Kurt had seen a black and chipped statue among the debris of a bombed house in some godforsaken Balkan village on one his peacekeeping tours of duty. Squat, arms folded across the belly, head tilted up as if its blank eyes were appealing to an empty sky, its large stone mouth shaped like a silent, eternal howl. Maybe it was begging the gods for food, the mouth of a hungry belly: omnivorous, insatiable. Maybe it was silently screeching out its deepest desires, fears, and frustrations.
The lawyer wouldn’t scream. Kurt inserted the silver ring gag to fit snugly inside the lips and force the mouth open like the statue’s. There would be pressure on the jaw and the facial muscles would feel the strain, but the lawyer would get used to it. In the boutique, following his orders, Manfred had examined a wide selection of mouth gag and speculum designs in either black or silver, and had spent time talking with the clerk, scanning pictures of models on the store computer showing how each gag looked when worn. Finally, he chose the one that Kurt now locked behind its head. Its head, for it could make animal noises, if it wanted, but neither pronounce words nor shut its mouth, nor would anyone call it by its usual name. It could swallow but not chew. A mouth funnel could be inserted and attached to the ring for the measured pouring of uncooked rice to expand slowly in the stomach and bloat the lawyer’s belly. For beer. For piss. It was ready to receive whatever form of food and liquid refreshment Kurt cared to give his pig.
Officially, torture was forbidden when interrogating prisoners. He had transported suspected rebels, captured enemy personnel with information, supposedly, saw them shackled and confined in windowless cement cells, their imprisoned speech slurred from endless denials and weeping, sleeplessness, thirst, hard lights raking their eyeballs, sometimes consoling words and sympathies when they required comforting, and then subjected to the blows of verbal hammering. Ever careful not to do irreparable damage, not to leave permanent marks, he tortured his civilian pig softly but firmly, so there’d be no confusion between mercy and weakness. Damn, his lower back was acting up again. Stabs of sudden pain, then nothing for several minutes, then longer, almost paralyzing attacks which made it difficult to move. He popped his pills and decided the attack was momentary, signifying nothing. The lawyer at his mercy, Wanda also eager to play, he surveyed the apartment and wanted to spit.
Speaking after a fashion, Wanda writhed and moaned and emitted bird-like sounds on the couch where Jamal had placed her to perform his “cunt specialty.” Before engaging, he secured her nipples between thumbs and forefinger, pinched, rolled, and stretched; pinched, rolled, and stretched. His wide hands covered most of her breasts, as the hard brown nipples ached and stiffened between his thumbs and forefingers. She began kicking her legs. Jamal needed one hand to constrain them. His dog tags popped out from behind his khaki green T-shirt.
Like a statue, the lawyer could not move, its entire body, arms and legs, roped and shackled. Kurt had pulled his arms behind the chair and connected the leather wrist restraints, the ankles cuffed the same way to the chair’s front legs. To restrain the torso, he used a yellow nylon rope criss-crossing his chest and knotted from behind. The rope had a smooth texture. The lawyer wasn’t going anywhere. After properly restraining his cuckold pig, Kurt inserted the ring gag in its mouth.
Confined to a steel cock cage, its dick bulged but had no room to rise. Who the fuck cared about the lawyer’s dick, anyway? A pathetic and useless appendage exposed through its unzipped slacks. Wear one of your best suits with a white shirt; Kurt had left a message on the lawyer’s iPhone. So it had chosen a grey wool and mohair stretch suit, according to the label Kurt read before applying the ropes, dry-clean only, under the jacket a crisp Egyptian cotton white shirt, and a sapphire blue silk tie.
“This is what you wear in court, fuckhole?”
The cloth bunched and creased under the ropes. The lawyer nodded, its brown eyes glistening. Kurt knew that the lawyer was slipping into subspace, where he ceased to be an independent, smart-ass lawyer, and became whatever Kurt decided. And Kurt knew the lawyer wanted to shed the burden of being human and become an animal, a pig or dog. A dog leashed by its master.
Kurt and Jamal smoked in the condo, traipsing over the white carpet in their dirty boots. A sudden rainstorm blew up from the east in mid-morning, soaking the streets, splashing the soldiers’ fatigues, so they left footprints on the rug. The dog enjoyed the opportunity to lick the soles of both their boots just after they entered the condo. Jamal bellowed surprise. What the fuck? Kurt had pointed to the floor and in his suit, the lawyer, obeying the force of Kurt’s silent command, fell on all fours, and then crept to the boots.
“What’d I tell you, Jamal?” He’s a fucking animal. See that, bitch? Your hubby’s a fucking dirt pig.”
“He sure is, Kurt.”
Wanda giggled, watching Manfred proceed with the licking. Wanda said that he deserved a spanking. She showed the soldiers a paddle like the kind used in ping pong, flat black leather with a handle embedded with purple and green rhinestones. Ribbons of the same colour fluttered from the handle’s tip.
Kurt looked, said nothing.
“Hey, there, Kurt’s pig or dog, nice to meet you. Don’t forget my other boot.”
Jamal stretched out on the sofa to give the lawyer easy access to the treads of his boots. The animal went at them as if famished.
Jamal examined Wanda’s body in detail as Manfred tongued his dirty black boots. She gained about six inches of height on her stilettos, but still had to look up to giant Jamal, who could lift and sling her easily over his muscular shoulder. Kurt had given him permission; he could do anything he wanted with the couple. The hem of her short red leather skirt stretched across her pudendum barely covered by a black thong. A breast man, Jamal admired her bosom ballooning out of a constrictive black lacy corset. Tit clamps with a fine silver chain would look great on those nipples. Did she have any? The lady had dressed for games. He wondered if she also owned a whip to use on her wimpy husband.
“So you spank your hubby with your sweet paddle?”
“Oh, yes, he’s such a bad boy sometimes, he needs discipline, and mommy gives it to him. Let’s spank him, shall we?”
Jamal winked at Kurt, who lit a fag. Wanda spoke sharply.
“Don’t smoke. I told you last time I don’t like it in the condo. Put it out.”
“Hear that, Jamal? The bitch told me to put it out.”
“She telling you what to do, Kurt? Be careful, she might spank you.”
“Never gonna happen, buddy.”
Kurt grabbed her by the air, pulling it back, forcing her mouth open, and he blew smoke down her throat. She choked and spat. His fingers folding into a fist, and tension hardening his biceps, he refrained from slapping her face, but jabbed the fingers of his free hand into her snatch. And she jolted, the very moment pain jumped along his spine and he froze. He could secure her by the neck and pummel her face until it was smeared with bruises and blood, but he checked the savage impulse. Wanda’s smirk and tone of voice asked for it. He withdrew his hand from her cunt and rubbed it over her face, her juices smearing her perfectly applied makeup. How much time did she spend creating that face of hers for the public when he could get her on all fours and fuck her ass, if he had a mind, like the bitch she was. Fucking slut thought she was queen of the world. He’d show her what she was. Fuck her like a dog. But his mind kept drifting out of the scene. He needed to work himself back in, raise the ante, raise his voice, be the bull she craved. His lower back pain subsided.
The contract specified bondage and discipline and humiliation within agreed-upon limits, no breaking of bones or blood: that was the rule. Nor did he beat up on women, outside of permitted discipline games like spanking, love taps, and necessary flogging for those into it. Aside from a well-deserved smack now and then, he had never beaten the shit out of a woman, although tempted to, especially by his wife Maggie, who could crawl under his skin like an earwig and drive him bonkers.
That superior look on Wanda’s face, the plucked eyebrows raised, trying to put him down like a toy poodle sniping at a German shepherd, dressed up like a Barbie dominatrix with cranberry red lipstick. Giving him an order. Wanda was going to get it, and get it good and hard. He’d break the rules, he didn’t give a damn, she wasn’t going to the police anytime soon to complain that the man she wanted to fuck and degrade her in kinky play, well, had actually fucked and degraded her in kinky play. He’d show her, though, that he wasn’t playing Barbie dolls in a playhouse condo. Stupid little paddle and her silly corset from a sex shop, and spiky heels. Did she go there to buy the crap herself, or perhaps her husband did, or maybe she found them on eBay. Costumes: Kurt almost spat the word on the rug. Was he supposed to shake in his boots? Fuck that shit.
His cock pushed up hard under his fatigues. He’d use his cock, and Jamal would use his. Together their cocks would fuck the bitch senseless, plough her ass, choke her throat, teach her how to behave and show respect, just like she wanted it, like the terms of the contract specified, and wipe that supercilious disapproval off her expensively cosmeticized face. Who the fuck did she think she was? Nothing but his slave cunt in need of a lesson. No smoking, as if he had to follow her commands. Maybe a flogging wouldn’t be a bad idea to begin. Twisting her hair in his hand, she winced and whimpered, he blew more smoke into her face, and shouted to the lawyer.
“Where do you get off telling me what to do, bitch?”
“The smoke…we don’t…” she coughed again. Kurt tugged her hair harder.
“We don’t…who gives a fuck what you do or don’t. I do what I want and you do what I want. Got that, bitch?”
About to scream, he stopped the sound by kissing her full on the mouth, exhaling more smoke down her throat, followed by his marauding tongue, and she struggled, choked, and pushed against his chest, and tried to slap his face. That was the ticket. Play the role. He’d trained them both like dogs. Why else was he there?
“You’ll get something to gag on, cumslut.”
“Hey, Kurt, that cunt needs a good fuck.”
“You go ahead and start, I need another smoke. The pig can watch.”
He stood behind the bound lawyer, puffing smoke over its head, as Jamal led Wanda to a position in front of her husband.
“Ever worry they’ll call the cops?” Jamal had asked.
Last week they had been checking out pussy in the bar, finding nothing to their taste; skanks all tonight, they agreed. Jamal had ordered four beers and had already gobbled down half the pretzels as Kurt told the story of how he first met Wanda and Manfred, and what they did.
“Nah, we signed a contract.”
“What?”
“An agreement, the rules and regulations laid out, saying what they’re into, their free choice and desire, what I can do, what they expect their bull master to do. If legal shit happens, I can show the contract. See, consensual play, they went into this with eyes open.” And he invited Jamal to go with him to the next session. They both craved black cock in their fantasies.
“Listen to this. From the wife, my slave.”
Kurt played the voice mail on his cell.
No one fucks me like you, my bull. Please, fuck me. I’ll do what you want.
“And this one from the hubby.”
Please fuck Wanda, master. I’m your cuckold pig. Your dog. Please put it on a leash, SIR. Please, master.
“Shit, Kurt, you got it made.”
“They don’t want anyone to know about their little fuck games, do they? Besides, the more I degrade the pig, the more he wants it. I’ll collar him like a dog and make him lap my boots and bark. Wanda protests sometimes, but that’s all part of the fucking game. She likes to be taught a lesson now and then and shown who’s the boss. The rougher it gets, the better she likes it. All written down in the agreement. So, Jamal, you want to play with the pig and fuck the cunt?”
“My cock’s hard, so the answer is damn right I do.”
***
For all installments of “Rules of Engagement,” click here.
Pieter Köhler writes about dark and often objectionable subjects, and finds the interface between pornography and literature liberating. He now resides in England.
