Punish Me, Please Read online

  “I don’t want better women. I want you.”

  “This is all too fast,” Sheila insisted. “We’ve barely talked. We run into each other at the coffee pot every now and again.”

  Johnny grinned, making her wet. His sudden levity struck her as the ultimate in power and self-confidence. “You wanted more than coffee from me last time we ran into each other.”

  Sheila flushed. “Johnny, this is serious.”

  “Damned straight it is. And as soon as we’re husband and wife, you’ll see just how serious I can be. I’m going to love you like no other man. I’ll keep you under discipline, but I’ll be loving and fair, and I’ll never allow another man to touch you. Ever.”

  Sheila shuddered. “Oh, god, this makes me hot. I want your hands on my body...like you own me.”

  “You know what you have to do.”

  “No, I don’t,” she protested.

  “Go to Stone. With me.”

  “Why can’t you just go with me here, back to the bathroom? Make me take care of you, do all the things you like? I won’t resist anything.”

  “And send you back to him so he can farm you out all over again? No way. Either you are mine exclusively or not at all.”

  “But Johnny, you don’t understand. I’m not what you think. I enjoy it all. I like servicing cocks. I—I get off on it.”

  He studied her. “That can’t be, Sheila.”

  “It is. It is, Johnny. I can’t lie to you.”

  “You’ve been brainwashed, that’s all. When you’re under my influence, you’ll change.”

  Sheila wished she could be so sure. “Johnny, what if you’re wrong? I could disappoint you terribly; break your heart.”

  “Honey, that isn’t possible.”

  “I want to believe that. Really I do.” Sheila found herself on her feet, backing towards the door.

  “Sheila, where are you going?”

  “I can’t stay. I’m sorry, Johnny, this isn’t right.”

  “Sheila, wait.”

  She was running to the door, weaving between the tables, trying not to upend any of the waiters carrying their trays laden with sumptuous food. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying. “Please forgive me.”

  She made it to the street. Digging in the purse Stone had given her, she found the cell phone. There was only one number programmed in. She had been told to call it when she had achieved her objective.

  Mr. Jones answered at the second ring. “That was fast.”

  Her hand trembled. She pressed the receiver to her ear. Johnny was coming for her. “I need you to pick me up...please...I’m at the—“

  “I know where you are,” he interrupted. “You think we would let you go without keeping tabs on you?” Jones broke the connection.

  “Sheila, stop this nonsense,” said Johnny, grabbing her arm.

  “Don’t touch me, get away,” she cried.

  A dozen sets of eyes fell on Johnny all at once, patrons, on their way in or out. He let her go. “It’s all right, folks,” he called out. “There’s no trouble here.”

  “That’s right,” said Jones, cold and mean. “There isn’t.”

  “Mr. Jones,” Sheila exclaimed, shocking herself with the relief she was feeling at the sight of the man.

  “The lady and I aren’t through with dinner,” said Johnny.

  Jones looked at her for confirmation.

  “I want to go home, Sir,” she said. “Please take me home?”

  “Have you done what you were supposed to?”

  “No,” she told Mr. Jones. “I submit myself for punishment.”

  He stopped her from dropping to her knees right there on the sidewalk. “Not here,” he steered her to the back door of the limo which he had driven up only moments ago. “In the car.”

  She climbed in, his arm squeezing like steel. As soon as he slammed the door, she put herself down, kneeling on the carpet. A few minutes passed. Presumably Johnny was talking to Mr. Jones. She had no idea what they were saying, though she knew it was her life they were determining.

  Finally Mr. Jones got in the driver’s seat. “You fucked up, slut,” he lowered the glass separating the back of the car from the front.

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her belly pinging and popping at the sight of the glinty steel in his eyes.

  “Take off Mr. Stone’s clothes. You don’t deserve them.”

  “Yes, Sir.” It was a relief to strip, to be naked again, vulnerable, completely unpresentable in public.

  “Put these on.” Mr. Jones pulled shackles from the glove compartment, a longer set for her ankles and a shorter one for her wrists.

  She caught the cold metal links with her hands, cradling them with her breasts. “May I sit on the seat to put them on?”

  “Seats are for people. Are you a person?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then why the fuck did you ask?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” she mumbled.

  “Dumb slut. Put this on when you’re done with the cuffs,” he barked, handing back a hood, black rubber, with an inverted phallus for a mouthpiece. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a stupid cunt mouthing off.”

  Sheila felt a rising sense of panic as she looked the thing over. No eye holes, no ear holes and just a tiny opening for the nostrils. It had a zipper across the mouth, which was closed, and another one down the side, with a tiny catch lock.

  Which meant she wouldn’t be able to remove it.

  “Sir, I’ve never worn anything like this.”

  “Congratulations, it’s your lucky night.”

  Sheila sat herself down on the carpet, feeling numb and scared all over. One by one, she clicked the prisoners’ cuffs on her ankles, no keys. Then she did her wrists, click, click, in front of her, again, no keys. There was no where to run now, even if she could get out of this car.

  Now for the hood. It was so damned slick and slippery, like some kind of living sea flesh, carved off a whale or shark. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled it down over her eyes. Instantly, she felt the cloying heat, the promise of sweat.

  This was torture, not just restraint. Chains jingling, she tugged at the zipper. At the last possible second, just as her ears were covered over, Mr. Jones gave a last command. “Down on the floor, cunt.”

  Sheila pulled the zipper the rest of the way, locking it. Biting her teeth down on the unwanted artificial cock, she lowered herself to the dusty rug. There she stayed; bereft of all senses but the smothering of the rubber at her face and the tingling feel of the fibers against her skin, augmented by the vibrations of the vehicle.

  It was this last bit of data that told her important things. Like when they were speeding up and slowing down. And stopping. Through the little built-in ear plugs she thought she heard the door. A second later, the floor vibrated in a new way.

  The car door was opening.

  Smells assaulted her nostril, male and unwashed, like cologne only cheaper, more pungent, like raw alcohol. She cried out into her gag as the hands found her, turning her onto her back. Greasy fingers mauling her breasts, a stranger.

  A drunken mouth, hovering, drooling before finally keying in on her left breast. She screamed as he bit her. Terrified to anger him, she spread her legs as far as the chain would go the moment she got the sense he wanted access.

  In total submission, she put her chained hands overhead, letting her assailant know she wouldn’t be any trouble. That was hardly necessary, though, as he found her wet and willing.

  Humiliated, shocked and on the brink of mind-shocking orgasm, she took the man’s cock. Shriveled and bent, weathered by years of self abuse. Who was this Mr. Jones had brought in to use her? A wino?

  The man shook on top of her like a jackrabbit, exploded and left. The car started moving again, to another destination a short distance away. Again the door opened and she smelled another man, different than the first, but no less nauseating.

  Long before he had managed to paw her and inject a load of his o
wn, Sheila had figured out the game. Punishment fucks, humiliation sex with the most disgusting men Mr. Jones could scrounge from the city streets.

  And to think she could have been running off with Johnny to the Chapel of Love. If she could have, she would have laughed at the irony. She had been so afraid of not being good enough for the likes of Johnny and here she was being used to satisfy the dregs of society.

  Master was right; she didn’t know how to make choices. She deserved what she got, and she had only one real use. The fact that this was turning her on, even now, only proved the point.

  Sheila was not a woman to marry. She was an animal, a pet to own. She had no higher functions, only the need for sex and food and drink and she would crawl to kiss any hand, open to any cock to get it.

  The second man faded into the third who turned into the fourth and fifth together, a pair of them alternating between pinching and masturbating over her breasts.

  On and on into the black of night, blacker than the world of her hood, blacker than her soul. Blacker than time, blacker even than rejection and the tragedy of love that could never be.

  “Good night, Johnny,” the whispers filled her head. “Sweet dreams.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The hood, much to Sheila’s surprise, was not removed upon their return to Mr. Stone’s penthouse. As part of her ongoing punishment, she was to remain blind, deaf and dumb, perpetually on all fours, her head sealed away inside the cloying rubber. In stark contrast, she was permitted no covering for her body, except whatever straps, chains and ropes her Master or his associates might wish to impose on her.

  She lost track of the time, days and nights blending as she endured one strange and dehumanizing session after another. Unable to hear a single command, she was led by her leash or otherwise dragged from place to place for work or sexual service. By sense of feel, pushed to her hands and knees, she knew when it was time to accept a scrub brush, rag or cock. Other times they would make her struggle, like a blind beetle, kicks to her ass and side the only clue that she was straying from the proper course.

  She became terribly insecure and was wont to panic when she did not know where the nearest man was. Frantic, she would scamper about, seeking a leg, a pair of shoes, or a bare foot. Most especially, she sought her Master, though Mr. Jones would do just as well.

  Curling at their feet, she would feel happy, the swirl of emotions stilled, the cold darkness temporarily replaced with a warm glow. Anything—anything was better than aloneness. Sensing clamps, she would push out her tits eagerly. Feeling the brush of a whip, she would push out her ass, a good, obedient girl. She opened for cock, too, with infinite reverence, letting them know with body language that she took it as a privilege to be fucked. In no way did she impose her ego or let them think she was anything but a sleek animal, cooperative, exciting, worth spending time, worth abusing.

  One of her favorite times was when they opened the little zipper across her mouth, allowing her to eat and drink from bowls off the floor. They restricted her to water and a kind of flavorless, thick pudding.

  The lack of taste might well have been due to her plugged nostrils; she had no way of telling. Generally after meals, she was made to ‘pay’ for the men’s kindness by sucking their cocks. It was heaven when Master let her linger over him. She wished these times could last forever. She was so sure she had a purpose. There was no confusion at all.

  The bad times were punishment. She never knew why, and she never knew when it was coming. She would be in the middle of something, and suddenly, wham a piece of wood to her ass, a cane or a whip across the back. She would belly herself, seeking mercy. The best, the only thing to do was endure.

  A few times she had resisted out of reflex. This was a very bad idea. Resistance brought special punishment, swift, severe and creative. Usually it involved suspension off her feet, by the wrists or ankles, and the application of the clamps and weights she loved so well.

  Once she had inadvertently blocked a cane blow with her arm. Mr. Jones—she knew his scent and the feel of his hands—threw her in the elevator and took her all the way downstairs. He dragged her across the concrete of the parking garage and left her there.

  She shivered, petrified on the concrete, not knowing if she was even in Mr. Stone’s area anymore. She peed on herself twice, crawling about, bumping into cars, trying to find something familiar. She was far too afraid to get up. Eventually, she hit her head on the metal doors of the elevator. Curling up in front of them, she waited for Master to come down.

  An uneasy sleep came over her, a kind of ghostly consciousness, the only reality being hard concrete on soft skin, pressing rubber, the choke of her collar and the ongoing thrum of her heartbeat. She had to focus on the sound, convincing herself that it was real and she was real. Eventually it all fell under question, except the leather collar.

  This, she determined was the one truth.

  When, eventually, Mr. Jones scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder, she was transcendent. For a long while afterward, she floated in her slavery, observing with unseen eyes, floating above her body as she went through motions, imbued with sudden incredible grace.

  Eyes in darkness and ears in a vacuum. So many terrible and awe-inspiring miracles.

  At a certain point, some time later, she remembered Mr. Jones sticking her under the shower. She craved to feel the water on her face or even to taste it. His hands were rough on her body as he soaped her down. Her own hands were chained above her head, as they always were for her showers, secured to dangling cuffs.

  She had to stand on tip toes for the cuffs to be secured, and as soon as the metal cinched tight, her pussy would always clamp in anticipation of being touched with the soap. Mr. Jones generally used the bar like a cock, though he never bothered properly masturbating her. It was the same when he shoved it between her ass cheeks. It was a combination of cleanliness and humiliation he was looking for, not any deep sense of sexual surrender.

  Sheila knew the routine well and was braced for the callous hands that would make her shudder, make her blanch, make her come without regard to her own wishes. This time there was a new twist, however. Running his hands up her body, Mr. Jones did something he had never done before.

  He threatened to unzip her hood, exposing her head.

  At once, her world ripped open, the ground giving way beneath her soul. There could be no greater threat. How could she describe it, how she was terrified of the exposure, mortified to see herself, what she might have become or what he might look like, having gained so much power over her.

  He only teased her, undoing the lock on the zipper and tugging, just a little bit. She screamed into the mouth gag nonetheless, alternating between thrusting her tongue and clamping down with her teeth for dear life.

  He couldn’t take it away, the penis gag, the nearly constant rubber companion that was removed only when she was eating or sucking. Her head thrashed, back and forth, no, no, no.

  Her Master would reject her; he would see her failure, see her with no mask. What if she didn’t even have a face anymore?

  Jones sensed all this, the fear and the terror, and he drank it in, smelling it, eating it alive. Exposing just the side of her neck, he laughed...she heard it, the sound up under the splitting rubber. And then he licked, a single application of his tongue.

  It was the most profound stripping, the deepest invasion she had ever felt anywhere on her body at any time. Her unguarded cunt was just a couple of feet away and it didn’t matter. That hole was far too open and plundered. The same with her ass.

  “The next time,” he told her, “I’ll take the hood and throw you in the street for good.”

  His hand wrapped around her throat. His other found her clit. Slowly, he increased the pressure, stealing her air.

  She came against his hand, pushing her own body forward, helplessly manipulated into offering herself, for the sex and the pain. It was a quick and violent orgasm, under pounding water, like lightning passing th
rough her.

  The effects were devastating. Every bit of her strength was sapped away and yet the pressure, the burning remained. He let go of her clit, and it was like when a clamp is taken off and you feel the pain twice as bad because the area is empty and the blood rushes in.

  Her whole body shrieked from unclamping.

  She began to thrash and writhe, as much as she was allowed on the leverage of tiptoes. Mr. Jones was oblivious, soaping and cleaning her, like a dog, a car. He hadn’t bothered to lock the hood back up which meant her neck was naked. She was petrified and lost because he was no longer hurting her, no longer showing blatant cruelty.

  It was a defining moment of breaking and of re-forming.

  When at last he shut off the water and locked her hood back in place, she knew she was his in a way deeper even than her Master could claim her. From that point on, she would feel and know Jones as a center point of gravity, utterly black, blacker than her world, and she would never feel right apart from him, apart from his pain.

  Her thoughts would be consumed with him choking and whipping and fucking her, and she would fantasize about being free enough to get a whip, so she could bring it to him on all fours. Or a paddle or a cane or anything.

  She wept with joy when he would beat her. Sex alone was not enough. It left her hanging, every second listening to his breath, hoping herself to shreds that it was good enough. If she could find ways, she would bleed for him, anticipate her suffering and make it automatic like a heart beat, a pulse race.

  Sheila became recalcitrant with Master. Willful, head butting, an incorrigible bare titted animal. When he tried to punish her, she blocked it out, putting herself in a deep, deep hole, where only Jones could find her. Stone sensed her changing, saw the failure of his own conditioning of her.

  A new pattern emerged with him ending up throwing her into her cage in disgust. Balled up, feeling the metal grid with every part of her she could manage, she would wake up, tingle to life, knowing that Jones would come soon.

  The only one who could do anything with her.

  Jonesy. Jonesy. Jonesy.