Get Yer Kit Off

"Did I tell you you could put on shorts?" Sara asked as she walked past me doing the dishes. The door slammed shut behind her.

I scrubbed a pan, trying to pretend her question had been rhetorical. But I didn't really think that tactic would work, and as I heard her walk up behind me, I knew it hadn't. I felt her breath on my neck, and saw her arm reach past me to take a long wooden spoon out of the dishrack where I had just put it.

"Come on," Sara said. "Turn around."

I turned off the water and faced her. Her expression was cocky and cool as usual, and she wore a little smile on her lightly freckled face. At 5'9", she could almost look me straight in the eye.

"Go on, get yer kit off," she ordered. That was what she always said when she wanted me to strip completely, ever since this whole thing began three days ago. The first time she had told me that, I hadn't understood the British expression, and she had taunted me ever since by using it as her standard command phrase.

I had no choice. Under the terms of the bet we had made - and which I had lost - I had to do anything she said that didn't involve illegality or injury. I turned to the side and took down the boxers that I had put on an hour ago,

tired of sitting around watching TV in the nude. I turned back to Sara, heavily conscious of the fact that I was naked and she was decidedly non-naked. I had gotten used to this state of affairs over the past few days, but

whenever I first stripped in front of her, my nether regions would still give her an impromptu salute, as they were doing now.

"Put your hands on your head," she ordered, and I obeyed. No sooner had I done so than I felt the flat end of the wooden spoon slap up into the underside of my testicles. I jerked, trying to grimace as little as possible. Under the rules - which I, totally confident of my ability to lose the bet, had made up - she could dish out any punishment she wanted that didn't have any chance of injuring me. Kicks or punches to the gonads were obviously right out, but that didn't mean she couldn't cause them a little non-injurious discomfort when the mood struck her.

Wearing a little self-satisfied smirk, she cocked her hips in that snotty British way of hers and turned around to go watch TV. I waited until her back was turned to reach down and massage my balls. Any brief sexual excitement I'd had was long gone. There was no point in pulling my boxers back up - I was going to be naked for the rest of the afternoon, it appeared.

Over her shoulder, she called "Oh, you can finish with those dishes now."

Cursing the day I had ever claimed that a dodecahedron had 20 sides, I turned back and resumed scrubbing my pan...

* * *

I came in the door quietly and set down my briefcase. I was on vacation for two weeks (lucky me), but I had mercifully been requested to go take care of some business at my friend's office downtown. It had given me an excuse to get free of Sara, who worked at nights as a bartender and was around most of the day to boss me around. hat was Tour agreement - the loser of the bet could leave for business reasons, but must come straight back.

I looked around, but Sara was nowhere to be seen. The door to her room was open, and the TV was off. Was she out?

Then the bathroom door opened behind me, and Sara stepped out, dressed only in her underwear, toweling her hair off. I couldn't help but stare a little, as this was the first time I had seen her in anything less than boxer shorts or a tube top. She had a solid frame with nice curves and very little fat. If we hadn't had such an antagonistic relationship - by which I mean if she hadn't been my bitch roommate from Hell who had taken advantage of a stupid bet to make me strip naked and humiliate myself for four days running - I would have been attracted to her. Of course, that was a big "if."

"What are you lookin' at?" she asked in an almost Cockney accent.

"Just imagining if I had won the bet," I answered, smiling.

She walked over to me and patted me patronizingly on the cheek. "Well, you didn't," she said. "Now get yer kit off."

She didn't stop to watch as I peeled off my layers of clothing. She wasn't a voyeur - the kick she got from making me "get my kit off" came from the fact that she was making me uncomfortable and embarrassed. From the moment we had moved in together in the first place, there had been a clash of personalities; both of us were confident, cocky people, not used to bending our routine to the wishes of a roommate. Except that now, I had been doing nothing but that for the past four days solid.

Sara threw on some sweatpants and a T-shirt, and plopped herself down on the couch just as I finished laying my clothes in a neat pile. "Hey," she called out. "How about a foot massage?"

Naked, I walked into the living room and knelt down in front of her. She stretched out her feet - burgundy painted toenails - and picked up a fashion magazine, thumbing through it. I picked up her left foot and began to rub it all over - she didn't even watch. Something about the situation - the sensuality of feeling her foot in my hands, of kneeling naked on the carpet - aroused me, and I suddenly felt frustrated that Sara, her nose buried in her magazine, couldn't even see. After she had had enough on the left foot, she offered me the right, and I did that one too.

Finally, she put down the magazine and stood up. "I'm going out in a bit," she said, heading for her room. "You just stay put."

I sat on the couch and flipped on the TV. It was stll a weird feeling, to be sitting nude in my living room, feeling the cool leather of the couch under my ass, feeling every breeze as it drifted through the room. My uncomfortable arousal persisted - I wanted to go in my room and relieve myself, but Sara had commanded me to abstain from that particular activity for the duration of the week. That was definitely her most difficult command to obey.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. I froze - the one time someone had come to the door since I had lost the bet, it had been a UPS man, and Sara had let me put on boxers.

Sara cracked open the door to her room and said "Get that, will you?"

"Can I put something on?" I asked, sounding more plaintive than I would have liked.

"No," she said. "It's just my friend Angela. Go answer it."

Angela - which one was that? The name sounded familiar. I felt an odd mix of fear and excitement as I walked over to the door. Covering my groin with one hand, bending slightly, I opened the door. Standing there was a tall, tan Asian girl - now I remembered her, she worked as a bartender in the same bar as Sara, we had met once before. Angela's eyes widened and her hand went reflexively to her mouth.

"Oh," she said. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, it's fine!" Sara's voice came drifting out from her room. "Come on in, Angela!"

Awkwardly, Angela stepped around me and went into the living room and sat on the couch.

"Can you get her a drink, Chris?" Sara called out.

"What would you like?" I asked, my hand still cupped around my erection.

"Um...do you have a Diet Coke?" Angela asked.

"Sure," I said, and went to the fridge to get the Diet Coke. It was a little awkward getting it one-handed.

As I handed it to Angela, Sara came out of her room, dressed for a night out, incuding a nice black pleated skirt. She walked past me, wordlessly reaching out one hand to slap away my hand that was covering my privates. I flushed and put my hands behind my back, now fully exposed to the houseguest. Angela's eyes widened again; she was obviously trying not to look at my penis, and not quite succeeding.

"Could you get me a Diet Coke too, luv?" Sara asked, patting me on the shoulder. I obeyed, my manhood swinging uncomfortably from side to side in front of me.

"Is he always like this?" Angela asked.

"Just for this week," Sara explained. "He decided to be a macho man and make a bet with me, and this is his payment for losing. I expected him to chicken out of it, but he's been awfully impressive so far. Why, is he making you uncomfortable?"

"Oh no, I'm fine," Angela said quickly. "And you two aren't...?"

"Oh, God no," Sara snorted. "He's not my type at all. I do say, he makes a good manservant though."

I brought Sara the Diet Coke. "Thanks, luv," she said. "Now can you go make yourself useful and dust the bookshelves? Angela and I are going out in a minute."

I saluted, smiling at Angela - she gave me a wary smile back. As I dusted the shelves, I noticed Angela stealing an occasional glance at me. I tried to make eyes back at her - just because I was naked didn't mean I couldn't flirt a little - but she always looked away quickly. After a few minutes of chatting, they got up to leave.

"It was nice to meet you," Angela said to me a little stiffly, stealing one last glance at my nethers.

"You too," I said. "Have a nice night."

"Oh, you'll get a chance to see him again Friday night," Sara said to Angela. "Chris, stay here and keep your kit off, right? Remember, no wanking."

Any sense of pride or confidence I might have had from Angela checking me out went right out the window when she gave that command, and a blush crept right up my face. I heard Angela give a little low "Oooh," and I turned away in embarrassment.

When they were out the door, I sat on the couch, watching Animal Planet and trying to think of anything besides Sara in her underwear...

* * *

(Flashback: four days earlier in the living room of Sara and my apartment)

"A dodecahedron is any polyhedron with twelve faces"...

As I read those words, I felt a sinking feeling, like my heart falling right down into my stomach. I just stared at the screen for a few seconds in shock.

"Well, that's that," Sara said, turning away. "Told you you were stupid to make a bet with me."

I said nothing. Two minutes ago we had been jawing in each other's faces, each totaly cocky and confident, upping the stakes on this ridiculous bet we had made. It had been me who had made the final offer - a week of servitude. I had felt my palms tingle, imagining making Sara massage my back and bring me drinks dressed in a micro-miniskirt and tube top.

But that fantasy was gone now, and the reality was that I was going to have to either welsh on the bet, earning Sara's eternal scorn, and proving myself to be far from the confident, dominant man I had portrayed myself as being, or submit to a full week of...well, whatever Sara wanted me to do. Which I was about to find out.

"So," Sara said in her thick British accent, grabbing a beer from the fridge and popping its top. "You going to chicken out of our bet then, I'm guessing?"

It had been two months since we had randomly moved in together, and we had been locked in a subtle struggle for dominance ever since. She was the epitome of the cocky British bar girl. She talked about how dominant her mother as, and how girls are tougher than boys. I never let down my own cocky front, though, and I secretly dreamed of somehow putting her in her place. But now it was me who was going to be put in my place, one way or another. If it was going to happen, I might as well up the stakes and see what she did with me as a "slave" for a week.

"Nope," I said. "I'm keeping up my side of the bet. Slave for a week. Anything you want that isn't illegal and won't injure me."

"And no sex," she reminded me. "That's what you said, right?"

"Well," I said, putting my hand on my hip and showing off my arm muscles, "That depends on how much you want me. We could work something out."

There hadn't been any overt sexual tension between us in the time we had lived together, but she was an attractive girl, and we both knew it. 5'9", brown shoulder-length hair, bright green eyes, long legs, and nice solid curves. I wasn't half bad myself, but she had shown zero interest in me, and that wasn't apparently about to change.

"Fucking cheeky," she responded to my suggestion. "If you're really going to be my slave, I'm going to have to find some way to punish you. Now get yer kit off."

"What?" I asked, not understanding, my mind racing through the possibilities of that word "punishment".

"You heard me. That's my first command as your master for the week, is to get your kit off."

"What's a kit?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Oh, you stupid Americans," she sighed, walking over to me and pointing all over my body with a finger. "Your clothes. Take off your clothes."

I felt my heart begin to race. What was she thinking?

"Sure," I said. "Your wish is my command." Slowly, affecting a little strip-tease, I stripped off my shirt, socks, and pants, twirling each one on my finger before tossing them into the corner. She watched, arms crossed, an unimpressed look on her face. Finally, standing in my boxers, I flexed. I wasn't built, but I was decently toned.

"All right, go on," Sara said.

I had wondered if she had meant for me to be totally nude. I guess she did.

"Are you really excited to see what I've got?" I asked, teasing.

"Look," Sara sighed. "One thing we're going to have to get straight if you're really going to be my slave for a week and not chicken out, is that when I say for you to do something, you just do it, and no backtalk. Now it's like that, or else just quit and admit you were too scared to follow through with the bet."

The cocky smile disappeared from my face. "Hey no problem," I said. "Being a slave takes some getting used to."

I reached down and stepped out of my boxers. Sara regarded me coolly. This was my first time being naked around a woman who wasn't naked. I had been streaking once in college, but that was different. The unusual situation, and the fact that an attractive woman was examining my nude body right in the living room, turned me on, and my dick started to bounce itself into the air. Embarrassed, I reached my hands down to cover myself.

"Don't cover up," Sara said. "What, are you embarrassed? Well you better bloody get over it, because if you serve out your whole week you're going to have to get used to being like this."

Her easy shift from cocky roommate to imperious mistress was pissing me off a bit. No bet - especially over something as stupid as the number of sides on a dodecahedron - was worth this kind of humiliation.

"Look," I said. "You can't talk to me like that. It's just a bet."

"Hey," she shot back. "You made the bet. And besides, I'm not going to make you grovel or rub shit all over yourself or anything. If you're going to be my slave I'm going to be firm but fair. You're not going to get hurt."

"Fine," I said, "Let's do this, then." I put my hands behind my back. My penis arched into the air, pointing straight up at Sara's head.

"All right, that's good," Sara said. "This'll work. Now you should start doing some chores, because there's lots around her that needs to get done. How bout you start with vacuuming the carpet."

"Can I put some boxers on or something?" I asked.

"No," she declared. "You thought you were being quite a macho guy, making a bet with your girl roommate and offering to be a slave if you lost. Well, I think this is the perfect punishment. Remember, if you walk away before the week is over, it's the same as if you never started, and I'll assume you just walked around naked and did all those chores because you enjoyed it."

"So I have to stay naked all the time?" I asked, wishing I didn't have the week off of work.

"No," she said. "Only when I tell you to get your kit off. Got it?"

And so my week of house-slavery began. As I vacuumed the carpet, fully nude and semi-erect, with Sara reading a magazine in the recliner, I reflected on the dubious wisdom of bet-making. It was going to be a long seven days...

* * *

"Can I touch him?" Ness asked Sara.

"I dunno," said Sara, "Let's ask him how he feels about it. Chris, can Ness touch you?"

I gulped, handing Angela her glass of wine, and looked over at Ness, sitting in the recliner. She was also British, a friend of Sara's in town for a couple weeks. Ness was shorter than Sara, with sandy hair in a pixie cut. She also had a bitchy attitude, more bubbly and less cool-and-collected than my roommate, but just as annoying in my current servile state. Next to her, a tall rangy girl named Caroline rounded out the foursome that had gotten together for drinks in my apartment that night.

"What kind of touching are we talking about?" I asked, smiling.

That annoyed Sara. "Sure," she said. "Go ahead, Ness, touch him any way you like."

Ness clapped her hands and jumped out of her seat, walking over to me. Against my will, I felt my dick stiffen against the blue boxers that were my only item of clothing. Over the last two days - the fifth and sixth of my ordeal - Sara had gotten tired of having me "get my kit off," and had told me to wear boxers around the house at all times. I was a little relieved that she had kept me that way for this little "girls' night" event; just having to serve drinks and food was embarrassment enough. There was no hiding it any longer - what had happened to me was going to leak out all over town. Oh well.

Ness walked up to me and looked up into my eyes.

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," she said, and traced her finger down my chest and toward my stomach. Now there was no hiding the excitement trying to force its way out of my shorts.

"Do you like being Sara's slave?" Ness asked.

"Um, I think he likes it a little too much," Angela pointed out.

"There's no such thing," Ness said, still looking at me, tracing her finger in circles just under my belly button and driving me up the wall. Then she turned to Sara. "Can we make him do jumping jacks?"

"Sure," Sara answered. "I invited you guys over because hes only going to be like this for one more day, so do what you like."

Ness turned back to me. "Can you be a good lad and give me a few jumping jacks, then?"

I dutifully started doing jumping jacks. The impact when I came down each time jarred my erection uncomfortably, but that might have been the point.

"Beautiful!" Ness exclaimed, and Angela and Caroline laughed.

"All right, enough of that," said Sara, smiling. "Chris, can you fix us a tray of drinks?"

I went to do that as Ness skipped off to the bathroom and Angela, Sara, and Caroline went back to chatting about work. As I mixed the drinks, I reflected that they'd already had quite a bit of alcohol, and they didn't necessarily need a lot more. But then again, it isn't the slave's job to question this sort of thing. I was just hoping to get through this embarrassing night with some shred of dignity and masculinity intact.

As I stepped back into the living room and prepared to set the tray down, I heard footsteps behind me, and suddenly two hands reached around and pinched both of my nipples! The contact was shocking, painful and arousing all at the same time. I staggered forward, nearly dropping the tray, but managed to save it as Ness skipped out from behind me and dove back into the armchair.

"Fuck!" I yelled, wishing I could rub my smarting nipples. "You bitch!"

A collective gasp went up around the room.

"I don't think he's supposed to say that," Angela said.

"No he's not," Sara agreed. "Chris, please keep your language clean from now on, and please don't insult my friends. Ness, you can go ahead and punish him if you like."

"Oh can I?" Ness bubbled. "What kind of punishments does he take?"

"I usually give him a little slap in the bollocks," Sara said. "Nothing too hard, because I'm not allowed to hurt him."

In an instant, Ness was in front of me. I had set the tray of drinks on the coffee table, and was nursing my stung nipples. But I didn't like the sound of this bollock-slapping idea at all. I twisted away so that my side was to Ness.