Flash Fiction: No carrot, all stick

“I fucking told you to fucking tell me! You fucking better tell me, or I’ll fucking cut your fucking balls off and feed them to the fucking dog, you worthless piece of fucking shit!”

I cannot deny that there was a certain poetic symmetry to the words he was using, even if he did suffer from a chronic lack of vocabulary. There wasn’t even a jaunty “cunt” or a colourful “bollocks” to break up the torrent of abuse, but I’m fairly certain that it was neither the time nor the place to tell him that he linguistically challenged.

Sure, Dino was aggressive; the knife he held to my throat indicated that I was moments away from a painful death. And I was scared, but Emma made me terrified.

She gave me a careful balance of stick versus carrot.

The stick: beaten across the backs of my legs by her crazy sidekick, before they sat me down and attached crocodile clips to my genitals. She didn’t need to say a word; I knew what they would do, but Emma, in her skin tight leather clothing pulled up a chair and sat on it the wrong way ’round, her arms resting on the arch of the wooden furniture as her eyes bored into the trembling wreck in front of her: me.

“Four hundred and twenty volts. The crisp sound of crackling flesh, the sizzling smell of roasted cock, and the agonising screaming of an electrically castrated man. These are some of my favourite things,” she said softly and picked up the control box from the floor. “Or ten minutes with Ellie; she’s very talented, unclipping the clips and … kissing any wounds better. I love the sound of a whore sucking a man’s cock.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “I don’t fucking care Mr Walters. Your cock’s destiny is up to you.”

I shifted in the seat, pain biting down from the clips as her minions held my arms. “Please, I …”

“Think very carefully,” she interrupted in a quiet, but intensely audible voice. I panted, terrified and desperately wished that I had never got involved with the job. “I have no use for you, or the cunt you were found with, but I want to know, who told you to spy on me?” I whimpered as a small jolt of power shot through my loins; I screamed, expecting a greater intensity as she tapped her control box. “A warning shot. I’m growing impatient.”

“Dino,” I cried. “Please get them off. Please.” She put her control box on the floor and rested her chin on the back of the chair, not moving towards my nervous state; she had a lot of questions that I had to answe. She never shouted or released me, but unless I told her everything about my activities as a Private Investigator for the last three days she would serve me toasted dick.

Eventually, satisfied that I was telling the truth, she clicked her fingers and a naked woman – no more than her mid twenties with long black hair and a pert bosom – walked into the room. Her henchmen released their grip on my shoulders, allowing me to rotate my joints free; I had lost a lot of feeling where the crocodile clips were.

Ellie smiled; her milky white skin glowing with a sheen of sweat in the warm safehouse as the girl sank to her knees and slowly picked the clips from my skin. She massaged each pinch mark with her mouth, warmly sucking on my wounds as I looked down at her. I didn’t know if this was a trap, or just Emma’s games but just enjoyed the wonderful touch of Ellie’s tongue gliding over my glans and rubbing against my corona.

Ellie’s fingers cupped my balls and pressed against my bud; I could barely control my arousal as I panted and grunted. The thrill of coming inside a gangster’s warehouse filled me with excitement and dread. It was a headfuck. An intense headfuck and I felt anxious yet liberated as she guided her talented warmth against my erection.

It was crazy-scared lust, the fruits of my nervousness nudged my arousal and, in front of half-a-dozen people, felt my orgasm creep up inside of me. I screwed up my fingers into fists, and squirmed, panting as cum soared down my shaft.

“Go back and tell him this,” Emma started as I barely had time to savour my ejaculation. “And any funny business and I’m wiring you straight up to my generator.”

Which was how, 24 hours later, Dino’s empire was being stormed by armed gangsters from the Hardy clan, and he wanted answers from me; all stick no carrot.

“I don’t know,” I cried, as the knife pressed against my windpipe. “I don’t fucking know! Bet it was that fucking Micky, he’s always sniffing ’round there.”

The featured image comes from here under a CC-license

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