-Vague

I hate that guy.

“You’re sure?” She pulled the box back, tight against her chest, grinning at his scowl.

“Yes, damnit.” His fingers itched, and he rubbed the tips together, trying to drive away the sensation. “I just want to know what it is.”

He hadn’t had an orgasm for awhile. Waking up hard next to her, flirting grins, hot showers. It was getting on his nerves, and her reminders that it would be easier on him the longer it had been since he had come were met with exasperated sighs.

It had occurred to him that there might not be anything in the box, that it was just her way of getting him to torture himself. That had been enjoyable for awhile, the mind game twisting inside him and making his cock twitch. Then that had gotten old as well.

Now, he just wanted to get the torture over with, to finally find out what was inside.

She handed the box back, grinning, keeping her face calm. Wondering how the next few minutes would play out. The odd sensation of fear and lust when she tried something new, that she wasn’t sure how he would react to. The opening up of herself to the possibility of rejection, and the chance of acceptance, one more thing to bring them together.

He pulled the lid off, took crinkled paper out and piled it carefully beside him. “Hope it’s not another butt plug, I ran out of butthole’s three plugs ago…” He mumbled for his own benefit. Words keeping out thoughts.

He held the black cloth up, a swath of dark material in a plastic bag. “A mask?” He flipped it over, looked at more carefully. “A hood?” He spoke carefully, watching her closely, not sure of the consequences of his words, not wanting to disappoint her or hurt her feelings. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Her voice dropped an octave. “Oh, not just any mask.” She hoped her quicker breathing looked like lust, and not uncertainty. “There’s no holes in it, it will cover your entire head and face. And most importantly…”

She paused, remembering how she had rehearsed this so many times in the car, driving to and from work. How it had made her cunt twitch. Now, watching him, she only felt her stomach churning. “Only you can put it on, and only you can take it off. But when you do, you’re not a person anymore. You’re a thing, and I can do whatever fucked up shit I want to do to a thing. You’ll have to trust me not to cross any lines, but believe me when I say, there are some monumentally fucked up things I want to do that I could never to do you.”

“But I’ll do them to a thing.” Her mouth dried out, she swallowed hard, and waited for him to say or do something.

He opened and closed his mouth, tried to figure out what to say. Then he ripped open the plastic on the bag, and started to slip the black cloth over his face, disappearing, becoming a thing, and trying not to anticipate what would happen next.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

She put her hand over her mouth, trying to contain an unfeminine snorted chuckle. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about this being a gift.” A sultry grin followed her words. “Or you won’t by the time you’re done with it.”

The box, garish in colored paper and with a ridiculously over-sized bow on top, sat on the table between him them. He looked at it, she looked at him and grinned. He looked at her, and she pointedly looked at the box and couldn’t help grinning even wider.

His tongue slipped across his lips, and he asked knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “So, what is it?”

Her eyes were wide with innocence as she carefully lifted one corner of the box, letting it fall back to the table. “I think… it’s not a pony. No, definitely not a pony.”

He tried to scowl, but grinned instead. “So when do I get to open it?”

She shrugged. “Whenever you want, actually.” She sat back in her chair, watching him, enjoying the conflict, the way his eyes went from the package to her and back.

“What’s the catch?”

Her eyebrow rose and dropped. “Good question. I will tell you one thing about it: The longer you’ve gone without coming, the easier it will be for you.” She pushed her chair back, stood up and gently kissed him on the head as she walked by. “And the better it will be for me.”

He lifted the corner of the box, and let it drop. No sound or rattle told him what the contents were. And he wondered how long he could wait.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

He walked into the bedroom, and frowned down at the bed. Shirt and tie, black slacks with the belt still hanging through the loops. The shoes he didn’t wear often enough for them to become comfortable. Black socks without the heels starting to wear thin and a pair of boxer briefs with the elastic almost entirely intact. Job interview clothes, funeral clothes, wedding clothes, clothes that itched and scratched. “Are we going out?”

“No.” Her disembodied voice floated down the hallway. “Just put it all on.”

He shrugged out of jeans and t-shirt, assembling the clothes on his body. Stuffing, tucking, buttoning, wrapping, twisting, and knotting. Wrapping the tie around his neck, checking the index card in the pocket of the slacks: Wide end goes lower and on the right. Throwing the strip of cloth around in loops and pulling it into a knot. The shoes went on last, leather pushing against his feet in places where the skin was soft and smooth, without callouses.

He found her, leaned against the wall as she walked over. Frowning and finding the ends of his tie, looking critically at the knot. Pulling it tighter, tighter, until she felt the muscles in his throat moving down the silk into her fingers. Smiling and loosening it a little, pulling it straight down his body.

“Stay.” She backed up, looking at him through her phone. A flash and a click, a few more shots, and she slipped it in her pocket. “Sit.”

He moved to the stool she had pointed at, arranging himself carefully on the hard wood surface. She sat down in the large, stuffed chair opposite, flung her legs over one arm, and arranged her computer on her lap. Smiled at him, and began typing and clicking.

He licked his lips. Fidgeted. Swallowed. Rotated his wrists in the starched cuffs on the ends of the sleeves.

She smiled at him, and walked over, straightening his tie again, positioning his hands on his knees, pulling his hair until he sat up straight. “You’re eye candy, and good eye candy stays still. Understand?”

He closed his eyes, nodded, warm feelings of surrender pushing out of his skin and against the clothes.

“I’m going to slap you for moving, and then you’re going to stay very still.”

Another nod as he licked his lips. So much easier to than think about words or talking.

The sound and dry explosion of skin across his face rocked his body, and dragged a gasp out of his chest. He swallowed hard, and focused on staying very still.

“And if you’re very good, we can take a break in a little while. I’ll get a nice ball gag, and we’ll take some more pictures. Red would go very well with that tie, I think. And if you’re very good, you can kneel on the floor while I feed you dinner. But before that, I want something pretty to look at for awhile, and I don’t want it moving around. Understand?”

He started to nod, then stopped himself. Keeping his lips as still as possible, between shallow breaths he slowly pushed out a dry whisper. “Yes ma’am.”

Copyright Jerry Jones, unauthorized use is prohibited.

[[]]

She told him the only tools she needed to top him were her hands and two words: Don’t scream.

And she didn’t stop hurting him until he stopped screaming.

[[]]

“You’re going to go out and today, and buy some bolt cutters and a tube of epoxy. Tonight, I’m going to lock up your cock. What you have to decide is, do you want the bolt cutters, or the glue? If you glue the lock shut, I won’t be able to take your cock out of the cage and torture it, but the only way it’s coming out is if I decide to end the game use the bolt cutters.”

“On the other hand, if you take the glue, you decide when and if to use it. I’ll keep the key and it will come on and off as I decide until you do, and I’ll have the bolt cutters for emergencies or if I decide to end the game. To tell the truth, I’m a little curious to see if I can torture you so much you voluntarily use the glue on that lock.”

“But what I’m really curious to find out, is, are you more afraid of my locking your cock in a cage, or taking out?”

[[]]

“You forgot something. No orgasms until you remember what it was.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

He shuddered and nodded, a reflexive jerk of his head. Obeying was easier than thinking, so much warmer and safer.

“I wonder what it will be like, everyone knows you’re waiting at the end of the night. Do you think the scenes before will satisfy them, or just make them hungrier?”

A shuddered breath, images of being torn apart by their nails and teeth wrapped around his thoughts.

She let it go, decided not to make him answer.

“You’re very lucky you’re bought but not paid for yet. I’ll play by the rules. I won’t make you come now, because that would just make it all so much harder wouldn’t it?”

He knew his body jerked again, but couldn’t seem to attach the sensation to anything that was him. He heard a whimper, but the sound was far off. It was like an echo coming back to him, barely perceptible, the sensation of his body remote.

“But when we start to play… If you don’t want to come first thing, you better start figuring out how to convince me… convince us… because it’s on the menu. The menu you made.”

Part of him heard her words, made himself start thinking. Left the safety of just obeying without thought and started considering, planning, analyzing how to become a part of his own destruction. Actively working to please her instead of passively accepting what happened.

He considered the others, what he would do for them, and then they fell out his thoughts. Whatever they did for a night he could handle, and he was going home with her. Her happiness was what mattered.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

She had told him, the two of them sitting in the car by a lake watching the fog roll off the water, that one of her father’s friends had been a salesman. A very good salesman, actually. And he had always said that there really wasn’t much of a trick to being a very good salesman. All you had to do was sell people what they wanted. The toughest sales were to people who didn’t know what they wanted.

Some of the women most certainly fell into that category. At the five minute announcement the men had shucked off their clothes, some more enthusiastically than others, and moved to stand against the wall. Naked except for the ribbon around their neck and the small medallion with their number, they had had looked around the room, trying to focus on anything but the women sizing them up, telling them to turn around so they could see all the things for sale. Six men, twelve acts written on their flesh, and each woman had six colored chips.

“What we need to do is work the middle. Suggest scenarios specific enough to give them ideas, but broad enough that they’ll be able to fill in details and make them even more exciting.” He had shrugged, pitched his voice in its most pompous tone, “A twue submissive would just write ‘whatever my mistress wants’ twelve times.’ In all lower case letters, of course.” She had snorted, and gone back to working on the list.

Black bags at the front of the room started to fill as the late bidders slipped their chips into the bag that corresponded to who they wanted to buy. Whoever placed the most chips in the bag got the use of that submissive, and the twelve offerings they had made. The bags were behind a low partition where only the auctioneer could see allowing privacy in bidding, and not coincidentally making sure the men could not see who was bidding on them, or try to figure out how many chips they had garnered.

“Don’t worry, it’s really just a game, like contract bridge. There are points and rewards and bidding, and you have to guess what the other players are going to do. I’m good at games, I’ll figure out how to win this one.” He had grinned at her, but not entirely comfortably. “And that’s supposed to help me not worry, is it?”

They had returned to sit by the women they had arrived with, still nude. Beside them on couches or on the floor at their feet, kneeling or splayed awkwardly, watching as the auctioneer counted out chips and made notes on a piece of paper. She peered down through her bifocals, an older woman who looked like she should be offering cookies to her grandchildren instead of organizing and participating in what was about to happen.

She had finished the list, and he had agreed everything was within his limits. The piece of paper was neatly folder, and slipped into her purse. “Two helpful hints: Good players play games, great players play the other players. And never let someone else set your victory conditions, because sometimes when you lose the game they’re playing, you win the game you’re playing.”

“I will read the results starting with the man who received the lowest number of chips, and the offerings he has made. Play will then begin with the man who received the highest number of chips, then the next highest and so on.” She cleared her throat, and took a sip of water, letting the tension build.

“Isn’t this fun?” He just swallowed and gave her a wan smile.

“The lowest number of chips, at a single chip…” Every man in the room winced, as the women smiled. “Is number five.” He blinked, and swallowed hard, wondering if all her talk about sales and games had been an elaborate, cruel mindfuck. The auctioneer had continued, reading the words written on his skin from a piece of paper, but he only heard the first one. The one she had changed from the list. “Share me with everyone in the room…”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

He’d felt self-conscious all night, and gratefully sank to the floor in front of her, leaning back against the couch, moaning as she ruffled his hair.

She pulled at the hair at the crown of his skull, dragging his head back, exposing his throat, looking at his eyes. “How’s your head space?”

He blinked slowly, considering the question. It was hard to think without pushing away the warm fog. “Okay. Feeling kind of self conscious and nervous.”

She pushed his head forward, leaning over him, looking down at his back and consulting a small notebook in her hand. “That’s normal, you’ve never been merchandise before, as far as I know.” She leaned down closer, whispered in his ear. “You should know that several people have been interested.”

He moaned and slumped down. With her fist in his hair he could only see the lower legs of people walking around the room, mingling in the corners, crossing from one end of the room to the other to pickup snacks and drinks. He wondered which of them had been interested, and what in…

“So very interested in such a cheap whore…”

The people with numbers on ribbons hanging around their necks were the merchandise. Even if they were interested, they weren’t allowed to buy. He watched a woman stop another man, he couldn’t remember his name, and jerk his pants down, inspecting him. She noted the torments he had written on his body, things he was willing to accept, and went off to find who was handling his bids. She had done the same to him, he could remember the feel of her gloves on his skin as she silently appraised him, a cost-benefit analysis of his potential pain.

“I spent more than I should have, to tell the truth, but I so love when I’m paying you for it.”

People were starting to settle down, and the auction would start soon. Each piece of merchandise there had provided a list of twelve things they would suffer, each buyer assigned a dollar value to the torment they wished to buy. Pretty simple.

“Sometimes it’s even better than taking it from you.”

He twitched a little. It had sounded like a good way to quickly get in over his head when she had suggested it, and he had told her so. She had listened, then talked him through it, excited, grinning, helped him put together a list. Only six couples, so at most it would be her and five others torturing him. He knew the tops involved, had met them all at one time or another. Even played with a couple. Told him what they were in to, so he could offer what they would be eager to buy. No competition with the other submissives, everyone would get their turn.

“But I’ll still do that too.”

Eventually it had been her enthusiasm that had convinced him to try it, although part of him still thought the whole thing was way too complicated. Being such an active participant in his own pain had been hard, making a list of such intimate actions to offer to others.

“By the way…”

He remembered the chemical smell and wet scratch of magic marker over his skin when they had arrived as she transcribed the list they had made. The tension over the evening had built, the dehumanizing sensation of being priced, evaluated, and treated like meat wrapping around him. He slumped against her, and heard her start breathing harder.

“One of the things I wrote on your back…”

He could dimly tell the room had gone silent, the results had been added up, announcements would be made in a few seconds. He could feel the heat of her skin, and started to sweat, felt brief pieces of panic tugging at him.

“Isn’t from your list.”

He twitched, shoved hard back against her, twisted his neck to feel her fingers wrapped tight around his hair. A flood of warm sensation washed over him, and he felt safe and calm. Back under her control, it was just what he had needed.

Someone cleared their throat at the front of the room, and he looked up, eager to find out what he had been sold for.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

He disentangled himself from the desk and moved toward her, flushed with warmth and anticipation.

He moaned as her hand caught his hair, forcing his face flat against her own desk. The wood felt cold and smooth against his cheek, and he could feel his breath coming out in excited gasps as she forced his pants roughly down to his knees. “Twenty-five percent wrong, so it will be twenty-five swats. You will count.”

There was eagerness and heat in her own voice, and she didn’t wait for an answer before slapping the wooden paddle into his ass. He jumped, but remembered to count, and she measured them out, savoring the sensation of the paddle crashing into his body, watching his skin turn red as capillaries broke, watched him tremble and listened to his words echo the sharp crack.

“Twenty-five…” He felt the vibration reverberate through his body, traveling through the water in his blood, exciting nerve endings and teasing skin and tissue. He kept his face on the desk, hoping she’d continue, eyes half closed.

“Go back to your seat.” She sat on the desk, her hand trailing along the surface, trying to feel the warmth left by his body as he scrunched himself back into his chair.

“We will continue with your math lesson. You will do your best.”

He nodded, pushing his ass down hard into the chair, trying to recapture the feeling of being beaten.

“What is 5 x 6?”

“22.” The word hung in air, a pregnant silence as she stared at him, expression blank and eyes flat.

“I expect your best effort. If you’re going to answer wrong deliberately, it defeats the purpose of the exercise, and we will stop immediately.” It wasn’t her play voice anymore, she wasn’t teasing or tormenting, just stating facts. “What is 5 x 6?”

“30. Sorry.”

She nodded, and gave him a slight smile. “Better.” He flushed, again feeling the warmth of pleasing her, anticipating more pain and pleasure. “What is 2 + 9?”

“11.”

“What is 9 – 0?”

“9.”

“Nobody likes a know it all. For showing up your peers, you will be punished. Come here.”

He pulled himself out of the desk, and moved back to the front of the classroom. He tried to hide his eagerness, but moved with her as she shoved his head back down.

“30 + 11 + 9 is 50. What a coincidence, I do love round numbers. Now, Mr. Smarty Pants, since being a know it all is what got you into this predicament, I don’t think we’ll have you do any counting.”

Hard wood smacked into his skin again, over and over. His body rocked, and his thoughts turned into a jumbled haze of pain and pleasure, alternating, the shock of wood transforming his flesh, the roll of his hips against the desk, her presence beside him.

She drove the paddle into him again and again, not bothering to keep count. Just hitting him until she could see his expression glaze over, the warm, peaceful face he wore when the pain turned into pleasure and endorphins and serotonin took over.

He sagged when she stopped, and she pulled him upright by his hair. His pants still around his knees, he looked at her, tears and snot streaking his face.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

He nodded, his breath still coming in short jerks.

“So you know what you did wrong?”

He swallowed hard, and continued nodding.

“I told you no one likes a know it all. Back over the desk.”

He sank down, slowly, trying to decide if he needed to stop.

The dull thud of pain continued, the color of bruised flesh deepened and got darker. The pain was more intense, pushing him further and deeper, his body twitching and breathing like a puppet with half its strings broken.

She beat him again, and he tried to force his breathing to be stable, to focus on the pleasure and not the pain, to smell her near him, to hear the sound of her breath and match his own breathing to hers. To ignore the cumulative effect of the pain, to imagine the pleasure in watching the bruised flesh heal.

His body was still twitching, trying to roll with the force of the blows as she hauled him back up by his hair. “Have you learned your lesson?” He stared dully as she snapped her fingers in front of him, and asked again. “Have you learned your lesson.”

The thoughts sifted through his brain, and his words were slow, confused. “Don’t know.” He shook his head, the hair twisting and pulling in her grip. “I don’t know, please tell me.”

She felt hot pangs of pleasure through her body, and nodded, her breath quickening again. “Good answer. Get down on your hands and knees.”

He let himself fall to the floor, letting gravity take him where she had ordered. His pants bunched around his knees as she stepped around him, and the air felt impossibly cool against his burning skin. The familiar sensation of her grabbing his balls and jerking them back, wood surrounding them, the whirl of metal threads spinning against each other, and some part of his brain sighed as she locked him into the humbler.

She pushed him forward, putting tension on the curved pieces of wood, pulling it taught against his legs as he felt his brain getting fuzzy again. A legal pad and pencil slapped into the floor in front of him, and he heard her voice behind him.

“100 times. Write I have learned my lesson when my ma’am says I have learned my lesson 100 times.”

He sank down to his elbows, shoving the pad in front of him and picking up the pencil. Warm and bruised and restrained and free.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

She let herself take in the sight, felt the cold hungry sensation taking over. Let herself see him as something less than human, a thing to give her pleasure.

Her tongue slipped over her lips, and she moved around beside him. Her fingers wrapped around his bouncing balls, feeling the tension of his skin as he moved his hips. Her other hand slipped down her pants, found her clit, and started to rub slowly.

Her fist clenched around his balls, his body jerked, her cunt twitched against her fingers, and he screamed.

“I’d try harder if you want me to stay entertained.”

The animal sounds pouring out of his throat got louder, more frantic, and his hips gyrated harder. She let his balls pull her hand along, rubbing her fingers in time to his grunts.

She felt her fingers slowing down, heard him pause long enough to swallow and draw in a deep breath before she clamped down again.

He could hear the lust in her voice. “You shouldn’t stop. I get bored when you stop.”

Spit ran down his chin and beads of sweat formed on his skin as he grunted and twisted. She waited patiently, enjoying the feelings traveling from her fingers wrapped around his balls, through her body, and down her other hand into her cunt. Inevitably, he tired, or slowed, or choked on the drool pooling in his mouth that he was too afraid to stop and swallow. Inevitably, she crushed flesh between her fingers, tearing pain and pleasure out of meat.

The sounds of his oinking filled the room as she came, her hand clamped around his balls, both their hips twisting. She sat back, pushed him over on his side, and offered him her fingers as he twitched and curled up into a ball.

He sucked on them greedily, and she enjoyed the warm glow while they rested, waiting to start again.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.