Morrigan's Money Quest

Much like peeling a plaster, he decided the best method of entering his pin number would be to do it without hesitation. He pressed the first digit -- eight -- as soon as he was prompted. His index finger wavered and drifted over the second digit now; like a virgin on his wedding night, he was uncomfortable, unsure and above all desperate to please. His sweat dripped like premature ejaculate; his heart throbbed like a member first tucked inside a woman's folds; he fingered out the last three digits in a rough, impassionate fashion and felt his desire to tear himself free from the machine as if he were done.

He reminded himself that he was still required. The second prompt arrived: How much would you like to withdraw? He tapped in the numbers: two-nil-nil. The mechanics inside whirred for a brief spell before halting. An error had flashed up on the screen: insufficient funds. Tapping again, he opted to check his balance rather than withdraw - $156.78. His heart stopped; his glance faced backwards towards the Ford Escape (oh, how he wanted to) and the slim figure within. He was denied overdrafts; his histories with credit were nowhere near sublime. All he had to withdraw was something short of the $200 she ordered.

Making do with slim pickings, he re-entered his pin number, this time with less trepidation, before he then entered a new sum - $150.

He waited for the familiar and unsettling churn of rotors; his hand waited at the slot where seven twenties and a ten popped out. Yanking it from the slit as if it were his, he slipped the bills into his wallet and then retrieved his card; flipping his wallet shut and slipping it into the back pocket of his pants, he almost ran to the comfort of the parking lot.

He knocked first on the driver side window before being permitted to enter his own car, and he fumbled with the handle for two seconds longer than usual. In his mind, he still thought up excuses but she could sense his fear, that anxious disposition of his would glow even in the darkest of darks. He opened his mouth to start: 'Mistress, I'm-...'

'Drained?' she answered, with a clear-cut interruption and a correct assumption. He hung his head in shame with that remark, feeling the brunt of dejection. . She held the power in her hand to ruin him should he fail her, and he had; but still she resisted.

'It was bound to happen.' She smirked to herself, 'Drive.'

'Where to?' he asked on instinct.

'I'll direct, this time.' And so she did -- she ordered him to pull out, to drive straight through the traffic lights to then take a left at the end of the avenue. She reclined; her feet kicked up onto his seat and her toes flicked against his earlobe; he shuddered as he managed to wrestle control of the vehicle and of himself. Those little black nails that he himself had painted were now caressing against the hairs of his neck; it made it difficult to drive, dangerous even. She kicked him, once, to see how he'd react; she was surprised, he managed to keep the vehicle straight on the road.

'Pull into this street,' she cooed. He started to recognise odd street signs and buildings; this was no more than a block from his own home. He predicted the next series of directions before she spoke them: turn left, straight over, left and pull up on the right beside a small block of flats.

He looked towards his immediate right; the monotonous block of apartments stretched up for eight floors with little description required. The damp beige colour would have blended the building in with the wearied skies behind if it weren't for the casual interruption of graffiti tags, wall cracks and mould. There was little comfort in returning to this place; he had promised his ever-forgiving girlfriend that the two of them would move out as soon as he could afford it -- the thousands that he had spent on his Mistress had prevented all such movement.

'Please, Mistress, please-...'

She silenced his whimpering with the corner of her foot stabbing into his mouth; he reeled back but submitted to her whims. The less than he complained the quicker that she would perhaps let the two drive off. His tongue brushed against each one as she wore leather heels without socks or leggings in the summer for that purpose. He angled his neck to allow his peripheral vision to allow more sight of his Mistress; it was hard to see that a person was even there: black hair, black corset, black lips pulled back into a smirk.

Get it out,' she whispered, refusing to even name it. It wasn't a "cock" like the other men; it couldn't perform in the same manner, and thus deserved not to even be categorised among them. Instead, it was "it". His hands fondled his belt, tugging at it; his tongue neglected her foot, she reminded him with a swift kick to the skull, and he returned his due focus. His tongue slithered along the base of her sole now; she twisted it anti-clockwise so that he could attend to the tips of her toes as he began to yank down the zipper, and pull open his pants.

Attempting to stand tall, it stood instead a simple six inches. Although his member was not unimpressive, the toll of torture had left a permanent mark on him; he was unable to hold a full erection, and it even curved to the right from the amount of hits and slaps she had caused, and even Mistresses that he served before her had left no better impression on the man.

She dropped her left foot down towards his lap before striking his face once again, with a wet slapping sound, with her right. Her left foot pressed down against his cock, as if it were an accelerator; his moan replicated the sound of an engine revving up and she waited for a brief moment until she decided to stall him -- she slammed her foot down on his member and heard his howl of pain. She couldn't resist a laugh, further to mock him and all that he chose to suffer.

Her legs dropped to one side; her hand reached out to his rod. She wore a glove, as was protocol, ever refusing to let him touch her bare flesh, as long as it wasn't her feet. Her hands tightened around his member that started to whir and throb; comparable to a street thief, she held his cock -- rather than his less important throat -- to ransom, and slipped her hand into the back of his pants, retrieving his wallet. She opened up the leather satchel and took what was hers. The credit cards were soon to be useless for good, so she left them as a simple memento.

A small pair of handcuffs was on the seat beside her. His hands were limp; as ever during his submission, he would keep them at his side unless orders asked otherwise. This made pulling them back and locking them up all the easier; before he could react, his wrists were locked together behind the seat, impossible for him to remove alone.

'We agreed -- you can leave our agreement,' she cooed, 'but only as soon as you pay the leaver's fee. That was all I asked for - $200. You failed me.' He opened his mouth to beg and plead; she did not listen, nor did she wish to hear his blabberings. His mouth, when opened, was filled with her panties with a single motion; he gagged for a second but then came to understand his position. Handcuffed in his own car, a pair of soiled panties in his mouth to silence him, his cock wavering in the air larger than it had ever been before.

She stepped out of the car, opened the driver's door and placed a small envelop on his crotch, balancing on his thin member. His heart beat faster than at the cash machine, than the first time the two had met. She pulled out his cell, and texted something that he would never see and never forget.

For a moment, there was a chaos of emotions; now a tidal wave of guilt and regret had come to sweep the lust aside. He hung his head once more, and his tears began to flow. He did not see his Mistress leave to spend the bills that she had earned; he did not see the front door to his apartment block open as a figure came to investigate such strange text; he did not see his old life ever again.

He had nothing left to lose: she had made him the perfect slave. It wouldn't be long until he returned to her.

Until then? Diamond-studded shoes for $109, and a $40 bottle of wine. The change would only light her cigarette.