This post was written in Starbucks, but unlike this blow job erotica it isn’t set there. It’s set in a quirky, vegan-friendly coffee shop… but much like the character in this story, I need a little encouragement to get out of my comfort zone and flirt with all the cute humans. I’ve recently moved again, and definitely need to get involved in my local kink community… though maybe with less torment and teasing.
Content note for the use of the kink honorific ‘Daddy’ in a D/s relationship, as well as humiliation and semi-public play.
|This blog post is now available as an audio recording! Click here to play:||
I squirm. The butterfly vibrator strapped to my cunt is turned on, and its vibrations are increasing in intensity. Daddy told me that jeans, or even tights and knickers under my skirt, are not allowed today: as I tightened the toy against my vulva earlier she teased me that everyone would be able to see the damp patch I’d leave on my chair.
“If you get wet, that is – and only a little slut would find this humiliating little game so arousing that her cunt drips.”
The vibrations stop, though my clit is still throbbing. Clenching my skirt tightly while my cunt clenches makes it easier not to scream while my cunt is being tortured, but now I loosen my grip on the bunched material. I wonder how long I will have before the torment starts again.
Any guesses yet, Kitten?
I bite my tongue, holding back a groan as I see Daddy’s text. She is evil. The words are a reminder that the game is far from over, and that even if I have an orgasm – which I’m not sure I could do in such a public place – it won’t be over until I work out who is holding the remote to the vibrator that’s sitting tightly against my wet cunt. And that person has already told me that they are happy to overstimulate my sensitive clit until I whine if I do come.
But after half an hour of teasing, I’m very frustrated and no closer to figuring out who my tormentor is. I’m beginning to hate Daddy’s humiliating little game, even though I know it’s my fault.
When I moved here, I asked Daddy to help me with some of my goals. As well as aiming for certain essay grades, finding a part-time job and taking care of myself, I wanted to get involved in my local kink community. Daddy and I had negotiated a few specific goals, and I asked her to come up with some consequences if I didn’t succeed with them. The motivation helps, and I love the encouragement and support she gives me. But between coursework and job interviews and building flat-pack bookcases I have been very busy, and this is a convenient excuse for the fact I’m an anxious introvert who is a little bit scared of going to a munch in a brand-new city on my own.
Daddy gave me lots of chances to be a good girl and helped me through the baby steps, but I haven’t actually gotten out of the door to try making friends with kinky people and now I’m paying the price. She did sneaky Daddy things and got in touch herself. She put out feelers, emailed people and even chatted on the phone eventually. I didn’t know this – in fact, I thought I was getting away with it – until she announced this little game last night.
It’s a simple game: Daddy posted the remote for my butterfly vibrator (left at her flat on my last visit) to someone who is in this coffee shop right now, watching me. I don’t know who they are, but Daddy does, because she’s been talking to them and negotiating on my behalf. You asked me to help you with your goals, and I think you need a little push with this one, she’d told me last night. They have the remote and can tease me and torment me and watch me squirm, while my challenge is to guess who they were. And of course, they know who I am.
Even if they didn’t, I’m not sure it would make that much difference at that point. I’m blushing and fidgeting, and I have barely touched the hot chocolate or slice of toffee-fudge I bought. It’s hard enough to attempt to stay composed and guess which of the people around me is making my cunt clench without trying to eat cake at the same time – even if the cake is really, really good. I’m pretty sure anyone who knew they were looking for a desperate little denial slut (as Daddy says she described me) could work out who I am even if they hadn’t seen my face. I am also sure the little jump I make every time the vibrations start is also very noticeable, and that in turn makes me more embarrassed and blushy.
The buzzing starts again, with the vibrator its lowest setting. It’s still enough to make me squirm, and definitely enough to make coherent thought hard. My tormentor has to be someone who arrived here before me, because the vibrations turned on as soon as I tried to pay for my drink, leaving me a red-faced mess even before I sat down. I don’t have any other clues though. Daddy told me that they’re my type, but even that doesn’t help much. If the flyer for the LGBTQA+ group on the noticeboard is any indication, this coffee shop is very much filled with my kind of person. Looking around me, there is a number of people who I’d like to talk to and maybe make out with, but no indications of who is doing mean things to my cunt.
Is it the girl in the corner with dark skin and corkscrew curls and big round glasses? She’s reading a paperback and has a green tea; she looks like exactly the kind of girl I wish I had the courage to flirt with. There a girl with a pixie cut and freckles and at least five piercings in the ear I can see. I spend a minute or two watching her strong fingers tap quickly at her keypad, and I’m glad she’s in a t-shirt so I can see the muscles in her arm. The non-binary bean with a “my pronouns are they/them” badge pinned to their shirt caught my eye and smiled at me as made my way from the counter to my table earlier, but not in a I’m-about-to-tease-the-fuck-out-of-you way.
Then I see someone who is giving me exactly that smile. They dip behind their book when they see me looking, but it’s a copy of The New Topping Book. The vibrations get painfully intense as I reach for my phone and type out a message to the number that I was told to contact when I think I’ve worked it out. I’m rocking back and forward slightly, grinding my clit into the toy when I send the text.
Table by the coat stand. Green knitted jumper. Kink theory book. Very cute. Please turn it off?
The reply comes only seconds later.
I’m impressed. You should come over and say hello in a minute, but first I want to give you a reward for working out who I am – you’re going to be a good little pet and come for me, aren’t you?
They’re right. I am.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.