Wardrobe Choices 01/14/19

I stood in the doorway of my apartment’s closet and stared up at the long line of clothing that hung neatly from a variety of hangers. A cacophony of colors and materials seemed to burn a wet, cold depression through my usually sunny demeanor.and I frowned in frustration, a sense of defeat overwhelming me. For just over two years I’d been working for my best friend, Kari Anders, a successful interior designer who catered to the tastes of Houston’s ultra rich. Over the years she had thoughtfully supplied me with an entire wardrobe’s worth of outfits to wear to work, which most folks would consider generous. But Kari and I had very different ideas on what was suitable attire for an office environment.

But perhaps that was because we viewed my job responsibilities from slightly differing perspectives. I thought of myself as her personal assistant, responsible for keeping her schedule straight, helping with clients, ordering supplies, and handling invoicing. Kari, on the other hand, liked to think of me as her “little nympho humiliation pain slut.”

And that was the crux of the problem. Instead of socially acceptable work clothes, I’d been given… well… my closet spoke for itself. Practically every outfit she’d ever bought me seemed to be lacking something; decency mostly. Every skirt I owned barely covered my butt, or had inappropriately placed slits. Each blouse either had a plunging neckline, or was transparent, or missing buttons, the better to expose my bosom. Dressing for work was more like putting on a costume meant for an adult actress starring in “Secretary Vixens Get Bound and Fucked XIV.”

And I seemed to have star billing.

I sighed. In truth, there was something liberating about wearing  slutty outfits. There is a certain amount of power to be had in being desirable. Let me put it this way; had Kari and I both been stripped naked, ordered to act “sexy” and then presented to a cadre of wanton men, Kari would have been selected first. She’s tall, blonde, beautiful and elegant. Me? I'm short, with wide hips, and slightly too large breasts for my frame. My skin is dotted with freckles and my legs are bowed from years of riding horses. My face? Well, you wouldn't exactly need a paper sack in order to endure a night with me, but I'm under no illusions. I'm cute, rather than pretty.

So dressing like a porn starlet has some advantages. I'm instantly approachable. I'm desired. I'm lusted after. Men look at Kari and see a goddess they must worship from afar, or in their dreams. I'm the wanton slut begging for them to rip my clothes off, lay me on the altar, and sacrifice me to said goddess after taking me in every hole. Dressed, the choice between Kari and me becomes easy. I’m the one they're more likely to fuck.

That's power, of a sort.

Still, another part of me hated dressing like a perennial sex kitten. Left to my own devices you'd find me in blue jeans, tee shirts, and long sleeve, button up oxfords, or flannels, considering the temperature outside. Certainly not some daring little strip of cloth letting way too much skin show. The conservative, South Texas, Catholic, farmgirl inside me had definite opinions on attire, not to mention behavior.

As I stood there, another issue that was rearing its ugly head, even more important than the laws involving public lewdness, or my fragile sense of decency, was the weather. Houston, in the midst of January, can be chilly and wet. I caught pneumonia one year, which put me in the hospital for nearly three weeks. I always seem to catch something about this time and freezing my cute little ass off seemed like a decent way to get sick quicker.

Sex power be damned.

Which left me in a quandary. My boss/mistress wanted me dressed like a slut and had made it clear that failing to do so would result in punishment. My doctor wanted me wrapped up like an Eskimo in a snowstorm, and advised that failure to do so would result in a week's forced bed rest and a sore throat, all while trying to cough up my skull. And that morning, as I considered the skimpy shirts and short skirts, I knew that I was probably going to get punished.

An hour later I was sitting at my desk when Kari arrived. It was exactly nine a.m., on the dot, and she didn't even make it to the door of our glass fronted suite before her eyes narrowed in displeasure. Her lips pursed with a pensive frown. She pushed open the door, paused at the side of my desk, and stared down at me.

“Good morning, Kari.” I said it brightly, cheerfully, as if I hadn't deliberately disobeyed her standing orders.

“That's an interesting ensemble,” she observed. “It's very…” she paused to consider her words carefully. “Inappropriate.”

For a moment I looked her in the eye. There was the usual tug of wills and half a second later I wilted. A sudden flurry of regret, worry, and even despair shot through me. Kari was unhappy with me. It was almost enough to make me throw it all to the wind, strip naked right there, and beg for forgiveness.

For the record, my mistress had already expressed concern for my constitution. Kari had excused me from having to strip naked while driving, a little dominatrix stipulation she'd ordered when she gave me a car for Christmas the year before. She had also made it clear that I could wear whatever I wanted into work, provided I was dressed suitably when she arrived. So the fact that I was in blue jeans, cowboy boots, flannel and tee shirts, must have really irked.

I looked down. “I'm sorry, Kari. I was so cold this morning,” I said. “I'm still freezing, but if you want me to wear the backup outfit, I will.”

The backup outfit Kari kept for me was a skirt so short that I'd be sitting on my bare butt, along with a gold and crimson peasant blouse that left half my bosom hanging out beneath the bottom hem. Humiliating as hell. Borderline indecent. And about as warm as a bikini in a snowstorm.

Kari’s expression didn't change a whit. “If I desire you to wear the backup outfit, you will. Whether you want to or not,” she explained in a  clear, precise tone. “I don't need your permission to strip you naked and punish you either.”

I gulped. Fair points. I felt a shiver slide through me.

“Are you at least stuffed with the toy of the day?” She asked with a disdainful sniff. I nodded, wanting to please her in some way.

“Yes, mistress. The vibroballs. But they're off right now.” Kari considered that, then held out her hand. For a second I wondered what she wanted, then I realized her intent. I got up from the chair, dug into my pocket, and brought out the small fob that sported the controls. Kari took it from me and smiled wickedly.

“Do not cum,” she ordered. And with that, she pressed on the control and I felt an almost instantaneous vibration start up inside me. It went from low, to medium, and then to high with three clicks beneath Kari thumb. My sex, stuffed with the oversized, egg shaped vibrators, tightened enthusiastically. I let out a tiny, soft gasp even as my hips responded to the intense sexual stimulation.  Two or three thrusts of my loins, searching for something to fuck or hump, made it clear that the lust boiling through me was going to be difficult to resist.

“I will consider your disobedience, and craft an appropriate response to it,” she continued, turning away. “We’ll be leaving in about an hour.”

“Kari?” I said breathlessly, the sweet bliss between my legs sending waves of pleasure up through me. “Kari?”

“What?” She asked curtly, even as she took a single step away, down the hall toward her office.

I looked at her in bewilderment. “You said that I didn’t need to go with you to the Johnson account meeting this morning.”

Kari nodded. “That was the case. I’ve changed my mind.”

“But… but I’m not dressed for a business meeting,” I stammered. There were certain proprieties in business. Showing up dressed like a ranch hand was just about as bad as showing up as a prostitute. At least to me.

She glanced back at me. “Yes. That is a concern. But I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, don’t cum or I’ll punish you more.”

I blinked. “More?” I whispered.

“More.” Then she walked away, down to her office.

Slowly, I sat back down, my pussy clenching and squeezing and fluttering beneath my jeans, and I could feel the sticky, hot wetness soaking my panties. I took a deep breath, only to notice that it came in a shuddering draw.

“Don’t cum, Breanne.” I snorted. Sure. Yeah. Right.

Part Two

“Breanne!” Kari called out from her office, twenty minutes later.

I sat in my chair, shuddering. My lower half was so close to the forbidden orgasm that I was scared the slightest movement might trigger the explosion I’d been so expressly trying to avoid. I twisted my upper half, even as my pussy tightened hard around the two buzzing, tumbling vibrators in my sex.

“Yes?”

“Come here please,” Kari ordered.

There was nothing I could do. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I’d endured the intense vibrations for almost a full twenty minutes. To be honest, I was surprised I’d lasted this long. I had expected to blow a gasket much sooner. I put my moist palms down on the desktop and pushed myself up. The new angle changed the way the vibroballs moved inside of me. In some ways it lightened the intensity of the sensation, and in others, it just moved that sensorial stimulation to another little part of me. Frustrated, desperate, and distinctly uncomfortable, I waddled down the hall, fingers curled tightly into fists, struggling to resist the urge to cream. Kari was in her office and I stuck my head in.

“Can I cum?” I said roughly, without preamble. The tension in my voice was palpable, like a heavy fog on a dewy morning. Kari looked up, studied me for a moment, then shook her head.

“No. But you can go to the conference room. Remove your clothing, all of it, and sit in one of the chairs with your legs spread.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m going to cum,” I warned her. “It’s too much.”

Kari shrugged. “I told you not to.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” I whined, frustrated. My hips were starting to swing and I knew the battle was probably lost, just from that.

Kari eyed me. “You do. Think of something else.”

For a second I looked at her in disbelief. “Kari, there are two motor filled plastic eggs in my pussy.”

She smiled. “Resist or you’ll be punished for cumming.”

I grit my teeth. “Then you better be prepared to punish me,” I snapped.

The glint in her eye, the wicked curl of her smile, suddenly chilled me. “Oh. I am.” She pointed. “Now go.”

I twirled on my heel, no longer caring if my steps drove me over the edge. By the time I passed the kitchenette I knew the orgasm was on its way. I passed the art room on my left, then turned into the conference room. A giant mahogany table filled at least three quarters of the room, surrounded by six, luxurious and very expensive leather chairs. A wet bar was built into the back right hand corner, and a very large television hung on the wall. I began unbuttoning my shirt as the tremors raced through my loins and by the time I was able to peel off the flannel and tee shirts, exposing the soft pink lace bra, I was ready. I unclipped the brazzier, freed my breasts, and with two quick pinches to both pierced nipples, felt the awesome forces of orgasmic ecstasy hit me like an anvil, falling from the sky.

My eyes squeezed shut as I bit down. My entire lower half tightened in fanciful rhythms, shaking and trembling as my pussy squeezed and throttled the vibroballs. Even as the explosion rocked me, the fingers of my right hand shot down, struggling with the belt buckle, the button, and the zipper of my jeans. I pushed, frantic and needy, until I felt the sodden swamp and the faint buzzing of the embedded sex toys through my finger tip. I touched my clit, rubbing frantically as I threw myself, still half dressed, into one of the chairs. I spread my legs and cried out in utter pleasure, anything resembling thought obliterated by the pure physical ecstasy.

Kari walked in on me like that.

“I thought I told you to strip,” she said with a knowing smirk.

I stared up at her, panting. She looked a bit blurry and I blinked, trying to get my eyes to focus properly. I smiled stupidly. Holy fuck I felt good. Oh God yes. I pulled my hand out of my jeans and licked the goo off my finger. It was salty and tangy and very, very familiar. Yum.

Kari stepped over to the table and set down a box. An honest to God wooden box. I stared at it for a moment, studying the wood grain, the two steel hinges, the brown knot in the plain wood. It wasn’t stained. It took me almost a full minute to realize that I hadn’t even wondered what was inside.

“That will be another punishment,” Kari said simply, grabbing one of the other chairs and pulling it up in front of me. I stared at her stupidly, still brain fried. Sex is good.

“The box is a punishment?” I said, still not connecting two and two.

Kari gave me a direct look.. “No. Failing to strip as you were told is a punishment, as was disobeying my orders to be properly dressed at work, not to mention the violation of Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #3.” She smiled. “You know, the one that says you are supposed to dress like the slut you are?”

“Strip?” I repeated dumbly. Then I remembered. I shook my head. “Oh. I was supposed to get naked,” I said in surprise. Kari’s litany of my violations seemed to rattle around in my empty, sex soaked head. I pushed myself up and finished pushing my jeans down. My boots got in the way, so I plopped back down, took them off and then held out one foot to Kari. “Socks too?” I asked with a silly grin.

“Socks too,” she assured me. I leaned forward and peeled the socks off. Then it was back to my feet this time, my soles feeling the rough carpet, as I tugged and pushed on my panties. They came down, the scent of both my arousal and my orgasm thick and heavy. I kicked the panties off and they flew further than I intended, landing somewhere under the conference table.

Then I sat back down, faced her directly, and draped my legs over the armrests of the chair. It was a provocative position, with my pussy readily available and exposed. There was a definite trickle of moisture that leaked from my pink  petals, downward into my perineum, heading toward the leather seat. But I don’t think Kari minded.

She leaned forward, only barely glancing at my hot, slippery slit. “Let me first start by addressing your clothing choices. Despite my best efforts, you still feel it necessary to disobey me concerning your attire. So I’ve decided that the only way to motivate you properly, is to make sure there are consistent and pervasive consequences.”

I blinked. Most of what she said went over my head.

“So, from here on in, you may wear your jeans whenever you want,” Kari said.

“Wha?” I said, words slurred from the still rather pleasant tingles coming up from my loins. Afterall, she hadn’t turned off, or even down, the vibroballs.

Kari nodded. “Indeed. You are allowed to wear jeans at anytime. However, it does come at a cost.” She reached back around to the box and opened it. I couldn’t see inside, not from my vantage point, and she pulled something silver and shiny from the container. I felt my breath quicken and my ass tighten in sympathetic pain as she held up the jeweled butt plug.

“This will be in your ass anytime you are in jeans,” Kari said simply, setting the plug down on the table. It was huge. At least four inches long and two and a half wide. The base had a pretty red glass jewel in, but that mattered little to me. Who would see it if I were wearing jeans? What had me worried was the thickness and size of the anal plug. It was one of the bigger ones. I hate having things in my ass! It was almost like she really didn’t want me wearing jeans or something.

“As for the cowboy boots, you know how I feel,” she continued. She reached back to the box. “Again, you may wear any footwear you desire, however if I cannot see your instep and bare toes, then you will wear this.” She punctuated her sentence with another dive into the container of punishments, pulling out an alligator clamp. It was a smaller one than the jumbo alligator clamp that usually went on my clit, but this one came with an addition. A small silver chain dangled from the end of the clamp. Threaded on it were four beads. Each was the size of a blueberry, but that was where the similarity ended, because there was no way to use the adjective “spherical” to describe them. Each bead was randomly shaped, with hard edges and plenty of points. They hung down enough that I had little doubt they would work their way between my labia, providing an uncomfortable and inconsistent stimulus.

“Lastly,” Kari continued. “Should you elect to wear a shirt that is neither transparent nor revealing in some satisfactory way, then your nipples will sport these,” she said, holding up something small and metallic in her right hand. I leaned forward slightly, then tensed as I realized what she had. There were eight, tiny, spherical magnets in her hand. Right now they clumped together, but I knew that the idea was to arrange them in a circle, with the nipple between. The iron like pull would tighten the magnets, essentially crushing the flesh between them. It would hurt constantly. And with the piercings already threading the tip of each breast, God only knew how much worse it could be.

Kari set everything in a line on the conference table. She turned back to me, a satisfied look on her face. “So now you have the option of getting dressed in your select outfit from this morning, or the backup clothes, and wearing that to our business meeting.” She turned once more, and too my horror, pulled the peasant blouse and matching skirt from the box on the table. There wasn’t enough material there to upholster a dining room chair, much less cover one wet, lusty, nympho humiliation pain slut.

I stared at her. “Kari, I can’t wear that out in public! It’s meant for here, at the office!”

She shrugged. “Admittedly, it’s a bit more risque than usual, but with your coat on, you’ll be warm enough. At least until we get inside and you take it off. I’m sure Mr. Johnson will be utterly entranced with you.”

I blushed crimson, right down to the tips of my breasts. Holy crap. I was getting turned on again! The idea of me walking along behind her, taking notes and making polite conversation with Mr. Johnson as he explained what he was looking for, with my tits practically hanging out, my dripping, vibrating pussy just barely out of view, scared the hell out of me.

I wanted it. Bad. But...

I lifted my legs from the armrests and brought them down, closing my legs as I put my feet on the ground. I leaned forward.

“Kari, it’s not about humiliating me,” I said softly. For a moment we just sat there, me not daring to look her in the eye. “I just don’t want to get sick again.”

She nodded. “I get that. I do. And it’s why I’ve allowed you, even encouraged you, to dress for the weather on your way to and from work. But it’s seventy four degrees here in the office, which is warm enough for you to sit at your desk buck naked as far as I’m concerned.” She pointed a finger at me. “This isn't about the weather, or you getting sick. It's about you testing my limits. It’s about you resisting your nature.”

She stood up, kissed me on the forehead, and then bent over, picking up my jeans. She folded them up and laid them on the table, next to the peasant blouse and skirt.

“You know what you need to do next,” she said simply. “Dress.”

I blinked, the awful choice laid out for me. The steel magnet balls, the alligator clamp, and that awful, cold, thick, huge butt plug. Oh my God… I didn’t want that. I knew what I had to do. But then something occurred to me.

“Kari? I thought I was supposed to be punished?” I whispered, looking at her.

She grinned. “Three punishments. But don't worry. Get dressed first. Then we will deal.with your infractions.” She turned and walked out of the room. I sat there, staring at my two clothing options, then the steel plug. It was so big. And the alligator clamp.and beads? Cruel. And I didn't even want to.consider the magnet clamps. A friend named Beth had mentioned how uncomfortable they were My hand lifted as the vibroballs purred and danced and eventually, I chose.

Epilogue

“Good morning, Eric.” Kari smiled warmly at the man who opened the door. He was in his early fifties, fit and good looking, and he eagerly welcomed the tall, blonde goddess who stood in his doorway.

“Ms. Anders, thank you for coming,” he said, backing up to allow her entry. I stood behind them, wrapped in my thick, warm coat. His eyes flitted to me, taking in the shock of fire-engine red hair that cascaded down over the cobalt colored felt of my jacket.

“This is my assistant, Breanne Erickson,” Kari explained. “She’s along to take notes and help me with measurements as needed.”

He smiled, “indeed. A pleasure.” He held out his hand to me. I took it, giving a gentle squeeze. After that he paid me little attention. I put my foot over the threshold of his door, the heel of my shoe clicking noisily. He closed it behind us. Kari was already taking off her coat, glancing at me expectantly. I stifled the groan that threatened to escape my lips, then closed my eyes, ever so briefly. There was nothing to do but follow along. I unbuttoned my coat and shrugged out of it.

Mr. Johnson’s eyeballs popped out of his head, landed on the floor, bounced a few times, and only then returned to his skull. “That’s a … a… novel outfit,” he stammered.

“Please forgive my assistant,” Kari said smoothly. “She frequently forgets to dress for the weather. She is strong willed however, and can take all sorts of punishment.” She gave Mr. Johnson a heavenly smile. “Now please show me the drawing room. I can’t wait to see it.” She took his arm, pulling him around so that I was no longer absorbing his complete attention. “Come along, Bre.”

Punishment. The perfidy of my mistress knew no bounds and her off hand remark to Mr. Johnson had a deeper meaning for me. I took a deep breath, ignoring the acute discomfort of my nipples. The peasant blouse that pretended to cover them did nothing to hide the eight magnetic balls crushing the tips of each breast. They made the piercings stand straight out, the small gold padlock on my right nipple dancing beneath the cloth. It was like someone was constantly pinching and twisting them, especially since they were tight enough to hurt, but loose enough to let the blood in, making them throb with each beat of my heart.

I took another step, feeling the heavy weight of the jeweled anal plug shift around in my bottom. It was just as uncomfortable as I had imagined it would be. Kari had lubed it thoroughly, but that made little difference. All I knew was that my ass ached, stretched wide, and stuffed to the brim. A bright red jewel was visible, just under the hem of the short, little skirt.

And as I walked, the spikey, hard edged beads banged, dangled, and teased my labia, while my clit burned and pulsed between the sharp, metal toothed edges of the custom set alligator clamp. And beneath that, buried inside me, softly buzzing, rolling, and stuffing me - the vibroballs, set to low.

The stilettos I wore clicked on the parquet floor of Mr. Johnson’s foyer and I followed along, a riot of sensation, hurting, wanting, dripping, tense, distracted, and second guessing. I should have worn the damn jeans, flannel and tee shirts. Right?

But then, how would Kari have punished me?

She looked back at me, her eyes sparkling, her mouth curled up in a wicked smile. Mr. Johnson glanced toward me as well, eyes burning with desire as he watched me move.

Maybe, just maybe, there was going to be a choice. Maybe there would be a sacrifice to the goddess. The short, curvy, nympho humiliation pain slut on her knees, cumming with cock in her mouth.

I realized something else. I was warm. And wet. And ready.

I took a deep breath, nodded, and hurried forward.

Decency be damned. 

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