Page 7 of Hurts So Good

When I answer the phone, he says, “Put them on.”

That’s all. Then he hangs up.

I put them on.

Four hours later, I meet Steve for dinner. Our favorite place. A nice candlelit dinner to celebrate the end of the workweek. I listen to my heels tapping on the parking lot to try to distract myself. Anything to pull me from the bizarre mix of arousal, excitement, and pain coursing through me. It hurts to walk. Every step torture. Every flex of my muscles a searing pain.

He is watching my face. After playing this game for awhile now, I know what he is looking for. The wince when I sit, the shifting in my seat, the way my hands move to offer myself some relief and then still in my lap because I know that’s forbidden.

“How do you feel?” he asks and pours me a glass of red wine from the table.

I don’t sip like a lady. I take a big swig. I have also learned that getting that first glass of wine or that first shot of tequila in me will lessen the pain. Turn it from glass shards on my skin to a dull burning pain. A little more manageable.

“Like I might go insane,” I sigh and take a more demure sip of my drink.

“How wet are you?” he asks in his normal tone. He does not lower his voice or lean in so only I can hear. He simply asks me as if he is asking if I’ve had my oil changed lately.

I squirm a little, as I always do at the question and how bold he is. The simple act of asking makes me that much wetter. I can feel the moisture in my panties as I shift. My too-tight panties. The ones he makes me wear for our special occasions. They leave deep red lines in my skin. They are torturous. but I am always rewarded. And the pain is a welcome thing for me. Dancing with the monster. The pain makes what comes later that much sweeter. We discovered this by accident, and now it has become ritual.

Hour one is annoying.

Hour two I am tender.

Hour three and it’s maddening.

Hour four and I have hit the point where I want it to end. I know this from experience. We are only in hour one.

“Very wet,” I sigh and sip again. The waiter will arrive soon. Steve has already ordered for us as he always does. Surf and Turf, a nice red wine, and cheesecake for dessert. Every item on our menu a hoop I must jump through to get my reward. To get home and get my too-tight panties peeled off and my needs taken care of.

“Size?” he asks as the waiter puts our small salads on the table.

I pop a cherry tomato in my mouth and chew, though my increasing discomfort has stolen my appetite. I can’t get up and move around. I cannot find a new position and shift here, there, and everywhere. I must sit and focus on him and eat my meal and act as if all is well. More moisture seeps into the crotch of my cotton bondage.

“Two,” I say, playing along.

“And you, Janelle, wear what size?”

I want to sigh because he knows damn well what size I wear. But the look in his eyes lets me know that his cock is hard. Very hard and waiting for me. I must jump through the hoop.

“An eight.”

Three sizes too small, shrunken in the dryer by my husband on purpose. My key to sexual bliss.

It started when Steve’s sister Marie came to stay for the weekend. Marie’s laundry had gotten mixed in with ours, and somehow a pair of her panties ended up in my drawer. I am tall and lean but have a healthy ass. Marie is small and lightweight and has the flattest ass on planet earth. When I put her panties on by mistake, I had been rushing out the door. Through a meeting and lunch and the rest of my workday, I suffered. I had worn a short skirt that day, and flashing my ass to the office would have gotten me fired, so I suffered. For nine hours. In Marie’s panties. Steve was there when I got home and took them off. Red indentations and chafing marks all over my skin. When he ran his fingers along my skin to trace them, I gasped. Jumped. Shuddered.

When he fucked me right after that, I did all the same things.

The pain and the pleasure were married that night.

Marie eventually called for her missing items. But Steve went right out and bought an identical pair. In Marie’s size. And then, to add insult to injury, or in this case, pleasure to pain—he washed them in hot water and then dried them. The pair I am currently wearing are even smaller than the pair that started this whole thing.

“Eat your salad,” he says. I do. Each bite tastes worse than the one before. Each chewing session does nothing to shift my focus from the burning bite of elastic into the tops of my thighs, the swell of my asscheeks, the cleft between my thighs. My attention is focused solely on my discomfort no matter what I try. But my mind also supplies vivid images of my eventual release, and my pussy floods the tiny torturous panties. There’s nothing I can do but squirm.

“And sit still,” Steve adds sternly.

So I do.

The final hour of dinner lasts a lifetime. Or feels like it. I am now completely obsessed both with the urge to shift and the voice in my head that reminds me that I cannot. As always, Steve has the rest of my dinner wrapped up for me to take. I never manage to eat much on these nights out. I have, however, downed three glasses of wine. I know he’s aware of what I’m doing, but he lets me. I can only assume he doesn’t want me to suffer in an uncontrolled way. That wine gives me a little sense of relief and control, though this is pretty much an illusion and we both know it.

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