Don't like mushrooms? Ask me if I care. Lol.
I intended to have a fun evening with Emma and when I decided she'd be eating pizza I decided to load it with my favorite toppings. It back-fired in two ways....Emma doesn't like mushrooms. Damn shame. And when she sent me a picture of her delivery it just left me salivating. Looked like a mighty fine pizza. Lol. Still does. Wait until you see it below.
But before we get to the main event, Emma had a full day ahead of her. It's interesting. I look at these blogs and prepare them sometimes a good month or so after the experience. It's a chance to remind me of the fun we had (I'd forgotten about Emma's delicious breakfast that day). So I enjoy reading them and remembering, and I hope the sub who sent the blog in enjoys the surprise of when they land to be shared, sometimes even after we have finished our time together.
In Emma's case, she's still with me, and has this to say:
I hate mushrooms.
It’s more than just the horrid taste. It’s more than just the soft texture, like something you would feed an infant before they cut their very first tooth. The beginning of the word – mush – means it starts with something unappealing and it never advances from there.
Mistress Brianna was kind to me last weekend. My job is cyclical, moving from spans of time where I am not very busy to times, like now, where I have dozens of hours of overtime every week. My paychecks are appreciative of the extra hours, but I do get run down. The cycle has been on the busy side lately, so Mistress Brianna gave me my lone weekend day off to recuperate, to recharge my batteries. Of course, even with a day off there was still so much to do.
My day started with breakfast. I made a waffle. It wasn’t that great. The mix I used wasn’t something I normally use.
I put the waffle on the plate. Then, while it was still warm, I added my home-made toppings. It wasn’t as enjoyable as you’d imagine, stroking oneself to porn while your breakfast was cooling beneath you. I stood at my desk, a favorite video playing, and stroked myself to completion, adding the first topping to my waffle. Only I didn’t ejaculate. No, that wasn’t what was commanded. I ruined an orgasm atop my waffle. The waffle was warm enough to make the leaky mess bake. My cock spurted once, then dribble atop my waffle.
I followed that with a heaping pile of syrup, then ate my breakfast.
Breakfast wasn’t that good. Was it the waffle mix or the toppings, I couldn’t say? I suspect it was the waffle mix most of all. It was a new brand, not one I had tried before. The syrup was sweet, but not enough to hide the taste of the waffle mix. I won’t make that flavor again.
After doing the dishes I got dressed as directed. I was already wearing my bra and panties, a rule anytime I am home. I donned a garter belt and a pair of white stockings, loving the taut pull of the garter straps as they pressed against my thighs. Over that I put on a simple floral summer dress. The dress settled into place. Next, I put on my heels then settled down for the next task.
Having already orgasmed, and not being as young as I used to be, I settled at the computer with my fleshlight and my favorite porn to edge for an hour. The first edge was slow, rolling in after nearly thirty minutes. The next three were quick to follow. It felt more like I was riding an edge for twenty minutes than edging over and over. After ruining my orgasm for breakfast and edging for an hour I was ready for a break.
But first, there was no playing until night-night time.
So it was time to lock the keys away.
I set the timer for six hours then pushed the button. After a brief count-down, the kitchen-safe locked, putting my chastity cage keys out of reach. I was locked for the duration. There is something eerily erotic about chastity. That adage of how something out of reach and unobtainable is somehow worth more than something that is easy to acquire rings true every time the lock click shuts. Why do we want what we know we can’t have? Does it go back to the Garden of Eden and the forbidden fruit? Maybe it does. Or maybe it’s just human nature. Perhaps it’s just my nature. Either way, the lock was locked, the keys were inaccessible, and I had a movie to enjoy.
I sat in my recliner and fired up the movie. The Untouchables. If you have not seen it, it’s the true story of Eliot Ness, played by Kevin Coster, going after Robert De Niro’s Al Capone. It’s a good tale, told well. It still holds up after all these years. I remember seeing it in the theater opening weekend so many moons ago. Sean Connery was a standout to me.
During the movie my nipples were clamped. My nipple clamps are brutal. It took me over four fours to finish the movie as I had to keep taking breaks to take off the clamps as the pain became far too much to bear.
You can just make out the chain coming from beneath my white bra and my pretty light green dress. If I sat very still, I could almost forget they were there. But you move when you breathe, and you fidget when sitting for any period of time and each movement caused a wince or a sharp intake of air which brought another sting from my punished nipples. I watched the movie, pausing frequently, to remove the clamps which brought even more pain. Maybe it would have been better to keep them on for the duration but the pain was enough to make that impossible even though the back and forth of putting them one and removing then over and over did not do me any favors. It was like a horrible game where there was no chance of winning. A damnable predicament.
Eventually it was time for the worst part. The part I had been dreading for the whole day. The part that had kept half my mind occupied during the best parts of the movie and the worst parts of my painfully clamped nipples. It was time for dinner.
Mistress Brianna had told me what to order. A pizza with toppings of her choice: extra mushrooms and pepperoni and a side of cheesy garlic bread. I like pizza. I truly do not know anyone who doesn’t. I placed my order and watched on my computer screen as the tracker gave me a running commentary on my dinner. My order had been received. My order was in the oven. My order was on the way. Each time the tracker moved my nervousness escalated, rising from the ground, to the clouds, to the stratosphere and beyond.
I stood in my dining room peering through the slats of my blinds into my front yard, waiting for the driver to arrive. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t swallow as there was no spit in my mouth. I stood there, bouncing in my heels, feeling my balls try to retract but unable to do so due to the still ring that captured them. My hands were as dry as my mouth. If I had to pee, I might have soiled my pretty panties. I was more than nervous; I was terrified. I was still in my dress. Still wearing a bra stuffed with washcloths. My legs were adorned with soft, white stockings. Even the taut pull of the garter straps couldn’t calm my nerves.
I wasn’t allowed to change. I had to answer the door dressed as I was. I had to answer the door wearing a dress. At the onset, Mistress Brianna and I had set some limits. We wouldn’t include my neighbors in our games as I live in a busy sub-division where most of the houses have children. I would be cautious and cognitive of that, but a delivery driver from out of the subdivision was not something I had considered. Mistress Brianna is a crafty one.
The car pulled up. A rusty blue thing. The door opened. My mouth, already dry, seemed to tighten even more. I watched thought the tiny gap between the plastic slats as a middle-aged woman approached the front door. Each step she took killed me just a little bit more. My stomach lurched when she rang the bell.
With money in hand, I went to the door. The lady pushed the doorbell again. I heard it chime on my phone. She didn’t need to ring the bell. I knew she was there. I saw my hand reach for the door. I was aware of my hand because it was shaking, like a scared puppy found lost and abandoned in a storm drain.
She knocked.
I opened the door.
The woman was skinny, with straight brown hair. I think she had eyes. Maybe she had a nose. I really couldn’t say as I couldn’t lift my head to face her. I held out the money, telling her to keep the change. She did the one thing I knew she would. One of the things I was dreading. She laughed. Sure, she tried to stifle it; it wasn’t a guffaw, but it was there, an unbridled amusement that she couldn’t not suppress.
I took the pizza, telling her to have a nice day. She said the same to me. Putting the pizza on the dining room table, I hurried to the window to watch her drive away, certain that she was on the phone telling the story of the ridiculous man wearing a silly dress. How many people heard that story? How many more would hear it? The next time I ordered a pizza would I get a different driver or the same one and even if I wasn’t wearing a dress and lingerie and heels surely whomever arrived would know that at that house, that man is a sissy.
At least the pizza looked delightful. Covered in cheese and pepperoni and Italian sausage. And mushrooms. Have I mentioned I hate mushrooms?
It took five minutes after my pizza was delivered to take my first bite. I couldn’t really taste it. I was still trying to recover from greeting that skinny girl with thin brown hair while wearing a dress.
I ate two slices of pizza before it happened. Clamping my hand over my mouth I raced to the bathroom where the fear and the humiliation and the agony of what I’d done finally overcame me. The two pieces of pizza I’d just consumed returned from where I’d sent them. It wasn’t pretty. It was loud and gross and horrid.
I cleaned up feeling somewhat better. I brushed my teeth twice before returning to my dinner. This time I was able to keep it down. I took some solace in that.
After dinner, I relaxed for a bit before playing with the fleshlight for one additional hour. This time I was allowed a full, satisfying orgasm.
After the day I had had, I felt I had earned it. I’m glad Mistress Brianna had felt the same.
But I still don’t like mushrooms.
Mistress Brianna's a crafty one? Lolol. That did make me laugh. I've never been called 'crafty' before, but I guess I do have a trick or two up my sleeve.
I loved this blog because it gave some real insight into the sissy mind. Not just the experiences and emotions, but the very real way the mind works. Yes, the pizza delivery woman might have had a laugh and told a friend or two.....But look at Emma spin such a simple moment into a web of sissy paranoia. So much so, she vomited her pizza.
Lol. Unless that was the mushrooms.
Mistress Brianna xx