Everyone in this story is over 18, including the fantasy people described in the story.
"When you want them to use 'reply all' they never do. When you don't want them to use 'reply all,' they won't stop." Nancy Mitchell deleted a chain of email messages that had nothing to do with her, forwarded two more, minimized her email and went back to typing up a report on the newest way someone found to commit credit card fraud in the city. She clicked away mindlessly, summarizing and cross-referencing with criminal statutes and relevant case law, keeping the clock on her computer desktop in the corner of her eye until it finally ticked over to 2:00 PM.
She bit her lower lip and stretched elaborately, then poked her head up over her cubicle wall and looked around the office to make sure no one was coming to talk to her or lingering nearby. Seeing no one around she spun her chair so she was facing the entrance to her cubicle, and took out her personal phone. She entered her PIN, opened the photo gallery, scrolled down and clicked on a thumbnail. A picture expanded to fill the screen. The picture. The picture of her standing outside her apartment door, her arms at her side and the girls (what little there was of them) right out there and on display. A forced smile was on her face, and you could see tension in the muscles of her shoulders. The top of her head was out of frame, but you could clearly see her face even though the focus of the camera was obviously on her chest. On her nipples, stiff and hard, swollen from the cold rain and the erotic rush of shame she was feeling. They stuck out like the proverbial pencil erasers of every fictional horny exposed internet shame slut, dark pink and swollen and tight against her pale skin.
Her sad little mosquito bites were still wet and shining from the camera flash, uncovered, exposed, on display for anyone who might have walked by and looked. But mostly on display for Chris, because she so desperately wanted to be a pathetic little slut for the taller, big-breasted blond woman. To be taken under her control and publicly humiliated for the two bumps that were conspiring with her brain and the hole between her legs to push her into living out her deepest, darkest, most shameful and until recently anonymous fantasies: for people to see her naked, laugh at her tiny breasts, and feed her desire for humiliation and self-degradation until it chewed up, swallowed, and digested her entire life.
Nancy had memorized every curve and line of the picture, but still couldn't stop looking at it. It wasn't a picture of someone gleefully or even drunkenly flashing her chest to titillate the viewer or get their approval. It was something else. The closest Nancy could come to describing it was like a picture of a mother who had just given birth after an especially difficult labor. Still in the hospital bed, sweating and exhausted with a crumpled white sheet half covering them so they could pretend they still cared about their modesty. A picture of a person who had just been through an ordeal they had longed to experience for quite some time, and knowing they would describe the experience as joyous later, but in that exact moment there was still some part of them that wondered if it was worth it as the endorphins and adrenaline faded. If given the choice would they do it again, take it all back, or go even further? And if they did choose to do it again how much time would they spend thinking about the price they paid for going through that door and would now have to continue to pay? Once the orgasms faded and the kink became routine how would they feel now that their life had been changed forever?
She sat in her office chair surrounded by her co-workers and staring at the picture while pondering these questions, and inevitably thought of what would happen if she lost her phone, or it got hacked, or if someone accidentally saw the picture, and pangs of worry amplified the feelings of lust deep in her gut. After one marathon jackoff session when she had gotten herself off until her pussy was sore, red, and aching she had even gone into the picture's settings and removed all the properties and personal information. She told herself that made it less likely to be traced back to her, gave her plausible deniability, and even made it safe. If someone saw it she could shrug and say, "Nope, sorry, not me just a Photoshop a girlfriend sent me as a gag one time."
For a second she even thought about going further and deleting the picture, but couldn't make herself totally destroy the proof of her shameful display. The possibility of discovery was one of the consequences of being a shame slut with pancake tits and she had to accept that possibility, even if she still fought desperately to indulge her perversions while keeping them from destroying her life. A life that, so far, was still safely separated from the perverted things she did the night the picture was taken. And the next morning.
The morning after the picture was taken Nancy had woken up on the floor with stiff muscles and a slight chill. She had stretched and pulled the blanket tighter, and listened to Chris' soft breathing in the bed above her. Her bed. Her nice, soft bed with clean sheets, a heavy blanket, and a woman who seemed to have a toppy or at least sadistic streak in her sprawled out in it. Her vibrator was still there on the floor nearby, and Chris' panties along with her own destroyed shorts. She took the time to clinically note that Chris' panties were black with lace trim, and wondered if her bra matched. She couldn't smell the panties anymore, and the taste of the other woman's juices that she had licked off the vibrator had faded on her tongue. Her own cunt wasn't screaming at her anymore, the raging beast that was her libido the night before was sulking in a corner, still there and greedy but not insisting that it be fed immediately. She was back to feeling the sexual equivalent of the delicious ache of hunger right before a sumptuous meal that she loved and wanted to keep feeling deep inside of herself. Her bladder, on the other hand, didn't share or care about her love of denial and was demanding that it receive her attention very soon.
Was she allowed to get up and pee? They hadn't really discussed what would happen in the morning. Is this why she built such elaborate rules for the women in her stories? Because it meant you didn't have to be naked on your bedroom floor and wondering if the simple act of taking a leak was permitted or not? And did she want someone in control of her that way anyway? It sounded hot in a fantasy, to give up control of such a basic biological necessity, but when she thought about it more it also sounded like a pain in the butt to keep doing every day. Sometimes you just wanted to go to the bathroom and get back to doing your thing without being spanked to tears and called a pathetic flat-chested slut to earn the privilege.
Chris definitely hadn't said anything about peeing or not last night. Just not to use the vibrator if she got herself off. Last night. Yeah. Reflecting on it that had been, in a word, awesome. Nancy remembered feeling like she had slipped into a fugue state, riding the desperate need of her pussy to be stroked, fucked, and vibed and denied release until she fell asleep. It had felt good to be in that place, to give her orgasms to Chris to control and be denied, to feel her ardor fade from a screaming demand to a still unsatisfied murmur. To know that her sexual frustration (fed by her shame and humiliation) was getting someone else off. She had described those feelings in her stories many times, gotten herself off imagining readers getting off on her fantasies, and imagined herself in the sexy predicaments she wrote about, but last night had been the first time she had ever really acted out one of her fantasies. It had been the first time she really let her horny daydreams take herself out of the safety of her apartment, and experienced those feelings in reality with another person.
But what happened the morning after? Did she want Chris to further humiliate and demean her, to have her make breakfast naked and kneel beside her on display while the butch bitch ate and occasionally fed her a bite like she was a pet? To methodically go through her wardrobe and destroy clothing while she edged herself and licked her boots and thanked her and begged her to make that shirt show off even more of her barely there titty meat? The thoughts were pleasant, intriguing even, but she couldn't ignore that what she really wanted right now was just to pee. And no one had told her she couldn't! She slid out from under the blanket and stood up, then quietly walked to the bathroom, easing the door shut behind her. She sat down and peed as silently as she could, then flushed and ran her fingers through her hair to tame the worst of her bed head before opening the door and going back to her bedroom.
Chris was still there, still in her bed, on her side, still breathing softly. Even under the blankets her curves were obvious. Nancy licked her lips, thought about the cold floor, and what else she wanted right now. Having already asserted her fierce independence once by using the bathroom in her own apartment she slipped into the bed, easing the covers up and scooching under them until her body was next to her statuesque tormenter. She put one arm under her own head, and wrapped the other around Chris' stomach and held her breath as she waited to see what happened next.
Nancy felt Chris stir then push her body back against hers and giggle. "Fuck, your hands are cold!" But the blond woman took Nancy's hand and moved it from her stomach up to her chest, placing it firmly on her tit. She had slept in her bra, but Nancy still relished the feeling of the soft breast in her hand. She gently kneaded the ample tit meat with her fingers, and sighed happily. She couldn't quite bring herself to work her hand under the bra and touch the warm flesh directly, but she knew she was being rewarded for her slutty public display last night. She had obeyed, and her obedience was being reinforced. It was textbook conditioning, but Nancy didn't care. She felt good. They stayed in the classic spooning position silently for several minutes before Chris sighed. "It's probably not very dominant of me to let you be the big spoon, but this is nice."
