Chapter 60: The Taste Test
Puddles’ taste filled his world. Musky, salty, electric, cut through with the faint, clinical tang of metal from her many rings.
He worked his tongue between the cold silver rings piercing her inner lips, feeling the rigid metal against his own soft tongue. Her cunt was an intricate landscape of obstacles and slick, yielding heat. He traced the chain that dangled from her clit hood, the tiny links clicking against his teeth as he sought the engorged nub beneath.
A sharp, wet gasp escaped Puddles above him. Her thighs trembled against the sides of his head.
Her body was speaking a language of raw need, every tremor and tensed muscle translating a month of denied pleasure into a single, desperate pitch.
"Fucking look at that," Davina breathed, her voice hushed with a kind of reverent disgust. She crouched low, her eyes level with Paul’s working jaw. "He’s actually doing it. He’s properly servicing her. Like she’s a normal human."
She shook her head, her piercings catching the dim light. "It’s mental. I had my whole fucking foot inside her on Tuesday. Up to the ankle. And now this bloke’s treating her clit like it’s a fucking precious jewel."
Clarissa smiled, watching Paul’s efforts with a collector’s appreciation. "He’s good with his mouth. It’s his thing. But you’re right. The hierarchy is beautifully collapsed tonight."
Paul ignored them. His world had narrowed to the taste of her, the feel of her swollen flesh against his tongue, the rhythmic clenching of her inner muscles around nothing. He focused on the hard pearl of her clit, circling it with relentless, practiced precision. He could feel her approaching a precipice, a gathering tension in her hips, a sharpening of her cries.
He doubled his efforts, sucking and flicking, using every technique he knew to push her over.
"No."
Clarissa’s voice sliced through the humid air of the storeroom. It was flat, final. Paul froze, his tongue still pressed against Puddles’ throbbing clit.
Puddles whimpered, a sound of pure animal distress.
"You are not allowed to cum, Puddles," Clarissa stated, her tone conversational. "You know the rules. What is the penalty for an unauthorized orgasm?"
A full-body shudder wracked Puddles’ thin frame. "Tabasco," she whispered, the word dripping with dread.
Paul lay paralyzed, his face still buried in her wetness. He didn't understand, but the fear in her voice was a tangible, cold thing.
Davina let out a low whistle. "Oh, shit. Tabasco. Haven’t had to break that out in ages."
Clarissa’s eyes shifted from Puddles’ agonized face down to Paul’s. "And you, Paul. You have a task. Make her cum all over your face. If you fail…" She let the sentence hang, a smirk playing on her lips. "Your penalty will also be Tabasco."
Davina barked a laugh. "Fuck yes! A two-for-one. I’ll go get the kit."
The threat, undefined but severe, lit a new fire under Paul’s exhaustion. It was no longer about service or submission. It was about survival. He drove his tongue back into her with a frantic, punishing energy, lapping at her slit, spearing as deep as he could, then returning to torture her clit.
Puddles moaned, a ragged, broken sound. Her hips twitched, trying to both grind against his mouth and pull away from the inevitable, forbidden peak. Her own body was betraying her, the ache of months demanding release.
"Fight it, darling," Clarissa crooned, a cruel parody of encouragement. "Such a good girl, holding on."
Davina returned, clutching a small, stained canvas bag. She knelt beside Paul, so close he could smell her cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. She unzipped the bag with deliberate slowness.
"The rules are simple, Paul," Davina said, her voice casual as she pulled out a small, unopened bottle of Tabasco sauce and a stiff-bristled nail brush. "She cums, she gets punished. You make her cum, you’re safe. She holds out, then it’s you that gets punished. It’s a race now. Your expert tongue versus her well honed self-control."
Paul groaned into Puddles’ flesh, the sound vibrating against her. He redoubled his efforts, his jaw aching, his tongue moving like a piston.
"But look at this," Davina continued, lying down on her side next to him on the cold concrete. She held up the nail brush and the bottle, examining them like artefacts.
She unscrewed the lid of the Tabasco. The sharp, vinegary scent of chillies cut through the musky air.
"You take this nail brush," she said, tapping it against his shoulder. "Soak the bristles good and proper." She tipped the bottle, soaking the brush’s head in the vibrant red sauce. "And then you scrub. You scrub the most sensitive tissues you can find."
Paul’s rhythm faltered for a second. A cold dread seeped into his gut, cutting through the fog of exertion.
"For her," Davina whispered conspiratorially, nodding toward Puddles’ trembling form, "that’s inside her cunt. And up her arse. We brush every single bit of tender, fucked-out flesh until it’s screaming red. It burns for hours. And there’s no way to stop it once it starts."
Puddles let out a choked sob. Paul licked harder, faster, trying to outrun the image.
"But you, though," Davina mused, her eyes glinting. "I’ve never done a man’s" She brought the dripping brush close to his face. He could smell the acrid heat. "Imagine this, scrubbing your bell end. Chilli oil under your foreskin. Me dripping it into your jap’s eye. Imagine that burn travelling right up your dick."
Paul’s entire body went rigid. The plug inside him felt suddenly insignificant. This was a new tier of threat, a specifically male horror. A raw, animal sound tore from his throat, and he attacked Puddles’ cunt with a desperate, brutal focus, his tongue a weapon against her resistance.
He was no longer licking for pleasure, or even for obedience. He was licking for mercy.
Puddles was keening now, a high, continuous whine. Her hands gripped her own shaved head, pulling at the stubble. Her back arched, her body bowstring-taut. She was balanced on the knife-edge, the need clashing violently with a deep, programmed terror.
"Please," she whimpered, not to Clarissa, but to herself. "No, no, no..."
"Yes," Paul coaxed directly into her, the word muffled by her flesh. "Cum puddles, relax, let it happen, you need to cum, you’ve needed it for months, it won’t be your fault."
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a ruthless, rhythmic pressure.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a ruthless, rhythmic pressure. Her hips convulsed, a piston driven by instinct, grinding her slick flesh against his teeth and tongue. Her breath hitched into a shattered, sobbing rhythm that promised a conclusion.
“She’s close,” Davina observed, her voice detached. “Look at her trembling. Fuck, she’s gonna blow.”
Clarissa checked the delicate wristwatch peeking from under her cuff. “Let’s see how long she can ride it. How long do you think she can hold a hair trigger orgasm at bay?”
Davina shrugged, her eyes fixed on the wet, frantic motion of Paul’s jaw. “Dunno. Minute? Two?”
“Five,” Clarissa stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We wait five minutes. If she cums before, he’s safe and she gets the brush. If she holds out… well.” She tapped the bottle of Tabasco against her palm. “Paul gets a taste of his own failure.”
A silent clock started in Paul’s mind. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a frantic, slapping muscle against her swollen clit. He fucked her with his tongue, deep and shallow, then returned to suck that hardened nub like he was drawing poison from a wound. Puddles’ moans were continuous now, a high, desperate whine that filled the storeroom.
Her juices flowed into his mouth, a sweet-salt torrent he swallowed convulsively. She was drenching him, her body screaming its release, yet that final, cataclysmic wave refused to break. Her thighs clamped around his head, not in passion but in a violent, full-body clench of resistance.
“Three minutes,” Clarissa announced coolly.
Paul’s jaw was a burning cramp, his tongue leaden. He felt the plug inside him, a cold, mocking presence. He sucked and licked until his world narrowed to taste and sound and the impossible tension in the woman above him. Her nectar coated his chin, his neck, pooled in the hollow of his throat.
Her inner muscles fluttered wildly around his probing tongue, a frantic pulse begging for climax. Yet she held, suspended on a cruel edge. A choked scream lodged in her throat, dying into a guttural, animal groan.
“Four,” Davina whispered, impressed. “Fuck me. She’s actually doing it.”
Puddles’ body was a statue of strain, every tendon standing in sharp relief under her tattooed skin. She vibrated with the force of containment, her denied orgasm a ghost haunting her shaking limbs. Paul’s efforts became pathetic, a weak lapping against a fortress of will.
“Five,” Clarissa declared, her voice ringing with finality.
The tremors subsided, not into release but into a shuddering, exhausted collapse. Puddles slumped, her weight settling fully onto Paul’s face. A final, defeated trickle of fluid wet his lips. She had not come.
Clarissa’s laughter was a short, triumphant bark. “Astounding!” She clapped her hands together once. “You see, Davina? This is what training achieves. Her whole purpose is denial. She’s sculpted her own nervous system into a cage.”
Davina was speechless, just shaking her head slowly, a look of bewildered respect on her face.
“Well,” Clarissa sighed, picking up the nail brush dripping with red sauce. “A deal is a deal. Tabasco for Paul.” She turned her gaze to the door. “Davina, be a darling and fetch Earl. We’ll need him for the tying.”
Davina scrambled up, her boots loud on the concrete. She returned moments later with the massive, silent skinhead looming behind her. Earl’s expression was blank, his eyes passing over the scene of naked, wet degradation without a flicker.
“Spread him,” Clarissa instructed, gesturing with the brush.
Earl moved with terrifying efficiency. His thick hands grabbed Paul’s ankles, yanking his legs wide. Davina produced coarse hemp rope from her bag. They tied his wrists to the sturdy iron radiator pipes, the knots tight and professional. They lashed his ankles to the thick, squat legs of a heavy wooden table.
Paul was spread-eagled on the grimy floor, utterly exposed, the cold air and colder eyes on his violated body. Earl then simply sat down on the table itself, his weight anchoring it, making Paul’s bonds unbreakable.
“Can I film it?” Davina asked, pulling a phone from her back pocket. Her eyes were bright. “For the group chat.”
“Of course,” Clarissa said, as if granting a request for a picnic photo. It was clear that Paul would have no say, his torture would be recorded for posterity.
Davina positioned herself near Paul’s head, focusing her phone’s camera on his bound form and his terrified, tear-streaked face. Clarissa knelt between his splayed legs, the red-soaked brush held aloft like a torch. “Say goodbye to comfort,” she murmured.
But her attention was on Puddles, who still sat, dazed and exhausted, on Paul’s face. “Stay there, darling. You’ve earned a rest.”
Distracted by the performance, Clarissa didn’t notice Paul’s tongue begin to massage puddles clit again. Caught by surprise and already at the desperate cusp of orgasm, coupled with the prospect of witnessing Paul’s torture puddles jerked as if electrocuted. A short, sharp, punched-out sound escaped her. Her body, already primed and shattered from ten minutes of agonized resistance, had no defenses left.
Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, silent intensity. Her back arched impossibly, her mouth open in a soundless scream. A fresh gush of fluid, hotter and thicker than before, flooded Paul’s nose and mouth. Her cunt clenched spastically around nothing, a rapid, uncontrollable series of pulses against his lips.
Clarissa’s head snapped around. Davina lowered her phone, her jaw slack.
The storeroom was silent except for Puddles’ ragged, shuddering gasps.
A wide, terrifying smile spread across Clarissa’s face. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, you clever thing.” She looked from Paul’s desperate, smeared face to Puddles’ convulsing form. “You just had to have the last word, didn’t you?”
Davina started to laugh, a low, incredulous chuckle. “She came! Oh puddles, so near and yet so far!”
“She did,” Clarissa said, standing up. She looked at the brush in her hand, then at the two bound, broken bodies before her. “It seems we have two victims tonight.” She dipped the brush back into the bottle, soaking the bristles until they dripped crimson. “Davina, keep filming. We’ll start with him, since he’s the instigator. Then we’ll console our poor, disobedient Puddles.”
The sodden brush hovered over his exposed groin. Its crimson bristles glistened under Davina’s phone light. Clarissa’s gaze was clinical, detached, as she surveyed the territory.
“Hold his balls out of the way, Davina,” Clarissa instructed, her voice devoid of its earlier theatricality. This was procedure.
Davina’s cold fingers wrapped around Paul’s scrotum, pulling the taut skin flat. He flinched at the touch, a useless jerk against the ropes. “Try not to move, yeah?” Davina muttered, angling her phone for a better shot. “Makes it messy.”
The first touch of the brush was a shock of cold wetness. Clarissa began on his inner thigh, scrubbing with the brisk, efficient motions of someone scouring a pan. The coarse bristles scraped his skin, a rough, unpleasant sensation. Paul grunted, his head thrashing against the concrete floor.
“It’s sore, but it’s not awful, is it?” Clarissa observed conversationally, working the brush up toward the base of his cock. She scrubbed his perineum, the bristles digging into the sensitive flesh between his balls and his anus.
Then the burn began.
It started as a warm tingle, a distant alarm. Within seconds, it deepened into a sharp, focused sting. Another few seconds, and the sting exploded into a raging, all-consuming fire. It wasn’t a surface pain; it felt like his very nerves were being dipped in acid and set alight.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, his back arching as far as the ropes would allow. “Jesus Christ!”
Clarissa ignored him, moving the brush with deliberate, sadistic care. She scrubbed the length of his shaft, the bristles dragging over the delicate skin. Each pass layered a new wave of incendiary agony onto the last. The initial soreness was a memory, swallowed by the inferno.
“There it is,” Davina whispered, her voice hushed with awe as she filmed. “Look at his face. Proper fucking agony.”
Paul was keening now, a high, wordless sound of pure distress. His cock, which had softened in his fear, twitched pathetically in the onslaught. The heat was unreal, a deep, penetrating burn that seemed to burrow into his marrow.
Clarissa paused, setting the brush down. She picked up the bottle again. “Now for the special part,” she murmured, almost to herself.
With one hand, she gripped his cock firmly at the base. With the other, she pinched the tip of his foreskin, stretching it outwards to form a small, taut pouch. Paul stared, wild-eyed, understanding dawning a second too late.
She tilted the bottle. A thin stream of vivid red Tabasco sauce, glinting in the light, poured into the space under his foreskin. It pooled around the head of his cock, a burning reservoir held against his most sensitive flesh.
The sensation was an order of magnitude worse. It was the inescapability of it. The fire was inside the fold of his skin, trapped, searing into the tender, hidden mucosa. He could feel every drop, a liquid brand.
“No, no, no, please, no more,” he begged, the words slurring into a sob.
Clarissa was not done. She brought the bottle’s tip even closer, aiming with precision. A single, fat drop of sauce emerged, hanging from the lip. She let it fall directly onto the tiny slit of his urethra—his jap’s eye.
The drop hit its target and vanished, drawn inward.
A new, deeper dimension of fire erupted. It wasn't just on him now; it was in him. A thin, burning wire of pure agony lanced up the inside of his cock, a scalding intrusion into a channel never meant for such violation. His scream wasn't a sound he recognized; it was raw, animal, torn from a place beyond language.
His whole body went rigid, straining against the ropes until his muscles screamed in protest. Every nerve was shrieking, concentrated in his tortured groin.
“It’s inside,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “It’s going up inside me!”
Clarissa watched him dispassionately, capping the bottle. She then began to massage his cock, her fingers working the trapped sauce under his foreskin, spreading the incendiary fluid into every microscopic fold and crevice. Each stroke was a fresh hell, working the heat deeper.
“It will burn like this for a long time, Paul,” she confided, her tone almost gentle. Her hands moved on him, a horrific parody of a pleasurable stroke. “An hour, perhaps more. No washing will stop it. No cream will soothe it. You just have to feel it. There is nothing anyone can do.”
Paul’s writhing took on a frantic, hopeless rhythm. The pain was a living thing, a colony of fire ants consuming him from the inside out. He could think of nothing else, be nothing else. He was a vessel for pure, undiluted agony.
Davina panned her phone slowly over his convulsing form, zooming in on his tear-streaked face, then on the gleaming, sauce-smeared redness of his cock. “Fucking hell, Clarissa,” she breathed, a note of genuine respect in her voice. “That’s brutal.”
Clarissa stood, wiping her hands on a cloth from the bag.
Clarissa stood, wiping her hands on a cloth from the bag. She looked down at Paul, his body a trembling arc of agony against the ropes. His cock, an angry, gleaming red, twitched in the air. It was a bizarre, semi-erect flagpole of suffering, the nerve-scorching burn warring with some deep, involuntary arousal at his own profound humiliation.
Puddles still knelt over his face, her own breathing shallow. She watched Paul’s torment, her grey eyes wide. A fresh trickle of her excitement, thin as a spider’s thread, descended from her swollen lips and splashed onto Paul’s cheek, mixing with his tears and sweat.
“My turn, I think,” Clarissa said, her voice cutting through Paul’s muffled screams. She nodded to Davina and the silent, looming Earl. “Get her off him. It’s time for her consolation prize.”
Earl’s large hands closed around Puddles’ bony shoulders. He lifted her off Paul’s face with an effortless, impersonal heave, as if moving a piece of furniture. Davina grabbed her ankles, and together they laid Puddles out on her back on the cold concrete a few feet away. Her tattooed body looked small and broken against the dirty floor.
Clarissa stepped over Paul’s bound legs. She stood above his head, looking down at his ruined, tear-streaked face. She gathered the skirt of her wine-colored dress in her hands, hiking it up her stockinged thighs. “You’re not done serving, Paul,” she informed him, her tone matter-of-fact. “The pain in your cock is your concern. The wetness on my cunt will be yours.”
She didn’t kneel. She simply lowered herself, guiding her body down onto his face with a deliberate, heavy finality. The full, soft weight of her settled over his mouth and nose. The navy silk of her underwear, already damp, pressed directly against his lips.
The world became a dark, perfumed prison of flesh and fabric. Her scent, a mix of expensive soap, feminine musk, and the lingering sharpness of the Tabasco from her hands, flooded his senses. He could barely breathe. Her arousal was a palpable, hot dampness seeping through the silk.
“Lick,” her voice commanded, muffled and authoritative from above. “Through the silk. Get it good and wet. Then I’ll let you taste the source.”
He groaned, a sound of pure, overwhelmed despair. The fire in his groin was a pulsating brand. The weight on his face was suffocating. Yet, some cursed, automatic part of him obeyed. He extended his sore, tired tongue and pressed it against the damp gusset of her underwear. He moved it in a weak, circular motion.
“Pathetic,” she sighed, shifting her hips to grind herself more firmly against his mouth. “I felt the work you did on that broken slut. I expect the same enthusiasm for me. Your tongue isn’t in pain, is it?”
He forced himself to work harder, lapping at the slick silk. He could feel her shape through it, the distinct folds and swell of her. His own cock gave another traitorous, half-hard twitch, the movement sending a fresh lance of fiery agony up his shaft. He sobbed into her cunt, the sound vibrating against her.
“That’s better,” she purred, a note of genuine pleasure entering her voice. She rocked against him, using his face for her own friction. The silk grew thoroughly soaked, a thin, warm barrier between his tongue and her flesh. “Now, let’s have the real thing.”
She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her underwear and, with a slow, deliberate shimmy, peeled them down her thighs. She didn’t lift off him; she simply unveiled herself directly onto his mouth. The hot, bare skin of her vulva replaced the silk. She was thickly thatched, and wet with her own arousal and the sweat of her dominance.
She settled back down fully, her bare cunt now mashed directly against his lips and nose. “Eat,” she commanded, her voice a low thrum he felt through his skull. “Make me cum. Your suffering downstairs continues regardless. This is just the other half of your evening.”
From his restricted view, Paul could see Davina and Earl positioning Puddles. Davina knelt between Puddles’ spread legs, the wicked-looking bottle of Tabasco in her hand. Earl stood over them, his massive frame blocking the light, his hands holding Puddles’ thin wrists pinned above her head. Puddles stared at the ceiling, her body passive, accepting.
Paul closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness and the smell and the taste. He opened his mouth, letting her folds part against his lips. He found her clit with his tongue, a firm, prominent nub, and began to lick in earnest. This, at least, he knew how to do. The rhythm was a desperate, focused escape from the other, escalating pain.
Clarissa groaned above him, a low, gratified sound. “There it is. That’s the skill.” She began to move in time with his licks, riding his face with a slow, rolling intensity. “You can fuck a hundred cheap girls in a night, but a mouth like this is a rarity.”
Davina laughed from across the room. “Ready for yours, puddles? You’ve done this before.”