Jump to content
Existing user? Sign In

Sign In



Sign Up

[female/female d/s] A day in the life of Na


Recommended Posts

Content note: wetting, female/female dominance/submission and very mild sexual content, laundry.

 

My name is Na, and my duty is to please my mistress.

At the moment, she's at work, and I am at home. The apartment is summer-warm and airy, the balcony doors thrown open to let in the afternoon breeze - my usual clothing of a loose vest and panties keeps me easily warm enough here. I can hear the whoosh of buses from the main street a block away, and occasionally smell savoury scents from the nearby takeout.

I sit at my desk, cross-legged atop a comfy cushion on my desk chair, and do my work: one thousand words on meditation, five hundred words on how to take care of your car in the winter. My job as a freelance copywriter pleases my mistress, for it gives me something to do during the day, while still allowing her to control me.

The results of her most recent command are still very present: a large damp patch at the crotch of my red panties, and a darkened area on the shaggy brown rug in front of the fireplace. Amongst the things my mistress controls is my bladder: when I empty it, and where. I'm rarely allowed to use the toilet to pee, and I am seldom directed to use the same place twice in a row - the house's floors are all tile, vinyl or well-sealed laminate, well furnished with rugs; the beds have waterproof mattress covers; and even the sofas have a discreet waterproof layer underneath the cushions.

"Your car needs special care in the winter", I type. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the curtains shift as a breeze floats into the room, and a second later I feel it cooling the wet spot between my legs. I smile, and continue writing.

A few minutes later, my phone beeps. It's mistress. 

"Good description. Fullness level?"

Above her message is a long one from me, detailing my most recent activity: describing how much I'd needed a wee, how it had been distracting me from my work - and how I'd doggedly continued, as mistress had insisted I do, and how much relief I'd felt when I was told I was allowed to go to the toilet on the rug. I wrote about squatting down and almost immediately peeing, the stream soaking through my panties; I described the drumming noise of it hitting the rug, and how it had been replaced by splashing as a puddle slowly grew. And then I had described how hard it had been to cut my stream off after ten seconds, as mistress had demanded I do; how hard I had had to clench to stop my bladder emptying itself as it was used to doing.

Amongst the things my mistress values about me is my ability to write - to describe the results of her commands in a different way every time, to liven up her day in the office.

"Pressing, mistress," I type back, "rapidly increasing to challenging."

"Drink your tea, and report in in half an hour."

"Yes, mistress."

I take a couple of sips of the Earl Grey sitting beside my laptop. I am a tea fan, even in the height of summer - I'd rather wear less clothes than drink a cold drink. But right now, my bladder gives me a warning pang, protesting that if I keep drinking tea it will need to be emptied very soon. I ignore it and calmly continue drinking.

---

Half an hour later, I have written one hundred words about snow chains and anti-freeze, and I really, really need to pee. I'm writing slower than normal because I keep drifting off into little reveries, thinking about how good it would feel to just let go and soak the cushion beneath me. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. But mistress has not said I may, so I continue to hold. I've been checking the clock every minute or two, and when it finally ticks over to quarter past, I grab my phone.

"Mistress, may I pee please? I'm very desperate."

"Yes."

There's a short pause. I get to my feet as fast as I can - slowed by one leg being numb from having it pressed into my crotch to help me hold, and further slowed by my aching bladder. She hasn't told me where yet.

"In three minutes."

I let out a gasp, and shove my free hand between my legs. With my bladder loosening in anticipation of imminent release, I'm really not sure I can hold on. I bend over and dance from foot to foot until the immediate urge subsides.

At least I'm not likely to be asked to cut off halfway through this time - mistress knows that this can be painful after too many repetitions, and she is usually fairly kind to me.

Once I can straighten back up, I pace around the living room, phone in hand. I know from experience that waiting for the minutes to tick over can feel agonizingly slow, so I open Facebook and scroll through: cat picture, somebody's having a BBQ, dog picture, vaguebooking, advert, funny cat picture with misspelled caption. One minute ticks over. Long-winded rant about education; I'd normally be interested but I'm so distracted I can't pay attention for more than two sentences, so I scroll past to lighter content. Two minutes. I find myself mentally tallying up how many seconds it takes me to appreciate a cat, versus a cat with a caption. It's not very many - I'll need a lot of cats to fill that last minute.

Finally, it feels like the minute is almost over. I switch back to messaging, and type "Please may I go, mistress?" single-handed; my other hand is holding back the flood. My finger hovers over send, my eyes on the clock. The minute ticks over and I mash the send button. I bounce from foot to foot as I watch the message send indicator: one tick, two ticks... I hope she's not talking to a colleague, or has her phone out of reach, or ... no, she knew I was holding for three minutes, surely she'd... perhaps somebody came into the office and she had to put the phone away...

Two blue ticks. Message read.

If she takes any longer I'm going to just pee right here, and then I'd disappoint mistress, and I don't want to disappoint her, nor to be assigned a punishment - extra tea, or even more challenging holds, or even a wetting in public...

"It's nice outside. Go stand on the balcony and take in the sun. You may empty your bladder fully."

I turn to run out to the balcony, but after the first step, I'm forced to slow down to a hobble. It takes far too long to get out to the balcony, but at least it gives me time to message "Thank you mistress." - the phrase she requires me to say before I go.

The balcony stretches the entire width of the living room, and its sandstone blocks are warm under my bare feet. I have a quick glance left and right - luckily, in the middle of the day, most of my neighbours are out, so nobody's on the adjoining balconies, and I'm shielded from passers-by and office workers in the block across the street by the lush greenery twining around the midriff-height railing. I put my phone down on the patio table, grab the rail with both hands, spread my legs wide, and... nothing.

The worst part of a long hold is the painful few seconds when your body isn't quite ready to release control yet. It often happens to me if I'm peeing in public - whether it's on the balcony, or if I'm performing for mistress's friends, or if I'm wetting myself outside as a punishment. I can feel my bladder straining, and I grit my teeth ... and ... and ... and ... let go.

When the dam finally breaks, it's an incredible relief. Pee courses out of me, a thick stream splashing down onto the sandstone and smaller rivulets running down my legs. I lean back, enjoying the sun on my face and my rapidly-emptying bladder, and after a few seconds I can hear trickling from the balcony drain. I look down and check out my puddle - I'm standing in the middle of a large patch of pee-darkened sandstone, surrounded by splash marks where droplets have been flung away by the force of my stream hitting the floor. I'm still going, but less furiously now, the initial urgent need having been well and truly taken care of.

The stream stops after quite some time, but I hang out on the balcony for a minute or two, occasionally letting out little spurts which trickle warmly down my legs. The feeling of emptiness is amazing. I wiggle my bottom to shake the last few drops from the soaked crotch of my panties, now shining wet in the sunlight, and open a storage crate to grab the post-peeing towel we keep out here, using it to dry off my legs and feet.

I pick up my phone again. Time to report in.

---

Just after 7pm, I hear the rattle of a key in the lock. I head through to the hall: mistress likes me to greet her when she comes in from work. I kneel on the wood-laminate floor at the end of the long hallway as the door swings open.

Mistress looks every inch the professional accountant, as always: dark hair pulled back into an efficient bun, good makeup expertly applied to look like none at all, a sober navy suit jacket and knee-length skirt, shoes with just a touch of heel. The contrast between her and myself - short, a bit on the skinny side, my naturally mousy hair dyed lilac and defying gravity - is night and day.

She closes the door behind her and puts her handbag on the side table, amongst the carefully-chosen minimalist knick-knacks, slides off her shoes, and puts them on the shoe rack. Her tights come down next, rolled and placed on the shoes. She pulls up her skirt and squats, showing off her panties - black, lacy, expensive. A smile, a wink at me, and a second's concentration... and then she's peeing full-force through her panties and onto the hall floor, the puddle spreading outwards to the discreetly waterproofed skirting boards. I watch, and despite the fact that this has been her routine most days for the last year, I am mesmerized and turned on.

Once she's finished, she stands up, wiggles out of her panties, and drops them in the middle of the puddle. "Towel," she says. I throw her the rolled towel I've been holding. She dabs at her perfectly manicured pussy, dries one foot, steps onto a puddle-free area, dries the other, tosses the towel back to me, pulls her skirt back down.

"Clean up," she commands, and heads for the shower.

---

Late evening. We are lying on the couch in the darkened living room. Behind us, on the dining table, stacked plates bear the remnants of a good dinner, and in the distance I can hear one of the washing machines clicking onto spin cycle. (Life in such a wet household demands plenty of washing, and it is mistress's pleasure that I do this.) We're watching a show I don't particularly care for, but which mistress loves.

I shift slightly in her arms. "Mistress?"

She grabs the remote and pauses the show. "Yes?"

"I need a wee. May I go please?"

"You may pee here," she says, and moves her hand down between my legs. I changed after my earlier wetting - fresh panties, blue polkadot this time, and a thin pair of black cotton pants, slightly too long for me.

"Thank you mistress," I say as she unpauses the show.

This is probably my favourite situation in which to pee, I think to myself as I let go - comfortable and secure with mistress holding me, feeling her enjoyment. I lie back and appreciate the warmth spreading, pee gently trickling down my bottom and pooling underneath me. When I finish, she whispers in my ear - "Good girl." - and slips her pee-damp hand inside my panties. As she gently strokes my clit, I feel a familiar warmth on the small of my back and know that she's joined me, wetting her pajamas.

---

I wake up late the next morning in the same outfit, lying by myself in the soaking wet bed. Sunshine streams in the window as I sleepily roll out and begin stripping the sheets, smiling to myself as I remember last night's activity. After making love on the couch, we headed to bed via the kitchen for one last glass of water each. I remember waking up a couple of times in the night, lying there half-on-top of mistress, my head on her chest and my leg between hers. Once, feeling a warm wetness against my leg that told me the glass of water had made its way through her system, and a second time to relieve myself, hot pee trickling down the places where our bodies touched.

My tasks for the morning are to revert the apartment to its previous pristine state - to remake the bed, wash all of our clothes from yesterday, put the couch cushions in the washer and take out the spare ones, wash the rug I peed on. After that, I will resume my work for the outside world. Throughout, I will ask permission to go to the toilet when I need to, and mistress will do what amuses her: tell me where to go, have me hold, have me drink more tea.

My name is Na, and my duty is to please my mistress.

Edited by sspz
Content note (see edit history)
Link to comment
  • The title was changed to [female/female d/s] A day in the life of Na

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.
Note: Your post will require moderator approval before it will be visible.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
×
×
  • Create New...