The Trade

“Hear what happened? That bitch of mine couldn’t handle it and now it’s my fucking fault? I toe jabbed the little prick and ruptured some vein-sack. Who was talking shit and saying it’s too light, it’s too light, it’s too light?”

Lady looked at me. Fuck, the drinks. I hurried to the kitchen the long way so as not to have to walk between the two Dommes. I heard them talking. Lady was scolding Monica for rough-handling the merchandise, her merchandise that she herself had lured to her own new glossy web-site. Monica didn’t seem to hear her and asked for some wine. She walked into the kitchen and Lady followed. Two Dommes in this small kitchen and me trying to line up the wine opener: Monica drinks red wine. She gets angry if you have her decide between two types, she just likes red. So I pop the cork up and tip the wine into the glasses that I had in a row.

"Oh so he pours himself a glass too,” said Monica as she slapped me on the ass. “Do you like being a special slave?”.

I know I didn’t have to answer her. Lady would really split my balls if I played sub with this other Domme who seemed to call her own shots. And my balls were in recovery. They were checked into ‘throbbing-pain hotel’ or maybe ‘deep-ache that reaches from the scrambled ball of yarn in my scrotum to my teeth’ resort. They called home often with stabs of electricity to let me know that the vacation would be fairly long this time.

“I hear you’re getting a piercing?”

“Yup,” I said. Now I understood the severe CBT the last couple of days. Lady wanted to prove something to Monica who brags about her little harem of bitches in ways that make you imagine it. Sometimes Monica would meet an occasional slave out for a drink and some good-natured humiliation. She had one come in diapers under his slacks and told Lady to give his ass a slap. ‘Go ahead. Give it a good slap.’ She giggled madly at the dull sound when Lady acquiesced. Later in the evening, long after she was sure the over-dose of laxative had kicked in, she had him shit his diaper and hit the road.

“Yup,” she mimicked, drawing it out like an imbecile. “I’m feeling kind of shaky... I hope I don’t tear a fucking chunk off.” She swilled her red wine and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

I looked over at Lady to get her take. She raised her eyebrows and lit a joint. I sipped my own glass of wine and wondered if Monica had ever pierced a frenulum before. This is the loose meaty underside just below the head. Or would she decide to pierce through the urethral orifice, through the glandular head, Prince Albert style. My assignment the previous week had been to research cock piercing. If I were to wear such a reminder of my servility then Lady might find it in her heart to forgive me. My transgressions were innumerable.

I had read that after the piercing, certain obvious activities would have to be relearned. I downloaded stuff from piercing societies but Lady was unimpressed. She wanted a more neutral source of information. I searched Medline, which is a medical database with many online articles. I found a few. One told of the woes of immunologic rejection. Another article featured infection, complete with color photos of purulent abscesses budding from the penile shafts. This is the bias of published medical literature... only complications would be likely to interest editors enough to include the article. The piercing society pages were more helpful. They explained how masturbation changes afterward. You have to learn it all over again. I looked at this prospect from several optimistic angles. First, I would like to stop masturbating altogether. The rich semen and the energy of orgasm could be reabsorbed instead of dissipated. Through this discipline, I would be able to increase my pain threshold by several notches. I imagine the semen seeping down the fascial planes of my thigh to the fossa behind my knee. There the semen adds strength like a puddle of mortar consolidating into the hinge. The lash that ordinarily would drop me to my knees might only result in a slight buckling.

Another angle is related to my memory of first learning the art of masturbation. I would stroke along the tip of my penis lightly with one of my father’s silk ties. The light abrasive strokes would bead sweat onto my brow and I would marvel at the bleachy smell of orgasm. Once again I would explore my sensorium as a novice.

Monica sauntered around Lady’s wooden floors in her heels. She looked wired, some fire inside, some countdown in her brain. Her greed crept across her eyes, a cavernous animal protected by shadows. I watched her motion, which is like watching a storm. You don’t have to look directly at it to see it. It is everywhere, its sound and wetness. This is how I imagine it anyway, me relegated to eyes down at all times. Lady invited a second carnivore into her lair. Did she know what she was doing? Monica stood before me, akimbo, and ran her eyes up and down my physique. Reaching forward, she grabbed my penis and led me to the bathroom. I was a freshman again, my heart pounding, a new love budding to be plucked.