“Put your tongue out, pig. Or should I say dog?”

Kurt grabbed the tip and stretched. Without letting go, he flicked his cigarette so ashes dropped on the pinky pulp. He sucked on the cigarette again, so it seemed to burn fast up the tube, the ash glowing orange before the heat died. He hovered the cigarette over the tongue, flicked it again. Ashes fell in a grey clump on the lawyer’s tongue. How easy to humiliate the fucker, hotshot lawyer in his expensive suits grovelling before a soldier’s boots.

“Pull it back in, dog. Hey, Jamal, if you need an ashtray, here’s one.”

Jamal didn’t answer because his tongue was deep inside Wanda’s wet cunt, his lips covering her labia. Hands grabbing on to his head, Wanda bucked on the couch, her legs separated by Jamal’s broad shoulders and strong arms, her short leather skirt rolled up to her navel. He made noises as he probed and slurped and sucked out the juices. When his tongue found her clit, he sucked it towards his teeth and nipped at it, her torso rolling from side to side on the arms encased behind her in a leather binder. Her legs thrashed like a beetle on its back. Jamal boasted in the barracks that his tongue was so long it could curl like a baby inside a womb.

“You thirsty, pig?”

Having rolled in its tongue covered with cigarette ash, the lawyer blinked yes. Kurt stood over it, took a swig of beer, and then holding its head up, dribbled a foamy stream into the lawyer’s mouth. Bubbling out through the ring gag, it dripped down the chin to the lawyer’s tie; Kurt’s favourite brand of beer which he got out of the refrigerator, stocked to satisfy his thirst. Through the fabric of drawn draperies, the cityscape remained visible, a shadowy reality to which Kurt no longer belonged.

Kurt bent over, his mouth positioned directly above the lawyer’s, so close he could see the livid opening to its throat and the tongue pulsing, streaked with ash. Down that throat, the dogpig had poured expensive wines and swallowed gourmet dinners costing more than Kurt got paid for active duty, for risking his life in the name of this fucking piece of expensively-suited shit head. He gathered a gob of spit, pursed his lips, and shot it into the receptacle where it foamed around the uvula. He repeated, the second gob less substantial than the first.

“Swallow it like a good dog.”

He stood behind the lawyer’s chair and held its head between his hands.

“Look at your wife, you dumb fuck. Watch.”

Not five feet away, standing in their line of vision, Jamal bent the wife forward, her arms still restrained by a red binder laced like her corset, her legs spread wide, separated at the ankles by a silver spreader bar between fur-lined cuffs, red to match the dominatrix outfit. To prevent her from falling on her face as he pushed his cock deep and slightly upwards inside her cunt, Jamal hung on to her hips, the leather skirt now completely rolled up to look like a bulgy belt around her waist. She grunted nonstop.

“You like what you see, faggot? You hungry for big black cock?”

Jamal was smacking Wanda’s ass and the sound of the slaps rebounded off the walls. After fucking her standing up for a few minutes in front of her husband, he laid her over his knees, having released her arms from the leather binder, but cuffed the wrists together, so her arms now extended above her head as she tried to wriggle on the soldier’s lap, her cheeks getting redder with each smack.

Taking a break because of the intensifying pain in his lower back, Kurt stepped into the bedroom. One wall was covered with black and white photographs, and a white pine wardrobe contained several of the lawyer’s suits neatly hung on rounded curved, padded hangers. In the walk-in closet, larger than his apartment, he smelled a fragrance he could not identify. Wanda wore different perfumes because he once said he liked how she smelled when he was sucking on her nipples. She perfumed her pussy sometimes as well. Racks of dresses and blouses, arranged according to colour, and the lawyer’s shirts, and built in drawers filled with underwear, sweaters, and socks, and shelves of shoes. Handbags and heels. The couple lacked for nothing: a fucking outfit for every occasion and down times in between. He wondered if Wanda hung her dominatrix costume here or hid it away. From a cedar-lined drawer, he snatched up a couple of her panties, delicate and silky, and sniffed them, sucked in their aroma like breath itself. The texture was cool on his lips; the odour was pleasant. He could make the lawyer wear a pair of his wife’s underwear and Kurt would piss on them.

Over the king-sized bed covered with a duvet spreading like a pond of white foam hung an enormous painting of clouds and fog—that was it—clouds and fog—grays and whites and hints of blue—and on the other wall, painted white like all the walls, a giant flat-screen television. In an alcove on a white desk with spindly legs, a computer monitor glowed with phosphorescent ghostly fish wavering in pale blue water. So many costly things in this all-white room. Kurt dry-retched. A soldier had his gear; that was it. He needed what he needed for combat and survival. Civilians buried themselves alive under their computers and televisions and furniture and clothes.

He left the bedroom. The rules said spanking or flogging was permitted until tears or the utterances of the safe word. Once the safe word was spoken, all action had to stop. These fucking civilians and their safe words. Soldiers didn’t have fucking safe words. No safe words in any language stopped a bullet if a killer was determined on shooting. Not even please, not even don’t shoot, not even have mercy. Least of all have mercy. The dogpig had a safe word, although thus far he had never needed to use it; neither had Wanda. Kurt liked to think that was a testament to how well he managed them, how far he could go in pushing their boundaries. The dogpig said he wouldn’t ever use the safe word because it trusted its master. The lawyer was completely enslaved now, although it didn’t fully realize it. Kurt could collar and leash and walk it in the park like a dog and the lawyer would pant its appreciation. Freed from the burden of being human, Manfred would exalt in its degradation.

The last slap resounded and Wanda’s ass beamed red as a Christmas ornament. Jamal stopped and fondled her bum, his fingers slipping between the crack, and the forefinger of his left hand pushed into the hole and he began finger-fucking her ass. Kurt checked for tears and saw none, as he knelt in front of her head, lifted the hair out of her eyes, and caressed her flushed cheeks. Let her suck on his fingers as if he were her lover. He could go through the entire routine like a programmed robot.

In the kitchen, he swung open the stainless steel, double-door refrigerator stocked with food he liked and beer. He told them heavy fuck sessions made him hungry, and today he was bringing over another soldier with an enormous appetite, so they had better satisfy them both. Five-year-old cheddar and brie, black forest ham and pastrami, barbecue chicken and tomatoes, two kinds of beer, and Pepsi, Kurt’s favourite soft drink. The fantasy included proprietorship of everything they owned. In theory, they were his property to use as he pleased, to dispose of as he pleased. The apartment also belonged to him in principle, although he had never tested the veracity of the clause aside from making free of the contents, issuing orders over the phone, and walking over the white carpet in his dirty boots. Cracking open a beer and ripping off a chicken leg, he approached the groaning lawyer, who was sweating under the ropes, the ring gag keeping its mouth open. Kurt took a swig and spewed the beer out over the lawyer’s face. He chewed the chicken and watched the dog’s tongue lick its lower lip.

Jamal had arranged Wanda on her back again; this time her legs were raised, still separated by the spreader bar and her wrists attached by clips to a silver-studded, slave collar locked on her neck. A silver chain extended from the bar to a ring in front of the collar. Hog-tied, really, she could move none of her limbs. Drinking a beer, lounging on the couch next to her, he fingered her exposed cunt. One finger, then two fingers, then three fingers, then four fingers, and then all his hand including the thumb formed a serpent’s head, and he slid it into her canal up to his wrist bone. She groaned deeply. She sure as hell wasn’t uttering a fucking safe word. Jamal extracted his hand, repeated the finger action, one after the other, and then the entire hand again. He leaned over and covered her cunt with his mouth, beer spilling out the sides as he pushed his tongue in as far as it could go, her dark pink labial lips separating like a fig. Wanda’s body shivered and she made noises behind the ball gag.

Kurt didn’t think he could get between her legs with pain taking pot-shots at his back. Bending over or abrupt forward movement cut him to the quick. He needed to wait. The pills assuaged, but did not eliminate discomfort. As Wanda’s bull, he’d have to fuck the bitch, she expected it, and the rules said he owned her ass, cunt, and mouth. If he didn’t use them regularly, he risked losing them. There was, after all, an exit clause. Mutual satisfaction or forfeit the right. He could resort to dildos, but they were a poor substitute for the real thing. Jamal was a treat; the rules also allowed for their bull to bring a friend or two to share the pleasures.

Approaching Wanda being eaten by Jamal on the couch, he stopped to allow the pain to subside, now streaking to his groin and deflating his prick, which struggled to stay hard. Maybe he should take more pills. He needed another drink, something stronger than beer. He’d swallow the hard liquor, all of it, for his own satisfaction. Jamal could spit in the dog’s mouth. Besides, there was always piss. Come to think of it, he could do with a leak right now. The hot sensation of yellow piss, hotter than the temperature of skin, the drenching aroma: the pig craved it. What a pleasure to drench its costly suit with a soldier’s hot piss.

Drinking Jack Daniels, also bought for his use, he stood in front of his pig and unzipped his fatigues. Jamal grunted like a starving man at a feast between Wanda’s legs and didn’t look as if he was about to surface any time soon. He was devouring her cunt from the looks of it and mumbling at the same time, his hands cupping her breasts. Terry could remove the pink ball gag and use her mouth, if he wanted.

“Thirsty, fuckhead? Need it bad?”

The lawyer’s eyes blinked furiously. Kurt noticed that the knot of his tie had come loose. The pain in his back lashed towards his groin like a whip. He had planned on fucking Wanda, on making the lawyer get on all fours, collared and leashed, licking his boots, but pausing to watch Jamal did nothing for him. He might as well be watching a blank television screen like the one on the bedroom wall. His dick didn’t stir except to twitch as the pain hissed around his abdomen. What the fuck was the matter? Dope: he should snort a few lines of coke, if Jamal had brought any, and he regretted not reminding his buddy to do so. He returned the lawyer’s stare, such glittering expectation in those eyes. Do something to me, they pleaded, humiliate me, please, master.

Kurt rubbed his back, the pain thrumming on his fingertips, yawned, and instead of pissing walloped the creature hard across a cheek with an open hand, almost dislodging the ring gag. The dog’s eyes glittered, and if it could speak, it would beg for more of the same. The heat of its lust glowed on its face. Kurt needed to piss and aimed his dick at the lawyer’s mouth. First, he’d direct the hot stream right into the center of the ring gag and watch the dog gurgle and swallow it. Then he’d shower his alpha piss over the lawyer’s expensive suit once he got the animal on the floor. After that, maybe he and Jamal would fuck it together. But, first, where the hell was its leash?


For all installments of “Rules of Engagement,” click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Part 1