I’m not sure exactly where I’ll go with this. But for some reason, I had to write it, and I feel like posting it as well.
Even though it’s not done.
Well, for what it’s worth, here it goes:
The bar is crowded and noisy. The playoffs are in full swing, with the winner going to the Super Bowl, and the testosterone floats through the air like the cigarette smoke that used to make it’s home there.
It’s a guys’ night out. You left me at home, curled up with a good book and the cat. I’ll probably be fast asleep by the time you walk through the door. You may have to carry me to bed, if I don’t rouse and want service.
You’re on your third beer, yelling at the TV. Your team was robbed, and instead of being 10 points ahead, it’s only 7, now. Too close with the last quarter just beginning.
It’s been a lively game, and your friends are yelling with you. A few are on your side, but the rest are rooting for the other team, in good-natured competition. You glance across the table and see H sitting there. He turns and meets your eyes, and nods, raising his nearly empty glass.
You incline your own head and drain the last of your own brew and head to get more.
It’s a madhouse, and you are waiting for a few downs, watching the game. A turnover gets you screaming in joy, when you feel a presence behind you. You turn, and look up into H’s brown eyes as his large hand wraps around your cock, through your jeans, clamping down on you, just shy of painfully, making a direct point.
You wonder who can see, what will happen next. Your face heats with humiliation. Your lips part to say something, but you can’t move.
Then his eyes leave yours and he smiles, reaching around you to grab his newly delivered beer from the bartender.
His eyes come back to yours, and he says in a low voice, “Remember the fuck stool.”
You immediately shudder in remembrance of that night, and you can feel a large surge of precum wet the front of your shorts, inside your jeans.
His smile widens as he watches. He knows what just happened, what that means.
“Now, pay for our beers. I’ll drop yours at the table, and go call your Queen.
“Tell her what you just did. And how you felt, remembering.”
You turn away, and his large hand closes on your shoulder, to turn you back around.
“And,” he says, “You have to leave the bar. Stand outside. Miss the next play, and the one after, and the one after that, while you tell your Queen what a dirty little slut you are.”
“Only when she is satisfied may you come back in for the rest of the game. If there is any left.”
Humiliation wars with frustration and excitement. You have no idea how much of the game you’re going to miss, and yet, you don’t think of disobeying. H has proven himself very capable of handling your little outbursts, and that would definitely cost you the full game, plus my displeasure.
You hate displeasing me.
You pay for the beers in a haze, visions of the fuck stool swimming in your mind. That night. That hot, humiliating night. The night when you gave away everything. Your self-control, your self-respect, everything, to be the greedy little ass slut I asked you to be.
You push out through the door of the bar, looking around outside for a private spot to place your call. It rings long enough, you think you may be off the hook, and I’ve already fallen asleep.
“Mmmm. Hello, sweetie,” I murmur. “Is the game over already?”
“No, My Queen. H instructed me to call you and confess.”
You hear my voice perk up. “Oh, really? And what are you confessing, my dear, sweet boy?”
You glance around again, looking for those who could possibly overhear, “I am a dirty little slut, who just wetted his shorts, My Queen.”
“And why did you do that, my Pet?” I ask.
You take a deep breath. “Because H told me to remember the fuck stool.”
You hear me laugh. “Is that all it took?” I ask.
“Yes, My Queen,” you whisper, slightly ashamed, while your cock stirs.
“And what?” you ask.
“Is that all, my Pet?” I ask. “Is that all H asked you to do?”
You start, because you’d almost forgotten his full directions.
Oh, that would have been bad. You know H is probably texting me right now, and if I wasn’t seeing the messages already, I would be. The trouble of not completing a task is as bad as refusing to do it to begin with.
“No, My Queen. H also instructed me to tell you how I felt, and that I’m not allowed to go back in to watch the game until you’re satisfied.”
“Mmmm,” you can hear the smile in my voice. “Well, you’d better tell me, and in amazing detail. Because if you get to the end, and I’m not satisfied, you’ll have to start all over from the beginning, and you’ll surely be standing there until midnight.”
Another shudder, and release of precum. You know that’s no idle threat. You begin…