She rolled the pennies in her hand as she walked down the hall, feeling the metal discs grind together in her palm.  Jingled them against one another, let them slip between her fingers and pushed them back into her fist with her thumb.

She’d given him the jar awhile ago.

“A jar?”

She’d licked her lips and nodded, sat down on his lap and worked her lips across his neck.  “Not just a jar, a very special jar.”  She’d planned to make him guess, tease him with it, but the anticipation was too delicious not to taste and the words rushed out of her.  “That, is your whore jar.”  She’d leaned back and smiled so she could see his eyes move from her to the jar and back, suddenly wary, nervous, frightened.

“My whore jar?”

“Yes.”  She’d gone back to kissing him, rolling her lips up to the lobes of his ear.  “Every time I use you, I’ll put some change in the jar, but only if you’re a good whore.  When it’s full, you can give it to me, and I’ll let you out so you can cum.  Not before it’s full though.”

His hips bucked under her, involuntarily, as she grabbed a handful of hair and pulled.  He felt her gasping laughter against his face, and thought about the chastity device she’d locked him in three days ago.  He’d asked her when she’d take it off, but she’d just smiled and told him not to worry.

That she had something in mind.

She held his head in her hands, felt him trying to look back at the jar.  “Now, I bet you’re wondering how long it will take to fill that jar, but I can’t tell you.  It all depends on how good of a whore you are.  A very good whore, who takes a beating without complaining, even eagerly, might get a whole ten cents a lashing.”

“Ten cents?!”

Her laughter made her shake against him, and he felt himself trying to get hard in the steel tube.  She ground herself against his thigh and pulled his head down to her breasts.  “I know, you don’t deserve that much, but I’m feeling generous.  And lippy whores, or bad whores, they make much less.  They might even lose money if they’re not careful.  Now, are you ready to start earning some of my pocket change, whore?”

He groaned as his flesh pushed against the locked chastity tube.  She felt him fighting against her, wanting to get up and walk away, at least protest and argue.  Her hand found his and pulled it down the front of her jeans, let him feel how wet her panties were.  She pushed his knuckles tight against her slit and they moaned together.

“I said, are you ready to earn some pennies, whore?”

He’d nodded, hissed out a reluctant “Yessss.”

He earned thirty-seven cents that evening before she hopped in the shower and left him handcuffed to the bed, beaten and bruised, naked except for a steel tube locked to his groin.  Legs held apart in a spreader bar, blinking his eyes and working his aching jaw back and forth.

In the morning, she’d given him two more pennies.  One for sleeping in the wet spot, and one for spending the night in bondage.

She paused at the door and thought about tonight.  His jar was almost full, but not quite.  She’d watched the glass become an obsession with him, a way of keeping score in their perverse games.  At first he’d refused to look at it, then he started to steal glances when he thought she wasn’t looking.  She started making him put the pennies in the jar himself, watched him learn what was worth more to her.  Beg to be used in the ways that would fill the jar faster, buy his release sooner.  Bring her the hard rubber flogger he hated in his mouth, crawling to her on his hands and knees, biting down hard on the gag she offered him, lying naked in front of her heaving, joyous body and counting the pennies she dropped on the floor.  Always frustrated, always locked tight in his chastity, imprisoned by his limits and wishing he could take just a little more pain.  Except, maybe, tonight.

She’d been saving her pennies, waiting for this night too.  When the jar was almost full, right at the point where he could fill it up, but not easily.  Where he’d have to beg her to push his limits hard, to hurt him more than she ever had before, to torture him and wreak havoc on his flesh for the pennies in her hand.

To break him down into a whimpering, sobbing, lust filled thing who only existed to hurt for her.

She let herself in the apartment, and automatically looked to the jar.

It was empty.  Sitting under it was an envelope.  Her breath caught in her throat, afraid she had pushed too far, that he had taken his pennies and left.  That she hadn’t held him enough, told him how she felt, that she had taken her stupid fucking games too far.  Trembling hands picked up the envelope and opened the flap, peered inside through quick forming tears.

She closed her eyes, and shuddered for a moment.

Walked through the house, looking for him.

She found him in the bedroom, asleep in his shoes.  Of course.

She sat down on the bed, leaned over and kissed him, pulled him tightly against her.  He woke up smiling, rolled over and put his head in her lap, looking up at her.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“You’re what’s wrong.  I thought…”  She stopped, ran the back of her hand across her eyes.  “I thought you hated Tom Waits.”

He shrugged and rolled his eyes.  “A couple of his songs aren’t bad.  The Matilda one is pretty good.  And he doesn’t tour that often.  And I had all those pennies, and a guy at work had a couple of tickets he couldn’t use.”  He shrugged again and looked away.  “And you like him a lot.  And there’s always more pennies, right?”

Her fingers slid though his hair, teasing and pulling it.  “Yeah.  There’s always more pennies.”

Three hours later, a woman walked into a gas station, and asked for a roll of pennies.  The bored cashier popped her gum and told her she’d have to make a purchase.

Twitching fingers tossed a stick of beef jerky on the counter, left it and just took the change.  The cashier shrugged, tore open the stick of jerky and went back to reading her magazine.

The clerk didn’t see the woman walking back to her car, tearing the paper away from the roll of pennies, rolling the brightly shining coins back and forth in her hand.

Copyright Jerry Jones.  Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Note: I wrote two versions of this, with different protagonists.  The other version is below.

She had hoped it would rain tonight, or at least stay cloudy. Not that it was necessary, but it would have lent the whole scene an appropriate sense of melodrama.

Even grief can become pretentious, given the right circumstances.

But the clouds had evaporated and she was standing under merrily blinking stars while music wrapped around the tombstones and wandered through the trees. The college dorms were a few blocks away, and the goth kids were out tonight. She heard their voices over the mournful tune. The rain would have kept them inside.

Or would it?

Did they even call themselves “goth” anymore?

Or were they “emo” now?

What was “emo” anyway?

She looked over, towards the sound of the music, and one of them was walking towards her. He looked dismembered, black clothes blending into the night and soft pale skin pierced with silver studs shining, a happily dissected cadaver bouncing across the grass, his torso left on the operating table.

“Oh, hey. I thought you were someone else.” He stopped when he saw her face, cocked his head and looked at her.

She shrugged casually, and smiled at him. “No problem.” She saw him start to turn, then his eyes caught the shape of the flogger she had held against her arm.

He paused, licked his lips, shifted his weight from one clunky Army surplus boot to the other. “I like your coat. Is it real leather?”

“I’m not sure. Probably not.” She looked away.

She heard the click of a lighter a few seconds before the acrid smell of smoke hit. He followed it over to stand at her side, a few feet away. She could see him reading the inscription on the tombstone in the starlight. His eyes glanced across her face, took in the wisps of gray in her hair, guessed her age, dropped again to the flogger when she thought he wasn’t looking. “Your husband?”

She nodded. “Yeah.” It was still a harsh croak, something she didn’t want to admit even after all the years that had passed.

“Sorry.”

“Me too.” Another shrug.

“So you didn’t get to finish beating him before they put him in the ground?”

Her eyes went wide and she stood, open mouthed, looking at him looking at her. Finally she laughed, shocked at the suggestion and shook her head. “No, we…” She saw his piercings and the tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves, and wondered again at how worldly young people seemed nowadays. “We were kind of kinky. I bring some of our things and come out on our anniversary. Kind of a tribute I guess.”

“Cool. Sorry if that was a little rude.”

“No. Well, yes. But it was the kind of joke he would have made.” She caught his eye and smiled. “It’s fine.”

His head rocked back and forth, first in agreement and then keeping time with another song from the stereo. The silence stretched. “So what else?”

“Huh?”

“What else do you have with you? You said, ’some things.’” He exhaled smoke away from her, and turned back in time to see her flush. “Plural.”

She looked him over, wondered where he thought this was going. Looked from his face to the
silent granite block, trying to put her thoughts together. “Handcuffs.”

“Really?” He smiled, a lazy, lopsided grin. He took a last drag on the cigarette and stood on one leg to put it out on his boot heel. She noticed pale flesh appear as his clothes shifted, vanished again as he stood straight and slid the butt into a pocket. “Plain police issue or the kinky kind with the lining? Let me see.”

She pulled the handcuffs out of her pocket, handed them to him and watched with lazy disinterest. He held them up to see them better, then ratcheted the cuff clear through. The clicking sound sound she knew so well, but now without context or meaning.

He passed them back, leaving his hand outstretched as she picked up the restraint with her off hand. Her eyes locked with his as she put the open cuff around his wrist, until he blinked and looked away. A single click followed, and his eyes stayed on the ground. Another click and then another, and the metal cinched down on his flesh. He slowly held out his other hand.

She ignored his hand, put the other cuff around her own wrist, locked their hands together, and dropped the flogger. Then she slapped him across the face. “Pick it up.”

He knelt down, and she could see his cheek turning splotchy already. He picked up the flogger, offered it back to her, stayed on his knees.

She leaned down and slapped him again, a backhand across the other cheek. “With your mouth.”

He winced and dropped the flogger, leaned down to put his mouth on the ground.

She held her arm up, making him twist and contort his body to reach down with his mouth. She pulled his shoulder tight, made him stretch until the metal cut into both of them, and he could scoop the handle up with his teeth.

He got back up on his knees, and she looked down at him.

Cheeks red, eyes shut, tiny pools of drool forming at the corners of his mouth.

She remembered how this used to feel. Passionate, her heart racing, she should be shoving his head back down, telling him to lick her boots while she ground her other foot into his back and grew wetter with each gasp of pain.

She just felt tired, and bored, and lonely.

She took the flogger, stuck it in her hip pocket. Found her car keys and flipped through until she found the handcuff key.

His eyes opened when he felt her pulling the cuff loose, and he looked up when she stepped away. She didn’t wait for him to ask, just looked away and spoke in monotone. “I’m sorry, this just isn’t going to work. Please leave.”

He stood up. “Cool, that’s fine I mean.” He rubbed one cheek, started to turn and go then stopped. “I don’t think he would have wanted this for you though. I mean, I didn’t know him or anything, but I think he would have wanted you to be happy.”

She nodded with slow, tiny, jerking movements of her head. “You’re probably right.” Her voice was flat, monotone.

The silence stretched between them, and even the music faded away as the CD ended. She thought it was almost as good as the rain she’d wished for earlier.

“Well, take it easy. We’ve got some beer over there, and a thermos of coffee. If you want to wander over.” She didn’t say anything, and he walked away.

She waited, until he was gone. The hollow feeling was still there, but easier to ignore. She wanted to turn and go, leave and get a bottle of wine on the way home and continue her interrupted torture alone. Drunk and full of self-pity she’d loathe herself for in the morning.

Instead she walked forward, wrapped her arms around the cold stone. Slid the handcuffs back in her pocket and traced her fingers down the granite, pulled her body tight against cold marker. Felt the solid geometry of the rock, it’s eternal, uncaring hardness. She cried as she rubbed her cheek against the sharp, indented letters of his name, tracing each character until her flesh warmed them, and then moved on while they grew cold again.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Note: I wrote two versions of this story, with different protagonists. The other version is above. I like one more as a story, the other better as porn, even though they’re damn near identical for most purposes. And I ain’t telling which is which.

He had hoped it would rain tonight, or at least stay cloudy. Not that it was necessary, but it would have lent the whole scene an appropriate sense of melodrama.

Even grief can become pretentious, given the right circumstances.

But the clouds had evaporated and he was standing under merrily blinking stars while music wrapped around the tombstones and wandered through the trees. The college dorms were a few blocks away, and the goth kids were out tonight. He heard their voices over the mournful tune. The rain would have kept them inside.

Or would it?

Did they even call themselves “goth” anymore?

Or were they “emo” now?

What was “emo” anyway?

He looked over, towards the sound of the music, and one of them was walking towards him. She looked dismembered, black clothes blending into the night and soft pale skin pierced with silver studs shining, a happily dissected cadaver bouncing across the grass, her torso left on the operating table.

“Oh, hey. I thought you were someone else.” She stopped when she saw his face, cocked her head and looked at him.

He shrugged casually, and smiled at her. “No problem.” He saw her start to turn, then her eyes caught the flash of light from the chains stretched between his wrists.

She paused, licked her lips, shifted her weight from one clunky Army surplus boot to the other. “I like your coat. Is it real leather?”

“I’m not sure. Probably not.” He looked away.

He heard the click of a lighter a few seconds before the acrid smell of smoke hit. She followed it over to stand at his side, a few feet away. He could see her reading the inscription on the tombstone in the starlight. Her eyes glanced across his face, took in the hair line starting to receed, guessed his age, dropped again to the handcuffs when she thought he wasn’t looking. “Your wife?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” It was still a harsh croak, something he didn’t want to admit even after all the years that had passed.

“Sorry.”

“Me too.” Another shrug.

“So she still have the keys to the cuffs on her when they put her in the ground?”

His eyes went wide and he stood, open mouthed, looking at her looking at him. Finally he laughed, shocked at the suggestion and shook his head. “No, we…” He saw her piercings and the fishnet tights crossing her legs, and wondered again at how worldly young people seemed nowadays. “We were kind of kinky. I put on some things and come out on our anniversary. Kind of a tribute I guess.”

“Cool. Sorry if that was a little rude.”

“No. Well, yes. But it was the kind of joke she would have made.” He caught her eye and smiled. “It’s fine.”

Her head rocked back and forth, first in agreement then keeping time with another song from the stereo. The silence stretched. “So what else?”

“Huh?”

“What else do you have on? You said, ’some things.’” She exhaled smoke away from him, and turned back in time to see his blush. “Plural.”

He started to stammer, looked from her to the silent granite block, trying to put his thoughts together. “Ah well, uhm, some nipple clamps.”

“Really?” She smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks. She took a last drag on the cigarette and stood on one leg to put it out on her boot heel. He noticed pale flesh appear as her clothes shifted, vanishing again as she stood straight and slid the butt into a pocket. “Are they the clover or spring kind? Let me see.”

His legs wouldn’t move as her hands started undoing buttons on his coat, pulling it open and reaching inside. His eyes moved back to the tombstone again, and he started to tremble. Afraid of getting caught, even though it made no sense. He started to sweat, felt panic rising, but by the time he started to stammer a protest her hands had opened his coat and found the chain linking the clamps. She pulled the metal links up, stretching his nipples, raising the clamps up and pulling on them harshly as she moved the chain from one side to another to examine them from all angles.

“Clover huh? These look like good ones.” She rolled her fist, wrapping the chain around her knuckles and stretching his flesh even more, until the teeth of the clamps bit into him, tiny needles of pain in his chest that made him rise up on his toes. “What else?” She twisted harshly when he didn’t say anything, then let up on the pressure a little. “If you want me to stop, say ‘Red,’ ok?”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think. He could smell her breath, feel the heat coming off her body, almost taste the leather from her fingerless gloves, but couldn’t make himself say anything.

She rolled her hand again back and forth, pulling and releasing, twisting and letting go, and he yelped. “What else?”

His hands thrashed up and down, getting near hers then falling back to his waist. Another twist and he crumbled, blurting out an answer, anything to make her stop, to make her continue. “A cock ring!”

The dimples reappeared. “Ooh, my last boyfriend had one of those. One of the nicest things he ever did for me, actually.” Her hand snaked down inside his coat, and he swallowed hard as she curled the arm holding his chain, pulling him to her. Fingernails traced a line from his navel down, circling under his balls, cupping them, finding the rubber ring cinched tight. She held him close to her and he closed his eyes, rolling back and forth, stretching the chain on his nipples, timing the pain with the slow strokes she was using on his cock.

She stopped, and he groaned in frustration. “What else?”

He rolled his hips but her hand moved away and she let slack into the chain. He moaned but didn’t hesitate before he answered this time. “A butt plug.”

He felt a warm, crimson blush wash up his face and screwed his eyes shut. The chain fell against his chest, her hand moved away, and he choked on a sob, afraid she was disgusted and leaving.

His legs locked hard and he could feel the pressure in his knees as she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him in tight and rocking back and forth with him before sliding the coat down his back. Her hand moved down and inside the coat, massaging the base of his spine before her palm found the wide part of the plug between his cheeks. She rolled her hand across it, pushing it hard against him. Delicate fingers worked their way under the base, pulling it back until it was ready to pop out before showing it back into him, hard, making him bite his lip to keep from crying out. Her other hand crept around him, found his cock again, slowly jerked him off as she twisted the plug, fucked him with the widest part, pushed hard against it to change the angle and work against his prostate.

She let his lust build, brought him to the edge and backed him off, brought him to the edge again and reached between his legs to pull down hard on his balls. He whimpered and she forced him to his knees, kicking his legs apart until he could feel wet grass tickling him. She stood up and stepped around him.

“Lick my boots.”

He looked at her flushed, pale skin, the shining leather of her boots, and v of her legs framing the tombstone of his wife. Her name written in block, Gothic letters on gray stone.

It all came crashing down, and he felt hollow, cold, alone.

He shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

She stepped back, and shrugged. “So… are you saying ‘Red?’”

“Yeah.” He looked away from her. Away from everything.

“Cool, that’s fine I mean.” She made a popping sound with her mouth, started to turn and go then stopped. “I don’t think she would have wanted this for you though. I mean, I didn’t know her or anything, but I think she would have wanted you to be happy.”

He nodded with slow, tiny, jerking movements of his head. “You’re probably right.” His voice was flat, monotone.

The silence stretched between them, and even the music faded away as the CD ended. He thought it was almost as good as the rain he’d wished for earlier.

“Well, take it easy. We’ve got some beer over there, and a thermos of coffee. If you want to wander over.” He didn’t say anything, and she walked away.

He waited, still on his knees. His breathing came easier now, he could forget the pain in his nipples, in his ass, if he didn’t think about it. He wanted to turn and go, leave and get a bottle of wine on the way home and continue his interrupted torture alone. Drunk and full of self-pity he’d loathe himself for in the morning.

Instead he crawled forward, wrapped his arms around the cold stone. Slid the chain between his wrists down the back of the granite and pulled his body tight against cold stone. Felt the solid geometry of the rock, it’s eternal, uncaring hardness. He cried as his tongue came out and began to trace each letter of her name, tasting granite and dust.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

He shut his mouth and looked away as she used the leather strap to twirl the ball gag in a circle in front of his eyes.

“You really hate this one, don’t you?”

His head jerked in a nod. “It tastes awful. And the aftertaste lasts about three days, this weird rubber plastic tinge on everything I eat.”

She looked at him, poker faced and considering, then tossed the gag into the far corner of the room. “Stay there, I’ll be right back. I’m going to make you want it.”

He flexed his arms, tied behind him, stretched his legs and tried to move his ankles around in the tight rope loops while she disappeared into the kitchen. Bottles clanked on the counter and he heard the familiar thump of the refrigerator door shutting, then her footsteps coming back.

She slid the cold glass on the bottom of the bottle up his thigh, hiding the label in her hand. He thrust backwards, and tried to shuffle away, but she stepped into him and planted a foot behind his leg. Crushing her body into his, she wrapped her other arm around the back of his neck and pushed him to the floor.

Lying on his back, looking up at her, she moved the bottle around and sat it on his chest. Hot sauce. The other bottles joined it, standing like small glass soldiers in front of his eyes. Soy sauce. Lemon juice. The fancy mustard he hated. Vinegar.

Her hand grabbed his jaw and started to squeeze, the pressure forcing his lips apart. “They’ll go in your mouth, one after the other, unless you have that gag in. And then I’ll go to the store and buy castor oil, whatever else I can find and force them down your throat when I get back. You’ve got five minutes.” She looked at her watch, and slapped him across the face, hard with the flat of her hand. “Go.”

He didn’t need to consider, knew she meant it when she got that hard, flat look in her eyes. When it turned to lust he’d be safer, but for now there was no chance she was bluffing, or could be dissuaded. He was already rolling over as she stood up, scooting towards the gag in the corner. He shoved himself across the rough carpet, feeling it drag across his naked body, until he went to pull his legs forward and jerked to a stop.

He looked back, saw the big ugly army boots she loved planted in front of the rope around his ankles. “Tick tock.” She smiled and brought the whip down on his back, a fiery line making him yelp. “Keep trying to crawl, if I think you’re trying hard enough maybe I’ll let you.”

He hunched up on his face and knees, trying to push himself forward, but couldn’t get any leverage. Whenever he brought his body back so he could shove forward with his legs again, she brought the whip down, the vertical strikes different from the usual horizontal slashes, adding novelty to the pain. The carpet was rubbing his knees and elbows raw, the rough fiber grinding on the skin.

Both their breaths came harder, her panting excitement and his gasps of exertion. She finally moved her foot, and he flew forward, crashing down hard. His breath shot out, and he felt her shove her ankle back in the space between his legs, the loops of rope holding his feet together pulling tight against her heel. And the whip came down as he tried to crawl forward again.

She made him sweat and strain for every torturous inch, until his entire body ached and the whip was just a fiery punctuation on top of the thudding pain already in his muscles. He finally reached the gag, as she was counting down the last ten seconds, scooped it into his mouth and rolled over on his back, showing her.

“Three.” She looked down at him, on his back, covered in sweat and the small fibers from the carpet. She wanted to say something clever, or at least sarcastic, but watching the drool roll from his mouth as he breathed in deep breaths around the red rubber ball clamped in his teeth drove all the words from her head.

She dropped the whip, rolled down her pants and panties all at once, and straddled his face. “Make me cum with that gag, you…”

Her words trailed off as he pushed the hard rubber up her slit until it found her clitoris. Rolling it back and forth, working it around in time with her hips, she fell forward and held herself up with her hands, pushing down on him, grinding in time with his movements.

He bit down harder into the rubber, his neck muscles straining, feeling like a sex toy. His tongue ached to be on her, and instinctively pushed against the ball clamped in his teeth. He could feel the twitches in her thighs and heard guttural sounds coming from deep inside her throat.

He felt her weight shift as she leaned back and grabbed the leather straps of the gag. Leaning back, she pulled hard, dragging his head along. Pushing forward with her cunt and pulling back with her hands, he felt like his jaw was going to break as he held on with his teeth. She rolled back and forth, pushing and pulling against the gag in his clenched jaw while he tried to breathe through his nose and spit dribbled down his chin, pooling and running down his chest.

She finally shuddered and her breath turned into a long hiss, clamping her thighs together around his head and shaking. She pulled her pussy away, and slid down his body, kissing the red rubber still sticking out of his mouth as his head hit the floor with a clunk. They lay side by side, breathing hard and holding one another.

She rubbed his chest, murmured “Good boy,” and pushed on the gag. “This stays in though, I’m not done with you yet.” She hopped to her feet, shucking her pants and underwear off over her ankles. He watched as she slid down his body, grabbed his cock and lowered herself on to it.

She smiled at him, and he he held his head up with burning muscles as she lowered herself on to him, and smiled back. The straps dangled loosely against his cheeks, undone and unnecessary.

Copyright 2008 by Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

“Get in.”

His eyes went from her to the trunk, back to her, warily. He didn’t make eye contact, but looked carefully at her clothes again. Conservative pants suit, briefcase in her hand, dark, sensible shoes. She’d made him take his pants off, then his underwear, left him in his dress shirt and tie while she pulled a pair of handcuffs out of her briefcase, hiding the leather satchel from him so he couldn’t see what else was inside. She pulled his hands behind him and cinched the cuffs down tight, the clicks ratcheting off quickly then slowing when the steel bit down on his wrists.

His stumbling steps had followed her quick and confident strides as she walked to the garage, pulled along by the tie, his erection poking against the front of his shirt. She hadn’t stopped until they reached the back of the car, where she popped open the trunk.

“Get in.”

He sat down on the edge and leaned back, falling gently into the carpeted boot. With an awkward kick he brought his legs up and curled them into the space, looking up at her. “Where we going?”

She sat the briefcase down and popped it open again, lifting out a leather hood, the eyes zippered shut. “An auction. Now shush.” She worked the hood down over his wide open eyes, pulled it down and tight, zipped it, sealed him off from the world. She worked the zipper on his mouth open, grabbed one nipple and twisted harshly. Hearing his gasp of breath, satisfied for certain he could breathe, she set his cell phone to walkie-talkie and tossed it in the trunk beside him.

The trunk lid thudded down, and light and sound left him.

He felt the car start, and stop at the end of the drive, then move out and accelerate. She turned the headset to her own phone on, and listened to his breathing as she drove aimlessly around the neighborhood, stopping and starting suddenly and listening to his gasps and moans as he thudded against the walls of the trunk.

He tried to count the turns, but quickly lost track. He didn’t think she was serious, was pretty sure it was just a mind fuck, but he wasn’t sure. He might have broken the old adage of never laying down with a woman crazier than yourself, and the thought made him hard. He rubbed himself against the rough carpet, the harsh fiber dragging across his cock and balls until another sudden stop or start would interrupt him, sending him crashing against the trunk.

She laughed, wondering if he knew she could hear his breath getting more excited, and knew that she was waiting for him to start dry humping the carpet before she found another stop sign and hit the brakes. She felt herself getting hotter, and licked her lips thinking of the main event. When she tired of the little game, she gave him one last hard bounce and then turned for their real destination.

He reflexively curled up in a ball when the cool air washed over his sweaty skin. Two tugs on his tie brought him up on his knees and he scooted forward until his legs hit the edge of the trunk. Two more tugs and he awkwardly swung his leg down, felt his foot hit concrete. A soft hand caressed his balls, then squeezed. He gasped, and the hand squeezed again. She leaned against him, placed her ear next to his mouth, and squeezed and released. Let his hot breath wash over her ear and neck and listened to his pain.

When he moaned in pleasure and pain she pulled on the tie again, helped him balance as he swung his other leg out of the trunk. Led him into the house.

The sounds of people talking filled his head, too low to be understood in the hood, but definitely there, and he wondered again if she was serious. The floor felt like the same ceramic tile they had in their kitchen, he thought. But did ceramic floors feel different from one another? He’d never paid attention, rarely walked across them barefoot anyway. How many steps was it from the kitchen door to the living room? Ten or eleven? He counted thirteen, but he was being pulled along now, her hand holding him down by his tie and dragging him along with shorter steps than usual.

He heard her voice, indistinct, from the tone she seemed to be greeting someone, or thanking them, and then he was pulled a little ways, spun around, and forced to his knees. She reached around him from behind, zipped his mouth shut as he started to speak, and worked her hands under his shirt to rake her fingernails down his chest. Her mouth right by his ear, he heard her. “Nod once if you can hear me.”

He nodded as she continued to rake her nails up and down his chest, his cock twitching.

“It’s a silent auction, the bidders aren’t allowed to touch the merchandise. Some law about prostitution or something. But they can request demonstrations, and I expect a good price from you. The hostess said it was a slow night, and you’ve already gotten some glances.”

He squirmed, whined into his gag.

“Hush, your cock is hard, you’re obviously into this. And I can use the money. Oh, I’ll cut you in, say 10%? I’m not sure what a whore usually gets, maybe we can ask those ladies.”

She pulled his tie off over his head, stripped his shirt back and down, pulling it off until it rested on his cuffed hands. “Oh yeah, there are prostitutes here. They gave me this little program when I signed you up, so I’d know who I might be selling you to. Some whores like to pool their money, buy a man for a weekend. All the bullshit they have to deal with in their line of work, they take out on him. They really love to torture his cock and balls, jack him off over and over until his cock hurts sooooo much he thinks he can’t take it anymore. Keep feeding him Viagra and caffeine until he gets hard again and then jerking him off while he screams himself hoarse and feels like his balls are on fire and every spasm of his dick is agony. I talked to one of them on the phone, she said they tell some of their boys that when they can’t get hard anymore, they’re going to put them to work. Taking them around to the porn store glory holes and charging a quarter a blow. I asked if she was serious of course.”

“What do you think she said? Would you like to find out? Want to be a whore’s whore?”

She laughed as he shook his head frantically, and pulled hard on his nipples. She felt herself getting wetter, and rubbed her breasts against his bare back. “Well, don’t worry, there are other bidders.”

He moaned deep in his throat, still not sure if it was real. He couldn’t be sure she wasn’t serious, the images he saw in his head terrified him, but his lust swelled up hard within at the same time. He didn’t know whether to beg her to hide him from the prostitutes or offer him to them on a platter.

“This lady, for instance, is quiet into parties, she just has trouble finding entertainment. She likes to tie her entertainment up, and let her guests all take turns beating them with her various whips and floggers. Nothing too heavy, but that constant pain adds up quickly I’m told. She says they start with the back, beating it raw and bloody. All their subject has to do stop the pain is ask. Then they move on to another body part.”

She laughed as his hips started to roll, and watched the pre-cum start to drip.

“Oh, you like the sound of that? Maybe I’ll give her a discount… Oh, I almost forgot to mention, when they run out of body parts, the poor soul goes into the piss box. Not a very imaginative name, but descriptive. You’ll have your head locked in a box with a toilet seat and the guests will all relieve themselves in it.”

She held on tightly as he started to squirm, to fight against the images forming in his head.

“And the longer you held out, the more they’re going to piss on you when that box first locks shut. She says some boys are naughty, and won’t open their mouths at first, but a generous helping of salt on all those open wounds soon cures them of that.”

He saw himself, on his back, beaten raw. Trying to hold his mouth shut, as warm piss sloshed against his lips, the salt pouring on his open wounds until his lips tore themselves apart and his mouth was filled. Choking on it as more rushed in and he screamed, spraying piss in the air, the shocked look on the guests faces, what they would do to punish him…

She could hear his breath coming faster, feel him starting to panic. Her hand reached down and started to stroke him gently. “You ok?”

He shuddered under her, then tried to nod, but finally shook his head no.

She unlaced his hood, pulled it off, kissed him carefully on the lips. “It’s all right, you’re at home.”

He blinked his eyes at the sudden light, saw their living room as they adjusted. The sound of people talking coming from the stereo, some round table talk radio thing she’s recorded on low volume, no prostitutes, no insane old women into parties…

“I’m sorry.” His voice came out in a croak.

She knelt down in front of him and hugged him. “It’s ok. Some of that was a little out there.”

They rocked back and forth for a moment, her arms pulling him tightly to her. “Do you want to stop?”

He felt her warmth against him. “No, but… it’s kind of a cock up now isn’t it? Because I flaked out?”

She smiled and kissed his collar bone. “Not really. I wrote down all the things I was going to do to you this weekend. I was going to give you the chance to outbid me on them. Of course you don’t know how much I bid, so you can’t avoid all of them…”

He turned his head and kissed her gently behind the ear. “Better get me the list. And my checkbook.”

She squeezed him tightly and stood, looking down at him on his knees, scratched and bloody, hair a mess, hands cuffed behind him pulling the muscles in his chest tight. “All right then, let the bidding begin.”

Copyright 2008 by Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.