Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma, NonConsensual, Blackmail, DomSub, FemaleDom, Humiliation, Water Sports, .
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Our hero, who has a fetish for pissing in his pants, meets a like minded friend on the Net only to run into his pal's dominant and manipulative wife in the real world.
It all started one cold, wet Saturday evening when there was nothing worth watching on the television and there wasn't enough money in the kitty to go to the pub. Totally out of boredom I turned on the PC and started to surf the net. Nothing exciting there either so I decided to pick up my e-mail. The usual mixture of spam, 'hello - is anyone there' type notes on some previously quiet communities and some supposedly funny messages from people who call me a friend... and then, quite unexpectedly, a well written, literate article on a message passed on through a OneList group that I belong to. At the end of the message, there's a link to the writer's personal site and an invitation to take a look. Well, the message was of better than usual quality and the subject matter of interest to me so I pressed the link...
Internet Explorer cut back in again and I found myself not at the Web Site that I was expecting but in something called MSN Communities and the site was asking if I had a Passport or not. Passport? What the hell was that? Pressed the 'no' button. Oh, damn, one of those annoying forms to be filled in. Name... e-mail address... yeah, yeah... ticked that I accept Microsoft's liability clause... yes, I'm over eighteen... oh, good, after all this prating about, the Community Manager is going to consider my request to join his group...
Well, the Community Manager must have been as bored as I was because, within half an hour, I'd been accepted as a member of his group - pissing_underwear_and_jocks...
Over the next few weeks there was a steady trickle of postings from the community. Most of it the usual rather immature rubbish but the occasional gem and the odd interesting graphic of urine leaking out of a man's underwear while his cock was outlined like something in a wet t-shirt competition. But the Community Manager, or Bill as I've now found out that he's called, seemed to be a good bloke. We exchanged private e-mail addresses and started to fire messages back and forth, quickly establishing that neither of us was gay before going on to detail our first grown up pant wetting experiences to each other - his was caused by nerves while at school as he stood outside the Headmaster's office having failed a Latin examination; my own was due to necessity as I came home along a motorway on my Honda CX500 with a desperate urge and not service area to be seen. In the end I just let it go and found, to my surprise, that I enjoyed the sensation of warm dampness trickling down my legs and into the cleft of my arse. After that it had become a sort of regular thing, peeing my pants, in mean. Mostly outdoors at first, doing it walking in the park which was then followed by a guilty dash home. Later, getting more adventurous, I was releasing the flood gates in the local shopping precinct, sitting on one of the benches. I eventually reached the ultimate - pissing a load while simultaneously drinking in the pub on a Saturday night and leaving a pool of dampness soaking into a chair, awaiting the next unsuspecting customer to take a seat.
I quickly realised by the '.co.uk' ending on Bill's address that he too lived in the Britain and, after a little prodding and some general building up of trust on both our parts, we confided where we lived to each other... and got the shock of our lives when we discovered that only five miles and a short trip between two towns separated us! Another flurry of e-mails shot back and forth and we agreed to meet up the next weekend. Bill's wife was going off to stay with her sister on the Saturday morning and wouldn't be returning until late on the Sunday night which would mean that we'd have his house to ourselves for almost thirty-six hours. When the weekend finally arrived, I threw a couple of spare sets of clothes into the panniers and, firing up the bike (now a Triumph Bonneville) set off on the short trip round to Bill's.
Bill turned out to be a little older, balder and tubbier than I was expecting, but he welcomed me at the door of his detached two storey house in the suburbs warmly enough and, once we were inside, he immediately offered me a coffee. Considering what the pair of us were anticipating getting up to, I agreed... and was promptly handed the largest mug of a steaming brew that I'd ever seen. Bill poured a second mug for himself and, once we'd disposed of that, he showed me up to the guest room before leaving me to sort myself out. After the clothes were placed hurridly into the drawers and closet, I returned to the ground floor and we set off for the pub, arriving just as it opened. Not wanting to get too drunk, we settled on pints of shandy and began quaffing. One round - fine. The second round - faint warning tingles from the bladder. Third round - definite urging being registered. Fourth pint - beginning to squirm about a little in an effort to relieve the pressure. Bill looked at me and shot a glance towards the door. "Not here," he said, "This is my local, after all, and they know me. Outside."
Smiling in anticipation, I stood and followed Bill out into the street. The bright afternoon sunlight and the cloudless blue sky took us both by surprise but the moment passed quickly and we set off down the tree-lined main road back towards his house. Suddenly Bill paused and his hand lightly grasped my wrist. He never said a word, just parted his feet a little and closed his eyes. A blissful expression crossed his face and a very faint hissing came from his groin. Fascinated, I glanced down - I'd never actually witnessed this moment before - pants pissing had always been a solitary experience for me previously. And, actually, there was very little to see - most folk seem to expect a damp patch to almost instantly appear round the zip area but this isn't the case; generally speaking, most of the urine trickles down the inner thighs, sticking to the legs and only staining the inner parts of the trouser legs and the absolute base of the crotch. Not even very much trickles out into space - certainly not the flood that occurs when one is only wearing underpants and most of the pee instantly flows through the thin cotton material and cascades vertically down to the ground. But all that didn't matter for, caught up in the moment, I released my muscles too and allowed my piss to be forced out. God, it felt so good! The relief from the pressure linked to the kick of doing it public was terrific... but to have company too - ah, bliss! Once the pair of us had finished, we pressed on hastily leaving two small puddles behind. Already the damp patches on our jeans were turning cold and the pleasure was fading. Only one person of the many we encountered on that walk gave us a strange look as we passed - a little old lady taking her equally decrepit dog to the park. Slightly tipsy from the beer, we giggled at the look on her face and hurried on our way.
Back in the house we quickly stripped off, tossing our soaked jeans, pants and socks into the kitchen by the washing machine. The clothes from my top half I piled onto my bed before, at Bill's suggestion, I headed into the bathroom to soak in the tub while he used the downstairs shower cubicle. I let the warm water relax me as I idled there... but all too soon I could hear Bill moving round the kitchen so, reluctantly, I levered myself out and started to towel off. Over the bath was one of those five string extendable washing line things and, hanging from it was a selection of Bill's wife's underwear. One of the pairs of knickers kind of attracted me - well, I've always got a kick out of wearing women's panties and these were some of those smooth, shiny satin ones with a semi-transparent lacy panel at the front. Little blue bows were sewn round the waistband and two small 'pearls' dangled from the lace front. I couldn't resist - I took them off the line and slipped them on. A little rearranging of my cock and balls and they felt very comfortable. I admired myself in the mirror noticing, as I did so, that John Thomas was beginning to come to attention... and I smiled. I just looked so damned good... at which point the door suddenly opened and Bill popped his head round the corner. "You ready for some lunch..." he said, his voice trailing away as he spotted what I was wearing.
"Oh," I lamely replied. "I... erm... hope you don't mind..." I shrugged my shoulders and felt my face reddening.
Give Bill his due, he recovered quickly. "No, not at all. Whatever makes you comfortable. Just don't pee in them, okay?"
I smiled. "Sure, mate... no problem." The say was still sunny and fine and, since Bill's house was quite isolated and fully centrally heated, I followed him down for lunch without putting anything else on. Bill himself was wearing an old dressing gown and slippers. We carried the sandwiches and some cans of beer through to the lounge and plopped ourselves down onto the sofa. Bill put the TV on and Match of The Day flickered onto life on the screen. We'd already missed the first half of the game, but what the hell! We soon picked up the plot, as it were and hit the second set of cans...
By three o'clock, the television was flickering away to itself with the sound turned off, Bill was asleep and I was nodding, one hand tucked into the pants and gently easing my foreskin back and forth. Looking back on it now, I have to say that I didn't hear the front door open and the first clue I got that my world was about to end was when a female voice suddenly cried out, "Darling! I'm home!" Before I could react, the owner of the voice walked into the room and promptly did a double take. She was tall and muscular with long, flowing black hair that reached down to her bum; shapely legs emerged from a practical knee-length pleated skirt which was complemented by a expensive silk white blouse and a cashmere cardigan to match the colour of the skirt; she must have been in her early thirties, a little younger than her husband. By now I'd managed to stand and, holding both arms outstretched in front of me, palms towards her, I hesitantly took a few steps forward. "Erm... it's alright," I started, "I'm a friend of your husbands..." My voice trailed away as I saw her eyes were focussed upon my groin.
"Those are my knickers!" she said, anger rising in her voice. Not taking my eyes off her for a second, I lowered my left hand and used it to cover myself up. Suddenly the woman dropped her handbag and advanced on me. Next thing I knew, she took hold on my outstretched right wrist with both her hands and then the room seemed to turn upside-down. I don't know if it was judo or karate or what but the next moment I was laying on the floor on my stomach with my right arm on fire as she twisted it in a way it wasn't supposed to go even while it remained straightened, her left foot planted firmly in the small of my back. "Jesus, lady! That hurts!" I screamed.
"Oh, shut up!" she spat at me and twisted my limb though a few more degrees.
Through the pain I glanced over to one side and there was Bill, of all things, on his knees grovelling on the floor. "Forgive me, Mistress!" he was crying out. "I... I didn't..."
"You didn't know that I'd be cutting my visit short, that much is obvious, worm! And just who is this piece of shit on my carpet?"
"A friend of mine, Mistress."
Mistress? Worm? What the hell was going on here? "Hey, look lady, I'm not into this domination and pain scene," I began. "Just let go of the arm and I'll be out of here in a few minutes."
"I don't give a monkey's toss what you're into or not into... and you're out of here this instant!" With that she removed her foot from my back and, bending slightly, she twisted my arm and bent it at the elbow so I was forced to stand, finding myself in a half-nelson and being propelled towards the front door.
"Hey! Just a minute!" I spluttered, "You can't toss me out in the street like this! For god's sake - let me get changed first and pick up my gear. You'll never see me again, I promise!" Bill's wife never said a word but just kept pushing me towards the door. I tried changing tack. "Bill! Bill! Give me a hand here, man! Tell her to let me go!" But Bill was still grovelling on the floor, his face buried in the carpet. I tried to slow my forward momentum but to no avail for the woman was stronger than I and, when I dug my heels in, she just twisted my arm further until the pain forced me to give up my futile efforts. Next thing I knew, she'd opened the door and thrown me out into the front garden dressed only in a pair of women's panties. Frantically I turned and tried to reenter the house but the door was slammed in my face. Covering my genitals with my hands, I looked about desperately; luckily for me, as I mentioned earlier, the house was in a reasonably good area and stood some distance from its neighbours but, regrettably, the main road ran next to the front garden and, at that very moment, an articulated lorry roared passed, it's incredulous driver staring at me. I had to hide! There was no shed, no bushes, just the low brick front wall so I dashed over and, squatting in the flower bed, huddled into the corner praying that no-one would bother to look over the wall.
For half an hour I was trapped there while traffic roared passed and the occasional sound of voices or footsteps indicated that someone was walking by on the pavement; luckily, not one person other than the lorry driver noticed me but by this time I was getting cold and starting to shiver. Then the front door of the house opened again to reveal the woman standing there; in the time I'd been stuck outside, she'd got changed and now wore a tight black leather catsuit while in her right hand she carried a riding crop. If she's been a model in some men's magazine, I'd have been jerking off just looking at her; as it was, and in the current circumstances, I wasn't feeling the least bit turned on! "So," she called out loudly, "you're still here are you, firstname.lastname@example.org, are you? Well, I've been talking to that worm of a husband of mine and he's showed me the file on his computer of the correspondence between the pair of you. Most enlightening, I have to say - I didn't know that he was so inventive. But I'll make a deal with you - I let you come back in and from the moment that you cross this threshold, you will call me Mistress; is it a deal?"
I thought quickly - well, it was only a word and getting inside had to be better than being stuck out here waiting for darkness to fall. And, besides, once I was inside and had my clothes, I didn't need to keep my promise, did I? I could simply walk out and be free of this crazy woman and her perverted ideas. Swallowing hard, I answered, "Yes, Mistress, it's a deal." Graciously she stood aside and swept one arm towards the warm, dry, safe hallway. "Come along then, in you go." I needed no second bidding and hurriedly entered the house.
Once inside the woman placed the tip of her crop in between my shoulder blades and used it to guide me back into the lounge; of Bill there was no sign - a absence that I questioned... respectfully, of course. The woman pointed to a wooden chest about the length, width and depth of a coffin though lacking in the classic shape being a simple rectangle resting on the floor against the back wall. I'd noticed it before but just assumed that it was full of papers and magazines or whatever Bill and his wife wanted to store in it; looking more closely now I could see that there was some tell-tale holes bored at each end to let the air in. "He's in there?" I asked incredulously noticing that the clasps at either end had suddenly gained padlocks during my enforced period in the garden.
"Yes... it's where I put him when he's in the way or when he's annoyed me somehow. And don't forget to call me 'Mistress'."
"Now, put these on," she ordered holding out a pair of fishnet stocking and a black suspender belt that matched the knickers I was already wearing.
"Eh?" I questioned, rather bemused. "That's not part of the deal... Mistress."
"I can easily put you back outside, slug - with or without the knickers." Accepting that she had a point, I took the garments from her before spending the next few moments struggling into the unfamiliar things. Eventually the task was done. I turned to face her... and a bright flash of light exploded in my eyes. "What?" I gasped as another flash went off.
"Digital camera - wonderful invention. Good quality snaps and no need to go to the chemist where nosey folks might see things they shouldn't. Now, come into the study." Puzzled, I followed and watched, with a sinking heart, as she connected the camera up to the powerful PC that sat on a desk in the corner of the room. The woman's elegant fingers with their red painted nails tapped away at the cordless keyboard and the first picture appeared on the monitor screen. I'd been caught with an expression of surprise etched all over my face - and it was very clearly my face - while looking rather preposterous in the outfit I'd been provided with. The woman started to tap at the keyboard again and I watched in horror as Outlook Express whirred back into life from its miniaturised condition on the task-bar. An e-mail was already on screen, part way to complection. I instantly recognised the destination address as being that of the solicitors office where I worked.
"How? How did you get that... Mistress?"
Silently, she flicked one of my own business cards, clearly removed from my wallet, onto the desk. A few more clicks of the mouse and the two pictures were imported into the file. "What we have here," she explained, "is a copy of all the letters you sent to my husband with details that would give away his identity carefully removed. All I have to do is to click on 'Send' and your career with Blackwall, Roger and Smith is over. Would you agree with that assessment?"
I could feel my balls and prick shrivelling up and trying to retreat back into my body as I licked my suddenly dry lips. "Yes, I would, Mistress."
"Very well. To avoid that, all you have to do is to agree to come round here every Saturday from now on and spend the day cleaning the place up. I hate housework and Bill's total crap at it. D.I.Y. and gardening, yes - dusting, polishing, hoovering, ironing, no. I'll get you a nice maid's outfit to wear with some lovely frilly knickers to flash about, so don't look so crestfallen - you'll come to like it. Fail to turn up one day and I send the e-mail. Do a bad job and I send the e-mail. Annoy me somehow and I send the e-mail. Getting the picture?"
Backed into a corner, I could only agree that I was.
"But don't worry, there'll be no sex involved - you're not my sort. Now, get up into the bathroom and start working on getting the ring out of the tub that you left there earlier!"