by D. A. Maddox
Two slides in a row. The Neutrals, on the whole, were most generous.
Another diving board.
Bitch—why?
Tabitha and Brandy, cuffed to his either side, held him still, never relenting for a second, keeping him defenseless against the oncoming brigade of finger monsters.
Ultimately, the whole experience was so transcendental and decadent and tribal, Scott’s greatest fear was of shooting his load before the line was done—which, he hadn’t forgotten, carried the greatest penalty. And when the Doms started by him, most seemed to have clued into that.
One after the other: slide, slide, slide.
Scott considered himself neither homosexual nor bisexual, but it just … didn’t seem to matter in this scenario. He could not turn himself off to it, no matter who did it to him. Oh, but his straight-laced, turbo religious dickhead of a father would be much displeased with him—whereas Mom would laugh it off, tell him he got was coming to him by being dumb enough to show up.
The end of the line approached. Scott had done his best to divert his thoughts, to not blow like Old Faithful in high temper, but he was close, so close…
1, 2, 3 … kick!
Slide, slide.
Near to the very end, his former friends Rusty and Zeke advanced with knowing smirks on their faces. And…
Seriously?
Both of them had stripped off their pants and underwear. They dangled and bobbed their way to him without a care in the world, two hairy, bare legs kicking out to the side in unison with every three-count.
“Solidarity, comrade!” Rusty called to him.
“We’re here to help,” Zeke said when they were seconds away. “Tell us what you need, man. To help you through. Order up.”
It was Rusty’s turn.
“Uh—diving board, please. Stat.”
Rusty did it.
To Zeke: “Yeah. Uh—diving board again. Yeah. DB that shit.”
Zeke did it.
It got him through the final two—both women, both slides. He’d made it. The music stopped.
“Well played, pig,” Malcolm said, clapping, as fifty-some members of The Select returned to their seats. Then, to Tabitha and Brandy. “I don’t want to be responsible for this kid getting a medically verified case of blue balls. Turn him around and finish him.” Then, back to Scott. “Unless you want me to do it? Don’t bother me, either way.”
There was no answering that. He didn’t especially want it from any of them—much as his balls felt fit to explode from need—and certainly not in front of the only woman in this room he actually cared about. But before they’d even turned him back around again, Savannah herself spoke up, her voice tentative and tremulous and fearful.
“Please, Master—and please, Mistress Veronica … if it pleases Masters…”
Time hung.
“I’ll do it.”
****
She could hardly believe she’d said it. To perform an act like that with people watching was unthinkable. Her body remained aflame with humiliation just from being as exposed as she was. Inwardly, she had to confess a guilty relief when the attention had been taken from her, however briefly, even though the diversion had come at Scott’s expense. This was not what she’d had in mind when she’d agreed to go out with him—or, not in an environment like this.
You never know, the voice of her mother whispered from the past, until you try it.
Granted, she’d been talking about Savannah trying lobster tail in butter sauce at the time, not about Savannah getting wet at the sight of her new boyfriend being cock-tortured.
She felt such pity for him, enduring the scornful, dismissive, intimate touch of so many, like it was nothing in the world to them—or maybe everything in the world to them, making him suffer so.
Savannah would never do that to Scott. If they let her, she’d be kind to him. He’d been so brave already.
Also, she kind of wanted to know what one of those things felt like in her hand.
“Pig-slut, you must be joking.”
Veronica. Disdainful, all-powerful, fully-dressed Veronica, sliding the mic back into its plastic sheath on the top of the mic stand, clacking over to Savannah in her bootheels and her black dress. Looking her over slowly from stem to stern, as though seeing her for the first time.
“Mistress, no. Your … pig-slut … will do it, if it pleases Mistress.”
And, inwardly, You have to say yes. Listen to the crowd, “Ronnie”. They want this. I’ve got you.
Savannah understood perfectly well that this was a trial, an initiation. It wasn’t supposed to be easy—but still, even when she’d pledged Gamma Phi, it wasn’t like she and the rest of the plebes hadn’t been able to have some fun with it, too.
Down on the floor, Tabitha and Brandy had turned Scott back to face her. He was difficult to read. Clearly, he was as surprised as anyone—stunned, even, and he said not a word. But if he was displeased, that penis of his sure didn’t show it.
Without bothering with the side steps, Malcolm heaved himself up onto the stage and stalked right past her, muttering a quick, “Hold on,” as he went. Savannah heard him rustling through items on the A-frames.
Veronica echoed her words, “If it pleases Mistress.” Then, standing behind her, undid her hair restraints and rested her head on Savannah’s shoulder so that they were cheek to cheek. She put a hand over her breast, thumbed a nipple. It hardened instantly. Whatever her faults, Veronica was good at sniffing out the … sensitive places.
She ran her other hand down Savannah’s hip, heating her core further. “Your boyfriend pleases Mistress, pig-slut. I’ve wanted a hunk of meat off that slab all night. But I’m curious. Are you experienced? Be honest. I can smell a lie like a fart in a car.”
Even with the mic off, everyone could hear them—because everyone was quiet. Everyone was listening.
Malcolm passed them again, carrying a ball with two straps dangling from it in one hand and a ten-foot long wooden pole with a hook at the end of it in the other. “Cuff him in front and get him up here,” he said. Then, to Scott, “Do not say a word.”
“No, Mistress,” Savannah confessed. Or wasn’t she defending herself, a twenty-one-year-old in the third year of transition? “I’ve never done … anything like this before.”
From the seats:
“Let her do it, Ronnie.”
“Fuck, yeah. You go, girl.”
“I so want to see this.”
Anonymous Neutrals and Doms. Her fellow pig-sluts, all on their knees, looked up from the floor in front of the stage and stared at her in wonder. Savannah felt their eyes like small animals crawling across her flesh with their prickly little claws out.
For maybe five seconds, Scott was free of the cuffs. His penis bobbed up and down. The tip was swollen, something between fuchsia and purple. The cleft shone with unspent liquid. His arms were bent, shaking, as though he willfully restrained them from doing anything—an effort that was nothing short of pure torment.
Then Tabitha secured his hands up front, as ordered. She and Brandy each took an elbow and marched him to the side-steps, then up onto the stage itself.
“Tell me you’ll pay for this privilege,” Veronica said. “You’ll take five from the single tail. Three to warm you up, two to light you on fire.”
But I don’t know what that is, Savannah thought, wide-eyed and petrified and shamefully excited.
“Don’t be so conflicted. Don’t be so upset. Its tail is nice and wide. It won’t mark you or make you bleed.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Savannah said, trying desperately not to think. “Your … pig-slut will … take five from the single tail.”
“Yes,” Veronica said, repeating her again, “you will.” Then she stepped aside and, producing a key from her belt, un-manacled just her right hand. “This is all you get, and it’s all you’ll need. He’s ready to shoot. Won’t make it ten seconds, I bet.”
Then he stood before her, still held at either side by Tabi
tha and Brandy, eyes darting.
“Open your mouth,” Malcolm told him. Then, when Scott obeyed, he set down the pole and stuffed the ball into his mouth, wrapping the straps around the back of his head and securing them there.
It was a good fit, Savannah couldn’t help but notice, sorry as she felt for him. It stretched his jaws wide, both rows of teeth bared above and below the ball, biting onto it reflexively, uselessly.
“He likes you,” Malcolm said to Savannah, patting the side of Scott’s face. “He’d warn you before he comes on your pretty face, if he could. Hell, he might still try. You just do what comes naturally, girl. It’s just semen. We all came from it.”
That’s giving men a lot of credit, Savannah thought. You guys have the easy part.
But she reached for him, anyway, without speaking—and Malcolm slapped her hand away, hard.
“Not yet,” he said, almost gently, though the sting from his slap still burned. “You can hardly reach him like this, little bitch. One sec.”
Malcolm recovered the pole and held it straight up, high as he could reach with it. Malcolm was a tall man, and the pole was ten feet long, but no way would it reach the ceiling, which extended another ten feet beyond the stage lights—and those were twenty feet up. Nevertheless, she heard a magnetic click as the hook caught something up there. He then took three steps back, holding the rod at an angle, dragging whatever he’d hooked up there forward until it must be right in front of where Savannah stood manacled to the totem poles. He pulled the pole in, dragging his catch down and down, until it finally came into view:
Wrists restraints, linked by three rings of steel chain, all at the end of a retractable rawhide cord.
In one practiced, coordinated motion, Tabitha and Brandy brought Scott’s hands up, where the cuffs magnetized to the middle ring at the same moment Malcolm double-tapped the hook and disengaged the pole.
Seemed Scott shaved his armpits, along with much of his chest hair. There was just a thin black line of it, like a one-direction map pointing her way to not-so-buried treasure. He looked nice.
No, he looked fucking hot.
The rawhide pulled tight, automatically trying to retract back to the ceiling—and take Scott with it, if only Tabitha and Brandy weren’t still gripping him by the arms.
Savannah tried to read him. His eyes blinked at her, still bloodshot and still not crying. She hoped that meant he was basically okay. That this was okay. His penis had wilted, somewhat, sticking out more or less parallel to the floor.
“Legs on three,” Tabitha said. “One, two—three!”
And they let go of him. For a hot second, his body rose—one foot, two feet, three, hauled off the floor, stretching him—until they caught him again by the ankles. Behind the gag, Scott howled, then made something like an inhaled scream when the ladies spread his legs wide, mid-air, his cock jutting out two inches from Savannah’s shocked, open mouth.
“There,” Malcolm said, clapping his hands once in wide swing like he was clearing them of dust. “Now, you can reach him. Hurry up and make him come, Savannah. Sooner you do, sooner we let him down, and it ain’t like I’ve got anything against him. He may be one of my own kind, if you get me. But … the longer you wait, the more it hurts him—harder it is for him to squirt. Gravity’s fault, not mine. You get the idea.”
With her one free hand, Savannah reached out and took him. Held his cock loosely in her fist. And holy cow, it really did feel like there was an actual bone in there.
From the seats, “Oh, this is wondrous. Just outstanding entertainment.”
Shusterman. Savannah tried to ignore him.
Above her, Scott groaned. Was that good or bad?
His penis swelled yet more, trying to bend upward. Savannah let it. She didn’t want to hurt him, and she didn’t know what to do.
Footsteps. Savannah peeked around Scott’s waist and found Nurse Sustrick standing between two pig-sluts at the foot of the stage. “Don’t squeeze, Savannah,” she said. “If you’re not going to use your mouth, lick your hand and keep holding it lightly, just like you’re already doing. Pump your hand up and down on it—never holding it too tight.”
She tried it. She licked her hand several times, lubing not only her palm but each individual finger. Slowly, gently, she pumped him. More low noises from above her. The tip was glistening again. That had to be good, she decided. “Scott? Scott, are you all right?”
Still working him. On either side of her, Tabitha and Brandy smiled encouragement.
He was trying to make words through the ball gag, even trying to make it sound conversational, though nothing came out that was intelligible. By the tone, though, which Savannah was sure he honeyed with pure sarcasm, he might have been saying, Who, me? Oh, yeah, I’m good. Just kinda being jerked off right now. You?
“Make a fuck ring with your thumb and forefinger, Savannah,” Nurse Sustrick said, “then pump him like that. And go faster. He’ll ejaculate in no time, so be ready.”
From the audience, more groans. Was that Shusterman, too?
Savannah made the fuck ring, encircling the bottom of Scott’s shaft. She pumped him faster. Oh, how she wished her left hand was free—for herself. She was already juicing. She could feel it.
Then, on impulse, curious—the flesh down there was so funny-looking—she leaned in and licked a streak from the bottom to the top of his scrotum … and heard another scream from behind the gag, which would have frightened her, except he—
Squirted a shot of hot white man milk onto the top of her forehead, right over the bridge of her nose.
“Don’t stop.”
That was Brandy.
She pumped him some more, and he shot off again. And then again, more weakly, a third time.
His legs were rigid, locked at the knees, corded muscles rock solid with paralysis and tension. His whole body convulsed once, twice. He moaned again, his muffled cry a one-note song of destruction and ecstasy.
Oh, boy, Savannah thought, drawing her hand over her besmeared forehead before his semen could drip into her eyes, this smells funky. Nothing to compare it to. Unique.
They let him down. Veronica re-secured Savannah’s right hand to the totem pole, then mopped down her face with a dampened kerchief. Malcolm led Scott, still gagged, to his totem poles twelve or fifteen feet away.
“Hope that was fun,” he said, replacing Scott’s cuffs with the black iron manacles, securing him again at the wrists and ankles. “Hold onto your asses, though. We’re about to take a piece out of both of them. Punishment display for the edification of future Doms. Probably the toughest part of the night, depending on what you’re into. Won’t be so bad after you’re through it, so brace yourselves and try to roll with it.”
The single tail. The birch. Savannah hadn’t forgotten.
From the audience, a polite request: “Anyone with a tissue to spare?”
Shusterman, looking first to his left, then to his right, one hand half in his pants. His bad leg was stretched out parallel to his cane. It twitched. He seemed not to notice.
Sitting next to him, sighing, Professor Durst went into her purse and passed him one. “A decent man would do that at home, after,” she said. “You’d enjoy the rest of the show better if you waited.”
“Thank you,” he replied, cleaning up, “both for the assistance and for the advice. And do get over yourself, Marcy. I don’t see any decent people here.”
Chapter Eighteen:
Winning
Once Malcolm had Scott secured, he unfastened the ball gag straps and freed his mouth.
The tops of Scott’s totem poles had no restraints. He turned his head to Savannah. And there she was, looking out over the crowd, avoiding him. She could look at him, if she wanted—Veronica hadn’t retied her hair—but she chose instead to survey the army of gawkers studying them both. Perhaps she was in shock. Maybe she was just scared. They were both in for it—for the benefit and “edification” of the others—and they hadn’t even done any
thing wrong.
But what Savannah had just done for him…
From anyone else, it would have left him unspeakably humiliated. But from her, even in front of the crowd, it had been the best thing he’d ever felt in his life. And then he had come on her face.
“Savannah,” he said, hearing the guilt in his own voice, not really caring, “Thank you. I’m glad it was you. And—and I’m sorry.”
That drew her attention. “Scott, what? Why are you sorry?”
Malcolm, chuckling, yanked at the top head of Scott’s right-hand totem pole, which popped off with a loud fumph. Within that pole, there was an iron rod, some kind of an oversized metallic batting tee that speared all three heads and stabilized them. Scott would never have even guessed they were detachable.
“For the facial,” Malcolm readily answered on Scott’s behalf. “Boyfriend feels he did you a discourtesy.” Then he got back to work.
“Oh,” Savannah said, feeling Veronica run a tape measure over her, shoulder to hip, underarm to the small of her back, neck to buttocks, all without speaking to her. Her muscles spasmed under Veronica’s casual ministrations. She wriggled and squirmed. Scott could see the top of her clit glistening.
She said, “That was, um, surprising, yeah—even though I knew it was … ah, coming. So, ah, no problem, Scott. Kind of my fault, anyway.”
Another yank, and the top head at Scott’s left totem pole came off. Then Malcolm removed the middle ones, to which Scott’s wrists were chained, and—waving Rusty over for help—moved them forward and closer together on the stage floor, forcing Scott to bend all the way over at the waist.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said as Malcolm and Rusty detached the lowest totem pole heads from the metal support tees, lifting him by the feet to do it, palms on the floor. His legs jerked.
“H-have you?” Savannah inquired, looking over the thick, black, leather, single-tail bullwhip that Veronica flashed in front of her face. “Do share.”
“Yeah—quite a lot, actually,” Scott said, as Malcolm and Rusty reconfigured the totem pole segments so that he could not rise from his hands and knees. “This seriously was not the best idea for a first date I’ve ever heard, Savannah.”
