Alice in Chains by JDSavanyu
I take a coffee break at Goldman Sachs HQ in Lower Manhattan; hungry for more kinky action with Alice Jackson in apartment 609, six stories over Broadway. That ginger stock broker turned into a psycho drill sergeant last night, and she went medieval on my ass. I paid her back with interest, binding her tighter and whipping her harder and screwing her like there weren’t no tomorrow. But of course there was a tomorrow, and I crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn, hungry for more.
I take a sip of high-end java and pull out my “smart” phone for a little distraction from the financial rat race. I’m greeted by a text message from Sergeant Jackson:
“hey roger, report for duty at twenty-hundred hours!” (8:00 PM for “civilians.”)
“sir yes sir! can’t wait for more basic training.”
“lets try something new 2 nite.”
“like what?”
“you’ll see.”
“ooh another surprise, you crazy-ass ginger.”
“you’re the crazy one motherfucker!”
. . . . . . . .
I walk through Times Square in a hedonistic haze on a warm foggy Friday night, soaked in the brilliant electric glow of Madison Avenue consumerism, fueled by Wall Street warriors like me. Hundreds of tourists pass by on the sidewalk, but they all register as faceless soulless avatars in my distracted mind. I’m playing the role I was born to play with Alice. Our masochistic spectacle is better than all the phony plays in this phony-ass town. We’ve only spent one night together, but I’m already convinced that she’s my dark soulmate. I’m sure as hell gonna dance with the devil in the ballroom light until the final curtain call.
I arrive at the front door of apartment 609 twenty minutes early, just like last night. Listening to the muffled sound of water splashing all over her naked body, and picturing Irish Spring soap sloshing down her big milky tits with pointy pink nipples. My dick can’t help itself from rising. She finally turns off the shower, and I ring the doorbell.
“Just a minute, baby! Let me get dressed!”
Alice opens the door two minutes later, wearing a red full-length bathrobe that matches the color of her long shiny bangs.
“Hey, Sergeant Jackson. I thought you were getting dressed.”
“I was,”she giggles. She grabs my right hand, yanks me into her living room, kicks the door shut behind her, and kisses me hard.
“I missed you so fucking much,” I say while admiring her big green fairy eyes.
“Me too. I’ll let you be the drill sergeant this time,” she replies giddily.
“That sounds a lot more fun. Is that your big surprise?”
“No, this is.” She pulls her robe open at the shoulders and lets it fall to the red shag carpeting, revealing a blue knee-length puffed sleeve dress with a white pinafore over the top, like a 29 year-old . . .
“Alice in Wonderland?”
“At your service, Sergeant Savage!” She curtsies like a Victorian lady and giggles like a schoolgirl.
“Damn, that’s hot as fuck. You really go all out in the perversion department.”
“Yes indeed. I’m a naughty little girl who shouldn’t have gone near that rabbit hole. How are you going to punish me?”
“I’ll punish you like your daddy should have, back in the day.”
“Sir yes sir! I deserve to be thrown in the brig and spanked like hell.”
I sit down on a velvet sofa, and she drapes her body over my knee, hiking her blue dress above her ass. Nothing underneath but pale freckled skin.
“No panties, Alice! You really need a good whoopin’.”
I spank her the way I spank all my other female subs. Nice and hard, at the optimum angle.
“Fuck yeah, Sergeant! Whoop my naughty ass!”
I lower the boom six more times, thrice on each cheek, loving that loud crisp thwash, thwash, thwash! She keeps those glutes nice and tight with plenty of jogging and Pilates before she takes the subway down to International Assets Investment Management, LLC.
“I’m the Mad Hatter, bitch. You ain’t in Kansas anymore.”
She giggles at my lame joke, and I spank her even harder. Her giggling explodes into an awkward guttural wail.
“Holy shit, you spank me so good! I like the Mad Hatter better than Sergeant Savage.”
I spank her again on the base of her ass, just a centimeter away from her pussy. The stinging sensation races up her labia and buzzes her clit like a lightning rod.
“Oh god, that’s the spot! Keep hitting me right fucking there!”
I whack her sweet spot over and over and over, driving her bonkers. I glance at a mahogany end table with a leather riding crop and a leather slapper with a dull silver spike at the end.
“You didn’t put away your toys, young lady. I’ll have to punish you even more.”
I grab the riding crop and lash her like the White Horse of Wonderland.
“Whip me harder, Mad Hatter! I’m your dirty White Rabbit!”
“Damn right, bitch. You’re a slutty fucking bunny.”
I deliver five more blows on each cheek, then I grab the spiked slapper deliver a well-aimed strike right up her snatch.
“Fuck yeah, keep jamming that spike up my pinkhole!”
I swing it six more times, grinning like the schoolyard bully I still am.
“Let’s see how much you like it in your stinkhole.”
I push the spike through her anal sphincter and pound it repeatedly with my fist, making her entire body shudder in pseudo-epileptic ecstasy.
“You seem to be enjoying your punishment, Alice. What a sick little girl you are.”
“I’m a fucking freak and proud of it! Please Mad Hatter, may I have some more?”
“Yes, you may. Let’s go to your ‘playroom’ and have a little tea party.”
I pick her up and carry her into a spacious bedroom lined with hundreds of kinky DVD’s and BDSM toys. A picture window on the eastern wall usually has a great view of the Empire State Building, but not on an uber-foggy night like this. I set her down under a steel bondage rack with various hooks and loops, and she tosses her red hair haughtily.
“I’m not thirsty, Sergeant. Fuck the tea, and just give me my unbirthday present.”
“Shut the fuck up, you worthless wench.”
“Sir yes sir,” she giggles.
I go to a shelf full of goodies and pick up a box full of metal loops linked together.
“The Mad Hatter wants to put Alice in Chains.”
Alice In Chains was my favorite grunge band during my hazy 90’s high school days, and now I’m finally doing the real thing. I pull ten feet worth of chains out of the box and wave some teasingly at her face, making her whimper.
“Take off that stupid costume, ginger.”
She obeys my order indignantly, getting amazingly naked. My big prick aches to escape from my Ralph Lauren chinos, so I also change into my “unbirthday” suit.
“Don’t skimp on the steel, baby,” she says sweetly while admiring my muscles; honed at the New York Athletic Club. I bind her wrists to the overhead rack with chains and a padlock, and wrap more chains around her torso. I use the remainder to bind her legs to the bottom of the rack, stretching her pale freckled 33-24-33 body in a wide X-shape.
“Wipe that fucking grin off your face.”
“Make me,” she growls back.
I go to her shelf of goodies, grab a bag full of clamps and weights, and put them on her tits and labia, adding the small metal weights to enhance the exquisite pain. It makes even a hard cynical woman like her melt into pathetic childish moaning.