Blonds Have More Fun

Bruce paused outside the door to the room. "You'll be waiting?" he asked Carrie. "I'll knock when it's time."

"Yeah," she said, and shook her head. "You always look fucking strange in that getup, I must say."

He grinned. "All in a day's work, love. At least I'm not the one who has to suck his cock."

"Touché," she said, laughing. "Fuck off in there, then."

He glanced at the card one last time.

"What are you looking at that for?" she scoffed. "You and me must have done this bloke dozens of times. I bet you could do him in your sleep. I know I could."

He sniffed disapprovingly and adjusted his wig. "You do as you like," he said. "But it takes me an hour to get ready for this toerag, and I'm not going to mess it up at the last minute by forgetting the rules."

"Talking of forgetting the rules," she said, "you better not let Zelda hear you refer to a paying customer as a toerag."

"Right, whatever," he said, skimming over the notes scribbled on the card...which, in addition to a detailed description and sketch of the costume, included the notations Sub: severe (bad rot. cuff, no strpdo) and Absolutely NO talking. And then at the bottom: SW: cheese soufflé. Wife also client. Discretn imperative! IMPORTANT: Don't touch Mark!!!!!!

He shot his cuffs, straightened his shoulders, and entered the room.

The man was naked, except for a silver mask covering his entire face. As if I don't know who you are, you great nit, think you're so much better than us. His arms were held out to his sides, parallel to the floor, suspended from the ceiling by chains fastened to the leather cuffs around his wrists; his legs were forced apart at the ankles by a three-foot iron bar. His pale, naked body was shiny with sweat, the smooth perfection of his skin marred only by a tracery of threadlike scars over his torso and thighs. The hair around the base of his flaccid penis was silver-blond, and on the inside of his left forearm there was a snake-and-skull tattoo in faded black ink.

Bruce picked out a black leather flogger from the rack by the door, and drew the knotted tails through his fingers before advancing on his cowering client. You're still soft, thought Bruce. Must do something about that. Let's get this show on the road, then. He flicked gently at the man's crotch with the whip, and was rewarded with a low grunt and a barely perceptible stiffening of the member. Then he lashed the whip wickedly across the man's smooth, hairless chest, and saw him jerk back in surprise.

That's right. Every time you make a sound, you'll be punished. If I can't talk, then neither, by god, will you. He struck the man with the whip again, this time with a little less force, and observed with satisfaction that his cock was swelling noticeably.

He moved around behind the man...in part to get that disturbing mask out of his field of vision...and began flogging him in earnest, lashing him across the back and buttocks with the knotted leather strands of the whip. Each time the man groaned aloud, Bruce delivered him a particularly vicious cut, the knots leaving tiny red dots on the smooth skin.

It was warm in the room...can't have the clients' dicks shriveling up from the cold ...and he was starting to work up a sweat. He unfastened the buttons on the wool coat and pulled it off, crossing the room to hang it on a hook by the door. Approaching the man again, he put on his best menacing look and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing a snake-and-skull figure identical to the one on the blond man's forearm.

"Please," said the man, and Bruce cut him cruelly across the abdomen with the whip. Shut up, you big chicken. His cock looked fully erect now; Bruce prodded it with the blunt handle of the whip to see if it was well and truly hard. Almost there, he thought, and returned to his position behind the man, really laying into him now, putting his back into it, swinging forward from his hips with every stroke. The whip made a satisfying swish and thwack followed each time by a sharp hissed exhalation of breath from the blond man.

Time to check the erection-o-meter again, this time with a fully positive result: that's three and a half inches of blue steel, that is. He noted with approval the tears leaking out from under the silver mask and dripping onto the man's red-streaked chest. l bet that salt stings a bit, he thought. Good.

He walked over to the door and tapped twice on it with the handle of the whip; it opened instantly and Carrie entered, dressed in a glossy black catsuit. Replacing the whip in the rack, he withdrew a long rattan cane, and followed Carrie back to the center of the room.

She dropped to her knees and grasped the man's balls in one shiny black-gloved hand, squeezing and twisting them. He groaned, and Bruce rewarded him with a swift cut across the arse with the cane, leaving an impressive red weal on the buttocks.

"Suck me," the man whispered. "Oh, please, suck me," and Bruce hit him again, harder this time, the cane singing through the air and striking his buttocks with a sharp crack! A tiny thread of blood appeared along the welt, which was just fine: this client didn't think he'd got his considerable money's worth if he didn't need a visit from the house Mediwitch before dressing to go home.

Carrie lowered her mouth onto his cock, bracing her hands against his thighs to avoid being pushed backward as his hips jerked forward with every blow of the cane.

The man was sobbing now, his voice muffled behind the silver mask. "Yes, please, yes!" he cried, and Carrie worked his cock with her lips and tongue while Bruce scourged him mercilessly, the cane whistling through the air and drawing blood with every stroke.

"Stop!"

The man's demeanor had changed, and his voice, which only a moment ago had been sobbing and pleading, now rang out with authority.

"Stop this instant!"

This had never happened before. Carrie drew back, letting the deflating member fall from her mouth, and looked up at Bruce, who shook his head and put his weight into the next blow. Whsshh, crack! and the man jerked forward. His penis, however, had wilted completely.

"Stop, you idiots! Eggs Benedict! Release me at once!"

Whsshh, crack!

The man seemed genuinely angry now. "Parmesan frittata! Scrambled eggs! You fucking morons, I'll have your jobs for this!"

"Bruce," said Carrie tentatively, "Perhaps we should..."

He shook his head and raised his arm for the next blow. This is what comes of not looking over the cards every time, you lazy bint. Whsshh, crack!

"Cheese soufflé, you misbegotten thick-headed Mudblood whores! Cheese soufflé!"

Ah, there it was. Bruce dropped the cane and reached up immediately to unfasten the buckles on the leather cuffs. As soon as his hands were free, the man drew back his right arm and struck Bruce across the face with enough force to make him stagger backwards. "You ignorant cunt!" he roared, and Bruce saw that the snake-and-skull tattoo on his forearm, which before had been faint and blurred, was now a vivid and pulsing black, and the skin around it an angry red. "Bring me my clothes!" he demanded.

And to Carrie, who had knelt at his feet and unfastened the spreader bar, "Fetch me my wand at once!"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but you'll need to collect that from Hastings on your way out." She rose and backed away from him, but not quickly enough to escape a vicious blow to the side of her head.

"Stupid fucking cunts, the pair of you."

He began pulling on his clothes, and Bruce said, "I'll send in the Mediwitch, sir, if you'll wait just a moment."

"Sod the sodding Mediwitch!" He shoved his bare feet into his shoes. At the door, he paused and turned to Bruce. "By the way," he said contemptuously, "that outfit's pathetic. Wouldn't fool an infant." And he strode out of the room, shirttails flapping behind him.

"That little performance," said Bruce, rubbing his jaw, "is going to cost him well into the double digits."

"Where's that card?" said Carrie. "I'm promoting him to five pricks right now."

"Add one, why don't you? He can be our first six-prick client."

She gathered up the equipment and returned it to the rack, and Bruce dragged the black wig from his head.

"Phew! I'm sweating like a racehorse!"

"No shit," said Carrie. "I've got to get out of this sauna suit and into the shower."

Bruce withdrew a small contact lens case from the pocket of his trousers, carefully removed the black lenses from his eyes, and dropped them into the solution. "Just keep thinking about the money," he said cheerfully. "It's all about the money."

A/N:

All the illustrations for this fic are on DeviantArt under my user name, QalaChaki.

Besides LM's card, there are cards for Snape and Sirius Black:

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/Snape-Wayward-Wand-card-127661361

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/Sirius-Black-Wayward-Wand-card-130218912

Also pictured there are Zelda's business card

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/Zelda-s-business-card-130446533

and Snape's;

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/Snape-s-business-card-130470798

and the label for SureFire Detonating Drops:

http://qalachaki.deviantart.com/art/SureFire-Detonating-Drops-labe-130273107