The Trunk Part 1 The green trunk had followed them through three moves, and each time they had debated throwing it out. It held heavy blankets in the summer, and summer clothes in the winter. The rest of the year it sat in the back of the closet, forgotten, buried under plastic totes and clean sheets. The sides were scuffed and dented, the broken leather handles reinforced with duct tape that was frayed around the edges, the bottom perpetually on the edge of splitting in half. It had been old and smelled of mothballs when they found it in their first apartment, emptied and left behind. Since then it had followed them around, a dog they reluctantly fed out of a fondness for broken things no one else wanted. Now it sat in the middle of the bedroom floor, empty as an open grave. He frowned, and looked from the trunk over to where she was taking out her earrings by the dresser. “Fall cleaning already?” He had hoped to put if off another week. She tilted her head and her hair fell away as she threaded the metal through the hole in her cartilage. “Nope. It’s for you.” She put the back on the earring and set it on the dresser. “Well, it’s for you to be in, because I think it will help me get into a headspace.” “How so?” He nudged the trunk with a foot, trying to imagine how cramped it would be, and wondering if he could accidentally knock the ends out if he pushed against them with his legs. She turned around to face him. “You’ll find out.” She pointed at the trunk, her face a stony mask. “Get in.” “Okay.” He drew out the word, then licked his lips. He stepped into the trunk carefully, then lowered himself to his knees, then twisted his body so he was on his side, curled up in the trunk with his knees pulled up towards his chest. “Like this?” The lid thudding closed was his answer. Darkness filled the trunk. She walked around the trunk, and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at it. “Can you hear me?” The muffled response from the trunk sounded like an affirmative. She stared at the dull green trunk for a few minutes, then shrugged. “So sometimes I have a hard time with doing things to you that I like to do. You can put on masks or be an animal, but I’m still me.” “So I’m going to sell you, like some cheesy internet story dominatrix, and when the trunk opens, someone else will be there. Cool?” Another muffled grunt from the trunk that sounded like consent. She shifted her hips and bit her lip, trying to put together the person she wanted to be. Her leg kicked back and forth in the air with short jerks. Finally, she stood up, walked over, and stood over the trunk. Her chest rose and fell as she took three deep breaths, and flipped open the lid. He twisted his neck to look up at her, squinting at the light. Her silhouette loomed over him, staring down. “Ugh, they shipped you with your clothes on. Disgusting. Get out of that crate.” He stood up, looking down at her with his mouth slightly open. She slapped him and he rocked back on his heels, gasping. She smirked, and let her eyes wander up and down his body. “Don’t fucking dare look me in the eye. And get those clothes off, I want to see what I bought. You can drop them in the trunk, and burn them in the morning.” He kept his eyes down and nodded, pulling his shirt off over his head. Her eyes were half closed as she watched the shirt fall in the trunk, and his pants slide down his hips. He stepped out of them awkwardly, and his underwear followed. Already barefoot, he kept his eyes down, and stood naked in front of her. He gasped again and flinched as her open hand collided with the side of his face. “That one was just for fun. Now, let’s see what I’ve bought.” Her hands pried his mouth open, checking his teeth, jerking his head around to look at his ears. She pushed his arms out and up from his sides, running her hands down the length of one then the other, squeezing his biceps. He shivered as her hands slid down his torso, feeling his stomach. There was a sharp inhalation as her hand found his cock, jerking it out from his body and flicking the head. She fondled his balls impersonally, clinically examining the sensitive flesh. She knelt down, and ran her hands down his thighs and legs, squeezing and testing the flesh, then stood up. “Turn around.” He shuffled in a circle, and stopped when he was facing away from her. She poked his shoulder blades, traced a finger down his spine, then grabbed his ass with both hands. She squeezed, released, then squeezed again. He rose up on his toes as her finger slid into his ass, and she laughed. “A nice tight little asshole. We’ll have to work on that.” She slid her finger back and forth, casually violating him. “It’ll be punishment for you at first, taking my biggest toys. Nice fat dildos and butt plugs. But eventually I think you’ll begin to like it, and we’ll have to find other punishments.” She slid her finger out his body, and stepped in close, rubbing her body against his. “Do you know you came with a thirty day warranty? I can return you for thirty days, for any or no reason. So if you safeword, or I break you, you can just go back in the trunk with a return label.” Her voice rose in a mocking tone. “I don’t even have to pay shipping.” “I don’t think your previous owner would be happy to have you returned, but there is always a market for refurbished slaves. Did you know that if you break their ankles and let them heal improperly, you don’t even have to use the humbler on them anymore? They just crawl along like animals forever and ever. Some people like that.” His shoulders jerked but he kept silent. “So is there anything you’d like to tell me?” His mind turned, trying to figure out what to say. “Please don’t break my ankles ma’am.” She laughed in his ear, and stepped back. “We’ll see. For now, get to the shower. I want to you clean.” Preview: “Write me a list.” Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

A Serious Discussion About Safewords Many people introduce safewords into their kinky activities. A safeword is, essentially, a prearranged signal to end or slow down an activity. Think of it as a code word that differentiates fun (or at least consensual) pain or discomfort from un-fun (or non-consensual) pain or discomfort. The use of safe words allows the partner doing the hitting to know that the other party is enjoying things without asking them if their screams of “OWWWWWWWWWW FUCK!” are a compliment on technique or an expression of a heartfelt need to stop the current activity. The most common safewords are based on traffic signals, typically “Red” (stop immediately), “Yellow” (don’t stop but slow down and proceed with caution), and “Green” (go ahead). This may cause awkward arousal during a driver’s license exam, but is generally still common practice. There are variations, such as giving someone a rubber ball when they are gagged. If the person needs to use a safeword in such a situation, they let go of the ball. However, such safeword variations are often assigned only out of necessity, and only for a single scenario or circumstance. It is the thesis of the current post that the BDSM community could benefit from a wider variety of safewords to indicate more unusual, but still critical, indications of circumstances which might occur during a scene but not be readily obvious to one’s partner. Therefore, the following safewords are suggested as additions to the traditional Red/Yellow/Green safewords. For simplicity’s sake, the traditional scheme of using colors has been retained. Individuals prone to screaming out the names of crayons during scenes may wish to use the names of fish instead to avoid confusion. Individuals aroused by Haddock are advised to stick to the traditional color scheme words, unless their partner has been forewarned. Remember, consent is a two way street people. Nobody likes having their ears non-consensually filled with fish words. With these caveats in mind, we hereby present the… EXPANDED LIST OF BDSM SAFEWORDS Red: Stop.

Yellow: Slow down.

Green: Go.

Blue: Shit, I forget to set the DVR for Game of Thrones! Get this blindfold off and give me the remote right now!

Lime: I just saw your DVD collection and we need to end this right now and never see each other again. I try to be open minded, but owning the remake of “The Wicker Man” is where I draw the line.

Black: Wow, black boots, oh my god that’s so original, you’re totally turning me on with your banality and lack of imagination regarding footwear. You must have put entire seconds of thought into that. No, really, my underwear just exploded into flames.

Aquamarine: Your BDSM playlist sucks and if I have to listen to one more god-damn asshole who thinks they’re being original by playing the theme to True Blood I’m going to non-consensually choke a fucker.

Brown: Are you sure you want to do anal? Because I ate a hell of a lot of bran fiber this morning.

Teal: We can do that, but if I have to steam clean this carpet to get my deposit back you’re paying for it.

Brushed Silver: I’ve been bad, take me to Target and make me buy picture frames!

Avocado: Avocado would be really good on tacos. We should go get some tacos when we’re done. And put avocado on them. Can we call the scene and just get some tacos? I’ve got an avocado and I know a place.

Mauve: How about you dial the pretentious monologue back a little bit there, super-domme.

Brick: This is great and all, but I need to get some shit done in Skyrim. Could you hand me the Xbox Controller? Don’t worry, I can do both at once.

Khaki: Giggle break. May also be used for “Fifty bucks, same as in town! Hah, I just got that.”

Coral: Ow ow ow! Toe cramp, toe cramp, toe cramp!

Cyan: And I just remembered I told the realtor they could come by and show the house today. How quick can you untie these knots? In addition, sometimes when using safewords it can be beneficial to have a series of signals that can note when a situation is fine at first, but may change if the activity continues or escalates. As in the following examples: Lavender: Are you sure the door is latched?

Plum: Because the cat just entered the room.

Purple: And the cat looks interested.

Violet: And the cat has now entered the scene. This feels weird. Mr. Mittens cannot provide informed consent, give me a minute to put him in the bathroom with some fuzzy toys and a treat. Pink: Counting the hits is giving me weird Sesame Street flashbacks.

Chiffon: And I think I kind of like it.

Crimson: TELL ME WHY SHARING IS GOOD AND BEAT ME LIKE A RENTED SNUFFLEUPAGUS! Of course there are countless more. Feel free to leave some of your own suggestions in the comments, and remember to always play safe. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

Mrs. Sweet and Headmistress Strict “Hello class, my name is Mrs. Sweet, and I will be your substitute math teacher today. I know everyone will try really hard, and we’ll all learn a lot, and have a lot of fun.” She beamed a bright, fake smile down at him. “Does everyone understand?” He grinned back at her smile, scrunched awkwardly into the student desk, and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes ma’am.” Her eyebrow arched. “I certainly hope so, because as much as I would hate to do it, if you are disobedient I will send you to the next room to see the headmistress. I’m afraid she deals very harshly with such transgressions. Now, we shall proceed.” He nodded, thinking he was starting to understand the rules of the game. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he nodded again. “Thank you. Now, we’ll start with something simple. What is the sum of 2 and 2?” “4.” “Good. 5 and 3?” “8.” “Excellent. 1 and 3?” “4.” “Oh come now young man, no one likes a know-it-all. I am very sorry, but you must report to the headmistress, Mrs. Strict, and tell her you have been a show-off and a know-it-all. You will find her in the next room.” He frowned, then nodded and then stood up from the chair. He started to walk from the kitchen to their home office, then jumped and hissed. She had caught up with him at the doorway and grabbed his ear, jerking his head down. He arched his neck, and could see that her eyes had gone flat. Her voice was colder and she pronounced every word carefully, all traces of the bubbly schoolteacher gone. “My, it’s very early in the day, and here you are already. What have you been doing to give your substitute teacher trouble?” He gasped again as she twisted her hand and walked, dragging him along by his ear towards the office desk. “Ah, Headmistress Strict, I was a show-off and a know-it-all.” She pushed his head down to the smooth, cool wood of the desk, and pulled his arm up behind his back. “Well, it sounds like you need some humility beaten into you. Trousers down, filthy boy.” He fumbled awkwardly, unzipping, unbuttoning, and pushing his pants down, wiggling his hips until they dropped to his knees. “Underwear down as well dullard, a proper spanking is always done on the bare skin.”

He groaned, but looped a finger into the elastic, pulling down one side and then the other until they fell and bunched around his knees. She rubbed the paddle across his ass, savoring the way it pulled and distorted his flesh, enjoying the anticipation. The first swat splatted against his skin, and his body jerked. He braced his legs for the second, and she hit the other cheek, switching back and forth rapidly with hard, quick swats until his knees started to buckle. Then she stopped, and tossed the paddle beside him on the desk. “Pull your pants up and return to your class.” She walked out while he was fiddling with his pants, and smiled at him as he came into the other room and eased himself into the chair. His too large adult frame was forced to squeeze into the desk, and he felt a harsh exhalation force its way out of his lungs as the chair pressed against his ass. She beamed at him, the rictus smile on her lips again. “I am sure Mrs. Strict is so very sorry to have to have done that, and hope we may continue the lesson without further interruption.” She continued without waiting for acknowledgement. “Now, please remind the class why you were sent to the headmistress?” He winced and shimmied in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. His voice was a little lower, more passive. “For being a showoff and a know-it-all ma’am.”

She sighed and shook her head. “A perfectly correct answer, and one that shows you learned nothing. I’m afraid you’ve earned another trip to the headmistress.”

He closed his eyes and slowly slid out of his seat, shuffled back into the other room, automatically heading for the desk. She stalked along beside him, enjoying the feeling of shifting from the tender caretaker to the cruel bitch. She smiled silently as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them back to his ankles, then followed suit with his underwear. So exposed, so vulnerable, and the skin already turning pink. She shivered, and let the anticipation build a little more. “Back again so soon? What was it this time?” His voice was hollow. “The same ma’am, being a show off and a know-it-all.” “Well, we’ll just have to correct that again, won’t we?” Without waiting for a response the paddle thudded into his ass again. And again, and again. Until his breath was coming in huge gasps and his knees buckled with each swat, straightened, then buckled again. Until she could feel the heat radiating off his ass. Until he was almost about to break, and she couldn’t stand it any longer and stopped herself. “Now go back to your class, and I hope you’ve learned your lesson. You needn’t bother pulling your pants back up, you’ve wasted enough of my time.” He shuffled out, his mind spacy and peacefully empty, the endorphins telling him the pain in his ass wasn’t all that bad. She followed him into the next room, and spun him around before he could get to the desk, planting his face in her chest. She patted his head with exaggerated care, and rocked him back and forth. “Oh you poor thing! Look what that horrible woman did to you. Are you okay?” He sighed at the warmth from her breasts, and wrapped his arms around her hips. “Yes ma’am, it hurt quite a bit, but I’m okay.” She smiled as he held his face against her, enjoying the emotional roller coaster between her nurturing side and her sadistic side. She loved both of those feelings, being both of those completely different women. Sometimes they were at war, shouting to be heard over one another, but sometimes they worked together beautifully. She savored those moments when they worked hand in hand. She pet his hair for a few more seconds, enjoying the closeness, and then whispered into his ear. “And can you tell me why you had to go to the headmistress’s office?” He shook his head against her body, and offered a whisper. “No ma’am, I don’t know.”

He felt her back stiffen, and then her hand was on his cock, dragging him back to the other room. “So you still didn’t learn anything? I will beat some sense into you before this day is done.” She threw him across the desk, his breath whooshing out as his stomach hit the edge. “Stay right there or I swear to God I will beat your brainless ass raw!” Her voice thundered in the small room and he nearly twitched out of reflex. He pushed his body firmly against the wooden desk, bracing himself for whatever was going to come. His hips jerked forward when he felt the plug against his ass, and he groaned half in dread and half in lust-filled anticipation. He felt it pushing, forcing its way inside of his body, stretching and distorting his flesh. This wasn’t a teasing or even a fucking, this was a contest of wills that felt like it would split his body in half. He slapped his hand against the hard surface of the desk and moaned. She planted the palm of her hand flat against the base and shoved, feeling her cunt twitch at the sensation of it breaking into his body and filling his ass. He groaned and tried to hold still, and she smirked a little as it sank into his body and pulled up tight against his skin. She leered down at his violated body and picked back up the paddle. “Maybe that will help focus your attention.” She started to slap his ass again, the already worn flesh quickly pushing pain through his body. His hips jerked with each blow, and she could see tears streaming down the side of his face. She waited until he was clinging to the desk, using it to hold himself up, then stopped and dragged an arm across her sweaty brow. “Go back to your fucking class, and pray you don’t get sent back here.” She let him have a second, and he took deep breaths before he swallowed hard and stood upright. He dragged his arm across his nose, then took small, mincing steps into the other room. She walked around him, admiring him from all angles. “Oh dear. Look at you.” She let him stand by his desk, and then walked over to lean against the wall. “Can you tell me why you were sent to the headmistress’s office?” He nodded. “I think so ma’am. I was sent to the headmistress’s office because I didn’t say what you wanted me to say.” She smiled, for real this time, and nodded. “Very good. When you’re here it’s not to tell me what you know, it’s to tell me what I want to hear. You don’t need original thoughts in your head. You don’t control that anymore, not when we’re in this room. Because if you don’t please Mrs. Sweet, then you have to go see Mrs. Strict. Do you understand?” He licked his lips, thinking carefully. “Do you want me to understand ma’am?” Her laughter burbled out of her mouth. “Good answer, but I’m going to get tired of having my questions answered with questions. So whenever I ask a question and you don’t know what I want you to say, I want you to degrade yourself for me. I want you to tell me what a filthy cock you have, or what a complete and utter idiot you are, or how you’re nothing but a disgusting piece of flesh fit only to clean my boots with your tongue. I want to know that I control every single utterance of every single thought that goes through your pretty head. Understand?” “It’s tongue is only useful for licking your boots clean ma’am, and it apologizes for using it to speak.” Her eyes narrowed and she nodded, rubbing one hand across her cunt with each word he spoke. “Yes… you seem to understand that I own every inch of your body and your mind.” She pulled a white cone with “DUNCE” written on it in large black letters from behind a chair, and waved a hand at him. “Take your clothes off, and get your cock hard. You’re going to wear this and fuck me, but do not come.” They were naked in seconds, and he was hard in a few more. The dunce cap fit on his head with an elastic strap, and he had to hold it on with one hand. They fucked on the floor, him on his knees pulling her in close, slamming into her cunt. She gasped in pleasure and slapped her legs against his bruised ass, trying to hit the plug, driving him deeper and deeper inside of her. One hand pulled at her tits while the other massaged her clit, and she snarled at him until finally she came and flopped back hard against the floor. “Whew.” She pushed herself up and stood, then used one foot to roll on him on his stomach. He stayed on the floor, whimpering. Mrs. Sweet had been sated with her orgasm, of teaching him how firm her control over him was and giving him some pleasure, if not release. Now Mrs. Strict wanted to come out and play again. “Now, dunce, you have a homework assignment.” She pressed against his back with her foot, pinning him to the floor. “You’re going to crawl in to the headmistress’s office…”

She smiled at his whimper. “And tell her you’ve learned your lesson. She’s going to lock that filthy cock of yours up, and fuck you with her strapon until you’re nothing but a hole. And do you know why?”

He tried to push himself further down into the floor, and turned his head so his answer would be clearer. “My filthy cock deserves to be locked up, and my ass is just a hole for her pleasure ma’am.” She nodded, and reveled in the moment, that brief second when the two halves of her were both happy, because she knew he craved this control. She would dominate him, and half of her hungered to take and consume and destroy. But the other half wanted to wrap him up and keep him safe, where only she could get to him and nothing else could hurt him or make him sad. That beautiful moment of utterly controlling something you loved so much. Of being unconditionally sweet and impossibly strict. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. So this is the last complete story I have. There are a couple of more floating around that were beginnings of things I planned to serialize, but they’re not complete. I’ll take a look and see if they’re work posting, but for now… That’s all she wrote. Permalink

Her Two Husbands My children are dead. My husband is long in his grave. My life and my loves are the stuff of legend now, and I wonder sometimes how much claim I have left over my memories. They are nearly all gone in any case, and even my beauty has faded though this does not concern me. It appears that at long last even my vanity has determined to pass on and leave me alone. No, you were right to laugh. That was a joke, for all that it’s true. If we can’t laugh at losing it all, what’s the point in having it? No, wait. There is one thing left. You asked me many times to tell you what had happened, “the whole true story” as you phrased it, and I always demurred. So of course, you made up your own stories, you all did, all the bards and minstrels. And of course you got it all quite wrong. You always do it seems, whether in service to your craft, your patron, or your purse. But perhaps I’m being unkind, or at least unfair. I was certainly willing to let people believe your fictions when it suited my own purposes. And now I’ve nothing left to lose but this lingering silence. The truth of the matter, if you will. I think I will miss it when it’s gone, when it’s not a secret I can keep to myself, knowing it belongs me alone. So… Oh, do pardon me, maudlin sentimentality has grown easy for me of late, and self-pity makes for a dull tale. Sit, pass me the pitcher of wine, and I’ll tell you the story you asked for so long ago and so many times since. Of my husbands, both of my husbands, one a dragon-slayer, and the other a dragon. I never was sure which one I loved best, so I will start at the beginning. I was a princess, of course, and it was my duty to marry for the benefit of the kingdom. My parents had made it quite clear that was the case for as long as I could remember. I resisted, and out of some kindness to me they waited for far longer than was customary to make the arrangements. I think they hoped a male heir would appear, to tell the truth, and solve the problem. But then they could wait no longer, and when I was eighteen I was betrothed to a prince from Germania, a man I had never seen. I decided I hated him, for no other reason than my parents had decided that I would marry him, and did so with the fiery passion and single-mindedness that the young can muster. For the next year I screamed at my parents, swore I would hate them forever, vowed to gouge the eyes of my betrothed out on our wedding night rather than submit to this unimaginable cruelty. As the date approached I grew desperate, and begged my parents to call off the wedding, pleaded with the priest to intervene, commanded knights sworn to my family to whisk me away to a high, lonely tower somewhere far away. My true love would find me there, be a much grander prince than my betrothed, and my parents would admit that I had been right all along. A childish fantasy, but it was what I had. They all refused, of course. And of course I prayed to God to stop the wedding. When I was sure that even God had turned his back on me, I went to the lake. I think I had some half-hearted notion of drowning myself, an appropriately tragic death to punish my parents and everyone else who had so horribly wronged me. Instead I prayed for the death of my betrothed. For those who haven’t experienced it, death seems such a simple solution. God didn’t answer that prayer either, but the dragon did. Oh yes, there was no abduction. The kidnapping was one of your sillier notions, frankly. The mighty dragon stealing into the castle grounds at night and pulling the fair maiden from her tower window with all his strength and razor claws that would have shredded or disemboweled her in a moment anywhere but a bard’s song. Quite a ridiculous notion on your part, I must say. The dragon didn’t answer my prayers right away. I knew he was there though, there was always a sort of sense of him in the air. A feeling of danger right behind your eyes, an urge to turn back and flee the way you came. A sort of pressure, a wrongness that made you aware of how small you really were in the world. Take a chicken bone, close your eyes, and start to bend it. Feel the tension in your fingers just before the bone snaps. That was the dragon. Animals fled from the lake when he arrived and even the fish crowded the shallows until they died. But I knew he was there, and that he could hear me. I still remember it. My breath came a little faster, my heart beat quickened, my eyes widened and could see more than they usually did. It was very much like arousal, but with a sense of having survived some calamity, of being utterly and truly alive in the presence of grave danger. I had never experienced something like that before, the fear, the uncertainty, the danger. Yes, danger describes it well, I think. I slipped out of the castle for seven nights, and went to the lake and prayed each night. The entire time I trembled, scared out of my wits, kneeling there in the damp grass with the moon and stars looking down. Thrice I vomited, before I learned to eat very little and lightly. An extra cup of wine helped. Speaking of which, fill this again, would you my dear?

The dragon appeared on the seventh night. I eventually learned that above all, he respected bravery, and despised cowardice. Not weakness necessarily, for even the weak could be brave. But cowardice, surrender… that he simply could not abide. Truth be told he was quite mad, but beautiful and charming as well. He was everything you described in your stories, and so much worse. A creature of emotion, a thing which had never had to consider the well reasoned argument of a peer simply because he could not imagine anyone being his peer. He seemed quite affronted that a man would take a bride by political treaty. Disdained it as a sign of weakness, and answered my prayers from anger as much from any regard for me. The royal procession was devoured as it moved through the woods, and he brought back the sword of my betrothed. When he gave it to me I just held it in my hand, dripping warm blood in lazy patterns on the ground. I could smell the carnage on his breath, the death, and I knew what it meant. And mixed in with all my revulsion was the overwhelming happiness of not having to marry. Of having my desires fulfilled by a beast so powerful.

That’s about where your tales usually pick up, isn’t it? The evil dragon slays the noble prince, takes his betrothed to his lair, and then ravages the countryside while she cries helplessly. Utterly preposterous. I remained by the lake, of my own will, knowing all that awaited me at the castle was another groom of my parent’s choice. The dragon accepted my being there, and seemed to love me in his own way. I never wholly understood his motivations, to tell the truth. Perhaps he just loved being near me. We did manage to communicate, after a fashion. I was much more certain of things then, and I even told him that I loved him after the storm. They still speak of that storm, the horrible rain and wind. I stood in the darkness, rain pounding down, thunder crashing all around. The dragon watched from the lake, only his eyes visible above the water. I think he expected me to leave, to go back to civilization and let others make my life easier, make my choices for me. I thought about it, but going back to all that, going through it again, was unbearable. And my pride simply would not allow it, to admit that I needed the life my parents had decided for me. It was nearly dawn when the storm finally broke. I had almost broke as well, but I was still standing. Only God knows how. That was when the dragon took me. I felt that long, sinuous tail wrapping around my chest, dragging me into the lake. I think he nearly killed me, in his eagerness. Oh, stop! It wasn’t sex, our organs were not remotely compatible. I’m not even sure dragons have a gender, to tell the truth. But there was such power there, he dragged me under the water, until he could feel my lungs collapsing in my chest, then he would haul me out of the water into the air. It seared my lungs, the shock and cold. I screamed, but I never begged. Not once. Over and over, almost suffocating, nearly dying, forced down and raised up, jerking and writhing, and finally living. I’m quite sure the similarity to the carnal act is not lost on you. I think that was when the dragon fell in love with me. Hm? Oh, of course knights came from the castle, and eventually the surrounding lands, even your damaged tales got that much correct. They were slaughtered. I started to enjoy it, to tell the truth. Can you imagine what it’s like, to have been powerless your entire life, your choices made for you by your station? And now here I was, watching men break and die for me. And the dragon, all that power, doing my bidding, my will. The dragon never killed them until they surrendered, you know? I remember it well, and after the first I watched every one.

He would hit them, crush their legs. Tear the blades from their hands. Scar their flesh horribly with his venom. Drag them into the lake, down to the bottom where there was no light or air, only the cold and heavy pressure. Make their bones pop and break and watch them bleed. The sweetest moment, for me, was right before they broke. I would watch them fight, and fail by inches. Their swords would shatter, their armor would melt in the heat of the dragons breath. Bones would break, and blood would pour down on the ground. And then, I got to where I could hear it, the sound of their will snapping. When they would sink to their knees, and the dragon would finish them because they stopped fighting. It was cruel and horrible of me to enjoy such suffering. I admit it. All I can say is that to wield such power over men and to be so young was quite intoxicating. Like the proverbial cup of water to a man dying of thirst, I had gotten a taste of power, and I loved it. Even more I loved watching them suffer for me, watching them bleed, and watching them finally break. And the dragon, so willing to kill… I think it was almost eager. We were quite the pair, the killer and the cause. To inspire such savagery, despite the cost, was the most powerful thing I had ever felt. Then he came along, and he wouldn’t break. That was the only reason he was able to slay the dragon, you know? They fought for days. The dragon kept beating him, breaking him. Kicking him down, driving him back to the treeline from the shore, and he kept coming back. I can still remember every little gasp of pain, every drop of blood that hit the ground. I can hear the wet, meaty smack of the impact on his flesh. It was quite beautiful, really, how much he was willing to suffer, and all for me. You don’t understand at all, do you? Refill this, yes again, and I’ll try to explain. Would you rather have someone willing to kill for you, or someone willing to die for you? Someone who is willing to kill for you is quite useful, especially when you have a lot of people you would prefer were dead. Or people who try to control you, and make you do things you would rather not. And the dragon was quite, quite good at such wanton, cruel destruction of men. On the other hand, someone willing to die for you, suffer for you, can also be quite intoxicating. Watching someone suffer for you, pushing themselves beyond all rational limits. I suppose I fell in love with him, I think, somewhere around the time his leg broke, and he just kept dragging himself along the ground, teeth clenched, one eye swollen shut, and still pulling himself towards his enemy. I think it was difficult for the dragon not to kill him. The dragon was eager at first, as always, then frustrated, just waiting for the moment he would break and he could tear out the jugular, or disembowel him. But he wouldn’t break, and the dragon wouldn’t forsake his own alien code of honor, wouldn’t kill him as long as he kept fighting. Then the dragon made a mistake. The dagger, yes, a lowly dagger you might use to cut your meat for dinner and not a mighty broadsword, slid under the joint beneath the wing. There were no scales there. You got that right, at least. And the dragon died, and I sat there in shock, for awhile. His death was rather anticlimactic, to tell the truth. He fell, sighed a little, and twitched. That was all. Eventually, I realized that I would need to go home, and take up my old life again. I bandaged the wounds of the knight as best I could, and he became the hero. Funny, isn’t it, that he was the hero for killing the dragon, not for suffering for me? And oh, how he suffered, then and for the rest of his life. We fucked, right away almost, while he was still bent and broken and the dragon’s corpse was still warm. While he was covered in blood and bruises. His face was horribly distorted, he was almost dead, and he had nothing left. And I wanted him, so I took him. I don’t think he could have stopped me, and to tell the truth, I don’t think he wanted to. It was lust and violence, quite a beautiful thing. Every time I drove down onto his cock, I could feel his cracked ribs shift and he screamed, which hurt him all the more until he learned not to scream. Every time I caressed his face, the muscles twitched and his jaw clenched. Every time I ran a finger across a burn, the flesh was so rough, he would thrash and roll about. And then he came, and oh the delicious screams! How could I not love him after that? I, with only my body and lust, had done what the dragon with all its might could not. I broke him, and yet he kept coming back for more. Oh yes, the rumors were quite true. We were both addicted to the pain after that, I suppose you might even call it cruelty. Mostly the pain though, I think. Horse whips and cold chains built our love and our marriage, not finery and vows in a church, or even the slaying of the dragon. At times I treated him worse than I would have ever treated an animal. I remember a truly miserable week one summer I left him chained in the stables, naked, sweating, wallowing in his own filth. I made him beg for water until his tongue cracked, and he pleaded to lick a single drop off my boots. Then I drank my fill in front of him, and beat him bloody and raw. Did you know if a man is thirsty enough he will drink his own sweat? He licked it from the back of his hands, then wrung his hair out and lick that up as well. Have you ever had anyone willing to lick their own sweat from a stable floor because it pleases you? Have any of your buxom farm girls you seduce with a song ever done something quite that depraved? I thought not. I loved him for what he was willing to do for me. For quiet groans and little snaps. For when he collapsed to the floor, his body unable to take any more, his spirit still willing, wanting me to hurt him one more time. Once he begged for the gag, so that he couldn’t ask me to stop. Although after seeing the lengths I would go to, he never did that again. The memory of it still makes me twitch with desire. And yet none of your stories ever mention his suffering, just the pain and death he dealt to the dragon, or his human foes. It seems logical that the dragon should have been the hero, if we measured worth in pain and death meted out. But you never talk about that. I do still miss him sometimes, the dragon. That brutal, lethal majesty. But that was a young love, full of violence and savagery. When you get older, I think you’ll appreciate the other kind more. When you learn that you can cause your own pain, you don’t need someone else to do it for you, and there is a whole other kind of power based on what you can stand to use, and what people give you of themselves. I think in the end, that’s why I was glad when he killed the dragon. Watching grows tedious, and eventually you want to get your hands dirty. Eventually you want a different kind of love, or a different kind of lover. The kind that suffers for you, no matter how much it hurts. Just because it’s you. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

Not Stopped, Just Paused His finger jabbed at the button on the radio, looking for anything that would take his mind off the sun’s glare and the long line of motionless cars stretched down the road. Finally he stabbed the power button and the display dimmed. Fuming in the silence, he flicked his index finger across the screen of his phone and called her. She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, where are you?” “Stuck in traffic. There was an accident on the exit. Might be here awhile.” “Well, shit.” “Yeah.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to block out the blaring sound of a horn. “Shit.” “And I had something in mind I wanted you here for.” “What’s that?” He tried to sound casual. She laughed back at him, a goonish chuckle that made her sound much younger and told him she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Oh you know. But since you’re stuck in traffic, I bet I could make the time go faster for you…” His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. “That’s very thoughtful of you…” He paused, worked the words in his mouth carefully before he spoke. “But this is a very public place.” Another chortle came over the phone. “Oh no, you don’t need to do a thing… it’s all me this time. See, I had these clothespins laid out for you, and I think I might just put them on myself. See if you can guess where they go by the sounds I make.” He swallowed hard at the sound of rustling cloth and then her sharp hiss of breath, a sudden exhalation distorted by the phone and followed quickly by another hiss. “Two clothespins, that should be a hint. Now if you guess correctly, I’ll pleasure myself. If you guess incorrectly, I’ll add more clothespins. And you better believe that I’ll remember if you were right or wrong the next time we play.” His mind flipped through possibilities, wondering where she would start, remembering how she played with his own body, and finally narrowing it down to two. Waiting was rarely rewarded, and he took a guess. “Your nipples, ma’am?” His stomach lurched as she sighed. “Nope, those are actually on my labia. Hurts like a fucker, too.” Two more gasps, and then a whimper slipped into his ear. “Guess.” He tried to think, but his mind was filled with a curious mixture of lust and longing. That should have been his pain, and his cock twitched at the thought of being restrained, having the clothespins clamped around his flesh. His jaw worked up and down as he tried to concentrate. “I said guess.” “Your nipples, ma’am.” He could feel her wince over the phone. “Wrong again, that was two more on the labia. You are going to undergo some epic suffering for this shit.” “Please… don’t.” He whimpered over the phone. “Don’t what?” “Put on more clothespins ma’am, just wait for me to get there.” “Nope. That’s not the game. I’m going to put two more clothespins on, and you’re going to guess again.” Two more whimpers, and he thought he heard a faint wooden clack over the phone. Could she have shifted her hips and made the clothespins on her labia hit one another? Would she have done it deliberately as a false clue? Would she actually have put six clothespins on her cunt? Was it a bluff, double bluff, or triple bluff? He switched the phone to his other ear and wiped the sweat off the palm of his hand, then leaned back and spoke, guessing rather than talking himself in circles. “Are they on your labia ma’am?” “Oh, poor poor you. You watch all your crime movies, but you still guessed wrong. Those went on my nipples.” “Sorry ma’am.” He imagined them bouncing on her chest as she breathed, shifting as she leaned back and forward. What they would feel like on his own nipples. His fingers twitched with the desire to pinch his own nipples and feel what she felt. “Three wrong guesses, that’s a penalty butt plug. Lucky for me I got out two sizes, you can pretty much guess which one you’ll be wearing for putting me through this shit. Or maybe you can’t, you haven’t been getting many right so far.” Her voice got fainter as she put the phone down, and he imagined her spreading lube along the plug. He’d be on all fours now, facing away from her, face down and ass up. Submissive and ready to have the cone of plastic shoved in, slowly, backed out then pushed in further until it sank inside of his body. The sickening sensation of something foreign inside of him, the slight flush of shame from having his ass violated, the twitching hardening of his cock as it pushed against his pants. “Okay, that’s not coming out until you get one right, so for the love of fuck, get one right.” “I’ll do my best ma’am.” “Two more clothespins, that’s eight total.” Two more sharp gasps. “Where do you think they went?” He thought through it. She had started with her labia, zigged, then zigged again, then zagged. He thought about the noir movies they watched, zig, zig, zag, she should zag again, but she would expect him to think that, so it was back to zig. “Your z-, I mean, your labia ma’am?” “Good boy.” He sighed in relief. “You can figure things out. Now sit quietly while I give myself some pleasure.” He heard a click followed by a low hum, and then her moans filled his ear. He sat very still, listening carefully to the sounds, imagining the vibrator pressing against her skin, sliding up and down, wincing at the whimpers as the vibrator bounced across one of the clothespins. He pulled together memories and imagined himself there, remembered the pain of wooden jaws clamping down on his flesh and savored the anticipation of her yanking them off as she came with the rush of blood bringing them both fresh pleasure and pain. Her moans got louder until he could hear her body rubbing against the sheets, then shuddering and jerking on the mattress, then finally lying still. The sound of her jagged breathing got louder as the humming sound clicked off. “Hm, nice.” Movement caught his eye, and he cleared his throat hesitantly. “Traffic is starting, ma’am.” “Okay, drive safe. I’m going to take these off and figure out what’s going to happen when you get here.” “Thank you ma’am.” “You say that now…” Her chuckle came over the phone one last time before it disconnected, he flicked his phone off, and he started driving towards her again. His thoughts were warm, soft around the edges, fuzzy, and he wasn’t annoyed with the traffic anymore. How could he be when she was at the end, and with him the entire way? Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

The Collector “You collect art then?” “No, not at all. Art is rubbish. I collect artists.” “I’m still very interested in the program, but I’m not sure I follow.” He smiled across the table at her, the gentle smile of someone trying to humor an elder who had something they wanted. She stared back, the comfortable gaze of a predator confident her prey wouldn’t escape. “My program provides room, board, and supplies, as well as a modest but sufficient allowance for personal items, for one year. During that time I have full access to your studio, and may enter at any time by any means to watch you work. Whatever you produce is yours at the end of the year, along with a considerable cash bonus, to do with as you will. It’s all in the contract.” He leaned back in the chair, and looked her over again. Her tailored business suit contrasted sharply with his thrift store sports jacket and khakis, and he took a swallow of diet soda while he thought it over. She looked over the top of her gin and tonic as she downed a large gulp, and then stared at him with a steady poker face. “And I have total artistic freedom? I can make anything I want with no interference?” She sighed and nodded. They were always so concerned about their precious art, it had become rather predictable. “I suppose, if we must be absolutely pedantic, I would prefer you not violate any laws in what you make as that could increase my liability. Fire hazards or toxic waste…” She waved her hand, dismissing the ridiculous notion. “But that would almost certainly be a matter for the police and not directly in violation of our contract. Further, let me be clear: I don’t care what you produce. I am interested in passion. If you are passionate about painting, I want to see that passion, and be in the same room when it pours out of you. If you love sculpture, I want to see you chiseling and sanding, I want to breathe in the dust you make and see your muscles tremble when you carve. It is the passion I am interested in purchasing, and the final product never lives up to the moment of creation.” He licked his lips, and she knew she had him. He nodded slightly, and she stood up. He stood up as well, extending his hand to shake. She dropped a business card on the table instead and nodded. “My attorney’s office, make an appointment and they’ll make it official. Feel free to bring your own representation, just do it soon.” She dropped cash on the table beside the card, and looked him over again, tentatively pleased with her choice. “And take care of the bill, I have other meetings today.” His jaw worked as she turned and walked towards the exit with long, confident steps filled with purpose and determination. His hand was still out, and he made a fist, trying to figure out what had just happened. “I paint, by the way,” he called out after her. She didn’t turn around, just waved with the back of her hand. “That’s nice.” He didn’t see her for a month. The lawyer had told him it was all perfectly above board, and offered him a list of previous artists who had gone through the program. He’d called a couple, emailed a couple more, and they had all said the same thing: She was an odd older woman who liked to watch artists work, but had no use for what they created. An executive for some financial conglomerate who had more money than she knew what to do with, and some small amount of time to indulge her idiosyncrasies. It had been a good deal, and no one had ended up in a horror movie or been forced to do anything uncomfortable or compromise themselves. At least one of them had sounded disappointed at that last. A month after the contract had started she had shown up, knocking firmly on the door to his studio apartment. She had breezed past him when he opened the door, and he had pursed his lips then shrugged, shutting and locking the door behind them. She turned to face him, taking him in, reminding herself of what she was buying. “I apologize for interrupting, if you would prefer in the future I can simply let myself in. I would regret interrupting your artistic process, or whatever it is you call it.” He shrugged, and motioned her towards his work area. “It’s no problem, I’m only doing prep work anyway, stretching canvas and making some rough sketches. Feel free to take a chair.” The apartment had come furnished, and she sat down on a chair which he now noticed naturally faced his work area. He stood awkwardly until she arched an eyebrow, then he flushed and went back to his work. She watched silently without comment or questions, and every time he looked back there was the same steady gaze and blank stare. He worked for two hours, then shrugged the stiffness out of his shoulders. He saw her standing up out of the corner of his eye, and turned to face her. She nodded once, and then let herself out. He exhaled, made himself some dinner, and spent the rest of the night watching classic television and wondering what the hell had just happened. The next time she came over she let herself in without knocking. He was amazed that a suit could be so comfortable, and annoyed that he couldn’t tell anyone here because they obviously already knew. It was like it had been kept a secret by the entire world, that a well-made and tailored suit could actually be enjoyable to wear. He strolled around the gallery with her, sipping champagne from a glass and making polite conversation, feeling luxurious and fancy. She had invited him after a long afternoon of watching him paint, making the question somehow sound like a blunt command. Her voice was flat, not particularly interested in his answer, and he wasn’t sure if it was because she genuinely wasn’t interested or she had already known what he would say. She had offered to get him a suit for the gallery show, and promised to introduce him to people who could help his own career, and had done exactly that so far this evening. He had gone to the fitting nervous, well out of his usual world of ripped jeans and old heavy metal band t-shirts. It had been awkward, but the staff had been courteous and polite, and eventually he relaxed and started to enjoy the process. The suit had been delivered and after the internet had taught him how to tie his tie, the cab had picked him up and she had met him at the opening, leading him inside and walking around effortlessly. He had tried to talk to her about the art on display, and been met with her usual indifference. He half-expected to be invited back to her place when they were done, but she merely led him outside and scanned the boulevard, eventually pointing to a yellow cab. “That one is yours, the fare has been paid for, including a standard tip. Thank you for the evening.” And she walked away. He carefully hung up the suit, and laid in bed that night, thinking. The next morning, he started a new painting. She arched an eyebrow when she saw it, then walked over and leaned closer. He stepped back and smiled. She went to her chair and sat down, looking at him with the usual poker face.

His head jerked, and he waved his hands from her to the painting. “Well?” “Well what?” “Do you like it?” She inclined her head, looking from the painting back to him. “It is, from my understanding, technically adequate. The likeness is accurate. I seem to recall I was wearing a necklace when we first met, but I may have had it on under the jacket. In any case it is only a slight discrepancy.” “And?” His voice got higher. “And it is hardly original. About one-in-three of my artists seem to think they’ll thaw the frigid cunt with a painting, or a sculpture, or a song about her. It never works, and do you know why?” He flinched at the sudden profanity, and his face flushed red. He shook his head with violent, jerking motions. “Why?” “Because I don’t give a shit about art.” She had stood up and walked towards him, not even acknowledging his flinch and backward step. He couldn’t even tell if she was angry or not, her voice had continued in the same monotone she always used, and her eyes had never wavered. He took another step backwards and cautiously asked, “What are you doing?” She picked up a pair of shears from the kitchen, and held his gaze as she walked past him. “Attempting to convince you of something I have repeatedly told you, young man.”

He frowned, but she just walked over to the closet and opened it, taking out the suit and holding the hanger in one hand. “Hey…” He put a hand out, but she didn’t even look at him. The scissors made a metallic rasp as they opened, and he took a step forward. “Please… don’t.” The scissors made the same sound as they closed, cutting a sleeve off the jacket. He stared in shock as she cut it into pieces, placed the hanger back in the closet, and glided past him to return the shears to the kitchen. She then walked out, firmly closing the door behind herself. He stared at the closed door. She hadn’t destroyed the painting, she had destroyed the suit. He picked up the pieces, regretfully putting them in the garbage can, and then sat, thinking. It got inside his head, and he couldn’t live with it, couldn’t stop thinking about someone he couldn’t reach with his art no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t dismiss it as ignorance, or write it off as cultivated rudeness. She just hadn’t cared. The next day, two men in blue shirts and tan slacks arrived to install the cameras.

They mounted on brackets right behind her chair, in the corner, pointing at his work area. They had pulled down a decorative wall sconce, quickly put up the two cameras, tested them, and handed him a work order. He had numbly signed, and then sat down in her chair and stared at the painting. Across town, she clicked on a monitor, and watched him stare for awhile. Then she clicked the power button again, and started answering her email. She checked in on him from time to time, rarely watching for more than a few minutes. It had been another bad investment, but one which she could afford. He was getting thinner, and painting more, all pictures of her over the same canvas, layer upon layer of her face and body. They had started out as portraits, conservative and accurate images of her in stern poses. As he painted more she watched less, becoming less interested as his strokes became more mechanical, plotted. They both knew she was watching, and his calculated pleas for her attention grew more and more boring. She would still check on him, usually first thing in the morning and last thing at night, seeing him painting her into increasingly bizarre and strange scenarios. Here she was as a prison warden with dozens of images of his face behind bars, here Aphrodite on the half-shell in a blue pantsuit. In a Biblical painting of the apocalypse, God with her face raining down fire and damnation on a devil with her face. Her eyes staring out of a plain dress with a man next to her holding a pitchfork. She had noted them, shrugged, and dutifully skimmed the expense forms for paint and brushes before handing them off to her accountant to be paid in full. It had been an intercontinental meeting, and she walked into her dark home at 3:00 A.M. The security pad blinked red as she pushed in the combination, then returned to green. She turned on lights as she moved through the house, not worried about waking anyone. For the sake of ritual she flipped on the monitor to his apartment. Expecting to see only darkness reflected back at her, she almost flipped it off again before she paused. He was sitting on the floor in jeans, barefoot and shirtless. He had gotten even skinnier, and his body was all hard angles and pale skin. He was cleaning brushes automatically, his eyes never leaving the painting in front of him. She hesitated, then zoomed in on the painting. It was of him, painting her. Angry reds swirled around him, distorting the apartment into a kaleidoscope hell. He was wearing the same jeans, and his body was dark lines and pale flesh stones. The canvas barely seemed to contain the energy in the painting, and she leaned in closer. It wasn’t the first painting he had done of her, she wasn’t even sure he had ever actually painted the image on the canvas. But it was certainly her, calmly at the center of all that energy, that passion falling into her at his direction. She had stared at it for some time then pursed her lips, and made a decision. She went back out to her car. This time, she knocked, but impatiently. He opened the door with the confused expression of someone who had just gotten to sleep when they were woken up. But he smiled when he saw her. She pushed past him, walking closer to the painting, looking it over carefully. Studying it while he shut the door again. “I want this painting. How much?” He blinked several times, then laughed. “You actually like it?” Her head tilted ever so slightly to one side. “Do not mock me. Just name your price.” Instead he sat down on the couch, a heavy thud of tired bones and muscles. His hands dangled between his knees, and he stared at the floor. “I wasn’t mocking you, I was just… fuck it, just take it, it’s yours.” She had nodded, and looked at the painting again. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. I’ll have someone by in the morning with a deed and a van to move it in.” She was staring at the painting again, reluctant to leave it, afraid he would destroy it overnight in a fit of artistic pique. She bit her lip, and forced herself to turn away from it. She had apparently been wrong, and extending some trust would help to begin mending their relationship. “If you have a frame recommendation, please be so kind as to pass it along with the delivery people.” She nodded again and left. They picked up the painting at 9:00 A.M., waking him up again. He watched as they carefully put it in an oversized carrier, and signed the form they presented. That day he cleaned the apartment, shaved and showered. Went out and bought groceries, and read the news. The next day she came over, letting herself in without knocking again, and wordlessly hanging two suits in the closet before sitting down to watch him paint. Things returned to normal between them, for certain values of normal. It wasn’t a difficult piece, but it was giving him trouble. He sighed and sat back, staring at the canvas, and consulted an art book. Finally he shrugged, and acknowledged that sometimes the best thing you could do is take a break. He spoke without looking at her, so used to her presence that it was little different from her absence. “I think I’m done for the day, it’s just not coming together.” He heard her footsteps, but didn’t realize she was walking towards him until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and turned to face her. Her eyes locked with his, the same expression as always on her face, and then her lips were on his and her tongue was forcing its way into his mouth. His breath came out in a surprised rush, and he pushed his body against hers. She stepped into him, pushing him back, walking him across the apartment towards the bed. His legs hit the edge and he fell back with her looming over him. She unbuttoned her jacket and blouse, hanging them on a chair before she reached behind her to remove her bra. He sat up and kissed the soft skin under her breasts, sucking and then biting along the base as she moaned. She climbed on the bed, straddling him on either side and holding on to his head, running her hands through his hair, guiding his kisses and gentle nibbles. Her shoes clattered to the floor, and she pushed him back down, laying on top of him to shimmy out of her slacks. She stood back up and looked at him with a gaze so intense that he blushed as she unzipped his pants and jerked them down. He pulled his shirt over his head as she dragged his underwear down and off, her nails scraping the skin on his legs. Her panties joined his underwear on the floor. She climbed back on top of him, working her way up his body. She teased his cock, dragging her slit across it until she straddled his face. His tongue came out eagerly and she lowered her cunt onto it, holding his head with one hand and massaging her breasts with the other. She hissed out a “Yesssss…” as his tongue found her clit, and she pinned his head between her thighs. He kissed her there, running his tongue across the short hair and judging where to suck and lick by her reactions, working his tongue in a circular pattern, pushing against the sensitive nerve endings. She ground her teeth against each other and closed her eyes, imagining the painting while riding his face. She came hard, and ground down onto his face as the violent imagery filled her mind. Breathing hard she leaned down to kiss him, then slid her cunt over his cock, working it inside her body with her hand. He groaned and arched his back as she sighed and licked her lips. She slowly started to ride him, trying to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. He could feel her body working his, taking control and using his cock for both of their pleasure. His eyelids twitched as she pushed herself up and down, controlling the tempo, slowing when she felt his hips start to twitch, speeding up, then slowing again, teasing him and keeping him on the edge as long as she could. She reveled in the feeling of ownership and control, knowing what she had inspired in him, trying to recapture that feeling of energy and life she sound when she looked at the painting. Her back was arched, and when she felt her toes curl she finally had to let go, slamming her hips onto his body over and over as frantically as she could. She came, spasming and moaning, seconds before his orgasm exploded. He shrieked underneath her in white-hot pleasure, thrashing on the mattress with her above him until they both collapsed. She stood up and went to the bathroom, and he sat up, still breathing hard. He was trying to think of what to say when she returned, but he could only watch, stunned, as she calmly dressed herself and walked to the door. She opened it, and not bothering to look back, calmly informed him, “Tomorrow is the last day of your contract. If you’d like to meet over breakfast at the same restaurant as our initial meeting, I will have your check and we can take care of the paperwork.” The door thudded shut behind her. “I believe that concludes our present contract, but I have an additional proposal.” “Oh?” His voice was distinctly chilly, and he finished his drink, looking around for the waiter. “I would like for you to move in to my house.” “Come again?” His anger had simmering below the surface all morning, and only the setting kept him from screaming. “I…” She looked up at the ceiling, and then directly at him. “I apologize. I have treated you poorly, and you are doubtlessly confused. Please, let me explain.”

His lips were still pushed tightly together, but he had nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. She sipped her drink, and nodded back. “I’m not looking for a husband. In my world if I were to marry I would instantly become my husband’s shadow, no matter what his accomplishments were relative to mine. So I collect artists, and I have an opportunity to share their passions for a time. Many of them, as I told you, think that my vice is vanity and I will melt if they appeal to my ego. You are the first to show me through your work that I inspired passion in you, and for that I am very grateful. I would like to spend more time with you, and see if it happens again. The terms would be the same, I have a cottage in back of my home. It is private, and you could come and go as you please and have relationships as you like.” “I suppose…” She stared down at her drink, swallowing and forcing the words out. “That my vice is pride. I want to win at everything, but it is very nice to know that just once, I inspired that sort of feeling in someone. I regret that I was not there to watch you actually paint it, to feel it being created. If you were ever to create something like that again, I would like the opportunity to be present.” She looked up with a sad smile, the first emotion he could remember ever seeing on her face. He leaned back in his chair, and thought carefully. He wanted to be furious with her but his anger melted away thinking of that painting. “Ever since I painted that piece, I’ve been trying to recapture that moment. It was the most beautiful, pure moment of my life. Like what mothers describe giving birth as, and I want to feel it again more than anything. I think you can help me with that.” They had smiled at each other across the table, and she had signaled for the check. He pushed his glass to the edge of the table, and grinned at her. “Should I stop by your lawyer’s and fill out the paperwork.” She stood up, and held out her hand. “I think a handshake will be sufficient in this case.” They shook on it, and he moved in that night. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

Hostage Situation The ski mask keeps riding up my chin and rubbing against my lip. I check the time on my phone again, and stomp one foot impatiently. So bored. I roll my wrist from side to side and watch the edge of the knife flash in the dim light. I swallow hard. He should have been home by now, and I resist the urge to text him and ask what is taking so long. Waiting is the hardest part, sometimes. Finally, the dead bolt on the door spins and the handle revolves. The door opens and I can see him through the slats of the closet. He’s coming inside, a bag of groceries balanced in one arm and his keys in his other hand. Hopefully he doesn’t think what I’m doing is a real attack and lose his shit. He locks the door behind him and walks past the closet, oblivious. I open the door quietly, and step up behind him, grabbing his head with one hand and mashing the knife against his skin with the other. It’s a butter knife and I’d have a better chance of bludgeoning him to death with it than sawing through his jugular vein, but he doesn’t know that. Probably suspects, but doesn’t know. I let him feel the cold metal against his skin. “Don’t say a word and don’t fucking move.” I hiss in his ear, and feel his muscles tense then relax when he hears my voice. Excellent. “Down on your knees, slowly.” He sinks to one knee, then carefully moves his leg back so the other knee is pressed against the floor. I steady him, holding his body against my own and directing it downward while he shuffles his legs back and forth. “Set the bag down. Slowly.” I stay tight against him as he sets the groceries to one side, enjoying the feel of his muscles moving under his clothes and skin. “Hands behind your back.” I kneel down with him, holding the knife against his throat as he moves his arms and places his hands in the small of his back. With my free hand I pull cuffs out of a pants pocket and flip them open, cinching them down over one wrist then the other. The metal is hard and punishing and I love the little sounds the chain between the bracelets makes. He can’t see my grin as I give him a shove between the shoulder blades. He hits the floor with a dull thud and an “Ooomph” of breath and I lick my lips. No more waiting, things are about to get interesting for both of us. I drop the knife well to one side and sit on his legs. I can feel the grin on my face as I pull a zip tie out of my back pocket. I run it under and around his feet and pull the end through the clasp. A couple of hard jerks and it cinches down, binding his feet together. I stand and nudge him with my foot, making sure I have his full attention. “We took your pretty little wife. If you want her back in one piece, you’ll do as we say. Make any trouble, fail to satisfy our demands, and my associates will torture her… even more.” He nods once, a quick jerk of his head. “Good boy. Crawl into the living room, and we’ll get started.” I punctuate my words with a quick kick to his thigh, hard enough he notices it, and start pushing him further into the house. With his hands behind him and his ankles bound he has to kind of shove himself along the floor, pushing his body along the carpet with his legs. I march slowly behind him, enjoying the view, not in any hurry but still using the occasional kick to encourage him to move faster. “Stop.” I walk past him when he reaches the center of the room, and pick up a laptop. It hims to life and I enter the password, then set it on the floor in front of him. I open a video file, and start it playing. I watch his face, knowing he sees a close up of a knife sliding through the skirt I was wearing this morning. The hand is wearing a black leather glove, just so he can’t be absolutely sure I’m doing it myself. I can see him frown, and feel a rush at his doubt and uncertainty. He’s still not sure just how far I’ll go, if there might not be a third person involved somehow, and I love that he still wants to play with me despite that doubt. On the screen the skirt falls away, and I jump a little when the knife starts to cut away my panties. They fall in two pieces, and the hand pulls them away. My pussy is on the screen, and I can feel him staring at it. The audio from the video kicks out a single, pleading “No” and then stops, freezing on the last frame. My leg is half blocking the view of my pussy. He’s still staring at it, intent, and breathing a little harder. I walk around him, stomping in my big ugly combat boots. “Figured it out yet? Whatever we did to her, we’re going to do to you too. If you want to stop, just say so, but the show ends. If you want to see what happens to her next, we’ll keep going.”

He licks his lips again, his eyes still frozen on the image on the screen. “Yes. I understand.” “Good.” I yank his shoes off and throw them in the corner. Time to start stripping him down, too many clothes make it hard to get to all his sensitive nerves and skin, and the cloth will be in the way whether I want to give him pain or pleasure. His socks follow his shoes, and I pull a knife out of my pocket, one with a real blade this time. I start sawing through his jeans, cutting along the seam to make it easier and making sure I don’t cut the zip tie around his ankles. I let him feel the dull edge of the blade rubbing against his skin as I start to take away his clothes. I take my time, enjoying this part. It’s slow and sweet and ritualistic, and it feels physical and spiritual. I can feel my control over his body and mind. It’s almost too soon, but his pants fall apart and he’s lying there in his underwear. I pull his underwear away from his body and let it snap back down. He twitches a little, but he’s still staring at the screen and being careful to lay very, very still. I pull the underwear away again and start cutting. His shredded boxers are like a little flag of surrender as I pull them away from his body. “Are you ready to see what happens next?” “Yes, please.” It’s a cute little whimpering sound he makes when he says this, and I’d think he did it on purpose if he didn’t get so embarrassed every time I mention it to him. I reach over his prone, half-naked body to play the next video, and go back to the closet to get my duffel bag. There are a few things in there I’m going to need. I can hear my moans coming from the monitor, and know he’s watching me get fucked with a dildo. He would see me teasing my clit, running it up and down my slit, and then slowly working it inside myself. Pushing it in further a little each time, sawing it in and out. He’s probably flexing his fingers in the cuffs, lying very still, and I know all that is in his mind is what’s on that monitor, not what’s going to happen to him next. I had given him a treat, now it was time for him to pay for his pleasure. I get back and strap on the harness, then start to lube the cock hanging lewdly in front of me. It doesn’t take long, and I lay down on top of him as the video plays, feeling wonderfully androgynous. The black clothing covers me from head to toe, and the ski mask only leaves my mouth and eyes visible. I feel like I’m nothing but the big nasty cock hanging in front of me, and it feels wonderful. Now I need to shove it inside of him, feel the control that comes from that kind of violation, feel it slip inside him inch by inch and know it’s mental surrender as much as physical. Lying on top of him, I let him feel the hard plastic between us, pressing into his back. “Your turn, unless you want to stop.” He shakes his head, “No, I don’t want to stop, I want to see what happens next.” “Say it then.” I can feel him tremble underneath me, and know it is so much harder when he has to ask for it than when I just take it. Little jolts of pleasure wash over me with each word he speaks. “Please fuck me like you fucked my wife.” I smile and my eyebrows bounce under the mask. He was getting more into it than I thought he would. “Again, and with more details, or I’ll just go fuck her again.” “Please, fuck me with your hard cock like you fucked my wife, please shove it in my ass ma’am.” I shove myself up and position the tip at his asshole, and start to push forward with my hips. His upper body trembles and I keep pushing, sliding it in further. He moans and whimpers and I pause, waiting for him to take a deep breath then I force it out of his body with a shove. He actually yips then, a sound of surprise and pain. I slow down, and put my hands on his back letting him feel my skin. “It’s halfway in. You’ll take it all.” He just nods, and I back out a little then push in again. I can tell he’s focusing on his breathing, keeping it deep and regular, trying to breathe through the pain and discomfort. I was still gasping and moaning on the screen, the dildo sliding in and out of me. I wanted to be that dildo, doing it to him, and I slide in a little further, then start rocking my hips back and forth. He whimpers but keeps still, letting me invade his body. His hands clench into fists and release, and I can see him pulling against the handcuffs, trying to force physical sensation into his body to distract himself. I start fucking him faster, moving my hips back and forth, reveling in the feeling of control and violation. Of doing something to someone else’s body, of forcing my way inside, of violating their most sacred possession. And of having someone who accepts this, and loves me afterwards, and takes a shower with me and kisses me and thanks me. Of someone who gives me their body and their mind. I fuck him harder, really slamming into him now, knowing the video is almost at the end. On the screen I’m slamming the dildo into my pussy with one last violent thrust, just as I drive the cock inside him with all my weight. I hold it there, on the screen and inside of him, letting it stretch and hold open both our holes. Then I slowly, ever so slowly, pull it out. I’m breathing hard, and I pull the ski mask halfway up to get more air. I sit down and lean against the wall, and can see him lying there with his eyes closed, tiny trails from tears on his cheek. My eyes roll back into my head then, and I felt the most wonderful rush of pleasure. All through my body, there was the deep satisfaction of a hunger sated. Temporarily. Soon I pull the mask back down, and take the strapon off. I nudge him with one boot and he jumps into wakefulness. “Well, do you want some more?” He nods quickly, and I’m not surprised. The anal fucking doesn’t do much for him in and of itself, it usually just drives him to a calmer mental place where he can surrender and work up to the things he actually enjoys. Like pain. I reach over his body and started the next video. I frown down at the screen, the footage was pretty awful. I had to shoot three different angles and edit them together, but I still saw him reflexively wince as the nipple clamps snapped on. I pull him up by his hair, and move the screen closer with my other hand. “It gets better.” My voice sounds like a snarl in my own ears, and my jaw twitches as I remember the nipple clamps. The scene jumps to a riding crop slapping my ass. The angle was awkward, but he got the idea. Then I was in profile, licking a boot. The same beat up combat boot I was wearing now. I hear his breathing get faster, and pull the nipple clamps out of the bag. “On your side, roll the fuck over.” I bark the words, eager and hungry. I pull his shirt up and snap them on, then let his shirt fall down and shoved him back on his stomach. I squat in front of him, and start to lightly tap his ass with the riding crop. “Do you want to lick my boots?” “Yes please.” He was so sincere I almost let him get away with it right there. “You’ll have to earn it. Just remember, we can stop whenever you want.” “Yes ma’am, please crop my ass until I’ve earned the right to lick your boots.” What can I say? I’m a sucker for politeness. I skip the rest of the warmup and started hitting him for real. It’s a sharp, stinging pain, the kind your body reflexively jumps at. Which must have made the nipple clamps he was laying on twist and pull and generally hurt like a son of a bitch. I know he’s watching the monitor through my legs, and wonder if it’s showing my own tits with the clamps on them, the crop bouncing off my ass, or my face licking the boots. I hit him harder, wanting him to really feel it. He moans and thrashes a little, and his legs reflexively start to curl at the knee. I keep hitting him, feeling the vibrations thudding up my arm and down into my cunt. I want him to suffer for it, to really feel the pain for the next few days. His ass turns red, and I start swatting at the same spots over and over, trying to make the drops of lube still on his skin bounce. Finally, when his moans are coming from somewhere deep in his soul, I let him have some pleasure. “You may lick my boots now.” He pushes himself forward with his legs, eagerly running his tongue across the cracked and worn leather. My thighs burn from crouching, but I’m willing to stop yet. I shift my weight from one leg to the other, and keep slapping his ass with the crop. Looking down at him licking my boots I know the exact look on his face: it is one of utter bliss, of not caring what’s happening anywhere else in the world. I hear the video end behind us, and just keep working on his ass. He keeps licking, moving from one boot to another, letting out little gasps when the nipple clamps pull and tear at his body. He must have really torqued one, because he lets out a sharp bleat of pain and hisses through his teeth. I can’t take it anymore, that sound pushes me over the edge. I let myself fall to my side, and pull my pants and panties down to my knees, all at once. I grab his head, and pull his face up to my cunt. “Eat my pussy! Eat my fucking pussy!” I smash his face into my crotch and feel his tongue going to work. My God it’s delicious. I lay back, and let his tongue please me and his lips tease me. He works his tongue in circles here, flicks it there. I hold on to his head with my hands, letting the pleasure consume both of us. It’s a quick buildup and a sudden explosion, and my legs start thrashing awkwardly under his weight while I gasp and moan. I jerk the mask off, and the air feels cool and wonderful on my face. I shove him off of me, and scoot down to lay beside him. He’s on his side, slightly curled, his hands are still behind his back and his ankles are still tied together. He’s breathing slowly and regularly, and I can see his eyes twitching under the closed lids. The screensaver on the computer bounces a fractal from one corner to another. I sit up, and work the safety release on one of the cuffs so he can hold me, then flop back down. He wraps his arms around me, and we sigh and purr together. I kiss him once, on the lips, and lightly punch his arm. “I thought you were never going to get home, you big jerk.” His head rolls back, and he winces as he moans. “Oh, shit.” “What?”

He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “I stopped and bought ice cream. It’s in the bag.”

I have to laugh. He’s a sweet, adorable man who took a dildo in his ass, one hell of a beating, licked my boots with vicious clamps on his nipples, and still bought me ice cream. “I’ll put it in the freezer if it’s too melted, and we can have it later.” I can feel the reluctance in his arms as he lets me go, and I go to grab the groceries and put them away, and give him a little time. There are four more videos on the laptop, and I want to let him rest for a little while. But only a little while. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Permalink

Winding Down Hello all, So, the hiatus has gone on longer than planned, but I’m mostly writing other things these days. I do have six five stories that I submitted for publication and didn’t get accepted that I’m going to put up over the next month and a half or so (one per week). So look for those on Wednesdays, and then it’ll probably go back to being quiet for awhile. Thanks for reading,

V. “When you turned out the light and walked out the door,

I said to myself, “What did I come here for?”

-Concrete Blonde, “Long Time Ago Permalink

Hiatus Hi all, Going on hiatus until I figure out what I want to do with this blog. Thanks for reading. -V. Permalink

Wired Man “Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?” “Shut it.” She ran the end of the rope through the D-ring on the collar on his wrist, pulling it tight then tying it to the ring of the anal hook firmly in his ass. Rope ran across his body in a jigsaw pattern, through D-rings in leather collars and bracelets wrapped around his wrists, ankles, neck, and thighs. He moved one arm experimentally, and grimaced as the anal hook jumped and the rope jerked down on the collar on his neck and up on the bracelet on his opposite foot. He tried to follow the network of cord laid out over his body, the disappearing and reappearing lines that made his limbs jerk and interact unpredictably. “When did you find the time to work all this out, anyway?” “Work it out?” She snorted. “I didn’t work anything out. I just started tying stuff.” She ran another line from one arm through a foot to the other arm, and tested the tension before making a knot in it. She stood back, walked around him slowly looking him up and down, then nodded. “I think that’ll do. I like your flailing, it reminds me of a puppy on ice, and I think this’ll really help you with that.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. “Because I’m a helper.” He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to, what? Try to walk now?” “No, no, no, no.” She shook her head. “I want you to hold very still while I help you lay down on the floor. She grabbed his shoulders from behind and lowered him to the floor. His limbs jerked and twitched as he tried to balance, and forced himself not to start jerking to try and recover. His ass hit the floor, the anal hook a cold bar between his cheeks running up to the small of his back, then his shoulders. He looked up at her standing over him as she shucked her shirt off and stuck out her tongue. “What now?” Images of canes on the soles of his feet, icy-hot on his balls, cringing and jerking his useless limbs from side to side filled his imagination. She grinned down at him, and pulled a feather from her back pocket. “Now I find out where you’re most ticklish.” Preview: “Don’t you dare fucking stop!” Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon. Permalink

The Humor in the Situation She stomped around him in a half-circle, turning back and forth, examining him from every angle. His arms were tense, locked and holding him out from the wall. His legs spread wide, the thighs pulled tight as the muscles stretched to keep him in the unnatural position. His head was down as he watched her boots move from one side to the other. She dragged the end of the flogger up his thigh, and held it just under his cock. He raised up on his toes, then sighed and lowered himself reluctantly, bracing himself against the wall. She pushed his cock from side to side with the leather end, and licked her lips. Her voice was a low, sultry whisper. “Tonight, your safeword is… I want to watch Antiques Roadshow with you.” He groaned, and turned his head to look at her with a frown. “What if Antiques Roadshow isn’t on, oh Mistress of Mistresses?” She put her free hand on her chest and thrust it towards him. Another deep throated whisper, Jessica Rabbit after a quart of whiskey and carton of cigarettes. “Oh my, then I guess you’re off the hook. My poor feminine brain couldn’t have possibly DVR-ed six hours worth last week.” She threw in an exaggerated flounce that ended in a pout and mauled her breasts with one hand while she tapped her temple with the crop. “Machines are hard, and I’m just a girl.” He shook his head. “We’ve talked about the DVR co-topping before, it’s not cool.” Then finally nodded. “But I guess for tonight, although I’m not sure I can imagine a torture worse than that show.” She laughed and shook her hands to limber them up. “Challenge accepted.” She stepped to one side and lined the crop up with his ass cheeks, then pulled it back. “Knock knock?” He paused for a second, then slowly, softly asked, “Who’s there?” “Please beat my ass with the crop.” He closed his eyes so she couldn’t see them roll upward, and shifted his hips slightly. “Please beat my ass with the crop who?” The leather slapped into his ass with a whack, leaving a small square of red skin behind that quickly faded. “Please beat my ass with the crop ma’am.” Silence. She waited, while he breathed and waited for another stroke. Finally, she tapped the end of the crop against her leg. “You didn’t laugh. Wasn’t it funny? Maybe I told it wrong.” He gave a weak, “Heh heh, very funny ma’am. I was laughing on the inside before.” “And now you’re humoring me. Wait a minute, I did tell it wrong.” She walked over to the drawer and came back with the heavy wooden paddle. “Knock knock?” He grimaced and took a deep breath. “Who’s there?” “Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle.” A heartbeat before he replied as he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle who?” “Please beat my ass with the heavy wooden paddle ma’am.” It crashed into him, hard, on the last word and he jerked his hips, clenching his jaw and trying to figure out how to ask for warmup. “You’re still not laughing. Guess I’m still not telling it right.” He made laughing noises that he hoped sounded sincere as she walked back across the room, and came back with the single-tail. She carefully judged the distance, and let the whip uncoil. “Knock knock.” He took a few deep breaths, and fixed his gaze forward. “Who’s there?” “Please single tail me.” “Please single tail me who?” “Please.” A crack and a splat punctuated each word, the leather end uncoiling towards him and hitting him across the shoulder blades. “Single.” Crack-splat. “Tail.” Crack-splat. “Me.” Crack-splat. “Ma’am.” She kept going this time, throwing the whip at him, leaving little scarlet traces of pain on his body. He tried to breathe in time with her strokes, in as she aimed and threw, out as the pain seared across his flesh. He wondered how long it would go on, and considered his safeword then rejected it. His eyes rolled up into his head and he tried to think of something funny. The pain built as his mind replayed scenes from The Three Stooges and The Marx Brothers, trying to build up a genuine laugh. Each one disappeared in a flash as the whip hit his body, flickering to another that also disappeared. He kept trying to laugh, and failing, as pain and her presence disrupted his thoughts. Finally, his thoughts tripped over themselves and into a drive across town with her. A woman on the right running from her apartment building, arms pumping and legs flailing for no apparent reason. Her breasts heaving, looking for all the world like she was desperately chasing them down the sidewalk with the intensity of an Olympic sprinter. Something so totally unexpected that it had jolted both of them into sudden, hysterical, paralyzing laughter. A snort escaped his lips, and he slumped a little as he started helplessly laughing. She paused, her eyes narrowed, then grinned and nodded. He couldn’t stop laughing, and she eventually chuckled along with him then put the whip down and walked over to hug him from behind. “Come on jerkface, I guess I can watch Roadshow tomorrow while you’re out.” Preview: “Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?” Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon. Permalink

Conversations at the Munch He frowned and watched her walk away. He checked his watch, three women in five minutes, probably a record. He thought about going home, looked at the heavy rain still falling outside, and walked over to a group of people talking instead. He stood there for another five minutes, laughing at jokes he didn’t understand, opening his mouth then closing it, then stomped towards the door. He was sitting his half-full glass down on an empty table near the door when it burst open and she ran in, holding her purse over her head and skidding to a blind halt in front of him. “Ack,” she ran a hand through her hair, and her wet purse thumped into his chest. “Hold this for a second.” He reflexively let go of his glass and clutched the purse while she dug tissues out of it and dried her glasses. “Fucking bullshit rain weather, parking here always sucks.” She put them back on, and blinked at him then grinned. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.” She gently lifted the purse out of his hands, and slung it back over her shoulder. “First time here?” He looked from the door back to her, and shrugged. “Not really, I’ve been here a few times. Was just on my way out…” He stopped and swallowed hard. “Unless you’d like to sit down?” She flicked water off her fingertips, and nodded. “Sounds good, I owe you something for assaulting you with a soggy purse.” She pulled out a chair and flopped down, then looked at him again as he stiffly sat down by his glass. “Yeah, I’ve seen you here a few times, now that I think about it. You usually leave early, I think.” He grimaced and nodded. “Yeah. Women don’t seem interested in meeting new submissives at these things very much.” “Oh.” She nodded and pursed her lips as she signaled to a waitress. “You’re one of those guys.” “One of those guys? What the hell does that mean?” She ordered a cocktail and nodded again. “Definitely. You’re one of those guys who think this is a singles bar, and if you just stay around long enough you can leave with a drunk woman for a one night stand, and she’ll tie you up and suck your dick and call you a bitch and wear a lot of latex while she commands you to eat her cunt.” She looked at him through her glasses. “Am I right?” He took a drink to avoid answering, then held his hands up. “Well, that’s what I want out of a relationship, I’m sorry if I haven’t met the right person yet, but I’m not going to give up and settle.” She shrugged, and looked over to the bar where the waitress was waiting for her drink. “It’s no skin off my ass, but you’re probably not going to find that here. You should go to a pro-domme, or find a vanilla woman willing to do that for you every once in awhile.” He took another drink, setting his glass down with a harsh clunk. “I don’t believe that, everyone says if I just be myself and wait–” “Terrible advice.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand and shook her head, then fished a credit card out of her purse. “Start a tab?” She swapped the waitress the card for her drink, and took a careful sip. “People who want to know how to meet people go to people who have success meeting people. Those people, who are successful, tell the unsuccessful people to be themselves, because those people are neck deep in pussy or cock, sometimes both, just by being themselves.” She took another sip, and raised an eyebrow at his frown. “The problem is, no one adds the all important caveat that being yourself only works if you’re the sort of person that people want to meet anyway.” She sighed, sat down her drink, and leaned forward. “If you’ve been being yourself (and really, who else are you going to be) for a long time, and you haven’t met anyone, maybe it’s time you considered changing who you are, or at least how you act.” She shrugged and leaned back. He swirled the ice in his glass, and slowly unclenched his jaw. “I don’t think I should have to change.” She shrugged again, and smiled. “So don’t. But being a partner, not just a top or bottom, usually means changing for someone. The only common denominator in all your failed relationships is you.” “So just who the hell should I be then?” He over-enunciated the words, throwing them at her. “If I change who I am, would you go out with me?” “Probably not.” She sighed and gathered her things. “You’re not very bright, but my oh my you are pretty.” She gave him an apologetic grin and a shrug. “Drama was fun in my early-twenties, now I just don’t have the patience for it.” She took another drink, giving him a careful look. “And you are a recipe for drama if I ever saw one.” She walked around the far side of the table and towards some friends. He stood up and started towards the door with his fists clenched, then turned around. “Hey.” She stopped, held back a sigh, and turned around. “Thanks. I’ll think about it. What you said.” She made a grave salute with her glass, and nodded. “Offer to buy her a drink, if you really want to meet a femdom. Don’t be pushy, always be polite, and desperation is never sexy when you first meet someone. And expect it to take awhile.” He nodded back, turned around and left. Preview: He kept trying to laugh, and failing, as pain and her presence disrupted his thoughts. Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited. Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon. Permalink

Control “Go jerk off.” His hand stopped, a french fry halfway to his mouth. “Huh?” “Go jerk off. Stop eating, go jerk off, have an orgasm, and then come back.” He looked at her face carefully, searching for a tell-tale upturned corner of her mouth that would tell him she wasn’t serious. “I thought we were doing the thing?” He rubbed his hands on the legs of his pants and licked his lips. She took a drink and nodded, then put one finger on the straw and pushed down slightly. It bent a little, ice cubes moving around it. “We are. Go jerk off, and we’ll talk about it.” “In the restroom?” She shrugged. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail, I’d recommend the restroom, yes.” His eyes stayed on her as he stood up and shuffled towards the restroom, waiting for her to laugh and call him back. She was stealing one of his french fries when he turned the corner and she disappeared from view. He walked down the length of the bathroom, choosing the last stall that wasn’t handicapped. The door swung shut behind him, and he jiggled the flimsy chrome lock until it slid into the frame. His hands were sweating as he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. He started slowly jerking himself off, thinking about that morning. “How would you feel about doing orgasm control again?” He tried to sound casual while he spun the garbage around and cinched a twist-tie down around the top. “Hm, might be fun.” She flipped the new bag up and down until it billowed open, then stuffed it into the can and set the lid down. “Buy me dinner tonight and it’s a deal.” A quick hug and a kiss and they left the house, the bass from her car thumping as he dropped the garbage in the dumpster and walked to his own car. Thoughts flickered through his head the rest of the day. Of not being allowed to orgasm, of fucking her until he couldn’t stand it then begging to eat her cunt instead, of her writhing and shouting mixing with his moans of frustration. Of the firm pressure of a cage around his cock as it tried to get hard. The back of his legs tightened and he felt his back begin to arch. He pulled a handful of toilet paper off the roll as his cock started to jerk, and held it in front of him as semen spilled out. He waited until he was done, then dropped it in the toilet and waved his hand in front of the sensor. The toilet flushed with an anemic roar, and he zipped his pants up. He paused at the door, turned back, washed his hands, and dried them on his pants as he walked back to the table. The black vinyl folder with the check was waiting on the table, and she was standing by the exit, flicking a finger across her phone. He opened the check, figured out the tip, and dug through his pockets. A few bills and he dropped the folder back on the table, sighing at the spot where his plate had been. He walked over to the door and leaned against the wall next to her. “Ready Freddy?” She smiled and nodded. “Yep, let’s go.” They pulled out into traffic, and she hummed along to the music as he looked from her, to the traffic, and back. She was going to force him to bring it up, and he knew that after the first few minutes. He would open his mouth, then close it, until finally they hit a long stop light on red. “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.” She rolled her shoulders to the music and mimicked his slow, careful words. “Well, I am the M. Night Shyamalan of kink.” “I just thought we were doing orgasm control?” It was only half a question. She grinned at him and nodded. “We are, but control isn’t denial. You’re going to come when I say, and how I say. What you do on your time is your business, but you better come when I tell you to.” She leaned over and punched his upper leg, hard. “And if you can’t, because you’ve been jerking off, things will be very unpleasant until you do have an orgasm.” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. He nodded and frowned, looking for traps and loopholes. “May I please wear the chastity cage to help me keep from jerking off ma’am?” Traffic crossed in front of them and she looked up at the clouds through the windshield. “Hmmmm…” The song ended and another began. “No, then I’d have to unlock you or find a key when I wanted you to have an orgasm, and that would inconvenience me. I prefer to just be able to tell you.” She looked back at him, poker faced. “Is that all right?” She moved her hand towards the console to skip the song and he flinched. She laughed and pushed next, then put her hand 