I'm going to Brandon's if you want a ride, said my text from my friend Moyer.
That dude? I don't know if I want to hang out with him all day.
Brandon was this guy Moyer met at a private club we sometimes went to, mostly for the music, which was more our scene than the recycled pop bouncing out of every other bar. But he seemed to have become intrigued by the "alternative lifestyle" thing going on at this place in his last couple of conversations with Brandon as the liquor flowed. I had been creeped out by the guy, who had that sort of overly-muscled, barely-repressed aggression vibe. He was outwardly friendly, though, and had ended up inviting us to watch a game with him the last time we saw him, mentioning his sound system.
Do I have to remind you we're broke and this guy has Sunday ticket and beer? Picking you up.
Brandon lived on the Southside, where the neighborhoods had little character, but people could build, do whatever they wanted with their yards. His place was pretty unassuming but there was a huge, expensive motorcycle in the open garage.
"He said just to walk in. The TV's in the basement and he won't hear us knock," Moyer muttered as we approached the front door. I just stuck my hands in my pockets. This was his deal.
It was cool and dark inside, all the windows covered up against the bright fall day. As my eyes struggled to adjust, I followed Moyer across a dim living room to a hallway, towards the faint sounds of a television. The noise of the commercial got louder as we reached the basement door, our feet soundless on the carpet.
"Uh, Brandon?" His voice was too soft. "Brandon?" He called louder.
Brandon leaned his head over the back of a leather recliner as we descended the stairs into the basement. "Glad you could make it," he was saying as I looked over the massive TV, the impressive speaker setup and stereo equipment, and the bar area to one side of his finished lower level. "Beer in the fridge over there."
"Thanks," I started to say, but at the same time, Moyer said, "Holy shit!"
He was standing several feet in front of me, his mouth was open, and his eyes were riveted to Brandon's lap.
I moved to look over the top edge of the recliner. I took a step, and also stopped in my tracks. It was a pussy. Not in Brandon's lap, but in front of him. She was on her back, lying on a large ottoman in front of his chair. From my vantage point, I could only see her thighs and her knees, which were spread wide, and her completely bare pussy between them, and a bit of her smooth, flat tummy. As I stared I realized that there was some kind of tie around her legs and her feet were actually tucked up against her butt. Her calves were tied to her thighs.
"What the fuck, man?" Moyer's face was turning red. I felt rooted to the spot, and, hideously, the stirrings of a hard-on.
"Gentlemen, this is my girlfriend, Amy," Brandon said in a smug tone which instantly annoyed me. "I'd introduce her, but she's busy." He was still turning his head around to talk to us but at this point he focused his attention back on the girl and suddenly, with a crisp Snap!, he whipped some kind of implement down on her right inner thigh. I hadn't noticed before, but her legs were marked with angry red marks. "Amy's usually here on the weekend," Brandon was saying. "We had a training issue to deal with today."
"Let's just go, man," I murmured to Moyer, trying to pull him back up the stairs. As hot as that woman's half-body was, this was freaky shit.
"Look, man, this is your private business," Moyer was saying.
"Amy's not shy," Brandon said. "Come see for yourself. Just observe if you want. Or not. Just watch the game."
I was halfway up the stairs, but I realized Moyer was hesitating. I don't know what he and Brandon had talked about before, but it must have had something to do with his decision to walk over and sit on a sofa adjacent to Brandon and Amy.
This time I could hear a small sob. It was muffled, but it was such a pure, authentic sound of feminine distress, and my cock hardened halfway. I had to know what she was doing.
I cautiously rounded the side of the recliner just as Brandon's riding crop slapped down on Amy's exposed pussy. Her body jerked, her legs briefly wobbling closed, and she buried her face in Brandon's ass.
He was naked, and his erection lay heavy and purple on his stomach. Most of Amy's body was resting on the ottoman that was pushed up to Brandon's chair, but her head and shoulders were wiggled up onto Brandon's seat, and his balls, which were enormous, hung over her face. He had propped his legs up next to hers now so she could reach his asshole, which, from what I could tell, she was actively licking.
Brandon had adjusted the volume on the TV when the game came back on, but now he turned it back down for a moment. "Want to see how it works?"
Neither of us answered right away. I was trying not to stare at Brandon's dick or ass. Amy's body was beautiful—slender, with a lovely olive tone to her skin, and pointy, sensitive-looking nipples—but it was hard to tear my eyes away from what she was doing with her mouth. All I could really see, though, was her chin moving.
"Holy shit," I whispered.
"What the fuck, man?" Moyer said again.
Brandon whipped the crop down on Amy's right thigh. Her legs jerked, but she immediately moved her head, and began licking Brandon's balls. She wiggled to get her head in the right place, and I saw that the ottoman was slick with her sweat. For the first time, I realized her arms were also bound, securely held behind her back. As I watched, she suckled his right testicle gently into her mouth.
Snap! When the crop landed on her left inner thigh, she cried out around the junk in her mouth, but transferred her attention to his left ball. Her legs were trembling. A few moments later, Brandon predictably let the crop fall on her pussy. She sobbed, but began struggling and wiggling until her face was once more buried in his ass crack. "Amy wasn't sure how she felt about licking my ass when we first got together," Brandon said. "I'm helping her work past her hang-ups. But I don't like having to talk a lot during a game. This is a much more convenient way to communicate with a cunt."
Amy was moving her head a lot, gasping for breath, and he beat her pussy again. "Don't get lazy, slut." He had leaned his head back in pleasure and was lightly stroking his cock.
My own hard-on was painful. "Does she—is she okay with this?" I finally managed to ask.
"Does she enjoy being whipped and forced to eat my ass for hours? Probably not. But she needs to be controlled." Raising his voice, he repeated, "Don't you, dirty slut? Tell these young men what you need."
Amy started to free her head and Brandon immediately whipped her between the legs. "Did I fucking tell you you could stop? Get your tongue up there and tell them with your mouth full of ass."
The humiliated girl definitely said something, but it was totally unintelligible. Brandon looked at me and shrugged, and I surprised myself by laughing out loud with him.
"Fuck this!" Moyer exploded. "I'm out of here. You coming?"
He stared challengingly at me, but his face was pale. I had almost forgotten he was next to me. I looked back at Amy's glistening, shivering body. I could see the fingers on one of her hands clenching in time to her tongue thrusts.
"Amy and I will give you a ride later," Brandon said, with a barely perceptible wink.