We’ll See

“I was thinking…”

“Oh boy.” They put down their phone and looked up, half smiling, but with a slight narrowing of their eyes as well.

“Hurtful.” He smiled and mock frowned back. “But I think this a good idea: What if I ran the errands while you got a massage? Ninety minutes, my treat. The errands should take me about that long, and I can pick you up after.”

They considered carefully. He was, reliable. He was, dependable. He would certainly do his best. He also sometimes lived in a world a few degrees off from most people, and didn’t always do things in quite the way they expected. It was often charming, generally amusing, and almost always interesting but could still lead to unintended consequences. But a massage instead of fighting for parking and weaving through the crowds was very tempting, and he seemed invested in the idea. “That’s really sweet of you. Are you sure you’ll be okay in the, as you call it, ‘fancy pants’ grocery store?”

He smiled and handed her his phone. Their shopping list was entered into a virtual cart and ready to be picked up curbside. They scrolled through it and adjusted a quantity here, made a last minute substitution there, and handed it back. “Very well, I consent to getting a massage while you toil in the parking lots and stores, but only because I care about you so much.”

[[]]

Strong hands kneaded tight muscles and the sound of slow, deep breaths filled the room. Their mind drifted, floating lazily through scenarios. Half formed thoughts and desires that had occurred to them while they were busy with other things and been filed away for later. Maybe later was now?

By the time their massage was over and he pulled up outside, they had a plan in mind. They opened the passenger door and hopped in, giving him a smile. “Everything go all right?”

He nodded and checked the mirror as he pulled into traffic. “The checkout people were chatty, and I am obliged to inform you that Neal the bagger’s daughter was a pumpkin for Halloween, and just so cute, but through the infinite suffering of small talk I have somehow survived.”

They nodded with mock sincerity. “Truly, you have suffered as none have before. They shall name you the Martyr of Saturday Errands and your name shall ring through the ages.”

He started to reply but they cut him off. “Speaking of suffering, you should stop by the sex toy store on the way home.”

He licked his lips, whatever he was going to say gone from his mind. “What-“

“Nope. You’ll wait in the car. If you’re a good boy you’ll find out when we get home.”

[[]]

“I could carry this stuff up, if you like. Even put it away if you want.”

“Are you trying to stay on my good side for some reason?” They smiled and waved the bag he was by far the most interested in in front of him, keeping it carefully closed. “That’s sweet of you, but I’m going up anyway and I’ll take an armload. Then I’m going to hop in the shower, and you can meet me in the bedroom when you’ve carried up the rest.”

They heard him come in to the bedroom and close the door while they were still in the shower. They were done but stood under the water a few more minutes. The bag from the sex toy store was right in the middle of the bed, and he would definitely see it there. He could peek and satisfy his curiosity, but they knew he wouldn’t. He liked the anticipation, the not knowing. They waited just a bit longer, turned off the water, dried off, put on their robe, and walked into the bedroom.

He was waiting for them, standing awkwardly in the doorway, not sure what to do with his body. They gestured at him with one hand. “Your clothes are not necessary. Be a dear and remove them, please.”

He stood up from the bed and quickly took his clothes off, folding them and putting them on the chair by the door. They smiled and looked at the muscles moving under his back, his ass, his cock and balls dangling there. Flesh they had hurt, mangled, and tantalized. Flesh that he wanted them to hurt, mangle, deny, and frustrate.

They went to the closet and took out a blindfold, then sat down on the edge of the bed, and motioned him over. “You would look so much prettier on your knees.”

He walked over and dropped to his knees in front of them.

They breathed in, put on a blank expression, and slapped him hard across the face on the exhale. “That is for trying to peek down my robe at my charms.”

He blinked and nodded. “Thank you.”

They smiled and slapped him three more times, hard. “And that is for not trying harder to peek down my robe at my charms.”

“Thank you.” He nodded again, his breathing a little harder, a little faster.

“Oh don’t thank me yet.” They slipped the blindfold over his head, adjusting it carefully. “Can you see anything?”

He shook his head. “I can see a little light under the very bottom but not really.”

“Hrm.” It wouldn’t matter, but they wanted things to be right. This was important, and that detail would bother them, distract them. They pulled the blindfold down slightly and adjusted the loops around his head. “Now?”

“Nothing. I can’t see anything.” His voice was softer than usual, his breath still quick, a sign he was sinking.

“Good.” They ran one foot along his balls, dragging it up his cock. He flinched at the touch, expecting pain, but then moaned and spread his knees further, giving them better access. They took their foot away, letting him wonder if they were going to kick him or not, then chuckled and scooted back on the bed. They took the time to quickly set up their cell phone on the bedstand so it would record the end of the bed.

“You were so generous, treating me to that massage, that I let you buy me a new toy as well. It’s… highly recommended.” They ripped open the packaging, inserted the batteries, and turned it over in their hands. “It looks just, well, you know, though.” They let him wonder as they shrugged out of their robe, scooted to the edge of the bed, and slid a pillow under their shoulders.

“Let’s try it out, shall we?” They flicked it on, licked their lips, frowned, and took a deep breath. He flinched again as they propped one foot on his shoulder. They laughed, pulled their foot back, and kicked him on his upper arm. He rocked back and yelped, more surprised than hurt, but found his balance and straightened up. So they kicked him again, in the same spot.

He rocked back, but moved forward again. They paused, then kicked him again. He rocked back, and straightened up again. They settled into a rhythm, the coordinated giving and accepting of pain and the connection it built that was so similar but so different from fucking.

When his breath was ragged and his shoulders tense, waiting for the next kick, they dropped their leg on his shoulder and positioned the toy at their cunt. They turned it on the lowest setting and slowly slid it inside. The buzz filled the room, and they watched him as the vibrations moved through their body. “Oh, damn, that’s nice.”

He whimpered and they slid the hard plastic in a little further. It felt delicious, but he deserved some fun too. “It’s absolutely obscene the way its stretching my pussy open though. I was going to get the small, but the bitch at the store upsold me on the medium.”

He shifted on his knees, his cock hard and straining in front of him. They rocked their leg back and forth on his shoulder, moving his body as the vibrations filled them. They looked at the toy and cocked their head. “I wonder what…” They used their thumb to push the button on the side and part of the toy began gyrating as it jerked violently in their hand and they yanked it out of their body. “Ope, nope, nope, we don’t push that button!” They quickly pushed the button again to turn it off and used their other arm to hold onto the bed as it returned to the low setting.

They laughed at his smile in spite of themselves, and re-positioned themselves. “You think that was funny?”

“Not at all, just got a joke I heard earlier. Fifty bucks, same as in town.”

They put their foot on his shoulder again, but instead of kicking this time they pushed until he fell over, landing on his ass with an unceremonious “Oomph.”

They both resumed their places, and the sound of slow steady hum filled the air again. Their breathing got faster, harder, as the vibrations filled them again. “Uhmm… that’s nice… it’s really stretching me though, filling me up… oh fuck it hurts but I don’t want it to stop, the head is almost too big, uhhhhh…”

They rocked back and forth, letting him hear them, smell them, almost taste them, everything but actually see the carnal act occurring a foot in front of his face. They told him what he couldn’t see until they couldn’t think of the words anymore, until the sensations in their cunt were all they could think about. Eventually, finally, they bit their lip and groaned as they came.

Some time passed, until they could think again and felt soft and fuzzy. They stood up, dropped the toy on the floor, and stretched. He was still kneeling, naked, his cock throbbing in front of him.

They picked up their phone and stopped recording, then sat back down on the bed in front of him, and carefully removed the blindfold. He blinked, and instantly his gaze went down to the floor.

“Uh uh, look at me.” They raised his head back up with a finger under his chin. “Do you wish you could have seen that?”

“Yesssss…” He could inflect such desperation in such a short word.

“Then you have a choice to make.” They turned their hand to grab his chin, hold it in place, force him to look into their eyes. “I recorded myself using that toy. If, if you really want to see it, I’ll give you a copy. But you’ll only get to edge to it, not come. And I mean hard edges. Jerking, twitching, desperate to come a slight breeze will push you over, edges. And I’m not going to tell you how many edges you’ll owe me. Might be one, might be one hundred. But you won’t come until I get those edges, and every one to that video. Or…”

He croaked, “Or?”

“Or I’ll get you off right now. No tricks, a nice, full orgasm. But when you come, I’ll delete that video forever, and put that toy away for who knows how long, but you will never see me use it. So which one will it be, pet?”

–Jerry Jones

The Ways Things Go

“Good book?”

He didn’t look up. A furrow appeared on his forehead. “Not really, no. But I seem to be able to get through it, and reading has been rough since the world caught on fire. Er, caught on fire again. Moreso. It’s bad but I’m hoping it will help me get back in the habit.” He turned a page.

They gave a small, unseen smile. A lot of things had been more difficult lately, but he seemed like he was in a good space. They felt like they were in a good space. Old, familiar urges that had been hard to find with everything else going on were coming back. They took a deep breath.

The first step was always the most difficult. The moment of vulnerability in telling him they wanted to hurt him and the risk that he would smile and say “I’m not feeling it tonight, is that okay?” but really mean, “You fucked up and I don’t want to do that with you anymore.” But if they didn’t take the step there was also the fear that it would slowly get pushed back again and again by both of them until it just fell behind other things and was gradually forgotten. Just as lost, for different reasons. They let the thoughts torment them until they lost their edge, then took a breath, bit their lower lip, reached over, and carefully slid his glasses off his face.

He sighed theatrically, but smiled and set his book down on the floor. “Yes, ma’am?”

They had started. The first moment of inertia was behind them and they had started. “I have something I need you to do for me.”

He laughed, and stood up. “Yes, ma’am, I know.” He walked out of the room.

They frowned and watched his back. Had they been wrong? They picked his book up off the floor, slipped a bookmark in it, and put it on the coffee table. They debated going after him as the exhaust fan from the bathroom began to drone, and then there was the sound of running water. Was he taking a shower? He did that first sometimes, but he usually asked if he could.

Their eyebrow raised as the smell of bleach and sound of cupboard doors opening and closing reached them. They shook their head, but sat back down and picked up the game controller, unwilling to interrupt what he obviously thought he should be doing.

A while later he came back out and flopped down. “I plead guilty to criminal putting off of my turn to clean the bathroom in the first degree, but it’s done now. I think. Let’s just say it looked clean to me.” He held up one hand before they could reply. “In determining my sentence for any errors I would also like the magistrate to note that there is a tub of hot water ready, bath bombs arrayed for selection and deployment, and the smelly candles ready if you’d like a relaxing bath. If not, no big.”

They were glad the look on their face was a blur to him. It hadn’t gone the way they’d planned, but it had gone anyway. Things weren’t lost, just waiting to be picked up again when they were needed. Maybe looking a little different or changed, but still there, like the two of them. “Thank you. I suppose…” they let the pause linger. “You could watch if you liked.”

“Oh, well, that sounds very nice.” He got up and stuck out his hand. They let him pull them to her feet. “Could I please have my glasses back to watch better?”

They stepped close enough to him that their smile wasn’t a blur anymore and held onto his hand, stepping backwards, pulling him along. “Get some clothespins and meet me there. We’ll see what happens.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

The Trunk Part 1

The green trunk had followed them through three moves, and each time they had debated throwing it out. It held heavy blankets in the summer, and summer clothes in the winter. The rest of the year it sat in the back of the closet, forgotten, buried under plastic totes and clean sheets. The sides were scuffed and dented, the broken leather handles reinforced with duct tape that was frayed around the edges, the bottom perpetually on the edge of splitting in half.

It had been old and smelled of mothballs when they found it in their first apartment, emptied and left behind. Since then it had followed them around, a dog they reluctantly fed out of a fondness for broken things no one else wanted. Now it sat in the middle of the bedroom floor, empty as an open grave.

He frowned, and looked from the trunk over to where she was taking out her earrings by the dresser. “Fall cleaning already?” He had hoped to put if off another week.

She tilted her head and her hair fell away as she threaded the metal through the hole in her cartilage. “Nope. It’s for you.” She put the back on the earring and set it on the dresser. “Well, it’s for you to be in, because I think it will help me get into a headspace.”

“How so?” He nudged the trunk with a foot, trying to imagine how cramped it would be, and wondering if he could accidentally knock the ends out if he pushed against them with his legs.

She turned around to face him. “You’ll find out.” She pointed at the trunk, her face a stony mask. “Get in.”

“Okay.” He drew out the word, then licked his lips. He stepped into the trunk carefully, then lowered himself to his knees, then twisted his body so he was on his side, curled up in the trunk with his knees pulled up towards his chest. “Like this?”

The lid thudding closed was his answer. Darkness filled the trunk.

She walked around the trunk, and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at it. “Can you hear me?” The muffled response from the trunk sounded like an affirmative. She stared at the dull green trunk for a few minutes, then shrugged. “So sometimes I have a hard time with doing things to you that I like to do. You can put on masks or be an animal, but I’m still me.”

“So I’m going to sell you, like some cheesy internet story dominatrix, and when the trunk opens, someone else will be there. Cool?”

Another muffled grunt from the trunk that sounded like consent.

She shifted her hips and bit her lip, trying to put together the person she wanted to be. Her leg kicked back and forth in the air with short jerks. Finally, she stood up, walked over, and stood over the trunk. Her chest rose and fell as she took three deep breaths, and flipped open the lid.

He twisted his neck to look up at her, squinting at the light. Her silhouette loomed over him, staring down. “Ugh, they shipped you with your clothes on. Disgusting. Get out of that crate.”

He stood up, looking down at her with his mouth slightly open. She slapped him and he rocked back on his heels, gasping. She smirked, and let her eyes wander up and down his body. “Don’t fucking dare look me in the eye. And get those clothes off, I want to see what I bought. You can drop them in the trunk, and burn them in the morning.”

He kept his eyes down and nodded, pulling his shirt off over his head. Her eyes were half closed as she watched the shirt fall in the trunk, and his pants slide down his hips. He stepped out of them awkwardly, and his underwear followed. Already barefoot, he kept his eyes down, and stood naked in front of her.

He gasped again and flinched as her open hand collided with the side of his face. “That one was just for fun. Now, let’s see what I’ve bought.”

Her hands pried his mouth open, checking his teeth, jerking his head around to look at his ears. She pushed his arms out and up from his sides, running her hands down the length of one then the other, squeezing his biceps. He shivered as her hands slid down his torso, feeling his stomach.

There was a sharp inhalation as her hand found his cock, jerking it out from his body and flicking the head. She fondled his balls impersonally, clinically examining the sensitive flesh. She knelt down, and ran her hands down his thighs and legs, squeezing and testing the flesh, then stood up.

“Turn around.” He shuffled in a circle, and stopped when he was facing away from her. She poked his shoulder blades, traced a finger down his spine, then grabbed his ass with both hands. She squeezed, released, then squeezed again. He rose up on his toes as her finger slid into his ass, and she laughed.

“A nice tight little asshole. We’ll have to work on that.” She slid her finger back and forth, casually violating him. “It’ll be punishment for you at first, taking my biggest toys. Nice fat dildos and butt plugs. But eventually I think you’ll begin to like it, and we’ll have to find other punishments.”

She slid her finger out his body, and stepped in close, rubbing her body against his. “Do you know you came with a thirty day warranty? I can return you for thirty days, for any or no reason. So if you safeword, or I break you, you can just go back in the trunk with a return label.” Her voice rose in a mocking tone. “I don’t even have to pay shipping.”

“I don’t think your previous owner would be happy to have you returned, but there is always a market for refurbished slaves. Did you know that if you break their ankles and let them heal improperly, you don’t even have to use the humbler on them anymore? They just crawl along like animals forever and ever. Some people like that.”

His shoulders jerked but he kept silent.

“So is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

His mind turned, trying to figure out what to say. “Please don’t break my ankles ma’am.”

She laughed in his ear, and stepped back. “We’ll see. For now, get to the shower. I want to you clean.”

Preview: “Write me a list.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

A Serious Discussion About Safewords

Many people introduce safewords into their kinky activities. A safeword is, essentially, a prearranged signal to end or slow down an activity. Think of it as a code word that differentiates fun (or at least consensual) pain or discomfort from un-fun (or non-consensual) pain or discomfort. The use of safe words allows the partner doing the hitting to know that the other party is enjoying things without asking them if their screams of “OWWWWWWWWWW FUCK!” are a compliment on technique or an expression of a heartfelt need to stop the current activity.

The most common safewords are based on traffic signals, typically “Red” (stop immediately), “Yellow” (don’t stop but slow down and proceed with caution), and “Green” (go ahead). This may cause awkward arousal during a driver’s license exam, but is generally still common practice. There are variations, such as giving someone a rubber ball when they are gagged. If the person needs to use a safeword in such a situation, they let go of the ball.

However, such safeword variations are often assigned only out of necessity, and only for a single scenario or circumstance. It is the thesis of the current post that the BDSM community could benefit from a wider variety of safewords to indicate more unusual, but still critical, indications of circumstances which might occur during a scene but not be readily obvious to one’s partner.

Therefore, the following safewords are suggested as additions to the traditional Red/Yellow/Green safewords. For simplicity’s sake, the traditional scheme of using colors has been retained. Individuals prone to screaming out the names of crayons during scenes may wish to use the names of fish instead to avoid confusion. Individuals aroused by Haddock are advised to stick to the traditional color scheme words, unless their partner has been forewarned. Remember, consent is a two way street people. Nobody likes having their ears non-consensually filled with fish words.

With these caveats in mind, we hereby present the…

EXPANDED LIST OF BDSM SAFEWORDS

Red: Stop.
Yellow: Slow down.
Green: Go.
Blue: Shit, I forget to set the DVR for Game of Thrones! Get this blindfold off and give me the remote right now!
Lime: I just saw your DVD collection and we need to end this right now and never see each other again. I try to be open minded, but owning the remake of “The Wicker Man” is where I draw the line.
Black: Wow, black boots, oh my god that’s so original, you’re totally turning me on with your banality and lack of imagination regarding footwear. You must have put entire seconds of thought into that. No, really, my underwear just exploded into flames.
Aquamarine: Your BDSM playlist sucks and if I have to listen to one more god-damn asshole who thinks they’re being original by playing the theme to True Blood I’m going to non-consensually choke a fucker.
Brown: Are you sure you want to do anal? Because I ate a hell of a lot of bran fiber this morning.
Teal: We can do that, but if I have to steam clean this carpet to get my deposit back you’re paying for it.
Brushed Silver: I’ve been bad, take me to Target and make me buy picture frames!
Avocado: Avocado would be really good on tacos. We should go get some tacos when we’re done. And put avocado on them. Can we call the scene and just get some tacos? I’ve got an avocado and I know a place.
Mauve: How about you dial the pretentious monologue back a little bit there, super-domme.
Brick: This is great and all, but I need to get some shit done in Skyrim. Could you hand me the Xbox Controller? Don’t worry, I can do both at once.
Khaki: Giggle break. May also be used for “Fifty bucks, same as in town! Hah, I just got that.”
Coral: Ow ow ow! Toe cramp, toe cramp, toe cramp!
Cyan: And I just remembered I told the realtor they could come by and show the house today. How quick can you untie these knots?

In addition, sometimes when using safewords it can be beneficial to have a series of signals that can note when a situation is fine at first, but may change if the activity continues or escalates. As in the following examples:

Lavender: Are you sure the door is latched?
Plum: Because the cat just entered the room.
Purple: And the cat looks interested.
Violet: And the cat has now entered the scene. This feels weird. Mr. Mittens cannot provide informed consent, give me a minute to put him in the bathroom with some fuzzy toys and a treat.

Pink: Counting the hits is giving me weird Sesame Street flashbacks.
Chiffon: And I think I kind of like it.
Crimson: TELL ME WHY SHARING IS GOOD AND BEAT ME LIKE A RENTED SNUFFLEUPAGUS!

Of course there are countless more. Feel free to leave some of your own suggestions in the comments, and remember to always play safe.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Mrs. Sweet and Headmistress Strict

“Hello class, my name is Mrs. Sweet, and I will be your substitute math teacher today. I know everyone will try really hard, and we’ll all learn a lot, and have a lot of fun.”

She beamed a bright, fake smile down at him. “Does everyone understand?”

He grinned back at her smile, scrunched awkwardly into the student desk, and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes ma’am.”

Her eyebrow arched. “I certainly hope so, because as much as I would hate to do it, if you are disobedient I will send you to the next room to see the headmistress. I’m afraid she deals very harshly with such transgressions. Now, we shall proceed.”

He nodded, thinking he was starting to understand the rules of the game. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then he nodded again.

“Thank you. Now, we’ll start with something simple. What is the sum of 2 and 2?”

“4.”

“Good. 5 and 3?”

“8.”

“Excellent. 1 and 3?”

“4.”

“Oh come now young man, no one likes a know-it-all. I am very sorry, but you must report to the headmistress, Mrs. Strict, and tell her you have been a show-off and a know-it-all. You will find her in the next room.”

He frowned, then nodded and then stood up from the chair. He started to walk from the kitchen to their home office, then jumped and hissed. She had caught up with him at the doorway and grabbed his ear, jerking his head down. He arched his neck, and could see that her eyes had gone flat. Her voice was colder and she pronounced every word carefully, all traces of the bubbly schoolteacher gone. “My, it’s very early in the day, and here you are already. What have you been doing to give your substitute teacher trouble?”

He gasped again as she twisted her hand and walked, dragging him along by his ear towards the office desk. “Ah, Headmistress Strict, I was a show-off and a know-it-all.”

She pushed his head down to the smooth, cool wood of the desk, and pulled his arm up behind his back. “Well, it sounds like you need some humility beaten into you. Trousers down, filthy boy.”

He fumbled awkwardly, unzipping, unbuttoning, and pushing his pants down, wiggling his hips until they dropped to his knees.

“Underwear down as well dullard, a proper spanking is always done on the bare skin.”
He groaned, but looped a finger into the elastic, pulling down one side and then the other until they fell and bunched around his knees.

She rubbed the paddle across his ass, savoring the way it pulled and distorted his flesh, enjoying the anticipation. The first swat splatted against his skin, and his body jerked. He braced his legs for the second, and she hit the other cheek, switching back and forth rapidly with hard, quick swats until his knees started to buckle.

Then she stopped, and tossed the paddle beside him on the desk. “Pull your pants up and return to your class.”

She walked out while he was fiddling with his pants, and smiled at him as he came into the other room and eased himself into the chair. His too large adult frame was forced to squeeze into the desk, and he felt a harsh exhalation force its way out of his lungs as the chair pressed against his ass.

She beamed at him, the rictus smile on her lips again. “I am sure Mrs. Strict is so very sorry to have to have done that, and hope we may continue the lesson without further interruption.” She continued without waiting for acknowledgement. “Now, please remind the class why you were sent to the headmistress?”

He winced and shimmied in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. His voice was a little lower, more passive. “For being a showoff and a know-it-all ma’am.”
She sighed and shook her head. “A perfectly correct answer, and one that shows you learned nothing. I’m afraid you’ve earned another trip to the headmistress.”
He closed his eyes and slowly slid out of his seat, shuffled back into the other room, automatically heading for the desk.

She stalked along beside him, enjoying the feeling of shifting from the tender caretaker to the cruel bitch. She smiled silently as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them back to his ankles, then followed suit with his underwear. So exposed, so vulnerable, and the skin already turning pink. She shivered, and let the anticipation build a little more. “Back again so soon? What was it this time?”

His voice was hollow. “The same ma’am, being a show off and a know-it-all.”

“Well, we’ll just have to correct that again, won’t we?” Without waiting for a response the paddle thudded into his ass again. And again, and again. Until his breath was coming in huge gasps and his knees buckled with each swat, straightened, then buckled again. Until she could feel the heat radiating off his ass. Until he was almost about to break, and she couldn’t stand it any longer and stopped herself.

“Now go back to your class, and I hope you’ve learned your lesson. You needn’t bother pulling your pants back up, you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

He shuffled out, his mind spacy and peacefully empty, the endorphins telling him the pain in his ass wasn’t all that bad. She followed him into the next room, and spun him around before he could get to the desk, planting his face in her chest. She patted his head with exaggerated care, and rocked him back and forth. “Oh you poor thing! Look what that horrible woman did to you. Are you okay?”

He sighed at the warmth from her breasts, and wrapped his arms around her hips. “Yes ma’am, it hurt quite a bit, but I’m okay.”

She smiled as he held his face against her, enjoying the emotional roller coaster between her nurturing side and her sadistic side. She loved both of those feelings, being both of those completely different women. Sometimes they were at war, shouting to be heard over one another, but sometimes they worked together beautifully. She savored those moments when they worked hand in hand.

She pet his hair for a few more seconds, enjoying the closeness, and then whispered into his ear. “And can you tell me why you had to go to the headmistress’s office?”

He shook his head against her body, and offered a whisper. “No ma’am, I don’t know.”
He felt her back stiffen, and then her hand was on his cock, dragging him back to the other room. “So you still didn’t learn anything? I will beat some sense into you before this day is done.”

She threw him across the desk, his breath whooshing out as his stomach hit the edge. “Stay right there or I swear to God I will beat your brainless ass raw!” Her voice thundered in the small room and he nearly twitched out of reflex.

He pushed his body firmly against the wooden desk, bracing himself for whatever was going to come. His hips jerked forward when he felt the plug against his ass, and he groaned half in dread and half in lust-filled anticipation. He felt it pushing, forcing its way inside of his body, stretching and distorting his flesh. This wasn’t a teasing or even a fucking, this was a contest of wills that felt like it would split his body in half. He slapped his hand against the hard surface of the desk and moaned.

She planted the palm of her hand flat against the base and shoved, feeling her cunt twitch at the sensation of it breaking into his body and filling his ass. He groaned and tried to hold still, and she smirked a little as it sank into his body and pulled up tight against his skin. She leered down at his violated body and picked back up the paddle.

“Maybe that will help focus your attention.” She started to slap his ass again, the already worn flesh quickly pushing pain through his body. His hips jerked with each blow, and she could see tears streaming down the side of his face. She waited until he was clinging to the desk, using it to hold himself up, then stopped and dragged an arm across her sweaty brow. “Go back to your fucking class, and pray you don’t get sent back here.”

She let him have a second, and he took deep breaths before he swallowed hard and stood upright. He dragged his arm across his nose, then took small, mincing steps into the other room.

She walked around him, admiring him from all angles. “Oh dear. Look at you.”

She let him stand by his desk, and then walked over to lean against the wall. “Can you tell me why you were sent to the headmistress’s office?”

He nodded. “I think so ma’am. I was sent to the headmistress’s office because I didn’t say what you wanted me to say.”

She smiled, for real this time, and nodded. “Very good. When you’re here it’s not to tell me what you know, it’s to tell me what I want to hear. You don’t need original thoughts in your head. You don’t control that anymore, not when we’re in this room. Because if you don’t please Mrs. Sweet, then you have to go see Mrs. Strict. Do you understand?”

He licked his lips, thinking carefully. “Do you want me to understand ma’am?”

Her laughter burbled out of her mouth. “Good answer, but I’m going to get tired of having my questions answered with questions. So whenever I ask a question and you don’t know what I want you to say, I want you to degrade yourself for me. I want you to tell me what a filthy cock you have, or what a complete and utter idiot you are, or how you’re nothing but a disgusting piece of flesh fit only to clean my boots with your tongue. I want to know that I control every single utterance of every single thought that goes through your pretty head. Understand?”

“It’s tongue is only useful for licking your boots clean ma’am, and it apologizes for using it to speak.”

Her eyes narrowed and she nodded, rubbing one hand across her cunt with each word he spoke. “Yes… you seem to understand that I own every inch of your body and your mind.” She pulled a white cone with “DUNCE” written on it in large black letters from behind a chair, and waved a hand at him. “Take your clothes off, and get your cock hard. You’re going to wear this and fuck me, but do not come.”

They were naked in seconds, and he was hard in a few more. The dunce cap fit on his head with an elastic strap, and he had to hold it on with one hand. They fucked on the floor, him on his knees pulling her in close, slamming into her cunt. She gasped in pleasure and slapped her legs against his bruised ass, trying to hit the plug, driving him deeper and deeper inside of her. One hand pulled at her tits while the other massaged her clit, and she snarled at him until finally she came and flopped back hard against the floor.

“Whew.” She pushed herself up and stood, then used one foot to roll on him on his stomach. He stayed on the floor, whimpering. Mrs. Sweet had been sated with her orgasm, of teaching him how firm her control over him was and giving him some pleasure, if not release. Now Mrs. Strict wanted to come out and play again.

“Now, dunce, you have a homework assignment.” She pressed against his back with her foot, pinning him to the floor. “You’re going to crawl in to the headmistress’s office…”
She smiled at his whimper.

“And tell her you’ve learned your lesson. She’s going to lock that filthy cock of yours up, and fuck you with her strapon until you’re nothing but a hole. And do you know why?”
He tried to push himself further down into the floor, and turned his head so his answer would be clearer. “My filthy cock deserves to be locked up, and my ass is just a hole for her pleasure ma’am.”

She nodded, and reveled in the moment, that brief second when the two halves of her were both happy, because she knew he craved this control. She would dominate him, and half of her hungered to take and consume and destroy. But the other half wanted to wrap him up and keep him safe, where only she could get to him and nothing else could hurt him or make him sad. That beautiful moment of utterly controlling something you loved so much.

Of being unconditionally sweet and impossibly strict.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

So this is the last complete story I have. There are a couple of more floating around that were beginnings of things I planned to serialize, but they’re not complete. I’ll take a look and see if they’re work posting, but for now… That’s all she wrote.

Her Two Husbands

My children are dead. My husband is long in his grave. My life and my loves are the stuff of legend now, and I wonder sometimes how much claim I have left over my memories. They are nearly all gone in any case, and even my beauty has faded though this does not concern me. It appears that at long last even my vanity has determined to pass on and leave me alone. No, you were right to laugh. That was a joke, for all that it’s true. If we can’t laugh at losing it all, what’s the point in having it?

No, wait. There is one thing left. You asked me many times to tell you what had happened, “the whole true story” as you phrased it, and I always demurred. So of course, you made up your own stories, you all did, all the bards and minstrels. And of course you got it all quite wrong. You always do it seems, whether in service to your craft, your patron, or your purse. But perhaps I’m being unkind, or at least unfair. I was certainly willing to let people believe your fictions when it suited my own purposes. And now I’ve nothing left to lose but this lingering silence. The truth of the matter, if you will. I think I will miss it when it’s gone, when it’s not a secret I can keep to myself, knowing it belongs me alone. So…

Oh, do pardon me, maudlin sentimentality has grown easy for me of late, and self-pity makes for a dull tale. Sit, pass me the pitcher of wine, and I’ll tell you the story you asked for so long ago and so many times since. Of my husbands, both of my husbands, one a dragon-slayer, and the other a dragon. I never was sure which one I loved best, so I will start at the beginning.

I was a princess, of course, and it was my duty to marry for the benefit of the kingdom. My parents had made it quite clear that was the case for as long as I could remember. I resisted, and out of some kindness to me they waited for far longer than was customary to make the arrangements. I think they hoped a male heir would appear, to tell the truth, and solve the problem. But then they could wait no longer, and when I was eighteen I was betrothed to a prince from Germania, a man I had never seen. I decided I hated him, for no other reason than my parents had decided that I would marry him, and did so with the fiery passion and single-mindedness that the young can muster.

For the next year I screamed at my parents, swore I would hate them forever, vowed to gouge the eyes of my betrothed out on our wedding night rather than submit to this unimaginable cruelty. As the date approached I grew desperate, and begged my parents to call off the wedding, pleaded with the priest to intervene, commanded knights sworn to my family to whisk me away to a high, lonely tower somewhere far away. My true love would find me there, be a much grander prince than my betrothed, and my parents would admit that I had been right all along. A childish fantasy, but it was what I had. They all refused, of course. And of course I prayed to God to stop the wedding.

When I was sure that even God had turned his back on me, I went to the lake. I think I had some half-hearted notion of drowning myself, an appropriately tragic death to punish my parents and everyone else who had so horribly wronged me. Instead I prayed for the death of my betrothed. For those who haven’t experienced it, death seems such a simple solution. God didn’t answer that prayer either, but the dragon did. Oh yes, there was no abduction. The kidnapping was one of your sillier notions, frankly. The mighty dragon stealing into the castle grounds at night and pulling the fair maiden from her tower window with all his strength and razor claws that would have shredded or disemboweled her in a moment anywhere but a bard’s song. Quite a ridiculous notion on your part, I must say.

The dragon didn’t answer my prayers right away. I knew he was there though, there was always a sort of sense of him in the air. A feeling of danger right behind your eyes, an urge to turn back and flee the way you came. A sort of pressure, a wrongness that made you aware of how small you really were in the world. Take a chicken bone, close your eyes, and start to bend it. Feel the tension in your fingers just before the bone snaps. That was the dragon. Animals fled from the lake when he arrived and even the fish crowded the shallows until they died. But I knew he was there, and that he could hear me.

I still remember it. My breath came a little faster, my heart beat quickened, my eyes widened and could see more than they usually did. It was very much like arousal, but with a sense of having survived some calamity, of being utterly and truly alive in the presence of grave danger. I had never experienced something like that before, the fear, the uncertainty, the danger. Yes, danger describes it well, I think. I slipped out of the castle for seven nights, and went to the lake and prayed each night. The entire time I trembled, scared out of my wits, kneeling there in the damp grass with the moon and stars looking down. Thrice I vomited, before I learned to eat very little and lightly. An extra cup of wine helped. Speaking of which, fill this again, would you my dear?
The dragon appeared on the seventh night. I eventually learned that above all, he respected bravery, and despised cowardice. Not weakness necessarily, for even the weak could be brave. But cowardice, surrender… that he simply could not abide. Truth be told he was quite mad, but beautiful and charming as well. He was everything you described in your stories, and so much worse. A creature of emotion, a thing which had never had to consider the well reasoned argument of a peer simply because he could not imagine anyone being his peer.

He seemed quite affronted that a man would take a bride by political treaty. Disdained it as a sign of weakness, and answered my prayers from anger as much from any regard for me. The royal procession was devoured as it moved through the woods, and he brought back the sword of my betrothed. When he gave it to me I just held it in my hand, dripping warm blood in lazy patterns on the ground. I could smell the carnage on his breath, the death, and I knew what it meant. And mixed in with all my revulsion was the overwhelming happiness of not having to marry. Of having my desires fulfilled by a beast so powerful.
That’s about where your tales usually pick up, isn’t it? The evil dragon slays the noble prince, takes his betrothed to his lair, and then ravages the countryside while she cries helplessly. Utterly preposterous. I remained by the lake, of my own will, knowing all that awaited me at the castle was another groom of my parent’s choice. The dragon accepted my being there, and seemed to love me in his own way. I never wholly understood his motivations, to tell the truth. Perhaps he just loved being near me. We did manage to communicate, after a fashion. I was much more certain of things then, and I even told him that I loved him after the storm.

They still speak of that storm, the horrible rain and wind. I stood in the darkness, rain pounding down, thunder crashing all around. The dragon watched from the lake, only his eyes visible above the water. I think he expected me to leave, to go back to civilization and let others make my life easier, make my choices for me. I thought about it, but going back to all that, going through it again, was unbearable. And my pride simply would not allow it, to admit that I needed the life my parents had decided for me. It was nearly dawn when the storm finally broke. I had almost broke as well, but I was still standing. Only God knows how.

That was when the dragon took me. I felt that long, sinuous tail wrapping around my chest, dragging me into the lake. I think he nearly killed me, in his eagerness. Oh, stop! It wasn’t sex, our organs were not remotely compatible. I’m not even sure dragons have a gender, to tell the truth. But there was such power there, he dragged me under the water, until he could feel my lungs collapsing in my chest, then he would haul me out of the water into the air. It seared my lungs, the shock and cold. I screamed, but I never begged. Not once. Over and over, almost suffocating, nearly dying, forced down and raised up, jerking and writhing, and finally living. I’m quite sure the similarity to the carnal act is not lost on you.

I think that was when the dragon fell in love with me. Hm? Oh, of course knights came from the castle, and eventually the surrounding lands, even your damaged tales got that much correct. They were slaughtered. I started to enjoy it, to tell the truth. Can you imagine what it’s like, to have been powerless your entire life, your choices made for you by your station? And now here I was, watching men break and die for me. And the dragon, all that power, doing my bidding, my will. The dragon never killed them until they surrendered, you know? I remember it well, and after the first I watched every one.
He would hit them, crush their legs. Tear the blades from their hands. Scar their flesh horribly with his venom. Drag them into the lake, down to the bottom where there was no light or air, only the cold and heavy pressure. Make their bones pop and break and watch them bleed. The sweetest moment, for me, was right before they broke. I would watch them fight, and fail by inches. Their swords would shatter, their armor would melt in the heat of the dragons breath. Bones would break, and blood would pour down on the ground. And then, I got to where I could hear it, the sound of their will snapping. When they would sink to their knees, and the dragon would finish them because they stopped fighting.

It was cruel and horrible of me to enjoy such suffering. I admit it. All I can say is that to wield such power over men and to be so young was quite intoxicating. Like the proverbial cup of water to a man dying of thirst, I had gotten a taste of power, and I loved it. Even more I loved watching them suffer for me, watching them bleed, and watching them finally break. And the dragon, so willing to kill… I think it was almost eager. We were quite the pair, the killer and the cause. To inspire such savagery, despite the cost, was the most powerful thing I had ever felt.

Then he came along, and he wouldn’t break. That was the only reason he was able to slay the dragon, you know? They fought for days. The dragon kept beating him, breaking him. Kicking him down, driving him back to the treeline from the shore, and he kept coming back. I can still remember every little gasp of pain, every drop of blood that hit the ground. I can hear the wet, meaty smack of the impact on his flesh. It was quite beautiful, really, how much he was willing to suffer, and all for me.

You don’t understand at all, do you? Refill this, yes again, and I’ll try to explain. Would you rather have someone willing to kill for you, or someone willing to die for you? Someone who is willing to kill for you is quite useful, especially when you have a lot of people you would prefer were dead. Or people who try to control you, and make you do things you would rather not. And the dragon was quite, quite good at such wanton, cruel destruction of men. On the other hand, someone willing to die for you, suffer for you, can also be quite intoxicating. Watching someone suffer for you, pushing themselves beyond all rational limits. I suppose I fell in love with him, I think, somewhere around the time his leg broke, and he just kept dragging himself along the ground, teeth clenched, one eye swollen shut, and still pulling himself towards his enemy.

I think it was difficult for the dragon not to kill him. The dragon was eager at first, as always, then frustrated, just waiting for the moment he would break and he could tear out the jugular, or disembowel him. But he wouldn’t break, and the dragon wouldn’t forsake his own alien code of honor, wouldn’t kill him as long as he kept fighting. Then the dragon made a mistake. The dagger, yes, a lowly dagger you might use to cut your meat for dinner and not a mighty broadsword, slid under the joint beneath the wing. There were no scales there. You got that right, at least.

And the dragon died, and I sat there in shock, for awhile. His death was rather anticlimactic, to tell the truth. He fell, sighed a little, and twitched. That was all. Eventually, I realized that I would need to go home, and take up my old life again. I bandaged the wounds of the knight as best I could, and he became the hero. Funny, isn’t it, that he was the hero for killing the dragon, not for suffering for me? And oh, how he suffered, then and for the rest of his life.

We fucked, right away almost, while he was still bent and broken and the dragon’s corpse was still warm. While he was covered in blood and bruises. His face was horribly distorted, he was almost dead, and he had nothing left. And I wanted him, so I took him. I don’t think he could have stopped me, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he wanted to. It was lust and violence, quite a beautiful thing. Every time I drove down onto his cock, I could feel his cracked ribs shift and he screamed, which hurt him all the more until he learned not to scream. Every time I caressed his face, the muscles twitched and his jaw clenched. Every time I ran a finger across a burn, the flesh was so rough, he would thrash and roll about. And then he came, and oh the delicious screams! How could I not love him after that?

I, with only my body and lust, had done what the dragon with all its might could not. I broke him, and yet he kept coming back for more. Oh yes, the rumors were quite true. We were both addicted to the pain after that, I suppose you might even call it cruelty. Mostly the pain though, I think. Horse whips and cold chains built our love and our marriage, not finery and vows in a church, or even the slaying of the dragon. At times I treated him worse than I would have ever treated an animal. I remember a truly miserable week one summer I left him chained in the stables, naked, sweating, wallowing in his own filth. I made him beg for water until his tongue cracked, and he pleaded to lick a single drop off my boots. Then I drank my fill in front of him, and beat him bloody and raw. Did you know if a man is thirsty enough he will drink his own sweat? He licked it from the back of his hands, then wrung his hair out and lick that up as well. Have you ever had anyone willing to lick their own sweat from a stable floor because it pleases you? Have any of your buxom farm girls you seduce with a song ever done something quite that depraved?

I thought not.

I loved him for what he was willing to do for me. For quiet groans and little snaps. For when he collapsed to the floor, his body unable to take any more, his spirit still willing, wanting me to hurt him one more time. Once he begged for the gag, so that he couldn’t ask me to stop. Although after seeing the lengths I would go to, he never did that again. The memory of it still makes me twitch with desire. And yet none of your stories ever mention his suffering, just the pain and death he dealt to the dragon, or his human foes. It seems logical that the dragon should have been the hero, if we measured worth in pain and death meted out. But you never talk about that. I do still miss him sometimes, the dragon. That brutal, lethal majesty. But that was a young love, full of violence and savagery. When you get older, I think you’ll appreciate the other kind more. When you learn that you can cause your own pain, you don’t need someone else to do it for you, and there is a whole other kind of power based on what you can stand to use, and what people give you of themselves.

I think in the end, that’s why I was glad when he killed the dragon. Watching grows tedious, and eventually you want to get your hands dirty. Eventually you want a different kind of love, or a different kind of lover. The kind that suffers for you, no matter how much it hurts. Just because it’s you.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Not Stopped, Just Paused

His finger jabbed at the button on the radio, looking for anything that would take his mind off the sun’s glare and the long line of motionless cars stretched down the road. Finally he stabbed the power button and the display dimmed. Fuming in the silence, he flicked his index finger across the screen of his phone and called her.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, where are you?”

“Stuck in traffic. There was an accident on the exit. Might be here awhile.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to block out the blaring sound of a horn. “Shit.”

“And I had something in mind I wanted you here for.”

“What’s that?” He tried to sound casual.

She laughed back at him, a goonish chuckle that made her sound much younger and told him she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Oh you know. But since you’re stuck in traffic, I bet I could make the time go faster for you…”

His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. “That’s very thoughtful of you…” He paused, worked the words in his mouth carefully before he spoke. “But this is a very public place.”

Another chortle came over the phone. “Oh no, you don’t need to do a thing… it’s all me this time. See, I had these clothespins laid out for you, and I think I might just put them on myself. See if you can guess where they go by the sounds I make.”

He swallowed hard at the sound of rustling cloth and then her sharp hiss of breath, a sudden exhalation distorted by the phone and followed quickly by another hiss. “Two clothespins, that should be a hint. Now if you guess correctly, I’ll pleasure myself. If you guess incorrectly, I’ll add more clothespins. And you better believe that I’ll remember if you were right or wrong the next time we play.”

His mind flipped through possibilities, wondering where she would start, remembering how she played with his own body, and finally narrowing it down to two. Waiting was rarely rewarded, and he took a guess. “Your nipples, ma’am?”

His stomach lurched as she sighed. “Nope, those are actually on my labia. Hurts like a fucker, too.” Two more gasps, and then a whimper slipped into his ear. “Guess.”

He tried to think, but his mind was filled with a curious mixture of lust and longing. That should have been his pain, and his cock twitched at the thought of being restrained, having the clothespins clamped around his flesh. His jaw worked up and down as he tried to concentrate.

“I said guess.”

“Your nipples, ma’am.”

He could feel her wince over the phone. “Wrong again, that was two more on the labia. You are going to undergo some epic suffering for this shit.”

“Please… don’t.” He whimpered over the phone.

“Don’t what?”

“Put on more clothespins ma’am, just wait for me to get there.”

“Nope. That’s not the game. I’m going to put two more clothespins on, and you’re going to guess again.”

Two more whimpers, and he thought he heard a faint wooden clack over the phone. Could she have shifted her hips and made the clothespins on her labia hit one another? Would she have done it deliberately as a false clue? Would she actually have put six clothespins on her cunt? Was it a bluff, double bluff, or triple bluff? He switched the phone to his other ear and wiped the sweat off the palm of his hand, then leaned back and spoke, guessing rather than talking himself in circles. “Are they on your labia ma’am?”

“Oh, poor poor you. You watch all your crime movies, but you still guessed wrong. Those went on my nipples.”

“Sorry ma’am.” He imagined them bouncing on her chest as she breathed, shifting as she leaned back and forward. What they would feel like on his own nipples. His fingers twitched with the desire to pinch his own nipples and feel what she felt.

“Three wrong guesses, that’s a penalty butt plug. Lucky for me I got out two sizes, you can pretty much guess which one you’ll be wearing for putting me through this shit. Or maybe you can’t, you haven’t been getting many right so far.”

Her voice got fainter as she put the phone down, and he imagined her spreading lube along the plug. He’d be on all fours now, facing away from her, face down and ass up. Submissive and ready to have the cone of plastic shoved in, slowly, backed out then pushed in further until it sank inside of his body. The sickening sensation of something foreign inside of him, the slight flush of shame from having his ass violated, the twitching hardening of his cock as it pushed against his pants.

“Okay, that’s not coming out until you get one right, so for the love of fuck, get one right.”

“I’ll do my best ma’am.”

“Two more clothespins, that’s eight total.” Two more sharp gasps. “Where do you think they went?”

He thought through it. She had started with her labia, zigged, then zigged again, then zagged. He thought about the noir movies they watched, zig, zig, zag, she should zag again, but she would expect him to think that, so it was back to zig. “Your z-, I mean, your labia ma’am?”

“Good boy.” He sighed in relief. “You can figure things out. Now sit quietly while I give myself some pleasure.”

He heard a click followed by a low hum, and then her moans filled his ear. He sat very still, listening carefully to the sounds, imagining the vibrator pressing against her skin, sliding up and down, wincing at the whimpers as the vibrator bounced across one of the clothespins. He pulled together memories and imagined himself there, remembered the pain of wooden jaws clamping down on his flesh and savored the anticipation of her yanking them off as she came with the rush of blood bringing them both fresh pleasure and pain. Her moans got louder until he could hear her body rubbing against the sheets, then shuddering and jerking on the mattress, then finally lying still. The sound of her jagged breathing got louder as the humming sound clicked off. “Hm, nice.”

Movement caught his eye, and he cleared his throat hesitantly. “Traffic is starting, ma’am.”

“Okay, drive safe. I’m going to take these off and figure out what’s going to happen when you get here.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“You say that now…” Her chuckle came over the phone one last time before it disconnected, he flicked his phone off, and he started driving towards her again. His thoughts were warm, soft around the edges, fuzzy, and he wasn’t annoyed with the traffic anymore. How could he be when she was at the end, and with him the entire way?

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

The Collector

“You collect art then?”

“No, not at all. Art is rubbish. I collect artists.”

“I’m still very interested in the program, but I’m not sure I follow.” He smiled across the table at her, the gentle smile of someone trying to humor an elder who had something they wanted.

She stared back, the comfortable gaze of a predator confident her prey wouldn’t escape. “My program provides room, board, and supplies, as well as a modest but sufficient allowance for personal items, for one year. During that time I have full access to your studio, and may enter at any time by any means to watch you work. Whatever you produce is yours at the end of the year, along with a considerable cash bonus, to do with as you will. It’s all in the contract.”

He leaned back in the chair, and looked her over again. Her tailored business suit contrasted sharply with his thrift store sports jacket and khakis, and he took a swallow of diet soda while he thought it over. She looked over the top of her gin and tonic as she downed a large gulp, and then stared at him with a steady poker face.

“And I have total artistic freedom? I can make anything I want with no interference?”

She sighed and nodded. They were always so concerned about their precious art, it had become rather predictable. “I suppose, if we must be absolutely pedantic, I would prefer you not violate any laws in what you make as that could increase my liability. Fire hazards or toxic waste…” She waved her hand, dismissing the ridiculous notion. “But that would almost certainly be a matter for the police and not directly in violation of our contract. Further, let me be clear: I don’t care what you produce. I am interested in passion. If you are passionate about painting, I want to see that passion, and be in the same room when it pours out of you. If you love sculpture, I want to see you chiseling and sanding, I want to breathe in the dust you make and see your muscles tremble when you carve. It is the passion I am interested in purchasing, and the final product never lives up to the moment of creation.”

He licked his lips, and she knew she had him. He nodded slightly, and she stood up. He stood up as well, extending his hand to shake. She dropped a business card on the table instead and nodded. “My attorney’s office, make an appointment and they’ll make it official. Feel free to bring your own representation, just do it soon.” She dropped cash on the table beside the card, and looked him over again, tentatively pleased with her choice. “And take care of the bill, I have other meetings today.”

His jaw worked as she turned and walked towards the exit with long, confident steps filled with purpose and determination. His hand was still out, and he made a fist, trying to figure out what had just happened. “I paint, by the way,” he called out after her.

She didn’t turn around, just waved with the back of her hand. “That’s nice.”

He didn’t see her for a month. The lawyer had told him it was all perfectly above board, and offered him a list of previous artists who had gone through the program. He’d called a couple, emailed a couple more, and they had all said the same thing: She was an odd older woman who liked to watch artists work, but had no use for what they created. An executive for some financial conglomerate who had more money than she knew what to do with, and some small amount of time to indulge her idiosyncrasies. It had been a good deal, and no one had ended up in a horror movie or been forced to do anything uncomfortable or compromise themselves. At least one of them had sounded disappointed at that last.

A month after the contract had started she had shown up, knocking firmly on the door to his studio apartment. She had breezed past him when he opened the door, and he had pursed his lips then shrugged, shutting and locking the door behind them. She turned to face him, taking him in, reminding herself of what she was buying. “I apologize for interrupting, if you would prefer in the future I can simply let myself in. I would regret interrupting your artistic process, or whatever it is you call it.”

He shrugged, and motioned her towards his work area. “It’s no problem, I’m only doing prep work anyway, stretching canvas and making some rough sketches. Feel free to take a chair.”

The apartment had come furnished, and she sat down on a chair which he now noticed naturally faced his work area. He stood awkwardly until she arched an eyebrow, then he flushed and went back to his work. She watched silently without comment or questions, and every time he looked back there was the same steady gaze and blank stare. He worked for two hours, then shrugged the stiffness out of his shoulders. He saw her standing up out of the corner of his eye, and turned to face her.

She nodded once, and then let herself out.

He exhaled, made himself some dinner, and spent the rest of the night watching classic television and wondering what the hell had just happened.

The next time she came over she let herself in without knocking.

He was amazed that a suit could be so comfortable, and annoyed that he couldn’t tell anyone here because they obviously already knew. It was like it had been kept a secret by the entire world, that a well-made and tailored suit could actually be enjoyable to wear. He strolled around the gallery with her, sipping champagne from a glass and making polite conversation, feeling luxurious and fancy.

She had invited him after a long afternoon of watching him paint, making the question somehow sound like a blunt command. Her voice was flat, not particularly interested in his answer, and he wasn’t sure if it was because she genuinely wasn’t interested or she had already known what he would say. She had offered to get him a suit for the gallery show, and promised to introduce him to people who could help his own career, and had done exactly that so far this evening.

He had gone to the fitting nervous, well out of his usual world of ripped jeans and old heavy metal band t-shirts. It had been awkward, but the staff had been courteous and polite, and eventually he relaxed and started to enjoy the process. The suit had been delivered and after the internet had taught him how to tie his tie, the cab had picked him up and she had met him at the opening, leading him inside and walking around effortlessly. He had tried to talk to her about the art on display, and been met with her usual indifference.

He half-expected to be invited back to her place when they were done, but she merely led him outside and scanned the boulevard, eventually pointing to a yellow cab. “That one is yours, the fare has been paid for, including a standard tip. Thank you for the evening.”

And she walked away.

He carefully hung up the suit, and laid in bed that night, thinking.

The next morning, he started a new painting.

She arched an eyebrow when she saw it, then walked over and leaned closer.

He stepped back and smiled.

She went to her chair and sat down, looking at him with the usual poker face.
His head jerked, and he waved his hands from her to the painting. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you like it?”

She inclined her head, looking from the painting back to him. “It is, from my understanding, technically adequate. The likeness is accurate. I seem to recall I was wearing a necklace when we first met, but I may have had it on under the jacket. In any case it is only a slight discrepancy.”

“And?” His voice got higher.

“And it is hardly original. About one-in-three of my artists seem to think they’ll thaw the frigid cunt with a painting, or a sculpture, or a song about her. It never works, and do you know why?”

He flinched at the sudden profanity, and his face flushed red. He shook his head with violent, jerking motions. “Why?”

“Because I don’t give a shit about art.” She had stood up and walked towards him, not even acknowledging his flinch and backward step. He couldn’t even tell if she was angry or not, her voice had continued in the same monotone she always used, and her eyes had never wavered. He took another step backwards and cautiously asked, “What are you doing?”

She picked up a pair of shears from the kitchen, and held his gaze as she walked past him. “Attempting to convince you of something I have repeatedly told you, young man.”
He frowned, but she just walked over to the closet and opened it, taking out the suit and holding the hanger in one hand. “Hey…” He put a hand out, but she didn’t even look at him. The scissors made a metallic rasp as they opened, and he took a step forward. “Please… don’t.”

The scissors made the same sound as they closed, cutting a sleeve off the jacket. He stared in shock as she cut it into pieces, placed the hanger back in the closet, and glided past him to return the shears to the kitchen. She then walked out, firmly closing the door behind herself.

He stared at the closed door. She hadn’t destroyed the painting, she had destroyed the suit. He picked up the pieces, regretfully putting them in the garbage can, and then sat, thinking. It got inside his head, and he couldn’t live with it, couldn’t stop thinking about someone he couldn’t reach with his art no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t dismiss it as ignorance, or write it off as cultivated rudeness. She just hadn’t cared.

The next day, two men in blue shirts and tan slacks arrived to install the cameras.
They mounted on brackets right behind her chair, in the corner, pointing at his work area. They had pulled down a decorative wall sconce, quickly put up the two cameras, tested them, and handed him a work order. He had numbly signed, and then sat down in her chair and stared at the painting.

Across town, she clicked on a monitor, and watched him stare for awhile. Then she clicked the power button again, and started answering her email. She checked in on him from time to time, rarely watching for more than a few minutes. It had been another bad investment, but one which she could afford.

He was getting thinner, and painting more, all pictures of her over the same canvas, layer upon layer of her face and body. They had started out as portraits, conservative and accurate images of her in stern poses. As he painted more she watched less, becoming less interested as his strokes became more mechanical, plotted. They both knew she was watching, and his calculated pleas for her attention grew more and more boring. She would still check on him, usually first thing in the morning and last thing at night, seeing him painting her into increasingly bizarre and strange scenarios.

Here she was as a prison warden with dozens of images of his face behind bars, here Aphrodite on the half-shell in a blue pantsuit. In a Biblical painting of the apocalypse, God with her face raining down fire and damnation on a devil with her face. Her eyes staring out of a plain dress with a man next to her holding a pitchfork. She had noted them, shrugged, and dutifully skimmed the expense forms for paint and brushes before handing them off to her accountant to be paid in full.

It had been an intercontinental meeting, and she walked into her dark home at 3:00 A.M. The security pad blinked red as she pushed in the combination, then returned to green. She turned on lights as she moved through the house, not worried about waking anyone. For the sake of ritual she flipped on the monitor to his apartment. Expecting to see only darkness reflected back at her, she almost flipped it off again before she paused.

He was sitting on the floor in jeans, barefoot and shirtless. He had gotten even skinnier, and his body was all hard angles and pale skin. He was cleaning brushes automatically, his eyes never leaving the painting in front of him. She hesitated, then zoomed in on the painting.

It was of him, painting her. Angry reds swirled around him, distorting the apartment into a kaleidoscope hell. He was wearing the same jeans, and his body was dark lines and pale flesh stones. The canvas barely seemed to contain the energy in the painting, and she leaned in closer. It wasn’t the first painting he had done of her, she wasn’t even sure he had ever actually painted the image on the canvas. But it was certainly her, calmly at the center of all that energy, that passion falling into her at his direction.

She had stared at it for some time then pursed her lips, and made a decision. She went back out to her car. This time, she knocked, but impatiently.

He opened the door with the confused expression of someone who had just gotten to sleep when they were woken up. But he smiled when he saw her.

She pushed past him, walking closer to the painting, looking it over carefully. Studying it while he shut the door again. “I want this painting. How much?”

He blinked several times, then laughed. “You actually like it?”

Her head tilted ever so slightly to one side. “Do not mock me. Just name your price.”

Instead he sat down on the couch, a heavy thud of tired bones and muscles. His hands dangled between his knees, and he stared at the floor. “I wasn’t mocking you, I was just… fuck it, just take it, it’s yours.”

She had nodded, and looked at the painting again. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. I’ll have someone by in the morning with a deed and a van to move it in.” She was staring at the painting again, reluctant to leave it, afraid he would destroy it overnight in a fit of artistic pique. She bit her lip, and forced herself to turn away from it. She had apparently been wrong, and extending some trust would help to begin mending their relationship. “If you have a frame recommendation, please be so kind as to pass it along with the delivery people.” She nodded again and left.

They picked up the painting at 9:00 A.M., waking him up again. He watched as they carefully put it in an oversized carrier, and signed the form they presented. That day he cleaned the apartment, shaved and showered. Went out and bought groceries, and read the news. The next day she came over, letting herself in without knocking again, and wordlessly hanging two suits in the closet before sitting down to watch him paint. Things returned to normal between them, for certain values of normal.

It wasn’t a difficult piece, but it was giving him trouble. He sighed and sat back, staring at the canvas, and consulted an art book. Finally he shrugged, and acknowledged that sometimes the best thing you could do is take a break. He spoke without looking at her, so used to her presence that it was little different from her absence. “I think I’m done for the day, it’s just not coming together.”

He heard her footsteps, but didn’t realize she was walking towards him until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and turned to face her. Her eyes locked with his, the same expression as always on her face, and then her lips were on his and her tongue was forcing its way into his mouth. His breath came out in a surprised rush, and he pushed his body against hers. She stepped into him, pushing him back, walking him across the apartment towards the bed. His legs hit the edge and he fell back with her looming over him.

She unbuttoned her jacket and blouse, hanging them on a chair before she reached behind her to remove her bra. He sat up and kissed the soft skin under her breasts, sucking and then biting along the base as she moaned. She climbed on the bed, straddling him on either side and holding on to his head, running her hands through his hair, guiding his kisses and gentle nibbles.

Her shoes clattered to the floor, and she pushed him back down, laying on top of him to shimmy out of her slacks. She stood back up and looked at him with a gaze so intense that he blushed as she unzipped his pants and jerked them down. He pulled his shirt over his head as she dragged his underwear down and off, her nails scraping the skin on his legs. Her panties joined his underwear on the floor.

She climbed back on top of him, working her way up his body. She teased his cock, dragging her slit across it until she straddled his face. His tongue came out eagerly and she lowered her cunt onto it, holding his head with one hand and massaging her breasts with the other.

She hissed out a “Yesssss…” as his tongue found her clit, and she pinned his head between her thighs. He kissed her there, running his tongue across the short hair and judging where to suck and lick by her reactions, working his tongue in a circular pattern, pushing against the sensitive nerve endings.

She ground her teeth against each other and closed her eyes, imagining the painting while riding his face. She came hard, and ground down onto his face as the violent imagery filled her mind. Breathing hard she leaned down to kiss him, then slid her cunt over his cock, working it inside her body with her hand. He groaned and arched his back as she sighed and licked her lips. She slowly started to ride him, trying to draw out the pleasure as long as possible.

He could feel her body working his, taking control and using his cock for both of their pleasure. His eyelids twitched as she pushed herself up and down, controlling the tempo, slowing when she felt his hips start to twitch, speeding up, then slowing again, teasing him and keeping him on the edge as long as she could. She reveled in the feeling of ownership and control, knowing what she had inspired in him, trying to recapture that feeling of energy and life she sound when she looked at the painting.

Her back was arched, and when she felt her toes curl she finally had to let go, slamming her hips onto his body over and over as frantically as she could. She came, spasming and moaning, seconds before his orgasm exploded. He shrieked underneath her in white-hot pleasure, thrashing on the mattress with her above him until they both collapsed.

She stood up and went to the bathroom, and he sat up, still breathing hard. He was trying to think of what to say when she returned, but he could only watch, stunned, as she calmly dressed herself and walked to the door. She opened it, and not bothering to look back, calmly informed him, “Tomorrow is the last day of your contract. If you’d like to meet over breakfast at the same restaurant as our initial meeting, I will have your check and we can take care of the paperwork.”

The door thudded shut behind her.

“I believe that concludes our present contract, but I have an additional proposal.”

“Oh?” His voice was distinctly chilly, and he finished his drink, looking around for the waiter.

“I would like for you to move in to my house.”

“Come again?” His anger had simmering below the surface all morning, and only the setting kept him from screaming.

“I…” She looked up at the ceiling, and then directly at him. “I apologize. I have treated you poorly, and you are doubtlessly confused. Please, let me explain.”
His lips were still pushed tightly together, but he had nodded once, a quick jerk of his head.

She sipped her drink, and nodded back. “I’m not looking for a husband. In my world if I were to marry I would instantly become my husband’s shadow, no matter what his accomplishments were relative to mine. So I collect artists, and I have an opportunity to share their passions for a time. Many of them, as I told you, think that my vice is vanity and I will melt if they appeal to my ego. You are the first to show me through your work that I inspired passion in you, and for that I am very grateful. I would like to spend more time with you, and see if it happens again. The terms would be the same, I have a cottage in back of my home. It is private, and you could come and go as you please and have relationships as you like.”

“I suppose…” She stared down at her drink, swallowing and forcing the words out. “That my vice is pride. I want to win at everything, but it is very nice to know that just once, I inspired that sort of feeling in someone. I regret that I was not there to watch you actually paint it, to feel it being created. If you were ever to create something like that again, I would like the opportunity to be present.” She looked up with a sad smile, the first emotion he could remember ever seeing on her face.

He leaned back in his chair, and thought carefully. He wanted to be furious with her but his anger melted away thinking of that painting. “Ever since I painted that piece, I’ve been trying to recapture that moment. It was the most beautiful, pure moment of my life. Like what mothers describe giving birth as, and I want to feel it again more than anything. I think you can help me with that.”

They had smiled at each other across the table, and she had signaled for the check.

He pushed his glass to the edge of the table, and grinned at her. “Should I stop by your lawyer’s and fill out the paperwork.”

She stood up, and held out her hand. “I think a handshake will be sufficient in this case.”

They shook on it, and he moved in that night.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Hostage Situation

The ski mask keeps riding up my chin and rubbing against my lip. I check the time on my phone again, and stomp one foot impatiently. So bored. I roll my wrist from side to side and watch the edge of the knife flash in the dim light. I swallow hard. He should have been home by now, and I resist the urge to text him and ask what is taking so long. Waiting is the hardest part, sometimes.

Finally, the dead bolt on the door spins and the handle revolves. The door opens and I can see him through the slats of the closet. He’s coming inside, a bag of groceries balanced in one arm and his keys in his other hand. Hopefully he doesn’t think what I’m doing is a real attack and lose his shit. He locks the door behind him and walks past the closet, oblivious. I open the door quietly, and step up behind him, grabbing his head with one hand and mashing the knife against his skin with the other. It’s a butter knife and I’d have a better chance of bludgeoning him to death with it than sawing through his jugular vein, but he doesn’t know that. Probably suspects, but doesn’t know.

I let him feel the cold metal against his skin. “Don’t say a word and don’t fucking move.” I hiss in his ear, and feel his muscles tense then relax when he hears my voice. Excellent. “Down on your knees, slowly.”

He sinks to one knee, then carefully moves his leg back so the other knee is pressed against the floor. I steady him, holding his body against my own and directing it downward while he shuffles his legs back and forth. “Set the bag down. Slowly.” I stay tight against him as he sets the groceries to one side, enjoying the feel of his muscles moving under his clothes and skin. “Hands behind your back.” I kneel down with him, holding the knife against his throat as he moves his arms and places his hands in the small of his back. With my free hand I pull cuffs out of a pants pocket and flip them open, cinching them down over one wrist then the other. The metal is hard and punishing and I love the little sounds the chain between the bracelets makes.

He can’t see my grin as I give him a shove between the shoulder blades. He hits the floor with a dull thud and an “Ooomph” of breath and I lick my lips. No more waiting, things are about to get interesting for both of us. I drop the knife well to one side and sit on his legs. I can feel the grin on my face as I pull a zip tie out of my back pocket. I run it under and around his feet and pull the end through the clasp. A couple of hard jerks and it cinches down, binding his feet together.

I stand and nudge him with my foot, making sure I have his full attention. “We took your pretty little wife. If you want her back in one piece, you’ll do as we say. Make any trouble, fail to satisfy our demands, and my associates will torture her… even more.”

He nods once, a quick jerk of his head.

“Good boy. Crawl into the living room, and we’ll get started.” I punctuate my words with a quick kick to his thigh, hard enough he notices it, and start pushing him further into the house. With his hands behind him and his ankles bound he has to kind of shove himself along the floor, pushing his body along the carpet with his legs. I march slowly behind him, enjoying the view, not in any hurry but still using the occasional kick to encourage him to move faster.

“Stop.” I walk past him when he reaches the center of the room, and pick up a laptop. It hims to life and I enter the password, then set it on the floor in front of him. I open a video file, and start it playing. I watch his face, knowing he sees a close up of a knife sliding through the skirt I was wearing this morning. The hand is wearing a black leather glove, just so he can’t be absolutely sure I’m doing it myself. I can see him frown, and feel a rush at his doubt and uncertainty. He’s still not sure just how far I’ll go, if there might not be a third person involved somehow, and I love that he still wants to play with me despite that doubt.

On the screen the skirt falls away, and I jump a little when the knife starts to cut away my panties. They fall in two pieces, and the hand pulls them away. My pussy is on the screen, and I can feel him staring at it. The audio from the video kicks out a single, pleading “No” and then stops, freezing on the last frame. My leg is half blocking the view of my pussy. He’s still staring at it, intent, and breathing a little harder.

I walk around him, stomping in my big ugly combat boots. “Figured it out yet? Whatever we did to her, we’re going to do to you too. If you want to stop, just say so, but the show ends. If you want to see what happens to her next, we’ll keep going.”
He licks his lips again, his eyes still frozen on the image on the screen. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” I yank his shoes off and throw them in the corner. Time to start stripping him down, too many clothes make it hard to get to all his sensitive nerves and skin, and the cloth will be in the way whether I want to give him pain or pleasure. His socks follow his shoes, and I pull a knife out of my pocket, one with a real blade this time. I start sawing through his jeans, cutting along the seam to make it easier and making sure I don’t cut the zip tie around his ankles. I let him feel the dull edge of the blade rubbing against his skin as I start to take away his clothes.

I take my time, enjoying this part. It’s slow and sweet and ritualistic, and it feels physical and spiritual. I can feel my control over his body and mind. It’s almost too soon, but his pants fall apart and he’s lying there in his underwear. I pull his underwear away from his body and let it snap back down. He twitches a little, but he’s still staring at the screen and being careful to lay very, very still. I pull the underwear away again and start cutting. His shredded boxers are like a little flag of surrender as I pull them away from his body.

“Are you ready to see what happens next?”

“Yes, please.” It’s a cute little whimpering sound he makes when he says this, and I’d think he did it on purpose if he didn’t get so embarrassed every time I mention it to him. I reach over his prone, half-naked body to play the next video, and go back to the closet to get my duffel bag. There are a few things in there I’m going to need.

I can hear my moans coming from the monitor, and know he’s watching me get fucked with a dildo. He would see me teasing my clit, running it up and down my slit, and then slowly working it inside myself. Pushing it in further a little each time, sawing it in and out. He’s probably flexing his fingers in the cuffs, lying very still, and I know all that is in his mind is what’s on that monitor, not what’s going to happen to him next. I had given him a treat, now it was time for him to pay for his pleasure.

I get back and strap on the harness, then start to lube the cock hanging lewdly in front of me. It doesn’t take long, and I lay down on top of him as the video plays, feeling wonderfully androgynous. The black clothing covers me from head to toe, and the ski mask only leaves my mouth and eyes visible. I feel like I’m nothing but the big nasty cock hanging in front of me, and it feels wonderful. Now I need to shove it inside of him, feel the control that comes from that kind of violation, feel it slip inside him inch by inch and know it’s mental surrender as much as physical.

Lying on top of him, I let him feel the hard plastic between us, pressing into his back. “Your turn, unless you want to stop.”

He shakes his head, “No, I don’t want to stop, I want to see what happens next.”

“Say it then.”

I can feel him tremble underneath me, and know it is so much harder when he has to ask for it than when I just take it. Little jolts of pleasure wash over me with each word he speaks.

“Please fuck me like you fucked my wife.”

I smile and my eyebrows bounce under the mask. He was getting more into it than I thought he would.

“Again, and with more details, or I’ll just go fuck her again.”

“Please, fuck me with your hard cock like you fucked my wife, please shove it in my ass ma’am.”

I shove myself up and position the tip at his asshole, and start to push forward with my hips. His upper body trembles and I keep pushing, sliding it in further. He moans and whimpers and I pause, waiting for him to take a deep breath then I force it out of his body with a shove. He actually yips then, a sound of surprise and pain. I slow down, and put my hands on his back letting him feel my skin. “It’s halfway in. You’ll take it all.”

He just nods, and I back out a little then push in again. I can tell he’s focusing on his breathing, keeping it deep and regular, trying to breathe through the pain and discomfort. I was still gasping and moaning on the screen, the dildo sliding in and out of me. I wanted to be that dildo, doing it to him, and I slide in a little further, then start rocking my hips back and forth. He whimpers but keeps still, letting me invade his body. His hands clench into fists and release, and I can see him pulling against the handcuffs, trying to force physical sensation into his body to distract himself.

I start fucking him faster, moving my hips back and forth, reveling in the feeling of control and violation. Of doing something to someone else’s body, of forcing my way inside, of violating their most sacred possession. And of having someone who accepts this, and loves me afterwards, and takes a shower with me and kisses me and thanks me. Of someone who gives me their body and their mind. I fuck him harder, really slamming into him now, knowing the video is almost at the end. On the screen I’m slamming the dildo into my pussy with one last violent thrust, just as I drive the cock inside him with all my weight. I hold it there, on the screen and inside of him, letting it stretch and hold open both our holes. Then I slowly, ever so slowly, pull it out.

I’m breathing hard, and I pull the ski mask halfway up to get more air. I sit down and lean against the wall, and can see him lying there with his eyes closed, tiny trails from tears on his cheek. My eyes roll back into my head then, and I felt the most wonderful rush of pleasure. All through my body, there was the deep satisfaction of a hunger sated. Temporarily.

Soon I pull the mask back down, and take the strapon off. I nudge him with one boot and he jumps into wakefulness. “Well, do you want some more?”

He nods quickly, and I’m not surprised. The anal fucking doesn’t do much for him in and of itself, it usually just drives him to a calmer mental place where he can surrender and work up to the things he actually enjoys. Like pain.

I reach over his body and started the next video.

I frown down at the screen, the footage was pretty awful. I had to shoot three different angles and edit them together, but I still saw him reflexively wince as the nipple clamps snapped on. I pull him up by his hair, and move the screen closer with my other hand. “It gets better.” My voice sounds like a snarl in my own ears, and my jaw twitches as I remember the nipple clamps.

The scene jumps to a riding crop slapping my ass. The angle was awkward, but he got the idea. Then I was in profile, licking a boot. The same beat up combat boot I was wearing now. I hear his breathing get faster, and pull the nipple clamps out of the bag. “On your side, roll the fuck over.” I bark the words, eager and hungry. I pull his shirt up and snap them on, then let his shirt fall down and shoved him back on his stomach. I squat in front of him, and start to lightly tap his ass with the riding crop.

“Do you want to lick my boots?”

“Yes please.” He was so sincere I almost let him get away with it right there.

“You’ll have to earn it. Just remember, we can stop whenever you want.”

“Yes ma’am, please crop my ass until I’ve earned the right to lick your boots.” What can I say? I’m a sucker for politeness. I skip the rest of the warmup and started hitting him for real. It’s a sharp, stinging pain, the kind your body reflexively jumps at. Which must have made the nipple clamps he was laying on twist and pull and generally hurt like a son of a bitch. I know he’s watching the monitor through my legs, and wonder if it’s showing my own tits with the clamps on them, the crop bouncing off my ass, or my face licking the boots.

I hit him harder, wanting him to really feel it. He moans and thrashes a little, and his legs reflexively start to curl at the knee. I keep hitting him, feeling the vibrations thudding up my arm and down into my cunt. I want him to suffer for it, to really feel the pain for the next few days. His ass turns red, and I start swatting at the same spots over and over, trying to make the drops of lube still on his skin bounce. Finally, when his moans are coming from somewhere deep in his soul, I let him have some pleasure.

“You may lick my boots now.”

He pushes himself forward with his legs, eagerly running his tongue across the cracked and worn leather. My thighs burn from crouching, but I’m willing to stop yet. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, and keep slapping his ass with the crop. Looking down at him licking my boots I know the exact look on his face: it is one of utter bliss, of not caring what’s happening anywhere else in the world.

I hear the video end behind us, and just keep working on his ass. He keeps licking, moving from one boot to another, letting out little gasps when the nipple clamps pull and tear at his body. He must have really torqued one, because he lets out a sharp bleat of pain and hisses through his teeth. I can’t take it anymore, that sound pushes me over the edge. I let myself fall to my side, and pull my pants and panties down to my knees, all at once. I grab his head, and pull his face up to my cunt.

“Eat my pussy! Eat my fucking pussy!”

I smash his face into my crotch and feel his tongue going to work. My God it’s delicious. I lay back, and let his tongue please me and his lips tease me. He works his tongue in circles here, flicks it there. I hold on to his head with my hands, letting the pleasure consume both of us. It’s a quick buildup and a sudden explosion, and my legs start thrashing awkwardly under his weight while I gasp and moan. I jerk the mask off, and the air feels cool and wonderful on my face. I shove him off of me, and scoot down to lay beside him. He’s on his side, slightly curled, his hands are still behind his back and his ankles are still tied together.

He’s breathing slowly and regularly, and I can see his eyes twitching under the closed lids. The screensaver on the computer bounces a fractal from one corner to another. I sit up, and work the safety release on one of the cuffs so he can hold me, then flop back down. He wraps his arms around me, and we sigh and purr together. I kiss him once, on the lips, and lightly punch his arm. “I thought you were never going to get home, you big jerk.”

His head rolls back, and he winces as he moans. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “I stopped and bought ice cream. It’s in the bag.”
I have to laugh. He’s a sweet, adorable man who took a dildo in his ass, one hell of a beating, licked my boots with vicious clamps on his nipples, and still bought me ice cream. “I’ll put it in the freezer if it’s too melted, and we can have it later.” I can feel the reluctance in his arms as he lets me go, and I go to grab the groceries and put them away, and give him a little time. There are four more videos on the laptop, and I want to let him rest for a little while.

But only a little while.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Winding Down

Hello all,

So, the hiatus has gone on longer than planned, but I’m mostly writing other things these days. I do have six five stories that I submitted for publication and didn’t get accepted that I’m going to put up over the next month and a half or so (one per week). So look for those on Wednesdays, and then it’ll probably go back to being quiet for awhile.

Thanks for reading,
V.

“When you turned out the light and walked out the door,
I said to myself, “What did I come here for?”
-Concrete Blonde, “Long Time Ago

Hiatus

Hi all,

Going on hiatus until I figure out what I want to do with this blog. Thanks for reading.

-V.

Wired Man

“Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?”

“Shut it.” She ran the end of the rope through the D-ring on the collar on his wrist, pulling it tight then tying it to the ring of the anal hook firmly in his ass. Rope ran across his body in a jigsaw pattern, through D-rings in leather collars and bracelets wrapped around his wrists, ankles, neck, and thighs.

He moved one arm experimentally, and grimaced as the anal hook jumped and the rope jerked down on the collar on his neck and up on the bracelet on his opposite foot. He tried to follow the network of cord laid out over his body, the disappearing and reappearing lines that made his limbs jerk and interact unpredictably. “When did you find the time to work all this out, anyway?”

“Work it out?” She snorted. “I didn’t work anything out. I just started tying stuff.” She ran another line from one arm through a foot to the other arm, and tested the tension before making a knot in it. She stood back, walked around him slowly looking him up and down, then nodded. “I think that’ll do. I like your flailing, it reminds me of a puppy on ice, and I think this’ll really help you with that.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “Because I’m a helper.”

He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to, what? Try to walk now?”

“No, no, no, no.” She shook her head. “I want you to hold very still while I help you lay down on the floor. She grabbed his shoulders from behind and lowered him to the floor. His limbs jerked and twitched as he tried to balance, and forced himself not to start jerking to try and recover. His ass hit the floor, the anal hook a cold bar between his cheeks running up to the small of his back, then his shoulders.

He looked up at her standing over him as she shucked her shirt off and stuck out her tongue. “What now?” Images of canes on the soles of his feet, icy-hot on his balls, cringing and jerking his useless limbs from side to side filled his imagination.

She grinned down at him, and pulled a feather from her back pocket. “Now I find out where you’re most ticklish.”

Preview: “Don’t you dare fucking stop!”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The Humor in the Situation

She stomped around him in a half-circle, turning back and forth, examining him from every angle. His arms were tense, locked and holding him out from the wall. His legs spread wide, the thighs pulled tight as the muscles stretched to keep him in the unnatural position. His head was down as he watched her boots move from one side to the other.

She dragged the end of the flogger up his thigh, and held it just under his cock. He raised up on his toes, then sighed and lowered himself reluctantly, bracing himself against the wall. She pushed his cock from side to side with the leather end, and licked her lips. Her voice was a low, sultry whisper. “Tonight, your safeword is… I want to watch Antiques Roadshow with you.”

He groaned, and turned his head to look at her with a frown. “What if Antiques Roadshow isn’t on, oh Mistress of Mistresses?”

She put her free hand on her chest and thrust it towards him. Another deep throated whisper, Jessica Rabbit after a quart of whiskey and carton of cigarettes. “Oh my, then I guess you’re off the hook. My poor feminine brain couldn’t have possibly DVR-ed six hours worth last week.” She threw in an exaggerated flounce that ended in a pout and mauled her breasts with one hand while she tapped her temple with the crop. “Machines are hard, and I’m just a girl.”

He shook his head. “We’ve talked about the DVR co-topping before, it’s not cool.” Then finally nodded. “But I guess for tonight, although I’m not sure I can imagine a torture worse than that show.”

She laughed and shook her hands to limber them up. “Challenge accepted.” She stepped to one side and lined the crop up with his ass cheeks, then pulled it back. “Knock knock?”

He paused for a second, then slowly, softly asked, “Who’s there?”

“Please beat my ass with the crop.”

He closed his eyes so she couldn’t see them roll upward, and shifted his hips slightly. “Please beat my ass with the crop who?”

The leather slapped into his ass with a whack, leaving a small square of red skin behind that quickly faded. “Please beat my ass with the crop ma’am.”

Silence. She waited, while he breathed and waited for another stroke. Finally, she tapped the end of the crop against her leg. “You didn’t laugh. Wasn’t it funny? Maybe I told it wrong.”

He gave a weak, “Heh heh, very funny ma’am. I was laughing on the inside before.”

“And now you’re humoring me. Wait a minute, I did tell it wrong.” She walked over to the drawer and came back with the heavy wooden paddle. “Knock knock?”

He grimaced and took a deep breath. “Who’s there?”

“Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle.”

A heartbeat before he replied as he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle who?”

“Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle ma’am.” It crashed into him, hard, on the last word and he jerked his hips, clenching his jaw and trying to figure out how to ask for warmup.

“You’re still not laughing. Guess I’m still not telling it right.”

He made laughing noises that he hoped sounded sincere as she walked back across the room, and came back with the single-tail.

She carefully judged the distance, and let the whip uncoil. “Knock knock.”

He took a few deep breaths, and fixed his gaze forward. “Who’s there?”

“Please single tail me.”

“Please single tail me who?”

“Please.” A crack and a splat punctuated each word, the leather end uncoiling towards him and hitting him across the shoulder blades. “Single.” Crack-splat. “Tail.” Crack-splat. “Me.” Crack-splat. “Ma’am.” She kept going this time, throwing the whip at him, leaving little scarlet traces of pain on his body.

He tried to breathe in time with her strokes, in as she aimed and threw, out as the pain seared across his flesh. He wondered how long it would go on, and considered his safeword then rejected it. His eyes rolled up into his head and he tried to think of something funny.

The pain built as his mind replayed scenes from The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers, trying to build up a genuine laugh. Each one disappeared in a flash as the whip hit his body, flickering to another that also disappeared. He kept trying to laugh, and failing, as pain and her presence disrupted his thoughts.

Finally, his thoughts tripped over themselves and into a drive across town with her. A woman on the right running from her apartment building, arms pumping and legs flailing for no apparent reason. Her breasts heaving, looking for all the world like she was desperately chasing them down the sidewalk with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter. Something so totally unexpected that it had jolted both of them into sudden, hysterical, paralyzing laughter.

A snort escaped his lips, and he slumped a little as he started helplessly laughing. She paused, her eyes narrowed, then grinned and nodded. He couldn’t stop laughing, and she eventually chuckled along with him then put the whip down and walked over to hug him from behind. “Come on jerkface, I guess I can watch Roadshow tomorrow while you’re out.”

Preview: “Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

Conversations at the Munch

He frowned and watched her walk away. He checked his watch, three women in five minutes, probably a record. He thought about going home, looked at the heavy rain still falling outside, and walked over to a group of people talking instead. He stood there for another five minutes, laughing at jokes he didn’t understand, opening his mouth then closing it, then stomped towards the door.

He was sitting his half-full glass down on an empty table near the door when it burst open and she ran in, holding her purse over her head and skidding to a blind halt in front of him. “Ack,” she ran a hand through her hair, and her wet purse thumped into his chest. “Hold this for a second.” He reflexively let go of his glass and clutched the purse while she dug tissues out of it and dried her glasses. “Fucking bullshit rain weather, parking here always sucks.” She put them back on, and blinked at him then grinned. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”

She gently lifted the purse out of his hands, and slung it back over her shoulder. “First time here?”

He looked from the door back to her, and shrugged. “Not really, I’ve been here a few times. Was just on my way out…” He stopped and swallowed hard. “Unless you’d like to sit down?”

She flicked water off her fingertips, and nodded. “Sounds good, I owe you something for assaulting you with a soggy purse.” She pulled out a chair and flopped down, then looked at him again as he stiffly sat down by his glass. “Yeah, I’ve seen you here a few times, now that I think about it. You usually leave early, I think.”

He grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Women don’t seem interested in meeting new submissives at these things very much.”

“Oh.” She nodded and pursed her lips as she signaled to a waitress. “You’re one of those guys.”

“One of those guys? What the hell does that mean?”

She ordered a cocktail and nodded again. “Definitely. You’re one of those guys who think this is a singles bar, and if you just stay around long enough you can leave with a drunk woman for a one night stand, and she’ll tie you up and suck your dick and call you a bitch and wear a lot of latex while she commands you to eat her cunt.” She looked at him through her glasses. “Am I right?”

He took a drink to avoid answering, then held his hands up. “Well, that’s what I want out of a relationship, I’m sorry if I haven’t met the right person yet, but I’m not going to give up and settle.”

She shrugged, and looked over to the bar where the waitress was waiting for her drink. “It’s no skin off my ass, but you’re probably not going to find that here. You should go to a pro-domme, or find a vanilla woman willing to do that for you every once in awhile.”

He took another drink, setting his glass down with a harsh clunk. “I don’t believe that, everyone says if I just be myself and wait–”

“Terrible advice.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand and shook her head, then fished a credit card out of her purse. “Start a tab?” She swapped the waitress the card for her drink, and took a careful sip. “People who want to know how to meet people go to people who have success meeting people. Those people, who are successful, tell the unsuccessful people to be themselves, because those people are neck deep in pussy or cock, sometimes both, just by being themselves.” She took another sip, and raised an eyebrow at his frown. “The problem is, no one adds the all important caveat that being yourself only works if you’re the sort of person that people want to meet anyway.” She sighed, sat down her drink, and leaned forward. “If you’ve been being yourself (and really, who else are you going to be) for a long time, and you haven’t met anyone, maybe it’s time you considered changing who you are, or at least how you act.” She shrugged and leaned back.

He swirled the ice in his glass, and slowly unclenched his jaw. “I don’t think I should have to change.”

She shrugged again, and smiled. “So don’t. But being a partner, not just a top or bottom, usually means changing for someone. The only common denominator in all your failed relationships is you.”

“So just who the hell should I be then?” He over-enunciated the words, throwing them at her. “If I change who I am, would you go out with me?”

“Probably not.” She sighed and gathered her things. “You’re not very bright, but my oh my you are pretty.” She gave him an apologetic grin and a shrug. “Drama was fun in my early-twenties, now I just don’t have the patience for it.” She took another drink, giving him a careful look. “And you are a recipe for drama if I ever saw one.” She walked around the far side of the table and towards some friends.

He stood up and started towards the door with his fists clenched, then turned around. “Hey.”

She stopped, held back a sigh, and turned around.

“Thanks. I’ll think about it. What you said.”

She made a grave salute with her glass, and nodded. “Offer to buy her a drink, if you really want to meet a femdom. Don’t be pushy, always be polite, and desperation is never sexy when you first meet someone. And expect it to take awhile.”

He nodded back, turned around and left.

Preview: He kept trying to laugh, and failing, as pain and her presence disrupted his thoughts.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

Control

“Go jerk off.”

His hand stopped, a french fry halfway to his mouth. “Huh?”

“Go jerk off. Stop eating, go jerk off, have an orgasm, and then come back.”

He looked at her face carefully, searching for a tell-tale upturned corner of her mouth that would tell him she wasn’t serious. “I thought we were doing the thing?” He rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants and licked his lips.

She took a drink and nodded, then put one finger on the straw and pushed down slightly. It bent a little, ice cubes moving around it. “We are. Go jerk off, and we’ll talk about it.”

“In the restroom?”

She shrugged. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail, I’d recommend the restroom, yes.”

His eyes stayed on her as he stood up and shuffled towards the restroom, waiting for her to laugh and call him back. She was stealing one of his french fries when he turned the corner and she disappeared from view.

He walked down the length of the bathroom, choosing the last stall that wasn’t handicapped. The door swung shut behind him, and he jiggled the flimsy chrome lock until it slid into the frame. His hands were sweating as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. He started slowly jerking himself off, thinking about that morning.

“How would you feel about doing orgasm control again?” He tried to sound casual while he spun the garbage around and cinched a twist-tie down around the top.

“Hm, might be fun.” She flipped the new bag up and down until it billowed open, then stuffed it into the can and set the lid down. “Buy me dinner tonight and it’s a deal.”

A quick hug and a kiss and they left the house, the bass from her car thumping as he dropped the garbage in the dumpster and walked to his own car.

Thoughts flickered through his head the rest of the day. Of not being allowed to orgasm, of fucking her until he couldn’t stand it then begging to eat her cunt instead, of her writhing and shouting mixing with his moans of frustration. Of the firm pressure of a cage around his cock as it tried to get hard.

The back of his legs tightened and he felt his back begin to arch. He pulled a handful of toilet paper off the roll as his cock started to jerk, and held it in front of him as semen spilled out. He waited until he was done, then dropped it in the toilet and waved his hand in front of the sensor. The toilet flushed with an anemic roar, and he zipped his pants up. He paused at the door, turned back, washed his hands, and dried them on his pants as he walked back to the table.

The black vinyl folder with the check was waiting on the table, and she was standing by the exit, flicking a finger across her phone. He opened the check, figured out the tip, and dug through his pockets. A few bills and he dropped the folder back on the table, sighing at the spot where his plate had been. He walked over to the door and leaned against the wall next to her. “Ready Freddy?”

She smiled and nodded. “Yep, let’s go.”

They pulled out into traffic, and she hummed along to the music as he looked from her, to the traffic, and back. She was going to force him to bring it up, and he knew that after the first few minutes. He would open his mouth, then close it, until finally they hit a long stop light on red. “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.”

She rolled her shoulders to the music and mimicked his slow, careful words. “Well, I am the M. Night Shyamalan of kink.”

“I just thought we were doing orgasm control?” It was only half a question.

She grinned at him and nodded. “We are, but control isn’t denial. You’re going to come when I say, and how I say. What you do on your time is your business, but you better come when I tell you to.” She leaned over and punched his upper leg, hard. “And if you can’t, because you’ve been jerking off, things will be very unpleasant until you do have an orgasm.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her.

He nodded and frowned, looking for traps and loopholes. “May I please wear the chastity cage to help me keep from jerking off ma’am?”

Traffic crossed in front of them and she looked up at the clouds through the windshield. “Hmmmm…” The song ended and another began. “No, then I’d have to unlock you or find a key when I wanted you to have an orgasm, and that would inconvenience me. I prefer to just be able to tell you.” She looked back at him, poker faced. “Is that all right?”

She moved her hand towards the console to skip the song and he flinched. She laughed and pushed next, then put her hand back on the wheel.

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.”

“Oh…” She melted a little, and reached over to pat his cheek.
“Maybe after you’ve proved you can control yourself for awhile, I’ll lock your cock up. But only very good boys get that privilege. So if you’re very good, and come when I say promptly and without complaint, maybe I’ll reward with you a nice cage. Does that sound fair?”

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.” The words were the same, but they could both feel the change in tone, the barter of dominance and submission working.

Someone behind them honked. The light had finally turned green and she slowly pulled back into traffic, keeping him in her peripheral vision. “Poor boy, he’s going to have to learn self-control. How many times can you come before your dick can’t get hard anymore?”

He shuddered and thought carefully. “Four or five times, depending ma’am.”

“Good. And you’ve had one today. So when we get home you’re going to jerk off, hm, I’m feeling generous, three times, and then you’re going to come fuck me. Understood?”

He nodded groggily, and spoke a few seconds later. “Yes ma’am.”

She punched his leg again, and her voice flattened out. “Do you? I want your cock to be sore and tired when you fuck me, I want you to have to make sure fucking me is the only thing on your mind to keep it hard, and when you come, I want to know it’s the last possible orgasms you could have. I want to feel like your life is falling out of your cock into my cunt. Do. You. Understand?”

He rubbed his palms on the legs of his pants and nodded again. “Yes ma’am, I understand.”

She reached over and jerked on his hair. “Good. I think I’m going to like controlling your orgasms.”

“Me too ma’am.”

He grinned at her, and she grinned back, then sped up to make it through a light on the yellow. They couldn’t wait to get home.

Preview: “You’re not very bright, but my oh my you are pretty.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 26: Epilogue

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: “Come on, get up.” She helped him to his feet, and reached around to shut the trunk of the car behind him. She carefully led him into the house, grabbing her purse and shutting the garage door as they walked by. She walked him into the bathroom, and raised an eyebrow, looking at him one last time before raising the pillow case and pulling it off his head. He blinked at the sudden light as she pursed her lips and shrugged. “That’s it, end of the list. What now?”

His eyes slipped closed and he leaned against her, exhaling heavily. “I think I’d like to take a shower.”

She carefully kissed his temple, and nodded. “Sounds reasonable.” She fished her keys out of her purse and walked around him to undo his handcuffs. One bracelet popped open, then the other, and he brought his arms around to rub his wrists. She gave his nudity an appreciative leer, taking in the bruises and abrasions, the words written on his chest, the dried saliva and stains on his body, and raised an eyebrow. “You want some company?”

He grinned back and nodded. “Sure.”

They trudged towards the shower, and she shed her clothes while he adjusted the water. Steam started to fill the room as she followed him into the shower, and they stood under the water for a few minutes, letting the warmth fill their bodies.

His shoulders slumped, and she idly ran a wash cloth over his arms, then his back. “You going to give bad advice over the internet anymore?”

He winced as she scrubbed at a bruised shoulder, and shrugged. “Not for a couple of days, at least.”

She snorted a brief laugh and kept scrubbing, then handed him the washcloth and turned around. “I’m pretty proud of you for not safe-wording. That got intense in a couple of spots.”

He started rubbing her back, then frowned and paused. “I could have safe worded? Fuck. I never thought of that.”

She started to ask if he was joking, then just smiled and closed her eyes. She leaned back against his hands and purred, deciding it didn’t really matter. He’d say or do something again, and she’d have another reason.

Not that she really needed it.

Author’s note: So that’s pretty much it. What do people prefer, longer stories with continuity, short stories, something else? Any thoughts or comments welcome.

Preview: “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 25: Its Hair is for Being Pulled

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: The trunk lid slammed close, and she walked around the car to the front. Her purse hit the passenger’s seat with a thump, and she hit the garage door opener as she started the car. They pulled out of the garage, down the drive, and onto the street. She hit play on the CD player and started driving, thinking about what she was going to do next.

She drove around in circles with him in the trunk, flipping the CD player from song to song with short, impatient jabs. Scenarios ran through her mind, vignettes of torture and degradation that she considered and rejected. Finally her eyes narrowed, and she made a U-turn and headed back to their house. She opened the garage door from the street so he wouldn’t hear the noise and drove by, going around the block and pulling slowly into the garage.

The pillow case on his head trapped his breath, turning the skin on his face hot and clammy while his body shivered in the trunk. His cock and balls still burned with the steady chemical heat, and he flexed his shoulders to work out the tension from having his hands chained behind his back. He tried to imagine what might happen next, his cock twitching in spite of the pain still radiating through his body as he imagined being forced to suffer and do horrible things until her hunger was sated on his torture. Of humiliation and degradation that would end when she was done with him, and not before. His head thumped against the back seat as the car came to a stop, and he wiped the sweat off his palms.

She grabbed her purse and slid out of the car, then walked around to the trunk. She pulled the strapon from her purse and balanced on one foot as she fed a leg through the harness, then jerked the straps, cinching them down tight and buckling them in place over her clothes. She found a place on a clean shelf to put her purse, and got out the small pair of scissors she carried. She walked over to the trunk, slid the key in, took a deep breath, and gave it a twist.

He jumped at the sound of the mechanical clunk and shivered as cool air flooded the trunk. “Stay still, I’d hate to cut anything off accidentally.” Her voice came to him through the cloth and he froze in the act of turning his face towards the back of the car. Her hand slid down his face, molding the cloth to his features, going down over his nose and stopping at his lips. The cloth moved away from his face, and then flattened and tore. Metal jaws appeared through the cloth and with small chewing motions tore through until there was a hole in the pillowcase. The scissors disappeared and then he felt the hand back on the top of his head, pulling the pillow case away and cutting another hole in the top.

“Get out.” She tossed the scissors in the trunk and guided his awkward movements over the lip of the trunk and onto the concrete floor. She purred in pleasure as he automatically sank to his knees, both of them gasping as they hit the cold concrete. “Oh, fuck it.” She reached through the hole on the top of the pillow case and grabbed a handful of hair, turning her wrist and wrenching the filaments tight, pulling his scalp away from his skull. “I was going to do a mindfuck, but…” She moaned, trying to remember the elaborate plan. “Tell you the person you gave such bad advice to was here for an apology blowjob, but you know what? I don’t want to share you, I just want to fuck your face.”

She fed the dildo through the hole in the pillow case, pushing it past the slight resistance as the latex tip slid off his cheek and into his mouth. Her hand jerked his hair towards her and his head followed, the dildo filling his mouth, then her hand shoving his head back, dragging it across his lips. Drool ran down his chin as she sawed his head back and forth on the cock, fucking his face, sliding it in until he started to gurgle then jerking it back out.

His muscles slumped every time she pulled on his hair, signs of resistance evaporating under her control. “I could do just about anything to you, as long as I pulled your hair, couldn’t I?” A long gurgle came out of the pillow case, and she nodded back. “Oh yes, you turn into a complete slut when someone pulls on your hair.” She flicked her hand back and forth, jerking his hair one way then the other, to confirm it, and then sighed and tried to keep her hips perfectly still as she worked his mouth up and down her cock. “I could drag you down this street on your knees with my cock in your mouth, and as long as I pulled your hair, you’d be the happiest little slut in town.”

Happy sighs murmured past her lips as she raped his face, making him gag on her cock and dragging spit out of his mouth. She closed her eyes and suddenly stopped, holding his head in place with the cock halfway in his mouth, prying his lips open, disappearing into the white cloth that left him a little less than human. A perfect moment of contentment washed over her, and the tension ran out of her muscles. She stood there silently enjoying it until it washed away, then reluctantly pulled the cock all the way out of his mouth.

“Come on, get up.” She helped him to his feet, and reached around to shut the trunk of the car behind him. She carefully led him into the house, grabbing her purse and shutting the garage door as they walked by. She walked him into the bathroom, and raised an eyebrow, looking at him one last time before raising the pillow case and pulling it off his head. He blinked at the sudden light as she pursed her lips and shrugged. “That’s it, end of the list. What now?”

Preview: The grand finale! Or more of an epilogue really. Maybe some sort of closure? Were they dead the entire time? What a twist that would be!

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 24: Its Head is for Being Stuffed in a Bag

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: He moaned and leaned closer to her, and she bit down on his ear playfully. “I can’t believe I let something as disgusting as you near my cunt. As a matter of fact, I think it’s time your head went into the bag.”

He was lying on the floor on his side, breathing hard. His knees slightly pulled up towards his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his chest.

One black boot pushed him over on his back, and she grinned down at him. “Time for your head to go in the bag boy.” She kicked his legs down straight and squatted down beside him. “I’d hate to make it too easy for you though.” A short length of rope wrapped around his ankles, pulling them together and cinching down tight against his skin. “Now, for your motivation. This should get you moving.”

He groaned as her hand started massaging cream into his balls and along his cock. His eyes clamped shut and he shuddered as he felt the muscle cream start to heat up on his cock and balls.

“Come on, head in the bag.”

He opened his eyes and looked around until he saw her, dangling the empty pillowcase between her hands, the opening towards him. He forced himself to roll over onto his stomach, and shoved himself up onto his hands and knees. His body sank and drool ran from his mouth to the carpet as the heat started to pour into his genitals, and he forced himself to inch towards her.

She stepped back as he moved forward, teasing him with the empty bag. “Get your head in the bag and I’ll try to wash some of that off.” She took another step back as he inched forward. “Of course, it sinks into your skin, so the longer you take the less good that will do.” He shoved himself forward with a groan, and she stepped back with a grin.

He dragged himself through the house, his whole body feeling like a massive bruise. Pain and contusions raced from one muscle to another, trying to get his attention. Little bursts of endorphins floated through his consciousness as his tears started to run down his cheeks from the pain of dragging himself across the floor and the burning in his groin.

She led him through the house, breathing a little harder as he dragged himself across the floor, memorizing the flickers of pain that rushed across his face for later. The clenched teeth as he he pushed forward with his knees, the twitch at the corner of his eye as he walked his hands forward one at a time. The way his arms moved and the muscles warping the skin of his biceps.

His head slumped as he stopped moving. He pushed his thighs together against his cock and balls, trying to do anything to stop the burning. Sounds gurgled in his throat as the heat remained, the sudden pressure doing nothing to stop it. He forced himself not to just fall down, spit on his hands, and frantically rub them on his cock. He knew from past experience that it wouldn’t do any good.

She smiled and let him rest for a minute, then made him clicking sounds with her tongue until he looked up at her through tear stained eyes. She jiggled the pillow case in front of him, then took another step backwards.

He made a sniffing sound, trying to stop the snot running out his nose, and forced himself to put one hand forward, then the other, then pull his knees across the floor towards her. He tried to ignore the pain and focus on the three simple, repetitive motions, and not think of anything else.

She led him through the house, forcing him to drag his body along the floor behind her. They wound through the bedroom, out into the living room, across the pantry and into the garage. She could hear him whimper a little as he crossed the metal door threshold and his palms hit the cold concrete. He dragged himself to the back of the car, and she popped the trunk lid on the car.

“Get in, and I’ll put your head in the bag.”

He pushed himself to his knees, and held onto the bumper as he pulled himself to his feet. He hopped around in an awkward circle and sat back, swinging his legs into the trunk and curling up in the enclosed space.

“Good for you.” She moved his hands behind his back, and cuffed one wrist then the other, chaining his hands behind his body. “You’ve managed to convince me to abduct you.” The pillow case finally went over his head, and he sighed in the enclosing darkness. He could feel the tape securing the bottom of the pillow case to his neck, pulling it down tight and sealing him in the darkness.

The trunk lid slammed close, and she walked around the car to the front. Her purse hit the passenger’s seat with a thump, and she hit the garage door opener as she started the car. They pulled out of the garage, down the drive, and onto the street. She hit play on the CD player and started driving, thinking about what she was going to do next.

Preview: Hair is for being pulled. Pulllllllllllllllled.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 23: It Eyes are for Being Blindfolded

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: Finally, somewhere, the sensation started to fade. It couldn’t last, never did, but it would be there again. She dropped the paddle on the floor, and moved in front of him. She lifted up the bucket again, but this time worked the clamp loose and pulled it out of his nose. “Ugh.” Her face crinkled and she tilted her head back. “Go wash your face, blow your nose, and hurry back. I need to do something about those pretty eyes.”

He stumbled back into the bedroom with beads of water on his hairline and chin. She whistled and motioned him over. He walked over to where she stood and dropped to his knees, scooting the last couple of feet.

She wrapped the elastic band of the sleep mask around his head and centered the black pads over his eyes, wrapped a scarf over the mask, and followed with duct tape that clamped against itself and pulled the cloth down tighter.

“We’re going to play a game now, it’s called Mouth or Ass. I’m going to hold up an object, and you tell me if you want it used on your mouth, or your ass.”

He leaned towards her, and thought the words over carefully. “Am I allowed to change my mind, ma’am?”

Her laugh floated across the room. “Sure, but I think the more important question is if you are allowed to try to change my mind.”

“Am I? Allowed to try to change your mind, ma’am?” He turned his head slightly, trying to find her in the darkness.

She bit her lip, and looked at him. Scenarios bounced back and forth in her mind. Did she want to control him, or let him make the choices? Which was more appealing, to own his body and inflict it, or let him make his own decisions and suffer the consequences? Finally, she shrugged and cleared her throat. “If you ask very, very nicely, I suppose I might change my mind. I might even be persuaded to give you hints, if you ask very nicely.” The middle ground seemed best, she could always make the choice on the fly and pretend it was what she had intended all along.

She plowed on before she could start to second guess herself. “First up. Mouth or ass?”

He shrugged, paused, and then sank to his knees. “May I please have a hint ma’am?”

“Ooh, on your knees? I like you like that, but I can’t get to your mouth easily. Try another position and ask again.”

He stood back up carefully, then leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “May I please have a hint ma’am?”

“How do you like the taste of hair?”

He grinned, imagining running his tongue along her slit, the short hair teasing his chin and rubbing against his lips. “Mouth please, ma’am.” His head jerked as the hard bristles of the hair brush slid into his mouth.

Her mouth clamped down on his hair, jerking his head back into place and shoving her hairbrush into his mouth. She explored his gullet and violated his mouth, scraping the hard bristles along his tongue and cheek, letting them push against his teeth. She slid it back into his mouth slowly, letting stray hairs and debris fall off the bristles into his mouth, and waited until it just barely… triggered his gag reflex. His throat convulsed and she let the hairbrush fall out of his mouth, grinning down at him. “Were you expecting something else?”

His tongue worked its way in and out of his mouth, with his face making a sour frame around it. “Yes ma’am, may it please try to change your mind?”

“Ooh, I suppose.” She clenched her jaw, watching his expression and holding the laugh deep inside her. Her hand let go of his hair, and she stepped back, then poked his chin with the hairbrush. He jumped and the laugh escaped, and she took another step back. “Well?”

He sank back to his knees, then his hands, then slowly turned in what he hoped was a circle so his face was away from her. “Please ma’am, use the hairbrush on its ass. It deserves to be disciplined and beaten.”

She ran the flat part of the brush along his ass-cheeks, and hummed to herself. “It’s a start, but I’m not quite convinced. Why do you deserve to be disciplined and beaten?”

He felt his thoughts getting fuzzy, the humiliating words rushing to get out of his mouth, fighting his instincts not to say them. “I watch disgusting internet pornography — Ah!” The hairbrush crashed into his already tenderized ass, and he lurched forward.

The hard plastic left a bright red imprint, and her words got cold and flat. “Well, keep convincing me. Or I’ll shove this down your throat until you puke.”

“Ugh, I’m a horrible person.” Splat, pain seared across his body again. “I play with my disgusting cock in the shower.” And again. “I actually get pleasure from jerking off that revolting piece of flesh.” And again.

Each sentence, each confession, ended in searing pain. He debased and humiliated himself, cataloging failures and perceived failures, and she administered pain for each one. The beating went on until he was sobbing, gasping the words out between choking sounds. He confessed to being a whore, of fantasizing about women forcing themselves on him, of jerking himself off while thinking of being chained to a urinal where they pissed on him and he licked his food off a filthy bathroom floor, of cleaning the floor with his tongue, licking up mud and piss and the sexual fluids of strangers. Of begging to be spit and pissed on just to wash the taste out of his mouth. Of the chain being unlocked one day, and just crawling to a corner and starting to lick the floor again.

She kept hitting him with the hairbrush, helping him turn the shame and humiliation into a physical pain he could survive, that would fade. His ass turned pink, then red, then black and blue as blood vessels popped and tissue bruised. She listened to him sink lower and lower for her, wondering how far he would go, loving the sounds of his sobs and words, ready to pull him back up if he needed it.

Eventually he couldn’t speak, and she kept beating him to the rhythm they had established. Finally, when he couldn’t even gasp or cry anymore, she stopped and gently ran her hand down his spine up to his head. She jerked his head up by his hair, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “My god a disgusting animal.”

He moaned and leaned closer to her, and she bit down on his ear playfully. “I can’t believe I let something as disgusting as you near my cunt. As a matter of fact, I think it’s time your head went into the bag.”

Preview: Heads are for being stuffed in a bag. Wasn’t that a Joe Pesci movie?

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 22: Its Nose is for Being Clamped

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She licked her lips, and wiggled in the hard plastic chair. “The break is over, and your nose gets clamped, my friend. My advice: Drive slow and enjoy these errands.”

He wriggled his nose as the clamp bit into his septum, and the bucket swayed underneath him. Finally, with a shuddering breath he let it sink to the floor, clamped his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

Coins fell from her hand and clattered into the bucket, bouncing off the change already there. She walked around him, planted her feet, and smacked him hard on the ass with the wooden paddle. Her lips were compressed into a hard, tight line, and her eyes were flat and emotionless. The paddle cracked against his ass over and over until he sobbed and forced his spine upright, picking the bucket off the floor by the thin rope that ran from the bucket handle to the clover clamp on his nose.

She stopped beating him when he was finally standing upright, and walked back to the desk, getting another handful of change out of the jar and watching him out of the corner of her eye.

His shoulders slumped, then straightened as she turned and walked back in front of him. The coins rasped between her fingers as she dangled them over the bucket. The pressure built, the clamp biting into the soft inner tissue of his nose, tickling him, begging him to bend over and let the bucket rest on the floor for, relieve the pressure for just a minute.

The bucket sank closer to the floor and she rolled the coins across the palm of her hand. When the tension on the chain finally eased, she dropped the coins in the bucket and started beating his ass again.

The paddle thudded into his body with the wet, smacking sound of wood hitting muscle, and his shoulders tensed. He took several deep breaths, shifting his weight from leg to leg to try to minimize the pain, then when he couldn’t bear it anymore forced himself upright, dragging the now heavier bucket up into the air. She kept hitting him until his back was straight, driving him up the last few inches, stopping mid-swing as his posture finally straightened out.

She walked back to the desk, got some more change, waited, and smiled at the tears forming in his eyes. One finger trailed along his cheek, collecting the moisture, and slid into her mouth. No real taste to speak of, maybe a little salt, but still delicious. “I want to collect a whole bottle of those pretty little tears, and carry it around in my purse. Look at it when I’m bored or frustrated and remind myself of the horrible things I get to do to you. Maybe it will inspire me.”

He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, and tried to ignore the claws biting into his inner nose. His tongue came out and slid across the lips.

She wrapped her hand around the chain and lifted the bucket up slightly, then let it fall back down. The claws bit into his body and his knees buckled as he gasped and blinked his eyes. Fresh tears rolled down his cheek, and she murmured softly.

“There we go.” She slid a finger down the other side of his face, and gently touched the tip of her tongue with it. “So tasty. Be glad I don’t have a funnel and a jar, or I’d have you on your hands and knees, seeing what got you to cry the most. I think I’d start with jamming a nice big cucumber up your ass, twisting it and fucking you with it until you broke down and sobbed.” She stood up on her tiptoes and leaned in, running her tongue up his cheek to just below his eye, then whispered in his ear. “Or maybe I’ll just smear some icy hot on your balls and watch you screamed and cried. How long do you think it would take to get a whole bottle of tears?”

He tried to keep the thought of that horrible burning spreading across his balls as he slouched and the bucket sank towards the ground. The paddle crashed into him before the slack even entered the chain, hard and fast. The pain was overwhelming almost immediately, and his back straightened almost as soon as the handful of coins hit the bottom of the bucket.

She kept beating him this time, kept smacking his ass even after his legs were straight and locked and his back straight. The beating was merciless and seemed to last forever. His mind floated away as endorphins floated across the cells, and everything faded but the sense of her.

The muscles in her arm worked mechanically, automatically, her mind totally focused on his reactions and her connection with him. The overwhelming sensations flashing back and forth between them, breaking down walls, tearing them apart and reassembling them into one person. The paddle splatted into his body, the force traveled through both of them, and they both started breathing harder and louder.

Finally, somewhere, the sensation started to fade. It couldn’t last, never did, but it would be there again. She dropped the paddle on the floor, and moved in front of him. She lifted up the bucket again, but this time worked the clamp loose and pulled it out of his nose. “Ugh.” Her face crinkled and she tilted her head back. “Go wash your face, blow your nose, and hurry back. I need to do something about those pretty eyes.”

Preview: Eyes are for being blindfolded. Blind folded. Weird word when you think about it.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 21: Its Ears Are for Hearing Orders

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: He jumped as he noticed her feet, then leaned back and looked up. She was wrapped tightly in her robe, hair still wet, and looking down at him. “It’ll do, until I get you some glass cleaner. But it wasn’t done before I got back, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer. Just remember who wrote ears are for hearing orders on their list during this next part.”

He glared. “This is beyond humiliating.”

She smirked. “Is that why I’m enjoying it so much? Or is it something else? Maybe because you seem to prefer to dress like a hobo?” Her hand slid down the front of the shirt, smoothing it, then she frowned back at him. “Try on the blue one. Ears. Orders.”

He sighed and took the shirt into the changing room, undoing and redoing buttons. She waited outside, sitting cross-legged on the stool for trying on shoes, fingers flicking across her phone.

He came out of the changing room, sighed, and held his arms out from his sides. She looked him up and down, then tilted her head, then finally nodded. “It’ll do. Thirty percent less hobo. In fact, you almost look like a grownup.”

He started unbuttoning the shirt and headed back for the changing room. “Looking like a grownup is vastly over-rated, and their clothes are itchy.”

She dropped her phone in her purse, and stood up. “Pay for it and meet me in the food court.”

He paid for the shirt, grunted responses to the cashier’s attempts at small talk, and trudged through the mall. He walked through the food court, looking from side to side. She saw him first and waved him over, then looked up at him. “Hey cutie, get me a slice of cheese pizza and a soda, and pick up whatever you want.”

He chuckled and dropped the bag on the table, then walked over to the pizza counter. He watched her at the table, probably playing a video game on her phone judging from the way her fingers moved and the look of concentration on her face, and whistled tunelessly as the long line wound its way past the counter. Finally their order was ready and he walked back to her table. The tray dropped on the glossy imitation granite top and he slid it across to her side, then grabbed his own soda and pizza and lifted it towards his mouth.

“Uh-uh, wait until I’m done.” She took a delicate bite from the pointed end and raised an eyebrow as she chewed. “Well?”

He put the slice of pizza back down in the flimsy cardboard container, and raised an eyebrow back at her. “I’m finding ears are vastly over-rated at the moment.”

“The terrible torture of being you.” She ate slowly, but deliberately, enjoying the site of him drumming his fingers on the table, checking his email, and putting his phone away. The last bite disappeared into her mouth, and she took a long drink of soda. “Go ahead, you’ve earned it, surly-pants.”

He took a large bite, chewed, and swallowed. He counted to ten in his head, and then shrugged. “This just wasn’t I had in mind when we started.”

She leaned back, and spoke slowly and carefully. “I know. But these are things we need to do, you looked like you needed a break, I definitely needed a break, and it seemed like a good way to kill both of those birds with one stone.” She looked into his eyes then flicked her gaze away. “Sorry if it’s not sexy fun times for you.”

He chewed, swallowed, took another bite, and chewed. “It’s just that, if we’re going to take a break, I’d like to take a break. This is weird, it’s very mixing vanilla and d/s, and I’m not sure where to go with it or how to process it.” He took a drink, and glared at the ceiling. “The music doesn’t help, either. Never in the history of d/s, with its long and gloried list of monumentally bad decisions, has someone thought John Denver’s Christmas album would help them get their kink on.”

She laughed and the tension eased out of her shoulders. “Okay, fair enough. You’re off the hook. I’ve got three more errands I need to run, and you can be your usual surly, snarky, horrible self until we get them finished and are back home.”

“Thanks.” He smiled and offered her the last bite of pizza, and she shook her head. He popped it in his mouth, chewed around the words, and tried to look innocent. “What happens when we get home?”

She licked her lips, and wiggled in the hard plastic chair. “The break is over, and your nose gets clamped, my friend. My advice: Drive slow and enjoy these errands.”

Preview: Noses are for being clamped? WTF was I thinking when I wrote that? The nose is like, the least erogenous zone ever.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

Guillotine Penis

For whoever found this blog by searching for guillotine penis: The British television show Coupling actually has a penis guillotine. It’s also funny as hell, and I forget which exact episode, but I highly recommend it.

I recommend Coupling that is, not penis guillotining.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0237123/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1

-V.

The List 20: Its Mouth is for Being Gagged, Silencing it and Letting Drool Fall Out

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She watched him in the small screen on her phone, and drifted off into a soft haze, thinking about what she’d be doing with that mouth next.

She woke up from half sleep to the sensation of his tongue gently circling her ass. There was an appreciative murmur before she reluctantly raised her head and looked back at him. The words written on his stomach slipped in and out of view, and her eyes narrowed.

“All right, you can stop now.” He slid to his knees at the end of the bed, watching her as she rolled over onto her back, yawned and stretched, and sat up. She rolled off the bed and scratched the smooth skin under her breast, then frowned. “Ugh, I need a shower, and you need to keep working on your list. Take the sticks off your face.”

He slid the rubbed bands off the ends of the wooden rods keeping his tongue out of his mouth, and pulled his tongue back into his mouth, breathing hard and enjoying the sudden freedom. He was working his jaw and running his tongue along the roof of his mouth when she clamped one hand on his jaw, pried it open, and slipped the o-ring gag behind his teeth.

He exhaled as she buckled the strap behind his head, his jaw forced into another unnatural shape. She walked out of the room and came back with the small mirror that hung in the hallway. It went on the desk while got the marker out of the desk drawer, and started to write.

“Turn around, I need to see what you’ll be for the foreseeable future.” He rotated around his knees until he was facing her, and she nodded in approval and went back to making big, block letters on the mirrors surface. “Boot-licker. Cunt-licker. Piss slut. Hole. Slave. Cum dumpster.” She sang the words in a high voice, then sighed happily and went over each letter again, darkening it.

She put the mirror on the floor in front of him. “Hands and knees, please.” He leaned forward, and drool slid out of his mouth onto the mirror, coating his reflection in spit.

“Clean the mirror, and think about what each word means.” She frowned, and then pursed her lips. “Hm.” She reached over into the drawer and found a plastic drop cloth, which landed by him with a thud. “Put this down, I don’t want you getting ink on the carpet.” She stood up. “Meanwhile, I’m going to take a shower. Be finished before I am.”

He tore open the plastic packaging and worked the drop cloth under the mirror, making sure he had plenty of room to rest his hands. She walked into the bathroom and he heard water starting to run. His reflection stared back at him, “piss-slut” written over his eyes. Drool poured out of his mouth, and he moved his head back and forth across the mirror. He balanced on one hand while he used the other to smear the spit around, getting it on all the letters, letting them soak up the moisture while he started working on the first letter of the first word.

Boot-licker. His reflection stared back at him as he worked his finger along the first letter, scrubbing it away. Of being down on his knees, working his tongue along the leather. The slightly acrid smell, the taste, the deep blackness shining back at him. The warm, soft feeling of having a task to complete that he enjoyed. His tongue slipping into his mouth just long enough to kiss the toe of each boot before he moved to the other. Of her, being there, taking in and accepting his act of obeisance, of loving him and creating a place where he could do this and feel safe.

Cunt-licker. Tasting her. Pleasing her. Working his tongue against her body until she lost control and came with thunderous jerks and starts. Breathing through his nose, focusing on her pleasure until she came, working his tongue against her, the feeling of he legs wrapping around his head and jerking him closer.

Piss slut. Being on his knees with his head tilted back, waiting for her. Her grinning face above him, teasing him, pulling her labia apart and positioning her hips perfectly. Letting her piss spray across his face until it found his mouth, saturating his taste buds. The sensation of consuming her, of swallowing her piss, of feeling it slide down his throat until there was a horrible warmth in his stomach. The knowledge that some part of her was seeping into his cells as the piss flowed through his body.

Hole. Violation. Things entering his body. His mouth and ass stretching, his throat convulsing. She loved his triggering his gag reflex, the wet choking sounds that came from him as she worked a dildo further into his mouth, pushing it as slowly as she could and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his muscles would convulse and retching sounds would pour out of him. The intimacy of changing his body and invading it, of penetrating him, of testing his mental strength as his internal organs were pushed and rearranged.

Slave. The warmth of trust from letting control go. Not worrying, not knowing, obeying and being rewarded. The joy she radiated when he loved her enough to let her make decisions for him, knowing she wouldn’t hurt him. Permanently, anyway.

Cum dumpster. The disgusting sensation of his semen sliding down his tongue, working its way into his throat until he grimaced and swallowed. Knowing she would love him after even the most degrading acts. Doing those things for her, the little murmur of appreciation, the way her fingers twitched a little when she was excited, urging him to clean his mess up off the floor or lick it out of a dog bowl. Of her forcing him just a little further than he would go himself, of taking him to a part and chaining him to the glory hole, inviting the guests to spray hot, sticky semen in his mouth. Of her helping him put himself back together when he was done.

The words were gone from the mirror, and his reflection stared back at him. It was slightly distorted, the mirror still wet, traces of magic marker still on its surface. Drool continued to seep from his mouth, and he shifted his hips to catch it in his hand.

He jumped as he noticed her feet, then leaned back and looked up. She was wrapped tightly in her robe, hair still wet, and looking down at him. “It’ll do, until I get you some glass cleaner. But it wasn’t done before I got back, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer. Just remember who wrote ears are for hearing orders on their list during this next part.”

Preview: Ears are for hearing orders. And making ear wax.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 19: Its Tongue is for Licking Boots, Cunt, and Ass: Part 2

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She let it go on for awhile, until it was time to push deeper. “On your knees. That tongue has other uses.”

His tongue reluctantly rose up from the leather of her boots, followed by his head then his shoulders. The wooden rods held his tongue out from his face, a pulled, distorted muscle dragged out of his mouth and held there.

She shifted her weight and the fingers of one hand wrapped around his hair, pulling his face into her cunt. He scooted forward on his knees, and frowned, shifting to get used to the angle. With his tongue held in place he had to move his head, running his tongue up and down her slit by using his neck to work his entire head up and down.

She flipped one leg over his shoulder, pulling him in tight against her body and pinning him there, balancing on her other leg. He scooted in closer, shoving his spine upright and bringing his chin hard up against her body. His neck continued to make little jerking motions, rubbing his dry tongue between her labia.

She was already wet, and he used his tongue to push the moisture up to her clit. Digging his tongue into her vagina, dragging his tongue up her slit, wetting her labia and running his tongue over it.

Her eyes slipped closed, and she enjoyed the unusual sensations. It wasn’t the typical pattern, it was a short session of tongue fucking followed by a long lick up to her clit, then his tongue rubbing over her until it slipped back down for more tongue fucking.

Little electric jolts washed through her body as his tongue ran across her clit, and she jerked his hair as he started to move his tongue downward. She held him there, keeping his tongue on her clit, while he tried to pull his head down, enjoying the sensation of her fingers pulling his hair up from his skull.

They struggled back and forth, enjoying the push and pull, their bodies working against each other. The sensation of muscles being worked in different ways against their will, his hands clamped tightly against her legs and holding her up but his head trying to slip back down to tongue fuck her, her leg pulling his face tight against her body but her hand clamped in his hair holding his tongue up against her clit.

He jerked his head back and forth, frantically working her clit with the tip of his bound tongue, begging with his body to be allowed to slide his tongue down and inside her. She clenched her fist tighter, wanting him to work for it, until his frantic licking sent a small orgasm through her. She let her arm drop, let his tongue slide back down her until it slid insider of her body.

He rammed his tongue inside her as far as he could, feeling her pubic hair rubbing against his face, tasting and penetrating her body. The orgasm slowed then stopped and she was dragging his head upwards again until his tongue found her clit. She held on, forcing him to stay in that spot, to work his tongue over that sensitive piece of flesh until the orgasms exploded behind her eyes and she slumped over.

She held him close against her while he held her up, both of their eyes clamped tightly shut, sweat running down their bodies and mixing together. She finally pushed him away and planted her foot back on the floor, then sat down hard on the bed.

She fanned herself with a hand while he slumped back to his hands and knees, both of them breathing hard. Finally she pushed herself further up onto the bed and rolled over on her stomach, stretching her arms out and letting her entire body go limp.

A happy sigh came from her lips, and she pulled a pillow down under her head. “Well, come on. One more use for that tongue before I give it back to you.”

Her words energized him, and he scampered up onto the bed, lying his torso down and gently placing his lips on one ass cheek. He alternated back and forth, pushing against the chopsticks holding his tongue out of his mouth, burying his lips in the flesh.

Her hips wiggled excitedly, and her lips pulled into a smile. She flipped open her phone and turned on the camera, propping it against the headboard until he came into view. As he moved from side to side she caught glimpses of his face, and could see his eyes were closed.

Her butt-cheeks clenched and her back stiffened then relaxed as the tip of his tongue touched her asshole, and she exhaled slowly. With his face distorted by the wooden dowels pulling out his tongue, he still looked at peace as he started to run his tongue around in small, tight circles.

She watched him in the small screen on her phone, and drifted off into a soft haze, thinking about what she’d be doing with that mouth next.

Preview: Mouths are for being grmrmphhged.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 19: Its Tongue is for Licking Boots, Cunt, and Ass: Part 1

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She shrugged. “I just wanted to see you sweat, and it worked fine for me. Go dump this in the toilet, and meet me in the bedroom. I think I have a use for your tongue.”

He frowned and trudged to the bathroom, holding the red cup of cooling piss in front of him. He swished the contents a little, trying to figure out if it was his or not. He poured the noxious yellow liquid down the toilet, rinsed the cup in the sink, and tossed it in the trash.

He turned and caught his reflection in the mirror. The words written on his stomach in big block letters stared back at him. Boot-licker. Cunt-licker. Piss slut. Hole. Slave. Cum dumpster. All words he had asked to have written on his body, all things he had begged her to turn him into. He exhaled and caught a whiff of his own breath, making a sour face at the acid smell of urine. “May I please rinse my mouth out, ma’am?” He shouted the question across the house, and awkwardly swallowed.

Her nose crinkled as she tried not to imagine the smell. “Ugh, god yes, please do.”

He used his hands to scoop water into his mouth, swished it around, then spit it out. He tried it again, then finished with mouthwash and walked back to the bedroom. He stood in front of her, and she raised an eyebrow. “Knees.”

He dropped to his knees, looking up at her. She was still naked except for the socks and boots she had pulled on earlier, and his eyes wandered from her cunt up to her tits to her face. She let the eyebrow drop, and nodded. “Tongue out.”

He stuck his tongue out, and she grabbed it with one hand, pulling on it until it was out as far as possible. She used her other hand to put bamboo skewers on the top and bottom of his tongue, against his mouth. She stuck her own tongue out and waggled it at him, then laughed. “Its tongue doesn’t belong in its mouth, now does it?”

“Nuh if dozent ma’uhm.” He mumbled the words, too many consonants and not enough vowels rolling off his trapped tongue.

“No it doesn’t ma’am.” She sang the words back to him, pronouncing them carefully and clearly. “Because its tongue doesn’t belong in its mouth, its for licking boots, cunt, and ass.” She paused for a second, enjoying the sight of him on his knees, his tongue stretched out just for her, the bruises and lacerations on his legs, the words written on his stomach. “Well, get started.”

Drool ran out of his mouth as he scooted back and leaned down to run his tongue across her boots. The wet skin crawled across the black leather slowly, starting at the tip until it reached the laces. He switched from foot to foot, more drool falling out of the corners or his mouth, squeezing down further on his knees to push his tongue harder against her boots.

She took a step back, then another, making him chase her around the room, crawling on his hands and knees with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. After a few steps she let him catch her, take a few desperate licks, then stepped away again. She moved faster, and he crawled faster, keeping his head down, trying to reach her boots as quickly as possible.

She stepped away and spread her legs, making him shuffle from boot to boot. “Is your tongue getting dry?” His answer was an unintelligible growl, a tangled mess of consonants and grunts, which she took to be more or less an affirmative. “Head up, look at me.”

He gave her boot one last lick and pushed himself up so he was on kneeling, looking up at her. She grabbed his chin with one hand, and leaned over. Carefully, she spit on his tongue, letting the saliva drop from her mouth onto the protruding flesh. With one finger she worked the puddle of spit in a circle, rubbing it down the length of his tongue from the tip to where the chopsticks sank into the muscle and forced it to remain out of his mouth.

He dropped back down to his hands and knees and started running his tongue over her boots again. Working along the sides, chasing her around the room like an animal, smashing the side of his face against the carpet to reach the soles when she rocked back on her heel and raised the toe.

She let him lick her boots until she could see the tension slump from his shoulders, until there was no hesitation between her moving and his following. Until they were connected, until they felt like one person moving, reacting to the same impulses.

She let it go on for awhile, until it was time to push deeper. “On your knees. That tongue has other uses.”

Author’s Note: Hi all! I am slammed this week, so this will be a two-parter. That way you get something, and I don’t have to be behind on the things I do to make my Benjamins.

Preview: Mouths are for being grmrmphhged.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.