The Task
It was late afternoon, and Tom hoped the lunchtime crowd had already returned to work while the after-school rush was still thin. A quick glance under the stalls as he strode through the mall’s large restroom confirmed he was alone. He hurried into the last stall, checked his watch—two minutes to go.
What could go wrong?
He unzipped his backpack and tore a hole in the small paper package inside. A few strips of skimpy fabric tumbled into his hand, along with a note: WEAR ME.
A chill ran down his spine. It was the first handwritten note from her. That alone was enough to unnerve him, but what truly sent shivers through his body was the clothing itself: a black-lace G-string, a flat-chest bra, and purple-black striped knee socks.
Beep.
His watch jolted him from his trance. Shit. It's 1:00 PM already.
He stripped quickly, pausing only to listen for any signs of company. Satisfied with the silence, he dressed, obeying her command dutifully, despite the trembling in his hands.
When he was done, he unlocked his phone and took a selfie—neck down, body framed just enough to show his obedience, the stall’s background confirming where he was.
The G-string barely contained him. The thin pouch was already failing as his arousal grew. Standing there, dressed like a slut, waiting for the telltale three dots of her typing status—it only made him harder. Maybe, if he completed this task perfectly, she would deem him worthy of the cage.
Finally.
His phone vibrated with her response: "Good slut. Bad angle. Try harder."
He snapped another picture. Then another. His desire to please her overrode everything else. He tried to be more "artistic," offering different angles, better framing, careful lighting. He submitted each for her approval.
Her only response: a frowning emoji.
"It looks like a bitch, acts like a bitch, but it has something no bitch should have. Disappointed."
He scanned the images again. She had a point. But he was so unbearably horny. Five days of orgasm denial had left him painfully sensitive. Even his nipples strained against the sheer fabric of the bra.
"Are you going to fix it, or should I consider this your final submission?"
His mind raced.
Then—an idea.
Slipping off his shoe, he unthreaded the lace and, through a mixture of pain and precision, crafted a tight, effective tucking shibari. He took a photo of his bound, darkening flesh and sent it.
"Would that be enough?"
A reply came instantly: a grinning emoji, followed by a meme of Jeff Goldblum captioned, "Life Finds a Way"—edited to say, "Bitch Finds a Way."
Then another message:
"Hurry up, or I won’t need a cage to keep you soft forever, and there is no fun in that."
"You have two minutes. No mistakes this time."
His chest tightened. Sometimes, he wished he could fall at her feet and kiss her toes for everything she did to him. His fantasies mercifully ignored the fact that he didn't even know her shoe size. Or what colour skin his tongue should be worshipping.
Shame fueled his arousal as he continued his photoshoot. He posed, exposing his chest, arching his back, spreading his legs to make himself more accessible. The phone holder with suction-cup he’d brought made certain angles easy. Finally, he sat on the closed toilet, knees hooked over his arms, presenting himself as thoroughly as possible.
The two-minute deadline might have passed, but he didn’t notice.
He selected the best shot from each pose and sent them one by one. The last one nearly didn’t make the cut—his shibari work was visible—but he’d unconsciously parted his lips, doll-like, as if ready to be fucked.
He sent it.
Her response was immediate.
"Good girl."
His stomach twisted with pride.
"Get rid of the shibari. Keep the bitch uniform. Get dressed and text me when you leave the stall."
Was that all?
Disappointment prickled at him, but she sounded almost content. That was good… right?
His train of thought derailed as blood rushed back into his tortured cock, sending a wave of sharp pain through his core. It took him a moment to breathe through it, to compose himself enough to leave.
The G-string left him utterly exposed. Every step sent shivers up his spine as his pants caressed his bare ass.
Outside, he sent the message.
Her response came instantly:
"Go to the photo kiosk and wait."
Wait?
Confused, but knowing better than to question her, he obeyed.
"Pick up order XYZ."
Oh no.
Dread churned in his gut as he typed in the pickup code.
Bzzz.
The printer spat out five photos of him.
At least his face was covered—emoji stickers distorted his expressions—but still.
Another message:
"Buy a disposable SIM, write the number on the back of the photos, and distribute them. Then, you can go home. But keep the bitch uniform on for the night. I’ll check in on you in the morning. Have fun, my sweet boy."
Tom exhaled shakily.
It was going to be a long night.
