The PUGH Society | Part 4

Choices

“What choice was there?” I asked myself again as I got out of the car.

I’d tipped the driver an extra fifty and asked him to be available when I called. He hadn’t said a word, just nodded and took the money. Just like when I’d gotten in the car, my tan trench was the only thing besides my Dior glasses and heels on my body. The sash was pulled tight, the buttons up to my neck fastened so no one could get a good look at the silver collar snug against my neck.

But who was I fooling coming out to the car like that? I’d looked around like I was headed for a clandestine meeting with a foreign government agent, my heart racing, hoping no neighbors would happen by. And yet it was after 11pm when the car had arrived. Who would be out at this hour in this neighborhood? I knew better, which made me feel like even more of a whore. My husband had only just passed, and here I was dressed like a party favor at midnight, my whole body on edge after a long day of grinding my pussy against nothing.

When I stepped out of the car, I froze, listening to it pull away, afraid to take another step, yet even more afraid to turn and call after the driver. He’d come right back. I had the cash to satisfy my every need with him, but I’d never get out of this if I ran away. And I’d already decided that I couldn’t go to the police. Who would believe me? Had I been kidnapped? Was I part of some illegal sex ring now? Would they have to call the fire department to get the belt off of me? And could I sit there for however long and let them try without dying of sheer humiliation?

And finally, the last thing I needed was for any of this to get out. I would go along. I could play along. I could do this daring, this sickening, this -- every time I thought about it and what it had felt like to suck all those cocks. Horrible at first. But was it? And later, my pussy buzzing relentlessly, the feeling of my whole body coming alive and…

I hadn’t felt that in so long. Long before Ellis passed, God rest his soul.

Now, standing there in the Bronx at half eleven, early for the check-in, and me just staring at the -- could I even call it a venue? I closed my eyes and swallowed. In the distance, under the Bruckner Expressway in Hunt’s Point, I could see them setting the box up. Or that’s what I would call it. A quickly erected box for glory hole whores to be chained up in and forced to suck cock. The belt vibrated as the thought passed through my mind, and I squeezed my legs together, trying to fight back against the incessant stimulation that had made my afternoon and evening a living, erotic hell.

And yet. And yet. I kept coming back to that in my head. And yet, it felt so good.

I signed, wishing for just a moment of solace, holding in a moan when the belt trembled again, and then I started walking. A few men had already gathered. They’d see me walk up. There was no way around it. See me kneeling when the lights came on. See me perform. See me finish each one. And I would see it all myself in the mirror. If I could just concentrate, finish each one, focus on myself and what I needed out of this. Did any of that even make sense?

Cars whooshed overhead, oblivious to the debauchery about to take place. Late night partygoers, workers headed home to their brownstones, people out for a drive to clear their heads. Anyone and everyone who didn’t know about the little octopus in the circle, minus about a dozen men who were milling about as I walked up, heads turning as the click of my heels reached their ears, their cocks. Some looked on boldly, unafraid, probably wondering what number they’d been assigned. Did it work like that? Some stared at their phones or off into the distance, inspecting the litany of warehouses and empty parking lots that dotted the landscape on the far side of the expressway overpass. They pretended not to see me, ignored the movement in their pants, pretending nonchalance.

Oh, but their cocks would come through the holes just as eagerly as the rest.

The two set-up men this time were different, but no different in many ways. Both dark-haired, one with a beard, and each of them dressed in black t-shirts and black pants, the little octopus symbol embroidered on their shirts. The bearded one was building the device with the shackles. The other stepped up, and I had my phone out, pulling up the app before he even opened his mouth.

He was half my age, easily could have been my son, if Ellis and I had opted for kids. Strong, athletic, attractive. I licked my lips absentmindedly when he caught a glimpse of my screen background and looked up at me. His face flushed, and I wondered how new he was to the job, and if he was asnervous as I was. I wondered what his voice would sound like. I wondered if he was thinking about me sucking his cock right then. Quiet for a moment. He seemed lost in his thoughts, and then he blinked and cleared his throat.

“You know the rules. Ten completions. Show evidence of completion. You have one hour.”

I nodded.

“Let’s get you in then,” he said, more accommodating than the last chap. Almost polite. Could he tell that I was on the downslope to fifty? Did he think he needed to be gentle with me? That I was fragile? My god, I should have been, I thought. Ellis’ passing, me trapped in this whatever it was, but for some reason, as nervous as I felt, I also felt like I was ready for the challenge and all he needed to do was his job. And this he did with precision and without a single word between us.

My coat in his hands and me on my knees in the box, the shackles one-by-one clamped around my wrists and ankles, and then the last one around my neck. Just enough movement to go side to side and suck the cocks that would push through the holes, but no way to touch anything with my hands or free myself. And the incessant vibration between my legs, which had ramped up the moment the manacle around my neck has snapped into place.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the darkness of the box already enveloping me, riding the wave of pleasure that drove me spiraling up into the clouds, even higher, and then a whimper from between my lips as it abruptly ceased, and I dropped back to Earth unfulfilled and craving the cocks, the cum, anything to satisfy the itch I couldn’t scratch. If it was to be my mouth penetrated again and again, kneeling there naked and gasping for anyone to touch me, I would take it.

The lights flashed on, bright and blinding like the first time, but I held my eyes shut a moment, letting the moment pass -- the panic, the fear, the sheer desire to scream. And then I looked into the mirror and took a deep breath and chose the cock on the right.

I stood against the railing, letting the cool wind whip my hair, feeling the hot tears down my face again. The sun was rising over Brooklyn, but still hiding its first rays. The churn of the waves rocked the Staten Island Ferry just enough for me to hold onto the slender red rail. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, to clear my head and to let go of the mixture of smells that lingered. Was I just imagining it? Cock. Sweat. Cum. Or was I imagining it? A memory?

My trench flapped loosely, but I didn’t even reach to straighten it. If the gentlemen standing down the way, smoking, turned and saw me, what did I care? What would they see anyway? A tired woman almost completely naked after a wild night gone wrong? An aging callgirl with pancaked makeup back from the high rolling hills of Staten Island? A woman who’d spent the night on her knees servicing the cocks of strangers for a reason she couldn’t even explain? Or someone who’d tried three times to succeed at a game that seemed rigged against her?

“Ten completions. Show evidence of completion. You have one hour.”

I’d heard the instructions delivered in perfect monotone three times since I’d arrived in Brooklyn. I’d failed the test twice. Cock after cock, my jaw aching, my knees raw, my pussy buzzing incessantly. My wrists were chapped and sore, and there was no doubt I was sporting red rings around my throat and ankles that anyone who took a moment could see.

Had she been bound and fucked all night, this whore on the Staten Island ferry? At this point, I wished it were true. At least I would have cum. Instead, I was fucked all night and left soaking in my own juices, barely able to walk after the last stint on the rotting docks of the old Staten Island Ferry Terminal, just a hundred yards from where I boarded the half eight ferry.

The boy who’d shackled me had been kind enough to help with my coat. He’d handed me a tissue and a ferry ticket, and pointed me in the right direction. The tissue had been of little use, and I’d wiped my face free of cum with my hands as best as I could and wiped it on my legs and arse. There were no bathrooms in sight, and when I did spy one, the ferry whistle had sounded in the pre-dawn darkness and I’d opted for the ride home. I knew where the bathrooms were on the ferry, but there were dozens, if not more than a hundred people crammed together in the main cabin, and I wasn’t for the life of me walking past them smelling and looking like this.

I chose the fresh air, ignoring the looks of the smokers, who seemed to have caught on. Or not. One of the two stepped over, and I just stared, watching him, letting the wind whip the bottom of my coat about. How far had it flipped up? Had he seen more than he expected, or was he brave enough to ask? He was in his fifties probably, gray hair in his beard, a large belly underneath a cotton polo.

“You look like you could use a cigarette, no?” he said. Timid. His voice betrayed his Caribbean upbringing. A Nuyorican or Dominicano.

I nodded and took one when he offered it, bending into the lighter and taking a long drag. It had been years, but the old ways were still there. “Thanks,” I said, exhaling a long stream of smoke, thankful for the calming wave that was coursing through me, and happy that the smoke would hide my breath.

“Long night?”

I smiled as the world spilled out of my mouth. “I sucked thirty cocks tonight. Yeah, long night.”

He turned, leaned into the railing, matching my pose, smiled. “The sun shines on a new day.”

I took a long drag, waiting for him to ask. I was dressed for the part, and I’d admitted to it. Maybe I’d bum another cigarette, and he’d ask for payment. Maybe I’d drop to my knees right there and give it to him. At least I’d get to use my hands.

Vibrations played over my clit, and I barely stifled the moan that slipped through my lips.

“Are you okay?”

I started, suddenly unsure, and then I nodded. “Yes, thank you. I haven’t smoked in years. You’re a lifesaver.”

He smiled. “Keep the pack,” he said, and handed it over. “Some days are harder than others. Take care.” And then he was gone. I watched him walk away, taking his friend with him. Neither of them looked back, just shuffling down the deck and then down the stairs to the car levels, and then I was alone with my cigarettes and the wind whistling through my hair.

I crawled out of the shower, the burning hot rainfall shutting off behind me, the night’s cum circling the drain. The pulsing between my legs had dropped me to my knees, sore and raw already, and I pushed the glass door open and crawled out onto the cold tile floor. I’d tried to sleep, not giving a fuck about washing. I’d kicked the heels across the room the moment I’d walked in, let the jacket drop, and gone straight up the stairs to bed. The exhaustion would do its thing, wouldn’t it? I’d been awake for twenty-four hours now, and as stimulating and exhilarating and infuriating and humiliating as the belt was that had captured my pussy, there was no way I couldn’t sleep through its moments of forced pleasure. Even my clit had to go to sleep sometime.

Except it hadn’t. And I couldn’t. And I tossed and turned, over and over. I’d taken an ambien, finished off a half bottle of wine, anything that would do the trick. And still the buzzing kept me up. Every time my eyes closed, the vibrations crept into my dreams and pulled me awake, buzzing, crying, screaming. I fell asleep, and there I was on my knees again, a cock playing across my face, and I was up, the pulsing of my clit pulling me back to consciousness. Over and over, again and again.

I blinked and it was 9am. Again and it was half ten. Ten minutes of sleep here. Fifteen there. I’d hit the shower, bringing to bear everything I had to lull me to sleep. Surely a steaming hot shower would relax every sore muscle in my body and leave me fast asleep in a matter of moments. The ambien and wine combining to do the trick.

But still I lay there on the tiles, winking in and out of sleep. Each time I regained consciousness, it was harder to focus, to gauge the time, remember where I was. It was like being trapped inside myself, like when I’d get drunk with Ellis, and I knew it, but I’d gone too far and wanted out. There was no way out then, no way out now.

My phone buzzed in the other room, knifing through the fog. The words went through my head again. “Ten completions. Show evidence of completion. You have one hour.” Were there new notifications? Was I missing chances to get through the initiation? Could I even take another round in my current state? How could I suck ten cocks to completion if I couldn’t even get myself back to my bed?

I squeezed my arms around me, trying to hold back the tears. I needed help. There was no way I could do this. No way. As brave as I was last night -- foolish, I corrected, foolishly thinking I could do this, I could go through this alone -- it didn’t matter. I needed help from someone. Someone I knew, but not personally. Someone I didn’t want to see. Someone I couldn’t handle seeing. But the only person I could think of that would somehow understand.

Somehow.

I was fully in the fetal position now, the buzzing between my legs even more pronounced like this, but I couldn’t let go. I needed help. And I knew who to call, as much as I hated it. There was only one person, and she would have a price.

I crawled across the floor into the bedroom, finding my phone in the sheets. I tapped my password and felt the sharp intake of breath when I saw my main screen background, me kneeling after my first cycle. I hadn’t changed it, and I didn’t even know if I could. It didn’t matter now. I clicked on Contacts and found the name that was worse.

Angelica Munroe.

Author Notes: If I may, the part of this chapter that I like the best is the exchange between Madison and the guy on the ferry. Just bumming a cigarette. His simple kindness. The fact that he understands that life is hard and sympathizes. He doesn’t care who or what she is.

That part, of course, just came out of nowhere — that’s just being in the flow and letting the characters and the situation tell me the story. But I really liked it. And reading it again just now, I like it even more. This was a cool story to write for a lot of reasons, but that might be my favorite part.

There are eleven episodes in all, so stay tuned. We’re not even half way there.