The Price of Admission Part 3

[Not sure why this part was so hard for me to write. I guess the story got kinda real. Anyway, this is a necessary step for what's coming next in the story. I hope you enjoy.]

Let me just take a moment to stress that my involvement in what comes next started and ended with a single phone call in which I asked Darla to take my boy out and scare him a little. Everything else was her doing.

She met him in an upscale restaurant downtown. He showed up in worn sneakers and jeans, presumably arriving by bus. If I know Darla, she probably wore something black, sheer, tight, and more than a little intimidating. She mentioned a spiked necklace and black lipstick. The two of them had met at work when she was trying to sort out why she wasn’t receiving her mail. She was unimpressed with him. At 22, Darla was much closer to his age than mine, and cute too. She barely stood five feet tall, actually shorter than Roberts, I think. I’d had a soft spot for her since she joined the agency. A short girl with as much sass as she could always win me over. Besides, her brown ringlets and button nose were just irresistible.

“I took the chance and ordered you a salad,” she explained, “in case you showed up.”

“What kind of salad?” Roberts wanted to know.

He wore a cute pair of shorts and a ¾ shirt that ended just above his navel. He hadn’t shaved properly and an obstreperous tendril of stubble extended from his waistline and curled around his navel. Darla thought it was indicative of his general bad hygiene. Apparently, he managed to steer the conversation to his childhood illnesses, least favorite dogs,  and favorite daytime dramas within the first twenty minutes. You’ve got to love a boy as oblivious as that. He clearly felt uncomfortable in such a classy establishment, especially wearing what he was, particularly being served by a woman. When she spilled a drink on him, he tried to clean himself, but she insisted on rubbing the soda into his tight shorts.

Darla drove him all over town, to a new club with a line halfway around the block, to an old bar with retro games, out for a quick bite—she insisted on picking up her friend, Shelly—then back to the clubs. I don’t actually know Shelly, but I hear she’s a tall woman, and not entirely fit. I guess her breasts and belly have a way of escaping her shirt once she gets moving. Darla didn’t drink much, so that she could drive, but she never missed an opportunity to buy Roberts one, and Roberts never said no. Shelly (already plenty drunk herself) redoubled the effort, going shot for shot with the boy.

“Body shots!” she insisted. “Take it from my cleavage. No hands!” When he got close, she smacked his face around with her chest, laughing uproariously when he made a face and backed off.

Roberts obviously knew what he was doing on the dance floor, swaying his hips seductively, backing his ass up when someone took up behind him, singing, shaking, writhing, and moaning. Darla said it was a treat to watch, even though she didn’t like to dance. Shelly was more than happy to take her place, her hands sliding along his skin, groping his nubile angles. During a particularly intense bump-and-grind, she got so hot and red that she had to stop and get a drink by herself, leaning over the bar as she fanned herself. In the absence of her touch, Roberts happily took over the groping himself, rubbing up and down the skinny frame beneath his clothes.

”He’s a slut,” Shelly noted to Darla.

They asked Roberts to take them back to his place. Apparently he had an out-of-town friend. As they drove, the night air blowing through the open windows gave a therapeutic, if not entirely desired, reprieve from the heat and sweat and heady scents of the writhing bodies of the club. The wind pulled the hot moisture from their hair and clothes. “How old did you say you were?” Shelly shouted back to Roberts over the loud music.

“Eighteen.”

The women tittered. “You look older,” said Shelly. “Like a grown man.”

“Let me see your hands,” she said a little while later, turning around to face him. “Wow! It’s so tiny.” She curled her much-longer digits over his fingers. “The other boys must be so jealous of your tight, little body.”

“Well, I guess s-uh-so. I don’t know. I never got tha-uh-that much attention in school.”

“Shut up!” insisted Shelly. “You’re so cute you don’t even know it. That’s so cute. I mean, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but believe me when I say that a lot of girls would want nothing more than an itty-bitty honey on their lap like you.” She shot him a smile, “Like me.”

The women helped him open all the windows of the house, letting in the cool night. Shelly produced a flask from somewhere deep in her purse and they set to talking sitting on a couple of sofas beside the open kitchen. Darla finally found something in common with him in the stacks of boxes around the room. “There’s no way that Shelly Harlot is better than Fierceness. Never. No superhero can beat the depth of character and constantly changing plots of Fierce. Female or male,” insisted Darla

“Fierce is such a boring choice. That’s like saying you’re into asian teen porn. So done already,” poo-pooed Roberts.

“Anyway,” Darla dismissed his opinion, “it’s just cool to meet a boy who likes comics. The whole community is a fish market, as you know. The hairy virgins scare off the normal boys.”

Roberts agreed,  safely removing from her hands off the first edition Shelly Harlot comic One. “But you know why that is, right? Who’s your favorite male superhero? Can you even name one?”

“I guess Alan Orangutan is kinda cool. I don’t know. They all just seem so manly, you know?”

“Exactly,” said Roberts. “It’s pretty boring when they’re all long-legged, shapely, toned Adonises whose only problem is which superwoman to fall in love with at the end.”

“I’m not into comics,” interjected Shelly, finishing off the flask with a long swig, “but I can do a cool magic trick. Check this out.” She pulled a length of cord from her purse and sitting next to Roberts, close. “I’ve been practicing this everywhere, on the bus and stuff. It’s very relaxing when your hands take over and you don’t have to think anymore. So if I do this,” she grabbed his wrists together in one of her hands and wrapped the rope around them a few times, “and then like his,” she tied some kind of knot in the middle, “then you will find you can’t take your hands apart. See?”

Roberts struggled a bit, rubbing his wrists together without any change in the rope. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m stuck.”

“Come on now,” Shelly pushed Roberts back into the cushion. “Try harder. Really try now.”

Roberts struggled a little more with no change.

“Come on now, if you do this...” she helped pull down on his hands the knot, rope, and all spooled off his wrists like thread. “Easy. You’re free.”

“That’s not really a magic trick,” complained Roberts. “That’s just tying a knot.”

“Anything is magic if the reveal is surprising enough,” Shelly responded. “Do you have anything else to drink?”

“There’s something in the fridge,” said Roberts, getting to his feel. After a couple of steps, he nearly broke his ankle in his tall, red heels.

“Careful now,” called Shelly, standing to join him. She touched him on the ankles as he steadied himself against the wall. Her finger traced this inside of his leg as she stood, drawing a shiver of energy up his spine.

“Hey now,” he cautioned.

“What?” asked Shelly. “You don’t want me touching you?”

He smiled at her over his shoulder, “You can look, but you can’t touch.”

Shelly laughed bitterly. “What? You’re not a frigid bitch, are you?”

Roberts returned with the beer. “Please don’t use that kind of language with me. Here’s your beer. It’s my last one, so I hope you like it.”

Shelly took the beer in silence, lips pursed, eyes smouldering.

Darla asked, “Out of curiosity, how much did that beer cost?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug as he sat down. “Probably a buck and a half. Why?”

“You want to know how much I spent on you tonight?”

“Umm, I’m not sure. That was very nice of you. Thank you.”

Darla smiled coldly. “I think that’s the first time you’ve thanked me all night.”

Shelly shifted so she sat beside Roberts. “Let me see your hands again,” she asked.

“I don’t know…” he said. “Darla, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea- Hey!”

Shelly, despite her apparent drunkenness, moved fast and effectively, snatching his wrists and binding them just as fast. “Don’t worry, it’s the same knot. You can pull loose whenever you want to,” she explained.

“Please, Shelly,” he complained, tugging on the rope. This time it wasn’t just tied around his wrists, but also around the heavy iron frame of the couch. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not a comedian. I’m a magician, remember. I think my next trick will be to make you appear grateful. Do you want to thank my friend again?”

Roberts tugged this way and that but the rope held him tight, hands uselessly locked together. “I really did-ah-didn’t mean to give you lay-ladies the wrong idea.”

Shelly asked, “What idea would that be? That you want more than our money?”

“Le-let’s just call it a night, shall w-we?” Roberts tried to laugh, eyes searching desperately for mercy in Shelly’s smile. ‘Ju-j-just-ah-just untie me and-uh-and we’ll talk. Okay?”

Shelly said, “You look comfortable as you are.”

Darla was on her feet, standing over Roberts on the couch, and her foot edged closer to his crotch as she spoke. “You got something to show us under there? What are we working with?”

Roberts was in rare form, gasping and shaking and stuttering like never before. “Now I would have t-tuh-ah-told you earlier, only I wasn’t… I didn’t… oh please don’t hurt me.”

When they had his pants off, they saw what he was talking about.

“Where’s the key?” demanded Shelly.

“Tha-uh-um-huh-um-that’s the th-thing. My ex-eh-uh-ex-girlfriend has it.”

Darla was disappointed too. In my defense, I didn’t think things would get this far. I thought it would be a casual humiliation on the curbside in front of anonymous onlookers. I never really thought they’d get his pants off. Maybe he was just a bigger slut than I gave him credit for.

Shelly sat close now, her mouth inches from his ear, her flowing body draped over his thin, shivering form, her chest against his back, his skin pulled tight by the angle of his tied hands. “You know, that isn’t the only way we can have fun,” she suggested. Roberts struggled at his rope with renewed intensity. “Hush, hush. Calm,” she cooed as she ran a finger down his side, around the back to his ass. Darla took up in front of him while Shelly pulled his hips up to a kneeling position on the couch. Shelly started to open up his ass with one finger, then two, using the lube from her bottomless purse. Darla shimmied up her skirt and down her thong and guided Roberts’ protesting face towards her ass.

“No pussy for you,” Darla cautioned. “You haven’t earned it. Just lick my ass.”

Shelly asked, “Where are your toys?” but it was too late, Roberts was already occupied. So she started searching herself, wandering through the darkened house until she found a bedroom, and in the bottom drawer of the dresser, a collection of toys including an impressively sized, pink vibrator complete with bulging veins down its surface. “Is this yours?” she asked, returning, but Roberts couldn’t look away with Darla’s hand on the back of his head. “You must be some kind of slut,” insisted Shelly as she lubed up the pink appendage. Roberts’ moans rose urgent and jagged, muffled between pleas for mercy. “Hush that trash,” Shelly cooed into his ear. “Say something nice. We’re making love after all.” Roberts didn’t have anything nice to say.

When the women had had their fun, Shelly pet Roberts’ hair, matted with sweat. She asked Darla, “How much did you spend?”

Darla was flushed and still bottomless, leaving stains on an armchair. In the end Roberts had indeed gotten a taste of her pussy, not the he had asked for it (willingly). “Huh?”

“On him. Tonight. How much was it?”

“Shit,” murmured Darla as she thought. “Close to a hundred bucks. Those downtown drinks are crazy.”

“A hundred bucks!” Shelly whistled. “Do you think you got your money’s worth out of him?”

“Not really.”

The Price Of Admission Part 1

“Roberts,” he corrected me, mid-sentence.

“Excuse me?”

“My name,” he said. “It’s Roberts, not Robert.”

“Oh.” I smiled politely, thinking of the things his tongue could be doing instead of arguing with me. “As I was saying, Roberts,” I started again, putting enough emphasis on the maligned consonant as I could without giving in to outright sarcasm, “I can’t think of a job that a man can do which a woman can’t, but there are plenty of jobs that a woman can do that no man can.”

Roberts was getting flustered, in a cute way. His neck up to the ears had flushed and his casual stream of, “uh, and, like I was, uh, saying,” had progressed to an outright stammer. “There’s all kinds of th-th-uh-th-uh-things that men can do b-be-be-uh-best. There’s teaching and all kinds of, uh, social work, and, uh…”

“And coat checks,” I suggested, “and I’ve never gotten a proper boot shine at a show from a woman. But you’d never want to guy pilot. Or rocket scientist. Right? The last thing we need is a male driver behind the wheel of a multi-billion dollar machine,” I insisted to general agreement and laughter. Roberts pulled down the fringe of his short, white shorts, attracting the eyes he’d hoped to avoid. Stacy caught my eye with a knowing nod. I tried to communicate “back the fuck off” with my eyes, but was unsure if I succeeded.

Roberts’ girlfriend tried to ease the tension, “Now that’s not entirely fair. There are some great male racing drivers. They say guys can focus on one task more intensely than we can.”

“Yeah, focused. That’s what they say about guys,” I chortled. “Dogs are focused too until a steak enters the room.”

The girlfriend, Carley I think (or Charleigh or Karley or somesuch nonsense) was no competition for me, any woman of the table could see. She was just a girl, and a naive one at that. Earlier she told us that Roberts wouldn’t give her his key until she put out for him. Her doughy body and passive attitude would never hold his attention for long. What he needed was a stern hand to encourage his manly nature and punish his womanly pretentions. Carley was only in town for a few weeks and was staying with her aunt, my friend, Stacy, until spring break was over. Stacy had plenty of time to make a move on Roberts, but she would never be brazen enough to attempt it with her husband Tom always around.

With the last few drinks finished and the conversation wound down (with neither sex having been declared superior), we moved the party back to Stacy’s house, where there was a pool table, a pool, and cheaper liquor.

After a drink and maybe another, we convinced the boys into a few games of strip pool. The first game went quickly, with only a couple of socks and Tom’s tie discarded, so we made it more interesting. “Once you miss a shot, you lose clothing for every sank ball until you sink again,” I suggested. For a while only Tom was disrobing, his protuberant belly hanging low over his waistline and then his waistband. When his undies came off, he was hairy and pale, and we allowed him to put them back on. Carly was the next to lose her clothes, sitting pudgy, pale, and sad, overflowing her bar stool in a tightly-packed bra and underwear. It wasn’t until the last few rounds that Roberts started missing. My turn followed his.

“I’m going to make you regret that,” I said devilishly as his solid ball bounced harmlessly off a bumper, not even close to the hole. With my first strike, his shawl came off. Even though the weather was warm, he had retrieved his shawl from the car. “That doesn’t count,” I insisted, but Carly and Stacy shouted me down. “Fine,” I accepted, and promptly sank two balls with my next hit. Off came his necklace (another questionable “clothing item”) and his shirt. Underneath was a pretty unimpressive chest, almost entirely free of hair, with two tiny cherry-drop nipples. As he walked around the table, I could see the flexing and relaxing of tight muscles under his pale skin. His tiny shorts left little to the imagination.

“Give us a twirl,” I shouted. Carly rolled her eyes, but Roberts didn’t look to her for permission, he looked at me. “Pah,” he powerlessly protested, and took a turn, quick and awkward. “Aw, come on,” I insisted, “give us some sugar,” and reluctantly he spun around again, slowly, letting me examine how the ridges of his scrawny lower back gave way to the ass cleft below. His was a small ass, but perky enough to fill in those tight little shorts.

Right on cue, Stacy dropped the straw with which she had been stirring her margarita. It just so happened to roll close to Roberts’ feet. “Sorry,” she said coyly, “could you get that?” Again, the boy looked not to his girlfriend, but to me, at the eyes he could feel burning into his skin. I gave a slight nod. Like a good boy, he bent to his feet, leaving his ass high, those wonderful shorts sliding slightly up, just enough to tantalize without satisfying. I find that a boy in a good pair of shorts can be more interesting than any nude. The suspense has its own allure, I suppose.

When Tom cleared his throat, I realized that it was still my turn. “I could clear this table,” I said, counting one, two, three balls left. “What are you going to lose if I get two more?” I asked. Roberts giggled and shrugged. “All I see are the shorts,” I said. Carly finally lost her patience and demanded, “just take the shot.” Dutifully I sank another ball, sending it speeding clear to the other side of the table before, luck beyond luck, it dropped into a pocket on my side of the table. I let out an evil laugh and Stacy shot me a chiding look. Had it been earlier in the night, or had we had a few fewer drinks, I might have controlled myself, but not tonight. “What ever will you do?” I asked as he dropped the shorts.

This was one of those rare cases where the reality was actually better than fantasy. Beneath his shorts he had a lovely see-through chastity enforcer, pressed tightly against his (maybe a little engorged) cock, a small tuft of pubic hair (although I prefer clean shaven, a cute design can be nice), and the most incredible skin. Most skinny white boys are too pale and their skin becomes translucent, red and blue with veins, but Roberts’ skin was white as porcelain and just as smooth. A little stubble was forming up in the corners of his pubic triangle, but that somehow seemed hot in a rugged kind of way. Almost immediately I wanted more. I started imagining the things I could do, the things he could do for me. To be honest, I imagined that perky white ass sliding down over my fattest purple cock, the look his face would make, the ripple of his muscles as he took my thrusting, the noises that whore mouth would make. The imagination reels. The things I could mold that body into…

Roberts sort-of half-covered his cute little package with one hand, a futile but manish gesture. “It’s still my turn,” I noted, circling the table to the boy’s side. I had worn the correct dress for pool, figuring that the night would end here, as it so often did. Stretching to reach the middle of the table, I knew Roberts was getting a look at my curves in full view of his helpless girlfriend. When I stood up from sinking the shot, a red flush had sprouted in the middle of his chest. “What should we bet this time?” I asked the room. I sat beside Carly on a low bench to implicate her as a co-conspirator. “What else can he bet?” I asked her. Carly eyed her boy like a slab of meat in a butcher. My first suggestion would of course be dares of a humiliating, penetrating nature, but I didn’t want to put our pudgy, young friend off. She hemmed and hawed for a time, eventually standing to examine him from other angles. Finally she asked, “Which pocket are you aiming for?”

Tom returned from the kitchen with fresh drinks for us all. “You’ll want a nip of that. For courage,” I advised Roberts. Only the eight ball remained of my targets, in a somewhat tricky spot, far from the cue. “Far end. Left,” I chose. Carly led Roberts’ to the pocket and delicately (he shied away at first, but she held tight) lifted his little enforcer with his tightly packed, clean-shaven balls over the edge and into the leather pocket. “What if he flinches?” I asked.

Roberts looked flustered and shot his girl a panicked, pleading gaze. “What do you want to do to him?” she asked.

“Ten smacks, does that sound fair?”

I lined up my shot carefully, studying the angle from the cue to the black ball, from the black ball to my pretty pink targets. His cock had shriveled in its cage as if to hide. With a crack I let loose, laying hard into the ball, which hit the eight and sent both barrelling harmlessly around the table, sending the remaining balls into chaos.

“There’s too damn many of your balls on the table,” I complained.

A few short turns later, Roberts asked permission to visit the little boys room. I caught him in the hallway on his way back. Casually I slapped his ass as we passed.

“Hey,” he complained. “Hands to yourself!”

“Oh?” I asked as I grabbed hold of him, slipping my slender fingers along the hard plastic of his enforcer, sliding back behind his balls. I squeezed the package, lightly crushing his man eggs against the hard plastic cock cage. “I can’t touch you? ‘Cause of that girl out there?” I demanded.

“She-she’s-uh, well she’s my girlfriend,” he stammered.

I scoffed. “she’s a silly young thing. Fun for an afternoon, maybe, but she can’t teach you like I can. How old are you?” I asked.

“Eighteen,” he replied, “just.”

The number alone turned me on. I practically licked my lips. I had dated young guys before, but never into the teens. Still in high school, I considered, or just graduated.

“You owe me, you know,” I said.

“What?”

“You owe me for that extra ball I sank. You think that was free?” I traced the ridge of the enforcer with my thumb, exploring his prison. “I want to see your clit uncaged.”

Roberts pulled away a bit but my grasp held him tight. “Please,” he whispered.

“Where’s your key?” I asked.

He looked down at himself, avoiding my gaze. “At home,” he admitted finally.

“Your girly friend doesn’t have it?” I clarified.

“No.”

“Good.” I gave him a little kiss on the shoulder where it met his neck. He stood about a head shorter than me, and when I stooped I knew he could see my black lace bra, about a size too small, working its magic. Now I pulled his little clit, bringing him to his tip-toes. “Does it hurt when I do that?” I asked. He whimpered submissively. “Very good, little kitty. I like you purring for me.” It was true, I was getting wet, warmness heating me from the inside. I wanted to press him flat against the wall and rub up against him, but I restrained myself. “Are you going to be a good boy and leave that tramp?” I asked. My index and middle fingers, wrapped around the back of his balls along the plastic enforcer, strayed backwards and upwards, across the short prickles of his stubbly skin, back to the wrinkly edges of his exposed hole. Already on his tip-toes, he struggled up and away from my touch, but had nowhere to go. I circled his hole with my index and gently probed the tensing muscle. “Have you ever taken a cock? A real woman’s cock?”

He shook his head and turned his face away. With my other hand I took his face and pulled it back to me, staring him down eye-to-eye. “I can make you feel good. How do you feel?”

“Scuh-uh-scared,” he whimpered.

“But a little turned on?”

He nodded.

“Good.”