The second her alarm went off, Carol was instantly horny. She didn't even have a chance to fully process wakefulness; the moment she heard the repeated chiming of the recorded bells, high then low then high then low, she began to feel a dull, insistent throb of arousal between her thighs that made her fingers twitch with the desire to masturbate. Instead of giving in to her urges, though, Carol groggily pushed her tousled blonde hair out of her face and fumbled around on her bedside table for her phone. She had a busy day ahead of her, and no permission from Mistress to touch herself.

Once the sound of the bells ceased, the pleasant ache in her cunt diminished slightly, and Carol was able to disentangle herself from the nest of blankets she'd wrapped around herself over the course of the night and stagger her way over to the shower. Her head still didn't clear entirely, though; with every step, she could feel her pale, slick thighs brushing against one another, reminding her both of her arousal and her inability to properly take care of it. Carol hadn't had a good orgasm in almost a week now, and she was beginning to have a hard time thinking about anything else.

Even stepping into the shower only made her think about sex. Her sensitized nipples tingled with excitement as the nightshirt she wore brushed over them when she pulled it off, and the warm spray on her chest and belly had just enough water pressure behind it to make her shiver with delightful arousal. A week of denial always made Carol's nerve endings come to life with electric anticipation, constantly craving to bridge the gap between the sensations she was experiencing and the orgasm she so desperately desired through the sheer power of suggestion.

But nothing could match the power of Mistress's suggestions. Carol briskly scrubbed her body clean, unable to linger for so much as an extra second over her stiff pink nipples or her swollen clit, and rubbed herself dry afterwards with an efficiency that her conscious mind couldn't help pouting at just a tiny bit. Not that she didn't enjoy every second of being so very deeply and thoroughly controlled by her hypnotic Mistress, but it was called orgasm denial for a reason. The constant, aching need to shove two fingers into her cunt and make herself messy all over again was exactly what made obedience so hot.

And making her arousal worse went hand in hand with that. Carol had just pulled on a loose peasant blouse and matching skirt when she heard her phone chime with a text notification, and the sound went straight into her ears and down to her throbbing clit in less time than it took for her to consciously register her response to the post-hypnotic trigger. A second chime followed, and then a third before Carol managed to sprint across the room and unlock her screen with trembling fingers.

Every text was from Mistress. Because of course they were. 'Don't forget, sweetie,' the first read, 'you've got a shopping list to get through before tonight's party!' The second said, 'Make sure to go to the stores on the list to get what we need.' And the third, cheekily enough, said, 'And no touching until I say it's time!' God, it was enough to make Carol scream in delicious frustration. Already her thoughts were turning toward that magical, wonderful moment when she would be allowed to rub her needy pussy until she exploded with delight.

Carol usually started to get a little daydreamy like that about her orgasms around the third day of any given denial session, although it crept up on her quicker and quicker every time she went on restriction for her Mistress. One moment she'd be looking at her phone, her mind fully engaged, and the next she'd be staring at a half-composed text message, her sapphire eyes glassy and unseeing, fantasizing about spreading her legs to expose her furry pussy to Mistress's gaze and pleading for even a single finger on her clit to break the spell of desperate need that her lover had woven around her helpless mind.

Hypothetically speaking, of course. Carol finished typing out, 'Yes Mistress, i'm getting ready to head out now,' and put her phone into her purse. Pulling her hair back into a loose ponytail, she slipped on a pair of open-toe sandals and went out to run her errands like a good girl.

Fortunately, most of her stops were within a few blocks of each other, in a small section of the commercial district downtown that the city had devoted to local, independent grocers in an effort to rectify the increasing problem of food deserts in urban areas. The prices were a little higher than the suburban grocery stores, but both Carol and her Mistress considered it well worth it to get locally sourced meat and produce... even if Carol knew full well that wasn't the reason why any of the stores were specified so carefully on the shopping list. She walked into the butcher's shop already bracing herself for the warm, cheerful sound of a tinkling bell alerting the man behind the counter to her presence.

Carol picked up a crown roast from him, along with a rasher of bacon, two pints of heavy cream and a pound of good Irish butter for the mashed potatoes she'd be making later, and then got caught off-guard by another throb of arousal as she opened the same door to leave and heard the doorbell chime again. She paused, frozen in place by the sudden urge to jam her hand down the waistband of her elegant peasant skirt and rub her bare cunt until she had a loud, shuddering orgasm in the middle of a public street, and smiled sheepishly to herself when it finally passed and she was able to move again. Of course it sounded whenever the door opened, and yet she'd somehow managed to forget that simple fact.

But Carol's concentration was never the best when she was a week deep into serious denial. She'd never realized just how many bells and chimes and clangs and bongs and tinkles filled her everyday life until Mistress associated each and every one of them with an inescapable pulse of arousal and sent Carol out into the world to hear them without so much as a single chance to play with her sopping pussy. Her head felt like it was full of a constant pink fog that messed with her ability to hold any non-sexual thought for a few minutes at a time--without a list, Carol knew she would have forgotten almost half the items she was shopping for. As it was, she had to go back in for a dozen scallops... and another couple of presses of her own personal hot button.

Her next stop was the bakery, where a cheerful little four-note ding-dong-ding-dong made her head swim with vacant arousal before she picked up a half-dozen eclairs and a loaf of crusty bread, followed by the little vegetable stand on the corner that she reached just as the clock tower across the street was striking eleven. Carol managed to drop an entire bag of sweet corn when she heard that. Thankfully it wasn't the potatoes, or she probably would have crossed over that subtle line between pleasant frustration and active, sobbing vexation at her own inability to concentrate. Instead, she added some mixed greens and a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette to her haul before paying and leaving, the chime of the cash register still ringing in her ears.

Carol then went down the street to a local winery, where she picked up a couple of nice table reds for the party--she felt inordinately proud of her ability to shop for wine, especially with her brain packed full to the brim with heady pink fog and her mind constantly drifting into daydreams of being tied down and teased until even Mistress's power wasn't enough to stop her from cumming until she passed out. When she first began dating Mistress, back before their relationship had settled into its current dynamic and she still thought she was weird for being a submissive, Carol didn't know anything about fine food or fine wine. But she was going to do all the cooking and all the service for tonight's party, for Mistress and five of her closest friends, and she didn't have the slightest doubt that she could handle it all herself.

There was just one last stop to make before she headed to Mistress's apartment, and this one required a little driving--Carol had to go to Party City to pick up the silliest, frilliest, sluttiest 'sexy French maid' costume they sold. The only size they had was a little small on her, but Carol knew it would hug her curves in all the right places... and besides, if it did wind up tearing at the seams over the course of the evening, Carol had a suspicion that her Mistress wouldn't exactly be upset by the sight of a little extra flesh. With that done (and a single 'ding, dong!' greeting her entrance and exit, of course) Carol was able to begin her preparations.

She arrived around noon, and immediately set to work getting the roast in the oven--of course that involved setting a timer, and of course Mistress had chosen an old-fashioned kitchen timer with a genuine bell to ring when it was ready. With that done, Carol began to lay out the table for service. A white linen tablecloth over the long table in the living room, and six plates from Mistress's good china at each of the six chairs. Forks, knives, spoons, along with a wineglass turned upside down in anticipation of the drinks. Six linen napkins, carefully folded in exactly the manner Mistress showed her at the beginning of the week when her mind was still relatively clear. A centerpiece made of suggestively phallic blown glass, one that Mistress only used when a particular kind of company came calling for the evening. And finally, with shaking fingers, Carol laid out a bell at each table for the guests to ring whenever they wanted something.

Fortunately, Carol had a few minutes to sit down and recuperate from that particular task before she had to get the vegetables chopped for the salad. Unfortunately, with nothing to occupy her mind but her daydreams about the end of the dinner and the evening's entertainments, it quickly became apparent that she wasn't going to be able to keep her mind on her work well enough to stop herself from drifting off into long, erotic reveries that might disrupt her preparations. Meaning she had to set another few alarms. Which only made her even wetter thinking about what they'd sound like when they went off. By the time she was finally ready to begin cooking, Carol had a visible wet spot on her skirt where it rested beneath her leaking cunt.

Still, Mistress's safety suggestions ensured that she wasn't too distracted to safely quarter the potatoes or strip the kernels from the ears of sweet corn for succotash. Neither one of them wanted their kink to end with a trip to the emergency room, and so Carol was able to banish the fog of arousal that blanketed her mind long enough to do any of the tasks that required careful preparation. Only when she had the salad tossed and the water boiling and the vegetables cooking on the stove did her unconscious mind allow her to lapse back into horny daydreams that left her squirming on her feet with her thighs gently rubbing against one another in helpless, desperate lust.

At around five, Carol changed into her maid costume before decanting the wine to let it breathe. She then drained the potatoes out of their boiling bath to mash them with cream and butter. She left them covered and began cooking the succotash, finishing it up with just enough time to wrap the scallops in bacon and sear them to perfection before the chime of the doorbell announced the arrival of the first guest. Carol greeted them with wide, glassy eyes and a flush on her face that she couldn't pretend was anything but meek, helpless desire, showing them to their seats before scurrying back to the kitchen to check on the roast. She'd just heard the beep of the digital meat thermometer when a bell summoned her to the table for a glass of water.

The evening began to pass into a haze of arousal for her after that. Between the incessantly ringing doorbell, the chimes that sounded whenever Carol needed to pull the roast or warm the bread or give the succotash one final stir with a drizzle of olive oil, and of course the constant ringing of the service bells that summoned her out to top up someone's wine or simply provide a stammering answer about the dish for her hosts' amusement, she simply lost track of everything but the ceaseless throb in her cunt. She could actually feel the swollen nub of her clit nestling between her labia, rubbing against them whenever she turned too quickly or walked too fast or clenched too tightly in a frantic effort to control her body's instinctive cravings, and it emptied Carol's mind into the blissful thrill of obedience before she even realized how deeply she was surrendering to Mistress's inexorable power.

By the time she brought out the eclairs, each one accompanied by a drizzle of caramel sauce and a dollop of homemade ice cream she'd prepared the night before, Carol could barely even walk straight. Her hands shook so badly she very nearly spilled wine on one of the guests, and her eyes had a thousand-yard stare to them that perfectly matched her slack-jawed, goldfish expression of helpless arousal. "Thank you, Mistress," she heard herself say, but the exact details of what she was responding to or why had already disappeared into the pink mist that filled her head before she even had a chance to register them. A part of her wanted to beg for orgasms, but she was so terrified that the answer would be no that she couldn't bring herself to dare it.

And then Mistress was bending her over the table, flipping up her skirt to show everyone just how slick and messy Carol's cunt and inner thighs had gotten after an evening of indulging her service kink. They all took turns inserting their fingers, each one marveling at how wet she was and how beautifully she trembled and whimpered at their touch, and Carol was forced to squeeze her eyes tightly shut as she focused all her concentration on resisting the urge to cum. Until finally, Mistress took the centerpiece off the table and inserted it directly into Carol's drooling pussy, pushing it in with so little effort that it seemed almost as though the helpless submissive was made of warm butter. "Now you may," she murmured softly in Carol's ears, and everything else disappeared in the crashing ecstasy of orgasm.

THE END