Confessions

The awakening was a shattering, agonizing experience. Your head throbbed with a hangover amplified far beyond the "fuzzy after drink seven" point. You lay on a cold, damp floor—a basement—your wrists and ankles tightly bound.

You were no longer wearing the lacy corset, the short skirt, or the fishnets, but you remained in the fundamental female garments: the bra, which painfully compressed your chest, and a pair of panties. Looking at a cracked mirror, you saw the horrific state of your face: the pale foundation streaked with tears, and the dark eyeliner, sultry eyeshadow, and thick black lipstick smeared across your chin. You remembered the high-pitched shriek of your final drunken plea: "My cock is my cunt tonight!"

A heavy, muffled door creaked open, and a man entered, wearing a plain, neutral mask. He stood over you, silent, allowing the shame of your circumstances and the raw, involuntary ache of your hard cock (which had been stiff since you first pulled on the slightly moist panties) to sink in.

He knelt down, his eyes fixed on the lace and silk covering your lower body.

“Do you know whose panties you are wearing?” he asked, his voice low and distorted.

Despite the chaos and fear, you knew.

“They’re my mom’s,” you whispered.

“How do you know?”

You tried to retreat into the fog of the night. “I just guessed.”

The masked man moved swiftly. A sharp, stinging smack landed hard against your cheek, leaving your skin burning. The pain sent a conflicting jolt of eroticism and shame through you.

“Don’t lie to me,” he commanded. He saw the whimper that escaped your lips, and the desperate, hungry look in your eyes for more punishment. He instantly withheld it. “I won’t slap you again like you want until you tell the full truth.”

The threat worked perfectly, cutting through the last remnant of resistance.

“I… I stole them once,” you confessed, your voice cracking. “They’re lace silk. I… I masterbated in them.”

“What did you imagine?” he pressed.

“I imagined… that I was my mom.”

The masked man didn’t seem surprised. “And who were you with, when you were her?”

You gave the first answer that came to mind, the man who had exerted the most recent psychological pressure. “I imagined myself with… Gary. The one who bought all the drinks and wanted to be ‘Dad’.”

“Gary,” the man repeated slowly. “He saw the clothes and the makeup, and he understood the shame of the performance. But Gary was only the punishment. He was the role-play you accepted because he made you feel slutty and exposed. Was he the one you truly wanted when you first put on the bra and imagined the wetness coming from her cunt?”

You shook your head violently, tears flowing freely, washing the remaining black lipstick into grimy puddles.

“Then was it Jack?” the masked man challenged. “The bartender Mel said would fuck you raw? The standard meathead you thought was fundamentally uninteresting? Did you imagine the raw aggression?”

“No… it wasn’t him either,” you sobbed, the confusion mounting. You realized both Gary and Jack were just proxies, stand-ins for something deeper that the costume and the alcohol had brought to the surface.

The masked man knelt closer, his voice soft, cold, and utterly authoritative. “You wanted control, dominance, and the permission to be something shameful. You cried out that your cock was your cunt. Who is the only man who owns your shame, who knows your history, and who holds the true, ultimate, unbreakable authority in your life?”

The question shattered the last wall of your drunken, costumed identity. The shame was paralyzing, but the relief of finally identifying the source of this perversion was immense.

You looked up at the masked man, the image of your rigid cock trapped in your mother’s panties burning in your mind, and whispered the only truth left.

“I… I wanted… my actual Dad.”

A sound of deep satisfaction came from behind the mask. “Good. Now we can start.”