My name is Lucy, and I am the owner and only employee of Hell. If you ask my insurance company, Hell is a
'themed massage parlor'
discreetly located in the back corner of a strip mall. If you ask the state, it's a brothel.
Neither definition is quite fair, but if I'm being honest, the state's is closer. Hell does sell sex. The only thing is, I'm not the product.
At Hell's core is a central room, just large enough for me to move about when its full capacity of eight guests are restrained along the walls. Those walls are tile, as are the floor and ceiling. I spent ages picking it out. It's matte black porcelain, just reflective enough to keep the dim red light from the corners. That's crucial to the ambiance; you shouldn't be able to see into the corners.
But even though I'd agonized over my tile choice, that wasn't my masterstroke. My real moment of brilliance had been the chains. Cheap, heavy, and metal, their sound is better than any music I could pump in. Whenever I can secure someone or something with the chains, I do. Sometimes, I even hang them loose from the devices so that they chime and clang along with the squirming occupant.
You might think this kind of business does better at night. No doubt you'd be correct. But the strip mall that houses Hell--in the back, under discrete signage, facing away from the street--doesn't allow me to be open past nine. Which is fine with me. Would you want to be the only girl in a brothel after dark?
Anyway, what might surprise you is how many of your coworkers are sneaking off around lunch to spend an hour in Hell. It's mostly men; a primarily middle-aged demographic. That used to bother me. I'd try and court more women, and stressed when my few female regulars stopped showing up. I think I had this idea that the boys would enjoy something pretty to look at instead of just other sweaty dad-bods. But eventually I had to get over it and accept Hell for what it was.
Thirty minutes before lunch, on the day of the accident, I already had three guests chained up and moaning. That was a good start to the day.
I was paying closest attention to a new boy I'd nicknamed Freckles. I didn't know his real name. It was on the waiver he'd signed, and I'd seen it forty-five minutes ago on his driver's license when I checked he was over eighteen, but I'm bad with names--which is a good thing! It wouldn't do for me to accidentally out one of my guests. What would even be the point of the hoods, then?
Aside from his hood, Freckles, like my other guests, was naked. He was young, twenty-three--I remembered that, at least. I don't mind the often doughy bodies I chain up every day. Honestly, it helps with my confidence. But it's nice, on occasion, to have a fit athletic type in the mix. Even if Freckles's complexion threatened to throw off my carefully balanced lighting.
"You're doing great, sweetie," I told him for the hundredth time. My fingers explored the sweaty channels of his abs. "Fifteen minutes left. You're almost there."
Freckles just groaned. He was slumped forward; only the chains connecting his elbow cuffs to the wall held him up. The red leather bench he was straddling had collected a pool of cum, mixed with copious dribble from his ring gag. I let the first-timers use ring gags so that they're easier to hear if they panic. Freckles's balls, aided by a thin fuzz of red hair, painted the mixture along the bench as the silicone ring of a milking machine encouraged him and his cock forward and back. He didn't have anything in his ass--another mercy for first-timers--but his cock was plenty red and angry. A rubberized band I'd rolled down his then eager, now beleaguered, erection kept him hard. Not for the first time that day I reached around the milking machine for a squeeze--to check for circulation, you understand.
I remember it was right then, with my hand around Freckles's cock, that the blue ceiling light came on. That was the signal that someone was at the door. "Sorry boys, the lunch rush is here." I breezed past my two regulars. I'd chained them across from each other so they'd have something to look at.
I was pretty sure Skinny liked being looked at. He was suspended from the wall today, hooked under his knees to open him up for the vertical piston which had been fucking him for thirty minutes now. His cock hung shriveled and limp. He'd left a tiny puddle of cum on the floor below him only ten minutes in.
Grumpy was my other regular at that time. There was no way I could have hung his significant bulk from the wall like Skinny, even with extra leverage from my winching setup. I'd laid him flat on his back, head out so he had to crane it backward if he wanted to watch me strut around the room. Between his legs, which were stretched flush to the wall by his ankle cuffs, my machines worked on him. Grumpy wasn't my favorite client, and I'll admit I often went a little harder on him as a result. He was having an especially rough time of it that day, sweating profusely and breathing laboriously between his hood and a red ball gag. At least he'd gotten to cum. Three times now, by my count.
I closed the door to the playroom behind me. It's a heavy door, and when it's closed you can barely hear the rattling chains and moaning from inside. That left me in the vestibule, a combined waiting and coat room. The blue 'Guest' light was on above the door, so I opened it and let Father Marric inside.
The tall man always showed up in black catholic robes, complete with the little white swatch at his neck. He could have been playing a part, but I'd always suspected he was the real thing. It was the scuffing on the elbows of his robes, they looked well worn, more than a prop.
"Welcome to Hell," I said, like I always did. I put a little extra drama into it, in case he really was a priest.
Father Marric wasn't yet a regular. But he'd been a few times before, so he knew the drill. He waited patiently for me to pick out a hood for him, and even squatted down a little so I didn't have to reach to lace up the back.
I always put the hoods on first. It makes the guests more comfortable, knowing they're finally anonymous. Also, I think it helps to set the mood. They're much more compliant, and less handsy, wearing the faux leather mask.
Thanks to his previous visits, I knew how to strip Father Marric's heavy cotton robes. There were little seams with a series of hooks inside them. It was a more time-consuming process than undoing a belt and yanking down some jeans, but I didn't mind. Some men prefer to undress themselves, but when they'll let me, I do like to do it myself. It's a little thrill being the one to guide them out of their business attire and into their secret, perhaps shameful, alter egos.
From the waist up, Father Marric had deeply bronze skin. It was tough, almost like animal hide in places. It hung on him now, showing signs of age. But you could see he must once have had an impressive physique.
His thighs and groin were different. Their paleness stuck out sharp against the rest of his body, and his cock, which hung limp, looked like it belonged to a far less imposing man.
I suddenly had the urge to hold it. So I did. "Do you mind?" I asked my tall guest.
"Of course not, my child."
His cock grew in my hand. I didn't stroke it, just supported it on my palm so we could both watch it rise. He was circumcised, of course, and he hardened from the base, his tip inflating and darkening only at the end. He had a nice cock, sizable, but not obscenely so. In another context I might have found it an intimidating thrill, now that it was fully hard.
"So, what are you in the mood for today?" I asked.
"Absolution," he said. It was the perfect non-answer. It can be difficult when guests want something specific. Especially if the machines needed to make it happen are already in use. But I could work with this.
"Oh, have we been naughty?" I giggled.
"Something of the sort."
Mounted on wall hooks, next to the hoods, I keep a collection of gags. Every guest in Hell wears a hood and a gag. It wouldn't do to have them properly communicating with each other. The hoods have a hole for the gag, eye holes too. This way they can watch each other and also know they're being watched. I think that's the right balance between shame and anonymity.
I released Father Marric's cock so I could flick through the gags. It stayed sticking out at horizontal attention. "Remember your last visit?"
"Of course," he said.
"More or less intense?"
Father Marric didn't say anything, but I knew the sound of shuffling feet.
I returned to him with a gag. It was a short rubber intruder with a clever design that pressed the tongue down against the bottom of the mouth. "Tell me what you want sweetie, I don't judge."
The little eyeholes of Father Marric's mask offered poor peripheral vision. He had to turn his whole head to look down at me. "I'd like to book three hours," he said, "and I have no engagements this evening."
"Say no more." I reached up to put the gag in.
But Father Marric did say more. "I've been having trouble sleeping," he whispered. "I hope to leave exhausted."
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The third room in Hell is the washroom. It's the same style as the playroom, but white instead of black. There is a sink, a toilet, and a wall shower. You can spray the whole room down with the detachable shower head. That's important because the showerhead is not the traditional flower design. Instead, it's a thin phallic shape that doubles as an enema nozzle. Just like with all my guests, I sent Father Marric to spend some time with it before we moved to the playroom.
That gave me a little time. Which was good. Because the lunch rush was fully in swing.
