Iced Balls
[ A rare foray by the writer into humiliation. You decide: Read or pass]
The iron grating of the stairs clatters under Zelda's T-straps as she descends from the office above, the cold storage floor spreading beneath her like a frozen lake.
She does not look back at the grating where she pressed her ear, three weeks past, listening to Tony Blue tell Morrison how her pussy melted under his touch, and her business was his.
The memory sits in her jaw, tight as a locked vault.
Kitty follows, her heels clicking with that deliberate feline precision, the plum silk of her dress catching the warehouse lamplight like spilled wine.
They move through the grit and ice melt toward the storage bays.
"Tony, the rotter, he's still thinking it," she says, her cigarette holder tapping against her knuckle. The first exhale ghosts through her oxblood lips, husky and unhurried.
"Two out of three. The arithmetic of a man who counts sexual conquests like warehouse receipts."
Kitty's dark eyes shift, warm to glacial in the space between heartbeats. "You heard him?"
"I heard enough." Zelda's fingers wave, catching the lamplight, copper-bright and sharp at her jawline.
"He thinks I'm the soft one. The one who'll spread her legs behind her ears for a smile and a Cuban cigar in her pussy."
She laughs, smoke curling from her nostrils.
"He doesn't know I was counting the crates while he was counting on me."
Tony is waiting.
Suited. Cigar half finished.
He still believes he can tame this dame.
"Give me your best shot, babes."
"Tony," she says, and the name is a dismissal wrapped in silk.
"You always did like to be the smartest man in the room."
"Only one here for you two on heat bitches."
Zelda signals the office; Tony follows.
He liked the office.
Now it's offering two.
Zelda lights a cigarette, moves to the office desk.
"You want the warehouse," Zelda says. "You want the routes, the customs contacts, the ice that keeps the champagne cold and the evidence colder. You want to call it Accardo Ice and Storage and erase my family name."
She leans closer, her breath mingling with smoke. "But you don't understand what cold storage means, Tony. You don't understand what happens to things that freeze."
She steps back, her coat falling open to reveal what she wears beneath—nothing but a silk chemise in emerald green, drop-waisted and loose, and beneath that, catching the lamplight like quartz, two golden tassels affixed to her nipples.
They swing as she moves, delicate and lewd, framing the pale porcelain of her breasts through the silk.
Tony's gaze drops automatically, the male reflex she counted on, and she laughs—low, throaty, the sound of a woman who has already won.
Her boobs jiggle; they flounce and bounce, soft as white jellies.
She begins to move, not the frantic Charleston of the dance halls but something slower, more deliberate—her hips circling, the tassels swinging in opposition, her hands running up her own ribs to cup her breasts, lifting them, offering them, withholding them.
The emerald silk rides up her thighs as she moves, revealing silk stockings held by garters, the pale skin above them, the dark thatch of her sex barely shadowed through the thin fabric.
Kitty lights a cigar, the flame brief and bright, and sets it in the crystal dish where it burns like a single eye, watching.
"Nice toots, but you really want this."
Tony rubs his crotch, stirs his member.
Tented in his pants, it's a frickin impressive boner.
"You hustler, tonight you get an education," she says.
She moves to the desk where Kitty waits, her hand finding the rye whiskey her father keeps in the bottom drawer—imported, uncut, the real thing.
She pours two fingers into a glass, neat, and carries it back to where he waits.
"Cold storage," she says, pressing the glass to his lips.
He drinks automatically, the reflex of a man trained to take what is offered, and she lets him swallow before she speaks again.
"Do you know what happens to a man's cock in the cold, Tony? It shrinks. It retreats. It becomes—" she searches for the word, her lips shaping it with precision, "—unimpressive."
She sets the glass aside and reaches for the hem of her chemise. In one motion, she lifts it over her head, standing before him in only the tassels, the stockings, the pearls at her throat.
The warehouse air bites at her pale skin, raising gooseflesh, hardening her nipples beneath their golden weights.
She pushes him to the office chair and straddles him.
Zelda removes his tie, while her tongue crushes into his mouth.
Her hand cups his nuts through his pants and he surrenders his wrists to Kitty, who binds them with his own tie.
Zelda reaches down, her fingers finding the waistband of his shorts, and he is so hard already—arousal and adrenaline, exposed tits are his peckers adrenaline.
She smiles, not kind, and pulls the silk down until his cock springs free, thick and manly.
"Kitty," she says, not looking away from his face. "The blindfold."
Kitty moves with that feline grace, her plum silk whispering, and produces from her clutch a strip of black velvet, soft as sin.
She stands behind him, her breasts pressing against his back as she ties it tight across his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
"And the restraints," Zelda adds.
Tony's mind is trapped on his shaft being tugged.
Restraints don't register.
He has no restraint when his cock is jerked.
But Kitty has already begun, her short nails buffed to a shine as she works the leather strips—tight, his ankles spread wider, bound to a leg; a new strip binding around his midriff.
"There," Zelda says, when he is fully secured.
She runs one gloved finger down his chest, from throat to navel, feeling the muscle jump beneath her touch.
"Now you can imagine me. Now you can wonder what I'm going to do. Now—" and her hand closes around his cock, firm and cold from the warehouse air, "—you can feel how little your imagination serves you."
Kitty's gloved hand passes to Zelda, a piece of ice.
Clear as quartz, heavy as sin, melting already where her warmth touches it.
Chill water runs down her wrists.
"Kitty," she says, "the cock ring."
Kitty produces it from her clutch—a simple thing, rubber, tight.
She rolls it down Tony's shaft with practised efficiency, fitting it at the base where it will hold him hard, hold him desperate, prevent the release his body will crave.
Zelda kneels beside him, the ice block close against her breasts, cold water streaming down her pale skin, pooling in her navel, running in rivulets between the golden tassels that swing with her breathing.
She presses the ice to his chest.
Tony gasps, his spine arching against the restraints, the cold shocking through him like warm breath meeting hoarfrost.
"Uh-Uhh! You bitch!"
She drags it across his nipples, already hard from the warehouse air, watches them tighten further, watches his breath hitch and stutter.
"You street mole! Orggh!"
"Count for me," she says, moving the ice lower, across his ribs, into the hollow of his stomach.
"Count the seconds. Count the ways you underestimated me."
She follows the ice with her mouth—cold water and warm tongue, the contrast making him groan, making him strain against the leather strips that hold him spread and helpless.
She licks the water from his skin, her hair brushing his bound arms, her tassels swinging against his hip.
"Ahh! You vamp! One."
She takes the ice lower, cupping his balls in her freezing palm, even gloved, and he cries out—sharp, involuntary, the sound of a man who has never been at another's mercy.
"Sheez! Two! You bitch!"
She holds him there, the cold sinking deep, his cock straining against the rubber ring that denies him fullness, denies him completion.
His pecker wants to wilt, but the cock ring holds the warm blood while his balls retract and freeze.
He stutters three and misses four, goes straight to five.
Zelda stops.
"Whiskey," she says, and Kitty brings the glass.
Zelda drinks, the rye burning down her throat, and then she leans over him and lets it fall from her mouth onto his chest—warm where the ice was cold, alcohol stinging the skin she's abraded, the sensation making him buck against his bonds.
"Orggh! Fuck! You're a dangerous dish!"
"Hot and cold," she murmurs, following the whiskey with her tongue, lapping it from his skin like a cat with cream.
"Pleasure and pain. You taught me that, didn't you? On my father's desk. You taught me how to mix them until a woman can't tell which is which."
She straddles him again, her sex hovering above his trapped cock, close enough that he can feel her heat radiating through the cold air, close enough that he can smell her arousal—sharp, undeniable, the proof that her dominance excites her as much as it humiliates him.
A woman in complete control.
Her pussy will encircle his meat when she is ready.
"But you forgot," she says, lowering herself until her wetness brushes his tip, "that a vamp can surpass its supposed master."
She sinks onto him slowly, inch by inch, her body accepting him while her eyes deny him everything.
The rubber ring holds him thick, holds him pulsing, and she rides him with deliberate slowness, her hips rolling, her tassels swinging in his face though he cannot see them through the blindfold.
The enjoyment is all hers.
The engorged stiffness.
Her encasing wetness. Her pulling up. Her grinding down.
She leans forward so her breasts press against his chest, the golden tassels cold between them.
"Say who owns you now."
"Zelda—"
She rises and falls, her thighs trembling with the effort of control, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
The cold storage units hum beneath them, a constant reminder of where they are, what she commands, how completely he has fallen into her territory.
But she does not let him finish.
She peaks with muffled satisfaction, denying him knowledge of her climax.
She stops, fully seated, her body gripping him like a fist, and reaches behind her—her finger, ungloved, finding his ass, slick with melted ice and whiskey, and presses there, light, teasing, threatening.
Tony flinches. Every muscle in his bound body goes rigid with the unfamiliar sensation, the vulnerability, the knowledge of what she could do.
"Who's your mistress!"
She rims, ready to prod.
"You, Zelda," he offers.
She moves her finger, gentle, insistent, pokes, and he groans—a sound torn from deep in his chest, indignity and arousal braided together.
"Ooff! Aahh!"
She smiles, though he cannot see it. She withdraws her finger slowly, deliberately, and rises from him, his cock slipping free, glistening with her, throbbing against the rubber ring that still denies him release.
"Good," she says, and her voice is warm now.
The voice of a teacher pleased with a slow student.
She steps back, reaching for her chemise, pulling it over her head, covering the tassels, the pearls, the pale skin he will not touch again.
Kitty moves to her side, the two of them silhouetted against the lamplight, looking down at him—bound, blind, hard, helpless.
"Now," Zelda says, "you may finish yourself."
She reaches down, her fingers finding the rubber ring, and rolls it off him slowly, letting the blood rush back, letting him feel the full ache of his arousal without the constraint that made it bearable.
"But only with your own hand," she continues, guiding his bound wrist until his fingers close around his own cock.
"Only while we watch. Only knowing that we are leaving, that you will spend alone in this warehouse, that your climax will be a private thing with no witness but the ice blocks and the hum of the storage units."
She steps back, her hand finding Kitty's, their fingers intertwining.
"I'll send up your driver to untie you later."
They turn, their heels clicking in unison, and walk toward the loading dock door, the night waiting beyond.
Behind them, Tony's hand moves, desperate and rhythmic, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the sound of a man completing the equation that has defeated him.
Zelda does not look back as the door closes
The warehouse swallows the sound of Tony's spending; private and alone, while the two women step into a Packard's waiting warmth, their laughter low and feline, their alliance sealed in ice, rye and the certain knowledge his wayward cock will be his downfall with Tallulah next.