Phoebe smiled. "Soapy, I think I'm going to leave Nolan down there in the Kennel for another week." The now platinum blonde giggled, and her full breasts bounced a bit in the violet halter top. Soapy tried not to drool behind the counter. Damn she's looking good he thought, just like the tramps in my Narcotics Anonymous meetings.
"But I thought your original bargain with Nolan was he stayed a week, wasn't it, Phoebe?" Jesus, Soapy thought, Nolan had actually agreed to stay in the Kennel for a week if she'd let him suck on her tits for twenty minutes, something Nolan should have been allowed to do anyway...he had a right as her husband.
But Phoebe hadn't allowed Nolan to touch her precious boobs in over a year, and Soapy had seen quite a lot of them in his employment at the leather BDSM store. The Little Shop ("We Serve the Pervs") had lots of people like Phoebe and Nolan coming in and out, and Soapy had gotten quite used to this.
So from what Nolan had told Soapy during gruel time, Phoebe had agreed to this bargain, but she'd not really let Nolan enjoy her naked, pure pink nipples (Soapy had sucked them, as had many other men). Instead Phoebe had dunked a brassiere in urine and put it on and made Nolan suck her boobs through that till all the urine was gone, and the bra was dry.
Good God! And then Nolan had been locked in the Kennel. He'd been miserable through the last six days, and was looking forward to leaving the cage, and he'd asked Soapy how many days were left every morning, before Hydrotherapy.
Soapy felt a little guilty, because he'd had Phoebe AND their 19 year old daughter Clarice to his little apartment, fucking them both every which way, and Nolan wasn't really a bad guy, and quite wealthy.
"I know the agreement was for a week" Phoebe said, breaking Soapy's reverie. Phoebe smirked, her glossed lips crinkling a bit. "I have a new um, friend coming over a lot now, our oldest son's soccer coach, and Nolan would be in the way. I think Nolan needs more training." Phoebe bent over the counter and Soapy took a quick intake of breath...what a cleavage.
"Nolan's on Code Orange right now, isn't he? Move him to Code Blue, take away his radio privileges and make him take two hydrotherapies instead of one, put it on our Visa...oh, and three extra days. Then two days on Code Purple... Got it?"
Soapy noted all this on a pad. Whatever else, the customer was always right at the Little Shop. And as Code Purple cost three hundred a day, what were you going to do? The Little Shop's proprieter gave Soapy a 5% commission as well as his salary, so he had to look out for his best interests. And of course he might get to visit Phoebe and Clarice again...
Phoebe gave Soapy a nice tongue kiss and pirouetted out of the Little Shop.
Soapy tired to focus on inventory taking, but it was hard. Out of the Concord state prison for nearly a year, all he could think about was what he couldn't have. Codiene, Dilaudid, Demerol, Dolophine, Dexedrine, Seconal, Benzedrine, Percodan,Valium, Fioranol, heroin, Percocet, morphine, Tylenol 2,3,4,5... Oxycontin and all the other powders and pills Soapy had been "free" from since his reform. And instead he had to concentrate on how many dildoes were in stock at the Little Shop.
The door to the basement opened, and Plato, one of the huge blacks came up. "You got the cattle-prod, Mist' Soaperstein?" Plato grinned. "Bubbles be acting up again. You know what work for him."
Soapy sighed and handed Plato a large bag. "And don't forget the new package of fire ants has come in from the Cricket Farm, Plato. Don't over-use the cattle prod on him, it's not safe is it?" Plato's response was just to laugh uproariously and go back down stairs with the evil cattle prod.
Masochism mystified Soapy, who had spent nearly thirty years seeking drugs to make him feel great...why would people want to feel worse?
Soapy looked up, somewhat disgruntled as the bell to the Little Shop rang, and a very tan middle aged couple came in, accompanied by a fetching strawberry blonde. Before they approached the counter, the man whispered to the girl, who laughed and tossed her red curls. She gave the older woman a spiteful look and flounced to the back, where she fingered leather vests with interest.
The older woman looked at the floor, and the two older people came to the counter. Soapy chuckled, thinking that people shouldn't bring their kids to kink stores. This would be a disruption to the inventory that he was trying to take.
There was a missing dildo, but someone had spirited it out without Soapy realizing it...how? An idea popped into Soapy's head, and he became somewhat nauseous. Soapy looked up at the approaching couple with a game face.
"How're you doin'" the man said in a Southwestern twang. Wonderful. Soapy, who had spent a month in an Austin hoosegow once on suspicion of having burgled a drugstore was already put off.
The man grinned, showing extensive tobacco stains on his molars. There goes lunch, thought Soapy. "I'm Garland-Fitzhugh Simms, and this is my wife Jody, and we're wondering if the Kennel has opened yet. We read about it in the online Little Shop newsletter?"
Jody smiled at Soapy, and he tried to smile back, but it was somewhat of a grimace. What a nice lady, with a degenerate husband. She must wonder what sort of person Soapy was for working there. He had to start television-repair school at night or something to get out of this dreadful industry.
"Is-is the Kennel not up yet?" Jody asked, toying with some new models on the counter nipple clamps display. As she lifted one wicked looking pair of clamps, Garland-Fitzhugh grinned again.
"Them clamps would make you howl, baby...we might git um." Jody blushed and her eyes closed for a moment. Soapy felt sorry for her. She wasn't bad looking, about fifty, with a fairly good figure and stonewashed jeans over her shapely bottom.
"Yes, the Kennel's done" Soapy hastened to say, "And there are already um residents, occupants—" Soapy didn't know how to describe the inhabitants of the Little Shop cellar.
Soapy thought of the basement filled with twelve cages with naked people in them, at least one of whom he had to deliver a Wall Street Journal to every morning.
"And it's true—you serve 'em gruel three times a day, and the hosin' down in the mornin'? We saw a picture of that on the Internet." Garland-Fitzhugh's tobacco stained grin seemed to tilt, like a jukebox as he thought of the "hosin'"
But politeness reigned for Armistead St. Leger Soaperstein, clerk to the perverts. "Yes sir, the gruel's Quaker Oats, actually, and we give the Kennel participants what Mistress Georgette calls hydrotherapy, with a fire hose, in fact."
Soapy's mind wandered back to six a.m. when he'd gone downstairs with Mistress Georgette and Plato and Cato, the huge blacks. Soapy had prepared the fire hose as Georgette and the Negroes had walked around banging the cages briskly with rubber South African riding whips.
The screams of "Get up, scumbags" had invaded Soapy's ears as they did every morning, and usually he couldn't calm down until around nine-thirty in the morning.
One of the longer term Kennel residents, Mister Shimmelfarb had had a bit of trouble waking up this morning, and Mister Shim's mother had authorized Code Purple treatment. This authorized Cato to drag the skinny accounting exec out of the cage by his pubic hair, and to bitch-slap him awake.
Cato had whipped poor Shimmelfarb's narrow ass for about ten minutes as Soapy had had to endure Mister Shim's New Jersey tones howling "Jay-zus! I'm wakin' up, please lay orrff " But the rule was that everyone must be awake at five-forty-five when the Hygiene Crew came down, so they could leave their cages, not lollygagging around, and Cato, who was not much for words, had meted out strict justice to Mister Shimmelfarb.
Cato had also skull-fucked Shimmelfarb's fat lips to a quick cum before tossing him with the others by the far wall of the basement. Then Soapy had turned on the high powered fireman's hose—the water bills were incredible—shooting the high pressure stream, knocking down the six naked, trembling people as Georgette and Plato had tossed soap flakes all over them, creating a sort of lava lather.
Not much of a group this week, four men and two women, and "Bubbles" who was a pre-op something or other. All seven of them were flabby and out of shape, watching their skin bounce as the brutally cold water hit them almost made Soapy ill.
Last week Miss Yates, the model everyone called "Eyesore" had been there, and Soapy had really enjoyed making her perfect 36C breats bounce with the cold water. At first Soapy had tried to be nice to her, but she'd obviously been so much more attracted to the brutal black men, that Soapy had finally just been really nasty.
Soapy had really enjoyed it when Georgette had ordered the Eyesore to lick his boots, and especially when Miss Yates had given Soapy an "around the world" in the Little Shop attic. But most of the slaves were not too cute.
After the hosing of course, the slaves were ordered to lick up all the lather and clean up the hosing area before returning to their cages for the morning gruel.
Soapy tried to explain the whole thing in a monotone, and Garland-Fitzhugh seemed quite happy.
"That's real good" said Garland-Fitzhugh enthusiastically. "Y'all are strict with em? I'd love to watch the water knockin' people down!"
Soapy watched with distaste as Garland-Fitzhugh spat some tobacco chaw on the floor. He tried to continue the discussion. "Uh, we have a system of codes of strictness." Soapy pulled out a sheet and handed it to the Texan couple, who viewed it with interest, as the little strawberry blonde came away from the vests casually and joined the perusal.
