Any resemblance to anyone you think you might know living in cyberspace is really just your imagination. All characters in this story are completely fictional. No, really. I made them up. I did. Swear to gawd. Yup.
Lancelot dropped his beer on the floor just so he could see the waitress's naked keister when she bent over to pick it up. She would make a good sub. He could see her tied, gagged, and bent over to prop his feet up on when he watched wrasslin.' SuperSlam was on Sunday and he'd already ponied up the cash for pay-per-view. Now he just needed a bitch to get his beer.
The waitress moved on before he could cop a feel, so he grunted and lounged against the back of the booth again. He'd get her next time around. She had to take his order again sometime or she wouldn't get a tip from---hold the phones, sister. The bouncer waved some new broad on into the bar without taking a cover even. The bastard had charged him twenty bucks to get in. This chick was stacked, a little on the short side, no taste in clothes, but she had a good hank of hair. He liked to wrap his hands up in a bitch's hair when he was fucking her. She had those big lips like the Tomb Raider girl. What'd they call ‘em? Poofy? Perky? Pouty, that was it. They'd look good wrapped around a ball gag.
He dipped his hand to his zipper and started scratching himself slowly.
She stepped hesitantly into the bar, taking stock of the place before selecting a bar stool somewhere near the middle. She took a napkin and wiped it off before daintily perching her ass on it. Nice butt. A little too perky for him, but not bad. Softer cans took the whip better. She said something to the bartender---a stuck up cunt if he'd ever seen one---and then slid some cash across the bar. A few minutes later the bartender dropped something fizzy in front of her.
Hot damn she was a sub. He knew a few Dommes, they were some hard up bitches, and they drank shots of shit like vodka. He pretty much figured out that they were locked into some kind of Olga the wonder Nazi fantasy. A good caning would do ‘em good.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pushed himself out of the booth. The waitress was shit out of luck tonight because he had found the weekend queen of his 12x60 featuring shag carpeting and lava lamps. Bitches loved his decorating.
"Hey baby, what's your sign? Mine is always turned on." He laughed at his own wit and slid onto the stool next to her. Up close he could see she was some kind of mixed drink, not pure white. That was a problem. Well, her rack was worth the taint; he just hoped David Duke didn't kick him out of the club.
"Yeah, you know, what sign were you born under?"
"Oh. The Zodiac."
"Yeah, toots, the Zodiac. I'm a Scorpio." He was actually a Capricorn but he wasn't a fucking goat.
"Boar? The pig? There ain't no fucking pig in the Zodiac."
"I was born in the year of the Boar."
"Like that Chinese shit?"
"Hey, let's blow this joint. Go on back to my place and get a little groove thing going on. You can fuckee suckee me long time."
The bartender slapped a glass down onto the bar. "Goddamn, Lancelot, you're still pulling that bullshit? It went out with seventies and hair implants---"
He put his hand on his head, they looked fucking real! The fucks at Hair Club for Men promised!
"---and those stupid gold chains. Just tell him to go away, honey."
"That's okay," the mixed chick said, "I kind of like him. He's funny."
"You're joking." The bartender dropped her rag.
"He's an asshole!"
"I kind of like assholes."
He'd had enough. "Come on, toots, let's get out of here." He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her off of the barstool. She tripped over his feet, but he ignored that and dragged her out of the bar and straight to his car. Gremlins were the coolest rides. He didn't care what anyone said.
She didn't put up a fight. Didn't say a word, actually. Which was weird, they were usually demanding to go home by this point. Instead, she just got quietly into the passenger seat when he unlocked the door and buckled herself in. Or tried to. He cut the seatbelts out.
The ride was pretty quiet, which was good. He hated subs who talked. They were always whining about something or getting together and having stupid support group sessions. Buncha whiny bitches. Back at the trailer he tossed the door open and waved her in. "Mi casa is my casa."
She looked around uncertainly while he locked the door. No sense giving her the extra few seconds. Some of these bitches could really run and he wasn't what he used to be in the running department.
He flicked on the TV to see what was on. Opera shit or something. He switched the channel and found, ah, the Man Show. Now there were a couple of geniuses.
"Oh yeah. You can call me Master, but don't talk." He pulled a collar out from under a pile of trash on the loveseat. "Here's your collar, put it on. We do the red green thing and the safeword is---" he waved airly, "whatever. Get me a beer."
"I said no."
"I heard that part. What the fuck are you talking about? I'm the Dom. You're the sub. That's the way it works."
"I don't think so."
"Well, I do. I'm the man, you're the---"
"I have a pussy. You've never seen one."
"How did you---" He frowned. "I've seen plenty. I had one out here last week. A hotter bitch than you, too."
"Yeah, I know. She told me that once she puked up the tequila she sobered up enough to run away before you could touch her. Word is that you're a virgin."
He glared. "I am not!" He was gonna fucking kill whoever squealed.
She smiled at him, a nasty little smile, and lifted her skirt. Oh yeah, baby. And she stopped right before she got to her twat. The bitch. "You wanna see a real live pussy? On your knees."
He was down before he even realized he'd made the decision.
"No, not good enough. Put the collar on."
He wasn't going to do it. She jiggled the skirt and gave him a flash of white. He slapped the collar against his throat and tried to buckle it.
"Take the tags off first, moron."
Blushing a little, he yanked off that stupid black thing that they used to hang it from the rack. He slipped the collar on and buckled it into place. She wrapped her fingers around it and jerked him along behind her. Now that was a sweet ass. He could still see taking a crop to it. She found his bedroom and flicked on the light.
"Not in here!"
"Is those posters on your wall? Wrestling. How," she stuck her nose into the air, "sophisticated."
If that cunt thought he would bow down in front of Stone Cold....
"Oh well. Get on your knees, boy."
"No kneeling, no pussy."
He glared at her. If the bitch thought he'd give in that easy she was in for a rude awakening. Lancelot Castle didn't bow for anyone.
She fiddled with the end of her skirt, flashing panties again.
He almost dropped, but the fierce expression on Stone Cold's face stopped him. Stone Cold never bowed to a woman. They bowed to him. He was the man, he was in charge and it was about time she figured that out.
She curled her fingers through his collar again, pulling him down into her face. Her eyes locked on his, boring right into his soul. Think Stone Cold. Think Stone Cold. He was ice. He was the man. He was---
"Kneel," she snarled.
---kneeling. Maybe Stone Cold wouldn't notice. He bowed his head and tried to swallow the tears that were blurring the green shag into a sea of grass littered with dirty sock and some underpants. So that's where his tiger print silk bikinis had gotten to. He'd have to get a bitch to clean under his bed.
"This place is a dump. You'll have to clean it." She threw open his chest of toys, one that he was rightfully proud of. He'd been to the Home Depot and down to Tank's Tack'n Tire for the stuff a good Dom needed. "What's this?"
She tugged out some lace. The maid outfit his subs were supposed to wear. He had a nice set of stilettos and some red lipstick to go with it. A bitch should look fuckable when she did his dishes. She threw the apron part at him. "What do you know, it's just your size."
It fluttered to the floor and covered his penny loafers; a black and white lace nightmare.
"What are you waiting for, put it on."
"No apron, no titties."
She did have a nice rack. What in the hell was he thinking? The cunt was insane if she thought he'd put that shit on, that was what she was for. She lifted an eyebrow in his direction and he reached for the apron.
"You wear it, you're the bitch, I'm the man."
"No, you're the bitch. You're not even a man, virgin." She crossed her arms under those truly magnificent tits. "Quit arguing with me or I'll have to gag you."
She rummaged around the chest and pulled his prized ball gag out. The one that had the feeding tube for sperm in it. At least that's what he thought the hole was for.
"Fuck you, cunt. You put the apron on and stick that in your mouth while you're at it."
She ripped the tag off it.
"Be careful with thammmph---!"
And shoved it into his mouth. She even had it buckled on before he could spit it out. That cunt! That bitch! That---
She lifted her shirt and showed him her bra. Now that was a sweet rack if he'd ever seen one. He reached for the apron, carefully shaking the ends out, and started to wrap it around his waist.
"No, dummy, take your clothes off and put the apron on instead."
Sullenly, he unzipped his pants and shoved them down his hips. That fucking cunt was going to get what was coming to her. As soon as he saw that pussy, he was going to throw her over the bed and fuck the hell out of her. He shoved his underwear down and---
"Pull them up! Pull them up!" She shrieked, backing away, her hands over her face.
What the fuck? His package was pretty respectable in size and girth, if he did say so himself.
"Go into the bathroom and take a shower. Now!" She backed against the wall and covered her nose with her shirt. "Use soap!"
Picky fucking cunt.
He rushed through the shower, scrubbing thoroughly, and put the stupid apron on. He hoped she hadn't left yet. It was a little strange to be in a different room, unable to beat her to the door in case she decided to take a hike without permission. What if she left? He'd never get to see pussy.
She was watching opera shit on his TV and sitting in his chair. He almost ripped the ballgag off, but she was fingering her nipple and he see it poking through her blouse.
"Go clean your room. Wash the sheets and blankets and pillowcases. Use soap and bleach. Pick up all the dirty clothes and wash them, too. Clean with furniture polish and vacuum the rugs. Haul the trash out to where it needs to go. Use the clean linens to make the bed. Hurry up."
He pointed to her pussy.
"I am not taking my panties off in a filthy room."
What a stupid fucking whore. He stomped off toward his room, just so she would feel the weight of his displeasure. Bitches cleaned up his place, not him. He didn't do laundry. Hell, he didn't even know if he had bleach. It turned out that he did. The old washing machine almost didn't want to start, but he got it going. While it ran he stomped to his room, thumping his feet down as hard as he could. That'll show her, the cunt.
It took about three hours to get through the laundry and get his room tidied up enough to get her to show her pussy. She sat in his chair and ate his potato chips and watched his TV---CSPAN of all things---while he worked. He tromped over to his recliner so she would know exactly how pissed off he was and how much shit she was in. He thought about taking the gag out, but just waved his hands and hoped she got the message.
"It took you long enough. They stopped a filibuster waiting for you." She shut the TV off and pocketed the remote. "Let's go see if it's good enough." She sounded like she didn't think it would be.
She put her hands on her hips and sashayed into his room to inspect his labor as if she had every right to. She was going to find her little ass up in the air feeling the business end of the crop biting into her naked butt. He clasped his hands together and rocked back on his heels when she ran her fingers over the top of the bureau. He didn't dust under the doily. Please don't notice, please don't no---
"I suppose it'll have to do. I really don't have the time to train you on house cleaning. Get out the irons and put them on."
He must have looked confused because she added, "Handcuffs, leg cuffs. You do have them?"
He nodded vigorously, incensed. Of course he had them. He'd show her a thing or two about domination. He threw open his chest and dug them out. He shook them in her direction and snorted haughtily. He would have taken the ballgag out and given her a piece of his mind, but he was too close to seeing some pussy to risk it.
"Get a move on. Or don't you wanna see some pussy?"
That did it. He had the irons on before she could say another word. Even a stupid bitch like her had to be impressed with his skill. He yanked out the spreader bar without asking and tied himself to it. Question the breadth of his toybox, will she; he'd show her.
"Now that's a good boy!"
Smugly, he put the handcuffs on then arched a cocky brow in her direction. She smiled at him. Her hands went to the buttons on her blouse. Hot damn, it was about time. Stone Cold never had it so good. There went one, then two, oooh yeah, show me the money, baby, show me the money. Fu-u-u-u-ck yeah. The blouse hit the floor and she wiggled out of her skirt. White panties and a white bra. They were satin and lacy, to boot. Not that cotton stuff he used to see when he drilled a hole in the bathroom and watched his mom get dressed. Damn but the bitch was stacked.
Bending over, she dug through his toy box. She also gave him a really good shot of her cleavage. The way those two titties rolled together and jiggled as she moved---it was hard to drool around a ballgag. She pulled out the riding crop. He was proud of that thing. Long and black and all leather. She used her teeth to get the tag off and then grinned.
"Bend over the bed, bitchboy. It's time for your spanking. You've been a bad, bad boy."
Spanking! Oh fuck no. There wasn't a piece of pussy worth that shit. She gave him a wicked little smile and spread her legs. He could see the dark, curly hair and the way the panties clung to the curves and crannies of her cunt. She slid the flap on the end of the whip down her belly and into her panties. If he hadn't had the ballgag locking his mouth in position, his jaw would have flopped open. She closed her eyes and moaned, fucking the whip up and down inside of her panties.
He glanced nervously at Stone Cold and edged toward the be---
No! What in the hell was he thinking? He was the Dom. She was the---
Her hips wiggled and she pushed the whip downward with a long groan. Her panties stretched and he could see the end of the crop disappearing into the nest of pubic hair. She pulled it out slowly, her body swaying with the leather. He could see wet on the leather. There was pussy juice on his whip! At last! He took another step toward the bed and caught Stone Cold's eyes again. He firmed up his jaw. No, this wasn't the way it was going to be. If anyone was going to get spanked, it would be her. He'd fuck her with the crop and then he'd fuck her with his dick.
She rubbed the wet leather on his nose and he got a lungful of musky twat and earthy leather. He'd never smelled pussy before. She slid the whip between her legs for a moment and then touched his nose again. "Bend over."
He bent over. Stone Cold stared mercilessly at him, no doubt disappointed in his disciple. Real men don't wear aprons. Real men don't bend over. The smell of pussy was overwhelming, like some kind of drug. That was it, she had slipped something into his drink and he wasn't his usual self. She was drugging him. He relaxed for a moment, the perfect explanation.
The familiar sound of the crop whistling through the air didn't register, but the sharp smack across his bare ass did. He would have screamed, but the gag prevented that. Instead he jerked upright, his eyes clashing with Stone Cold's, his butt howling with sensation, and his dick dripping in cum.
She did it again. Nine more times even. By the time she threw the crop onto the bed next to him, he had snot running over the ballgag and tears all over the bed. He dropped his head and shuddered, just glad that was over. She reached between his legs and grabbed his cock. Just like that he came, shooting his sperm all over the bed.
"I'd make you lick that up, but I like the gag." She climbed onto the bed and lounged on her back, feet flat and knees spread. Her bra was unhooked. It had one of those front clasps and she had undone it. The cups held onto her tits, still covering her nipples. She slid her fingers under the crotch of her panties and then pulled them aside. "See this? It's a pussy."
Nirvana. It looked like Nirvana.
"Take the gag off."
It was hard to do with the handcuffs and required some uncomfortable gyrations, but he got the gag off. He flexed his jaw and dropped the thing on the bed.
"Do you want to eat me?"
She glared at him.
Stone Cold glared at him.
Fuck Stone Cold, he didn't have a pussy.
She smiled. "Eat."