Chapter 59: Audience 3
The cool air of the storeroom raised gooseflesh on his thighs. Clarissa’s eyes, grey and assessing in the strip of light from under the door, travelled over his nakedness, pausing at the angry red mark on his cheek from the bread-roll woman’s slap, then moving down to his erection, which stood obscenely upright despite the full-body tremor of exhaustion that ran through him.
“A picture of devotion,” she murmured, almost to herself. She picked up his discarded belt, the fine leather sighing as she pulled it through her hands. “And what a useful thing you are.”
She folded the belt in half, gripping the buckle and the folded end. The loose end formed a short, heavy tail. She slapped it against her own palm. Thwack. The sound was shockingly loud in the enclosed space.
“Turn around. Hands on the shelf. Don’t move them unless I tell you. You count the blows and you thank me for them, understand?”
Paul obeyed. The wooden shelf was gritty with dust. Cardboard boxes of pork scratchings dug into his ribs. He heard the rustle of her dress behind him, the click of her heels on the concrete floor. He braced.
The first strike landed across the backs of his thighs. It was a flat, shocking crack that bloomed into a immediate, scalding line of pain. His body jerked forward, his forehead thudding against a box.
"One," he gasped, the word forced out of him. "Thank you, Clarissa."
She didn't wait. The second blow landed just above the first, a parallel stripe of fire. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white on the shelf. The pain was sharp, clean, overriding the dull ache in his jaw and the sour fatigue in his muscles.
"Two. Thank you, Clarissa."
The third stroke bit into the soft undercurve of his buttock. He cried out, a short, sharp sound he couldn't contain. His hips bucked involuntarily. He could feel the welts rising, hot and distinct beneath his skin. She was measuring her strokes, he realized through the haze. Each one hurt, a bright, searing punctuation, but none had the full-weight destruction she was capable of.
"Three. Thank you."
She moved to the other side, the belt hissing through the air. Thwack. A matching line on his left thigh. The symmetry of it felt like a perverse art. His cock, trapped against the dusty cardboard, remained stubbornly, shamefully hard.
"Four. Thank you, Clarissa."
The fifth and sixth came in quicker succession, crossing the existing welts on his right side. The pain compounded, layering into a deep, throbbing burn. Tears pricked his eyes, born of sheer physical overwhelm. He sagged against the shelf, his arms trembling.
"Five. Thank you. Six. Thank you."
She paused. He heard her shift her stance behind him, the soft intake of her breath. The belt swung. It landed with a wet, meaty slap across the most tender part of his buttocks, where the cheeks met his thighs. The pain was different, deeper, a jolt that radiated up his spine. He groaned, a long, low sound of genuine suffering.
"Seven," he choked out. "Thank you, Clarissa."
Silence. He heard the belt drop to the concrete floor with a dull slap. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she exclaimed, her voice thick with disgust.
He stayed frozen, his welted backside throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He heard her step closer, felt her breath on his ear. "Tell me something, Paul," she said, her tone conversational yet edged. "Are you usually allowed to just wander about in life without a plug up your arse? Is that a privilege Odette grants you on your days off?"
The question was so absurd, so incongruous with the raw pain singing across his skin, that it took him a moment to process it. "I... I never wear a plug," he mumbled into the cardboard.
She made a sound of pure exasperation, a tut that vibrated with disdain. "Absolutely basic." Her footsteps retreated towards the door. He didn't turn. He heard the storeroom door open a crack, the pub's noise swelling briefly before being stifled.
"Davina!" Clarissa called out, her voice pitched to carry over the din. "Is puddles here still? Bring her in please.”
Paul closed his eyes. The thought of Davina, with her pierced lip and cool disdain, seeing him like this should have coiled shame in his gut. But the feeling was a phantom, faint and distant. He was too broken, too exhausted. Half the women in the pub had come in his mouth tonight. His own belt had just split his skin. What was one more person seeing his naked, beaten form? The humiliation had been burned out of him, leaving only a hollow, weary acceptance.
He heard returning footsteps, two sets now. The door opened wider, casting a broader slab of jaundiced light into the room. He kept his forehead pressed to the shelf.
"Nice!," Davina's voice said, a low whistle. "You've been busy already Clarissa."
"Merely setting the baseline, darling," Clarissa replied, her voice moving closer again.
“Turn around, Paul. Let’s have some company.”
Paul pushed himself back from the shelf, the movement pulling at the fresh welts. He turned slowly, his semi-erect cock bouncing as he faced the doorway. Davina leaned against the frame, her expression one of amused appraisal. Beside her stood a new woman.
She had a head shaved to dark stubble and wore form-fitting grey long-sleeve top and matching yoga pants that clung to a thin, wiry frame. She avoided the eyes of all three of them, her gaze fixed on a point on the dusty floor near Paul’s feet. Her posture was a study in resigned stillness.
“This is Puddles,” Clarissa said, her voice warm with proprietorial fondness. “She’s mine.”
Paul assessed her look, the deliberate plainness of her clothing, the way she seemed to be trying to occupy less space. An idea presented itself to Clarissa; Paul saw it flash in her grey eyes, a spark of cruel inspiration. “Kneel,” she commanded him, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
He sank back to his knees on the cold concrete. The position was familiar, a relief in its simplicity. “Stay on your knees,” Clarissa instructed, then turned to Puddles. “Come here, darling. Stand before him.”
Puddles obeyed, moving with a quiet, automated grace until she stood a foot from Paul’s face. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Now, Paul,” Clarissa purred from behind him. “You will undress her. Using only your mouth and teeth. No hands.”
A new layer of exhaustion settled over him, a deep fatigue of the soul. He leaned forward, the rough stubble of his jaw brushing against the soft grey fabric over her thigh. He found the hem of her yoga top with his teeth. He tugged it upward, inch by straining inch, his neck craning awkwardly.
He revealed pale skin at first, then the lower curve of a breast. A silver ring pierced her nipple. He worked the fabric higher, past her ribcage, his teeth aching with the effort. When he finally tugged the top over her head, her arms remained limp at her sides. He dropped the fabric onto the floor.
Her torso was a gallery. Dozens of small, graphic tattoos, rendered in stark black and grey, covered her from hips to collarbone. On her stomach a man with an enormous cock was buried to the hilt in an obvious depiction of puddles’ own body, her stretched cunt detailed and obvious. On her ribcage, a woman used a strap-on on another image of puddles bent over a desk. On her sternum, a cock sprayed jizz all over a remarkably good likeness of puddle’s face.
Each was a tiny, masterful vignette of perversion. On her back, large, was a rendering of puddle’s tied to a bed frame, spreadeagled with no part of her body hidden from view. Her body was a documentary record of her own sexual degradation.
“Lovely, aren’t they?” Clarissa mused, her hand coming to rest on Paul’s shoulder. “A living portfolio. Now the pants.”
Paul bent again. He nuzzled the waistband of her yoga pants, smelling clean cotton and a faint, neutral sweat. He caught the fabric with his teeth and slowly worked it down over her hips. She offered no help, her body passive as a mannequin.
As the pants slid down her thighs, more art was unveiled. On her right buttock was a torso, naked, and from her tits hung little bells while the picture of puddle’s face wept pitiously. Silver rings and barbells glinted in the dim light, piercing her inner and outer lips. A chain connected two piercings, dangling between her legs. And on her calf was another picture of Puddles face; her mouth making an O with Wh and re daubed on her tear-tracked cheeks either side.
He pulled the pants past her knees, down her calves, until they pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them. Her legs were a tapestry of scenes: figures in bondage, acts of voracious consumption, and in each of them puddles own body and face was figure on the receiving end.
As puddles stepped out of her trousers she revealed, at Paul’s eye level a smooth, black onyx sphere, about the size of a large cherry, sitting intimately between her buttocks.
“Now, Paul,” Clarissa said, her voice light, almost conversational. “Use your mouth. Take the plug out of her.”
Davina let out a short, disbelieving snort from the doorway. “Fucking hell, Clarissa,” she muttered, her voice a mix of amusement and something like disgusted awe.
Paul stared at the dark sphere nestled between Puddles’ pale buttocks. The intimacy of the command was more profound than any blow or fuck. This was an internal violation, an excavation. He leaned forward, his nose brushing the cool skin of her lower back. The scent here was different, musky and deeply personal, cut through with the sterile smell of silicone lubricant.
He pressed his lips against the cool, smooth silicon of the plug. It was foreign and unyielding in his mouth. He had to open his jaw wide to fit around its girth. He closed his lips just behind the widest part of the sphere, creating a seal.
Puddles remained perfectly still, a statue decorated in obscenity. He sucked gently, tentatively, his tongue flattened against the base where it met her body. Nothing happened. He pulled back with his neck muscles, his lips straining. A faint, wet pop sounded, and the plug shifted minutely.
“Harder, darling,” Clarissa instructed softly. “It’s not a lolly. Use your teeth if you have to.”
He reset his mouth, gritting his teeth slightly on the slick surface for traction. He sucked again, harder this time, and pulled back with his whole body. His neck corded with the effort. The plug resisted, then with a soft, wet, sucking sound, it began to emerge from her body.
Davina watched, her arms crossed. “I can’t believe you’re making him do that,” she said, her voice low. “To her.”
The plug came free with a final, obscene pop. Paul held it in his mouth, the taste of lubricant and something deeper, earthier, coating his tongue. He held it there, unsure what to do.
“I’ll take that.” Clarissa directed.
Clarissa turned to Davina, holding the flared silicon shape up to the light, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. “You think that’s something? Wait. He’s going to eat her cunt next. Lick her clean. Get his tongue right up inside her.”
Davina’s pierced eyebrow arched. She looked from Paul, kneeling and panting, to the passive, tattooed form of Puddles, then back to Clarissa. “You’re fucking joking.”
“Not at all.”
“But… her?” Davina’s voice dropped to a whisper, though everyone could hear. “Puddles is… I mean, she’s the lowest. She’s your thing. She’s anyone’s thing.”
“Precisely,” Clarissa said, her smile turning icy and radiant. “And now he’s her thing. Just for tonight. The handsome barrister, on his knees, worshipping broken chattel. A slave’s slave.”
Davina stared. The concept seemed to physically rearrange something behind her eyes. Her lips, the pierced one especially, twitched. She uncrossed her arms, letting one hand drift absently to her own thigh. The taboo of it, the sheer hierarchical collapse, was clearly, visibly working on her. A dark flush crept up her neck.
“Christ,” she breathed, her voice husky. “That’s… that’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Davina's words seemed to hang in the dusty air, charging it. Clarissa's smile became a razor slash of satisfaction. She turned from Davina and placed a firm hand on Paul's bare, welted shoulder. Her touch was an anchor in his dazed exhaustion.
"… but not quite yet, Dave," Clarissa murmured, tapping the plug against her palm. "We're working from the bottom up tonight."
She guided him away from puddles' silent form. "Onto your back, Paul. On the floor, now." Her voice permitted no resistance.
The concrete was icy and gritty against the fresh welts on his back and shoulders. He lay supine, his spent cock lying flaccid against his thigh. His every muscle felt leaden, hollowed out.
"Davina, help me with him." Clarissa took one of Paul's ankles, her grip firm. Davina stepped fully into the storeroom, a new, keen intensity in her dark eyes, and took the other. "Puddles, position yourself over his face. High on your knees."
Paul stared at the grimy ceiling, listening to the shuffle of bare feet. Then the view was blotted out by puddles. She knelt directly over him, but held herself up, her weight on her knees and calves. Her shaved, tattooed vulva, bedecked with its chains and silver rings, hung inches above his nose like some strange, ornate fruit.
He could smell her directly now, a sharper, funkier scent than from before, mixed with the faint, artificial tang of lubricant. Her outer lips, pierced through with matching rings, were slightly parted. He could see the dark pink of her inner flesh, glistening faintly.
"That's it," Clarissa cooed. "Now, Puddles, take his legs. Pull them back toward his head."
Puddles reached down, her thin arms surprisingly strong. She took Paul's ankles from the two women and pulled his legs up and back, folding him nearly double. His spine protested with a series of clicks. His knees were pulled back almost to his ears, his thighs splayed obscenely wide.
It was a profound, shocking vulnerability. He was presented, opened. The cool air of the room kissed his most private aperture.
"Look at that, Paul," Clarissa said, her voice dripping with a kind of amused, clinical wonder. She squatted beside his hip, her wine-coloured dress pooling on the dirty floor. "See how open you are? Just like a good little girl waiting for it."
The humiliation was hot and specific, sharper than the belt. It wasn't about pain; it was about inversion. His identity as a man, as a barrister, as anything at all, was reduced to this exposed, receptive posture.
He could say nothing. He stared up at the metal-ringed slit hovering above him, his breath puffing against puddles' inner thighs.
"Davina," Clarissa said, not looking away from Paul's exposed body. "Come here. He’s about to get plugged. We're working without lube, unfortunately. So you and I are going to provide some."
Davina knelt beside Clarissa, intrigued. She met Paul's upside-down gaze, her pierced lip curling. "No more hassle?" she asked her.
"If you're going to," Clarissa advised, then turned her head and spat deliberately onto her fingers. A thick, clear glob landed on her fingertips.
Davina watched, then followed suit, spitting into her own palm. The two of them coated their fingers with saliva, their hands glistening in the low light.
Clarissa rubbed her wet fingers together, then pressed them directly against Paul's tight, untouched hole. He jerked violently at the cold, alien contact, his whole body tensing. Puddles held his legs fast, her arms like steel cables.
"Easy," Clarissa soothed, her tone a contradiction to the invasive probing of her fingers. She worked the spit in with a clinical, circular motion. The stretch was a dull, insistent burn. "We have to get you ready for this. It's been neglected."
Davina added her own spit-slicked finger beside Clarissa's, and the burn intensified, a sharp, impossible stretch. Paul groaned, his knuckles white where they scrabbled against the concrete.
"There we are," Clarissa murmured, scissoring her fingers slightly. He could feel the ring of muscle fighting, then yielding under the insistent, slippery pressure. "Just breathe through it."
He panted, the air stale in his lungs. She removed her fingers with a wet pop. He heard the clink of metal on concrete as she picked up the plug.
"This has been inside her all night," Clarissa whispered, as if sharing a delicious secret. She pressed the cold, blunt nose of the silicon plug against his spasming entrance. "It's been keeping her company. Now it'll keep you company." She pushed. The rounded tip breached him, a shocking, impossible intrusion. His body clenched hard against it, a desperate, animal reflex to expel the foreign object. A choked scream lodged in his throat.
"You're taking it," she stated bluntly, her voice hardening. She leaned her weight into it. Davina watched, mesmerized, one hand absently rubbing her own thigh again.
The widest part of the plug stretched him brutally. The spit was a pitiful lubricant. It was a slow, dry, tearing invasion. He felt his body open around the silicon, a burning stretch that seemed to hollow him out. With a final, sickening slide, it seated inside him, the flared base pressing firmly against his anus.
He felt impossibly full, violated. The silicon was a cold, unyielding presence inside his core. A trapped, broken sob escaped him.
Puddles, kneeling silently above his face, had watched the process, her grey eyes distant. As the plug seated fully within Paul, a visible shudder ran through her thin frame. A bead of clear fluid welled from her pierced slit, quivered for a moment, and then fell.
It landed in a cool, perfect droplet on Paul's cheekbone, just below his eye. The scent of her, pure and concentrated, flooded his senses.
Another string of wetness leaked from her, thicker this time, and dangled for a second before breaking. It splashed across his lips. The taste was musky, salty, complex. It was the taste of her arousal, involuntary, a visceral reaction to his own profound debasement.
Clarissa leaned over him, blocking the light from the door. Her face was a mask of serene, cruel perfection. "She's dripping for you, Paul," she whispered. Her finger smeared the wetness from his lips.
Her finger smeared the wetness from his lips. She held her glistening fingertip up to the light from the door, examining it. “Look at that. She’s a fucking faucet.”
Davina chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Always is. Pathetic, really.”
Clarissa turned her gaze from her finger back to Paul’s face, her expression softening into a mockery of maternal concern. “You’re probably wondering why she’s so wet, Paul. And why we call her Puddles.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She spoke to the room, to Davina, to the inert woman straddling his head. “Puddles here spends her life being a sexual object. She’s teased. Tormented. Tortured. Every tattoo, every piercing, every session is a chapter in her manual of service. Nothing she does, nothing she is, exists outside the context of being a sex slave. Full-time. Total Servitude. She was a primary school teacher before. Not now.”
Her hand came to rest on Puddles’ bare, tattooed hip. The touch was almost tender. “But here’s the beautiful, agonizing catch. She is never, ever allowed to cum. Aren’t you, darling?”
Puddles remained silent. Her breathing, which had been shallow, hitched slightly.
“Puddles,” Clarissa said, her voice a sharp crack. “When was the last time you came?”
The woman above him trembled. The chains between her piercings tinkled softly. She took a long moment, her throat working. “January,” she whispered, the word barely audible.
“January,” Clarissa repeated, savouring it. “And before that?”
Another pause, heavier. “October,” Puddles murmured.
“October!” Clarissa announced to the storeroom, as if presenting a fascinating fact. “Months of want. Months of being used, opened, filled, and denied. Her cunt leaks like a broken shower-head. Always desperate. Always willing. Always wet.” She leaned down closer to Paul, her perfume a clash of flowers and dominance. “And you, my exhausted barrister, are going to have to eat that ruined and dripping gash of meat. You’re going to lick that desperate, denied, always-aching cunt until it shines.”
Davina let out a delighted groan, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Fuck me, she’s going to be so fucking wet for him. He’ll be swimming in it.”
“Exactly,” Clarissa purred. She gave Paul’s shoulder a small, encouraging pat. “Now. Do your job. Get that pretty, educated tongue to work. Taste despair. Taste need. Make puddles cum all over your face.”