The bad times continue for our waitress

"How can I help you?" I ask, nervously.

He waves the graffitied napkin in the air and says, "you know you're going to have to be taught a lesson, right?"

I gulp, but something keeps me standing, awaiting instructions without speaking, still horrifically horny.

He turns to her and asks, "So keeping in mind what she's done with your night so far, what shall we do with her?" He looks excited, which concerns me.

She's useless and makes a nervous noise - I'm starting to like her, even if her fumbling with the damn napkin meant I'm in an even worse predicament than before.

He turns to face me and I just about hold in a second gulp. "How about we add an incentive for good service! When you satisfy a customer, you can satisfy yourself! I can see how much you need it from here."

What the hell does that mean?

"Let's see, I'll give you 2 minutes from when someone tips you." He turns to the girl and smirks. "This will be fun to watch." Fucker.

He waves his hand at me. "And this will help you get the compliments!"

I have 0.1 seconds to interpret his words before the ground seems to try to throw me onto my face. I stumble for a second and find myself at equilibrium, standing on my toes. I look down and find myself in higher heels than I've ever managed before. The kind you try on in a store before admitting to yourself that you'll never wear them.

Oh, there's more. In a sensation precisely between flowing water and rope burn, my uniform twists and shrinks around me into a tight, blue dress. I try to tug the bottom of the dress to at least below my ass cheeks, but it would just spring back up.

Despite even more incentive to tear his head off, I turn to the restaurant and continue my 'work' serving customers. The process now complicated by my impossible footwear, I teeter my way toward the restaurant, devoting all of my mental capacity to staying upright and not breaking my ankle.

I don't know what kind of cognitive dissonance I must be exhibiting to be this angry and this aroused simultaneously, and to have my body somehow refuse to let me act on either instinct.

"They're all looking at me. They all think I dressed this way on purpose, and that it gives them license to stare all over my body. They'd better tip me generously for this," I think to myself as I place the bill on table 15, trying to smile. I watch them read the bill and slip cash inside.

"Keep the tip," he said.

At that instant, it felt like a lock was released on my wrists. I look down at my hands, which look no different, but something is. I experiment by -- yes! -- I can move my hands closer to my -- wait, I'm serving a customer. I look up and thank them all and take the cash to the register. The counting is agonising -- this formality is all that's separating me from my release.

I finish the chore and set about looking for a private bathroom. I ask around and am told that I have to follow the corridor behind the kitchen. I make it half way along the corridor before I feel the imaginary lock close again. Once again, I'm unable to bring my hands anywhere near my crotch or chest. Damn it! This must be what he meant by two minutes. How am I meant to..?

My legs wobble me back to the restaurant and I resume my service, eagerly waiting for the next table to be ready to pay.

This time, I'm much faster at counting the money, and maybe a bit too curt with the customer as I rushed away with their money. I can't run in these shoes but I do my damn best, with one hand on the corridor wall to support myself. I find the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I almost break the handle off as I fumble with it. I sit on the toilet and drop my panties to my ankles.

Fuck that feels good. My finger is greeted with a wetness I've never known before, and I tease myself with my finger for a few seconds before I slide my ff-fuck. My hand jerks away, once again unable to get any closer than my hips. I reach down to return my panties to their rightful place, but I find myself walking back to my duty at the dining area before I get the chance. I get one last look at them on the floor as I leave the bathroom for the corridor.

This cannot get any worse.

The balls of my feet ache as I meticulously focus on trying to walk back to the dining area. I realise now how important the role my panties were playing in keeping my arousal hidden. I can feel a drip of it on my upper thigh as I walk. Unable to do anything about it, I just have to hope that it doesn't add to my embarrassment over the course of the night.

I'm past angry; now I'm just **** that he frees me. I'll do anything.