Exposed – A piece of public humiliation erotica
I notice pearls of sweat gathering on his forehead, growing larger by the second, and gently dripping down into his eyes. He squints as the salt burns them. “Are people watching?” he asks. “Of course they are, I respond, Everyone wants to see what you are going to do next.“
The midday sun is beating down upon his brow and one might be led to believe that this is the cause of his profuse perspiration, were it not for the very obvious discomfort that he is in right now. I, on the other hand, am more than comfortable. Relaxing in a deck chair, with a lovely cool drink in one hand and an elegant slim cigarette in the other, coils of velvety smoke curling up from its tip into the still summer air. Beside Me, My slave is standing on a soap box. We are at Speaker’s Corner, in Hyde Park. It’s Sunday, and the crowds have gathered to hear what the loonies and visionaries of London have to say.
I woke My slave up at 6 am. I made him sleep in the slave bedroom in the attic, with the roof window closed. The room is minuscule, more of a glorified cupboard really. It get very hot in the eaves of the house in summer, and the window had been closed all day, turning the room into a hamam, ready for My slave to spend the night in it. I knew he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep, and this is exactly how I wanted it. I needed him to be broken before we even set off into town. I wanted his intellect to be cooked out of him, so that he would be unable to stand up to Me the next day and refuse the ordeal that I was to put him through.
I woke him up from the comfort of My own bedroom, using the little remote that I had kept under My pillow as I slept. A short, sharp scream alerted Me that he was awake. I heard him stumble down the stairs, then knock on My door. “Come in.” I said, from the comfort of My bed. “Mistress, would you like some coffee?” He asked. What a sight he was to behold… His hair was stuck to his head in ugly curls from a night of bathing in his own seat. The rings under his eyes were like the shadows of death. “Yes I would like some coffee, thank you. And a croissant. There aren’t any here, so you will have to get dressed and head to the shop to buy some for Me. And no, you are not allowed to take off the shock collar“. I had padlocked the collar shut on his neck the night before, to avoid the possibility of him removing it during the night. Upon close inspection, one could distinguish reddened welts around the edges of the leather strap, where sweat and friction had left their mark. I smiled at the thought of his discomfort.
He brought Me some coffee, then headed off to the shop to pick up some croissants for Me. While he was away, I prepared the outfit that he was to wear and laid it out for him to admire upon his return. Then I sat back to enjoy My coffee with a morning cigarette. He was back very quickly, and came up to My bedroom to serve Me breakfast on a tray, with a flower in a small vase on it. What a nice touch. As his eyes swept the room, and he saw the outfit laid out on the bed at My feet, he began to shake and the sound of rattling became audible as the tray began to wobble in his hands. He tried his best to deposit it on My lap without any spills, but he was most shaken; and with good reason. At My feet was a pair of grey chino leggings, a fluorescent pink, very short, tulle tutu, a bra to match, and a cheap blonde wig, as well as a selection of cheap, fake gold bangles.
As I tucked into My fresh croissant with butter and orange blossom honey, I told him to dress for Me. He obliged, but fumbled around as he did so, obviously distressed by the outfit of choice for the day. Once he was dressed and My breakfast was eaten, I sent him down to do the dishes as I showered and dressed.
We left the house around 10 am. Although he could have paid for a taxi, I decided that we should take public transport. I had covered him in a coat before leaving the house, and he was sweating in the already hot summer sun. Once we were on the train into central London, it became quite apparent that he was in a considerable amount of distress. “What is it?” I asked. “I’m hot, Mistress. There’s no air conditioning.” I laughed and told him to give Me his coat. “But Mistress, everybody will see!” he protested. I told him sharply that he shouldn’t have complained then, and gave him a shock to remind him who is boss. The power of the shock collar dragged him to the ground, and I told him to stay there and not bother getting up. In front of a carriage full of people, I made him remove the coat and sit at My feet in that ridiculous outfit. Camera phones came out, and you could hear the clicking sounds going off as everyone took pictures and filmed the incredible situation that was unfolding right below their noses in broad daylight. “I have something for you.” I told him. “You must be so hot and thirsty.” He looked up at Me, fear in his eyes, as sweat dripped from under the ridiculous wig.
I brought out a large bottle and handed it to him. “It’s just water, I said, don’t be so scared. See? I’m such a nice compassionate Mistress, taking care of you like this. Now drink it all up.” He guzzled down the two litres of water, clearly relieved. Soon enough, we were in London. It was now time to take the underground. Men can be so stupid, and often have a tendency to wander off, so I hooked a lead to his collar and dragged him through a very busy London Bridge station down to the Jubilee line. At least it was cool there. People sniggered as we walked past, and I liked it like that. The more humiliating for him, the better. The entire journey to Marble arch, I relished his discomfort. He was too tired to protest and he had no idea what we were about to do or even where we were going. As we exited the station at Marble Arch, we walked out into a blazing heatwave and a throng of people. Again, cameras came out of pockets, and soon we were surrounded by a crowd of onlookers, hunderds of them, who moved with us as we walked along. This being Marble Arch, where celebrities are often spotted, the crowd in itself drew the attention of passers-by, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It grew and grew and grew, it was like being celebrities. My slave was hating every minute of it.
And here we are now, at Speaker’s corner. My slave is on a soapbox, and I am relaxing only a few feet away from him, the remote to his shock collar on My lap; just to remind him not to try anything stupid. I have given him the brief. He is holding a piece of paper in his hand, on which is typed a text that he must read out. He is crossing and uncrossing his legs, in clear discomfort. “Mistress, I really need to wee. Please, can I go to the bathroom?” he begs. “NO!” is My short and sharp answer. “Get on with it. Do what I told you. The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can return to the Manor and you can have a nice shower and a sleep.” His bladder is clearly ready to burst. It’s amazing how fast 2 litres of water go through you when your stomach is empty, and it’s amazing how much harder it is to hold in when you are exhausted.
A small crowd of about 20 people has gathered, and is waiting eagerly to hear what My slave has to say. He is looking into My eyes, pleading Me with his gaze. I put down My drink and pick up the remote for the shock collar, without breaking eye contact. I smile at him as I wave it, then I put My thumb on the button. I arch My eyebrow. “Is this what you want?” I am asking him with My eyes. I can see that he is holding back the tears. How wonderful it is to put a man in such a situation that he turns into a snivelling wreck who is completely powerless and would do absolutely anything I ask hi to in order to end his ordeal. How very satisfying. My knickers are damp already from the excitement of what he is about to endure. I love the way the crowd is staring, waiting. People love a car crash.
“H-h-h-hello everyone, He begins. I-I-I have c-come here today to talk about a very important subject, and I want your full attention. I want to talk about the lack of public toilets in London. We are people. We have a right to piss.” He crosses his legs again as he reads the word. The mere mention of the word toilet is almost too much to bare now. “They have taken our toilets from us. They turn them into fancy cafes and pop up art galleries. But where is our right to p-piss? I p-piss, you p-piss, we all p-p-piss.” He looks at Me again, pleadingly. I press the button on My remote, looking him in the eyes as I do so. It vibrates rather than shocking him, but he lets out a little squeak nonetheless and nearly crouches down for a second. “We have a right to see our natural needs met without having to run around like idiots in the hope of finding a Costa coffee that doesn’t have its toilet door password protected. We have a right to not live the embarrassment of being at the mercy of moody restaurant waiters. We have a right to not risk getting fined for p-p-pissing against a tree or a lamppost. And in protest of this…” His voice trails off.
I hadn’t given him the chance to give the text a test read before starting. He looks up at the crow for the first time since staring reading. It is 50 to 60 strong now, and every single person there is filming him. This is going to go viral, I think to Myself gleefully. My slave swallows his saliva audibly. He knows that there is no way out of this situation other than to go through with it. “Come on!!!” shout the crowd. “Whaddya going to to about it then, you ugly tranny?” They begin to heckle him and laugh at him. I can see his discomfort it reaching its apex, and I just sit there smiling at him. A little no of the head signals to him that he should continue. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. “And in protest of this, re resumes, I am going to p-p-p-p-piss m-m-my p-p-p-ants.” he trails off in a whimper. He begins to crouch down trying to curl up into a ball, but I quickly buzz him to remind him that he has to stand up. The crowd cheer, clap, whistle. They love him and they want to see him do it. “Please Mistress…” He begs. I adjust the power on the shock collar, turning it up to the maximum. I look him in the eyes, and smile as I press the button. The short sharp shock makes him lose all control of his already overfull bladder. Those grey chino leggings were a good choice! A shiny black stain grows bigger and bigger down the inside of his legs as his bladder burst open. Soon, he is pissing full force and a waterfall of piss is falling between his legs. He stands there, legs apart, piss gushing out of him, with his eyes closed and a smile on his face. The relief of his release has completely monopolised his thoughts. He has forgotten that he is standing in front of a crowd of people cheering at him, calling him names, clapping, whistling, booing… He is in his happy place: the one where his bladder is emptying itself and he is finally getting the relief he so craved. Once the last few drips have come out, I shock him again, and now he has a sharp return to reality. There he is, on a soap box, in broad daylight, dressed in the most ridiculous outfit in front of a huge crowd of strangers who are all filming him, and he has just wet himself.