The Register Game

It's a strange kind of thrill, knowing how much power I have at the tips of my fingers, from the glow of my phone. How much power I wield while I am in the most unflattering attire, otherwise feeling like my worst self.

My phone is in my pocket, buzzing incessantly, each buzz connected to someone, somewhere in the furthest reaches of the internet, their attention focussed on me while in their most vulnerable state. Usually this involves them bent over their screens, hands wrapped around their aching cock, fingers begging "Please, please give me attention. Please acknowledge me," and it fills me with absolute delight.

The setting I myself am in can be woven out of thin air; perhaps I'm a corporate powerbitch wanting to use her executive colleagues as a footstool. Perhaps my ankles are bound with cuffs while my cunt is stuffed with a vibrator, just waiting for instruction. I could be equal parts a loving, maternal figure who's ready to cradle the guy with the caged cock or present my arse for a keen, thorough spanking; turning my arse to shades of blue and purple like turning day to night.

"Uh, hello? Are you working?"

A familiar and unwelcome plea snaps me out of my fantasy space, into the real world and the apron I inhabit; a uniform that places me an an eight to ten-hour long subjugation, whether I like it or not. No safewords. No guardrails. No ripcords.

I shake away my perverted imagination, reverting into a customer service robot routine that has been crafted out of necessity for a paycheque. Still, there's not much difference between this and my online persona; I am nice because I am being paid to be nice. I am not genuinely enthused about how this new hedgetrimmers or screwdriver set that you're getting on sale. I couldn't give less of a shit about what colour you are painting your walls and do not know how you should care for your fiddle leaf fig. This is work and I am counting down the minutes until payday.

The one difference? Folks respect me more with their cock in their hand than any time I am wearing this apron.

"Sorry, yes- how can I help you?"

I smile, feigning being distracted and just plain ol' not seeing them for looking.

For all of their urgency of getting my attention, that is where their acknowledgement of me was born and died. I may as well have not had a face from how much I was treated as furniture. If this were a kink, I would be a mouth positioned at a glory hole, waiting for my tongue to be fucked.

Thinking of my managers, I wouldn't be surprised if they brainstormed that particular method of customer satisfaction during their team-building lunches.

This one customer at least opened me up to playing my favourite game while stuck on the register. Dumping their items from their trolley one by one, I would dream up ways I could use them on the simps blowing up my phone. The customer dug out of their trolley and plonked hardware onto the conveyor belt with the same enthusiasm of mindlessly eating chips while I waited for each to roll up, my imagination itching to go feral.

Black paint and a brush, 2 for 1 deal. I would dig up the sweet, verbose writer in my DMs. I'd strip him down and paint along his abdomen, up his flanks, across his chest. I'd them press paper to him, my own personal printing press; all hard and ready for the next volume.

Braided sash cord- the cheap one, but still holds a knot for a few weeks until you're replacing both the cord and the window it broke. That would suit Miss Type A; I think she's a teacher, from the furious, meticulous worlds she chooses. Around and around her wrists I would go, pulling her hands up above her head, turning her into a display piece for my viewing pleasure.

A fly swatter. Good for Mr Suit. It'd break in 5 minutes, but I think he'd still enjoy me demanding he get on all fours, exposing the underside of his balls and the entirety of his arse. A few well-timed thwacks to all and he would be a puddle.

The conveyor belt ended, prompting me to grab my scanning gun, beep-beep-beeping them all off my counter, clearing space for the next person. There's a relief in the interaction with this person nearly being over as well as a sadness in my game also coming to an end.

"Ok, that'll be $58.29! Cash or card?"

Still, no words. In them getting out their wallet with a huff and a grunt, I wondered how they fucked; what if these items on my counter weren't for some innocuous home DIY use but setting up a kink scene? What if they were to be the printing press or the sex object on display? Perhaps they had a Mistress or Master whom had sent them on an expedition to gather pertinent items for an afternoon of pleasure.

I handed them their receipt, flashing them my 100-watt customer service smile. 'Thank you very much, have a lovely day!"

One nod of acknowledgement, followed by a grunt, eyes still not meeting mine. If I blinked twice, I could swear I saw relief and joy on their face as they carried their items out.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, taking me away from my last customer. I quickly scanned the floor for the prying eyes of my supervisor before flipping it out.

"Mistress? Are you there?"

The customer service never ends.