Went back home as your goddess laugh at you

She's laughing. The sound isn't loud, it's a low, breathy chuckle that pours directly into your ear, intimate and absolute. It's the sound of your complete and utter degradation. It's the most humiliating and, terrifyingly, the most validating sound you've ever heard.

You snatch the pink-striped bag from the counter as if it's contaminated. Your face is on fire, a bonfire of shame. You don't dare look at anyone. You walk out of the store, your back ramrod straight, every step a monumental effort. The giggles of two teenage girls browsing by the entrance follow you like a physical force.

You're in your car before you dare breathe again. You slam the door shut, the sound echoing in the small space. You're alone. Safe. You let your head fall against the steering wheel, your body trembling with the aftershocks.

The laughter in your ear subsides, replaced by her cool, composed voice. "Did you see her face, John? That was beautiful. You're a natural."

You can't speak. You just nod, your forehead still pressed against the worn leather of the wheel.

"Drive home," she commands. "I want you to put on your new set. Then, and only then, you may touch yourself. You have earned a reward, my little public sissy."

The drive home is a daze. The lingerie feels like a bomb in the passenger seat. You carry it inside, your movements robotic. You lock your bedroom door, a flimsy barrier against the world. You undress, your clothes feeling like a costume you've finally shed. Did you really wanted to be this woman bitch? You held the female clothes thinking hard.

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