He Built It and They Came

Are they bored housewives or a satanic lesbian cult?

******Short and hot, stories in this series are meant for those of you ready to get off in about 3500 words.

When Rachel suddenly tied the ball gag tight in his mouth and dropped the coarse burlap bag over his head John began to wonder if they'd lied to him. Strapped half-naked to the St. Andrew's cross, he was completely immobile now and unable to speak, but he could see through the loose weave of the sack. And he didn't like what he saw. Jacqui's horns didn't seem like such a cheap prop anymore. They'd grown. Her tail moved with an impatient twitching. She couldn't do that with a butt-plug, could she?

"Thirsty?" said Jacqui, licking the blade of the rapier, drawing blood.

John remembered the mid-October morning a week before in the Sunnyside diner where they'd had their first meeting. He'd sat with them in the corner booth and asked how they'd heard of him. The women said they'd seen his truck around with that unforgettable name on it - John's Erections. They'd also heard, when they began to check his business references, that some women in this very diner had also partaken of his sexual services. So he seemed perfect for their special project.

Over waffles Rachel, the red-haired, buxom one explained, "We understand that you're very discreet, John. And we've got a little, uh, side business." She knew how to turn on the sultry eye. And her big boobs were bound so tight he probably couldn't force a finger into the cleavage she displayed. Her waist was narrow and her bottom was round. Of course he was intrigued. "Our husbands don't suspect it. We rent a loft in Port Richmond."

Jacqui, more the blond gym rat type, trying to look bored, held her chin in her hand and traced curlicues in the pile of salt she spilled on the table. "We have a lot of followers."

Rachel, chewing waffles, spoke over her, "It's an OnlyFans thing." She had syrup on her lips.

He kept his reaction to himself. These two were about his age, not the cougars he usually served. "Your husbands...?"

"...are busy," bit off Jacqui. And Rachel added, quickly, "...making a pile of money in FinTech."

"They have long....hours," Jacqui pouted, looking him in the eye. "We've heard a lot about your..."

"So we get a number of unique requests from our followers," Rachel cut her off again, pointing her fork at him. "And we need both a carpenter and a stud."

Jacqui leaned toward her bosomy partner and whispered loudly, "Did you see the package in this stud's jeans? I'd need a ladder to climb on that thing. What is he, six feet five?"

John didn't speak for a minute but finished his waffles and drained his orange juice. He noted Jacqui's fidgeting and the little pips of her nipples tenting her silk blouse. Wiping his mouth, he said, "I have a standard cost-plus contract for my business. So I'll need to see some plans if you want an estimate."

Jacqui laughed, "Money's not a problem."

Rachel pulled out her phone and showed him a photo. "Can you make one of these?" The St. Andrew's cross image was ripped from a gay porn site. A skinny naked guy with a modest erection was strapped down and splayed wide on its X-shape. I could definitely make a better boner than that, he thought.

"If you mean the cross, yeah," he said. "You don't want an estimate?"

"First, I've got to tell you about the other part," said Rachel.

He waited while Jacqui diddled with the salt and squirmed in her seat.

"For Halloween we've been asked to stage a live BDSM scene. A man, you, if you agree, will be tied to the cross and 'tortured'," she made air-quotes, "for about an hour."

And now he understood their urgency. Halloween was eight days away. "Tortured?" he asked. He already had a boner.

Rachel turned her sultry eyes up to eleven, lay her rack on the table as she leaned toward him, "fucked unconscious, if possible," she said quietly while squeezing his arm.

"So there'll be hazardous duty pay?" he smiled for the first time and the women relaxed.

"Industry standard for the acting, John. Cost-plus for the cross. We'll throw in a year's subscription to our site." Rachel was the business woman of the two. It sounded like a fair offer. They made a deal. He'd start that afternoon.

*******

It amused him that their studio was just down the block from his usual plumbing supply place. If the guys he knew there asked what work he was doing up at the warehouse he'd have to use that discretion he was known for. Maybe he was building sets for a TV crew filming on location - they did a lot of that in Staten Island.

The cross would be easy. The only tricky part, which required a bit of experimentation, was making it simple to raise it from horizontal to vertical while also being stable. The women didn't want to spend a lot of time on the mechanics. They did want the iron fastenings and chains as authentic as possible. They'd spend time showing that fetish to their fans. With time for distressing and applying stains and varnish, it would take all of the eight days until showtime.

Rachel and Jacqui must have had a good deal of play money. Or business was good. They'd rented the entire top floor of the place and made it air conditioned and clean. You wouldn't guess from the outside, but there were an office, three studio spaces and a bright bathroom to change in.

"Yes, they're natural," said Rachel, "now let me show you around."

Of course he'd been staring at her boobs. She must have to get that question out of the way often. The stacked woman wore a high-waisted cotton, filmy dress-thing who's lace bodice showed the tiniest crescent of what looked like large, dark areola. There must have been a corset under there pinching her waist and lifting her large breasts. The loose, gauzy fabric just hinted at her fleshy ass. Her face and bosoms were made up with red powder. She smelled of talc.

"This is, obviously, where we perform," said Rachel ushering him into the first studio, "it's meant to look like Louis the Sixteenth's boudoir and still have room for the camera to move around." Jacqui sat topless in the plush bed and another young woman fussed around her applying powder and adjusting her curly wig. The skinny, buff girl waved and smiled with bright, red lips. One of her little tits would be about a mouthful.

Rachel gave him a tour of the whole space, showing the other studio, meant to be quickly changed for special requests, then the last. "You'll build the cross in here." She pointed out the large room, already stacked with spare props, very clean and well lit. There was a wardrobe closet and cabinets of sex toys, plus odd furniture and equipment.

She introduced him to Stacy, the camera/makeup girl. In her khakis, blue polo and half-shaved head he read her as a no-nonsense dyke. The woman didn't seem impressed with his Statue-of-David looks, but she attended to the other women with affection and deference.

John asked Rachel, "Do you get a lot of weird requests?" He'd been too busy to browse their site, yet, but he'd been down the porn rabbit hole once or twice.

"Well, first, nothing's weird anymore," she answered matter-of-factly. "We are a niche, though. It's sort of a cos-play set in the years before the French revolution? Hedonistic abandon and all that. Jacqui and I mostly play lesbian lovers."

"Mostly? So you haven't hired a male performer before?" In the hours since they first made this arrangement he'd had some second thoughts. He normally had sex with his client list for no charge. Women found him who needed his kind of freeing or restorative lovemaking. The universe seemed to put them together. What might the universe be doing here? Should he decline the payment? Decline the job altogether? On the other hand the chemistry at their first meeting had felt right.

"Are you afraid that we don't know how to treat the talent?" Rachel seemed defensive.

"No, no, it's that I'm not familiar with how I should be treated."

"Ah, I see. Well," she moved closer, turned on her sultry look again and raised her boobs to his eyes, "you'll have a loose script and at least one rehearsal in the week before the performance. Food and drink will be provided. All you need to do is be on time, know your cues and have a big, hard dick. You're getting the STD test this week, right?" He could swear she was restraining herself from grabbing his crotch.

All he needed to do was those four things and get fucked unconscious? Ok, I can do that, he thought. He brought all the materials he'd gathered that morning up in the elevator and got started.

********

The day before Halloween at the 'un-dress' rehearsal it all took shape. They blocked out their movements and tested the props. John was pleased with his work on the cross and so were the women. Tremendously heavy, it didn't wobble and it swung very smoothly from vertical to horizontal without effort and with a satisfying clunk. Rachel had specified a modification to the familiar cross - this one had a table-like center that gave a person room to kneel above a body strapped to the thing. "The better to fuck you unconscious with, my dear," chuckled Rachel, when explaining the change.

The buxom woman seemed at complete ease moving about the studio topless. In her director mode she was all business, conferring with Stacy, trying various camera angles, pretending to be strapped to the stone wall.

Jacqui's costume demands were the most interesting. Naked, his notion of her being a gym rat proved true; her petite frame was toned and tight. She had a nice little six-pack and an animal fluidity of movement. She paced the studio like a caged cat, her blond ponytail swinging. Stacy had a difficult time getting her to sit down and be still for the application of the horns. With her barely-there breasts and androgynous body the short, red nubs glued high on her forehead made her a kind of mythical fawn for a moment.

Then she squatted and inserted the devil's tail butt-plug and she transformed into a sexy, wicked cat on the prowl. She looked at him with seductive hunger. John was impressed with her ability to shift personas so quickly. He wasn't sure how they fit in revolutionary-era France, but her butt-plug devil's tail and horns were surprisingly erotic. Must be a nod to Halloween. On her knees, Jacqui practiced inserting the plug again and again. John noted her generous labia, hanging loose and deep red. She smiled at him, her body undulating as she arched to accept the slick toy.

"John, let me give you one piece of acting advice," offered Rachel, standing at his side bare-breasted, "We're creating a fantasy for people here. We're their imaginary friends so they welcome us as we are. If you stay in character anything goes. You'll find that you naturally react to us as our characters, so relax and let the magic happen." Naturally the raging boner he had was a reaction to her character.

She'd made it clear that none of them would have sex until the actual streaming the next night. Walking through the action while circled by two naked women and a queer camera girl kept his lust just on simmer. He'd say his lines and move to his marks and Rachel would note, "this is where we do cowgirl," or "now we'll both blow you for a while," while the women stood over him naked. Jacqui would trail a teasing fingernail across parts of his body while Rachel explained, but stayed away from his cock. She did give it hungry, longing looks, biting her lip.

"I am going to enjoy climbing on that thing," she'd whisper. "I do want to fuck you unconscious. The fans are gonna get their money's worth this week."

Jacqui, in particular, gave his dreams that night an especially potent intensity.

********

Halloween night: Showtime! In the second studio, which had been painted to look like a stone-walled dungeon, the performance began with the two women chained to the wall. Off-camera, John, in leather pants and poet shirt, waited for his cue. Stacy hadn't really needed to fuss with him, mostly Rachel and Jacqui. She did spend extra time tugging at his pants to make sure his package showed well. They already determined he wouldn't need a fluffer, to Stacy's obvious relief. At eleven they went live.

In Stacy's steady hands the camera carefully examined the torture instruments in the room, lingering on his cross standing upright in the center of the 'dungeon'.

He was seeing what the fans would see; Rachel with her hands in chains above her head, her dirty, white bodice torn away from her hanging breasts. A dark stain soiled the dress from her crotch to the wet straw on the stone floor. Jacqui was beside her completely naked and streaked with dirt and blood, her hair stringy, welts on her body. She looked to be unconscious. Their pale figures glowed in the darkness. They hung limp, defeated. Too tired to struggle against her restraints, Rachel screamed for help with diminishing passion. She cried real tears. Cursing and babbling she appeared about to lose her mind.

John's cue was her cry of, "Vive la France, Vive la revolution!" that ended with a choking gasp. He strode in with a rapier in hand and exclaimed, without trying for a french accent, "You are Louis' whores! What misfortune brought you here?"             

"That bitch Antoinette, she's jealous, Marquis," Rachel said bitterly. "We're only guilty of giving the King what she would not!" Cheesy lines, but her acting's pretty good, John thought.

"Fortune smiles on you ladies today. Those two, their heads dropped into baskets this morning. And me, I've seen too much death." He stood with his hands on his hips and looked the women over.

"Please...will you free us, Marquis?"

He cocked his head. The camera moved around them, imitating his gaze. He considered Rachel's heavy breasts, heaving in her distress. The large areolas were irregular and bumpy. He lifted one breast as if it was a fruit in a market stall. He squeezed. He pinched the spongy nipple between his fingers and looked thoughtful.

"Marquis, please!" she begged, crying.

He twisted the nipple hard and she screamed. Very realistic, he thought.

"I've envied Louis, you know," he said, "The King gets all the best whores." He turned and stabbed the rapier into the high arm of the St. Andrew's cross then took both of the helpless woman's breasts in his hands. John juggled them, pressed them together, held them up by tight-stretched nipples while Rachel whimpered.

"Please let us down, Marquis," she whispered, fading, "Jacqui's nearly dead."

He moved to the other woman's slight body and used his key on the manacles at her wrists. She fell like a sack of gravel and lay there unmoving. The sound of her head hitting the stone floor was loud.

"You, whore Rachel, you're not dead yet." He took a wine pouch from his belt and upended a swig. "Thirsty?" He held it toward her, teasing.

"Marquis, please!" she breathed.

"Perhaps there's something you can do to persuade me to free you."

"I can't fuckin' imagine..." she said under her breath.

"Oh you can and you will, harlot!" With that he unlocked her manacles and let her drop to her knees with a crack. John grabbed her by the hair and dragged her across the floor. Holding her head back with one hand he leaned back against the cross and used his other hand to rip off his tear-away leather pants. Clearly this play cruelty excited him - his cock stood red and proud in front of her pleading face.

"Suck it!" He pulled her down and held his organ at her lips. "It's your life, isn't it?"

The broken woman opened and took him in, gagging. Spit ran down his shaft, dripped on her cleavage. He forced her to bob on him a dozen times, each one more forceful until she turned her face aside, choking.

"Put it between your dugs, you filth-dripping slut."

Shaking, she raised her breasts and captured his wet, angry cock. The woman kept her eyes down as she heaved the mammaries up and down, the cockknob bursting to view under her chin. John savored the slick smothering.

Suddenly, his right ankle was clamped in iron and the cross spun from vertical to horizontal. His arms flung out and a wrist was manacled to the wood. Then the other, before he could react. Rachel secured his other ankle, laughing spitefully.

"Who's life is it now, Marquis?"

Jacqui leapt up on the cross and stood naked over him, her feet widely planted astride his chest, rapier in hand, grinning wickedly. Unseen, per the script, she'd put the horns on her head and slipped the devil's tail butt plug in. He looked directly up at the wet, wrinkled lips of her blond twat.

When Rachel suddenly tied the ball gag tight in his mouth and dropped the coarse burlap bag over his head John began to wonder if they'd lied to him. That wasn't in the script. Strapped half-naked to the St. Andrew's cross, he was completely immobile now and unable to speak, but he could see through the loose weave of the sack. And he didn't like what he saw. Jacqui's horns didn't seem like such a cheap prop anymore. They'd grown, now long, ribbed and curled. Her tail moved with an impatient twitching, wrapping lasciviously around her firm thigh. She couldn't do that with a butt-plug, could she?

"Thirsty?" smiled Jacqui, licking the blade of the rapier, drawing blood.

Then she pissed on his face. The hot, golden stream soaked the burlap. He was being water-boarded with urine. It seeped around the ball gag and made him cough. It burned coming back out of his sinuses. His eyes stung. He screamed in anger and surprise, thrashing in his restraints. Both women laughed shrilly.

Jacqui's tail slithered down. He saw the spear-tip end and the surprisingly delicate ribbing along its dark red length. It pressed against the burlap at his cheek, probing, feeling, more like a large tongue than a finger. Like a prehensile cock. Like his own cock, the tip dripped fluid, but it was a rich bloody carmine.

Rachel grasped his organ in both hands. How could he be so hard right now? John was both terrified and highly aroused. He wanted to thrust and to spurt even while his mind spun in confusion. What was happening? Through piss-stung eyes he watched her take his knob in her mouth. Hot and wet and with a moving tongue it savored his juice.

Above him Jacqui's tail writhed up along one muscular thigh and teased at the woman's meaty, glistening vulva. The devil woman looked down at him as the spear spread her labia and slowly entered her, smearing its red ooze along her gash. She grunted and licked her bloody lips. Malevolence dripped from her gaze.

John wondered why Stacy didn't stop them. Where'd she go? He imagined the viewers seeing this sudden violence. Didn't they know it was real? He saw the tableau from their perspective; in a circle of bright light, a man in iron straps spread-eagled on a cross in just a poet shirt; one dirt-smeared woman bent over swallowing his cock; the other squatting above him, fucking herself with an impossible tail, bloody at both ends and carelessly waving a rapier. She'd pissed on his face! Surely the fans knew something was wrong.

But the women were unrelenting and he came back into his body, arching up from the cross into Rachel's sucking mouth. Jacqui lowered herself toward his face and ripped off the burlap sack. He watched the tail pulse in her twat while she unstrapped the ball gag. He spit. Then he shouted, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Lick my clit, Marquis. Make me come," she said, easing to her knees, pulling her labia wide with her fingers and settling her wet, red button on his mouth, "if you want to live."

What else could he do? Rachel's hungry servicing of his cock drove his excitement higher. Jacquie dragged her bloody gash across his lips and he tongued her bud, trying to ignore the tail he felt squirming and the blood oozing into his mouth. It tasted like pussy, all brassy and sweet. The tang made him drool.