Time pressure

I don't think I often write these stories from the perspective of the dominant. Probably because I, myself, am not dominant. So it's a bit harder for me to wrap my mind around that perspective. But today's request included a very specific order. I asked if the story was for her or for him. She said "the story is for me. From my Mistress perspective, boots"

Which, oddly, gave me all the inspiration I needed to be able to write this. Everything just clicked. And while I asked in the hopes that I could add another name to the running tally... I have to say, the answer I got was totally worth it. Some women (or men... any dominant person, really) can send a rush of displeasure and power through very few words. It's actually pretty amazing.

It's the little things.

Which brings me to today's story.

The Pressure of Time

He was already shaking when I opened the door. He was dressed nicely, his clothes well pressed and in the perfect order I had come to expect from him. He smiled at me with his sheepish smile and asked permission to come in to my flat.

I stepped aside, making sure the heels of my boots click audibly, watching his eyes go right down the leather to see the toes as they make contact with the floor. I know he's looking at the flogger I have on the top of the boots. He's wondering if it's real. If I'm going to unsheathe it and whip him in public if he displeases me.

Maybe I will.

Once inside, he closes the door behind him and immediately gets down on his knees. He presses his forehead to the floor in front of me, then kisses each of my boots with the reverence that I deserve.

“Mistress, may I ask a favor?”

I cross my arms and stare down at him until I'm half convinced I see smoke rising from his head. “What.” Not really a question.

He shivers again. He's shaking almost constantly now, as if he's freezing cold and barely able to keep himself together. But I don't think it's a matter of being cold. I think it's a matter of being hot. Especially when he asks his favor.

“May I please be let out of my cage tonight?”

I laugh at that and shake my head. “You really are a pathetic little pimple, you know that?”

“Yes mistress, I know.”

I walk across the room, hearing the rhythm of my steps and knowing that the sound is reverberating through him at all kinds of frequencies. “It's only been four days,” I say. “You're telling me that you can't even make it a week?”

“I'm sorry mistress,” he says. “I just- I can't think straight. I can't sleep. I just need--”

I snap my fingers, and his eyes jolt up to me while his mouth slams shut almost hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “You don't need to think straight, pimple,” I tell him. “You don't get to need anything. You're mine now.”

“I know mistress, I know.” He chews on his lips a bit, bends back down so he's fully kowtowed in front of me. “Please mistress. I beg your mercy.”

I laugh at that. “Mercy?” I say. “Is that how it sounds? I've only seen it written. Mercy isn't a concept I'm familiar with.”

He's shaking again. But he hasn't said his safe word yet, so I know I can push him farther.

I tap my foot for a bit, pretending to consider his request. Really I'm just watching him shake, wondering if he'll dare to ask again. I don't know what I'll do if he does. I'm not entirely sure what I want to do as it is. I should punish him.

Yes. He should be punished. But how?

“I'll tell you what, pimple boy,” I say. “If you're very good tonight, I will unlock you and give you a chance to cum. But only a chance.”

He looks up at me with a smile and with relief practically written across his face. “Oh, thank you mistress!”

He wouldn't be so excited if he knew what I had in mind for him. “Take off your clothes and come with me,” I tell him.

I walk to play room, and I hear him tossing his clothing off as he trots after me like an excited puppy. He thinks I'm going to just let him out. Right here.

Oh, I think I know exactly how to punish him.

I reach into one of my drawers and toss him a pair of pink panties. They are bright pink, hot pink, that slutty shade of pink that draws the eye, with curves that hug his ass and will, with the slightest prodding, find themselves shoved practically up inside him. If he wasn't in the cage, there would be no way he'd be able to keep them on.

“Put those on,” I say, turning away from him and going back into my drawer to find tights that are the perfect shade. I don't acknowledge his nudity. I don't let him know if I approve of what he looks like naked or not. For all he knows, I don't care even a little bit that he's not wearing clothes.

I toss him a pair of tights. They're a soft pink. “Put those on too,” I say.

He stands there, stockings in one hand, looking back and forth between the tights and the panties he's already wearing. “But--”

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. “But what?”

The strength, what little there was, flies out of his voice. “They don't match,” he says, barely whispering.

I laugh at him. “I can't believe you,” I say. “You're standing naked except for a cage for your pathetic excuse for a tiny boy clit and hot pink panties, and the only complaint you have is that the stockings don't match?”

I shake my head at him as if I'm surprised, as if I didn't know how much it would bother him that things don't match. I hold up a pair of tights that would match, that same shade of pink, the perfect match for the panties. “I could give you these,” I say. His face lights up. “But I won't. Put on the pair I gave you. Don't question your mistress.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but my glare stops him. He takes a deep breath and starts rolling the tights up his leg. I briefly debate cutting one of them shorter than the other, so that they're uneven on top of not matching. But I'm already pushing him so far.

Maybe I'll do that next time.

He flushes red once he's done. I laugh at him. “Pathetic pimple,” I say. I shake my head. He blushes even more. “Get the rest of your clothes on,” I tell him. “It's time you bought me a nice dinner.”

It's funny watching him try to get comfortable. As far as anyone can see, he's just a normal guy in normal clothing. The only people in this restaurant that know what's under his clothes are him and me. But I know he feels the stares. I know he's imagining what others must be thinking. Imagining they know, that they're judging him. And I know that he isn't nearly as uncomfortable as he thinks he is.

“They really don't match,” I say to him, then let myself giggle a little when I see how much that bothers him. I cross my legs under the table, letting my boot 'accidentally' slide along his leg as I go.

Every time the waitress comes close, he stops talking. He doesn't say anything when I order myself a nice expensive meal, and he doesn't say anything when I order him a light salad without dressing. He doesn't even say anything when I joke with the waitress that he needs to 'watch his girlish figure.'

She thinks I'm kidding. He isn't so sure.

Once the waitress is gone, he finds his voice again. It's shaking, but it's there. “Please mistress,” he says, his voice low and aimed only for my ears. “Please tell me you'll let me out of the cage.”

I lift my glass of wine and swirl it around a little, watching the wine cling to the side of the glass. I pretend to be mesmerized by it, pretend like I'm taking the time to really think about it. To decide what it's going to take.

“Are you willing to be a good boy?” I ask.

“Yes mistress,” he says. “Anything you want mistress.”

I reach into my purse and take out the key. I put it on the table next to me. “You can unlock yourself at any time,” I say. “But you're not allowed to get up for the whole meal. No going to the bathroom.”

He blushes again, looks around. “So you want me to,” he swallows. “Here? In public?”

I give him a disgusted look and shake my head. “No, you filthy minded little shit,” I say. “I can't believe you would even imagine that I would suggest such a horrible thing. I don't want you touching yourself in public. That's just,” I shake my head. “It's awful. No, you'll do no such thing.”

He looks visibly relieved. The humiliation I just heaped on him completely ignored. Good. The words will slide in under the skin, and they'll come back to him later. He'll remember that he didn't argue about being such a dirty boy. And if he doesn't remember, I'll remind him. I'll remind him that he accepted it because he knew -he knew- it was true.

“So then what do I do?”

“You unlock yourself whenever you want,” I tell him. “And you keep your hands where I can see them until I say otherwise.” I shake my head again. “I can't believe I have to tell you not to touch yourself in public.” I sigh as if exasperated that I am forced to shoulder the burden of such a terrible sub. He's going to need a lot of reassuring during the aftercare. Nothing to be done for that now, though.

“We're going to have our meal,” I say. “And then we're going back to my flat. Once we are there, I'm going to give you some time to,” I give him a meaningful look, “take care of yourself. And you'll take care of yourself within that time, and then get locked up again.”

He nods. “That's fair,” he says.

I smile, glad he missed that little bit. “Now, enjoy your meal. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

He ended up keeping the cage on all through dinner. He kept himself locked up while I cut into my meal, while my foot slid up and down his pants. He admitted how much he loved the feel of the tights under his pants, how much he loved the touch of my boot over both. But he didn't unlock himself. He didn't unlock himself when I started nudging his cage with my foot. He didn't unlock himself when I ordered a light dessert for him and a cup of coffee for me. He kept himself locked up the whole time.

Because he had no idea what was coming, he left himself locked up all the way until we got back to my flat.

“Strip,” I tell him, loud enough that people walking by would have heard it before I closed the door.

Once his own clothes are off, I tell him to kneel and roll the tights down his thighs; I let him pull the panties down, but making sure they are still on. Then I take the key back from him and I unlock the cage. “Not yet,” I say.

I walk across the room, taking the long route to the kitchen. I avoid the carpet, making sure he hears the sound of my boots, making sure he hears the casual pace I'm taking. I know how much of a strain he's under. For the first time in days, his little prick is open and available, but I haven't given him permission to touch it, not yet. He may be new, he may be nervous, but he's obedient. At least to a point. That's good. I pour myself a glass of water with some nice big ice cubes. His eyes follow my every move.

I open a drawer and pull out a stop watch. Then I turn and show it to him. “You can take care of yourself,” I say, “If you can do it within the next sixty seconds.”

I hit the timer, and he stares at me, completely dumbfounded.

I laugh. “Fifty-seven seconds,” I say. “If you haven't cum by the end of the minute, you don't get to.”

He attacks his little cock, already hard as it got, with a desperation I wouldn't have expected from someone who had only gone four days without an orgasm.

“You better hurry,” I say, looking down at the stop watch. “Can you make yourself cum in the next forty-eight seconds?”

He looks at me with misery, then starts wanking himself harder and faster. I laugh again. “Careful,” I say. “you're going to rip the skin.”

He makes a frustrated noise, hips bucking against his hand. He closes his eyes, clearly trying to think of something to help push him over the edge. I snap at him. “Eyes on me,” I say. I tap my foot. “You can look at my boots if you like.” He smiles a little, and his eyes drift down to the leather. “For another thirty-one seconds.”

I laugh again, and he makes another frustrated sound. I don't think he's going to make it. But he might. “Don't even think about going past the beep of the clock,” I tell him. I step closer, standing right in front of him. “If you're still touching yourself after it beeps, I'm going to give you such a kicking that our waitress tonight will feel it. I will kick you hard enough to lift you off the ground, and you'll be too bruised to cum for at least a week anyway. Understand?”

He nods, grunting a little.

“Tell me you understand, pimple.”

“I understand mistress.”

I smile. “Good. Because you only have,” I look at the watch, “seven seconds left.”

He looks so desperate. It's adorable.

“Five,” I set my stance like I'm going to kick him. “Four.”

He makes a desperate cry, trying to force himself into an orgasm.

“Three.”

It isn't working. Too much pressure. I laugh at him. “Two.”

There are tears in his eyes. I set like I'm going to kick as hard as I can. “One.”

He chokes out a sob as the clock beeps. But, to his credit, he lets go. He sits back, panting and gasping for breath, covering his face with his hands. He's not quite crying, but he seems like he might be on the edge.

I let him try to calm himself down for a few seconds, then a put an ice cube from my drink against his little erection. He yelps, and goes soft almost immediately. I click the cage back on and lock him in again.

He looks at me, so desperate, so randy, so nervous and tortured. “Every day you keep it on, I'll add ten seconds to the clock. When you want to try, we'll try. But you use up all your time if you can't cum.”

“So I get a minute ten tomorrow?” he asks.

I shake my head and give him a kiss on the cheek. “No,” I say.

I lean back and give him my sweetest smile.

“Tomorrow you get ten seconds.”