Hurley the Harlot

Author's note: this story is, of course, pure fantasy. I don't know if there's a device such as an EEZI zapper, but if there is there's no way the "hero" could be this stoic. Well, I don't think so.

*

I became a film publicist, that's how I got into – well, I was going to say a real mess, but on second thoughts ...

Hi, my name's Tony Drum, I'm 36-years-old and I was in journalism. Sometimes I think, hell, I should have stayed in it, and then again, if I had I wouldn't have had half as much fun.

I got the job as a publicist for Hell Fire Productions, a Sydney-based outfit, when I had a helluva row with the night editor of the Sydney Morning-Herald. I basically told him "shove yer job up yer arse, sport" and walked out.

Then an old flame of mine, called me. Jen and I used to have a raging thing going, but she decided she preferred sheilas, so I got the dump. She called me the day after my temper tantrum: "Hey sport, if you've got a free day, I've got a free lunch."

I laughed. "Don't bullshit me, Jen," I said. "There's no such thing as a free lunch, as you very well know. And as you also very well know, after last night I've certainly got a free day."

Sydney, despite all its high rise apartments and skyscrapers is still a pretty small town. News of my defection from the dear old SMH was on the lips of every journo in every early opener – sorry, that's a pub that opens not long after 8am, an ideal time for journos, believe me.

Anyway, to cut to the chase, I had lunch with Jen in one of those rizty joints down by The Rocks, drank far too much red wine, and got talked into joining Hell Fire as a publicist. It was, said Jen, a oncer. They wanted me to be personal publicist for Liz Hurley.

As soon as Jen dropped Hurley's name, she knew she had me! I know Hurley is 40-plus, I know she can't act her way out of a paper bag, but – and it's a bloody big "but", sport – she is still a darned fine looking sheila.

"Why me?" I asked, sucking on another glass of excellent Penfolds Bin 387. "What makes me so special for the Hurley assignment?"

Jen grinned her pearly whites at me. Crikey, lesbian or not, she was still damned good-looking!

"Because at 36 you're still quite hunky. You've got all your dago black hair, you've got straight teeth but a crooked smile. You work out, so you're nicely cut and toned. And you've got an eight inch uncut cock, as I remember."

"So?" I said, sipping again at the Penfolds.

"So Hurley insists on having handsome hunks as her publicists," said Jen. "It's probably an ego thing. And you know every blooming journo in Sydney and Sydney's where she's going to be based during the shooting of our latest production."

Now Hell Fire Productions isn't exactly a porno studio, but it's only a couple of rungs up. The ladies who star in their features display a helluva lot of breast, thigh, butt and almost – but not quite – pussy.

"Why does Liz Hurley have to stoop – pardon my French – to making a movie for Hell Fire," I asked Jen.

"Let's just say we made her an offer she couldn't refuse," said Jen, picking up the tab. Like I said, there's no such thing as a free lunch. It wasn't until a couple of months later that I found how much I'd be paying for it.

So, fast forward, as they say in the video business. The movie was in the can, Hurley had charmed all the local press, radio and TV, flashing that big fucking Pommy smile, talking that posh, plummy Pommy accent, and generally showing enough cleavage to put a hard on a jellyfish.

She and I had got along very well. "Tony the tout", she called me. Once, out on location and in her caravan, after too much to drink I took the "Tony the tout" line for the last time and called her "Hurley the harlot". She laughed fit to bust her britches, but she never called me "the tout" again. I made darned certain not to call her "the harlot", either.

So after the post-production party was winding down and all the publicist photographers had gone, Hurley came up to me, grabbed me by the arm and walked me to one side.

"Tomorrow morning, the place I'm renting in the bay, 11am. And arrive sober, Tony," she whispered. Making sure no one overheard.

Like a fool I said: "It will be my pleasure." That's a fucking laugh!

The next day, I wheeled my Holden Commodore SV8 into the driveway in front of the posh mansion Hell Fire had rented for her during filming. She hates hotels.

She peered out the front door, peeping around it, actually and smiled: "Nice car."

It's not a Ferrari but, as they say, the SV8 is like a shark prowling the streets for small fry to gobble up.

"Thanks," I gave her my most winning smile, as I stepped into the hallway. Then I saw why she only partly-opened the door. She was wearing a shiny black satin bra and matching little panties. Now she may be 40, 41, I'm not sure which, but it's one of those bodies to die for, pardon the cliche.

"Upstairs, follow me," she said, leading the way, her pert arse wobbling in the satin which stretched tautly across her buttocks. Her legs were long and tanned – shit, I just love long legs. She was wearing black high heels. I love high heels, too, because of what they do to a sheila's calves. Yum, yum.

Up in a bedroom, with a massive queen-sized bed, I saw what even I, with all my innocence of anything "kinky", recognised as a spreader bar. I should have got out of there right then, but you know the story. My cock was leading my brain and my cock was the length of the Flemington straight ahead. No way I was backing down from a session with this Pommy fox!

"The clothes are nice, Tony," she said, in her fruity fucking accent, "but they're not really necessary. Be out of them when I get back, there's a dear boy." A "dear boy" – I'm 36, for fuck's sake.

She stepped into a bathroom adjoining the bedroom – one of those en suite jobs, or whatever they call 'em in those poncey real estate ads. I stripped off to display my terrific tan – I spend a lot of time lying out on Bondi perving the sheilas - and my eight-inches of stiffness down there. I glanced in a mirror. You smooth-looking bastard, I grinned to myself.

Then it all started to turn to custard. Her Highness returned, this time wearing a g-string just big enough to cover her pudenda and a black satin quarter-cup bra, which thrust her tits – I guess they're 34, 35-inches, I'm not sure to this day – into uplift that would give a dead man a hard-on. She was still in the high heels. Now this is going to sound silly, but right then if she'd said "Jump!" I'd have jumped off the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

"Ready for a bit of erotic bondage, Tone," she said. I hate it when they call me "Tone", but as I said – she could have said anything, the harlot, and I'd have obeyed.

I remember nodding rather stupidly, and she picked up the metal thing from the bed, knelt in front of me and attached the ends of the bar to my ankles. This spread my feet some three feet, maybe an inch or two more, but it wasn't too awkward.

On her way back up, Hurley the Harlot planted a kiss on my erect cock head. Just a kiss, no open-mouth stuff, but I heard angels sing. Oh was this ever going to be good. Then, as I said, it all turned to custard.

"OK girls, he's all yours," she called and into the bedroom stepped two women. Both were clad in bikinis – one red, the other black. Both were holding – and I fucking kid you not – cattle prods!

I knew they were cattle prods because last summer I'd done a feature about the effects of the drought out in the bush and I'd seen the effect they had on half a ton or more of heifer. I shuddered to think what they'd do to a man weighing 160 pounds.

Anyway, the one in the red bikini I'd seen before. She was Hurley's personal trainer. She was, as we say down here in Australia, built like a brick shit house. Her figure was muscled, but not outrageously so. She was about my age, with dark, almost black hair, fine breasts, great thighs and a stunning arse. She also looked as mean as hell.

"Hi," she said, smiling wickedly at me, "my name's Sam and we're going to get along famously – just as long as you behave, kay?" And she traced the bloody cattle prod down my upper torso.

I nodded. Then the bitch in black spoke up. "And I'm Nikki, Tony. Looking forward to working with you." Nikki was smaller – in height that is – than her partner, and around 10 years younger. She was a blonde and she obviously also worked out a lot. Great body, but too young for me.

"Now, let's get those hands behind your back," snapped Sam and I just looked at her. Then I looked at Liz Hurley, who by now was lying back on the bed, her fingers grazing over the covering patch of her g-string. She was getting off on this!

"Hey, Liz," I said in a voice that wasn't pleading, but wasn't far off it. "Joke's over, OK? Let's call this quits. You've had your laughs, now let me go."

Hurley laughed and it was the sort of laugh that sent a shiver down my spine.

"No fucking way, Tony," she said, through gritted teeth. "You called me 'Hurley the harlot', now I'm going to live up to it. In a few minutes the girls are going to pack you in the van and then we're going on a nice drive upstate to where a dear friend has lent me her home. Don't worry where, it's not important.

"I've got the place for a week. Sam, Nikki and I are going to enjoy the week. For you, though, my dear Tony, it's going to seem like a year. Get him packed up, girls, I'm going to get dressed."

And with that she disappeared into a walk-in wardrobe and the two women had me cuffed in impossibly-tight rubber handcuffs behind my back. OK, I know I'm a big boy, but I was scared shitless and there was no way I was going to get a zap from one of those fucking prods!

The two minders then hauled me off downstairs, through the kitchen. Backed up to the back door stood a high-roofed Transit van. I was marched into it and told to stand in the centre of the vehicle.

They then used strong ropes hanging from half-way up the sides of the van to tie around my biceps. Similar ropes from waist level held me steady there. A rubber ball gag was placed in my mouth and attached with strap around my head. A large rubber hood was draped over my head to blindfold me, and then I heard the doors slam.

Ten minutes later I heard Hurley's voice: "We're on the way now, Tony. Enjoy the drive. Oh, Nikki is following on with your clothes and your toy Holden. Don't worry, she's an excellent driver."

And the van started its drive out of Sydney towards the secret hideaway. It took two hours, possibly three, because after a while I stopped trying to calculate time, just how much shit I was in.

At the destination, I was untied by two pairs of hands and marched out of the van – backwards. The hood stayed on. Inside the house we went up a flight of stairs, then I was halted and the hood pulled from my head.

I gazed at a stunning view, looking out over a huge valley, totally tree-clad, the sky blue on the distant horizon. We were in a large, sumptuous lounge.

"Enjoy the view, Tony," said Hurley, who was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans and with a little black leather cap on her head, "because that's the last you'll see of it for a while. Downstairs with him, ladies."

Then the cattle prod carriers escorted me down to a basement corridor, then into a large, windowless room. Off from one wall, was a bathroom and toilet. In one corner was a metal cage, with a rubber sort of swimming pool floatie. There was a large bed, pushed up against one wall.

Hurley entered after they'd got me down there. She'd stripped to her g-string and quarter-cup bra, but she left the cap on. She climbed onto the bed and sat up on propped-up pillows.

"Get his arms up in the yoke," she ordered, and while Sam stood off to one side, Nikki removed my cuffs. She then placed a heavy leather yoke across my shoulders and strapped my arms and wrists to it.

"Now get him cleaned up," said Hurley.

Nikki went into the bathroom and emerged with a safety razor and a jug of warm, soapy water. She then proceeded to shave every scrap of hair from my calves, thighs, anal region, cock and balls, chest, upper back, the small of my back and my armpits.

"Head, madam?" she asked.

"I rather like it, how about you two?"

Sam and Nikki both nodded. "It's quite cute – very dark," said Sam.

"Then it stays," said Hurley.

I kept quiet during all this – the look of the cattle prods did that.

"Right, get him fitted with it," said Hurley, and Sam stepped forward this time, while Nikki stood back, cattle prod at the ready for any false move on my part.

The tall personal trainer, then produced a black rubber dildo, with a strap at its base leading to a rubber bag. "Bend," she snapped, and I bent over. I knew what it was leading to, but bound to the spreader bar and yoke what could I do?

Sam then smeared some sort of jelly onto my anus, then – with rubber-gloved fingers – poked some up my back passage. It was very uncomfortable. "Breath in, hold it and when I say 'relax', do just that," she instructed.

I then felt the dildo's invasion, as six inches or so of thick rubber pushed up my arsehole. "Relax," said Sam and I tried to. She then thrust the rubber monster up until the strap was flush with my groin.

Sam took the strap and with two fingers of one hand opened the rubber bag and deftly snapped it around my scrotum. I felt several hard lumps press against my balls when she had done so. Then she patted me on the backside and said: "Now stand up."

I did and was amazed to see my cock starting to rise to a full-blown erection! "Look," said Nikki, from where she had gone to lie on the bed beside Hurley, "it's working on his prostate already."

"Get him on the stool," said Hurley to her personal trainer, and next Sam went to a corner of the large room and pushed a sort of trolley-cum-table set on four castor wheels to where I stood. Black leather straps gleamed on its top.

The woman then knelt and freed me from the spreader bar. "Walk around, get your circulation going," she ordered, and I obeyed, starting off slowly but soon warming up.

"Don't even think of the door, sweetie," said Hurley, "it's locked." As if I would, with a sodding leather yoke across my shoulders.

"Up here," said Sam, patting the top of the table. I climbed up, helped by the personal trainer, until I was kneeling on the leather-padded top of the piece of furniture. Sam then walked around, strapping my ankles and legs to the thing. Next she removed the yoke before pulling each arm in turn back behind me and strapping my wrists to the top of the ankle straps.

I was completely helpless, my body bowed back, my cock still hard and pointing at my chin. Sam then stroked the rubber bag around my balls, announced to the other two "He's ready" then climbed on the bed so she lay on the other side of Hurley. The three women looked at me, smiling. I was starting to sweat.

"Let me introduce you to our little electrical toy, Tony," said Hurley, in a cold, menacing tone – far better than anything she could manage when appearing in any of her crap films.

It was then that I noticed she had a sort of television remote control in her hand. She smiled and showed its buttons to me. "This is going to be so much fun for us," she laughed, "and I do hope you're going to be better at playing with it than my poor old friend, Hugh."

The two women alongside her laughed. "He was such a total wimp, madam," said Nikki. "He blubbered just at the sight of the controls."

"I think this one will be much tougher, when he's got used to it," said Sam.

"Oh, I don't know," said Hurley. "Sometimes these big, macho types disappoint and turn to jelly very quickly. But maybe he'll make an effort for Australia to prove he's stronger than some big Pommy poofter, eh Tony?"

I was in no mood to make conversation to please them. I just glowered at her.

"Now this is called an EEZI Machine," said Hurley, as if she were explaining to me how a video remote worked. "It stands for Erotic Electronic Zapper Implement. It's going to give you shocks – but only mild ones."

I strained against my bonds. A totally futile gesture, of course.

"It's got three settings and instead of telling you all about it at first, I'll demonstrate the first setting so you can see what it's all about. This is the 20-second setting, Tony," said Hurley. And she pressed a button.

The women leaned forward, their breasts bulging in their bikini bras – Hurley's, of course, spilling from her quarter-cup bra.

Suddenly I felt a dull ache in my arse, accompanied by one, two, three, quick jolts in my balls as the zapper hit me.

I wasn't ready for it and I yelped "Aaaargh" as the current struck home.

Then the women watched intently as I tried to regain my composure. Twenty seconds later, of course, the current tortured me again. Again I shrieked and flailed uselessly in my bonds.

After six shocks had coursed through my groin, Hurley pressed a button to bring the 20-second cycle to an end.

"That was just two minutes, and you're doing very well, Tony," she said. "Congratulations. Now I'll hand it over to Sam and she can demonstrate the second setting. Sam, please do the honours."

And she handed the awful device to her personal trainer. Sam smiled wickedly at my bound, nude body, sweat already pouring down my torso.

"Next, Tony," she informed me, "we have a random cycle. All I do is press this next button and the machine goes into – well, random zapping. Sometimes you'll get a nice long breather, sometimes ..." And then she stopped. "But instead of me rabbiting on, let me show you." And she pressed a button.

I knelt there, hardly daring to breath, as the seconds ticked away, then after almost a minute, the zapper kicked in. "Aaargh," I screamed, as the current hit me. The next zap came 10 seconds later. Again I yelped.

Then the beastly contraption gave me nearly a minute, then zap. Twenty seconds, no more, zap, 10 seconds, zap, 15 seconds, zap, and so on until I had been tortured for some five minutes.

"Wonderful," said Hurley, taking the remote control back from her personal trainer. "I think he's going to be so much stronger than Hugh, I think we're going to have hours of laughs with him."

"Now for the third cycle, Tony," she smiled, handing the controller to Nikki. "Explain it to him, there's a pet."

Nikki knelt up on the bed and showed me the controls. "The last control is called 'the Mistress Control Cycle', we call it the MCC for short," she told me. "But, of course, that doesn't have anything to do with cricket, eh, Tony?

"Ready, Tony? Want to play?"

I pouted sullenly. And then she hit me with it. "Aaaargh," I gulped and Nikki laughed. "I do so love the MCC, you have so much more control over the slave," she told me. Then her finger hit the button again.

For five minutes she varied the time between strokes, short, long, medium, long, short. She kept me in a constant state of apprehension as to when she would make my body jerk and shudder under the jolting agonies of the current.

Then she stopped and handed the control back to Hurley. "Oooh, he's going to be so wonderful, madam," she said. "We're going to have hours of fun with this one."

Hurley stood from the bed and approached me. She was joined by the others. The stool was only a couple of feet in height so they all looked down on me from above.

"Now Tony, things were by necessity a bit rushed back in the city," she said, "so let me formally introduce you to my lovely assistants.

"Now you know Sam, my personal trainer. Sam's 36 and she's a really big fan of cock and ball torture. Oh, what am I thinking of? Silly me – we've all got a thing for cock and ball torture."

And the dark-haired muscular beauty leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, a strong kiss but one which helped to keep my cock hard and stiff, above my abdomen.