The Night We Fikked The Jinx

Disclaimer: All living and artificial characters, places and companies are figment of the author's imagination. Unfortunately you cannot order a doll from 'Fooka Fikka Pichka' Inc.

Note the tongue? It is firmly planted in cheek.

©2010 Wolffwerks

"Please fuck the shoe slut Sir or Ma'am! I am Dr. Bane's Pichka and I would love to take you to the Night of the Jinx. Just have a Bane-cookie. They are delicious and shaped exactly like the Jinx pussy. Please do have one! . . . . There, aren't they sweet and tangy? Now, welcome to the Wolf Mansion Sir or Ma'am!"

Evening In Blue

Moonlight turned a tuxedoed man and the almost naked woman connected by the piss stream into a Beardsley illustration.

Dr. Bane was absentmindedly smoking a cigarette looking out the open French window at the big Louisiana moon. Baton Rouge was glowing on the darkening horizon.

Pichka's gulping and slurping was faint over the frog croaks, the flapping of bat's wings and more ominous marsh-sounds dampened by the city hum. In the ascending bird position, holding her spread ankles, barefoot, she was suckling on his gently pissing cock. His age moderated the stream. She was grateful for that.

His manicured fingers touched her pulsing throat idly, just above the collar. The steady movement was calming him and he felt proud of its inexorable rhythm. The heady mix of Pichka's marine pheromones, his cologne and the marshy dampness filled the room. She could taste his cigarette in his piss but she did not even blink. Finally, his mind came back to the room in the Wolf Mansion. He stopped pissing and made a tiny, flipping motion with his hand.

She lifted her naked ass and pressed towards his rising cock. Her short, red hair mopped the floor while he guided her by the idle slaps on her ass.

Pitchka felt a pang of pride at how effortlessly his cock entered her budding asshole and that she could milk Master's cock with her anus. Another pang clutched her guts when her bare feet slipped in her own juice and its source, her pussy, her pichka, gaped open, unfucked.

Dr. Bane let her ass-fuck herself and he returned to his thoughtful smoking. Then he grunted: "You bitch," and grabbed her hips and efficiently pumped his cum into her.

He flicked his cigarette through the French window and grumbled:

"Stay, Pichka."

Walking over to the secretary, he took out the newest set of butt-plugs he had ordered from Swarovski, the latest in the series of butt plugs for bubble butts he was developing. He selected a huge Art Deco one, made of the Venetian glass crystal, with a long flaring neck ending in a massive egg. Silver chain was embedded in its base and it went around her waist. He clasped it. "It is going the hold in a lot of loads for tonight, little one," he said distantly, sealing his cum inside her ass with it. Then he made another tiny gesture and she gratefully flipped over, back in the same position she was in before. Blood was beginning to rush in her head. He brought over the rest of his new set.

"Your adornment for the night. My Pichka doll must look her best."

He pulled out her 38DD enchanted tits from her tight, black latex t-shirt and attached the matching crystal clamps on her protruding nipples. His hands followed the chrome chains embedded in the upper clamps to the second set on her slippery pussy. He had some difficulty clamping her puffed up lips properly. The exotic name he has given her, Pichka, applied to both her and the ever-blossoming thing between her legs.

He ts-tsked at her red pichka, which was bubbling over and squirting whenever he touched it. It seemed to foam whenever he even thought about it. Pichka's pichka seemed jinxed. Finally, he clasped her ankle and wrist cuffs with chromed links. Then, he wrapped wide leather straps just above her knees and her calves to keep them at the right angle. He wiped his sticky fingers on her loins, slapping her playfully:

"Pichka FIKKING later . . . perhaps even shoes if you are really good."

The blood from her head rushed to her pussy and back again. Fucking! Shoes! Oh my god, she prayed, let me be perfect.

He rang a silver bell and called out impatiently: "Fauntleroy!"

A huge black butler appeared at the door, carrying a chromed dustpan and a brush.

Obviously, he had just picked up the cigarette butt Dr. Bane threw out of the window. There was a hint of reproach on Fauntleroy's stolid, square face. Otherwise, he was an embodiment of an impeccable butler, from his shiny patent shoes, to his perfect graying hair, and the tips of his white gloves.

"You rang Sir?"

"I need to be cleaned, Fauntleroy. And there is a pool on my floor."

Pichka feared Fauntleroy. He just followed Bane's orders impassively, never touching her improperly but he could swing a mean whip. His cock rarely left his perfectly ironed pants. He took her leashed for walks by the 'gator ponds and through her shoe closets. She could look, sight, even sniff at her shoes, yearning, but he tugged her back from them harshly unless it was Dr. Bane's order.

Fauntleroy disappeared and returned with a plate carrying two cups and a toothbrush.

He bent over her and dabbed the toothbrush in the pool between her legs on the aseptically clean marble. He rubbed off more of her juices from her thighs.

"Open up, Ma'am. You certainly don't expect to touch the Master with a pissy slut mouth," he said seriously. There was no hint of irony in his voice. His gravity always rocked her to the core. With the same impassive expression, he administered enemas to her and carried her around.

All the while Fauntleroy brushed her teeth Dr. Bane looked in her eyes, observing her burning face. He was daring her. His hard lips formed a silent 'you are MINE, piss mouth,' and a kiss. "Rinse Ma'am." Fauntleroy offered the cup with the mouthwash.

She obeyed and spit it into the cup.

Pichka was finally allowed to clean Bane's cock. She gently tongue-tucked it back in his trousers. All that was left for Fauntleroy was to pull up Master's zipper.

"Get the Pichka on the display. And don't forget to water her."

Fauntleroy lifted her on the large, wheeled, food cart, pushed her on the front of the colonial verandah of the Wolf Mansion, and turned on the UV lamp. He set her up in sitting position, leaning against the post, hands tied behind it. A set of ropes pulled her spread legs up offering her bare feet to spectators. He placed the Banolu Ray-Ban sunglasses on her head, sprinkled her with the silver glitter and left her. In the descending darkness, she glowed in the UV light, like a fucking votive offering. Her soles shone white and all that chrome glittered in the dead waters of the bayou where pink dolphins lazed, chasing pitchkas of their own. She was a figurehead on Dr. Bane's boat.

~* * *~

Soon the cars began to arrive.

Driving along the interstate 10 from Baton Rouge through Grosse Tete and past the Bane alligator farm, they reached the now revitalized old Wolf Mansion hidden in the Loup Garou Bayou.

Along the long alley of mulberries and poplars they came, squashing bloated things that go pop in the night, straight at her, transfixing her with the glare of their headlights, like a little submissive moth. The words 'Fikka-Shoe-Pichka' on her t-shirt sparkled and her gleaming pussy beaconed red-hot.

Fauntleroy reappeared with a pitcher of water and patiently waited for her to gulp it all down. He then tsk-tsked discreetly at the pool she was making on his food cart and left her, returning to Dr. Bane in his trophy room.

Sitting at his laptop, his large frame lit by the screen, Dr Bane worked on his presentation, even while his guests arrived.

In his early sixties, Dr. Robur Bane did not practice anymore, he was retired. Only his white hair, deep lines around his full mouth and eyes and the somewhat cynical outlook at the world testified about the hardships he had endured. Treating Pichka for her shoes addiction was an experiment. The treatment involved total enslavement of the subject. The training was not always related to her need to go shoe-damage shopping.

Dr. Bane genuinely loved his little anthropologist-addict. He discovered that there was a steel rod in her he needed to bend to a breaking point. It started at Sax where she was doing her futile anthropological research. Soon he was treating her and she was discovering she needed to give over to him and become a subject of research herself. They were both jinxed. She moved to Wolf Mansion he just bought and started her training with the two men. She could not fathom their relationship. Fauntleroy seemed more like a companion then a servant but his obvious deference towards Dr. Bane confused her. Only the use of French and Creole hinted at his origin.

In a rare talkative moment Dr. Bane told her that he wrestled free be-zombied Fauntleroy fom Haitian Bokor but she'd learned that trusting this shrink was a good start to mindfuck. She did not see anything zombie-like in Fauntleroy. The strange screeching and cracking sounds coming from the deep cellars of had nothing to do with the good doctor's former job. The noises testified that the Mansion from 1823 had dark family history and that the words 'repairs' and 'rejuvenation' were relative.

Now Dr. Bane ran a blow-doll empire and the alligator farm. The Banolu line of eyewear was just a profitable fringe for him: only the maintenance of the Wolf family mansion and it's cellar cost him a fortune.

The blow doll business itself seemed jinxed. Dolls sold like crazy, dolls with the 'incredible, self-lubricating, squeeze-and-pump sucking action and 100% life-like pussy' as the sales pitch went. Dr. Bane made sure all models were widely available. He derived pleasure from whoring his Pichka in this manner. He showed her all the sales figures, how the dolls were used, and the profile of her customers. There were even clips demonstrating all the uses of the blow up Pichka. All the Pichkas' pichkas were fucked but hers.

Now he developed a new model: the Jinx. For days, hot wax and latex casts were repeatedly taken of Pichka's body, her orifices and the face. The newly planned models required new casts. Pichka shuddered whenever she remembered it.

The Jinx was not just a plastic blow-up fuck-toy. Made of Dr. Bane's secret mixture akin to ballistic jelly and plastic bones, it reacted realistically to bondage and pain play, had a multiple suck orifice action and came equipped with appropriate sounds. Maybe his research in the vodou had something to do with its incredible properties. And it came with two coils of rope and recorded instructions suggestively read by Pichka herself.

Not even Dr. Robur Bane, knew what the Jinx could do. It would be found out tonight. He rang. "Fauntleroy!"

"Vous a sonné, Monsieur? You rang Sir?" Fauntleroy materialized, carrying a large Art Deco glass bowl. It was full of pickha-shaped, laced cookies. Many were filled with Viagra. Some of the ingredients were very exotic and perhaps charmed. They were acquired in Dr. Bane's witch-hunting days at secret experimental labs and other, much darker places.

The good doctor picked up a toothpick and deftly nailed one right in the pink middle. He munched it with relish.

"Pretty good. You may serve them... what was that splashing noises and screaming few moments ago?" "Lord Toff the Tought's SUV turned into the 'gator farm. Shall I send a rescue party or go see to it myself?" Fauntleroy hated the alligators; therefore, he had to work with them in person.

"Franey and Zooey were moved to the south end?"

"Yes Sir, yesterday."

"Then there is no need for rescue." An evil glint appeared briefly in Dr. Bane's eye as he pulled his hand over the steel gray at his temples. "I'm sure such an expert rigger can disentangle himself from the marsh." "Will he still want to perform a demonstration on the Jinx tonight?"

"Oh, he will perform all right. He is vain enough and greedy enough. Ha, I might even give him one Jinx; give him a taste of what he will never have." Dr. Bane wanted to have his enemies close, especially the imaginary ones. "Did you water Pichka?"

"Yes Sir. She is trembling now."

"Good. Bring her back in here."

Soon Fauntleroy reappeared, pushing the cart with Pichka.

"Go down and take care of the guests. Extend the appropriate welcomes and apologies. See that all get the Jinx booklets and complementary sets.

Have the latex maids serve the crawfish étouffée. Is the carousel ready?"

"Yes it is Sir. It works. I tried it out. Two sluts will help turn it."

"Good." Dr. Bane nodded towards the bowl. "And make absolutely sure that everyone takes a 'Bane-cookie'."

"I'll see to it Sir."

Dr. Bane believed that everyone would pick out the 'pichka-cookie', which would fit them perfectly. He also called them Karma candies. "All male slaves must take them." Dr. Bane grinned. "And, take one yourself, right now. Oh, and the shoes . . . they all have them?" He made sure Pichka heard him. Fauntleroy and Pichka exchanged glances. For a second she thought his impassive masque of a butler dropped and someone still awakening from datura stupor and scared as hell appeared. They looked at each other like two rats in the inescapable cage.

"Yes Sir." Fauntleroy whispered and swallowed.

"Sausages?"

"Fresh shipment just arrived."

'Home made indeed. Fireworks?"

"They are setting it up."

"Forecast?"

"A storm is coming, ma Totò."

Bane looked sharply at his butler but all he said was:

"Of course it is. Our storm. We're almost ready, then."

Dr. Bane took Pichka off the food cart himself and laid her down on the floor on her back. He straddled her clamped breasts. Pushing the Banolu eyeglasses onto the top of her head, he presented his hardening, gnarly cock to her face. A crop miraculously appeared in his hand and he delivered a series of sharp strikes between her legs. A wet splat accompanied each stroke. He kept riding and cropping his buckling Pichka-pony until her crying, bawling face was in a satisfactory state. Then he fucked her mouth furiously, repeatedly gagging her. Soon she was deeply flushed, breathless, and wet, saliva running down her chin. He was putting her fluid resistant make-up to a hard test.

"That 'just fucked' look is a good look for a slave like you, don't you think?"

"Glllppaaahh .... Yaah Sarrrr."

"But a really good look for MY slave is 'just face-fucked'."

He teabagged the sticky mass all over her face. Sliding her sunglasses back he made sure that a nice globule of cum landed on the lens. All of his shiny adornments would have to stay on her all night.

Dr. Bane released her and helped the trembling Pichka stand up. He let her rub her wrists while he walked around, looking her over. He added a sheer black gauze skirt reaching just above her labia.

"And this," he slapped her plugged rump, "gets many more refills tonight. You will be most courteous to my guests, serve them, repeat your mantra to each and every of them. And no naughty wetting in front of my guests."

"Yes Sir!"

"There will be a lot of fikking tonight."

"Oh YES Sir! Please Sir!'

"The question is -- which pichka gets fikked, you or the Jinx? Both are mine, but only one will be jinxed. You'll have to compete with her."

"Uh... Sir? With the doll, Sir?" Her heart skipped a beat.

"I should definitely have Fauntleroy dye your hair blonde. The Jinx comes with that nice red color of yours, but you should give it up to her. Of course, you will compete with the doll. You can start by trying to imitate that wide-eyed and open-mouthed look. Are you ready?"

"Uh, I am not sure, Sir."

"Good, that is a good start for a real submissive."

He picked his dreaded walking cane and took his all-wet barefoot Pichka under the arm. He was wearing his crocodile shoes.

"It's time, little one."

She stood, frozen. He waited, studying her forlorn look. Then he laughed.

"All right, you can wear them but you better earn them. Fauntleroy!"

Fauntleroy appeared carrying the leash. Pichka was on all fours in a second and he led the eager shoe puppy towards the great closet. The lights came on as he opened the gates of heaven. Hundreds of pairs of shoes, sandals and boots winked at her. She trembled and squirted a little. Sadly, she noticed many of her favorite pairs missing. She knew that Jinxes were wearing them.

Unerringly she scuttled towards the red Prada mules, the last pair she bought before Dr. Bane took matters in his own hands. She kissed them and put them on lovingly sitting on the floor in her familiar puddle. The glass butt-plug clicked against the lacquered floor.

Fauntleroy allowed her to clickety-clack back to Dr. Bane. She loved that sound.

"Alllll right, all we finally ready?"

She nodded like an eager puppy.

"At last - let the Bane Mardi Grass begin!"

The great door opened. They walked from a black and white Beardsley etching into another one in which reds dominated.

~* * *~

Night in Red

"Please fuck the shoe slut Sir or Ma'am! I am Dr. Bane's Pichka and I would love to take you to the Night of the Jinx. Just have a Bane-cookie. They are delicious and shaped exactly like the Jinx pussy. Please do have one! . . . . There, aren't they sweet and tangy? Now, welcome to the Wolf Mansion Sir or Ma'am!"

~* *~

In Fauntleroy's skillful hands the bowl with Bane-candy whirled around the red Beardsley world of the great gothic reception hall and gardens of the Wolf Mansion. Its path was getting erratic as the Bane cookie took hold of Fauntleroy. The company was as diversified as the candies in the bowl.

An old-fashioned ballroom mirror-globe cast spinning shards of glitter on the leather, the chains, latex and nylon, the silk of kimonos and cotton of the bohemians. A thin layer of oily smoke slithered around the heels of the boots and ballet shoes and fondled the sandals of pagans and bare feet of slaves. The patent shoes of southern gents and their made-up dolls were there. Even a hougan, a mambo, a voodoo Queen or two and Chief Wicker Basket were there. The music alternated between Cole Porter in Dub, Compas, Meringue and good old swing with some techno thrown in.

Flannel suited businessmen stood out. No matter how busy he was, Fauntleroy always managed to appear just in time to drive the flies out of their bewildered mouths. Others were paying homage to two of Bane's Beardsley Salome originals displayed in a place of honor above his collection of griz-griz.

Pichka walked slowly, trying to attend to guests and yet be at the entrance to greet each new arrival with her mantra. Wearing her Pradas helped with the desperate need to hold her burning pussy tightly shut. 'But what if the liquid escaped, ran down my legs and mars thee shoes?' She though. 'Horror.'

There were all kinds of comments on her mantra. 'Later slut' was the most common response. She was wondering what she would do if anybody accepted the offer right away. Would Master come to her rescue?

In the salon, Dr. Bane circulated the groups, animating his increasingly bewildered guests, enjoying the toothy-smile moth dance always aware of his Pichka's travails.

Pichka curtsied before the big man who just entered brashly. She made a brief eye contact. On his handsome face his eyes squinted under the black dyed shock of hair. She recited her mantra.

"That will be the day," Lord Toff de Tough harrumphed. "I do not intercourse with Bane's sluts just when they ask for it. I am here to tie the kinky bitch! Show you ignorant people some art."

Pichka lowered her eyes in embarrassment. She felt delight at the wet splashes of mud on his boots and his leather overcoat, sneering inwardly at the wet ballet shoes and works boots of his two bunnies. What poor taste! Nevertheless, the rigger impressed her.