Hannah had become envious of my expensive silk underwear, allegedly because it was better than what she was wearing. She had cajoled me into agreeing to buy myself plain, high-waisted, white cotton panties, such as many women wear. And, to add to the “fun”, she had also decided that I should wear a bra inside the house.
My sensible suggestion that we purchased my new underwear online had been rejected out of hand—she had insisted we bought it in a store.
oooOOooo
“We’ll take your car,” she’d said, and now we were on our way to an out-of-town shopping centre. I knew there were a lot of stores there, including lingerie shops, and my mind was panicking over which one we would visit.
“We’re going to the hypermarket,” she announced, reading my mind.
“The hypermarket?”
“Yes, you know, that enormous place that sells everything from beans to bras. And it’s cheap as well, Mr Benson.”
I knew the store she was referring to, not that that calmed my anxieties.
oooOOooo
We arrived, but, before we got out of the car, she had some further instructions for me.
“We’re not a couple, Mr Benson, so you walk eight feet behind me. If I stop, you stop—eight feet away. Understood?” I nodded. “And at no point do you talk to me. Think of us as strangers.”
I gulped and nodded. This had to be another test of my submissiveness for her blasted dissertation.
“When we’re in the store, I will lead you to the underwear section and then leave you to choose what you want?”
“What? Can’t you be with me? What are people going to think?”
She stared patiently at me, and then, with a little shake of her head, explained, “You’re old enough to be my dad, Mr Benson. If we’re together, then people are going to think you’re helping me buy my underwear.” She paused to let that sink in. “Don’t you think that would be weird? What dad selects his nineteen-year-old daughter’s bras and panties? Any girl would die of embarrassment!” She gave a shiver, to emphasise how distasteful the idea was to her.
I could understand what she was saying, but the alternative was that I would be doing the shopping alone. The embarrassment was going to fall entirely on me—as she well understood.
oooOOooo
We got out of the car, and she led the way into the retail park, with me trailing behind at the required distance. Suddenly, she stopped to gaze into the window of an upmarket lingerie outlet. I had to stop as well, but, unlike her, I then had to suffer the discomfort of trying to look anywhere except at the manikins in the window displaying the skimpiest of lingerie.
Deliberately, she was in no rush to move on and, at one point, when I looked in her direction, her reflection in the glass revealed she was struggling not to smile. She knew how to pile on the humiliation.
Bored with her little game, we carried on, our next stop being the hypermarket where she strode purposefully to the women’s underwear aisles, positioning herself eight feet past the simple white stuff. While she contented herself scrutinising some colourful bras, I was left to examine a collection of white cotton panties and white T-shirt bras.
I wanted to be in and out as quickly as I could. The panties were being sold in packs of five, and an image on the packaging told me they were the required style—certainly, they were unmistakably feminine, but they were best described as functional. The term “passion killers” came to mind.
I picked up two packs and hid them under an arm. Choosing bras was harder. They were being sold singularly and without packaging, meaning I had to touch them. Ordinarily, feeling the softness of such bras would have provoked a strong arousal, but, such was my state of nervousness, I experienced nothing. This was an ordeal I had no wish to suffer.
Hannah had told me to buy three bras, each 38C. Frantically, I searched through what seemed to be a forest of bras, looking for ones the correct size. Two I quickly located, but the third was proving elusive.
My face was burning up. My eyes flitted in Hannah’s direction in hope of support, but I discovered she was staring at me with a stern look of disapproval, pretending she didn’t know me and labelling me as a pervert. It was part of her game, not that that was any consolation.
“May I help you, Sir?” asked a voice behind me. I swung around to be confronted by a middle-aged shop assistant. “You look lost and out of your comfort zone,” she added with a smile.
“Er… yes… no… yes…” I replied, unintelligibly.
“What size are you looking for, Sir?”
“Er… a 38C. It’s for my wife, you understand?”
“Yes, I do understand,” she replied, still smiling. Did she understand? Or, more to the point, did she understand too well? I felt my face flush.
She was attractive. She could have been an older version of Hannah, with blonde hair and firm boobs, not that I intended to stare.
“You can order online, Sir, and have things delivered within a couple of days. Would you prefer to do that?”
Yes, that’s exactly what I preferred doing, but it was not what Hannah wanted. “Er… no, my wife needs things today.”
“Oh, okay!” She rifled through the display, quickly locating a 38C that had eluded me. “There you go, Sir. I hope your wife likes your purchases. I have to say that few men would have your courage to do their wife’s intimate shopping. Good on you, Sir!” She gave me a final smile, before disappearing to help someone else.
Holding my purchases, I turned to look at Hannah, whose face now bore a tight-lipped grimace. We proceeded to the checkout, where Hannah deliberately headed for the youngest and prettiest checkout girl in the entire store.
Hannah walked past the assistant, leaving me to make the purchase on my own. The girl looked embarrassed at what I’d put on the conveyor belt—needless to say, I shared her embarrassment, and we were both tense.
I needed to break the ice. “They’re not for me,” I joked. “Did you think they were? Not my size!”
The girl looked up at me with a naïve expression that revealed no understanding of sexual deviancy. “They’re women’s! Why… why would I think they were for you?” she asked, puzzled.
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” I laughed, mirthlessly, my face now scarlet.
She said nothing else and refused to make further eye contact. We both must have been hoping the floor would open up and swallow us—but into different holes.
I hurriedly made payment and followed Hannah out of the store, walking eight feet behind.
oooOOooo
Following her back to my car, I felt like a stalker, which I guess was her intention. Each time she stopped, I had to stop, whereas walking on past her would have been the natural thing to have done.
We got to my vehicle, and she waited for me to open the passenger door. I got in the other side, letting out a huge gasp of relief.
I smiled and turned to face her, but my smile was not reciprocated. “Well, Mr Benson,” she began, in a serious tone of voice, “You completed the challenge, but you made two whopping mistakes. Do you know what they were?”
“Erm?”
“Sheila—Professor Williams to you—has explained to me that a requirement for any male submissive is never to tell lies, never more so than when talking to a female.”
“Er?”
“You told that older assistant that you were buying underwear for your wife, and you told the pretty checkout girl that the underwear wasn’t for you. Why did you do that?”
“From sheer embarrassment. I couldn’t bring myself to say I was purchasing for my own use.”
“Neither asked you who they were for, did they? You could have kept shtum, instead you fabricated stories that were blatant lies. And, in doing that, you added to that poor checkout girl’s embarrassment! I felt so sorry for her—you bastard!” That last word, she spat out.
“Sorry… Miss…” I mumbled.
“You will be, when we get back to your house, Mr Benson.”
Nothing more was said by her for the rest of the journey. Twice, I attempted to start a conversation, but neither time did she respond. She was either truly upset and furious with me—which didn’t bode well—or else she was feigning her angry state of mind—which didn’t bode well either.
oooOOooo
Once back in my house, she led the way into my lounge, dropping herself down into my armchair. Without being told, I adopted the kneeling presentation position, facing her, with my hands on my head.
I was disappointed that my act of obedience didn’t bring a smile to her face. “Why the hell are you doing that?” she asked irritably. “Unpack your shopping and put on bra and panties. Come on! Chop, chop!”
Moving as quickly as I could, I obeyed her orders, struggling somewhat to do up the bra. “Useless! You’re totally useless,” she impatiently exclaimed. “By next Saturday, I expect you to do your bra up, around your back, in fifteen seconds. I hope that’s understood, Mr Benson?”
I nodded in agreement while continuing to get dressed. As she’d predicted, the bra was a tight fit, and I was always going to be conscious of wearing it. And the panties were high-waisted, just as she had expected me to buy. It occurred to me that they might be visible above the waistband of my trousers, so I was going to have to be careful at work that my shirt didn’t come untucked.
“Find some socks to stuff into your bra for shape, and then go and stand in the corner while I type up some notes and decide how to punish you. Spend the time feeling scared, because you’re right to be scared. I told you that there will be zero tolerance, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss, sorry, Miss,” I replied, before obeying her instructions.
oooOOooo
Standing in the corner, I lost track of time, but I was aware of her thumping away on her laptop, presumably adding more to her dissertation on male submissive tendencies. One way or another, I was providing her with volumes of material.
I heard her laptop lid close shut, and then I detected she’d stood up. There was movement that I couldn’t fathom, and a dragging sound, as if furniture was being moved. She was setting up for something, causing a sinking feeling in my stomach, wondering how she was going to punish me.
As she had predicted, I was frightened, and my biggest fear was that she would announce I would not be unlocked from my cage the following Saturday. A week in chastity had proved almost unbearable, so I couldn’t cope with longer than that.
“Come over here, Mr Benson,” she suddenly announced, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turned around. She was standing up and had taken off her jeans, revealing her pink panties—quite possibly the same ones she’d been wearing two weeks earlier when she’d tricked me into revealing what I was wearing. Despite my predicament, my penis spasmed inside its cage, sending a jet of precum into the cotton of my underwear. She stared down at me with a look of scorn, while slowly shaking her head in disapproval.
Then, belatedly, in the middle of the room, I saw she’d placed one of my dining room chairs. She sat herself down on it, patting her thighs.
My God! She was going to spank me!
In a state of nervous excitement, I went over to her and positioned myself over her thighs, my penis throbbing at me being so close to her warm, bare legs.
“You know why you need to be spanked, Mr Benson, don’t you?”
“Yes, Miss… Because I told lies.”
She eased my panties down so they were mid-thigh and then, tenderly, she ran her hands gently over my buttocks. This is no punishment, I thought to myself, as I felt my penis pulsating inside its tube.
But no sooner had that thought filled my mind than she began to rain down blows on my bum. There was no warming-up period—no starting with light taps, gradually building up in force and frequency. No! She went hell for leather from the outset, pummelling both sides with hard strokes of her palms. And it hurt!
My penis, which only a few seconds earlier, had been revelling in the experience, went into retreat. So shrivelled up did it become that I felt that for the first time in a week, there was space inside the cage for it to wiggle freely around.
Surely, I thought to myself, this must be hurting her as much as it was me, yet she never slowed down nor reduced the intensity of the punishment. On and on she went, saying not a word, reserving all her energy for spanking me.
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. No! You’re a grown man, I told myself. You don’t cry. But I did, and I was aware of tears dripping onto the carpet.
My punishment was becoming unbearable. “Please! Please stop,” I yelled.
And she did—instantly!
I was breathing heavily. “God… that hurt… it… really hurt!”
“It wouldn’t… have… been a… punishment… if it didn’t,” she explained. She was as breathless as I was. Was it down to physical exertion or something else?
I eased myself off her lap and placed my hands on my bum. It was red hot, like a radiator.
“No… rubbing,” she gasped. “Pull… your knickers… up, and fetch your… blindfold.”
As I pulled up my panties, I glanced at hers, and there was a wet patch at the front. “Yes… you’ve more cleaning to do… there’s been a spillage, Mr Benson,” she smiled. At least she was in a better mood now!
I retrieved what worked as a blindfold from my bedroom. When I got back, she had moved from the dining room chair to my comfy armchair.
She securely wrapped the blindfold around my head. “On your knees,” she commanded.
There was then some movement from her, which I knew was her pulling her panties down, revealing her sacred altar, a part of her body that she had told me subs were forbidden to ever see.
Yet subs were allowed to suck and lick that most private region, so I eagerly set to work. She was sopping wet, and it took little effort from me before her whole body began to convulse, thrashing around. Her thighs squeezed the sides of my head, and her hands pulled me closer into her pussy as more juices squirted out.
Escape for me was impossible, not that I wished to pull away. After an eternity of writhing, she collapsed back into the chair.
“Good… man…” she muttered, after a few minutes.
Nothing more was said for a while, but I was aware of her heavy breathing. Eventually, she was able to speak fluently, in full sentences. “Stand up and turn around, Mr Benson. Take off the blindfold, and face the wall while I get dressed.”
oooOOooo
Several minutes passed before she summoned me to her. She was still sitting in my armchair, and her laptop was open. Clearly, she was resuming work on her dissertation. “So, Mr Benson, adopt the kneeling presentation position.”
I did so, and she smiled approvingly. “Now tell me what your submissive life has been like today. How has it made you feel? Was it embarrassing? Humiliating? Exhilarating? Arousing?”
I related my experiences of the day to her, emphasising the highlights and the lowlights. She listened attentively, while hammering away on her keyboard, just occasionally stopping to ask a question or to seek clarification. When I had finished unburdening myself of my emotions, she gave me one of her sweet smiles and reminded me that I was a “good man”.
I felt myself blushing. “How about you, Miss?” I diffidently asked. “What have your emotions been?”
“Mr Benson, it’s your psychology that’s the subject of this dissertation, not mine.” She had a coy expression on her face, which told me more than words could.
“Do you have a spare key, Mr Benson?” she asked, out of the blue.
“Sorry?”
“A spare key—for your front door! Sheila says subs should be allowed no privacy, so I need to be able to let myself into your house anytime I want. I need to spot check you’re wearing bra and knickers, and nothing else.”
“What? No!” I blurted out, before realising that my outburst would not be appreciated. “Sorry, Miss, but…” I added, contritely, but stunned by her suggestion.
“That was close to insolence, Mr Benson!” she remarked, giving me one of her disapproving stares. “When at home, I expect you to wear only your underwear. Understood? I have to be able to confirm your obedience with surprise visits. And, if I come when you’re not here, I’m not going to steal anything, you silly man. Just give me a key.”
I could tell this was another argument I would not win. It was another of her rules—another turn of the ratchet, but the thought of her controlling my life in this way was also exciting.
I stood up, fetched a key and passed it to her. “You’re free tomorrow, I hope? Sunday?” she continued, changing the subject.
I nodded that I was, while giving her a quizzical look.
“My flat needs cleaning, and you’re just the man to do it.” She passed me a piece of paper on which she’d written her address. “Be there at 9 AM prompt, wearing bra and panties under your clothes. Okay?”
“Erm… can’t I put a bra on when I get there, Miss?” I replied, my stomach turning over.
“No!” she sharply replied, with no further explanation.
“Er…”
“God, look at the time. I need to be gone. Bye, Mr Benson—see you tomorrow.”
Before I could say anything more, she made a rapid exit from the house, carrying the bag containing my boxers and silk panties which she’d said she would keep safe now I had new underwear.
