by D. A. Maddox
****
Officer Thompson dismounted, patted Peter’s head, gave the back of his neck a motherly squeeze, and stepped back.
He stopped, as directed, with his cock about half a foot from the open, waiting freezer pack.
“Put your knees apart, horsie,” Miss Anders said, also patting his head, using the same flat-hand strokes she had with Fury, stopping only after she had done the same spot over his forehead and between his eyes.
Peter put his knees apart. The cord lay on the ground in front of him—no one threatened him with it, at present—but the bit was still in his mouth. She’s going to masturbate me, he thought with a strange mixture of excited anticipation and horror. This woman who was so nice to me and my parents—she’s gonna play with my joystick until I squirt on camera again. And she looks so happy about it.
But it was not to be.
“Funny thing about horses,” she said, now stroking his back, raising gooseflesh, “is that there’s really not much to do once you’ve got the red rocket out. And, oh my, there it is already.”
Peter kept his arms locked in front of him, his knees still spread, and let her enjoy a good, probing look at his “red rocket.” He guessed it probably was red, judging by the strain he now felt, cock muscles against outer skin.
There was nothing for him to say. Nothing he could say. No self-defense via sarcasm. He could only allow it to happen.
Miss Anders mopped off some of the cream she’d smeared on his forehead, nose, and back, then resumed lubing her gloved hands again. “Awkward as it is, you do get used to it,” she said conversationally, as if she were discussing with a journalist the details of a mundane job. “The horse takes over very soon, especially the ones who are used to it and expect it. There’s not much to do other than hold it when that happens. And keep clear of the back legs, of course.”
Peter looked at her, trapped between wonder and terror. She could not mean—
She held his neck again. Another squeeze. Traced her hand over his side, his rib cage.
With her other hand, reaching under him between his legs from behind, she sheathed Peter’s rocket in her gloved, thoroughly lubricated fist and simply held him.
Peter moaned. She couldn’t just hold him. She had to do something. His balls were going to pop.
“Fuck my hand, horsie,” she commanded him. Then, more sternly, “I said, fuck it.”
Peter set to, rocking his hips, eyes bulging. It wasn’t just the order. His body needed this. It was the only way. He had to. He fucked her stationary hand. Next to him, behind the camera, Officer Grant gave him another thumbs-up.
When he finished, two minutes later, Miss Anders aimed his cock so that the freezer pack caught almost all of his ejaculate. Peter heard it crystallize before she even zipped it closed.
Officer Thompson handed off the riding crop. Miss Anders took her place in the saddle.
She rode Peter over to handler number two, swatting the side of his ass as needed along the way.
****
Finally, after quick recitations of Emily Dickinson and Langston Hughes—each cut short by a shuddering orgasm—Buddy’s tour of the tables was done. Now it was Iris Call who waved him over, and he meekly answered the summons. His legs were so weak. His hamstrings might as well have been rubber bands, but he went to her. His penis determinedly rose again, if only to a half-stand, perpendicular to his belly.
Nurse Reyes-Garcia had said three times would be enough to satisfy her, but they had kept calling him, never letting him off the hook. Now he had been brought to reluctant, humiliated completion three times and still wasn’t done.
Buddy stopped before the foot of the stage, before the knee-high rawhide boots of Iris Call, and pleaded at her with his eyes.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Say what you want to say, Buddy. For my part, you have permission to speak freely.”
Together, they both looked to Nurse Reyes-Garcia for confirmation. Her bearing was as one who was mildly curious, one who hadn’t expected this turn of events. She said, “For the moment only, Miss Call. We must remember that Buddy’s lack of control over such things, minus his recitations for this session, constitutes an essential part of his discipline.”
Iris, who had three feet of stage on him as well as a few natural, God-given inches of height, looked down on him. “Say one thing, Buddy. Ask one question or make one statement.”
That’s all I wanted, Buddy thought. “Of … all people,” he asked, his voice tremulous and somehow betrayed, “why you, Iris?”
She took a knee, making herself level with his face. “Because, Buddy, I’m the one who’s going to make you do something you actually need to do. Then I’m getting the fuck out of here. But—you listen to me, Buddy—you’re more than a spectator at a pretentious fucking café. You’re a fucking writer, you got me? Christ, am I the only one who even knows?”
Buddy didn’t answer. He’d used up his sentence already.
“There’s, what, ten million-plus people watching this freak show?” Iris went on. “Time for you to declare yourself, wallflower. Get your ass up here and recite your … own … fucking … work.”
She reached out, touched his cheek. From that touch—in that touch—was courage, which she imparted effortlessly and which Buddy accepted. She held out her other hand and he took it, allowing himself to be helped onto the stage. Led to the mic. Centered in front of it in his tweed jacket, Star Blazers tee, brown woolen socks, loafers, and his manhood out at half-mast before God-only-knew how many viewers.
As for the in-house crowd, he noted that most of the attention was on him as a person and not directed solely to the region between his legs. And why not? They’d had plenty of that already.
Iris had made them actually interested. Now it was time for him to deliver.
Odd—Nurse Reyes-Garcia was smiling at him. More encouragement.
He leaned into the mic and said, “This—”
But then he stopped, surprised at himself. Holy Christ, that thing made his voice loud. He’d never heard himself so amplified. He was used to it from other people. He expected it from strong personalities like Iris. But to hear it from himself was almost shocking.
He started again. “This is a poem … a poem by, well, me…”
A smattering of laughter, but none of it derisive.
His voice gathered strength. “It’s called ‘Avatar’.”
The coffee shop salute: snapping fingers, a riff on the bongos, some golf-clapping. And Buddy recited:
“Into a painted reality, slip.
A song of escape, I sing.
Follow me forth, and be not afraid—
Or think what tomorrow
will bring.
For here we are God; whatever we dream,
And lords whether ladies or men.
And I, your guardian gate keeper,
Who leaves the light on for his friends.
In this place, I am Avatar,
A king on his gold-gilded throne.
But when I logout I can only be me,
Naked, afraid—
and alone.”
Buddy didn’t pay much heed to what followed from the crowd after that. He took the hug from Iris, though. When she kissed him—on the lips—he returned it, smiling an uncomplicated, unabashed, and goofy smile. That was unexpected, he thought. And nice. Thank you, Iris.
And a surprise (rather guilty) thought: Would be even nicer from Emma Jo.
Iris waved goodbye to him, hopped off the stage, and departed.
Meanwhile, Nurse Reyes-Garcia stepped up to the foot of the stage as though reclaiming her rightful place. “Come, Buddy. Get down from there. We shall go to the waiting area and learn if you are the only one who has earned punishment this evening—or if you will have some company.”
Chapter Eighteen
Surrender
Still, Cassidy waited. Next to her, Veronica held her by the arm, explaining nothing, giving nothing. All about them, only the tired bustle o
f police doing boring things broke the silence. The fact that a young woman in desperate need of rescue from unknown horrors and humiliations stood right in their midst utterly failed to rouse them from their weekend drudgery. They had things to do.
Until, at last, Veronica drew out her phone, checked something on it, and nodded. “You’re up, precious,” she said. “The others are all done, so you’ve got America all to yourself once we’re back under camera lights.”
What? she thought. Why? And what do you mean “we’re” back under camera lights?
Veronica led Cassidy’s finger to the elevator button and made her press it. “They all got punishments, looks like—just in case you want to, you know, fuck up for the greater good and all that jazz. Two are on schedule, one got it on and off throughout session. Which is how you’ll get it if you’re in the mood for a little martyrdom again.”
The elevator door dinged, slid open.
Cassidy closed her eyes, took a breath, opened her eyes, then stepped inside. Veronica came after and the door closed them in. The elevator started to rise.
“You’ve got a hot date tonight,” Veronica said, and Cassidy realized that she was being recorded via phone again. “Excited?”
Cassidy watched the “1” light go dark.
“It’s her,” she said, “isn’t it?”
“Oh, Cass, you silly goose,” Veronica chortled. “Whoever do you mean?”
The “2” light blinked on. The elevator came to a smooth stop.
“It’s Toni. You’re giving me to her.”
Veronica ran her fingers down the length of Cassidy’s hair from the back. True to form, she leaned in to deliver the kill, still with her phone out. “She won’t hurt you—unless you want her to. How do you feel? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Scared,” Cassidy said, repeating her answer from the first time Veronica had asked that question. It was still true. “Already embarrassed. Helpless.”
Veronica didn’t withdraw. Rather, as the elevator door opened, she leaned in closer, jammed her bootheel up against the door to hold it in its place in the wall. “Hot?” she asked. “Little moist in the split?”
Cassidy shrugged.
“Answer me, princess.”
It was a terrible thing to admit. She thought back to the night, little more than a week ago, when she and Toni had first learned the nature of the “dare” in the Dare Dungeon. She recalled how Toni had come right out and said, “Bet you look great naked.” How disappointed, how hurt she had been when Cassidy had been chosen and then begged Toni not to watch her. Toni liked her, wanted her, and Toni knew that Cassidy liked girls. Cassidy had had some control that night. She had a way with tone, did Cassidy Harper.
Tonight, she had no control at all. Only Toni did, and she would not be merciful. Cassidy’s modesty would not be spared.
“Yes,” she admitted in a whisper, looking away from Veronica and her phone, down the long, empty hall in front of her, wondering which door was hers.
“Then let’s go,” Veronica trilled softly into her ear. “Your destiny awaits.”
****
Silently now, Veronica led Cassidy down the hall, still gripping the trembling young woman’s arm tighter than she needed to. It wasn’t lost on Veronica, the trust of Nurse Reyes-Garcia leaving this session in her hands. Veronica wasn’t even law enforcement. Likely as not, she never would be. Her specialty was media. She’d known what to do with the cameras in the “tough love suite,” and she’d set up all the best accessories. Still, had it been any of the four other than Cassidy, very likely they would have involved at least one cop in this.
Veronica hadn’t complained. All things considered, she would rather have gotten to use the body labeler on Emma Jo. That particular tool of humiliation had been on her mind since she’d seen it in practice during her senior year at Bridgemont. So dreadful, so exacting…
Fourth door on the left. She stopped Cassidy and turned her by the shoulders to face it. Cassidy’s breathing picked up again. Veronica wondered how often Nurse Reyes-Garcia checked on the others while she’d had Buddy in session. Probably a lot. She was the very embodiment of the benevolent dominant. She was someone to look up to, try to emulate, try to be one day.
But, for now, Cassidy.
“When you go in there,” Veronica said, “you will not say a word. You will trust. You will do all that you are told. You understand me, sweets?”
Head bowed, Cassidy said, “Yes, Miss Ronnie.”
God, now Veronica was getting hot down there. Maybe it was better that she was here. Cassidy was a true submissive, like Buddy. And, oh, but how she still wanted a pound of his flesh.
Focus, Veronica. Make a good show, and maybe you won’t be just an intern a month from now.
“Understand, Cassidy,” Veronica said, “Mistress DiFiore would never do you harm. She’s got it so bad for you.”
“Y-yes, Miss Ronnie,” Cassidy said, sniffling.
“That means if there’s any punishment to be had in there, I will be in charge of it. I don’t want to hurt you, Cassidy, not badly, but I wouldn’t mind making you squeak. I like watching you cry.”
Cassidy blinked over the tears but did not dry them. She let them fall.
Veronica opened the door and pushed her inside.
****
Cassidy lurched forward two steps and felt her feet on soft carpeting, all red. The walls, too, were red. The bed, big enough for two and with two plush, silken red pillows, was white. It didn’t have any blankets, only thin silks for covering, the ends all tucked in between the two mattresses. Whatever happened in here would not be under covers. It would be out in the open for the cameras.
There were two of these at the bed, locked in position and looking down on it, one from the side, another at its foot. A third camera was on the other side, but pointed in toward the center of the room—where Toni stood in uniform, waiting for her.
But, for the moment, Cassidy could not take her eyes off the bed. It was for her. It was for them, together. And there were manacles at the four corners, each with enough slack in the chain to bind just one person at all fours in spite of the bed’s considerable size. The manacles were ensconced in fluffy pink frills. Yet underneath that fluff, Cassidy had no doubt there was true steel.
“Tonight, she is not ‘Toni,’ Cassidy,” Veronica said from behind her. “You understand this, yes?”
To Cassidy, she sure as heck looked like Toni, even with her black boots, sleeveless blue volunteer humiliator vest, gauntlets, skirt bedecked with small tools of unknown, mysterious torture, and her shimmering black visor cap. But Cassidy did understand. She’d already been told.
“When permitted to speak,” Veronica said, “you will address her properly at the end of every sentence. Now tell her you understand.”
She lifted her head, palmed a cheek dry. She was glad she wasn’t permitted makeup in jail. It would already be a mess. “I understand … Mistress DiFiore.”
Okay, she thought. Said that.
The look in Toni’s eyes—sizing her up, running her up and down. The hunger, the pity. The determination. The job.
Oh, jeez. This is going to be bad.
“C’mon, Cass,” she said, raising a finger, starting to point it up, then turning it mid-path to point down at her feet. “Stand here where I can have a good look at you.”
Cassidy clasped her hands in front of her waist and shuffled over. Looked back once to Veronica, who only nodded her forward. She stopped right in front of her, as ordered.
Cassidy gasped before Toni had even done anything. On a knee-high rack on the floor was an assortment of more tools. There were straps at the ends of leather handles, pronged rubber gloves with freakin’ batteries in the wrists, hard rubber clamps joined by wire with steel leads on the tips, adhesive pads with electrodes… Cassidy started to cry in earnest.
“They … they said you wouldn’t hurt me, Mistress DiFiore,” she begged before she could stop herself. “They promised me.�
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“Nothing here will do you harm,” Toni calmly said, brushing a tear from under an eye, pushing a lock of hair back over her ear. “And maybe we won’t have to use any of these things, Cass. Oh—but, damn. Now you’ve gone and spoken without permission.”
Nonsensically, as if it mattered, her brain rebelled with, Please don’t call me Cass. Her mouth trapped the thought inside before saying it.
Another lock of hair over the other ear. Now bare at both shoulders, arms limp at her sides. A finger teasing a shoulder strap, not quite undoing it. “But I think we’ll worry about that later,” she said. “Mistress wants to see what a good, obedient girl you can be, goin’ forward, ’kay?”
Cassidy thought back, remembering her original sorority interview, the way Toni had hardly stopped looking at her, even when other girls like Emma Jo were doing the talking. She recalled her consternation at being paired up with Toni for a roommate, her trepidation. It hadn’t been anger. Toni was nice. And she was pretty—beautiful, in fact—but Cassidy had had it in mind to get a good start with the business of school before getting all college-wild. And they were on the very opposite ends of the age of transition. She hadn’t wanted to get into any kind of trouble.
“Yes, Mistress DiFiore,” she said.
Toni’s finger trailed off the shoulder strap, then down her tricep, the back of her elbow. She softly took first one of Cassidy’s hands, then the other, holding them in place by her sides. She leaned in for a kiss. Cassidy took it, though the tears continued to fall.
Toni pulled back. “Cassidy,” she said, a note of severity creeping in, “reality check. If you can’t do this, if you’re not ready, say so. You’ll still have to get a punishment. You’re in session. No getting out of it till you’re done… But I can’t do this if some part of you doesn’t actually want it.”
Cassidy thought about it—not for long, but she thought about it. Right now, here in this room, she could either back out, get some equivalent discipline to what the others presumably received, some horrible humiliating ordeal, but no more than that. Or, with zero consequences, she could allow this to happen, whatever it was. Whatever she chose, the decision would be final.