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.

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99 Rules and Something About a Bitch?

Quick note: So, this should have gone up Friday, but since you were good, or bad, you got it early. I most certainly did not forget what day it was. No way. 🙂 I did do a little more writing on it though, so there is a little bit of new stuff for Friday.

His skin was hot under her hands. She rubbed his legs some more, sighed, and snuggled against his chest.

He moved his head to get her hair out of his mouth, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight. “That was fun.”

“I know, right?” She enjoyed the sensation of warmth coming from his legs, and closed her eyes. “I enjoyed the bossing you around bit.” She threw it out there cautiously, and listened carefully for the tone of his response.

She felt the slight increase in pressure of his arms, and his cock twitch against the small of her back. “Me too. It was fun, not being in control. I like to take orders from you.”

She slid her back up and down against his cock. “We’ll have to do some more of that then. Why don’t you check the fridge tomorrow morning? In the mean time, I need to get in the shower and get to sleep.”

“You want company?” He let his hands slide off her body as she stood up, and ran his eyes up and back down her body.

She stretched. “This is a washing shower, not a fun shower. You can go after.”

He smiled and nodded, and she padded off to the bathroom.

The next morning he forgot until he was on his way out, and had to run back to check the refrigerator. There was a brightly colored notepad with a magnet on the back, stuck to the white enamel door.

“99 RULES” was written in multi-colored marker across the top, surrounded by girlish hearts and stars. Below that, in her normal, neat, precise script: Rule 1: Send me a picture of your cock at noon today, exactly. I want it hard and dripping pre-cum, but no orgasms.

He jerked his cock in the restroom as quietly as he could, hoping no one came in. When his cock was throbbing and drop of fluid were gathered at the tip, he took a careful picture, frowned, disabled the flash, and took another. He typed the email, attached the picture, and saved the draft. He sat in his cubicle, one eye always on the clock, until he took out the phone, waited for it to flip over to noon, and hit send.

Other rules followed.

Rule 5: You will carry in the groceries with a plug in your ass, one bag at a time.

He had told her it seemed awfully inefficient, launched into his usual talk about how he was the heaviest thing he had to move, and the fewer trips he made the fewer times he had to carry himself…

And she had added, You will then carry the bags back out to the car one at a time, insert a larger plug, and then carry them back in one at a time.

A tingling sensation had traveled from his cock up his spine, and he had silently nodded. He went to go find a butt plug.

Rule 19: You are now an “it.” It will refer to itself as such until told otherwise.

The texts had come throughout the day.

>>How are you?
>>It is okay, ma’am. Work is boring.
>>How was lunch?
>>It got stuck in a meeting ma’am, it is just now leaving.

Each message had come with a little jolt of warmth that traveled between the two of them.

Rule 33: If it is told or asked to perform any sexual act today, it will do so. No matter who requests it, or if they are joking. PS: Try not to get arrested, but really try to get them all off.

He had almost called her at work to ask what she meant, if she had something planned. Had she told someone he worked with, or saw every day on the way to work, to tell him to do something? He imagined being under the receptionist’s desk at work, licking the soles of her shoes as his co-workers filed by, imagined someone following him into the men’s room, and ordering him to…

Of the door to the conference room closing and all eyes turning to him. Of sweet, gray-haired Joan opening her old fashioned, battered brief case and showing him the blindfold, paddle, and leash inside it. Of being stripped, paraded around the room naked and blindfolded while they had their meeting. Of being beaten while they used his, no its, tongue and holes for their pleasure. Of the business being finished, and all eyes on it as it knelt in the middle of the conference room table and jerked off, then licked its filth off the polished surface.

The photos, the video, the blackmail.

Would only women from the office be there, or would men be there too? Would she tell it to have sex with another man? Would it be able to?

Every person he saw became another dominant, another person who could use him for their pleasure, if they only knew. Another person who could have him on his back, legs spread in the air, arms flat on the ground, his entire body their for their enjoyment. Another way for him to serve her by getting them off with his holes, his tongue, his cock.

Its holes, its tongue, its cock, he silently corrected himself.

It took him longer than usual to get home, he had to walk the long way around to avoid the schizophrenic homeless person who ranted on the corner. Last week he had been telling everyone to kiss his ass. It shuddered, and watched carefully.

Rule 46: It will write by hand two-hundred times “Orgasms are a privilege, not a right” and hand them to me the second it comes through the door.

It had spent its lunch hour frantically scribbling across a legal pad, hoping no one would notice it had never left its cubicle.

She had looked it over, taken a red marker from her pocket, and written, “Atrocious penmanship. Barely legible. Redo.”

The next day it had taken the bus, so it could write on the commute, written through lunch again, and carefully shielded the pad during a meeting, meticulously writing out the block letters.

She had looked over his lines, frowned but scribbled “Acceptable. Barely.” and handed them back to him. He noticed her own penmanship was atrocious, but didn’t say anything.

Rule 47: had appeared after he already left for work. It read, It will report every erection, and be punished for them as I decide appropriate.

The first erection had come from reading Rule 47, and he had spent the evening naked and in shackles.

Rule 69: You wish.

Rule 76: It will not drink anything until it has finished the glass of piss I have so thoughtfully provided for it.

He looked longingly at the fresh coffee in the pot, but picked up the glass. She must have set it out last night after he’d gone to bed, it had cooled. It was worse when it was cold.

Rule 84: During the party Tuesday, it will be allowed to place the rules in our bedroom drawer; however, it will be quizzed on them, and each one it gets wrong will result in one stroke of the cane.

It had tried to memorize them, but there hadn’t been enough time. She had eventually stopped asking, but it had still been howling well before the caning ended. Afterwards, she had held him in her arms, and told him to put the notepad back on the fridge. He had minced from the bedroom to the kitchen, then collapsed back into her arms.

Rule 99: It will buy a new notepad, write “New Rules” across the top, and put this one in our bedroom drawer with the photos and letters.

He had smiled, pulled the new notepad that he had been carrying for a week out of his pocket, and wrote “New Rules” across the top.

Preview: She grinned. “Hey, like my boots?”

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.