Copyright © 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do not repost nor repurpose without permission.
Richard knew he was in trouble, big trouble, when she finally managed to get the third ring around his cock. Definitely smaller than the first two. And there were probably two to go.
The judge had barely looked up when the foreman handed him the slip of paper. Not guilty. Shit.
Where the fuck did she go? Was she just going to leave him here standing spread-eagled at the foot of the bed with his dick stuck somewhere between raging erection and death?
The dipwad figured he got off lucky with 500 hours of litter for accidental, given she had pushed for attempted. She was probably right. But everyone seemed happy to assume that the guy had simply gotten tanked and misjudged the sidewalk. Hard to believe someone would intentionally point his Accord at the Blockbuster where his girlfriend worked and punch it. Besides, it had been the last case of the day, and the judge wanted to get home early because the Knicks were playing tonight. It was anyone's season.
He groaned as her fingers caressed, then twisted, one of his tiny nipples. Please, no. Not clamps. Not now.
He thought he heard her say something. She was probably asking him if he liked what she was doing.
Objection. Denied. Continue.
The kid didn't want to cop a plea. So he pulled the jury lever and somehow lined up three cherries.
The leather cuffs chafed against his thighs and ankles as he struggled fitfully. Good luck getting the bed to move. Real mahogany, or something likewise. A class suite all the way.
Too bad they wouldn't pass this way again. Never the same hotel twice. One of their few rules.
He found he could turn his head a little, not that it mattered with the collar roped on both sides to the top of the bedposts. Not to mention the way the stiff leather around his neck, all six inches of it, cupped his chin so he had to stare at the ceiling.
And he truly regretted buying that oversized ball gag, now that he had had ample opportunity to sample its effects on his own jaw.
Victory was often a matter of opinion. Especially when you work for the system defending miscreants who can't afford a proper lawyer. He put criminals back on the street so the D.A.'s office couldn't turn them into hardened professionals at Sing Sing. Nobody was exactly doing God's work here.
They knew they were doomed to a relationship from day one. Elizabeth was one of those accidental martyrs who are so fucking relentlessly right about everything except their own lives. He feigned shambling eloquence as a beard for his mirrorshade cynicism. Her tragedy was staying locked up so tight, he halfway expected her to explode on contact. Which they did. His secret mine. Especially when they finally figured out why such opposites had attracted.
One night, she was furious. She'd lost a three-pointer because some cop smudged the grip when he found the gun at the scene. When he had dared to smile at her snarling, she threw him on the bed, tied his wrists behind his back with her stockings, and did his ass with the vibrator.
Things slid downhill fast from there. Hyperlinks are a marvelous tool for extremists in search of the proper dynamite. When he discovered ponygirls, he had to increase his credit line.
And, oh, how she hated animal training. So he did it all the time. Lose a case, win the race. Hi ho, Silver.
His eyes started to water as she pinched the head of his cock until it went limp between her fingers. Fourth ring, definitely smaller.
He wriggled his fingers in the leather prisons hanging high from a short strap buckled to the back of the collar, elbows pointing out and wrists criss-crossed awkwardly behind his back. "Bondage mittens" sounded too innocuous for a plaything that precluded any sort of safeword signaling when combined with a gag the size of a softball.
Not that she cared if she occasionally beaned the batter. Not that he did either when it was his turn to pitch. This wasn't some demented ballet in public with a stranger. More like consensual rape, speaking of scenic oxymorons. Pleasurable torture. Loser tops.
He tried to adjust to the fifth ring nestled just beneath the pilgrim's hat, the sound of blood pounding in his ears and groin. Same size? Smaller? Hard to tell.
She stood up and dangled something silvery in front of his eyes. Clamps. The kind that don't slip off easily. Which meant weights. She attached the first one on his right nipple (warning: some assembly required), and left its partner hanging next to his navel. A preview, he supposed.
The lead dog on the D.A.'s sled does not consort with a public defender. Especially in a city with competing tabloids. He marveled at their luck to date. Of course, they knew all the tricks. Never seen in public. The hotel drill. A new Hotmail account every few days... he tended toward scientific names for reptiles, she used whatever variation of "bitch" the system barfed up for her. Scowls and snarls in the hall. People simply presumed they were mortal enemies. Which they were, in a sense. But it was so much easier to run the prison camp this way.
She knelt back down in front of his crotch, his eyes straining to see more than the top of her much-too-pretty head. Despite excessive stimulation to the contrary, his cock was hopelessly inert inside the rings. So it didn't take her long to work number six around its tip. Lucky seven took some doing though, given its diameter couldn't measure more than an inch. When she finished, she gave his swollen balls a powerful squeeze, then tightened the straps around his scrotum until he could scarcely breath.
More than anything, she hated a perp with a tongue for the media. And he had known she would extract her pound of flesh for all that wigger jive on the courthouse steps after the verdict this afternoon.
Was that a smile? Defcon five. She picked up the loose clamp and twisted it down savagely on his other nipple. Like a piranha attacking. Then she produced another chain, a long one with a clip on one end and what looked like a metal golf ball on the other. The clamps tugged, then jingled.
She reached down to his caged cock and hooked the middle of the links to the last ring. Her fingers glanced against his torso as she lifted the rest of the chain, and the weight, into his range of vision.
"Whoops," she said tonelessly as she allowed the ball to drop out of her hand.
Richard stiffened, then groaned miserably, his extended cock stretching only slightly downward because of the chain to the clamps, yet still supporting most of the weight swinging between his knees.
Elizabeth turned and gave him an uncharacteristic wink.
"Looks like I'd better get ready for bed, too."
She yawned ostentatiously, but her eyes stayed riveted to his, soaking up his mounting, and quite palpable, panic.
"You like?" she asked as her fingers crept down her sides and started untucking her turtleneck.
The grey cashmere improbably slipped skyward, replaced by French vanilla flesh and shimmering lingerie.
I can deal with this, he lied to himself.
By the time she got to her satin briefs, his shaking made the ball swing and bounce like a Yo-yo on the finger of a beginner.
She slipped a finger between her legs, then reached up and pasted her scent under his nose.
"Sweet dreams," she whispered theatrically as she drifted backwards to her suitcase laid open on top of the bureau. She pulled out their biggest plug and kissed it.
"A midnight snack," she said.
Then she was behind him. The covers rustled. The lights went out.
Richard wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than an hour before a match flared.
"I feel guilty," he heard her say just before the long tapered candle sputtered into view sideways in front of his groin.
So did his next client. Couldn't stop bragging about it, actually. A charming tale of love, revenge and leaded baseball bats. Took the judge maybe a minute to send the joker upstate long enough to miss all three Star Wars sequels. Richard logged onto My Yahoo as Helodermatidae, a particularly nasty breed known for their venomous behavior, and sent a simple message to Bitch37489@mail.com: "Newark Airport Marriott."
"Room 925," she said flatly when she picked up his call from the lobby.
The door wooshed open with nothing more than a nudge from the edge of his large suitcase, but it closed like a vacuum-sealed airlock. Must be a blackout room for pilots and crew on layover. Soundproof.
.... There is more of this story ...