Taking pictures of your dick wrapped in barbed wire was your wife Jamie’s idea. She was desperate for something to give her friend Desiree a laugh, something to help her through yet another break-up.

Jamie’s best friend since grade school, Desiree always acted surprised when the guys she picked turned out to be such assholes. At least, that’s what Jamie and Desiree agreed was the problem with every single one of them.

Desiree was always telling Jamie how she wished the guys she met were more like you—big, dumb guys she could push around. Not really all that flattering a thing to say about a guy, but Jamie thought Desiree meant well. Jamie must’ve thought pretty much the same thing, because she never failed to mention each time Desiree said it. Usually after another of Desiree’s big blow ups.

So when Desiree’s most recent relationship crashed and burned, out where everyone in the trailer park could hear her—naked, wrapped in a shower curtain, screaming at the back of yet another retreating guy, running for his car as the dewy mists of dawn were starting to fade—Jamie decided to do a little something creative to cheer her up.

Romantic holidays were the worst for Desiree after a break-up. So the idea of making a vindictive Valentine’s Day card using your pecker was exactly the kind of thing Jamie would think up, the kind of thing Desiree would find hilarious.

You said no when Jamie first mentioned it. Which you both knew wouldn’t last. You could never refuse Jamie anything. All it took to get you comfortable with this idea was a couple of shots of Old Taylor, her sucking you to get you stiff for the picture, and using plastic barbed wire she got at that Halloween pop-up store—which was a big relief.

It was a little clumsy, her shooting the picture and keeping one hand in the shot, holding the end of the wire, like a leash.

The fake barbed wire prickled got you brooding on your entangled pecker, thinking how real barbed wire might feel. Like if you were a cowboy and were coming up naked from washing in a stock pond, tripped, and fell into a barbed wire fence.

The thrill of danger kept you firm but not stiff enough for Jamie’s pictures. She kept bending in to mouth the tip of your dick to keep you from wilting.

Still thinking how it would feel being naked on the prairie, tangled up in barbed wire, caught by rustlers or something—you were about to think yourself into spewing Jamie a mouthful. So you tried distracting yourself by concentrating on an oil change for the truck, maybe rotating the tires, because Jamie’s always been aces in the cocksucking department. But, she said between nips of your pecker and not seeming to notice you squirming, it’d be so worth it to see the look on Desiree’s face and get her laughing again.

Which she did. The two of them laughing so hard is what gave them the idea to make up a bunch of her vindictive Valentine’s Day cards with that picture and sell them at the VFW shop and swap the next couple of Saturdays running up to Valentine’s Day. Charge five bucks apiece. Better than a drugstore card, that’s for sure, said Desiree, which set them both to cackling.

They were polite enough to ask—with more laughter—if you minded them making your dick famous.

Of course not, you said. What’s to mind? They didn’t include your face on the card and no one you knew would know your dick standing there all by itself. Sure. You told them to go ahead.

They made up fifty and sold them all. Of course that gave Desiree the idea to do a whole series of pictures—using your dick.

They spent nearly three hours at the Horseman, drinking, smoking, and coming up with ideas, Desiree freewheeling and Jamie scribbling as fast as she could write.

When Jamie finally got home, dragging Desiree with her, and showed you the list, you realized Desiree must’ve spent a lot of time brooding on this, working off a lot of anger. There was something glittering and dangerous in Desiree’s eyes as Jamie pitched the idea to you. Yes, she’d shoot the pictures. Yes, Desiree would be there—she’d have to be if they needed someone’s hand in the picture, holding something, or strangling your dick, stuff like that, Jamie said. She couldn’t very well do both, and she seemed totally indifferent to Desiree being so close to your bare crank. She was totally fixed on what a great idea this was turning out to be.

Then as if a thought struck her, she whirled on Desiree and said, you’re not going to yank it off, or run away with it or anything, are you? Then she doubled over, laughing.

Noooo, said Desiree, unless you don’t need it anymore. I’d hate to let such a good one go to waste. She bent over laughing with Jamie. They were both pretty drunk, leaning on each other.

The idea of Jamie letting Desiree handle your crank was an instant hard-on. You’d always been careful not to do anything that Desiree—or Jamie—might take for flirting. So you made like it was a tough decision, but—damn! Jamie insisting another woman give you a hand-job, with her watching? The thrill of the idea poured through you, as you sat there listening to them pitch the ideas, cackling, nearly unable to talk.

They’d probably forget all about it come morning. Maybe go shopping, or whatever else they might come up with to see Desiree through her bad patch. You’d have to jack off to get the picture out of your head.

When they finally ran out of steam, Desiree crashed on the couch, stripping herself naked, not giving you a thought. Jamie had to throw a sheet over her and made you swear you hadn’t looked.

They’d get some sleep, sober up, and that’d be the end of their big idea. Maybe a little embarrassed.

But no. They were just as keen on the idea the next morning as they were the night before. They didn’t even bother with breakfast, leaving you to sleep while they spent most of the day out.

When they got back they went right to work on you.

They insisted you be shaved so your crank would look ‘more professional, like in porn videos.’ Desiree wanted to use your straight razor on you, but you said no to that. So Jamie took the job of shaving you with one of her disposables, giving Desiree the job of lathering you up, which seemed to take a whole lot longer than it should. She was going for texture and coverage, she said, dabbing here and there, brushing the lather over your crank, which was not necessary Jamie kept saying.

But Desiree was into it, fascinated to watch your pecker fill and lift, which you could not control—something she said she never saw firsthand before. Usually, she said, it was already stiff when a guy hauled it out to use on her. She seemed fascinated the way it pulsed with your heartbeat as she daubed on the lather, taking her time on the underside at the head.

It fucking throbs, she shrieked, it really does, and then laughed, pushing the bristles down into your pisshole, as if to tame it, giving you a delicious burn.

You had to keep your mind off Desiree leaning in, bosom ready to swing free of the low-cut glittery tank top she’d been wearing from the night before, the languid strokes of the brush, the nearness of Desiree’s face to your pecker, the puffs of her warm breath, her lips parted in awe at the mechanics of your erection.

Otherwise, you’d spurt with her right there. Even that thought—you jetting a stream landing on Desiree’s cheeks—pushed you closer to bursting.

Maybe Jamie saw it too. Maybe it’s why she took the brush, telling Desiree not to use up all her soap.

She edged Desiree aside with her hip and took over, shaving your belly, the tendrils of hair along your thighs, and stretching the skin of your scrotum to shave your balls.

Given the sharp instrument she dragged through the hair of your belly and balls, she sure was a lot rougher than Desiree had been.

After they’d rinsed off the soap, Jamie was the one to dry you. She spent an extra long time rubbing your dick, studying you.

You were grateful your dick responded, firming up in her grip.

They shared some of the Old Taylor, but weren’t going to give you any until after they’d shot some pictures.

Incentive, said Jamie.

With that, they dumped out the things they’d gathered for their project.

Spread out over the table were the tools of someone’s demented fantasy—rusty scissors, a hacksaw, hammer, pliers, ice pick, chicken wire, jumper cables, extension cord, nylon rope, fishing line with hooks, nails, drywall screws—your erection was long gone watching them paw through all those things, laughing, talking in a sort of dangerous code.

Looking over the collection, Jamie’s hands flat on the table, arms stiff as she leaned over the hardware, you could see she was thinking hard about what was next.

Do we know anyone who’s got a workshop or garage we can use, she asked. It’d look a whole lot better.

Desiree assumed they’d use the bedroom or the living room or the bathroom.

That’d just be kinky, said Jamie. Doing it somewhere like a garage or a machine shop would make it look really dangerous.

It went off like a light bulb for Desiree. She was all, yesyesyes. Danger! Like real danger! Dicks in Danger! Maybe we could use one of the woodshops over at the high school.

Not gonna happen. Who around here do we know?

You didn’t mind doing a favor for Desiree, because Jamie asked. But you were starting to see some real risks. What surprised you was how the buzz of that thought ran through you. Was it the fight-or-flight nerves working at odds with the messages of excitement your dick was sending back? Stupid messages like, give it a try, might be fun. Or was it something about these two women plotting against your penis?

That’s how you ended up in Ed Waggin’s garage, him and his wife being gone visiting the grandkids and letting Jamie have the run of the place.

You spent a good hour sitting on the tool bench with your crank resting on a bed of ten-penny nails driven through a piece of two-by-four, then having it clamped in a bench vise, then stretched flat under a hacksaw as you straddled a sawhorse, then caught in the jaws of a crescent wrench.

That led to Shipley giving them use of the meat locker at the Food Lion. Being chilled like that made it difficult to keep you hard. That, and having your boner stretched out on a cutting board, with a meat cleaver lying way too close by.

That led to you lying naked in Cody’s bass boat, your crank and balls done up in three-hundred-pound test fishing line and ten-aught hooks—because, said Jamie, they showed up better against your skin.