C.A.B.
3rd Level White Feather
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"MY NAME IS AMY 2 ~ Oops! I did it again" by C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Hi, its me. I'm sorry I have not posted in a while, things have been sticky, but everything is cool now. I just had to write and get this of my chest cuz its so freaking weird! You will not believe who Steve had tied to the table when I came in to work. I'm really not allowed to say, but it does not take a rocket scientist to figure it out. But let's put it this way, she was once a young pop star and then fucked herself herself into second rate tabloid queen... but, I have to admit, during my entire session with her, I was star-struck! I'll bet you can guess. Its a no-brainer and if you pull up a picture of her on the internet, I'll also bet you can visualize this story easily. My name is Amy, and as most of you already know, I am a professional torturer.
This goes back a few months. I had really settled into my new occupation with Steve and his nefarious "business." The income has made my life way easier and I don't worry about much anymore, except for my grades, and... well... not anymore, but I used to worry about my boyfriend. We broke up. He wanted to "find someone more exciting," as he put it. You have no idea how tempted I was to tell him the truth about what his "vanilla" girlfriend does for a living... but I can't. Ironic, isn't it?
I've become really good at what I do, and, to tell the truth, I have been more studious about learning torture methods from Steve than my own college classes. Heck, I've even started researching the craft on the internet, several high-end S&M clubs, and a few visits to a few underground dungeons. Yeah, everyone goes home happy from those places, but the things they do are very real. I've met some pretty hard-core dudes and gals. I've even had correspondence with a government pro down in Argentina. He's funny... but pure evil.
Oh! I got those expensive shoes I wanted. Now if I could just find the time or excuse to wear them! Can't have "Little Miss Broke College Girl" trotting around in fifteen hundred dollar Giuseppe Zanotti heels. Duh. Its like keeping a Maserati in a barn so the neighbors won't talk. Its so retarded.
So, yeah. Where was I?
Okay, anyway. So mostly I still work as Steve's assistant, but he has let me work alone with what he calls "easy marks" while he goes and fucks off gambling or clubbing, or whatever mob guys do on their off hours. I never really had a problem doing sessions on my own and my record is still one hundred percent compliance. Besides, if I get in a jam, Rico and Mel are just a cellphone away. But nothing messy has happened yet. Like I said, I'm really good at this now, which is prolly why Steve let me have at her.
I came into the bay one night as usual and Steve is looking at me funny with this shit-eating grin. He tells me to sit down in the front room and says he has a surprise tonight. I swallowed hard, in spite of all the time we've spent together, I know you're only one business decision away from getting whacked with these dudes. I relax when Steve snatches some papers off the printer and hands them to me.
"Okay. Before you freak out... don't. We have a very special guest tonight. Everybody knows her, and I mean 'everybody.' So just take that as a given and bury the fact. The same rules and protocol apply, if not doubly so. Not a word. Ever." says Steve.
"Alright, alright. Who is..." I glance at the dossier he printed, "Oh my god! OH MY GOD!"
"Shut it. This is what I'm talking about. Get over it or you won't be able to do the job."
"Is she here? Can I see her?" I stammer. Star struck and shocked.
"Fuck yeah, she's here. Trussed up like all the others. And that's how I want you to treat it. Like all the others."
"Okay. Okay. I got it." and I pantomimed my lips zipped. I was giddy. It was almost unbelievable.
"Good. Now while your attitude should be the same, the work tonight is a little different. I printed out some extra things you are to torture her about. The verbiage is very specific. I want you to linger on each point. We don't have her all night so you need to be thorough and cover each one. This is part of the contract and you can't skip any of it," Steve leans back in his used office chair. It creaks.
"Understood," I said, but I was so excited. Almost intimidated. I tried to bear down and be cool about it but my exuberance escaped me, "How did you? I mean... She's so high profile!"
"You don't need to worry about that. Just do your job. When I get back..."
"Get back? You're not going in there with me?" I was dizzy butterflies.
"No. That's the other surprise. You get to do this alone." Steve smiled. I thought it strange that he'd let me do her alone, but heck, maybe he had his weird reasons; Plausible deniability? Maybe he wants woman on woman with no distractions? Who the fuck knows! All I knew was I'd be alone with her to do what I wanted (aside from the instructions on the paper) and I would relish the opportunity. Imagine that... Me, torturing... I'm not allowed to say. Sorry.
"Remember. No lasting marks. I don't care what you do otherwise. Just so you know, she's on the red-eye back to Hollywood tonight... or early morning, as it were. Make me proud.
"Oh, I will. I will!" I couldn't contain, "Let me see her!"
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, Steve was gone and I was in the 'Control Room' staring at the starlet through the smoky two-way. There she was. If you didn't know it was really her, you'd have to look hard to see it. Strapped to the table, Steve had already taken her head bag off and she lay there staring at the nothingness beyond the bright working light. She had been snatched in her plain street clothes; a designer tank-top, some cut-off shorts, white half socks and pink Skechers. Her pair of mandatory rose Hollywood sunglasses lay on the trolley table next to the instruments we use for torment. THAT was sexy.
She looked tired and worn, but she was prettier than I expected considering all the bad press the tabloids had reigned on her. She was a little bit curvier than she was in her hey-day, but what the fuck, so was I. I mean we're both 28, not 19... and she did have kids. But, otherwise she still had a hot little bod. She was shorter than I expected, but her hair had obviously grown back to all its lush glory. Which reminded me, I could afford a better stylist for myself, and made a mental note of it.
Spend anytime on the interwebs and you know she's a skank. Not a lot of flattering press. And, frankly I guess, she has herself to blame. I admit, I did get a certain amount of pleasure knowing I was going to torture the shit out of this annoying bitch that it seemed you couldn't escape from, either on t.v. or the check-out line at the supermarket.
I clicked on the mic as I was taught. I heard the echo of it right through the glass, "We're almost ready to start torturing you, Sweetie. Just a little while now," and I clicked it off. She went ballistic. Red-faced and cursing. Now she looked more like the nut case that the tabloids portrayed. Screaming obscenities like the spoiled Hollywood tart she was. I loved it. I would make her squirm and beg. It was hot!
I donned my black nylon head mask and decided to do this one naked. I don't know why, I've done these naked before, but with her it just seemed more than appropriate. Before the evening was out, I was going to have "_______ _______ " eat my pussy by force. Like I mentioned before, I'm not a lez, but what the fuck, I was horny already from the excitement, and my fucking boyfriend had left me without my Tuesday regulars. If he only knew who his vanilla ex was face-fucking tonight! LOL! His loss.
Twenty more minutes later I walked into the 'Play Room' as cool as I could, my hood obscuring my features but my nipples were on end with my nervousness. The pop star immediately started to hurl every thing she could at me with that pretty smart mouth. Her voice training made her especially loud and I decided to put that down first. "Strip them of any sense of control" Steve taught, And this bitch controlled her world with her mouth, on stage and off. I chose a cheesy looking pink cock-gag from the trolly and force fitted it in her mouth... wasn't hard; the bitch never shut her hole.
I spoke freely, there was no call for the headphones in this session. The dossier papers, in fact, said there would be no recordings. "There, now you little cow, you won't be eating any drive-though with that in place. You could use to lose some of that flab," I hit on one of the talking points and poked her tummy. She flinched hard. Oh crap! What good fortune would it be if she was ticklish too?
She coughed and gagged a little from the pink latex cock laying heavy on her tongue, but it wasn't long before she started aggressively grouse and snort again. I watched her and laughed in spite of myself.
"Okay, Miss Thing, while you learn how to drool all over yourself, I'm going to cut you out of those high-priced trailer trash clothes so I can get at your skin." She cussed and bucked anew as I picked up the trauma sheers. With a few practiced and strategic cuts, her top and shorts were pulled away with disregard. When that happened, she got quiet and teary eyed.
I don't care what you might have seen, she's still hot. Her breasts were tan and her nipples had the tell-tale robustness of a young mother. Her famous pussy was indeed shaved clean, but it was still firm and introverted. Her legs had some thickness, both a dancer's muscle and some cellulite... but not enough to begrudge her with all that's she's been through. I have not had kids, but when I do, I hope to come out the other side looking half as good.
But lets get on with the torture. "Well, I see you're not neglecting the beach or the tanning bed are you? But you neglect other things don't you? This body of yours is a disgrace. What a flabby little cow. Out of shape. Too much fucking off between dance practice, eh? You're my little fat cow. Understand? I don't give a flying fuck what you think you are in the world, here in my world, you're my little fat cow!" I berate her, adding my own flare to the instructions on Steve's printout, "Now... moo for me, little cow."
She whimpers and growls.
"I said, moo for me!" and with that I poke her in the ribs. She squeals. Ticklish!
"I didn't say squeal like a pig! Moo!" And I begin tickling her sides. She screeches into the cock-gag and then rattles off into the most delightful little girl-like giggling. She thrashes side to side as much as the straps allow. I keep insisting she comply with my demand, tickling her ribs up and down, moving to her armpits and lingering there as she fights to laugh and breath. I know she cannot make the sound I want, and if she does I'll ignore it. The tickling is pure torture for her and I can tell she cannot stand it. But, oddly, she melts into it. Submitting. This is too good to be true.
"Very well. If you can't see to do what I ask, a little discipline may be in order... no wait. It IS in order," I command, "Since you need to see what a little fat cow you are, I'll show you." I position the trolley closer, from beneath I turn on the compressor and take two suction cups to show her. I lick the rims of each before her widening eyes, "We milk little fat cows like you. We'll just put these on and see how big your little fat cow teats can get."
Each cup is put over her hardened nipples in turn, sucking each mound of tan flesh into its clear tube. Pulling. Tugging. Sucking. I turn up the power level and deform them a little more. She mews over the cock-gag and a bubble of spittle pops on the side.
"You like that don't you, little cow?" I ask, fingering her shaven mound and puffing lips. She muffles something, I wasn't sure because of the compressor, but it might have been an exasperated "yes."
"Are you a ticklish little cow?"
Her eyes widen as I start at her belly and tickle my way up to her armpits and back down. She hics and laughs over the wet cock-gag and her tits wobble as she shakes to escape. The nipple cups hold fast and wag back and forth. I tickle her belly and she alternately pleads and screams with laughter, always digressing to that little rolling giggle. She is in spasms and cannot stop laughing. It's involuntary. It's torment. I don't stop for five minutes.
"Are you my little cow? Are you my fat little cow?" I demand.
Her head shakes. Undeniably. Desperate. Yes! YES! YES!
"Do you think because you told me what I want to hear that you get off easy? Do you think you got off Scott free? No? Yes? Answer me," I finger her some more as the compressor hums, sucking her nipples red. She mews and tries to look elsewhere, ashamed because my finger comes away wet.
"Do you think I'm here to get you off, you little fucking cow?" I berate her, "No. I'm here to torture you, and guess what? You are going to help me. You want to be tortured. And you will happily help me do it. Do as you are told little cow or I'll break the contract and tickle you all fucking weekend."
She moans in despair. I look in her face and see her Pepsi commercial and it makes it all real for me. I'm torturing a pop star. The thought made me flush with fresh heat down there. I turn off the compressor and lick up her discomfort as I pull off each cup, licking and suckling each aching nipple as she watches and whines. I undo her body straps and command her to roll over onto her belly; a quick slap to each breast makes her begrudgingly comply. I undo the ankle cuffs from the single cable and attach each separately to the table edges. Then, with a hard clank, unlock the last third of the table, splitting it. I spread her and lock the table open.
I turn the handle on the side of the table and the mid section rises under her midriff. Up it goes until she is stretched taught with her ass in the air. Not a tan line to be found. Spoiled bitch prolly owns her own tanning bed. Gee, ya think?
"Now, little cow, you need to understand how to behave. Obviously you can't stay away from fast food, it shows in your fat ass," I move to re-buckle her waist so she can't move her ass away from my flogger, then I rethink myself, "No. I'm going to teach you will power. I'm going to teach you to say no to fast food. How to find the will."
"You keep that fat ass of yours still, understand? If you wiggle out of the way, you earn ten more strokes each time. I want you to meet the whip. Love it. Ask for it." And I began flogging her tanned globes in sharp measured strikes. At first she flinched, but as the whips did it's insidious work and her sweet cheeks became pink, then red and tender, she became more audible. She began to cry, but she made every effort to stay in place. The sadist in me ate up her angst like candy. Just like that spoiled cliquey bitch that tormented me in school, here she was again but in her powered up pop star guise. I made sure each stroke has a tether that found her ass crack and exposed pussy. She flinches and involuntarily shifts her ass out of harms way.
"Move it back. Take your punishment little cow!" I corrected her with my sternest voice. And then the most sexy and amazing thing happened. With a sad grunt, this Hollywood star... this international queen of pop, moaned submissively and shifted her ass back, then out a little, accepting her fate. It was as I suspected. I dug a little deeper.
"You need this punishment don't you? You WANT to punished, fat little cow."
Her head bobbed. A definite "yes."
I obliged her and flogged her as she squealed with each hit. I quick check and it was apparent; she was drooling from more than her cock-gag.
"I think you like this too much, little cow. I think we need to find another torture. Something you hate. Do you hate tickling?" I didn't expect an answer. But I got one. A panic.
At the head of the table I cranked her wrist cable until she was tight enough not to roll. I buckled her hip strap and pulled it tight.
"I'm going to tickle torture you now, little cow. Hey! I made a rhyme!" I laughed,"I'm going to tickle you until you cannot breath. There is nowhere to go, you can't get away. You are at my mercy little cow. Just keep sucking that cock and laugh when I make you laugh."
I started at her arms and cupped my way under to her armpits. Pinching and squeezing her padding occasionally to break up the torment of my nails (which I should add, are fake, by the way. There's no way to keep real ones in my busy profession.) The tickling was merciless and she snorted and squealed, laughed around the spit covered cock-gag as best she could and pleaded in garbled, unintelligible words. I teased and tormented her verbally as the instruction sheet outlined. She needed to change her ways. She needed to listen to her handlers. She needed to practice more and focus. She needed to lose weight and work out. Be a better mother to her kids. Stay away from the parties and get her career back on track.
Strange requests from the client who paid us, but what the fuck. I get to torture her and they were right. She cried and choked and begged for mercy, as far as I could tell. My hands found her ass, and I tickled it deftly all over, dipping down to the backs of her legs and she exploded. It was unbearable.
"Are you going to do as you are told, little cow? Your body? Your fat little out-of-shape body? Are you going to abuse it any more? Or do they have to bring you back here again? I hope they do! I hope you fuck up! tickle tickle tickle So I can tickle torture you more! tickle tickle tickle Awwww, poor little Hollywood cow is ticklish! tickle tickle tickle!" She was red, almost purple with forced laughter. I let her breathe after twenty minutes of slow, tickling torment.
While she lay there, head down, breathing a sweating hard, my own libido got the best of me. I checked the clock and if I were to take away a prize from this one-time chance, I'd better do it now. I grabbed her thick, blond hair and tied it in a ponytail, attaching it to one of the over head winch cables and slowly motored her head up until it faced forward. I got up on the table and straddled her arms, my pussy at her face, "Now, little cow, I'm going to take out your gag and you're going to eat my pussy and make me cum. Understood? If you say one word, I'm putting the gag back in and tickling you for the rest of the night. Sound pleasant? You're choice."
I buried my mound over her nose and she slurped and licked hungrily like the skanky trailer trash they always made her out to be, "You've done this before, you little ***** cow!" I mocked and she seemed to rasp harder with every insult. My hand tight on a mass of her famous hair, I came closer to orgasm with every strained sucking noise. My mind wandered as I watched her and when I visualized that the queen of pop was actually sucking my clit, I rocked hard on her mouth and came hard. The bitch licked up everything.
Without ceremony, I released her hair and her head hung down, humiliated. Her famous brown doe eyes running raccoon mascara. Imagine her shock when I lifted her head and put the cock-gag back in. She fumed anew.
"Oh, little cow, you didn't think we were done yet, did you? Look. I've gotten cunnilingus from both men and women... you need more practice. Maybe you should hook up with Lindsay or Paris. But since you disappointed me, we'll need to punish you more."
Did I tell you that I really developed a thing for tickle torturing feet? I really didn't get it at first, but over time I have found it really erotic. There is something about the helplessness and vulnerability... especially when bound up tight. She was no exception. I made my way around the table, dragging the stool loudly for maximum effect. I set up between her legs and picked one ankle. The left.
"Tsk. Tsk. Sweating all this time... how long have you had these shoes on? Hmmmmm...." I teased her as I slowly pulled her laces open.
* * *
My little pop star guest started squirming and mewling in her cock-gag the minute I tugged her shoelace knot open with a snap and a pop of its own. I was very keen to see if her feet were as ticklish as the rest of her, but the psychological torment I could induce by this slow undressing was a delicious aperitif. And I do love watching them sweat. Judging by her reactions, there was no doubt she was in fear for her feet.
She became more frantic and I could make out "please don't" and "not my feet" and some repeated "no"s, in spite of her oral latex impediment. Strapped down on her belly, slightly bent-over, her head was on the far side of her ass in the air, so it was kind of hard to hear. But I made sure she heard me.
"Oh yes, 'your feet,' little cow. You have not been to dance practice in a while have you? So I'll bet they have gotten all soft and weak. I'm going to torture them, and, too bad for you, I like to take my time."
"Noooo!" she screams. That I heard really well.
Her feet were all over the internet. I guess her good looks and penchant for flashing them bare made her a fetishist magnet. The down side is her feet also attracted bad press. The haters, I'm sure, like to spread rumors, and its hard to ignore them when TMZ and the rest make it tabloid fucktard-tainment; she likes her toes sucked; her feet are really smelly; her feet got her kicked off a plane. etc. There's no end to the web pages devoted to her soles. But, in a moment, I would find out for myself and definitely become the envy of every foot fetishist on the planet. Her feet, tightly bound and naked, right in front of me.
"Oh my. I guess you've been in these for a while, hmm? Are your feet all sweaty? I hope so. Makes them all slippery and tender. Let's just take this cute sock off and see."
I slip off her shoe and toss it over her head and it lands on the floor where she can see it. Her breathing is harder now. Anticipation is a torture in itself. I tug teasingly at the toe end of her sock and it shimmies off. And there it was. The famous pop star's infamous foot; sole up, bare and vulnerable.
The tabloids, as usual, were full of shit. She did have an odor, but it was not repulsive, it was the smell of skin with fresh sweat; light and kind of sexy. She did have thick ankles, but her foot was longer in the arch than I expected. I guess it was her chubby little toes that make her feet look stubby. But not bad. And when you have tickle tortured as many women as I have, you come to be a connoisseur. Crap, maybe I am a fetishist after all.
She tried to move her foot away in sharp pivots but the ankle cuffs are firm and there is nowhere to go to escape my soft caresses. She mumbles "don't" over and over. Her sole is unusually soft for a professional dancer, and there is no doubt she has not been doing much of that or her spiffy pedicure would not hold up.
"Okay little cow, let's make you laugh," I begin running my nails up and down her sole, following it relentlessly as she spasms. She bursts forth in a long squeal followed by that rolling giggle of hers that seems to go on endlessly. She's easy. Her foot is so ticklish it doesn't take any aggressiveness at all and I slow to a torturous pace. Her laughter is continuous and pained.
I hold her foot up firm in one hand to steady it as I dance and paint her wrinkled sole. Pausing now and then to tickle under each plump toe in turn. She manages some weak pleading for mercy between giggles and guffaws.
"No, my dear. No mercy tonight. I'm going to tickle you until you need to be committed again. Tickle tickle tickle... You have no choice. I'm going to make you laugh as long as I want. Such a pretty foot. So soft and vulnerable... No no, you can't stop it. You can't get away! Tickle tickle tickle. What's the matter? Is it torture? Answer me. Is it torture?"
She cannot stop laughing to answer me. I double hand her. Raking the ribbed sides of her arch. Sharp nails explore the tender flesh between each toe. She screams in frustration and melts back into her rolling cackle.
"Take your punishment. You have no choice but to endure it. I love watching you suffer. Tickle tickle... tickle tickle my little cow... my little pop-tart."
As I said, I'm really good at what I do now, and my tickle torture technique has evolved from frantic, rushed, and clumsy to slow, methodical, and precise. I have learned how to prolong and make the laughter unending. As Steve said, I've learned how to make tickling a technical and horrific torture worthy of any Spanish Inquisitional. I make her a prisoner of her own nerve endings. She cannot block or get up on it and has no other course but to lie there and be my ticklish puppet. I watch her squirm and pull at the straps but she has no leverage. Spread wide, it is evident that the torture is making her pussy flush and wet. Time for orgasm torture.
"Okay, you lazy little cow, catch your breath," I slap her hard on the ass signaling the end of the tickling, "Now I'm going to fuck that slutty pussy of yours with a dildo big enough for your ego. That's the good news. The bad news is, if you cum, I'm going to sit myself down and start torturing your other foot."
She's babbling. She actually rocks the bench which is bolted to the floor. Never happened before. That's one strong bitch. Amazing.
We have a fine selection of sexual torment devices on the trolley. Second drawer looks like a nightmare from a sex shop gone ballistic. I choose a large, thick monster, complete with simulated engorged veins, which at first glance, looks more like arm than a dildo. Her pussy is wet with excitement and a creamy white pool has collected over her clit hood. It does not take much to coat the head before I push it and work it in. Stretching her with yelps and weak protests.
"Take it, all of it. I'm gonna pump you hard till you blow a fountain of cum."
I push and pull the beast and watch as her pussy forms around it, inverting and prolapsing from its bumpy girth. She grunts and groans, the fear of being split, and the secret perversion that all we women secret away; the need for deep, unyielding impalement. Pain becomes need, need becomes ache, ache becomes intensity, intensity becomes release.
Pumping her full and deep I remind her of the consequences. It becomes predicament torture. How long she can suppress her involuntary musculature is never a question, she will fail. I add to her torment, firming a finger vibe to her meaty clit, without the courtesy of staying to the side of the hood. No. A direct on torture. She screams and bucks.
I can feel resistance from the dildo, her contractions are powerful. Her foot curls and a eerie silence comes over her as she bears down, beat red. This shortly erupts into a deep long moaning wail. She's not a squirter, at least I don't think so. After all, she had Godzilla in her pussy.
"Tsk tsk. I'm gonna take it you came, little cow. Now I have to tickle torture you. You broke the rules."
She's weeping and lost in the spiral headiness of a deep post orgasm. She does not, or cannot utter a response. I waste no time setting to work on her other foot. Tickling after an ordeal like that tends to be excruciating, and they don't call me a professional torturer for nothing. But this time I pull her gag. I want to hear this famous bitch beg me for mercy. Me. Her begging me. Hot!
Her right foot is as ticklish as the other and I set on on it with strings tied to pull the toes down and apart. I have implements for this session. A few exotic items to pull laughter screaming from her hoarse throat, and a few mundane, but effective one's, like a electric toothbrush and a wiggly battery powered flosser. Weird, I know, but they tickle like crazy and can be applied really slow. I found the toothbrush trick on a fetish website and tried it on my own feet one night, fuck! I couldn't even hold the fuckin' thing and dropped it the minute I touched my toes. I can't imagine the hell it creates in feet firmly held in tight bondage. But... that's what I do.
"Keep laughing, little cow. Mmmmmm such a ticklish little foot. You can't stop this. I'm going to tickle you to death."
She howls and stutters with red-faced laughter, her ass jiggling with her ragged breath. I hear her clear for the first time as she cries aloud, "Please please please don't tickle my feet! Anything! Just stop pleeeeeeeese! Oh my god.... mercy! Please no more." And she melted back into a very weakened giggle. She was exhausted.
I swear. Hearing those words. From 'Her.' Jesus... I almost came again myself.
But I wasn't persuaded. They don't call it tickle torture for nothing. And if one stops, its not much torture is it? So I went back and forth for the next twenty minutes without a break. I even took to sucking on those plump pink toes, my tongue ripping new peals of panicked laughter from Her Popness. Yes. They tasted yummy. LOL!
I made her beg and beg and beg... it was pitiful. Then I made double sure I berated her on every item in the checklist. I ended our session with our traditional warning and then gave her a special edition hand spanking just to drive the point home. I needed a Gatorade something fierce and left her locked in the playroom, a teary, hiccuping mess.
Some time later, Steve surprised me when he came into the control room. I was deep in a good masturbation watching her tied from the two-way. He just rolled his eyes as I collected my embarrassed self, and went to the window.
"No marks?"
"No. Nothing that will last the trip back home. Mostly I sexed her and tickled the shit out of her. She hated it. Cried." I said.
"Unf." Steve's telltale grunt of apathetic approval. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his horse-collar of cash, "Ten grand. Did you hit all the points? Yup? Good. Here, don't leave it all under your mattress. Shit. Go do your hair."
When I got in my car, I pulled down the visor and the little mirror confirmed Steve's blunt observation. I had that 'just fucked' look. Bleh. When I tipped the visor up again, Steve was there. I rolled the window down. He hands be a CD. It's not one of our torture recordings, it one of her fucking albums. Steve looks at me sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah so... anyway, I thought you might want it, I mean... okay, fuck me, I like a couple of tunes she did back when. Christ. Take it." he gets mad at his own vulnerability.
"Wait, Steve?" I call to him, "All those weird instructions. Who hired us?"
Steve cracks an alligator smile. Lights a Marlboro. Sucks a drag.
"She did."
****************************************************************
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Hi, its me. I'm sorry I have not posted in a while, things have been sticky, but everything is cool now. I just had to write and get this of my chest cuz its so freaking weird! You will not believe who Steve had tied to the table when I came in to work. I'm really not allowed to say, but it does not take a rocket scientist to figure it out. But let's put it this way, she was once a young pop star and then fucked herself herself into second rate tabloid queen... but, I have to admit, during my entire session with her, I was star-struck! I'll bet you can guess. Its a no-brainer and if you pull up a picture of her on the internet, I'll also bet you can visualize this story easily. My name is Amy, and as most of you already know, I am a professional torturer.
This goes back a few months. I had really settled into my new occupation with Steve and his nefarious "business." The income has made my life way easier and I don't worry about much anymore, except for my grades, and... well... not anymore, but I used to worry about my boyfriend. We broke up. He wanted to "find someone more exciting," as he put it. You have no idea how tempted I was to tell him the truth about what his "vanilla" girlfriend does for a living... but I can't. Ironic, isn't it?
I've become really good at what I do, and, to tell the truth, I have been more studious about learning torture methods from Steve than my own college classes. Heck, I've even started researching the craft on the internet, several high-end S&M clubs, and a few visits to a few underground dungeons. Yeah, everyone goes home happy from those places, but the things they do are very real. I've met some pretty hard-core dudes and gals. I've even had correspondence with a government pro down in Argentina. He's funny... but pure evil.
Oh! I got those expensive shoes I wanted. Now if I could just find the time or excuse to wear them! Can't have "Little Miss Broke College Girl" trotting around in fifteen hundred dollar Giuseppe Zanotti heels. Duh. Its like keeping a Maserati in a barn so the neighbors won't talk. Its so retarded.
So, yeah. Where was I?
Okay, anyway. So mostly I still work as Steve's assistant, but he has let me work alone with what he calls "easy marks" while he goes and fucks off gambling or clubbing, or whatever mob guys do on their off hours. I never really had a problem doing sessions on my own and my record is still one hundred percent compliance. Besides, if I get in a jam, Rico and Mel are just a cellphone away. But nothing messy has happened yet. Like I said, I'm really good at this now, which is prolly why Steve let me have at her.
I came into the bay one night as usual and Steve is looking at me funny with this shit-eating grin. He tells me to sit down in the front room and says he has a surprise tonight. I swallowed hard, in spite of all the time we've spent together, I know you're only one business decision away from getting whacked with these dudes. I relax when Steve snatches some papers off the printer and hands them to me.
"Okay. Before you freak out... don't. We have a very special guest tonight. Everybody knows her, and I mean 'everybody.' So just take that as a given and bury the fact. The same rules and protocol apply, if not doubly so. Not a word. Ever." says Steve.
"Alright, alright. Who is..." I glance at the dossier he printed, "Oh my god! OH MY GOD!"
"Shut it. This is what I'm talking about. Get over it or you won't be able to do the job."
"Is she here? Can I see her?" I stammer. Star struck and shocked.
"Fuck yeah, she's here. Trussed up like all the others. And that's how I want you to treat it. Like all the others."
"Okay. Okay. I got it." and I pantomimed my lips zipped. I was giddy. It was almost unbelievable.
"Good. Now while your attitude should be the same, the work tonight is a little different. I printed out some extra things you are to torture her about. The verbiage is very specific. I want you to linger on each point. We don't have her all night so you need to be thorough and cover each one. This is part of the contract and you can't skip any of it," Steve leans back in his used office chair. It creaks.
"Understood," I said, but I was so excited. Almost intimidated. I tried to bear down and be cool about it but my exuberance escaped me, "How did you? I mean... She's so high profile!"
"You don't need to worry about that. Just do your job. When I get back..."
"Get back? You're not going in there with me?" I was dizzy butterflies.
"No. That's the other surprise. You get to do this alone." Steve smiled. I thought it strange that he'd let me do her alone, but heck, maybe he had his weird reasons; Plausible deniability? Maybe he wants woman on woman with no distractions? Who the fuck knows! All I knew was I'd be alone with her to do what I wanted (aside from the instructions on the paper) and I would relish the opportunity. Imagine that... Me, torturing... I'm not allowed to say. Sorry.
"Remember. No lasting marks. I don't care what you do otherwise. Just so you know, she's on the red-eye back to Hollywood tonight... or early morning, as it were. Make me proud.
"Oh, I will. I will!" I couldn't contain, "Let me see her!"
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, Steve was gone and I was in the 'Control Room' staring at the starlet through the smoky two-way. There she was. If you didn't know it was really her, you'd have to look hard to see it. Strapped to the table, Steve had already taken her head bag off and she lay there staring at the nothingness beyond the bright working light. She had been snatched in her plain street clothes; a designer tank-top, some cut-off shorts, white half socks and pink Skechers. Her pair of mandatory rose Hollywood sunglasses lay on the trolley table next to the instruments we use for torment. THAT was sexy.
She looked tired and worn, but she was prettier than I expected considering all the bad press the tabloids had reigned on her. She was a little bit curvier than she was in her hey-day, but what the fuck, so was I. I mean we're both 28, not 19... and she did have kids. But, otherwise she still had a hot little bod. She was shorter than I expected, but her hair had obviously grown back to all its lush glory. Which reminded me, I could afford a better stylist for myself, and made a mental note of it.
Spend anytime on the interwebs and you know she's a skank. Not a lot of flattering press. And, frankly I guess, she has herself to blame. I admit, I did get a certain amount of pleasure knowing I was going to torture the shit out of this annoying bitch that it seemed you couldn't escape from, either on t.v. or the check-out line at the supermarket.
I clicked on the mic as I was taught. I heard the echo of it right through the glass, "We're almost ready to start torturing you, Sweetie. Just a little while now," and I clicked it off. She went ballistic. Red-faced and cursing. Now she looked more like the nut case that the tabloids portrayed. Screaming obscenities like the spoiled Hollywood tart she was. I loved it. I would make her squirm and beg. It was hot!
I donned my black nylon head mask and decided to do this one naked. I don't know why, I've done these naked before, but with her it just seemed more than appropriate. Before the evening was out, I was going to have "_______ _______ " eat my pussy by force. Like I mentioned before, I'm not a lez, but what the fuck, I was horny already from the excitement, and my fucking boyfriend had left me without my Tuesday regulars. If he only knew who his vanilla ex was face-fucking tonight! LOL! His loss.
Twenty more minutes later I walked into the 'Play Room' as cool as I could, my hood obscuring my features but my nipples were on end with my nervousness. The pop star immediately started to hurl every thing she could at me with that pretty smart mouth. Her voice training made her especially loud and I decided to put that down first. "Strip them of any sense of control" Steve taught, And this bitch controlled her world with her mouth, on stage and off. I chose a cheesy looking pink cock-gag from the trolly and force fitted it in her mouth... wasn't hard; the bitch never shut her hole.
I spoke freely, there was no call for the headphones in this session. The dossier papers, in fact, said there would be no recordings. "There, now you little cow, you won't be eating any drive-though with that in place. You could use to lose some of that flab," I hit on one of the talking points and poked her tummy. She flinched hard. Oh crap! What good fortune would it be if she was ticklish too?
She coughed and gagged a little from the pink latex cock laying heavy on her tongue, but it wasn't long before she started aggressively grouse and snort again. I watched her and laughed in spite of myself.
"Okay, Miss Thing, while you learn how to drool all over yourself, I'm going to cut you out of those high-priced trailer trash clothes so I can get at your skin." She cussed and bucked anew as I picked up the trauma sheers. With a few practiced and strategic cuts, her top and shorts were pulled away with disregard. When that happened, she got quiet and teary eyed.
I don't care what you might have seen, she's still hot. Her breasts were tan and her nipples had the tell-tale robustness of a young mother. Her famous pussy was indeed shaved clean, but it was still firm and introverted. Her legs had some thickness, both a dancer's muscle and some cellulite... but not enough to begrudge her with all that's she's been through. I have not had kids, but when I do, I hope to come out the other side looking half as good.
But lets get on with the torture. "Well, I see you're not neglecting the beach or the tanning bed are you? But you neglect other things don't you? This body of yours is a disgrace. What a flabby little cow. Out of shape. Too much fucking off between dance practice, eh? You're my little fat cow. Understand? I don't give a flying fuck what you think you are in the world, here in my world, you're my little fat cow!" I berate her, adding my own flare to the instructions on Steve's printout, "Now... moo for me, little cow."
She whimpers and growls.
"I said, moo for me!" and with that I poke her in the ribs. She squeals. Ticklish!
"I didn't say squeal like a pig! Moo!" And I begin tickling her sides. She screeches into the cock-gag and then rattles off into the most delightful little girl-like giggling. She thrashes side to side as much as the straps allow. I keep insisting she comply with my demand, tickling her ribs up and down, moving to her armpits and lingering there as she fights to laugh and breath. I know she cannot make the sound I want, and if she does I'll ignore it. The tickling is pure torture for her and I can tell she cannot stand it. But, oddly, she melts into it. Submitting. This is too good to be true.
"Very well. If you can't see to do what I ask, a little discipline may be in order... no wait. It IS in order," I command, "Since you need to see what a little fat cow you are, I'll show you." I position the trolley closer, from beneath I turn on the compressor and take two suction cups to show her. I lick the rims of each before her widening eyes, "We milk little fat cows like you. We'll just put these on and see how big your little fat cow teats can get."
Each cup is put over her hardened nipples in turn, sucking each mound of tan flesh into its clear tube. Pulling. Tugging. Sucking. I turn up the power level and deform them a little more. She mews over the cock-gag and a bubble of spittle pops on the side.
"You like that don't you, little cow?" I ask, fingering her shaven mound and puffing lips. She muffles something, I wasn't sure because of the compressor, but it might have been an exasperated "yes."
"Are you a ticklish little cow?"
Her eyes widen as I start at her belly and tickle my way up to her armpits and back down. She hics and laughs over the wet cock-gag and her tits wobble as she shakes to escape. The nipple cups hold fast and wag back and forth. I tickle her belly and she alternately pleads and screams with laughter, always digressing to that little rolling giggle. She is in spasms and cannot stop laughing. It's involuntary. It's torment. I don't stop for five minutes.
"Are you my little cow? Are you my fat little cow?" I demand.
Her head shakes. Undeniably. Desperate. Yes! YES! YES!
"Do you think because you told me what I want to hear that you get off easy? Do you think you got off Scott free? No? Yes? Answer me," I finger her some more as the compressor hums, sucking her nipples red. She mews and tries to look elsewhere, ashamed because my finger comes away wet.
"Do you think I'm here to get you off, you little fucking cow?" I berate her, "No. I'm here to torture you, and guess what? You are going to help me. You want to be tortured. And you will happily help me do it. Do as you are told little cow or I'll break the contract and tickle you all fucking weekend."
She moans in despair. I look in her face and see her Pepsi commercial and it makes it all real for me. I'm torturing a pop star. The thought made me flush with fresh heat down there. I turn off the compressor and lick up her discomfort as I pull off each cup, licking and suckling each aching nipple as she watches and whines. I undo her body straps and command her to roll over onto her belly; a quick slap to each breast makes her begrudgingly comply. I undo the ankle cuffs from the single cable and attach each separately to the table edges. Then, with a hard clank, unlock the last third of the table, splitting it. I spread her and lock the table open.
I turn the handle on the side of the table and the mid section rises under her midriff. Up it goes until she is stretched taught with her ass in the air. Not a tan line to be found. Spoiled bitch prolly owns her own tanning bed. Gee, ya think?
"Now, little cow, you need to understand how to behave. Obviously you can't stay away from fast food, it shows in your fat ass," I move to re-buckle her waist so she can't move her ass away from my flogger, then I rethink myself, "No. I'm going to teach you will power. I'm going to teach you to say no to fast food. How to find the will."
"You keep that fat ass of yours still, understand? If you wiggle out of the way, you earn ten more strokes each time. I want you to meet the whip. Love it. Ask for it." And I began flogging her tanned globes in sharp measured strikes. At first she flinched, but as the whips did it's insidious work and her sweet cheeks became pink, then red and tender, she became more audible. She began to cry, but she made every effort to stay in place. The sadist in me ate up her angst like candy. Just like that spoiled cliquey bitch that tormented me in school, here she was again but in her powered up pop star guise. I made sure each stroke has a tether that found her ass crack and exposed pussy. She flinches and involuntarily shifts her ass out of harms way.
"Move it back. Take your punishment little cow!" I corrected her with my sternest voice. And then the most sexy and amazing thing happened. With a sad grunt, this Hollywood star... this international queen of pop, moaned submissively and shifted her ass back, then out a little, accepting her fate. It was as I suspected. I dug a little deeper.
"You need this punishment don't you? You WANT to punished, fat little cow."
Her head bobbed. A definite "yes."
I obliged her and flogged her as she squealed with each hit. I quick check and it was apparent; she was drooling from more than her cock-gag.
"I think you like this too much, little cow. I think we need to find another torture. Something you hate. Do you hate tickling?" I didn't expect an answer. But I got one. A panic.
At the head of the table I cranked her wrist cable until she was tight enough not to roll. I buckled her hip strap and pulled it tight.
"I'm going to tickle torture you now, little cow. Hey! I made a rhyme!" I laughed,"I'm going to tickle you until you cannot breath. There is nowhere to go, you can't get away. You are at my mercy little cow. Just keep sucking that cock and laugh when I make you laugh."
I started at her arms and cupped my way under to her armpits. Pinching and squeezing her padding occasionally to break up the torment of my nails (which I should add, are fake, by the way. There's no way to keep real ones in my busy profession.) The tickling was merciless and she snorted and squealed, laughed around the spit covered cock-gag as best she could and pleaded in garbled, unintelligible words. I teased and tormented her verbally as the instruction sheet outlined. She needed to change her ways. She needed to listen to her handlers. She needed to practice more and focus. She needed to lose weight and work out. Be a better mother to her kids. Stay away from the parties and get her career back on track.
Strange requests from the client who paid us, but what the fuck. I get to torture her and they were right. She cried and choked and begged for mercy, as far as I could tell. My hands found her ass, and I tickled it deftly all over, dipping down to the backs of her legs and she exploded. It was unbearable.
"Are you going to do as you are told, little cow? Your body? Your fat little out-of-shape body? Are you going to abuse it any more? Or do they have to bring you back here again? I hope they do! I hope you fuck up! tickle tickle tickle So I can tickle torture you more! tickle tickle tickle Awwww, poor little Hollywood cow is ticklish! tickle tickle tickle!" She was red, almost purple with forced laughter. I let her breathe after twenty minutes of slow, tickling torment.
While she lay there, head down, breathing a sweating hard, my own libido got the best of me. I checked the clock and if I were to take away a prize from this one-time chance, I'd better do it now. I grabbed her thick, blond hair and tied it in a ponytail, attaching it to one of the over head winch cables and slowly motored her head up until it faced forward. I got up on the table and straddled her arms, my pussy at her face, "Now, little cow, I'm going to take out your gag and you're going to eat my pussy and make me cum. Understood? If you say one word, I'm putting the gag back in and tickling you for the rest of the night. Sound pleasant? You're choice."
I buried my mound over her nose and she slurped and licked hungrily like the skanky trailer trash they always made her out to be, "You've done this before, you little ***** cow!" I mocked and she seemed to rasp harder with every insult. My hand tight on a mass of her famous hair, I came closer to orgasm with every strained sucking noise. My mind wandered as I watched her and when I visualized that the queen of pop was actually sucking my clit, I rocked hard on her mouth and came hard. The bitch licked up everything.
Without ceremony, I released her hair and her head hung down, humiliated. Her famous brown doe eyes running raccoon mascara. Imagine her shock when I lifted her head and put the cock-gag back in. She fumed anew.
"Oh, little cow, you didn't think we were done yet, did you? Look. I've gotten cunnilingus from both men and women... you need more practice. Maybe you should hook up with Lindsay or Paris. But since you disappointed me, we'll need to punish you more."
Did I tell you that I really developed a thing for tickle torturing feet? I really didn't get it at first, but over time I have found it really erotic. There is something about the helplessness and vulnerability... especially when bound up tight. She was no exception. I made my way around the table, dragging the stool loudly for maximum effect. I set up between her legs and picked one ankle. The left.
"Tsk. Tsk. Sweating all this time... how long have you had these shoes on? Hmmmmm...." I teased her as I slowly pulled her laces open.
* * *
My little pop star guest started squirming and mewling in her cock-gag the minute I tugged her shoelace knot open with a snap and a pop of its own. I was very keen to see if her feet were as ticklish as the rest of her, but the psychological torment I could induce by this slow undressing was a delicious aperitif. And I do love watching them sweat. Judging by her reactions, there was no doubt she was in fear for her feet.
She became more frantic and I could make out "please don't" and "not my feet" and some repeated "no"s, in spite of her oral latex impediment. Strapped down on her belly, slightly bent-over, her head was on the far side of her ass in the air, so it was kind of hard to hear. But I made sure she heard me.
"Oh yes, 'your feet,' little cow. You have not been to dance practice in a while have you? So I'll bet they have gotten all soft and weak. I'm going to torture them, and, too bad for you, I like to take my time."
"Noooo!" she screams. That I heard really well.
Her feet were all over the internet. I guess her good looks and penchant for flashing them bare made her a fetishist magnet. The down side is her feet also attracted bad press. The haters, I'm sure, like to spread rumors, and its hard to ignore them when TMZ and the rest make it tabloid fucktard-tainment; she likes her toes sucked; her feet are really smelly; her feet got her kicked off a plane. etc. There's no end to the web pages devoted to her soles. But, in a moment, I would find out for myself and definitely become the envy of every foot fetishist on the planet. Her feet, tightly bound and naked, right in front of me.
"Oh my. I guess you've been in these for a while, hmm? Are your feet all sweaty? I hope so. Makes them all slippery and tender. Let's just take this cute sock off and see."
I slip off her shoe and toss it over her head and it lands on the floor where she can see it. Her breathing is harder now. Anticipation is a torture in itself. I tug teasingly at the toe end of her sock and it shimmies off. And there it was. The famous pop star's infamous foot; sole up, bare and vulnerable.
The tabloids, as usual, were full of shit. She did have an odor, but it was not repulsive, it was the smell of skin with fresh sweat; light and kind of sexy. She did have thick ankles, but her foot was longer in the arch than I expected. I guess it was her chubby little toes that make her feet look stubby. But not bad. And when you have tickle tortured as many women as I have, you come to be a connoisseur. Crap, maybe I am a fetishist after all.
She tried to move her foot away in sharp pivots but the ankle cuffs are firm and there is nowhere to go to escape my soft caresses. She mumbles "don't" over and over. Her sole is unusually soft for a professional dancer, and there is no doubt she has not been doing much of that or her spiffy pedicure would not hold up.
"Okay little cow, let's make you laugh," I begin running my nails up and down her sole, following it relentlessly as she spasms. She bursts forth in a long squeal followed by that rolling giggle of hers that seems to go on endlessly. She's easy. Her foot is so ticklish it doesn't take any aggressiveness at all and I slow to a torturous pace. Her laughter is continuous and pained.
I hold her foot up firm in one hand to steady it as I dance and paint her wrinkled sole. Pausing now and then to tickle under each plump toe in turn. She manages some weak pleading for mercy between giggles and guffaws.
"No, my dear. No mercy tonight. I'm going to tickle you until you need to be committed again. Tickle tickle tickle... You have no choice. I'm going to make you laugh as long as I want. Such a pretty foot. So soft and vulnerable... No no, you can't stop it. You can't get away! Tickle tickle tickle. What's the matter? Is it torture? Answer me. Is it torture?"
She cannot stop laughing to answer me. I double hand her. Raking the ribbed sides of her arch. Sharp nails explore the tender flesh between each toe. She screams in frustration and melts back into her rolling cackle.
"Take your punishment. You have no choice but to endure it. I love watching you suffer. Tickle tickle... tickle tickle my little cow... my little pop-tart."
As I said, I'm really good at what I do now, and my tickle torture technique has evolved from frantic, rushed, and clumsy to slow, methodical, and precise. I have learned how to prolong and make the laughter unending. As Steve said, I've learned how to make tickling a technical and horrific torture worthy of any Spanish Inquisitional. I make her a prisoner of her own nerve endings. She cannot block or get up on it and has no other course but to lie there and be my ticklish puppet. I watch her squirm and pull at the straps but she has no leverage. Spread wide, it is evident that the torture is making her pussy flush and wet. Time for orgasm torture.
"Okay, you lazy little cow, catch your breath," I slap her hard on the ass signaling the end of the tickling, "Now I'm going to fuck that slutty pussy of yours with a dildo big enough for your ego. That's the good news. The bad news is, if you cum, I'm going to sit myself down and start torturing your other foot."
She's babbling. She actually rocks the bench which is bolted to the floor. Never happened before. That's one strong bitch. Amazing.
We have a fine selection of sexual torment devices on the trolley. Second drawer looks like a nightmare from a sex shop gone ballistic. I choose a large, thick monster, complete with simulated engorged veins, which at first glance, looks more like arm than a dildo. Her pussy is wet with excitement and a creamy white pool has collected over her clit hood. It does not take much to coat the head before I push it and work it in. Stretching her with yelps and weak protests.
"Take it, all of it. I'm gonna pump you hard till you blow a fountain of cum."
I push and pull the beast and watch as her pussy forms around it, inverting and prolapsing from its bumpy girth. She grunts and groans, the fear of being split, and the secret perversion that all we women secret away; the need for deep, unyielding impalement. Pain becomes need, need becomes ache, ache becomes intensity, intensity becomes release.
Pumping her full and deep I remind her of the consequences. It becomes predicament torture. How long she can suppress her involuntary musculature is never a question, she will fail. I add to her torment, firming a finger vibe to her meaty clit, without the courtesy of staying to the side of the hood. No. A direct on torture. She screams and bucks.
I can feel resistance from the dildo, her contractions are powerful. Her foot curls and a eerie silence comes over her as she bears down, beat red. This shortly erupts into a deep long moaning wail. She's not a squirter, at least I don't think so. After all, she had Godzilla in her pussy.
"Tsk tsk. I'm gonna take it you came, little cow. Now I have to tickle torture you. You broke the rules."
She's weeping and lost in the spiral headiness of a deep post orgasm. She does not, or cannot utter a response. I waste no time setting to work on her other foot. Tickling after an ordeal like that tends to be excruciating, and they don't call me a professional torturer for nothing. But this time I pull her gag. I want to hear this famous bitch beg me for mercy. Me. Her begging me. Hot!
Her right foot is as ticklish as the other and I set on on it with strings tied to pull the toes down and apart. I have implements for this session. A few exotic items to pull laughter screaming from her hoarse throat, and a few mundane, but effective one's, like a electric toothbrush and a wiggly battery powered flosser. Weird, I know, but they tickle like crazy and can be applied really slow. I found the toothbrush trick on a fetish website and tried it on my own feet one night, fuck! I couldn't even hold the fuckin' thing and dropped it the minute I touched my toes. I can't imagine the hell it creates in feet firmly held in tight bondage. But... that's what I do.
"Keep laughing, little cow. Mmmmmm such a ticklish little foot. You can't stop this. I'm going to tickle you to death."
She howls and stutters with red-faced laughter, her ass jiggling with her ragged breath. I hear her clear for the first time as she cries aloud, "Please please please don't tickle my feet! Anything! Just stop pleeeeeeeese! Oh my god.... mercy! Please no more." And she melted back into a very weakened giggle. She was exhausted.
I swear. Hearing those words. From 'Her.' Jesus... I almost came again myself.
But I wasn't persuaded. They don't call it tickle torture for nothing. And if one stops, its not much torture is it? So I went back and forth for the next twenty minutes without a break. I even took to sucking on those plump pink toes, my tongue ripping new peals of panicked laughter from Her Popness. Yes. They tasted yummy. LOL!
I made her beg and beg and beg... it was pitiful. Then I made double sure I berated her on every item in the checklist. I ended our session with our traditional warning and then gave her a special edition hand spanking just to drive the point home. I needed a Gatorade something fierce and left her locked in the playroom, a teary, hiccuping mess.
Some time later, Steve surprised me when he came into the control room. I was deep in a good masturbation watching her tied from the two-way. He just rolled his eyes as I collected my embarrassed self, and went to the window.
"No marks?"
"No. Nothing that will last the trip back home. Mostly I sexed her and tickled the shit out of her. She hated it. Cried." I said.
"Unf." Steve's telltale grunt of apathetic approval. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his horse-collar of cash, "Ten grand. Did you hit all the points? Yup? Good. Here, don't leave it all under your mattress. Shit. Go do your hair."
When I got in my car, I pulled down the visor and the little mirror confirmed Steve's blunt observation. I had that 'just fucked' look. Bleh. When I tipped the visor up again, Steve was there. I rolled the window down. He hands be a CD. It's not one of our torture recordings, it one of her fucking albums. Steve looks at me sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah so... anyway, I thought you might want it, I mean... okay, fuck me, I like a couple of tunes she did back when. Christ. Take it." he gets mad at his own vulnerability.
"Wait, Steve?" I call to him, "All those weird instructions. Who hired us?"
Steve cracks an alligator smile. Lights a Marlboro. Sucks a drag.
"She did."
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