by D. A. Maddox
He walked up the ramp, took to his knees without being told, made as though to lie down on his back like Peter. Only, he saw no pillow for him.
“No, Buddy,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, pushing the ramp aside for Officer Alejandro to slide away. He held position as Officer Thompson unsheathed his cock. And watched with his mouth an open O as a young woman descended on Peter’s boner with her mouth open wide.
But—
“Remain as you are, unfixed to the stand, and make yourself let the people touch you, exploring your nudity. Surrender yourself. Do not resist.” She checked the palm com. “I see this discipline resonates with you, but you are in no danger.” She pocketed it. “Honored guests,” she then said, waving them forward, stepping aside, “you may proceed. Enjoy yourself to the fullest.”
****
I’m getting a for-real blow job, Peter thought. And from a complete stranger.
But as soon as the words had taken form in his brain, she withdrew, trailing a thin cocktail of spittle and precum in a line from her lips to the head of his cock. Peter wailed. She couldn’t stop now.
She chuckled at him, and suddenly Peter knew. She was the one who had first led him by the penis leash. She enjoyed being in command. She delighted in control, in teasing and then denying him. She was having the time of her life.
And she was beautiful—not in the simple, uncomplicated but perfect way that Cassidy was beautiful. She was more like an Amazonian goddess with her explosion of blonde ringlets erupting over her shoulders and her pale eyes communicating an effortless air of “don’t fuck with me.”
For just a quick flash of time, Peter imagined himself in the role of conqueror. She was before him, as in a dream he hadn’t yet had, her eyes fierce and unafraid even in naked captivity. She would remember what she had done to him. She’d be unconcerned by whatever reprisal she might now face as Lord Peter the Unvanquished regarded her from a height. With her, sex would not be a conquest. It would be a challenge, and even in the daydream, she was ready for that battle.
What the fuck’s the matter with me?
But that was obvious. She stood over him, hands on her hips as though considering him. There he lay, unfinished, painfully erect, yearning, tortured by unfulfilled arousal. Couldn’t she see how he needed her right now? It wasn’t love or anything close to it. She had started something with him and not finished.
At the head of the pedestal, she bent at the waist so that her face hovered directly over his, close enough to bite him on the nose. And maybe she would.
Anything, he begged her in his mind. Just please, touch me. I adore you, and I don’t even know your name.
She said, “Want me to ride that cock, college boy?”
Peter blinked, unsure if he got the full meaning of what she had just said. Did she really mean—?
The room went quiet. A circle formed around them, masked strangers who had heard and were suddenly intrigued. Nurse Reyes-Garcia stepped through the ring, right up to the pedestal from the other side.
The torturer stood up straight. But she reached down, thrummed her fingers on his chest and grinned. “Just asking,” she said. “You did say to enjoy ourselves to the fullest.”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia huffed at that. Then she looked down. “Peter,” she said with utmost gravity, “you are under no obligation to say yes. There will be no discipline for refusing this—”
“Yes,” Peter croaked. His eyes had never left the Amazon. She couldn’t be serious, but… “Please, miss. Please… Um, yeah. All aboard.”
He didn’t consider the others. He couldn’t. All there was, right now, was her—and the agony in his core, terrible and delicious, that would soon blossom to something far more unpleasant if nothing was done about it.
“Please,” he said again.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia shook her head, but then she reached down to her belt and produced a small, square plastic wrapper that could only contain a condom. Was that really standard gear for punishment wardens around here? God, this place was so weird.
The Amazon took it without question. With practiced ease, she opened it. “Know what this is, college boy?”
“The end of my childhood,” he quipped, hardly thinking over his words. “Good times.”
One hand on his shoulder. With the other, she placed the latex ring over the tip of his cock, the membrane pressing against it.
Oh, God, I’m gonna blow. Right now.
“Stop,” he said. “I’ll—”
She withdrew her hand, seeming to understand. “Tell me when you’re ready,” she said.
Peter nodded his assent. It wouldn’t be long. He just had to relax a bit, wait a second or three…
While he did, she reached under her skirt—never taking it off, never revealing any of herself to his roving eyes—and slid off her panties. More laughter as she wrapped them over just the top of Peter’s head, which she then patted.
Okay, more ridicule. More “shaming.” Cool.
At length, he said, “Okay. I think I’m ready.”
And, apparently knowing better than to risk drawing out the process, she quickly sheathed his cock in latex and hauled herself onto the pedestal. Straddled him, even as Officer Kersey repositioned her camera to catch the action. Took him in hand.
And in one hot, fluid, unbelievable moment of cataclysmic, earth-shattering pleasure, she sat on him.
Fucked him.
Rode him. Bounced on him, juicing over him, looking not at him but straight up as Peter called out the loss of his virginity beneath her in a wordless, ongoing groan of conquered ecstasy and delight. It didn’t take her long to finish him. Peter didn’t fight it.
Eyes rolled back, toes curling, wrists jerking against the restraints, he let himself erupt in three prolonged bursts of orgasm that filled the condom and all of his world.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia stepped away, checking her palm com. The audience, Peter saw as the Amazon dismounted him without a word, had moved on to Buddy.
****
People converged on him—at least half of the guests in the room. Buddy wasn’t sure of the exact number. It was suddenly difficult to count. What the hell had just happened?
Peter got fucked, he thought, and he loved it.
But now there were hands on his arms, pulling them from his body the full length of the chain. Buddy gasped.
“We’ve got a timid one,” a woman said.
Are they going to fuck me, too?
A gently poking finger. An open palm under his testicles. Two hands in his rich, longish black hair.
No, Buddy told himself, heating with fresh embarrassment. They can’t go that far unless I say yes. I won’t let that happen—not here. Not on TV.
Not with Emma Jo in the room.
“Matron,” he begged.
“Do not speak, Buddy,” she said, her voice receding. “That is your warning. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you, I promise.”
Two closed hands, sharing his penis. He looked down on them. A man’s hand with a ring. A younger woman’s hand without one. Up and down they went, his foreskin retracting and re-enveloping his shaft in rhythm. Then they left his cock, sampling the texture of his skin here, the smoothness of a shaved bit there.
They were replaced by others. Buddy fell silent. In his mind, he was falling, losing himself. He heard his mouth noises as though made by someone else, was only dimly aware of all the ceiling cameras turning specifically on him, like being hemmed in by a ring of archers.
And now they eased him onto his back, like Peter. Distantly, one called for wipes or “the suction thing” while another leaned in with her lips—an act he had only seen for the first time minutes ago performed on his friend by a masked stranger, now about to happen to him by a different person entirely. Was this normal behavior, out in the world of post-transitional adulthood?
First, the tip of her tongue, two curtains of straight, dark hair touching down on his belly. Then her lips, sliding over him like the vacuum sucker appendage at
the end of the leash. His cockhead hit the back of her throat, nearly to the uvula; her tongue slathered the underside of his engorged shaft.
Don’t come, he said to himself. And, without understanding why, Don’t let it end. Not just … yet.
Hands fixing his wrists and ankles to the ring. A woman’s head bobbed over his middle once, twice, tasting him, sucking him off. Then, with a practiced ease, she pulled off of him. She took him in hand, careful not to abrade him with her polished nails of crimson that matched the paint on the wall. Buddy was aware of the softness of that hand, of every knuckle under the skin, the sympathetic smile on her face as, with quick, repeated pumps, she swiftly brought him to his second orgasm of the day.
Buddy, his hips convulsing, one leg shaking more than the other, squeezed his lips and eyes shut, leaking tears, and blasted off in a silent, personal apocalypse of surrender and joy.
****
Officer Garcia at her right wrist, Nurse Reyes-Garcia at her left. They released her front from the rings, led her by the arms to sit back straight on her still-spread knees. Her chest heaved with humiliation. Her eyes betrayed her with bitter tears.
I’ve been felt up by half of America, her inner voice groaned at her.
It hardly felt like hyperbole to Emma Jo. They had withdrawn at present, by feet only, and kept looking at her—the two men who were so damned happy with her (and her predicament), who just could not leave her alone.
Damn it all, she was getting damp from it, too. Part of her wanted to scream at them to come back, finish what they fucking started—
“You are a reluctant orgasm,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia observed, patting her down there, noting droplets with taps of her finger. “You struggle to enjoy being controlled. It is you who wish to control. I understand.”
Emma Jo shook her head. She didn’t want to push anyone around. She’d never taken advantage of anybody in her life.
“If anyone would know,” Officer Garcia said slyly, “It would be you, my—”
“Hush when I am speaking, Alejandro.”
Officer Garcia bowed his head. “Yes, dear.”
Nurse Reyes-Garcia snapped her fingers. “Officer Thompson, bring in the Sybian.”
Huh? Bring in the what?
Nurse Reyes-Garcia continued, “Nevertheless, you will be controlled for the duration of your sentence, Emma Jo. We shall have a full climax from you, too, a public orgasm for the enjoyment of our audience as well as for your own benefit. Your fans watching at home will celebrate it. Your particular view cam has been getting much attention and love. You are so very expressive. Behind those glasses you wear, your eyes reveal such turmoil of spirit, such adventure in suffering.”
Emma Jo took in an angry breath—
Nurse Reyes-Garcia cocked an eyebrow.
And Emma Jo kept quiet.
The nurse then, with help from Alejandro, linked the clasps around her wrists to the clasps at her ankles, forcing her to remain in this position, arms in a downward V, her knees still apart as she had been guided to position them.
She did not see the dreaded Sybian at first, when it arrived, but she felt it slide between her thighs from behind as Officer Thompson guided it into place. She saw Officer Kersey roll her ground-level cam in front of her. She heard Officer Grant take up position by Officer Thompson. She looked down.
She was still shocked to see her bright pink lips so out there, so open. But what they hovered over now was a right fucking mystery to her. Or maybe not…
Mostly, it was like a miniature version of the horse Buddy and Peter had been strapped to for yesterday’s beatings. But over its top, a rubbery blanket of prongs—and just under her pussy, a thick ridge of pronged latex, as if a gigantic caterpillar lay in a parallel line to the opening of her sex.
“There are other attachments,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said.
Emma Jo brought her head back up to glare at her, cheeks awash with trepidation and shame.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia, receiving a remote control from Officer Thompson—who paused to smile brightly at her—remained unruffled. “But we will not require such attachments. You still have a partially intact hymen, Emma Jo, and we shall do nothing that causes you lasting or permanent injury or scarring.”
Okay, thanks for that, Emma Jo thought. Not so much for talking about my half-hymen on TV, though.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia pushed a button. Between her legs, under her, the wide pink blanket came alive with vibration. The tiny prongs that would make contact with the inside of her legs seemed to reach up, as though yearning for her. The protrusions along the ridge swayed in a long, slow, repeating wave, an imminent massage, a masseuse that would never tire.
“Emma Jo,” Nurse Reyes-Garcia said, “sit on it.”
Her mouth opened and closed. Doing that of her own free will—that would be … so dirty. So sinful.
“Would you prefer Alejandro and I guide you in place and hold you there?”
Unable to wipe her own cheeks, catching breath, Emma Jo nodded.
“Really?” Nurse Reyes-Garcia sounded surprised. “You must say so aloud, then. I will brook no misunderstanding in this.”
“Pl-please, Madam Reyes-Garcia,” Emma Jo stammered, while people in the room watched from a short distance and laughed. “Help me. M-make me sit on it. Hold me there.”
“Very well. Alejandro?”
Alejandro at the crook of one elbow, Nurse Reyes-Garcia at the other. Either one of them alone would have been too strong for Emma Jo. She only resisted a little, out of pure reflex. Partly of her own will, eased by a force greater than herself, she felt herself placed vag-first onto the waiting Sybian.
An indrawn breath, nearly a shout—then, “Gah! God. Oh, shit!”
She couldn’t contain it. No one objected.
Ticklers again, not unlike the ones in the suckers when her breasts had been teased and tortured, now thrummed over her inner thighs. But the latex ridge—that fucking thing seemed to conform to the shape of her opening, filling it though not penetrating, its feelers brushing her from the inside like tendril-mops spinning in a car wash.
How she howled, letting it all out. How helpless she was, how exposed. She looked down on herself, saw her protuberant lips licked over and over again by the tiny invaders of the Sybian. How her body jerked.
She shrieked, beaten. Jerked in place again.
And melted, legs spread, onto the merciless machine. She oozed all over it. She panted, realizing.
I came.
Cheers from all around.
Officer Thompson, who now held the remote, turned off the Sybian.
But Emma Jo’s body, and her soul, continued to twitch.
****
And now the whole crowd gathered around the central figure, the naked, sexless, animatronic dummy. It breathed heavier at their approach. It had been strapped, belly-down, to its pedestal, its face propped up on a cushioned chin rest, staring outward with its black-speck eyes.
“Please,” it said. Its voice was as androgynous as its body, but the emotion sounded genuine. “Go easy on me.”
That, Peter thought, may be the freakiest thing I have seen all day.
He didn’t dwell on it, though. He was, himself, trying to get comfortable on the damned chin rest, trying to ignore the way his genitals were pressed against the cold, black marble, his ass in the wind, fully presented for chastisement. Across the room, Cassidy stared straight ahead—as if she had a choice, similarly bound—awaiting her turn.
Facing them both—all three of them if you counted freakin’ Jimmy/Jane Neutron over there—Emma Jo and Buddy stood where they would be expected to stand witness to this. They hadn’t been assigned punishment. All they had to do was wait for it to be over with, their hands on top of their heads.
Many of the twelve tour guests had taken this opportunity to get their one free pic, or selfie, with Emma Jo or Buddy. Some knelt to get their face shot next to Buddy’s unit. One even stood behind Emma Jo to give her a hand bra while another used
her camera.
Still, Peter thought, on the whole I’d rather be either one of them than me right now.
A few, learning they could, had stated their interest in having an action shot of themselves punishing the two thusly condemned inmates.
“I’m going to choose nine of you,” Officer Thompson said, “the best nine ladies and gents out of twelve who can demonstrate the ability to repeat most closely what I show you here.” She brandished a long, flat, bendy strip of polished amber wood in her hand. “You do not swing it.” She positioned herself right next to the buttocks of the animatronic penitent.
“Officer, please, I’m scared.”
“You are not to speak to the inmates as you punish them,” she said. “You are not to acknowledge anything they say. You signed the papers, ladies and gents, and our convicts will get what’s coming to them. In this case, three swats of the flexor rod to the bare posterior of one Cassidy Harper—”
Cassidy’s lips thinned. She blinked.
“…and six for the smartass, who could have controlled himself perfectly well but made a decision not to.”
Yep, Peter thought, actually relieved on Cassidy’s behalf. True. Guilty as charged. And if I were allowed to talk right now, I’d ask for the Last Rights to be blessed upon my butt. Oh, buttocks, are you sorry for your sins—
“You hold this end of the flexor rod, like so,” Officer Thompson explained, demonstrating, “just about a foot and a half over the rump roast, then pull back the business end of the rod to about seventy-five degrees, like this. Ninety degrees, that’s way too much for these softies. They ain’t that bad, okay?”
From the robot: “Oh, God. I’m sorry! Don’t!”
Peter closed his eyes. But when he heard the crack, his body wrenched against the restraints. That thing was fucking loud.
So was the robot.
Six, Peter thought, suddenly terrified. I’m dead. Oh, fuck. I’ve had it.
Cassidy, crying freely again. Saying nothing.
“Got it?” Officer Thompson asked. “Who’s first? Line starts here.”