Dickie and the Night Visitor Afterward

The next morning Dickie walked toward the bathroom and took in the mess of his apartment. A sticky puddle of urine lay in the kitchen, and his clothes were scattered everywhere. The drawers in his bedroom cabinets stood open with their contents pushed aside. It was a disorder he’d have to fix later; for now, he wanted a shower.

He couldn’t think of an English word that captured what his mouth felt like and tasted like. Bruises and welts covered his body. There were spots where she had broken the skin, though it didn’t look like breaking the skin was her goal. He figured she was pushing him right to the edge without quite crossing over; making herself stop before she wanted to. The hot shower water burned against his bruised flesh but felt good.

He brushed his teeth for fifteen minutes and went through a bottle of mouthwash until his mouth finally started feeling somewhat normal. Reluctantly, he turned off the water and stepped out. Wrapping himself in a robe, he made himself a cup of coffee. As he drank it, he pondered his predicament. On one hand, she was brutal whenever he drifted slightly from her wishes. On the other, he couldn’t forget the smell and taste of her sex.

Wasn’t this what he wanted? He had no control over things; but didn’t that make his slavery real? It was a moot point anyway. She held the photos, so for now at least, he belonged to her. As proof, he noticed she’d taken down a photo of him and friends from its frame on the hall wall and replaced it with one showing him with cum on his face.

He sighed and looked at the clock; work was coming up. “Thank God It’s Friday,” he thought. His office let him wear jeans on Fridays. When he went to grab a pair of jockeys from the cabinet, he found himself surprised. He should have seen it coming: his underwear drawer was the only one still closed.

Opening it revealed that all his underwear had vanished. In its place lay a pair of pink stockings, a lacey flower-embroidered pink garter, and a tampon.

A note read: “Wear this to work. Tampon goes in your ass.”

Later that morning he tried focusing on his tasks but kept drifting back to the last few nights’ events. Amazingly, every time he remembered them, he got hard; the worse things seemed, the harder it got.

At 10:30 his cell phone rang. Seeing the number, he guessed who was calling. “Hello,” he said. “You wore what I told you to?” “Yes.” “Go to the men’s room and pull down your pants. Take a picture of the garter and stockings. I also want to see the tampon string hanging out. Send them here. You have five minutes.” She hung up.

“Okay, thanks, bye,” he replied, trying to sound like it was an ordinary conversation for anyone nearby.

Time was short. The men’s room was a minute away; if stalls were full, he’d be screwed. Two people emerged as he arrived, greeting him, but he barely noticed as he rushed past them. The men’s room was empty—a relief. He went into the last stall and pulled down his pants to take the first picture. It clicked with a flash of light. As he positioned himself for the second shot, someone else came in. Between the noise and camera flashes it would be impossible not to notice. Checking his watch showed ninety seconds left. He heard another person use the urinal then flush. Sixty seconds remained. He washed his hand. Thirty seconds ticked by as the other man started the hand dryer. Twenty seconds appeared on his dial just before that man departed.

Quickly, he reached between his legs and snapped a picture of his backside, pressed send on his phone, entered where to send it, then hit OK. “Sending,” said the phone for five seconds, then three, then one more second. Finally: “Message sent.” Zero time left.

He adjusted his clothes and returned to his desk. He was sure everyone knew what had just happened. They all pretended to ignore him, but they were laughing at him—he must be the sickest person there… “Stop it,” he told himself. “You won that last round. You know she wanted you to fail, yet you beat her.” Next time she’d likely give him only four minutes, but for now life was good.

His phone rang again. “You have tonight off. Be at my apartment tomorrow morning at 8:00,” she said before hanging up. “Uh-oh,” he thought. “She sounded angry.”