The Work Shower

Howard Bryce went to the locker room five minutes before the whistle blew.

He was in a hurry, hoping to beat his colleagues so he could change into his street clothes unobserved, and protect his secret.

He power walked through the factory, taking an unauthorized shortcut between two processing machines (an act that would get him suspended for three days without pay if he were caught), not quite daring to run. All around him, people were absorbed in their work—or pretended to be, at least, just like he should've been.

But Howard had one thing and one thing only on his mind:

Avoiding his manager.

Karl Jenkins had had it in for him for some time, and all he needed was to give that asshole an excuse to fire him.

Actually, that's not entirely correct. While Karl Jenkins did want to fire him, there was something else—a more pressing matter—on his mind.

Howard Bryce was thinking of his mistress.

Patricia had called him the night before, requesting his presence, and if she wanted to see him, it had to be important.

Luck was with him today.

Howard made it in, stripped out of his coveralls and removed his boxer shorts, exposing his slender, hairless body, and the little plastic cage that covered his sex, before anyone else arrived. Sometimes he had to forego the removal of his boxer shorts and stop somewhere on the way home to finish changing, if one of his coworkers was already in the change room when he arrived, or if he has to work late, but today was not one of those days.

Stepping into the red silk panties, Howard adjusted the tiny triangular strip of fabric so it accepted the full weight of his genitals and the chastity device combined. If he had time, Howard would have examined himself to see if there were any external signs of his prolonged denial: swelling or discoloration of his balls, etc., but today he was in too much of a hurry. Instead, he pulled on a tight pair of faded skinny jeans and an equally tight t-shirt (which clung to the pronounced muscles of his abdomen and displayed his erect nipples as twin exclamation points at the apex of his pecs).

And he got it all on just in time, too.

A second after he zipped and buttoned his jeans—wincing as the tight fabric pulled against his chastised member—a group of whooping and hollering men came charging into the change room like frat boys after gym class. Howard did his best to remain calm, sure no one but himself knew what he wore beneath his clothes, but the old anxiety was always there, and he had to fight the urge to skip socializing and go running off to the safety of his car.

"You're fast."

Howard turned to the tall, skinny black man beside him.

"Faster than you."

"Yeah, sure. Got a hot date or something?"

Howard blushed.

"Shit, I knew it. You still seeing the same one—what's her name? Trisha? Trish?"

"Patricia. Yes, I'm still seeing her."

Howard shifted uncomfortably. His chastity belt had become caught at a strange and unpleasant angle by the pressure of his jeans, and it felt like his cock were being pulled off his body. He wanted to fix it, but didn't dare—it would be far too obvious if Lyle were even half watching. Instead, he shifted his stance, moving one leg in front of the other, concealing the telltale bulge.

"Tell me you're tapping that ass," Lyle said, undoing his coveralls to expose a yellowed tank top. "If you ain't, you're wasting your time, because she ain't never gonna give it up."

Howard tried to think of an appropriate response, but there was no way he could tell Lyle that it was he who had given it up.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. We're going pretty good," he finished lamely. "Listen, Lyle, I gotta run. See you next week?"

"Yeah, man. Take it easy. And hey," he said, stopping Howard in his tracks. "Enjoy."

Howard smiled and said he would.

Then he was gone, out of the sweaty heat of the locker room and into the cold afternoon sunshine.

Of course, the first thing he did once he reached the relative privacy of his car was text Patricia a picture of his chastity cage protruding from around the dainty red panties, which could no longer keep it contained. He was required to do so every morning before he began work and each night when he finished, so she would know he hadn't taken it off against her wishes in the interim (not that he could, mind you, she had the only key).

However, today was a little bit different.

Today he was going to see Patricia in person, and Howard had a sneaking suspicion she was going to let him cum.

At least, he hoped she would.

It'd been two weeks since he'd last been out of the chastity belt, and at least twice as long since his last orgasm. His balls felt swollen, overfull, and they ached with an intensity that rivaled the pulsing discomfort of his frequent chastised erections.

His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and Howard answered it.

"Hello, mistress."

"Hello, slave." Patricia's voice was cool, calculated, every much the femme fatale she styled herself to be. "How's your little clit—sore? And your pretty sissy nuts? Feel a little full?"

Howard blushed as his mistress laughed cruelly on the other end of the line.

"Yes, mistress," was all he replied.

"When will you be over? I have a surprise for you. I think—no, I know you're going to like it, sissy."

Howard checked his car's clock.

If he drove straight over to her place from work, it would take a little over an hour in rush hour traffic. His own place was about the same distance in the opposite direction. He knew he should go home and get cleaned up. Not only was it disrespectful to show up stinking like the factory, it was also foolish. Howard had done so once before, in the early days of his relationship with Patricia, and had paid dearly for his mistake.

"I can be there in a couple of hours. Maybe a bit more, if the traffic is particularly bad."

Silence.

"Mistress?"

"I'm still here, just wondering who the hell it is you think you're talking to."

"Mistress, I'm sorry, I just—"

"You just what? Thought you could keep your mistress waiting? I guess you must really like having your clit locked up. Otherwise, you'd be here as soon as humanly possible. Sooner, even."

"It's just ... I wanted to go home first, mistress, so I can shower." Howard paused a moment to remember the suffering he'd endured, and used those memories to put what he hoped was an appropriate amount of contrition into his voice. "I didn't want to disrespect you by coming to your home stinking like, well, you know..."

Silence.

Howard waited, listening with baited breath, while his mistress breathed steadily on the other end of the phone.

Finally, she spoke, and her voice was as scathing as the whips she wielded with equal precision and expertise.

"Do they not have showers in your workplace?"

Howard's stomach dropped.

At the same instant, within its little plastic cage, his clit twitched.

"Well? Do they or do they not?"

"Mistress—"

"It's a simple question, slave, one that does not require elaboration. Answer it, and answer it truthfully, or this conversation is over."

"Yes, mistress, there are showers."

"There you go. Problem solved."

Only it wasn't.

There would be stragglers in there for at least another hour, and after that the evening shift would start to arrive. If he were to use the large, communal shower, and someone else came in, they would see his chastity device right away and his secret would be out.

"Mistress," Howard said, swallowing thickly. "Forgive me, mistress, but that's not an option. If someone sees me—"

"Then they'll find out what you really are," she finished for him. "What's wrong with that?"

What was wrong with that was, he needed this job.

Two years ago, after his parents had caught him wearing women's clothes and thrown him out of the house, he'd been so embarrassed he'd dropped out of high school and left town. Without a high school diploma, let alone a college degree, shift worker at a local manufacturing plant was the best job he could find. After all the bills were paid each month, he had just enough money to live on.

If it got out that he was—well, what was he? different? some kind of queer?—that would be the end of things. Howard knew from bitter experience that his coworkers were worse than high schoolers when it came to gossip and malicious rumors. He'd either have to pack up and leave town (which he desperately did not want to do, after having spent so much time building a new life for himself here) or suffer an endless litany of teasing and torment. Under such circumstances, it would only be a matter of time before Karl Jenkins found an excuse to fire him.

But at the same time, Howard desperately did not want to disappoint his mistress.

Like this job, Patricia had been a lifeline.

She'd loved and encouraged him, enabling him to explore his feminine side, and provided him with the disciplinary framework he desperately needed in his life.

There would be other jobs—but he doubted if he could find a mistress with whom he shared such a deeply intimate connection. Not any time in the foreseeable future, anyways.

Howard inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled through his mouth.

He made his decision.

"Nothing's wrong with that, mistress," he said. "I will be at your place in a little more than an hour, assuming I don't hit any traffic snags."

"Good. Do this and I'll be very proud of you."

With that, she hung up and was gone, and Howard was alone.

His stomach lurched at the thought of returning to the building he hated with all his heart and soul forty-eight hours before he absolutely had to. Hated, as well, the thought of being surprised by one of his coworkers—or worse, his manager—on the way to the showers.

Incredibly, his hand did no shake as he opened his car door.

He kept his face calm, his expression neutral, and he strode with purpose, as if he were merely returning to retrieve something he'd left behind.

Yeah, my dignity, he thought, and his insides twisted as he tried to imagine the look on the face of whoever discovered him—similar to the expression worn by his disgusted father and horrified mother, all those years ago.

Howard tried not to think about that.

Instead, he focused on his mistress, and how happy the successful completion of this task would make her.

There was no one inside when he used his keycard to unlock the door.

Nor were there any sounds, apart from the ever present hum of the overhead ventilation fans.

It was almost spooky, the way a place which was normally bustling with activity now seemed deserted and abandoned, but Howard chalked it up to nerves and kept walking. If he hesitated long enough, love or no love, he would definitely talk himself out of what he knew he had to do.

The showers were at the back of the locker room, in a short, dead end section that transformed the room into a giant L. It was visible only to a small section of lockers—by design, to afford users a small measure of privacy—which was both a blessing and a curse. If someone were to come in, there was a good chance Howard would be safe from discovery, since they would have no reason to go to the far end of the room unless that was where their locker happened to be; however, if someone who had a locker in that small span were to arrive, Howard wouldn't know until it was too late.

Stripping out of his t-shirt, Howard folded it and put it on the closest span of clean bench. He hesitated before kicking off his shoes, then peeling off his socks. It was stupid to drag it out like this, since he'd have to take his pants off at some point, but now that he was here, surrounded more by memories of his colleagues than the intimate moments shared with his mistress, he was reluctant again. However, it was his mistress's voice, imagined within his head, that spurred him to take the final and absolutely necessary step of peeling off his skin tight jeans.

This is it, Howard, though, placing his jeans beside his other clothes. It's do or die, and I'm not about to die.

His panties were off in a second, and in the next he was in the cavernous, tiled room. His chastised member, cock and balls held together by the plastic device, bounced provocatively as he ran, shivering and exposed, to stand beneath the nearest shower head. Howard turned on the tap, and the water that came out was ice cold. It hit his exposed skin with blistering force, causing him to cry out.

Clamping a hand over his mouth, cursing himself for his stupidity and weakness, Howard fumbled, shivering, with the controls. Gradually, the temperature warmed until it reached a pleasant heat that erased the gooseflesh and made him feel almost, if not quite, good. Howard quickly pumped the nozzle of a dispenser, built into the wall, which dispensed a liquid of the same color and consistency as cum.

Sure, it gets to cum, Howard thought, feeling a bit giddy, but not me...

The combined shampoo and body wash was odorless and had a grittiness to it that made Howard think: cheap, industrial, masculine. He wished he had some of his own products from home—the delightfully feminine conditioners and moisturizers, which gave his hair and skin a silkiness and youthful glow that, whether they knew it or not, affected his coworkers a great deal, and was likely one of the major contributing factors to his nickname: Pretty Boy.

Howard was not gay.

Nor did he think he was attracted to men, as much as he was the idea of men, and only when associated with the idea of himself as a woman.

He thought of what it might be like to be a woman—young and slim, beautiful beyond description—in a similar circumstance. How he, if he were her, might be afraid, like he was now, but also a bit ... hopeful wasn't the right word ... perhaps expectant? ... resolved to the worst case scenario of being exposed, naked, by one of her coworkers, who might then take it upon themselves to explore her exposed body the way he'd always fantasized about doing.

Between his legs, Howard's sissy clit twitched and began to harden within its plastic prison. The feeling was not altogether unpleasant; there was an appropriateness to the discomfort that reminded Howard of his purpose—namely, to suffer for the enjoyment of other, better people. But for the present it was also enough to shake him from his fantastical reverie, just as he, having just finished sudsing his large, firm breasts, was about to bend over so that one of his well endowed coworkers could take him from behind.

Howard rinsed the soap from his eyes and shut off the tap.

He was about to walk out to where the clean towels were stacked when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold:

A man, whistling a tune.

Not only that—his footsteps, getting louder with every passing second, as he approached the shower room where Howard stood.

Fuck! he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Howard immediately plastered himself against the cool tile wall—someone casually looking into the room, where steam still hung in a cloud around the lights, wouldn't be able to see him, but if they entered, he was toast.

Howard closed his eyes and, shivering, prayed the whistler was on a quick errand and was not the inquisitive type.

A second passed, then two.

The whistling was so loud it sounded like the man were just on the other side of the wall.

Don't do it, please don't do it, Howard prayed, instinctively cupping his hands protectively over his chastised member.

The footsteps and whistling stopped.

Howard listened, heard a locker open, then the rustle of clothes being taken off.

No! Oh God, please, no!

The locker door slammed, and the whistling resumed.

Howard, who felt like crying, stared in horrified wonder as a naked man stepped into the room, his skin dark, bald head gleaming in the bright, almost clinical light.

In a second he would turn. In a second he would see Howard, cowering there like a Tom caught in the act of peeping. If Howard could somehow sneak out while he wasn't looking, manage to get around and out of sight before he turned around...

That was when the man did just that.

Having reached his desired nozzle, he turned on the water, turned around—

Howard and the man both screamed at the same time.

"Jesus!" The man said, holding a hand to his chest. "What the fuck are you doin' there, Pretty Boy?"

"H-Hey Jackson," Howard said. "N-nothing. I just wanted to g-grab a quick shower before I hit the road."

"Well you scared the shit out of me! Damn!" Then, noticing Howard's hands cupped protectively over his member, Jackson laughed. Nodding, he said, "I never took you for the shy type. You don't have to worry—ain't nothin' I haven't seen before."

Howard forced a laugh.

"Listen, I gotta run. I'll leave you to it."

Howard made as if to leave, but Jackson called after him.

"Those your clothes out there, Pretty Boy?"

Howard froze.

"Yeah," he said, half turning his head to speak in Jackson's general direction.

"Oh, all right. I just"—he laughed again—"I accidentally knocked them over, and as I was pickin' em up, I found a pair of red panties there with the jeans and the shirt and socks."

Howard said nothing.

Didn't know what to say.

Fortunately, Jackson saved him the trouble.

"My girl does that all the time—mixin' my clothes up with hers. Half the time I grab a pair of pants or a shirt from the clean bin, I got somethin' of hers mixed in."

"Yeah," Howard agreed, his legs watery, sure the tremor was audible in his voice. "I keep telling her about it, but you know how women are."

Jackson laughed heartily, and the sound reverberated throughout the small room, so loud it hurt Howard's ears.

"Haha, yeah, shit. I know. You take it easy, Pretty Boy."

"You too, Jackson. I'll see ya."

With that, Howard hurried out of the room.

Not daring to change in the open, he grabbed his clothes and went, towel wrapped, to the filthy stalls in the restroom side of the locker room. There, in the relatively safety of a closed cubicle, he pulled on his shirt, socks, panties and jeans, barely bothering to dry himself.

He left the room to the sound of water running and Jackson whistling.

Both sounds stuck with him as he walked back to his car.

***

By the time he arrived in his mistress's nondescript neighborhood, Howard's arousal was at its peak. The further he'd gotten from his work, and the near miss with Jackson, the farther it fled from his mind. Instead, Howard allowed himself to return to the comfort of his earlier fantasy—with a little revision.

This time, as he lathered his breasts, moaning at the sheer delight of possessing the second most feminine of sexual characteristics, Jackson walked in, followed closely behind by his mistress. Not only did he then bend over and offer himself to the superior male (without having been ordered to do so by his mistress), but as soon as he did so, the pretense of being anatomically female in his fantasy vanished, and for the first time in his life, Howard fantasized about being fucked by another man as himself.

In the fantasy, the pressure in his anus, but now a familiar and welcome addition to his sex life (such as it was), built until it reached incredible heights. His prostate, like a warm little nut, glowed molten hot, stimulated by the constant in-and-out of Jackson's thrusts. Howard felt his cock—clit—pulse and throb, helplessly trapped in his chastity device, and wished, not for the first time, that he was free to caress and stroke himself to help his orgasm along. And as Jackson's thrusting reached fever pitch, Howard felt himself tense. His whole body tingled, suffused with pleasure which radiated from his prostate to all corners of his body. He felt alive like never before, alight, glowing from within. Then his orgasm peaked and he felt the contractions as his body simultaneously spurted cum harmlessly into his chastity device and milked Jackson to a thunderous orgasm of his own, from which he withdrew at the last minute and shot his hot, thick load across Howard's slender, heaving back.