Metalocalypse Pr0n
Mar. 11th, 2008 06:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Pets
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Various including mentions of Het
Word Count: 3619
“Mmmm…”
Pickles moaned softly in his sleep, limbs stirring and a hand slipping over the soft, warm fabric of his bed to disappear inside the loose waistband of his shorts. For a moment all was still and then the redhead moved again, groaning half in pleasure and half in annoyance as his heavy-lidded green eyes flickered open.
It was the worst and best sort of alarm clock ever invented. Silent, pleasurable, and FAR too effective. The vibrations stopped again, gave him a moment of respite, and he sighed and curled his fingers over his straining cock. They itched to stroke it again, bring him to the completion his body was aching for, but there was no point in torturing himself. Not when there were others who could do a much better job, especially when they were the only ones who could actually grant him his release,
“Douche bag cock rings,” Pickles muttered, grudgingly giving his dick a last warning squeeze before pulling his hand back out of his shorts. Joints popped as he unfolded himself, accompanied by a slight chiming sound. Being belled was almost as irritating as the fucking cock ring but Chuck – Pickles halted that line of thought immediately, a stern mental warning to remember to call him Master coupled with a memory of a particularly harsh punishment served as a good reinforcement – but his Master didn’t like letting him out of sight without the noisy accessory. Getting to his feet, boneless lethargy making his limbs heavy and the nagging demands of his erection not helping, he cracked his back and then bent down to straighten his bed.
The enormous cushion was a deep green, extremely plush and covered in highest quality chenille. It wasn’t easy to clean or move but it was amazingly comfortable to sleep on. Pickles plumped his bed until it was arranged to his liking, smiling slightly at the incongruous sight of the immense pillow located just behind and to the right of Charles’ massive cherry desk. There were few things he enjoyed more than spending a lazy winter evening curled up and warm watching Charles work with half-lidded eyes and getting the occasional scratch behind the ears.
Vibrations tugged him out of his musings, a stern rumble from deep inside his anus that jolted through him and went right to his tortured cock, and he jerked, couldn’t bite back a throaty groan. Someone was being pushy and he decided to be contrary, a streak of spiteful playfulness coming over him as he sauntered slowly down the length of the room. A large mirror hung on the wall where he stopped and he took a minute to preen. His hair was pulled back, the vibrant red dreadlocks captured in a messy tail at the base of his skull, leaving most of his neck visible. His collar was black and thick, nearly two inches across, and a silver bell hung from a central ring to rest between his collar bones and tinkle faintly with every step. A pair of black velvet and leather ears perched atop his head, anchored cleverly to more of his dreads and looking fairly, if he said so as he often had, ridiculous. His chest was bare save for two small silver rings through his nipples and his arms too were free of adornment except for the black leather cuffs at his wrists with their single silver rings currently held flatly in place.
Pickles dipped his thumbs into the sagging waistband of the ancient pair of cutoff blue jeans. The shorts barely came to mid-thigh, white threads wisping off the bottom here and there. Charles had mixed feelings about them but Pickles found them extremely comfortable to sleep in and they DID make his ass look fabulous so he was allowed to wear them from time to time. Now, though, they had to come off, and the drummer popped open the button and opened his zipper, carefully easing the old denim off of his hips before he let them drop to the floor. His cock, freed, slapped against his belly fully erect and ready. Another silver ring, tight and locked into place around the base of his needy flesh, glinted in the light and Pickles glared at the hated thing. One last item completed his rather minimalist ensemble. His tail was made of the same leather and velvet as his ears and it was thick and long, the end of it snaking down to brush the tops of his ankles. It was embedded deeply inside his rear, held in place with a cleverly designed, radio controlled, vibration-generating plug, the bringer of so much of his pleasure and torture.
He made a rather silly-looking cat boy, mainly because he wasn’t an adorably androgynous teenage boy, but the Master liked it and Pickles had to admit that being a cat was a rather good thing to be. He could be lazy and contrary and he was spoiled more than he was punished. And cats weren’t dogs; they didn’t come when called. They came on their own time. Pickles told himself he was curious and not worried about displeasing the Master when he cut short his appraisal of his appearance and pushed the recessed, hidden button next to the mirror. Silently it swung open, revealing a downward spiral of stone stairs lit by dimly glowing wall sconces. A faint hint of cooler air hit his bare skin, hardening his nipples and raising small goose bumps across his shoulders, and Pickles shivered before he stepped down onto the first stair.
A faint jangling from his bell provided a backdrop to his every step as he made his way down the seemingly endless flight of stairs. They had an elevator to come back up but it was located halfway across Mordhaus and Pickles, in spite of his general disregard for modesty, wasn’t about to trot stark naked in his kitty gear through the building just to reach an elevator. Besides, Ch-Master said taking the stairs made it easier to reach the proper frame of mind and, like usual, he was right. Pickles knew his thoughts were changing, focusing on what lay ahead with every step down that he took.
It had been after the world tour in ’02 that they’d started this. That tour, the Death, Destruction, and Doom Tour, had been their biggest yet. At least twenty thousand people had died and they’d raked in over a billion in profits. The band had also come home exhausted and for once not nearly as triumphant as they usually were. Tired, worn mentally and physically, they’d nearly slid into a depression and they’d all been sniping at each other, the thought of the new album they had to start on nearly unbearable. It was too much work, too many decisions to make, and, despite their generally irresponsible lives, it had been too great of a responsibility. Pickles had been moping in Charles’ room, sprawled across his luxurious bed and whining, when the manager had seemingly snapped. His hand had fallen hard and fast across the drummer’s rear and, when Pickles shouted in outrage and shock, his other hand had closed firmly around flailing arms. Held rigid, unable to resist, Pickles had been spanked to within an inch of his life and he had been, although he’d never admit it, crying when Charles finally stopped. Then before the drummer could crawl away to nurse his pain and his confused, jumbled emotions, the manager had flipped him over, scooped him up so that his tender ass was resting gently on Charles’ lap. Ofdensen’s lips had been soft and coaxing against his but his hand had closed with determination around the erection Pickles hadn’t even known he was sporting. It was one of the most powerful orgasms he’d ever had in his life and he’d passed out afterwards only to awaken hours later tied to the bed.
There had been kinks to work out and it hadn’t gone smoothly at first but eventually Charles had worked everything out the way he always did. When the collars came on, any responsibility except towards a VERY limited number of choices went far far away. Charles, and a few carefully selected employees who had signed their lives away, took over. Ofdensen ruled with an iron fist, the Master in the truest sense of the word, and he knew his boys well. He knew their limits and he kept them as close to the edge as possible without ever pushing them over. And after the collars came off, Dethklok was back and ready to go to work. As for Charles, well, Pickles was selfish and he would never ever share what happened sometimes in the manager’s rooms when the pressure finally got to be too much for even Ofdensen and they traded places. So that was why Mordhaus had yet another hidden elevator and the long flight of stairs that started behind the hidden door in Charles’ office.
They’d finished the last tour ten days ago and were well into the decompression phase and Pickles was a cat now instead of a drummer. His bare feet on the stone floor and the ringing of his bell were the only sounds as he stepped off of the last step and paused in front of the enormous steel door. A keypad and scanner were set off to one side and he punched in his code and let his fingerprints be read. Noiselessly the door slid open and Pickles stepped inside and into another world.
The dungeon wasn’t really a dungeon. It was on the ground floor of Mordhaus and plenty of sunlight streamed in through the one-way glass set up near the ceiling. Bright and clean, it was the opposite of the dark brutality of the rest of their home and sometimes the incongruity of it, combined with what went on inside, made Pickles nearly hysterical with laughter. But it was the Master’s domain and his choice and it worked perfectly because there could be no hiding, no shadows, there. Partitions divided the space and gave a semblance of privacy and at first glance Pickles didn’t see anyone. But he heard shouting clearly, a distinctive voice yelling, and he headed in that direction.
Smooth, pale wood covered the floor and the partition walls around him were painted in cream and beige. Pickles got a glimpse of Nathan and Toki through one opening, the chiseled Norwegian down on his knees before the singer, and though he was tempted to stay and watch, another bellow sent him onward. Coming around a corner, the drummer halted at the edge of a large opening. The Master was seated almost directly opposite of him and the sight of Charles in his suit – pure black that he only wore here, even the tie around his neck and the slender, wire frames of his glasses – opened a pit of dread and anticipation in Pickles’ stomach. The hollering, broken English mixed with hoarse curses in Swedish, came from the tall, pale blond in the center of the room.
Skwisgaar was a switch, fitting given his enormous sexual appetite and his fragile ego. He could and did dominate quite successfully but he always grew bored with that game, demanding with his behavior to submit instead. But he could never go quietly and the world’s fastest guitarist often provided quite a bit of entertainment during his transitions. A sharp glance from the Master sent Pickles walking just a bit faster than his upstairs saunter across the floor. He paused in front of the Swede to give him a once over, taking in the way Skwisgaar’s skin stretched over his ribs as he twisted and tugged against the restraints holding his arms over his head. The guitarist’s erection looked even more tortured than his own and Pickles, after flicking his eyes over to Charles to make sure he was being watched, bent down and lapped delicately – a cat in the cream - at the Swede’s slit. Skwisgaar moaned and then hissed out a very rude curse when Pickles straightened and walked away, his tail swinging just a bit as his steps became more seductive.
Charles was frowning but Pickles could tell there was a smile lurking under it so he didn’t bother to hide his self-satisfied grin when he knelt and butted his head against a black covered knee, every inch a cat now that he was with the Master. Hands caught him under his chin, tilted his face up to look into sparkling brown eyes. “You took your time Catling. Maybe I should find you a stronger tail.”
Pickles sniffed, directed his gaze over Charles’ shoulder. He didn’t speak, wasn’t supposed to when he was the Master’s favorite pet. The Master chuckled and then urged him to stand. “On my lap Catling. I need something to keep me calm while dealing with this stubborn fool.”
Immediately Pickles scrambled to his feet and then settled in Charles’ lap. His head rested in the comfortable crook of the Master’s shoulder and his feet swung in the air off of one chair arm. The Master found his tail, tugged on it slightly before curling it up and over the drummer’s stomach, the soft end brushing against his nipples. The plug started vibrating again, much less powerful than before but this time it didn’t stop, and Pickles resigned himself to a session of pleasurable torture when the Master’s hand closed around his erection and began to slowly and gently stroke.
“You may resume gentleman, madam. Make sure you take care of his filthy mouth first.”
As Pickles watched from his perch in Charles’ lap, three hooded minions stepped forward from their stations along the partition walls. The anonymous hoods were the same but these minions wore the same black suits as Charles and they bore leather and silver in their hands. One of the men placed a small stepstool in front of Skwisgaar and the other stood behind him, hands on the Swede’s hips to keep him from kicking. The woman stepped up, a stiff roll of leather in her hands, and she waited while the guitarist shouted obscenities until his mouth opened far enough for her to shoot forward and stuff the gagging bit in his mouth. Quick fingers slipped the leather straps over and beneath his ears and behind his head, buckling the bit securely in place. Skwisgaar could still make noise but now it was completely unintelligible.
“That’s better. Thank you. You may proceed.”
As his own slow torment resumed, the Master’s fingers pinching delicately at one peaked nipple, Pickles let out a soft mmrr of pleasure. Half-lidded eyes kept watching the Swede as the minions went to work. The boots were first, a combination of black leather and pvc. They stretched from a high, thick heel that made Skwisgaar thrust his pelvis forward and his back arch in order to keep his balance over his knees to cling to the middle of his thighs, the muscles in his legs clearly delineated by the tight material. The corset was next, more of the same construction. It rode above the Swede’s sharp hipbones and rose to brush the bottom edges of his rosy nipples and the man behind him tugged the laces tightly, shrinking Skwisgaar’s already narrow waist even further. Straps from the corset were quickly connected to his boots, snaking down over his thighs and across the plush swell of his buttocks with two more rising from the center on either side to lock onto his heavy collar.
The long blond fall of Skwisgaar’s hair was gathered and twisted, lifted to be anchored in a high ponytail near the crown of his head and a pair of leather horse ears were pinned into place. The female minion carefully worked a complicated arrangement of leather and silver buckles into place over his face, a line of black across his sandy eyebrows and the patrician bridge of nose, streaks over his cheeks that disappeared behind his head. Another set of hands was at work with his genitalia and Pickles couldn’t tear his eyes away as he watched Skwisgaar’s large cock disappear beneath a tight leather wrapping until only the purpled head of his cock and the silver ring around the base were visible. More restraints were added to his testicles, the skin pulled and stretched until it made Pickles ache in sympathy.
Skwisgaar was largely docile now, mumbling only occasionally from behind the bit and holding still. At a nod from the Master, his arms came down from over his head, unhooked from the long tether that ran to an anchor in the ceiling. More pvc and leather surrounded them, tight, buckled sleeves encasing the Swede from the balls of his shoulders past the end of his fingertips. Cautious hands manipulated him, urged his arms behind his back until his elbows almost met and his enclosed fingers reached the base of his neck. The excess material was slipped through a ring on his collar and tied, keeping his upper limbs immobile and hidden beneath his hair. Only a few final touches were needed before Skwisgaar could be led off towards the stable and Pickles shifted as the Master’s grip tightened in anticipation.
Similar to his own tail, there were only two major differences. The first was the size and shape of the plug. It was huge and curving and Pickles felt his passage tighten around his plug as he winced watching it be oiled. But Skwisgaar’s bright blue eyes were shimmering and he held perfectly still as each fat inch of the massive plug slid into his body. The tail itself was a horse’s tail, a long fall of hair the same shade as that atop his head. It emerged from the top of his crack and a few twists of black leather there kept it tightly bundled before it arched and curved in a lovely pale yellow cascade towards his ankles. The two male minions withdrew, taking the stepstool with them. The female looked to Charles and he nodded as she attached weighted clamps to Skwisgaar’s nipples and hung another one off the end of his swollen cock. Finally a rope was clipped to the back of his collar and she prodded Skwisgaar until he was facing the Master directly before she bowed.
Pickles mewled softly into the tender skin of Charles’ neck, his beard tickling the sensitive skin. Skwisgaar was gorgeous, the perfect horse boy with his long legs, haughty bearing, and massive cock and he could feel the Master’s dick twitch beneath his rear in response to the sight. Against his lips he could feel Charles’ adam’s apple bob as he swallowed but the Master’s voice was firm and clear when he spoke.
“Take him away. Make sure you work him over well and put him to work in the yard for a while as a punishment for his insolence.”
The minion nodded and pulled a stiff leather strap out of her jacket. The first strike of it against Skwisgaar’s pale rear was loud enough to reach Pickles’ ears and the Swede’s head jerked up as he was driven in a fast, marching pace from the room, leaving the cat-drummer alone with the Master.
“Well Catling, be thankful you aren’t as willful as that one. I doubt you would find the stables to your liking.”
Pickles let out another mew and nuzzled at Charles’ neck again and wriggled carefully. He was hard as a rock, the vibrations still going, and without the distraction of the guitarist he could only think of his release. The Master chuckled and shifted him, lifting him up to straddle his lap. “I should punish you for taking your time,” and Pickles shook his head, butted his forehead against Charles and tried to look cute, “but I can always save that for later.”
Fingers parted his buttocks, traced the taut flesh where it closed over the plug and the base of his tail, teasing, and Pickles responded by finding the Master’s fly and yanking open the button and the zipper. Charles’ cock sprang free and Pickles stroked it once while the Master chuckled. “I get the idea Catling.”
His tail being pulled out was always an unsettling feeling but it only lasted a few seconds before he was full again. Pickles settled himself over the Master’s cock and sat down, taking him in a long, swift move and groaning out his pleasure. Charles’ mouth closed over his, tongue sweeping in with demanding strokes and Pickles surrendered. He let the Master’s hand at the base of his spine guide his pace, moving up and down steadily while his cock throbbed against the restraining ring until at last…at last…Charles fisted it. Tight strokes, up and twisting around his sensitive head and Pickles couldn’t stop moaning and mewling into his Master’s mouth.
“Now Pickles.” A touch of metal on metal as the silver ring around Charles’ finger touched the ring around the base of the drummer’s cock and magnetically released the catch. His orgasm ripped through him in strong waves of pleasure and Pickles came all over himself and the Master’s spotless black suit, a quiet groan echoing in his ears as Charles followed him.
Strong arms closed over his back, holding him close, and Pickles cuddled closer, resting in the Master’s warm, safe embrace. They remained that way for a few minutes until Charles slid free and gently eased Pickles’ tail back into the drummer’s slippery passage. “A change of clothes for me and a nap for you Catling. Does that sound good?”
And Pickles sighed happily and let out a contented meow into the Master’s ear so only Charles could hear it.
A/N: Someone shoot me now. Please. Poor Pickles, I'm so mean to you.
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Various including mentions of Het
Word Count: 3619
“Mmmm…”
Pickles moaned softly in his sleep, limbs stirring and a hand slipping over the soft, warm fabric of his bed to disappear inside the loose waistband of his shorts. For a moment all was still and then the redhead moved again, groaning half in pleasure and half in annoyance as his heavy-lidded green eyes flickered open.
It was the worst and best sort of alarm clock ever invented. Silent, pleasurable, and FAR too effective. The vibrations stopped again, gave him a moment of respite, and he sighed and curled his fingers over his straining cock. They itched to stroke it again, bring him to the completion his body was aching for, but there was no point in torturing himself. Not when there were others who could do a much better job, especially when they were the only ones who could actually grant him his release,
“Douche bag cock rings,” Pickles muttered, grudgingly giving his dick a last warning squeeze before pulling his hand back out of his shorts. Joints popped as he unfolded himself, accompanied by a slight chiming sound. Being belled was almost as irritating as the fucking cock ring but Chuck – Pickles halted that line of thought immediately, a stern mental warning to remember to call him Master coupled with a memory of a particularly harsh punishment served as a good reinforcement – but his Master didn’t like letting him out of sight without the noisy accessory. Getting to his feet, boneless lethargy making his limbs heavy and the nagging demands of his erection not helping, he cracked his back and then bent down to straighten his bed.
The enormous cushion was a deep green, extremely plush and covered in highest quality chenille. It wasn’t easy to clean or move but it was amazingly comfortable to sleep on. Pickles plumped his bed until it was arranged to his liking, smiling slightly at the incongruous sight of the immense pillow located just behind and to the right of Charles’ massive cherry desk. There were few things he enjoyed more than spending a lazy winter evening curled up and warm watching Charles work with half-lidded eyes and getting the occasional scratch behind the ears.
Vibrations tugged him out of his musings, a stern rumble from deep inside his anus that jolted through him and went right to his tortured cock, and he jerked, couldn’t bite back a throaty groan. Someone was being pushy and he decided to be contrary, a streak of spiteful playfulness coming over him as he sauntered slowly down the length of the room. A large mirror hung on the wall where he stopped and he took a minute to preen. His hair was pulled back, the vibrant red dreadlocks captured in a messy tail at the base of his skull, leaving most of his neck visible. His collar was black and thick, nearly two inches across, and a silver bell hung from a central ring to rest between his collar bones and tinkle faintly with every step. A pair of black velvet and leather ears perched atop his head, anchored cleverly to more of his dreads and looking fairly, if he said so as he often had, ridiculous. His chest was bare save for two small silver rings through his nipples and his arms too were free of adornment except for the black leather cuffs at his wrists with their single silver rings currently held flatly in place.
Pickles dipped his thumbs into the sagging waistband of the ancient pair of cutoff blue jeans. The shorts barely came to mid-thigh, white threads wisping off the bottom here and there. Charles had mixed feelings about them but Pickles found them extremely comfortable to sleep in and they DID make his ass look fabulous so he was allowed to wear them from time to time. Now, though, they had to come off, and the drummer popped open the button and opened his zipper, carefully easing the old denim off of his hips before he let them drop to the floor. His cock, freed, slapped against his belly fully erect and ready. Another silver ring, tight and locked into place around the base of his needy flesh, glinted in the light and Pickles glared at the hated thing. One last item completed his rather minimalist ensemble. His tail was made of the same leather and velvet as his ears and it was thick and long, the end of it snaking down to brush the tops of his ankles. It was embedded deeply inside his rear, held in place with a cleverly designed, radio controlled, vibration-generating plug, the bringer of so much of his pleasure and torture.
He made a rather silly-looking cat boy, mainly because he wasn’t an adorably androgynous teenage boy, but the Master liked it and Pickles had to admit that being a cat was a rather good thing to be. He could be lazy and contrary and he was spoiled more than he was punished. And cats weren’t dogs; they didn’t come when called. They came on their own time. Pickles told himself he was curious and not worried about displeasing the Master when he cut short his appraisal of his appearance and pushed the recessed, hidden button next to the mirror. Silently it swung open, revealing a downward spiral of stone stairs lit by dimly glowing wall sconces. A faint hint of cooler air hit his bare skin, hardening his nipples and raising small goose bumps across his shoulders, and Pickles shivered before he stepped down onto the first stair.
A faint jangling from his bell provided a backdrop to his every step as he made his way down the seemingly endless flight of stairs. They had an elevator to come back up but it was located halfway across Mordhaus and Pickles, in spite of his general disregard for modesty, wasn’t about to trot stark naked in his kitty gear through the building just to reach an elevator. Besides, Ch-Master said taking the stairs made it easier to reach the proper frame of mind and, like usual, he was right. Pickles knew his thoughts were changing, focusing on what lay ahead with every step down that he took.
It had been after the world tour in ’02 that they’d started this. That tour, the Death, Destruction, and Doom Tour, had been their biggest yet. At least twenty thousand people had died and they’d raked in over a billion in profits. The band had also come home exhausted and for once not nearly as triumphant as they usually were. Tired, worn mentally and physically, they’d nearly slid into a depression and they’d all been sniping at each other, the thought of the new album they had to start on nearly unbearable. It was too much work, too many decisions to make, and, despite their generally irresponsible lives, it had been too great of a responsibility. Pickles had been moping in Charles’ room, sprawled across his luxurious bed and whining, when the manager had seemingly snapped. His hand had fallen hard and fast across the drummer’s rear and, when Pickles shouted in outrage and shock, his other hand had closed firmly around flailing arms. Held rigid, unable to resist, Pickles had been spanked to within an inch of his life and he had been, although he’d never admit it, crying when Charles finally stopped. Then before the drummer could crawl away to nurse his pain and his confused, jumbled emotions, the manager had flipped him over, scooped him up so that his tender ass was resting gently on Charles’ lap. Ofdensen’s lips had been soft and coaxing against his but his hand had closed with determination around the erection Pickles hadn’t even known he was sporting. It was one of the most powerful orgasms he’d ever had in his life and he’d passed out afterwards only to awaken hours later tied to the bed.
There had been kinks to work out and it hadn’t gone smoothly at first but eventually Charles had worked everything out the way he always did. When the collars came on, any responsibility except towards a VERY limited number of choices went far far away. Charles, and a few carefully selected employees who had signed their lives away, took over. Ofdensen ruled with an iron fist, the Master in the truest sense of the word, and he knew his boys well. He knew their limits and he kept them as close to the edge as possible without ever pushing them over. And after the collars came off, Dethklok was back and ready to go to work. As for Charles, well, Pickles was selfish and he would never ever share what happened sometimes in the manager’s rooms when the pressure finally got to be too much for even Ofdensen and they traded places. So that was why Mordhaus had yet another hidden elevator and the long flight of stairs that started behind the hidden door in Charles’ office.
They’d finished the last tour ten days ago and were well into the decompression phase and Pickles was a cat now instead of a drummer. His bare feet on the stone floor and the ringing of his bell were the only sounds as he stepped off of the last step and paused in front of the enormous steel door. A keypad and scanner were set off to one side and he punched in his code and let his fingerprints be read. Noiselessly the door slid open and Pickles stepped inside and into another world.
The dungeon wasn’t really a dungeon. It was on the ground floor of Mordhaus and plenty of sunlight streamed in through the one-way glass set up near the ceiling. Bright and clean, it was the opposite of the dark brutality of the rest of their home and sometimes the incongruity of it, combined with what went on inside, made Pickles nearly hysterical with laughter. But it was the Master’s domain and his choice and it worked perfectly because there could be no hiding, no shadows, there. Partitions divided the space and gave a semblance of privacy and at first glance Pickles didn’t see anyone. But he heard shouting clearly, a distinctive voice yelling, and he headed in that direction.
Smooth, pale wood covered the floor and the partition walls around him were painted in cream and beige. Pickles got a glimpse of Nathan and Toki through one opening, the chiseled Norwegian down on his knees before the singer, and though he was tempted to stay and watch, another bellow sent him onward. Coming around a corner, the drummer halted at the edge of a large opening. The Master was seated almost directly opposite of him and the sight of Charles in his suit – pure black that he only wore here, even the tie around his neck and the slender, wire frames of his glasses – opened a pit of dread and anticipation in Pickles’ stomach. The hollering, broken English mixed with hoarse curses in Swedish, came from the tall, pale blond in the center of the room.
Skwisgaar was a switch, fitting given his enormous sexual appetite and his fragile ego. He could and did dominate quite successfully but he always grew bored with that game, demanding with his behavior to submit instead. But he could never go quietly and the world’s fastest guitarist often provided quite a bit of entertainment during his transitions. A sharp glance from the Master sent Pickles walking just a bit faster than his upstairs saunter across the floor. He paused in front of the Swede to give him a once over, taking in the way Skwisgaar’s skin stretched over his ribs as he twisted and tugged against the restraints holding his arms over his head. The guitarist’s erection looked even more tortured than his own and Pickles, after flicking his eyes over to Charles to make sure he was being watched, bent down and lapped delicately – a cat in the cream - at the Swede’s slit. Skwisgaar moaned and then hissed out a very rude curse when Pickles straightened and walked away, his tail swinging just a bit as his steps became more seductive.
Charles was frowning but Pickles could tell there was a smile lurking under it so he didn’t bother to hide his self-satisfied grin when he knelt and butted his head against a black covered knee, every inch a cat now that he was with the Master. Hands caught him under his chin, tilted his face up to look into sparkling brown eyes. “You took your time Catling. Maybe I should find you a stronger tail.”
Pickles sniffed, directed his gaze over Charles’ shoulder. He didn’t speak, wasn’t supposed to when he was the Master’s favorite pet. The Master chuckled and then urged him to stand. “On my lap Catling. I need something to keep me calm while dealing with this stubborn fool.”
Immediately Pickles scrambled to his feet and then settled in Charles’ lap. His head rested in the comfortable crook of the Master’s shoulder and his feet swung in the air off of one chair arm. The Master found his tail, tugged on it slightly before curling it up and over the drummer’s stomach, the soft end brushing against his nipples. The plug started vibrating again, much less powerful than before but this time it didn’t stop, and Pickles resigned himself to a session of pleasurable torture when the Master’s hand closed around his erection and began to slowly and gently stroke.
“You may resume gentleman, madam. Make sure you take care of his filthy mouth first.”
As Pickles watched from his perch in Charles’ lap, three hooded minions stepped forward from their stations along the partition walls. The anonymous hoods were the same but these minions wore the same black suits as Charles and they bore leather and silver in their hands. One of the men placed a small stepstool in front of Skwisgaar and the other stood behind him, hands on the Swede’s hips to keep him from kicking. The woman stepped up, a stiff roll of leather in her hands, and she waited while the guitarist shouted obscenities until his mouth opened far enough for her to shoot forward and stuff the gagging bit in his mouth. Quick fingers slipped the leather straps over and beneath his ears and behind his head, buckling the bit securely in place. Skwisgaar could still make noise but now it was completely unintelligible.
“That’s better. Thank you. You may proceed.”
As his own slow torment resumed, the Master’s fingers pinching delicately at one peaked nipple, Pickles let out a soft mmrr of pleasure. Half-lidded eyes kept watching the Swede as the minions went to work. The boots were first, a combination of black leather and pvc. They stretched from a high, thick heel that made Skwisgaar thrust his pelvis forward and his back arch in order to keep his balance over his knees to cling to the middle of his thighs, the muscles in his legs clearly delineated by the tight material. The corset was next, more of the same construction. It rode above the Swede’s sharp hipbones and rose to brush the bottom edges of his rosy nipples and the man behind him tugged the laces tightly, shrinking Skwisgaar’s already narrow waist even further. Straps from the corset were quickly connected to his boots, snaking down over his thighs and across the plush swell of his buttocks with two more rising from the center on either side to lock onto his heavy collar.
The long blond fall of Skwisgaar’s hair was gathered and twisted, lifted to be anchored in a high ponytail near the crown of his head and a pair of leather horse ears were pinned into place. The female minion carefully worked a complicated arrangement of leather and silver buckles into place over his face, a line of black across his sandy eyebrows and the patrician bridge of nose, streaks over his cheeks that disappeared behind his head. Another set of hands was at work with his genitalia and Pickles couldn’t tear his eyes away as he watched Skwisgaar’s large cock disappear beneath a tight leather wrapping until only the purpled head of his cock and the silver ring around the base were visible. More restraints were added to his testicles, the skin pulled and stretched until it made Pickles ache in sympathy.
Skwisgaar was largely docile now, mumbling only occasionally from behind the bit and holding still. At a nod from the Master, his arms came down from over his head, unhooked from the long tether that ran to an anchor in the ceiling. More pvc and leather surrounded them, tight, buckled sleeves encasing the Swede from the balls of his shoulders past the end of his fingertips. Cautious hands manipulated him, urged his arms behind his back until his elbows almost met and his enclosed fingers reached the base of his neck. The excess material was slipped through a ring on his collar and tied, keeping his upper limbs immobile and hidden beneath his hair. Only a few final touches were needed before Skwisgaar could be led off towards the stable and Pickles shifted as the Master’s grip tightened in anticipation.
Similar to his own tail, there were only two major differences. The first was the size and shape of the plug. It was huge and curving and Pickles felt his passage tighten around his plug as he winced watching it be oiled. But Skwisgaar’s bright blue eyes were shimmering and he held perfectly still as each fat inch of the massive plug slid into his body. The tail itself was a horse’s tail, a long fall of hair the same shade as that atop his head. It emerged from the top of his crack and a few twists of black leather there kept it tightly bundled before it arched and curved in a lovely pale yellow cascade towards his ankles. The two male minions withdrew, taking the stepstool with them. The female looked to Charles and he nodded as she attached weighted clamps to Skwisgaar’s nipples and hung another one off the end of his swollen cock. Finally a rope was clipped to the back of his collar and she prodded Skwisgaar until he was facing the Master directly before she bowed.
Pickles mewled softly into the tender skin of Charles’ neck, his beard tickling the sensitive skin. Skwisgaar was gorgeous, the perfect horse boy with his long legs, haughty bearing, and massive cock and he could feel the Master’s dick twitch beneath his rear in response to the sight. Against his lips he could feel Charles’ adam’s apple bob as he swallowed but the Master’s voice was firm and clear when he spoke.
“Take him away. Make sure you work him over well and put him to work in the yard for a while as a punishment for his insolence.”
The minion nodded and pulled a stiff leather strap out of her jacket. The first strike of it against Skwisgaar’s pale rear was loud enough to reach Pickles’ ears and the Swede’s head jerked up as he was driven in a fast, marching pace from the room, leaving the cat-drummer alone with the Master.
“Well Catling, be thankful you aren’t as willful as that one. I doubt you would find the stables to your liking.”
Pickles let out another mew and nuzzled at Charles’ neck again and wriggled carefully. He was hard as a rock, the vibrations still going, and without the distraction of the guitarist he could only think of his release. The Master chuckled and shifted him, lifting him up to straddle his lap. “I should punish you for taking your time,” and Pickles shook his head, butted his forehead against Charles and tried to look cute, “but I can always save that for later.”
Fingers parted his buttocks, traced the taut flesh where it closed over the plug and the base of his tail, teasing, and Pickles responded by finding the Master’s fly and yanking open the button and the zipper. Charles’ cock sprang free and Pickles stroked it once while the Master chuckled. “I get the idea Catling.”
His tail being pulled out was always an unsettling feeling but it only lasted a few seconds before he was full again. Pickles settled himself over the Master’s cock and sat down, taking him in a long, swift move and groaning out his pleasure. Charles’ mouth closed over his, tongue sweeping in with demanding strokes and Pickles surrendered. He let the Master’s hand at the base of his spine guide his pace, moving up and down steadily while his cock throbbed against the restraining ring until at last…at last…Charles fisted it. Tight strokes, up and twisting around his sensitive head and Pickles couldn’t stop moaning and mewling into his Master’s mouth.
“Now Pickles.” A touch of metal on metal as the silver ring around Charles’ finger touched the ring around the base of the drummer’s cock and magnetically released the catch. His orgasm ripped through him in strong waves of pleasure and Pickles came all over himself and the Master’s spotless black suit, a quiet groan echoing in his ears as Charles followed him.
Strong arms closed over his back, holding him close, and Pickles cuddled closer, resting in the Master’s warm, safe embrace. They remained that way for a few minutes until Charles slid free and gently eased Pickles’ tail back into the drummer’s slippery passage. “A change of clothes for me and a nap for you Catling. Does that sound good?”
And Pickles sighed happily and let out a contented meow into the Master’s ear so only Charles could hear it.
A/N: Someone shoot me now. Please. Poor Pickles, I'm so mean to you.
