New York City Submissive Female

"Shh!" she hissed.

The tablecloth, draped almost up to his chest, let Sue undo his zipper. Now he understood why she'd chosen this particular underwear — it had buttons on the front, giving her wide access to his cock. She even tugged on his balls, pulling them out.

She had him trapped. He couldn't stand up, couldn't move, not without leaving his wang dangling for all the world to see. He could not see her, but he could feel her hands playing with him. The fear of getting caught was a rush, and she rode with it, her breath hot on his cock.

Her tongue was licking him now, wetting his balls, making his cock come alive—

"Will that be all, sir?" asked the waitress.

"Aaah!" Phil almost fell out of his chair, but managed to calm himself in the nick of time. Sue dived onto his cock, taking it fully in her mouth.

It took every ounce of control Phil had to speak. "Just-just-just the b-bill, please. Nnnnn....no...no rush."

"Of course, sir." The waitress' cute East Asian face and slender figure were not helping matters.

"Relax!" muttered Sue.

Only then did it occur to Phil to think of Sue as his whore, his slave. Of course, she should be on her knees under the table blowing him! Of course, he could shamelessly take his pleasure there, in a public place!

He admired the waitress when she came back, grinning at her lasciviously as he felt Sue's mouth hot on his cock.

"Could I, um, get a glass of water, please?"

"Certainly, sir." She smiled. So did Phil.

He felt no shame at all imagining the waitress' lips in Sue's place. The thought made him squirm, almost hitting Sue's head on the table.

He leaned back contentedly, closed his eyes, and felt the joy of the cum flooding into Sue's mouth. Her head lifted off his cock. She zipped him up, and without even bothering to check, came out from under the table, her knees covered in dust.

"Dropped my fork," she said innocently.

The waitress looked at them, an awful suspicion in her eyes. Phil quickly whipped out a twenty and handed it to her. She gave him a dirty look, but took it, walking away in a huff.

Sue laughed, the cum visible on her tongue, and swallowed.

"Best blowjob ever," she crowed, lifting her hand to give him a high-five.

Phil didn't know what to say. "You are the most...the most..."

Sue was practically beside herself with laughter. "The most what?"

"I'm running out of adjectives, to be honest."

She giggled. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, buster," she leered. "Tonight, you really get to dirty me."

Phil looked at her cheerful face. He imagined that face stained, dirty, filthy with his piss. Despite having just cum, he felt his cock twitch.

"We're going to have to be careful about this," he said. "Everything has to be clean. We should get the maid..."

His voice trailed off as he looked speculatively at Sue. She raised an eyebrow.

"You were saying about a maid?"

"I will need the bathroom thoroughly cleaned for my, um, slave's usage tonight. My...er...maid will need to bring some supplies."

Sue was shaking her head, but she had an indulgent look on her face. "Fine. I know a place." She opened her purse and took out her notepad and pen.

***

All day long, Phil's erection kept flaring up. The sight of virtually any female skin was enough to trigger it.

He thought of Sue constantly. By going under the table she had dirtied herself, reduced her status. He found it harder to think of her as an equal partner. The words, those magic words, whore and slut and slave, took on new meaning. He thought of the defilement they were planning, and his cock squirmed in anticipation.

Even trips to the bathroom, usually memorable only for their forgettability, took on a new meaning.

***

1984 it was. Fall.

He was a handsome man, of that there was no doubt. He had the indefinable air of someone who has always been well-cared for; smooth, neatly gelled brown hair, shiny manicured nails, an impeccably groomed face. His brown eyes were bright and piercing. His was the kind of face girls were irresistibly drawn to.

Sue hated his guts.

"Miss Jones," he said, "you have accused the defendant of raping you. Where did you meet him?" His voice dripped with cynicism and contempt.

"At a party," she replied hotly. What was the point of this?

"And did the defendant rape you at the party?"

"No, it was... it was behind a dumpster."

Some idiot snickered. Sensing his advantage, the lawyer drove in.

"Did the defendant point a gun to your head and get you to the dumpster?" Sue could see the smiles around the room.

"He put something in my drink," she said stubbornly.

"And what was that?" Still that smile. That maddening smile.

"I...I don't know," she said helplessly.

At the hospital, they'd simply assumed she was drunk, and no one had thought to gather evidence for a rape case. By the time she was conscious, there was no longer any trace of any chemical in her system. They had checked her vagina for foreign DNA, but not found any.

"And you saw him put something in your drink, did you?"

"No, but the beer he gave me wasn't the same brand everyone else was drinking at the party—"

"Everyone else?" The lawyer seemed ready to rise to the ceiling.

It was a college campus, of course, and most students on a campus are not of legal drinking age. Sue had just admitted to an illegal activity. She looked at the faces of the jury and saw not an ounce of sympathy.

"So did you, er, pass out at this party? Did the defendant drag you out to rape you?"

"I..." What could she say? She fought back the fear racing inside her, the sinking feeling of despair.

The lawyer's wolfish grin grew wider.

"Wasn't it true that you kissed the defendant at the party? That you were seen leaving the party hand in hand?"

"I did not give him consent to—"

"Your Honor, I would like to remind the witness that she may only answer the question asked," he said calmly.

The judge, eyes cold as ice, sat there, grim-faced, prim and proper with all the authority of the state behind him. "The court reminds the witness," he snapped, "that she may only answer the question as put to her."

Fuck. Damn them all to hell. Lawyers. Judges. Officers and gentlemen of the United States of fucking America.

"Yes."

"Was it your intention to have sexual contact with the defendant?"

"Yes, but—"

"Yes or no, Miss Jones."

"But I didn't say he could—"

"Yes or no, Miss Jones."

"Yes."

"Now, Miss Jones, at what age did you lose your virginity?"

At that the prosecutor finally woke up.

"Objection! This is not a material question and not relevant to this proceeding!"

But even before he had finished speaking Sue knew it was no use.

"The witness' sexual history and character is extremely relevant," said the defense smoothly. "It is, in my opinion, of central importance to this case."

Just who the fuck is actually on trial here? thought Sue to herself. Stubbornly she fought back tears. Stubbornly she held back her rage.

"Overruled. Witness will answer the question."

Sue glared at him.

"Witness will answer the question," snarled the judge.

"I lost my virginity at fourteen," Sue finally admitted.

"I see," said defense. "Now can you tell the court how many sexual partners you have had? Not including the defendant?"

"Nine."

There they were again, the whispers out, mocking her, taunting her.

"Nine...that seems an undercount to me, Miss Jones," said defense, his expression that of a cat toying with a mouse. "Let us include all persons with whom you have had any sexual contact. We will include, um, oral sex, and <giggle> mutual masturbation—"

A grey-haired woman on the jury was staring at Sue, her face one of undisguised contempt.

"There were..." Sue's head was spinning. Whom had they talked to? Whom had they interviewed? She struggled to count...

"Are you doing math in your head, Miss Jones?" deadpanned the lawyer.

"There were...there were twenty-two."

It was over then, of course. The men in the gallery roared with laughter, hooting, cackling. Journalists scribbled down notes. Women stalked out of the room, their hands on their ears. The honorable members of the jury were shaking their heads.

"Miss Jones, do you expect anyone to believe that someone who lost their virginity at fourteen, has had twenty-two sexual partners in less than a decade, and by her own admission left a party voluntarily with the defendant, a party at which she had been drinking — do you expect anyone to believe—"

Sue never remembered anything after that point, never remembered jumping out of the chair and running, not knowing whom she wanted to kill more, the lawyer or his client.

***

The address Sue had given Phil turned out to be a large indoor shopping mall. He looked around for Sue anxiously before he saw her beautiful flowing mane of blonde hair and bombshell legs. She was his toy, he reminded himself, he could do what he liked with her. His expression filled not with tenderness but with lust.

"Cunts like you don't care about anything except shopping, do you?" he said, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

Sue's eyebrows rose in surprise, but she recovered quickly.

"No, we don't, master. Well that, and dressing like whores and spreading our legs," she replied.

"I wrote up a list for you. Buy everything on it, at your own expense, and meet me...um..."

"At the fountain, master?"

"Um...yes, the fountain."

It did not take long. When she came back, he walked over to her and licked her cheek.

"Pardon me, ma'am," he said sarcastically. "I just wanted to say that you look like a whore."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"And I'm going to treat you like one."

"I sure hope you do," she replied.

Phil could not help himself, in seconds his arms were around her, his hand on her ass. He felt his cock rising and jabbed it into her stomach as he kissed her, taking in her sweet scent...

"Kiss my cock."

"What?"

"Right here, right now," he said excitedly, pressing down on her shoulders.

Sue sank to her knees, and Phil gloated over them as she kissed the hard spot on his pants.

"Now my ass."

She looked mortified, but waddled around him and kissed the back of his pants. They ducked out of the mall before they got thrown out.

***

Phil didn't want to go to a restaurant for dinner. "I'm the master here, and I will decide what we eat," he said firmly.

"As my lord wishes," replied Sue meekly.

He found a Middle Eastern take-out near the hotel. Kafta, falafel, and French fries, complete with sauce and salad, seemed a good match for what he had in mind.

Not until they reached the hotel's revolving door did he put the leash on Sue. After whispering instructions, he pulled her inside, her carrying both bags.

Sue unzipped the dress and pulled it down to her waist right there in the hotel lobby. Her white bra was tightly drawn against her bulging tits. Not only did she look like a prostitute, but a particularly brazen one.

There were four men and two women already in the elevator when they entered. No sooner had the door closed than Sue dropped the dress, revealing white garters.

Phil yanked on the leash and started making out with Sue in the elevator. Of the women, one looked annoyed, but the other seemed intrigued. All the men had broad grins.

When they got off, Phil took the bags and jerked the leash down, forcing Sue to all fours. He walked his dog all the way to their room, to the consternation of the maids they passed.

The door of the room next to Phil's opened. It was the same man who Sue had stripped for yesterday. Astounded, he gawked at her, now shamelessly on her hands and knees. When they reached his door, Phil let go the leash to fish out his key. Sue stood up, took the other man's face in her hands, and kissed him. He was touching his lips, staring at her, as they entered Phil's room.

Phil did not shut the door as Sue shed the last of her clothes, nor as he chained her up again. The two maids had joined the man in the hallway, staring at them through the doorway.

"Close the door," he commanded.

Sue crawled over to the door, looking up at the astonished onlookers, eyes twinkling, and nudged the door shut with her head.

"Get the dog bowl," he ordered. Still on all fours, she trundled off to get it, holding it in her mouth as a dog would. Phil began tossing pieces of food into it. "Don't use your hands to eat," he commanded her.

Phil luxuriated as he ate comfortably with fork and knife in the desk chair, watching his slave groveling in the dog bowl. It was harder for her than it might have been for a real dog, but this only aroused Phil more. She ended up with food stains dripping on her face.

"Now, slave," he said, "wash the bowl, then fill it with water to clean your face." He never got tired of seeing Sue bent low on the ground, her ass rising in the air.

Once clean, she undressed him with her teeth without another word. She paid him his respects, prostrating himself on the floor to kiss his feet, crawling under him to kiss his ass, and back again to kiss his hard cock.

"But for now," he went on, "fetch me a drink."

Sue crawled over to the bag, pulled out the large bottle of Diet Coke, and prepared him a glass, complete with ice. He sat down on the couch, and she curled up on the floor, kissing his knees.

"You have work to do, cunt." He jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom. They had bought vodka, citronella oil, and lemon juice, which when mixed make a highly effective disinfectant — one that is safe to lick.

Phil kept leering at her, on her hands and knees cleaning his bathroom. It wasn't dirty — no one had used it since housekeeping did their pass — but a shackled naked woman doing that most demeaning of tasks is truly a sight for sore eyes. Take that, Andrea Dworkin, Phil thought spitefully, watching Sue hum to herself scrubbing the sides of his toilet, her chains clinking, her bare ass in the air.

He went out to pour himself another drink, but Sue scampered after him like a rabbit. "Don't do any work, my lord. I must serve you." She poured him the drink and looked hopefully at his cock.

"I hope it tastes like Diet Coke."

Phil almost dropped the glass. She winked at him and crawled back to the bathroom. He felt his heart thumping with anticipation, the butterflies gathering in his stomach.

Was this really happening? Phil still had trouble believing it. His memory flashed back to when he'd first started talking to Sue, and she'd floated this idea. He'd almost ended the conversation, so appalled had he been at the concept. Yet slowly but surely, Sue had worn down his objections.

"I'm ready, master," she sang out.

Phil took another swig of the drink and tried to steady himself. He had always been rigidly puritanical about the toilet. Even as a boy, he'd preferred to use stalls rather than letting others see him at the urinal. Now he was going to—

"I'm ready to be your piss whore, my lord," Sue called out, impatience in her voice.

He went into the bathroom. It was spotless, not a hint of dirt anywhere, shining brightly. The floor smelled delightful, a mix of citrus scents and liquor.

"I have something for you, master," said Sue, unable to repress the enormous grin on her face. She held out a pair of transparent plastic bags. "Put these on your feet."

They weren't plastic bags, he realized, they were overshoes. So that he could step in—

Sue picked up the dog bowl and looked at him expectantly.

Phil had lost his erection entirely. He had the feeling most people get when about to give a speech. He put his hands on his cock and aimed at her chest.

Nothing.

As a young boy, his mother had scolded it into him. Don't urinate anywhere except in the toilet. Those inhibitions cannot be simply willed away.

"Are you having trouble, master?" asked Sue.

Phil ran out of the room and headed for the Diet Coke, drinking it straight out of the bottle. He drank and drank till he could drink no more, almost finishing all two liters.

"My lord," said Sue when he returned, "maybe you should look at the toilet, not at me." If he stood by the wall, aiming at the toilet would only hit her.

It worked.

The stream of his urine struck her in the chest. It was a whitish, almost transparent stream, not the dark yellow of early morning. But it was piss. It was disgusting. It smelled. Phil would never think to let such filth touch him, and he would carefully wash his hands after going to the bathroom. But Sue was taking it proudly. He could not deny the look of erumpent joy in her face. He had not seen a woman so completely, unutterably happy in a very long time.

"Put it in my face. Please, master."

A purist would have upbraided her for impertinence, but Phil was no purist. He pissed on her face. He was defiling her, dirtying her, making her a residue for his filth. Animals mark their territory, their property, by spraying it. Phil felt like an animal now, not conscious of values, not conscious of ethics, conscious only of his own passions. She was female, he was male. Her purpose was to serve him. The more dirty and deviant she was, the more he desired her.

She had closed her eyes, but she was smiling, a sweet, joyful smile that made his heart leap. In her abasement she had found glory; in abnegation had come redemption. Phil's cock grew rock-hard again, making it harder to aim. He was so excited that he could not stand still. His squirms hit her in the forehead. They soaked her hair. They even struck her on the eyelids. But nothing fazed her. Nothing could erase the look of bliss on her face.

Then her jaw dropped.

This was not happening. She could not be doing this. No. She was not opening her mouth, not taking a vile waste fluid into it. But she was. He had not told her to do that. They had talked about it, masturbated to it, but it had always been a fantasy, an impossibility. Surely no one could truly be depraved enough to cross this line.

Straining, he stopped the stream. Sue opened her eyes, her mouth still full of piss. She closed her mouth and swallowed. "Why did you stop?"

Phil could not answer. She had swallowed!

Part of him still believed that having a woman swallow even your cum was a misogynist, patriarchal, primitive thing to do. To swallow his urine — his mind was spinning, he was reeling, he simply could not process the jumble of emotions he felt.

Was this really happening? Was he going crazy? Sue was alarmed at the look of terror in Phil's face.

"Amarillo!"

"Oh god, Sue, oh god oh god. I'm so sorry­—"

"Sorry for what?"

"I pissed in your mouth."

"Phil, you have got to be the most fucked-up young man I've ever met. Why do you think I came here? I want to swallow your piss. I want you to treat me like a whore—"

"No prostitute would agree to this—"

"You know what I mean! I mean for you to go wild, to let that animal side of you out. Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you do that?"

"You...you really want to do this?"

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to summon patience. "I didn't say the safe word because I couldn't handle it. I said it because I'm not sure if you can. What happened to the aggressive, sadistic young man who's brought such joy into my life?"

Phil considered this. When fantasy becomes reality, it is never quite the same as the fantasy, is it? The messiness of reality is, well, messy.

"Tell me the truth," said Sue. "Were you or were you not turned on by me drinking your piss?"

Phil's cock spoke for him, jerking forward so hard he had to take a step.

"But..." he asked, in a hesitant voice, "what did it taste like?"