As I meticulously add the final strokes to the Donovan project, my phone suddenly buzzes with an undeniable urgency. I glance down, and my pulse quickens as the word “Master” blazes across the screen. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins as I swiftly open the message, anticipation gripping me like a vice.
“Good morning, my little submissive. Here’s today’s task. You’ll perform this task while at work and out shopping. You’ll take a plastic food bag with you in your purse. At least an hour before quitting work, you’ll go to the ladies’ room with your purse, go into a stall, remove your panties, and put them in the plastic bag. You’ll then return to work. You’ll continue your day without panties until you get home. When you get home, you will lie on your bed and play with yourself until you cum. Then you’ll clean up, put the same panties back on for the rest of your day, and at your earliest convenience, you’ll message me with a video of you playing with yourself.
Master.”
My fingers quake against the smooth glass of my phone as I read Aaron’s message for the third time. The office air seems to thicken, suffocating me in its false calm. My cheeks burn; I can almost feel the heat progressing from my ears down to my neck. I glance at my coworkers—heads bent, fingers tapping—unaware of the storm raging inside me, or perhaps all too aware. Can they see my pulse throbbing in my throat? Hear the anxious drum of my heart?
“You okay, Nikki?” Melissa’s voice drifts over from the next cubicle. “You look flushed.”
I force a hollow laugh that catches in my throat. “I’m fine. Just… too much coffee.” My voice rings unnaturally high. I jam the phone into my drawer and turn my attention to the endless grid of Donovan’s spreadsheets, but the numbers dissolve into blurred shapes. My mind loops back to Aaron’s words, to the weight of his command. I feel—as if through a microscope—the intensity of his gaze on my back, though I refuse to meet it.
By 3:30, I’ve checked the clock a dozen times. My purse vibrates against my hip, and a plastic bag inside crackles like a secret. I rise, every muscle tense.
“Bathroom,” I mutter more to myself than to anyone else, slipping away under Aaron’s silent scrutiny.
The women’s room is deserted. I lock myself in the furthest stall, heart pounding like a war drum. The hush magnifies the soft rustle of the bag in my hand. I tug at my pencil skirt’s zipper, hook my thumbs into the black lace panties—chosen deliberately this morning—and draw them down in a shiver-inducing motion. A cold breath of air dances over my bare core, and I gasp, hot and damp already just from anticipation.
With breathless deliberation, I fold the soaked lace and seal it in the bag. My fingers tremble so fiercely I fear they’ll tear the plastic. I stuff it back into my purse.
Stepping out, every stride feels surreal—skin exposed, vulnerability weighing me down like concrete. The skirt’s fabric whispers against my thighs. I imagine everyone sensing the taut hum between my legs, watching me tiptoe along this metaphorical runway of shame and desire.
“Nikki, can you send me those quarterly figures?” David’s voice jolts me. I nearly drop my clipboard.
“Right away,” I manage, crossing to the file cabinet as if navigating a minefield. Each stoop and reach is agony—a flash of cool air against my most private places sets my pulse racing. I picture a stranger across the aisle glimpsing my secret, and my stomach clenches.
I hand over the papers with a trembling smile. From the corner of my eye, I spot Aaron leaning against his desk with that predatory half-smile, eyes dark and keen. I bow my head and flee back to my cubicle, wishing the remaining hours away.
Every footstep past my cube feels like a spotlight. When I drop my pen, I freeze mid-bend, terrified that my composure will shatter. By 4:45 my phone buzzes again. My stomach coils into knots.
“How are you feeling, submissive?”
My fingers flutter across the screen. “Nervous, Master.”
“Good. Are you wet?”
My thighs jerk together instinctively. “Yes, Master.”
“Perfect. Don’t forget the shopping portion.”
My breath catches. Grocery store. No panties. In public. My pulse soars.
At 5:30, I power down my computer and gather my things with painstaking care. The hallway feels endless, every echo of my heels a hammer against my resolve. At the elevator bank, Aaron appears as though conjured by my anxiety.
“Nikki,” he says casually. “How’s Donovan coming along?”
“Almost done,” I whisper, gaze fixed on the floor.
“Excellent.” He steps in beside me. We stand inches apart, the doors sliding shut on a bubble of tension. “Any plans tonight?”
“My—shopping,” I stammer.
His lips twitch in that familiar, knowing curve. “Grocery store?”
I nod, cheeks scorching. The barest whisper of heat coils between my thighs.
“Enjoy yourself,” he murmurs as the doors open. “I’ll be thinking of you.”
He strides away, leaving me breathless.
The drive to the store is pure torture. Every stoplight and every red blinker intensifies my awareness of nakedness. When I walk beneath the automatic doors, the evening breeze lifts my skirt. I press it down with both hands trembling, my heart screaming that someone will see.
Inside, the fluorescent glare is merciless. I clutch a cart and grab my list, but my head spins with the memory of damp lace sealed in that bag. In Produce, I fumble apples with teeth-gritted concentration, flinching at the slightest brush of fabric against my wet skin. A kindly old man brushes past me, heading for the bananas; my nerves fray, and I apologize in a strangled whisper.
In Dairy, the chill air makes my nipples harden beneath my blouse. I bend for yogurt on the lowest shelf and freeze—what if someone glances up? Every atom of my skin hums with awareness of the forbidden.
At checkout, I place the items on the belt with the utmost care, praying the cashier doesn’t notice my trembling. My signature shakes on the receipt. I race out through the sliding doors like a fugitive.
Loading groceries, each bend forward sends the night air skittering across my naked flesh, thrilling and terrifying me in equal measure. I stuff bags in the trunk and close it with a snap, gulping down a tremor.
At home, I drop my purse, kick off my heels, and make a beeline for the bedroom. Aaron’s voice rings in my ears: lie on the bed, play until you cum. I set my phone on the nightstand, angle it for the recording, and strip off my blouse and skirt in one fluid motion. I’m left in my bra, suddenly drowning in vulnerability.
I extract the plastic bag from my purse, holding it before the camera. “Master, I followed your command,” I whisper, voice raw. “I wore these panties all day, then took them off and went without.” My fingers shake as I unzip the bag. The lace glistens with evidence of my arousal. I press it to the camera, then let it drop to the bed.
I recline and spread my legs, every second of the day’s restraint exploding into wild freedom. My fingertips find my clit, slick and swollen. A sharp gasp tears from me; I can’t wait. One hand cups my breast, nails grazing hardened peaks, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
I slip two fingers inside in one swift motion, sighing at the delicious fullness. I thrust against them, lost to the sensation. “Master,” I moan, utterly undone. Every inch of me aches for release. I imagine Aaron watching, fueling my frenzy.
My hips buck, fingers curling to hit the spot that makes me arch violently off the mattress. I pant his name, begging through ragged breaths—my pleading silent to all but him. My orgasm crashes over me in scorching waves. I cry out, limbs trembling, body convulsing around my hand.
When the tremors subside, I lie spent and breathless, skin trembling. I reach for the damp panties and slide them back on, the cool lace sticking to me like a second skin. His mark. His control.
I stop the recording and send it without hesitation: “Task complete, Master. Thank you for making me feel so exposed.”
His reply is instant: “Perfect, my obedient submissive. Sleep well, knowing how pleased I am. Tomorrow, wear that gray pencil skirt.”
My chest tightens in a rush of warmth. He noticed. He saw everything. I slip under the sheets in a daze, panties clinging to my overheated skin.
Later, I shuffle to the kitchen to stow the groceries, still floating in the haze of what just happened. My phone buzzes again:
“When you dress tomorrow, imagine me choosing every piece. Gray skirt. Cream silk blouse. You know the one.”
“Yes, Master,” I type, breathless. “How did you know about my gray skirt?”
“I notice every tremble, every glance. I’ve watched you far longer than you realize.”
My pulse races at the confession. All those office moments replay in my mind—each smile, each nod, each innocuous word now charged with forbidden possibility.
As I slip into the shower, the hot water washes over me, but I cling to the memory of his gaze, of my trembling body displayed for him alone. I towel off and slide into a silk nightgown— and on with the damp panties—for I know sleep will come only in dreams of masterful control and my own delicious submission.
