Arrayed on the pegboard along the left wall (just like the one in his garage, where he stored his tools) were coils of hemp and cotton rope, clamps and turnbuckles, a rattan cane, several paddles of wood and rubber, and a vicious bullwhip.
He knew that it was vicious. From experience.
The plastic storage bins under the pegboard, spray-painted black to fit in with the decor, held more implements and supplies.
Jack hovered on the threshold of the dungeon, temporarily paralyzed by fear and excitement. She gave him a little push.
“Get going. Or I’ll send you home to Maude.”
He stumbled in and stood, slightly dizzy, in the middle of the room. Helen went over to rummage in the storage boxes.
“Strip, boy,” she called over her shoulder. “Now.”
Jack kicked off his boots and unzipped his jeans. His heart was pounding again, so hard that it hurt. His cock surged as he dragged his pants off. His fingers fumbled at the buttons on his flannel shirt.
He was down to his underwear when she turned back to him, her arms full of paraphernalia.
“What? Not naked yet? Get a move on, boy!”
Hurriedly, he pulled the undershirt over his head, exposing his broad, hairy torso. The stretchy cotton undershorts snagged on his swollen prick as he wrestled them off.
“Get over to the rack.” Her palm landed on his pale butt cheek with a resounding smack. That single hot, sharp blow nearly sent him off. He tightened his muscles in alarm, struggling for control. If he shot his wad without her permission, she’d beat him till he couldn’t sit for days. That always made Maude suspicious.
Helen secured his wrists to the upper crossbar, but left his ankles free. She circled his stretched body, appraising his state of arousal, making her plans.
“So, you were playing poker tonight?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Did you drink a lot of beer?” He knew right then what her nasty game was going to be. His cheeks burned with the understanding.
“Some, Ma’am.”
“How much, boy?”
“Three cans of Bud, Ma’am.”
“Not enough. Drink this.” She poured a big glass of water and held it to his lips. He realized that he actually was parched, and drank greedily.
She refilled the glass. “Again.”
He could feel the liquid settling in his gut. “I can’t . . .”
“What did you say, boy? Why are you here, if you’re not going to obey me?” Her anger melted him, then brought him to a boil. He drank two more glasses.
“Good. Now, my little boy, I know that sometimes you can’t control yourself. But I have what you need.”
She picked up something white. It was an old-fashioned cloth diaper, but on a giant scale, big enough to fit a six-footer like Jack. He wondered briefly where she had found it. Unlike most of her equipment, this wasn’t something they sold at Home Depot.
“Spread your legs, baby.” The soft cotton caressed his rigid prick, making him moan. Her fingers were cool on his sweating flesh as she pinned the thing at each hip.
She stood back to admire her handiwork. He blushed again, aware that he must look ridiculous, embarrassed to realize that this simply made him hornier. “Very good. But I’ll need something pretty strong, won’t I, for you to feel it through that thick diaper?”
She retrieved the cane from the wall. “This should do the trick.” The flexible rattan rod whistled through the air as she warmed up. The hair at the back of his neck stood on end at the sound. His balls tightened into aching knots.
“Open your thighs wider. And bend over so the fabric’s stretched tight across your butt. That’s good.”
Jack trembled, off-balance, waiting for the first stroke. Leaning forward, he found that the padded cuffs around his wrists supported most of his weight. Then again, he felt as though the lump of granite jutting from his crotch would be heavy enough to drag him to the floor.
He had been hard half an hour before he left the game, knowing that this would be his final destination. He hoped nobody had noticed his hard-on when he got up to leave. Early delivery at the store, he had told them. Need to get my sleep.
All the last week he’d been harried by anxious dreams, but he’d sleep soundly tonight. He always did, after a session.
“Ready, baby?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he murmured. Still the pain surprised, biting into his flesh as though his ass was totally bare. “Ow!” he yelled. He had time for two deep breaths before she slashed at him again. His cock jerked against the cotton that bound it against his belly, threatening to explode. The cane left tracks of fire burning across his buttocks. The agony spread and mutated, merging with the awful pressure in his bladder.
Each searing stroke hurt more than the last. He was shaking, near tears, from the excruciating pain and the effort of staying in control. Yet, when she paused to get her breath, he craved another stroke. The pain was almost unbearable, but its loss was worse still.
She might have read his mind.
“Enough, baby?”
Jack was silent, overwhelmed with shame. He didn’t want to admit it, his weakness, his sickness.
“Answer me, boy. Have you had enough of my cane? Or do you want more?”
The authority in her voice sent a delicious chill up his spine. Did it even matter what he wanted? He was in her power. Everything was up to her.
“No answer. I guess that means you’re done, that you can’t take any more . . .”
“No . . . more . . .” The croaking voice seemed to belong to someone else.
“What was that?”
“More. Please, Ma’am. Give me more.”
Her mocking laugh shriveled him. It hurt more than the cane. Yet strangely, even though his erection sagged, he was still excited. His balls were still tight. His bladder was as swollen as his cock had been, and somehow that turned him on, too.
“It’s hard to admit that you’re such a kinky little baby, isn’t it? That you like it when I beat you. But it’s OK. That’s what I’m here for, to give you what you’re afraid to ask for from anyone else.
“Let’s check your marks. See if I think you can take any more. We can’t send you back to Maude with your butt looking like barbecued chicken.”
The mention of his wife’s name made him squirm. She knew that, Helen did. It was all part of the performance.
Just because he understood didn’t mean that he failed to react.
She stood behind him, close to his suspended bulk. He could feel the heat coming off her body, smell her talc and a hint of oceany woman-scent. She barely touched the edge of the diaper covering his ass. The welts on his butt screamed as the cloth moved against them.
He sucked in his breath, struggling once again for control. The urge to pee was unbearable. Gently, Helen peeled the cotton away from his wounded skin.
“Hmm. Very dramatic. I know you’re a tough guy, but I think you’ve had enough for tonight.”
Jack was about to protest, to swear that he could endure another dozen strokes. She cupped his butt cheeks in her cool palms, and squeezed lightly.
Echoes of the cane’s agony raced through him. He screamed. His back arched. His legs turned to rubber. For a moment, he forgot to tighten the muscles controlling his bladder.
The pungent odor of urine filled the dungeon. Jack began to cry.
He flinched as Helen landed a vicious slap on his lacerated ass. “Oh, you naughty baby! You’ve wet yourself again. Naughty, naughty! Now I’m going to have to change you. Then, I’m going to punish you.”
She unbuckled the wrist restraints and massaged his shoulders to stimulate the blood flow. Her touch brought the blood back to his cock as well. The soaked cloth clung to the growing bulk of his erection, a guilty pleasure that made him harder still.
“But for now, I’m going to let you stand there in your wet diaper and think about what a bad baby you are.”
Helen stepped out of her skirt and unfastened her bra.
She wore no panties. Jack watched from under lowered eyelids, admiring her fair, freckled skin and ripe body. A bushy tangle of red-gold curls decorated the place where her solid thighs met. Fat, juicy-looking nipples crowned her pendulous breasts.
She seated herself in the armchair, spreading her thighs a bit. Subtle musk mingled with the sharp stink of his pee.
“Come here, boy,” she ordered.
He was at her feet in a moment. After fumbling with the safety pins for a while, she gave up and yanked the soaked diaper down to his knees. He groaned as the cloth rasped over his welts. His cock sprang out, fully hard again.
Helen reached out to pinch the purple skin stretched over the knob with her lacquered fingernails. “What a nasty boy you are! Well, I know how to handle nasty boys.” She patted her thighs. “Over my knee. Now.”
Trying to hide his eagerness, Jack draped himself across her lap. Helen was a big woman. His feet reached the floor, but just barely. He spread his legs to brace himself, and she trapped his erection between her thighs.
“Like that, do you? Well, let’s see whether you like this.”
Her cupped palm landed solidly on his ass, directly on top of one of his stripes. He yelled and jerked his hips away. His captured cock rubbed against the silky skin of her inner thighs. Pain and pleasure twisted together, racing through his body, and leaving him helpless.
“Breathe,” murmured Helen. “This is going to hurt.”
She spanked him, hard, first with one hand, then the other. The sting of her slaps was bad enough, but she deliberately aimed her strokes so that they’d reawaken the agony of his caning. Jack writhed against her, trying without success to escape the pain. She gripped him around his waist and rained furious blows on the tenderized skin of his butt cheeks.
“You should see your ass, boy,” she gasped, breathless from her exertion. “You’re red as a lobster. Can’t even see the marks of the cane anymore. Everything’s a nice, even scarlet.” She aimed a few more slaps at his punished flesh, then stopped. She was clearly getting tired.
His skin burned and his muscles ached, but to be free from her blows was still a blissful relief. He lay in her lap, panting, more and more concious of his swollen cock poking between her thighs. He moved a little, stealthily trying to increase the contact with her firm body, and was rewarded with another slap.
“Oh, you evil little boy! Trying to get off, are you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He couldn’t hide anything from Helen. She knew him, better than anyone did.
“Get up. Let me see you.” Awkwardly, he worked his bulk backwards, off her lap, gritting his teeth as his cock repeatedly brushed against her body. Finally he was kneeling at her side, his rigid prick swaying and pointing up at the ceiling.
She reached down and squeezed it, hard. He closed his eyes and held his breath, struggling for control.
“Well, you’ve managed to hold on through some heavy stuff. Maybe you deserve to come. Would you like that?”
He didn’t dare raise his eyes, but he knew she could see his smile. “Oh, yes, Ma’am. Please, let me come.”
“OK, you can come. But you have to jerk yourself off using your wet diaper.”
“Oh, no, please, Ma’am! Not that! I can’t! That’s disgusting!” Disgusting or not, his cock ratcheted up another few degrees toward the vertical at the thought.
“It’s that, or I’ll send you and that proud erection home right now.”
It was no good pleading. He knew that.
“Come on, Jack.” Her voice held a new hint of intimacy and complicity. “Don’t disappoint me. We both know you want it.”
He crawled on over to the crumpled pile of fabric that lay near her feet. The smell was strong. He raised himself onto his knees, spreading his thighs for balance. Mastering his revulsion, he grabbed the diaper and wrapped it around his cock.
The damp cloth clung to his flesh, cool against his fevered skin. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the odor and all the shameful memories that it awakened, and gripped his cock in strong fingers.
The diaper wouldn’t slide. There was too much friction. It hardly mattered. Helen was watching him, leaning forward eagerly, lips parted, nipples taut, thighs open. One more squeeze was all it took.
Pleasure, untainted by pain, overwhelmed him. His whole body convulsed. Milky fluid spurted from his spasming cock, showering Helen’s toes. He closed his eyes and felt all the tension, the rage, the fear, the shame, the self-disgust, flow out of him, leaving him empty and at peace.
“Clean me off.” Helen’s voice, gentle despite its message of command, broke his reverie. As though in a trance, he bent and began to lick his come off her white feet. He didn’t mind the bitter taste. Long after he had consumed every drop, he continued to lap at her warm, fragrant flesh, dipping his tongue into the crevices between her toes, tracing the smooth arch of her instep.
“Enough.” Helen raised him up until his face was level with hers. “Enough.” She bent and kissed him with closed lips. “Get dressed. I’ll wait in the living room.”
Then she was gone. Jack groaned as he clambered to his feet and looked around for his clothes. The muscles in his thighs and shoulders were sore. His buttocks were on fire. He couldn’t stand the tightness of his undershorts, though the rough denim created its own special agony against his punished flesh. Every step reminded him of Helen and his own degradation.
He smiled when he saw her, sitting in front of the TV watching the late news. She had put on a flowered housecoat, exactly like something Maude would wear. His heart swelled with something, something that actually felt quite a bit like love.
He fished another twenty out of his pocket and added it to the pile of cash. “Thank you, Helen. I really appreciate it.”
She laughed. “Wait till tomorrow, Jack, when the pain really kicks in and you might not be so grateful!”
“No,” he said softly. “I will.”
She stood up to see him to the door. She patted his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “So, Jack. What will you tell Maude?”
A smile lit his middle-aged features, making him suddenly handsome.
“I’ll just tell her that I had a lucky night.”
All About the Ratings
Sophie Mouette
It all started when he came backstage during her cooking show and stomped around. The walls were thin. The vibrations carried.
Caroline had been making a soufflé in front of a live studio audience.
Okay, the audience hadn’t been more than ten people – fifteen, tops – and had included her grandmother, her aunt, five desperately single men, and three women she’d gone to high school with. But it was still embarrassing, and she was still certain that Drew had done it on purpose.
And then, to make matters worse, he started stealing her ratings.
Hers had been the highest-ranked cooking show on WPVL, Peaveyville’s cable channel, until he’d come along. On her show she’d emphasized simple but elegant meals, the type that you could serve on good china and light candles for, but that didn’t involve complex recipes or hours of preparation.
Drew had breezed into town and offered up his own take: grilling, barbecuing, and good old-fashioned home cooking. The station manager, desperate to fill a sudden scheduling hole left when septuagenarian Etta of Etta’s Gardening had fallen in love (at her age!) and up and moved to Florida, had hired Drew, despite the fact that both he and Caroline had similar shows.
Cooking with Caroline had had a wide audience. Busy career women recorded it. Stay-at-home moms swore by it. The local lesbians tuned in, and she suspected their interest wasn’t always in the garnishing tips. She also had a variety of male viewers, both straight (for the same reason as the lesbians) and gay.
When Warning: Man Cooking came on the air, Caroline lost the gay men and a fair number of the straight women right off the bat. Fact was, Caroline could see why those segments of her audience had defected. Drew had a cheeky grin, a lock of black hair that tend
ed to flop endearingly onto his forehead, and an ass you could bounce quarters off of. Plus he eschewed the traditional chef’s jacket and baggy pants, preferring form-fitting T-shirts that showed off his biceps and faded, tight jeans that showed off his impressive package.
Some of the hetero men switched to Warning: Man Cooking, too, because Drew was a non-threatening guy’s guy who gave it to you straight.
Curse him!
Caroline had to rebuild her audience base. She had to grab back her ratings. And she was willing to do whatever it took.
Lee Remini, the station manager, called her into his office after she taped her latest show (shrimp kebobs, Thai noodles, and cabbage salad). She’d had time to change into her usual outfit of mid-thigh, swishy skirt and high heels. Her one regret was that the cooking counter blocked view of her legs, which she considered her best features.
She was dismayed to find Drew already in Lee’s office, lounging in a chair as if he owned the place, long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him.
The problem – the biggest, nastiest, most annoying facet of this whole rotten situation – was that Drew Benjamin made her panties wet.
Trying to ignore him, she slid into the other chair, searching Lee’s face for some hint of what was to come. It couldn’t be good.
Lee burbled about the popularity of both their shows and how grateful he was about having them at his station. Caroline only half-listened. She was intensely aware of Drew next to her. She could smell his aftershave, musky and no doubt filled with illegal pheromones that people could smell through their TV screens. She was aware when he shifted in his seat, aware of his strong, long-fingered hand resting easily on the arm of the chair.
There were times, late at night, when the one thing that would bring her off was the thought of those hands on her body, tweaking her aching nipples, plunging into her wet sex until her hips rose off the bed and she panted out his name and . . .
“Iron Chef,” Lee said.
“What?” Caroline said at the same time Drew did. They glanced at each other, startled.
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