Public Humiliation

Is it funny when an American tries to use British slang? I imagine it is. I try to tailor my stories as best I can, and that means using slang from other countries sometimes. I hope I'm not making a total ass of myself as I do it.

Speaking of making a total ass of myself... today's story is about humiliation. Fun humiliation that can be done in a public setting. In fact, that's exactly what's going on.

Andrew's Lunch with Her

Andrew shifted in his seat. The pressure of the butt plug made him strain against his cock cage, but he could no more get an erection with it on than he could unlock it without her giving him the key. He felt the satin of his panties against his skin, which made him shift again.

She sat across the table from him with unconcealed pleasure. She knew what he was feeling, and she enjoyed watching him squirm. She held up her glass of wine and gestured to him in toast. “If you don't drink your glass,” she said, “It's going to get cold.”

He blushed and picked up his wine glass, wetting his lips with her warm urine.

The waitress walked up to the table as Andrew set down his glass. She looked briefly at the glass in front of him, then at the glass in front of his mistress. Andrew hadn't ordered wine.

His face turned brighter red as the waitress opened her mouth to ask a question, then thought better of it. “Have you decided what you'd like?” she asked.

She looked at Andrew, but it was his mistress who spoke.

“I'll have the steak, medium rare, with mash and veggies.” She closed her menu. “He will have a salad with egg, no onions. Oh, and the raspberry vinaigrette.” She looked at Andrew and smirked. “Make that lite,” she said. “He needs to watch his figure.”

The waitress looked confused. She turned and glanced at Andrew. He nodded.

“Right then,” she said. “I'll have that right out.”

Once they were alone again, his mistress saluted him and took another sip of her wine. “Very impressive,” she said. “I was sure you'd have to say something.”

“No mistress, you were very clear on that,” Andrew said. “No speaking in public.”

She smiled. “Drink your glass,” she said.

He took a larger sip that time. As he swallowed, he felt the tug of the collar around his neck. He reached up and adjusted his tie.

“Can you feel it?” she asked. “The collar under your collar?”

He nodded.

“Did you add the tag I bought you?”

He nodded again.

“Show me.”

Andrew looked around the mostly empty restaurant and loosened his tie. He undid the top button and pulled the tab out. Leaned across the table.

His mistress looked at it, read that it declared Andrew as her slave, her property, and as a bitch.

She laughed and leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her wine. “Put it away,” she said. “And button your shirt. Someone might see the dog collar. Can you imagine how terrible that would be?” She shook her head. “What if the waitress had come by? What if she'd seen what you are?”

Andrew tried to shrink into his chair.

His mistress smiled. Then she opened her bag and pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside was a dog biscuit. “Put this under your plate,” she said. “When your salad comes, you can crush it up and add it to your food.” She looked at him and smiled. “You're dressed like a doggie. Don't you think you should eat like one?”

“Yes mistress.”

“By the way,” she said, “for today, you're left handed.”

“What?”

“Left handed,” she said. “You eat with your left hand. You should drink with it too. Put the glass on the left side. After you take another sip.”

Andrew took a deep breath and picked up the glass with her urine in it. He brought it to his lips with his left hand, draining about half of what was left in it before putting it down on the left side of his plate

“I don't know if I can eat with that hand, Mistress.” He bit his lip, shifted in his seat again.

She looked at him for a few seconds. He felt himself tighten up around the butt plug. Broke out in a bit of a sweat. “I'm sorry Mistress,” he said. “I spoke too soon.” He put the fork onto the other side of his plate, picked it up with his left hand. “I'm fine,” he said. “Really.”

The harsh look on her face evaporated, and she smiled like there was nothing wrong at all. She took another sip of wine.

The waitress returned a few minutes later, placing their food in front of them. “Is there anything else you need?” She looked at Andrew.

He smiled at her.

“That's all,” his mistress said. “We're fine.”

The waitress looked over at her, then back at him. Smiled. Walked away.

“I think she likes you,” his mistress said. “Do you think she'd still like you if she knew what a filthy little slut you were? If she knew that you were sitting there, wearing a dog collar, drinking your mistress's piss?”

He grimaced.

“Crush up your biscuit,” she said.

Andrew picked up the dog treat and crumbled it in his hand, then spread the crumbs across his salad. Then he picked up his fork with his left hand and jabbed at a bit of lettuce. Picked it up, seeing the dog biscuit crumbs, and put it in his mouth.

It was difficult eating with the wrong hand. Andrew knew he must look a complete berk just making the attempt. More blood rushed to his face.

She laughed again. “I wonder if we should tell her,” she said. “Maybe when she comes about the check, I'll tell her. I'll let her know that you're not speaking because you're a slave.” She leaned in and looked at him with a wicked glint in her eyes. “I'll tell her that you're a little cock sucking sissy with a big rubber dick in your arse, with your own little boy clit locked in a cage. Would you like that?”

He took another bite of his salad and said nothing.

She started cutting her steak, then thought better of it and put down her knife and fork. “Why am I doing this?” she asked. She slid the plate half way across the table. “Cut my meat for me, slave.”

He reached for the fork and the knife. She made a sound, and he switched hands.

She laughed into her hand as he tried to cut with the knife in his left hand. He focused on the task, trying to avoid cutting himself along with the steak.

Every time the knife slid against the porcelain, he winced. The noise had to be drawing attention. He was certain that everyone in the restaurant was watching as he mangled the steak, as he tried to cut it into bite sized pieces for his mistress. They were seeing how awkward he was, and they were laughing at him. Laughing at him the way she was laughing at him.

He tried to cut faster, but that just made it worse. Made more and more noise. Andrew forced himself to concentrate, to focus on what he was doing and not pay attention to the rest of the room. While he was convinced that there were people standing around just pointing and laughing, he did his best to shut it all out and cut up her meat.

When he finally slid it back across the table in front of her undisguised mirth at his embarrassment, he leaned back and glanced around.

No one was paying them any attention.

She picked up her fork and stabbed one of the tiny pieces of meat he had left behind. “Thank you,” she said. She bit it and chewed slowly, letting herself make noises to express her pleasure at the taste of the steak, reminding him that while he'd gone through so much to cut it, he didn't get to try even a single bite.

She chewed slowly, enjoying the steak. Gestured for him to go back to his salad.

Andrew ate mechanically, barely tasting anything, barely paying attention to the crunch of the dog biscuit he had sprinkled onto his salad. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and his face felt like it was on fire. He looked up every so often to see his mistress smirking at him, to see her trying not to laugh.

He finished his glass of her urine. Then he reached into a pocket and pulled out the flask she had given him earlier. Unscrewed the flask, refilled the glass with more of her piss. He shook the flask as he put it away. It still wasn't empty. He'd probably have to guzzle the rest of it down once they left the restaurant. No way she'd let him in the car without emptying it.

His mistress talked about meaningless things. About the football match the night before, about the boring time she'd had at work all day. She talked to him about the weather, about possibilities for a holiday. She never mentioned the waitress again. She just ate her food, talked to him about whatever came to her mind, and let him eat his salad.

She asked him at one point what he thought of the salad. He, of course, told her he loved it. But it tasted like ash in his mouth. He wasn't paying any attention to it. He was just hoping the meal would end.

When it was time for the check, the waitress put it down in front of him. His mistress put her card on the bill and handed it to the waitress.

“It's all right,” she said. “I don't let him carry money.”

The waitress gave Andrew a sideways look. She said something, but he couldn't hear her. He was too ashamed of himself, too humiliated.

And too aroused.