The Christmas Pickle

As my court-mandated therapist, Dr. Calkins rattles on, I imagine her in a schoolgirl outfit tied facedown.

The words she directs at me waft past my ears into a sea of blankness. Soon, all I can hear is the sound of a paddle hitting her bare buttocks so hard that it makes visible ripples like little tidal waves in the surrounding skin.

“Herman, are you listening?”

“Yeah,” I reply flatly. 

I restrain myself. This whore doesn’t realize she’s speaking to a high-quality man. I call her that to myself because there is no husband to be found in the myriad of family photos decorating her paltry office. Only she, two children, and a labradoodle. All I can think is that she’s like that dog, only without a firm hand on her leash. 

In her forties now, she hit the wall more than a decade ago. Her illegitimate children are the repellent toppings on this sad crone, slut pie. If she were honest, there would be seven cats, empty wine bottles, and a substantially proportioned dildo in the frame. 

For me, all this bullshit started six months ago when my ex-girlfriend, Bonnie, brought me up on bogus charges.

What you have to understand is, that my dad owns a car dealership. Not some dirt lot on an alternate highway. It’s fucking huge. He’s rich, and by proxy, so am I. Everyone at NC State knows this. Mostly because I tell them. Before freshman year, they bought me a house directly across the street from campus. Don’t get jealous. It’s a cramped, four-bedroom hovel. Worse yet, they only pay for maid service once a week. 

My folks live one town over in Cary. I don’t think they wanted me at home anymore. Either way, why would I want to crawl behind the peasants every morning in my BMW M8? I already have too many points on my license from having to weave through their economy cars and minivans. Regardless of my proximity, I haven’t registered for a morning class since sophomore year. Unfortunately, that’s slowed me down. I’m a third-year senior.

Bonnie pursued me because she knew my parents were affluent. She’s eighteen, which places her halfway through her prime reproductive years. I’d prefer fresher eggs, but the judge said he couldn’t help me next time. I’m still not supposed to be more than fifteen hundred feet from a middle school. Even at this older age, she’s still impressionable enough to be molded into a submissive wife.   

I spent a small fortune on fancy dinners, jewelry, and flowers. I even endured musical theater. That kind of money and effort buys access. At first, I was a gentleman about it. But, if you get in the way of what belongs to me, I will take it. Now here I am in trouble for using my property, her body. 

I’ve become a social pariah since Bonnie and her parents began misusing the court to impugn my character. Some call me an incel. I’m starting to like the label. I consider it a synonym for alpha male.  

In the fallout, even some of my tight bros have bailed. All their absence has done is expose thems as the beta-cuck pussies they always were. Good riddance.

In private I’ve turned to the internet for my needs, specifically a pair of camgirls. Miss Scarlett is a six-foot-tall, muscular redhead. Her co-star, Midge, is a slight, four-foot-ten Brunette. She’s the submissive, and Scarlett the dom. 

It infuriates me that I love it, so I make sure to remind them what sluts they are. My hummungous tips keep me from banishment. But, I can tell by the looks on their faces the insults hurt. Good. 

Sadly, I can’t say those kinds of things in Dr. Calkins’s office. Can I?

I bite my lip.

Don’t do it, I think to myself.

Then it comes out anyway.

“What, you couldn’t even keep the marriage together for the dog?” I say to my therapist after thirty minutes of silence on my behalf.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Calkins says, shocked at my audacity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

“Your insinuation about my marriage.”

“I’m sorry, your monthly must have drawn too much blood from your brain. I don’t recall.”

“My montly?”

“I didn’t say that. Do you feel okay?”

“You’re dismissed, Herman. I’ll be speaking to the judge on Monday morning.”

“So will my father, over a golf game on Sunday afternoon. What’s your handicap?”

“I don’t play—”

“Discussions at the country club mean more than your silly phone calls. I don’t know why. It must be all the sunshine.”

She stares dumbfounded as I walk out the door.

The judge unilaterally ignores Dr. Calkin’s complaints. 

I wore her down to tears multiple times over the next few months.

Our last session was directly before Thanksgiving. Her sobs were tragically delicious. I wanted to grab her face with both hands and lick the tears from her red cheeks. 

No longer on probation, I can take on other pursuits. The following week, one presents itself. 

Miss Scarlett and Midge announce their annual Christmas pickle. Each year, they pick a random city in the United States. An assistant hides a plastic pickle ornament at a well-known landmark. Afterward, the girls drop hints about its location. This year, serendipitously, they’ve chosen Raleigh. Over the years the prizes have mostly consisted of sex toys, typically fuckable silicon replicas of their pussies. But this year, it’s a threesome live on camera Christmas morning. No holds barred; raw dog.

The chat room went wild upon the announcement, with members typing that they were booking flights and hotel rooms on the spot.

The clue is, You spin me right round, right round, in a historic park.

Knowing the city, it didn’t take much time to break. I visited Pullen Park in the early hours of the morning and quickly found the coveted ornament under the antique carousel. On it was a handwritten email address.  

A few quick messages between myself and their assistant verify that I am the winner. Arrangements are made. I’m set to go live with them in three weeks.

The meet-up location is a split-level ranch house in North Raleigh.

They greet me at the door wearing robes. They’re gorgeous and smell wonderful. I hate them for it.

I’m led down to the basement. It’s not their regular studio. There’s soundproof foam lining the walls and ceiling. It makes sense. The neighbor kids shouldn’t have to hear the shrieking orgasms I’m going to give them while opening their Christmas presents. I’m not a monster, after all.

After shutting and locking the door behind them, both drop their robes, revealing matching white lingerie. 

Hurriedly, I strip naked.

“The little captain is ready, I see,” Miss Scarlett says, observing my glorious erection.

“If you are,” I reply, trying to keep it cool.

“First, we want to spank you a little. Not hard, just for show. The audience will love it.

“It’s not my thing, but why the fuck not,” I say.

They strap me facedown to a giant wooden cross resting at a forty-five-degree angle on a custom rack. 

Secured, Miss Scarlett retrieves a large VHS camera mounted on a tripod.

“Why the antique?” I say jokingly.

“VHS doesn’t have metadata, which means no forensic evidence,” Midge replies.

A television is wheeled out. Midge places a tape into a VCR the size of two cinderblocks. On the screen appears the face of Dr. Calkins.

“Herman, now that I have your attention, allow me to tell you about my husband. While I was pregnant with my youngest, he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. He survived long enough to hold his infant daughter once. The day after her birth, he became too weak to leave bed. A week later, the love of my life was gone.” 

“I don’t keep pictures of him in my office because seeing them rips my heart out. On the upside, his massive life insurance policy made financing this special film possible. Herman, women are exhausted with men like yourself. There are far too many, and too few reckonings. But, on rare occasions, they come. Today is yours.”

The TV goes to static. Midge pulls the tape out and then places a large neodymium magnet on top of it, permanently erasing the tape’s contents.

“Did you actually think you solved the riddle?” Midge says in her high-pitched voice, which turns into a cackle. No. The chat room you were in was made for your eyes only. The other participants were chatbots I programmed. This isn’t a prize. It’s a snuff film, and you’re the star.

I struggle but can’t budge.

Miss Scarlett hooks something to the foot of the cross. Then I hear the whir of an electric hoist as I’m pulled feet-first toward the ceiling. The cross hangs freely, allowing my inverted body to swing back and forth like a metronome. 

“Hold the cross still, Midge” I hear Mrs. Scarlett say. 

I scream as the blade shallowly pierces the center of my back. Searing pain courses through my body in pulses as the skin is meticulously peeled away. 

As I lose consciousness, I hear Midge say, “Be careful, Dr. Calkins wants enough hide to make a purse for her and Bonnie.”

Reinhardt the Bull

The first splash hit Manfred’s face, and a forceful stream ran down the navy blue and black-striped tie resting like a ribbon of night on the white cotton shirt. Reinhardt spread his legs in the door of the stall. He had last worn a civilian tie to his mother’s funeral four years ago, but the lawyer owned a rack of silk ties in colours and designs to complement his tailor-made suits. Huddled against the marble wall under the showerhead, Manfred pulled his knees up as urine saturated his shirt and tie, followed by a drenching of the fine-wool fibres of the suit jacket. Reinhardt had allowed him to remove his Italian shoes, but not his socks, which matched the tie. He told Manfred to lower his knees while he pissed over the silver belt buckle and the lawyer’s groin. The man could do nothing to ward off the torrent. He had been ordered to keep his hands behind his back. Reinhardt directed the still-strong stream once more at the lawyer’s face. He had been saving it up for this moment. Open, he commanded.

The piss bubbled out of the man’s mouth and soaked his Van Dyke beard. He choked, spluttered, his face showered by the hot liquid, his eyes closed, his entire body trembling in a kind of private ecstasy, lapping, swallowing as much piss as Reinhardt aimed down his throat. “You pathetic pig, drink it; show me how much you love me, faggot!” Reinhardt shouted, obeying the lawyer’s wish to hear his commanding abuse while giving him a golden shower. His bladder finally drained; Reinhardt zipped up. A speculum designed to keep the mouth open, he decided would be useful for the next session. He had a couple at home, but he had already used them on other pisspigs, so the lawyer would have to buy his own. It wasn’t wise to share intimate toys.

Listening to the lawyer’s strange whimpers of satisfaction, Reinhardt dredged up a gob of spit, aimed it at Manfred’s still open mouth, and splattered his lips and chin. He sat on the toilet. The fabric of his fatigues tightened over muscular thighs. The lawyer shivered on the shower floor, licked his lips, hands behind his back, his tie and jacket saturated. Standing quickly, he smiled over the sheen of his military boots, which Manfred had earlier caressed and polished with his tongue.

What you ate affected the smell and taste of piss and semen, Reinhardt knew, so he avoided brassicas and asparagus before a session. Always careful about what he ate, he had consumed a protein drink and swallowed vitamin supplements before arriving at the condo, combined with two bottles of beer, which guaranteed the build up of piss. He wondered if Manfred tasted hops even as the odour of urine long exposed to the air intensified. He just paused above the lawyer, spitting again, wrinkling his nose against the smell. 

“Don’t move, my little pig, until I let you out.”

***

In the galley kitchen gleaming with granite countertop and steel appliances, Reinhardt opened the fridge door. Wanda was supposed to be home by now, as the couple had agreed to take time off work for fun. He could do anything he wanted with the lawyer, and he had every intention of pushing boundaries. What he wanted now was to fuck the lawyer’s wife, fast and hard, then fuck her again while her husband watched, ball-gagged and shackled. Since they met at the bar a couple of months ago, this was only his fourth visit to play dominant bull to the submissive couple.

He suspected Wanda delayed on purpose, his impatience adding to her excitement. After drinking another beer, he’d probably have to relieve himself. He’d piss on the lawyer again, maybe in the tub, or even on the white Berber carpet of the living room where he now stood. Make Manfred strip and spread himself like a flagellant before the altar on the beautiful rug; make him say a few worshipful words to his swell-muscled bull, who would then spray liquid gold over the naked body while Wanda protested. He might have to bind her to prevent interference. She’d like that, probably expected it, something she had mentioned in their preliminary discussions about scenarios, even if she lamented over her fine furnishings. 

Reinhardt heard the front door to the condo open. Was it time to give the cuckold Manfred permission to move? Lead Wanda into the washroom? Get her on all fours by the toilet, lift her skirt, and ram her cunt from behind like a German Shepherd mounting his bitch while Manfred huddled and soaked in the shower stall watching his bull in action? A couple of hours had passed already since his arrival. Preliminary play with the lawyer had taken up most of the time. Drenching the cuckpig had lasted less than a minute. Reinhardt sucked the beer down. He wanted his bladder full. He had been paid 800 Euros in advance for two hours, but if he really got into the action, he gladly extended a session, no extra charge.

Before Wanda touched his back, he smelled her perfume. When she pressed against him, Reinhardt flinched. Her arms reached around his chest, her faux fur coat sleeves bristling with static electricity. He would humiliate Manfred again while Wanda bore witness. That was part of the deal; that was what they both wanted, their bull taking control. He grabbed her hands to prevent them from rubbing his nipples.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, bitch, just don’t. Get me a beer.”

He was rubbing his crotch as Wanda approached with a beer. He wondered about the height of the balcony to the waterless fountain almost directly below. Reinhardt grabbed Wanda’s neck; her body relaxed, stepped closer while he guzzled down half the bottle. He gripped her shoulder.

“Let’s go on the balcony.”

“It’s chilly outside.”

“Leave your coat on.”

He didn’t slide the glass door shut as he spun her around on the balcony and kissed, his unshaven cheeks abrading her smooth skin. Slipping his arms under her coat, he lifted Wanda onto the railing.

“What the…what are you doing?”

Holding her tight with one arm, he raised her left leg around his waist, secured her close to his chest, and fingered her under her dress. She struggled to break free, her struggle part of her fantasy, but he leaned her backwards over the railing, pushing three fingers into her cunt. Her scream Reinhardt interpreted as encouragement, not protest. In the tavern where they had first met after he had answered their queries on his personal website, and later negotiated the terms of the arrangement, they’d agreed on a safe word, uttered only when she wanted the action to stop. She was trapped by her own excitement over being precariously balanced on the balustrade. If Reinhardt let go of her waist, she’d somersault over and plummet several floors to her death. Removing his wet fingers, and with the prestidigitation of a magician, he retrieved a rubber from his pocket, tore open the package with his teeth, slipped it on, and pushed his cock into her receptive body. He preferred bareback, but she had insisted during their negotiations. Since they paid for him to do what they wanted, Reinhardt had agreed.  The customer was always right.

Her voice muffled by the whirring of an approaching helicopter. She was trying to scream between gasps for breath, so he picked up speed in his fucking. If the traffic helicopter pilot flew overhead, he’d see Wanda hunched over a balcony railing in a brown fur coat, hanging onto to a soldier who, despite the chill, wore only a green army-issue T-shirt and fatigues. Reinhardt raised his eyes, squinting in the late afternoon winter sun, loosening his hold on the woman who groaned and clung to his neck, both legs cinched so tightly around his waist that she’d hurtle over the railing with him firmly locked between her thighs if he didn’t maintain control. Death by fucking.

“Oh, please.” Wanda’s voice was scarcely audible; he couldn’t tell if she was begging for her life or for his cock. He kept up a steady and riveting thrust, his cock feeling as hard and big as Thor’s hammer. Her fur coat dropped off her shoulders and hung like a bearskin draped over the railing, her red hair coming loose from its pins. The helicopter hovered overhead. 

He released the woman, who instinctively clasped the cold iron railing, and jackhammered her cunt, sweat dribbling down the back of his neck even in the cold. He wanted to be finished, since he was getting bored, and besides, the husband was in need of more attention, and he decided that he’d only give the couple an extra hour, free. He slammed into Wanda, who screamed when he let go. Yes, she had admitted in the tavern, she wanted it hard. Her legs slipping away from his waist, her upper body began falling backwards, but Reinhardt pulled her up and off the railing and onto his explosive cock. He finished the hard fuck with three upward thrusts, lifting her off her feet, which kicked over a stand of dead plants in ceramic pots. They cracked on the concrete. The chopper lurked upward, swerving to the right. The condom dangled from his semi-flaccid dick, heavy with his superman spunk.

“Oh, please, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything,” Wanda whispered in his shoulder, slack and needy. Just like her husband waiting in the shower stall. There were so many things he planned on doing, so many things they didn’t even know they yearned for. He now owned them. They said they wanted a bull, ein Stier, to own them; that was part of the play, and the husband wanted to be humiliated, any way Reinhardt chose. With his face blushing over their drinks in the tavern, Manfred had whispered his desire for golden showers, as if confessing to a rare and abominable obsession. Craving to be cuckolded and degraded by a soldier wearing his boots, a common fantasy which Reinhardt took advantage of when the opportunities arose and charged more for his efforts. The wind picked up. Reinhardt shivered. He opened the door and gently pushed the wife inside, her coat falling to the floor, where it lay like a dead animal.

“Get me another beer, cunt. Bring it to the washroom. We’re not done yet.”