so proud and sure of yourself. Now look at your food.”

I look down at the plate before me. A long roll, barely containing an even longer, thicker, sausage.

“Eat your sausage, Slutty.”

*Fuck me.*

“And Slutty? Make it *sexy*.”

I look at the sausage sandwich on the platter in front of me, tears running down my face. The sausage is enormous and glistening with grease. I have never wanted to eat anything less. You watch me impassively.

“The lights will be going out soon,” you say. “Unless you want tonight’s show to be all about you, pet, you had better shove that fucking meat into your mouth.”

Miserably I pick up the sandwich.

“No bun,” you tell me warningly, holding up the controller. “Just a handful of meat.”

I close my eyes and gingerly place the bun back on the table, clenching the greasy sausage in my fist.

“Lick it for me,” you urge me, putting your hand on my bare thigh. “Show me what a good little slut you are, Slutty, and I promise, I’ll make it up to you when you get home. You know how good I can make you feel. For *hours*…”

You look so elegant, so sweet, so beautiful. And whatever you’re putting me through… you’re here *with* me, putting me through it. We’re going back to your place tonight, and you’ll tease me to the edge of sanity, and then you’ll let me make you cum a half-dozen times, and after that there’s at least a decent chance you’ll fuck my brains out. Isn’t that worth this?

Isn’t that worth *anything*?

I lick sausage, the grease thick in my mouth. Looking you in the eye the whole time.

“There’s my little slut,” you exclaim delightedly. “Put it in your mouth now. Suck the grease out of that meat-cock, Slutty. Gag on it for me.”

I open my mouth, jam the sausage in. Watching the whole time. Performing for you. Wanting to make you happy. The world narrows to the two of us as I forget the waitresses, the hostesses, the actors, and everyone in the hall around us, and I work the fuck out of that greasy sausage.

The moment the house lights go out and the spotlight focuses attention on the dirt oval before us, your hand flies beneath the table and you start to finger yourself.

“Keep going,” you tell me breathily. “Worship that fucking meat, pet. What a good little slut you are for me.”

Your words go through me like fire and my cock hardens as I lick and nibble and suck, as I gag on the sausage and watch you cum quietly in your seat while the knights shatter their lances against each others’ shields and boast of their prowess in faux-medieval speech. People might be staring. Might be taking pictures. In that moment I realize that I don’t actually *care*. I thought I did. I thought my pride was everything. But what I really care about is making you happy. If it takes suffering pain to do that, I’ll suffer pain. If it takes humiliating myself, I’ll humiliate myself. You are my Mistress, my Queen, my Goddess. In your own twisted way, you love me and need me every bit as much as I love and need you. You know my limits. You will only give me what I can handle.

As I watch your eyes flutter closed, your hand emerge slick from beneath your dress, as I realize that the people around us don’t matter–only the two of us do–it occurs to me that it wasn’t lip service, what I said to you back in the parking garage. I really do trust you. With my life.

And I will do *anything* for you. Even this.