***POST UPDATED 04-01-2020***
I wrote this story for a laugh – of sorts – back in the summer. As the weeks went by, the whole political mess began to prey on my mind more and more, so I wrote some more stories (and revised this one). And now there is a whole collection of filthy tales all inspired by the state we’re in and where we could be going. And you can pre-order that collection here.
In the meantime, have this (in its original form) as a bit of a taster.
He adjusted the lapels of the borrowed suit, and straightened his shoulders. His heart was pounding as he slipped round the corner and joined in with the little group walking towards the market square: this was the first challenge. Would they detect him as a stranger, denounce him as an imposter? Would that, in itself, be enough of a thrill, or enough of a humiliation? Was he getting hard already?
He got a couple of nods from the nearest walkers, nothing more. This was a small-scale event, just a walkabout by the candidate, who wasn’t one of the bigger names: she’d chosen carefully. She had Rules, after all. No unnecessary risk, no inadvertent impact on those who hadn’t consented to be part of the game – at least, nothing that would alarm or distress the general public unnecessarily.
His early experiments and experiences with submission had been fun: impact and restraint certainly did something for him. But meeting her had been the key to unlocking his deepest kinks. Shame, indignity, mockery, the catharsis of utter degradation… she knew what he was all about and was happy to give him what he needed, with a joy and inventiveness he would never have believed possible. Previous mistresses had either not liked this particular fetish of his or hadn’t been able to grasp what he wanted well enough to provide it. Not that he blamed them: he hadn’t fully understood his own desires for some time.
There was a bit of shouting and barracking going on now, and his companions were muttering to one another and squaring their shoulders. He slowed down and moved just a little to the left, detaching himself slightly from the main group, as she’d instructed. His cock was definitely stiffening, and he was glad that the charity-shop suit had unflatteringly baggy trousers.
It happened almost before he was really ready for it: an onslaught from three sides, much of it presumably spontaneous and genuine as the candidate and two of his supporters got hit far more comprehensively. He yelped with the shock of it, the shock of the unexpected icy cold of the liquid that splattered across his face and down his front. He tasted vanilla with a hint of coffee, and froze in place, unlike the other marchers, who were scattering in pursuit, with yells of fury. The milkshake throwers were fast and smart, though, and had rapidly outpaced their victims, helped by those bystanders who managed to obstruct the pursuers in various faux-innocent ways.
Someone seized him by the arm and he almost panicked, but then he recognised the amused dark eyes beneath the brim of the black baseball cap, and let himself be hustled into the waiting green people carrier, still dripping, his heart racing, his face burning with multi-layered embarrassment and fright, and above it all the racing exhilaration of being so publicly shamed and made a fool of.
She was sitting in the back seat, dressed in a ripped-up t-shirt and denim shorts; there were three other friends in the car, all eyeing him with various degrees of disdain. His captor shoved him in next to his angry goddess, and jumped into the driver’s seat.
‘So how does it feel to have everyone despising you?’ she asked, grabbing his groin as the van pulled away.
He started to say something, but couldn’t get the words out before he came in his pants.
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