Mr. Bear Ch. 1

(Author's Note: This was inspired by a remarkably lucid dream I had. Hope you enjoy it!)

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We were at the fairgrounds for Halloween, having a costume party, all my vanilla friends and I, plus many others I didn't know, a real community thing. Since I was growing tired of presenting myself as equally vanilla, and since it was a costume party and therefore bound to be taken with less shock, I dressed up in my Domina clothes. Knee boots, a short skirt to show off my voluptuous legs, a tight bustier for my ample cleavage, my chestnut hair pulled back into a high ponytail, and a quirt (stiff, thin riding whip) tucked into my belt.

The party was going well enough, located in one of those huge cement-block exhibition pavilions. I decided to visit the ladies' room to freshen up, but when I got there, I saw a bear peeing all over the place. That's right, a bear. A tall, large man in a bear costume, the lower part of the costume unzipped enough to show off his longish penis in one furry paw-glove, peeing on the floor. That (to pardon the pun) really pissed me off.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I demanded. Of course, he turned in astonishment, and splashed my boots with his urine. He stopped peeing, whipping off his bear's head to stare at me, his expression a little shocked. I was now literally as well as figuratively pissed off, and while my first impression was of a mountainous-sized blond guy a good twenty or more inches taller than my 5'5", my second one focused on the necklace he was wearing. It was a band of silver maybe a centimeter wide, with a couple thin silver wires arcing around the band back and forth in modern art randomness; it also vaguely looked like a slave's collar. I know it wasn't one, but my Domina instincts took over, giving my disgust and outrage a defined, controlled, and therefore relatively safe outlet.

Reaching up, I hooked my finger under that collar, and tugged him down to my level. I guess he didn't want it to break, since he resisted only a moment before bending over with a grimace. I also smelled a lot of beer on his breath, so I guess he was drunk. Well, lucky him; here I was, already in the mood to give him a little lesson in sobering up. I gave him a little smile, and purred in my best Domina's-mad-at-her-little-boy voice,

"You are going to clean up every last drop of urine you peed all over our nice, clean cement floor. You see, this is the Ladies' Room," I continued, transferring hold of his collar to my left hand and drawing my quirt with my right, nice and slow so he wouldn't get alarmed. "Now, the Men's Room may smell like urine, and have urine splashed all over the floor, because the men who use it can't aim straight and don't ever care that they're standing on their own filth, and walking on the filth of others, but this is the realm of goddesses, and it is to be *nice*—" SMACK! "—and *clean* smelling—" SMACK! "—and *pleasant*—" SMACK! "—for us to use!"

Each word was emphasized with voice and quirt, applied in an inside backhand shot to the waistband opening of his bear costume. Not my best stroke for power, but he got the idea. I think the first two blows were deflected by the furry costume, especially since I was still looking him in the eyes and not at my target, but the third one, that one dropped him to his knees with a gasp and a protective huddle over his groin. I let go of the collar so he could fall at my feet.

"We are goddesses, Mr. Bear, and must rightfully be worshipped, not defiled." I extended my right boot close to his hunched-over head. "It is obvious to me that you need to learn this lesson. You will now lick my boots and show me your apology for what you have done." He looked up at me in disbelief at that, breathing heavily. I lifted the quirt. "Should I discipline you again? The next time you disobey, I will strip that costume and its padded protection off of you, before I whip you. Lick my urine-soaked boot. Show it how much you are sorry for getting it so foully wet."

He stared up at me, this huge man huddled in a bear costume, no doubt gauging how serious I was. Since my expression was very serious, he finally stooped over and touched his mouth reluctantly to my outstretched boot. He stopped after the first lick, so I flicked the top of his head with the tip of the quirt, a fast, stinging attack. He reared up for a moment, then ducked his head again when I lifted my hand, preparing for another strike.

"I didn't give you permission to stop. Keep kissing it… Good. Now, kiss my left boot in apology, too, since you got urine on it as well." He lifted his head to protest. I tapped his cheek with the tip of my quirt. "I can strike you to sting, or I can strike you to scar. The more you show disobedience, the heavier my blows will become. You have disrespected and desecrated the sanctity of the Ladies' Room, the realm of goddesses of all ages and types. I will not permit this kind of action to continue as a habit, drunken or otherwise. Kiss the boot, and remove your costume, or I will show you the true depths of my displeasure."

My voice never once rose above a murmur. It's not necessary to constantly shout at your subs. In fact, I find it more effective to keep an even, quiet tone with them as much as possible, reserving any real volume or emotional emphasis for when I really need to emphasis a lesson. Keeping the voice low also ensures that they have to strain to hear what you are saying, which guarantees they'll pay attention to your words. He hesitated a long moment, long enough I almost whipped him again, then he bent his head and kissed my left boot. Oh, the thrill of having this complete stranger, who outweighed even plump, curvaceous me by probably a hundred pounds of muscle and bone, obedient to my whim and my will—you Doms and Dominas know what I'm talking about. I tamped down my pleasure; this wasn't about pleasure, after all, but rather, discipline. Punishment. I had to do it in the name of all the other women who might walk in here unsuspecting, and get their shoes soiled with this dirty bear's pee.

He'd had half a minute to worship my other shoe. I tapped him lightly on the head with the tip of the quirt. "That's enough. Now remove your costume."

He sat up and unzipped the front, peeling it off his shoulders, then started to rise to get it off his legs. I tapped him on the head, a little harder than the last time, but not quite enough to sting. Just enough to get his attention.

"I didn't say you could get to your feet. Take it off on your knees."

He paused and stared at me, gauging no doubt how long this game was going to go on, and whether or not he should continue to play. *Tough shit,* I thought at him, knowing he couldn't hear it, but set on my course of action. *You started this by violating our sanctum. You'll learn your lesson yet.*

Something of that thought showed on my face, for he peeled his legs out of the suit and pushed it aside. He knelt before me in a white teeshirt and blue cotton shorts, his penis still exposed at the fly. Without the fake fur in the way, I could see it really was long, proportionate in length to his body, which was over seven feet tall. That penis was semi-erect at best, but definitely not flaccid, arching out just a little from the opening in his shorts.

At that moment, a trio of women walked into the Ladies' Room. They stopped dead at the sight of me in my Domina clothes, and the exposed man kneeling in his underclothes, the bear costume piled at his side. I smiled tightly at them in apology, as the man flushed and hurriedly stuffed himself back in his pants. "He peed all over the floor. I'm just disciplining him for it."

"Eww," said the first one, a blond in a mermaid costume.

"You go, girl!" said the second one, a black woman dressed like Cruella deVille.

"That's pee, on the floor?" the third one, dressed like a cheerleader, asked, wrinkling her nose at the splattered lines of liquid half-soaked into the concrete. "Ugh! If I wanted to smell stale pee, I'd have used the men's room!"

"My sentiments exactly. Have any of you seen a mop around here?" I asked. They all shrugged. "Fine. Mr. Bear, take off your teeshirt. You will use that as your mop, and swab this entire floor with it, or at least until this restroom looks and smells clean again."

"—Fuck this!" he exclaimed, and pushed to his feet to leave. I tossed the quirt at Cruella-girl and leapt at him. My hands hooked around the back of his neck and my boots braced against his thighs. There isn't much a petite-by-comparison lady can do to a man of his size, but the position I grabbed him in threw his weight forward, bowing his head and his back. He tried to grab me to get me off of him, struggling to balance himself and all of my weight, tugging on his neck…and Cruella-girl did exactly what I'd hoped she would. She smacked him three times on the ass, hard and fast. Her technique was amateurish at best, since she laid the middle of the rod on his buttocks from what little I could see, given my position, but the pain and its warning were still there. He yelped, caught doubled-over and held vulnerable by my considerable weight and his need to keep his balance.

"ON YOUR KNEES!" I snarled at him, baring my teeth like a feral cat from only inches away, kicking my legs out and yanking down on his head as I landed on my feet. He stared at me, wide-eyed, then dropped to his knees, aided by the push of my hands on the back of his neck. *Good little drunken asshole.* I let go of his neck as he dropped and held out my hand. Cruella-girl snickered and handed the quirt back. Her girlfriends were a little shocked looking, especially the mermaid one.

"Oh, I've always wanted to do that! Can I stay and watch?" Cruella-girl asked, still giggling.

"If you want." A cop friend of mine had once told me that it's really easy to shame someone who's drunk, and the more I shamed this guy, the better he'd probably learn his lesson.

"Well, *I* don't want to watch! This is disgusting!" Mermaid asserted, and took herself out of the room, clearly offended. Cheerleader lingered a moment, eyeing the half-naked man on his knees, then followed her friend with a sigh.

"…I suppose I ought to follow them, since they're my ride home," Cruella sighed. "But if you need help disciplining this naughty…bear," she giggled, "come looking for me and we'll tie him up proper. Remember, a good kick in the nut-sack will bring him down to our height next time, if he gives you any problems."

"I'll do that. Have a nice time," I wished her as she sauntered out, giving us one last, lingering look before vanishing with another giggle. Turning to the dirty bear, I tapped the tip of the quirt against my knee. "You've been very, very naughty. You need to learn to take your punishment like a man. Take off your shirt. *Now!*"

I accompanied the demand with a hard slap of the quirt's tip against the leather top of my boot, the sound alone making him flinch. He started to strip the teeshirt off over his head, then paused. "I don't want to play this game anymore."

I leaned down and looked him in the eyes. "This isn't a game. You fouled this chamber by pissing all over it, and you will clean it up. Your mess, your responsibility. When it has been cleaned to my satisfaction, you will be free to go. The more you resist, the more you will be punished. Now take off your shirt, get it wet in the sink, and start scrubbing your urine from the floor. The next time you protest, it will be five strokes to your ass—and pull your penis back out of your shorts!" I added, whipping his stomach with the tip of the quirt. "I didn't give you permission to put it back! Since that is the offending organ, it will be displayed the entire time you work. You will have to *earn* the right to cover your shame. Remember, this isn't a game. You have done wrong, and now you must set things right again. If you resist, I will call the police and tell them you flashed me and those other girls, which you technically did. They like to bugger flashers, in jail—you know, anal rape? Pull out your penis and remove your shirt. Your Mistress will not ask you so politely again."

He hesitated a moment, but only a moment, and stripped off his shirt, exposing a heavily muscled, lightly tanned torso. He started to get to his feet, then hesitated again. "…May I get up and walk to the sink…Mistress?"

*Ohh, he's learning. What would it be like to have one this big and strong permanently at my command?* I wondered. What an intoxicating thought. I kept my expression smooth, however. "You will walk on your knees, as punishment for splashing and soiling my boots. Remember that all the urine you track across the floor with your knees will also have to be mopped up. I want this place restored to as sweet-smelling as it used to be."

He gave me a dark look, but waddled over to the sink. Pressing the button twice, he soaked his shirt, then turned and knelt on hands and knees, mopping the floor with the wadded-up cotton. He didn't do too bad a job, either. When he was almost through, two more women entered the restroom, and stopped in their tracks, a cat-woman and a jockey. Both gasped.

"Oh, my god!"

"What the hell is going on, in here?"

"I caught him peeing all over the floor. I'm just making sure he cleans up his mess. You might want to use the restrooms at the far end of the pavilion until this one's usable again," I added, glancing their way. They backed out, shock and disgust on their faces—disgust as much for what I was doing to the man as for what he'd done, it seemed. Ah, the innocence of the vanilla. I was just glad none of the women so far had been among my vanilla friends. I wanted to introduce them to my alternate lifestyle gradually, not all in one go.

Something liquid hit the back of my left boot, splattering against my leather-covered calf. A distinct smell assaulted my nose, warm and pungent. Slowly, I turned around, just in time to see the last of his urine spray petering out. It dribbled out of the tip of his penis, a look of satisfaction crossing the blond man's face.

Apparently Mr. Drunken Bear had decided to rebel. If he was going to get punished for peeing all over the place, clearly he thought he might as well get in a little revenge against me while he was at it. Right? Wrong. I stared at him. He stared back, his little smile faltering as I just continued to stare. Finally I moved. He flinched, expecting me to hit him with the quirt. Instead, I poked the toe of my boot under his teeshirt, and kicked it across the room. It slapped into one of the support-struts for the bathroom stalls and lay there in a damp, dirty heap.

"You will now be whipped for your insolence. And since you not only willfully disobeyed me, you did so by deliberately urinating on my person, it will be fifty strokes, not five. Remove your shorts and underwear," I instructed him coldly, coolly. When he hesitated, I added, "The alternative is that I strike you fifty times in the face. There is no safe word that will make me stop. There is no place you can run that I will not follow. And remember that I have at least one other woman out there who is willing—nay, *eager*--to help me discipline you. So you will take your punishment, and thank me for every single stroke. That is how much you have literally…pissed…me…off."

Apparently he could see just how deadly serious I was, especially in the way I clipped off each of my last three words. Without rising from his knees, he quickly removed his shorts and boxers and dropped them on the pile of his costume. I nodded my head slightly, acknowledging his compliance.

"…You will now assume the punishment position. Failure to comply will result in an extra ten lashes. Get on your knees, with your knees widely spread," I instructed him. He complied, hesitating only a fraction of a second. I nodded again. "Now lock your hands behind your head. Good. Now sit back on your heels, and lean your head back as far as you can go—widen your knees even further, and you'll have the balance to maintain your stance."

He complied. As soon as he was more or less comfortable, I struck, lashing his right nipple. THWAP! He jumped with a grunt. I struck again, same spot, same target, same welt. I struck his other nipple twice, the right one again, the left one…and then stopped.

"You forgot something, slave. You forgot to thank me with each stroke. So we will have to start all over again," I informed him mock-lightly. "Ready?"

THWACK! He gasped as I hit his tenderized nipples. I waited, and waited, and finally he said, "…Thank you, Mistress!"

I hit the same nipple again.

"Thank you, Mistress!" Again. "Thank you, Mistress!" And again. "Ahh!—Thank you, Mistress!"

I hit him about six or seven more times, this time focusing on his left nipple, each time receiving his gratitude—Mr. Urinating Bear could be taught, it seemed—then stopped.

"Hmm…I can't remember how many strokes that was. I'm only going to give you fifty, but I want to make sure you get the full fifty. So we will start over again, and you will keep count for me. You will say, 'Thank you, Mistress, that was one!' and 'Thank you, Mistress, that was two!', and so on and so forth. Failure to comply will add ten more lashes to the total."

"—Do you have to keep hitting my nipples?" he gasped as I started to swing the quirt.

In the fraction of time I had while his words were still registering, I thought about adding twenty lashes for daring to question me. Then I remembered that this was a new slave, possibly experiencing his first whipping, ever. A glance at his crotch showed his penis was decidedly stiffer and thicker than before. The little cowl over the head was beginning to peel back, revealing the mushroom-shaped tip. *He likes this, does he?* Was this the secret behind his urinating on the floor? A bid for attention, however negative? *How wonderful…* I lowered the quirt and smiled. "Is this your first time being disciplined by a Mistress?"

"Yes. …Yes, Mistress," he added as my smile slipped towards a scowl.

"Then understand the rules. You aren't allowed to question your Mistress's authority. You aren't allowed to question your punishments, or how or where they are delivered, unless it is to verify your orders. But since it is your first time, I will be kind, and vary my strokes a little more. Resume the punishment position, or face ten extra lashes."

As soon as he was ready, I struck him on the inside of his right thigh. And waited.

"Uh…thank you, Mistress, that was one," he managed.

I struck the inside of his left thigh.

"Thank you, Mistress, that was two." I smacked the muscles of that near-washboard stomach, hard. He grimaced. "Thank you, Mistress, that was three!" and I smacked his swollen, welted left nipple. "Ahh!! …Thank you, Mistress, that was four!"

He was definitely getting harder. I applied a few slaps to his biceps—oh, he had nice, strong arms and shoulders, must've been a linebacker or something back in high school, and was clearly conscientious about keeping in shape, even now around my own age, thirty or so. I then worked my way down his ribs, focusing more and more on his lower abdomen and inner thighs. By thirty, his penis was as hard as the concrete floor he was kneeling on, hard and red, twitching with each blow. I focused on his thighs, which really seemed to excite him—especially since his rampant shaft was now blocking easy access to his abdomen—and then flicked a sudden, hard slap to the tip of his penis with the quirt.

"AHH!!" Panting, muscles bulging with the effort to maintain his position, he rested a moment, blinked at the ceiling, then gasped, "—Thank you, Mistress, that was thirty-nine!"

A drop of pre-cum had pearled at the tip of his penis. I smacked his thigh twice as hard and fast as I could, as high as I dared, right next to his testicles. His ball sack quivered.