Marcos and the "black stalion"

While as usual I'm on all fours scrubbing the floors and cleaning up the house and a pigsty after last night's dinner. Jamal and his friend Kendrick are in the kitchen talking... "I have a date this morning," Jamal said finally. "With Marcos." The name made me stiffen. I knew him. He was also at the dinner. But the way he said it—slowly, thoughtfully—made me understand it was important. Kendrick, curious, asks Jamal. "The Marcos from the Black Stallion">up.My legs ached from hours on my knees, and my back burned where the tattoo was still fresh—the black dick, the word Love, which Frank had carved under my skin two days earlier and which still tensed when I moved too quickly. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I hadn't changed. I was still me—the light brown hair still messy from sleep, the hazel eyes too big for my face, the lips glossy even without gloss. But the tattoos hadn't. Those were new, and they spoke for me before I'd opened my mouth. I washed quickly. The hot water loosened the muscles in my back, and for a minute I closed my eyes and thought nothing of it. Then I heard Jamal's footsteps in the hallway, and I opened my eyes, and he came out. He was in the kitchen. His black shirt open over the tattoos on his arms, his dress pants already pressed, the coffee steaming on the counter. He didn't turn around when I walked in. He knew I was there—he always knew. Then finally he turns to me. His dark eyes ran over me like a hand. “Marcos. I’ll take you. You don’t talk unless he asks. You don’t look anyone in the face unless they give you permission. And when he tells you to do something, you do it as if it were mine.” “Yes, Master.” He handed me a cup. Black coffee, no sugar, just the way he liked it. I drank it standing, leaning against the counter, and I felt the plug shift inside me with every sip, and I felt the cage hurt, and I didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. The afternoon ed slowly. I showered a second time, shaved my skin that had been hairless for days, put on the pink latex and fishnet stockings and collar, and looked at myself in the mirror until I could hold my own gaze. I was ready. Or at least, I was what Jamal wanted me to be. “Good,” he said. “Now you get ready. Marcos won’t wait.” “Yes, Master.” I stood up. My legs were shaking, and the semen was still dripping, and the collar was tight around my throat, and outside the window it was already dark. I quickly washed myself, put my pink latex and fishnet stockings back on, and Jamal was waiting for me in the hallway with the keys in his hand and that smile that wasn't a smile. "," he said as he opened the door for me. "You don't speak unless they ask. You don't look anyone in the face unless they give you permission. And when they tell you to do something, you do it as if it were mine." "Yes, Master." The car was parked outside. Black, shiny, the engine waiting. I climbed into the backseat, and Jamal got behind the wheel, and the city began to by outside the window—the lights, the people, the lives that weren't mine. And inside me, as we walked to the Black Stallion, I could still hear Kendrick's cock and his words, and I could feel the plug they'd put back in me before leaving, and I felt that tonight, in front of Marcos, I was supposed to be everything Jamal had promised: his showcase, his ment, his little whore with the right tattoos.The car stopped in front of a black facade with a gold sign. Black Stallion. Jamal turned off the engine and turned to me, his dark eyes scanning me one last time. "Let's go," he said. "Let's see if Marcos likes you." The door opened before I could touch the handle. Jamal got out first, and I felt his shadow over me as I sat on the leather seat, my knees pressed together because the pink latex had risen almost to my hips and the cage punished me for every sudden movement. Outside, the facade of the Black Stallion was a black wall with no windows, and above the door, two golden lanterns cast a light that made everything else seem darker. "Let's put your feet down on the asphalt. My fishnet stockings got caught on the car step and I had to pull them up with two fingers, and I felt the butt plug shift inside me with that familiar weight—the new one, the XXL Jamal had put on me before leaving, bigger than the one from dinner, and it made me walk like I'd only learned to do it yesterday. Jamal grabbed me by the neck, not the collar, just the skin under my jaw, and turned me toward the entrance. "Look closely," he said. "This place isn't like home. Everyone here sees you. And everyone decides what you do to yourself." "Yes, Master." He motioned for me to open it. I pushed open the door—heavy, varnished wood, with a cold brass knob—and the air inside hit me like a punch: smoke, whiskey, sweat, and underneath it all a sweet, almost chemical smell of lube and cleanliness. The place was bigger than I'd imagined. Dark plank floors, walls lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and in every mirror there was me, multiplied, in the pink dress barely covering my buttocks, my nipples piercing the fabric. Jamal had pierced me that very night, in the bathroom, with a needle and ice, and every time I breathed I felt the metal tug. Two thin rings, and from each hung a pendant in the shape of the ace of spades—black, enameled, cold against my chest. They weren't ornaments. They were a sign. "Stop right here," Jamal said, and stood in front of me, and for a moment I was just a boy in a too-short dress in the middle of an empty room, his neck throbbing and his legs shaking. Then I heard the sound of the leash. Jamal pulled it from his jacket pocket—a thin, black chain with a gold snap—and hooked it to the collar. The click of metal against metal rang in my ears as if it were the only sound in the world. He tugged gently, testing his grip, and I took an involuntary step forward. "Like this," he said. "Now you're ready." "Yes, Master." He led me across the room. My steps were short because the leash gave me no slack, and every time the plug moved inside me, I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.We ed a long, polished counter, a low platform with steel poles, a wall of mirrors where I saw myself from behind—the dress riding up my butt with every step, the black dick tattoo peeking just below the hem, the word Love visible when I bent over. I'd never seen myself like this. Or maybe I had, but never from the outside, never through the eyes of someone paying. At the back of the room was a round table, and at it sat a man. Marcos didn't get up when we arrived. He was big, not fat—heavy, his shoulders filling the chair, his white shirt open on his dark chest, a gold watch catching the light from a low lamp. He had a trimmed beard and eyes that swept over you like a hand, and when he saw me, he didn't smile. He looked from my collar to my toe piercings and then back up, slowly, and I felt every inch of that gaze as if he were counting my bones. “Is this her?” he asked. The voice was warm, almost gentle, and all the more frightening for it. “This is Sally,” Jamal said. He tugged on the leash, and I found myself with my hip against his thigh, standing beside him like a chained dog. “The one I told you about.” Marcos poured himself some whiskey. He didn’t offer me anything. He didn’t offer Jamal anything, either. He picked up the glass, twirled it in his fingers, and continued to look at me. “Turn around.” I turned. The leash tightened, and I felt Jamal release some of the rope like an animal waiting to reveal itself. I felt Marcos’s eyes on the tattoo on my back, on my black cock, on the word Love. I felt his silence last longer than was comfortable. Then a finger—his, warm, with the manicured nail—touched my skin just above the writing. “Quincy?” he asked. “Quincy,” Jamal confirmed. “Did he do his tongue, too?” “Open up,” Jamal said. I stuck my tongue out. The black letters were still raised, and under my tongue, the piercing Quincy had put in me two days earlier stung the roof of my mouth. Marcos leaned over slightly, and his breath hit my tongue—whiskey and tobacco—and then he straightened and motioned with his glass. “Good,” he said. “It has the right markings. But markings don’t tell you if you can work.” “Yes,” Jamal said. “That’s why I’m bringing it to you.” Marcos put the glass down. He stood up—and when he stood up, I realized how big he really was, because he was a full head and shoulders taller than me—and he took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, like Jamal did, and turned my face this way and that. Then he let me go and sat down again. “Take off your clothes,” he said. “The dress. The stockings. Everything. I want to see what I’m buying.” My hands were shaking on my zipper. The leash's snap clattered against my collar as I bent down, and I felt Jamal tighten the chain to hold me still while I took off my latex. The dress fell to the wooden floor, and I pulled the stockings down one at a time,I leaned against Jamal's leg to keep my balance, and was left naked except for my collar, my leash, my piercings, my pink cage, and the plug that held me open. Marcos stared at me for an endless time. Then he stood up again, circled around me, and took my buttocks in both hands—big, warm—and spread them apart, and I felt the cold air of the place creep into me around the plug, and I bit my lip. "XXL?" he asked, not looking at me. The question was for Jamal. "XXL," Jamal said. "Since this morning." "And the cage?" "Three weeks. He hasn't come in three weeks." Marcos made a low sound, something between approval and calculation. He let go of me and sat back down, and for the first time I saw something in his eyes that wasn't curiosity. It was interest. As if he were already doing the math. "Show me your mouth," he said. "Not your tongue. Your mouth. I want to know if you can suck." Jamal pushed me forward with a hand on the back of my neck. "On your knees," he said softly. "And do as he asks." I knelt on the hard floor, the boards cutting into my shins, the plug pressing in from underneath, and the cage weighed between my thighs like a stone. Marcos unbuckled his belt. The buckle jingled, and I heard the sound of the fabric opening, and then I saw his cock—dark, thick, already half hard, peeking out of his boxers and rising toward me as if he knew where to go. "Take it," he said. I bent down. I took it in one hand—warm, heavy, the taut skin barely moving beneath my fingers—and brought it to my mouth. The tip entered my lips, and I tasted it—salt, soap, a hint of sweat—and my tongue piercing stung the base of his cock when I tried to open myself wider. Marcos didn't move. He let me work, and I began to suck, slowly at first, my tongue circling the tip, my hand gripping the base, and I felt his cock harden inside me, filling my mouth, pushing against the roof of my mouth. "Deeper," he said. "You're not afraid of choking, are you? Sluts like you aren't afraid. Of cock." I pushed down. The tip reached my throat and I felt the reflex tighten my stomach, and tears welled up in my eyes, and I continued—up and down, saliva dripping from my chin onto my thighs, the wet sound filling the empty room. Above me, Marcos leaned back and spread his legs, and I felt his hand cup the back of my neck, not to guide me, just to hold me there. "Look at Jamal," he said. "While you suck it. I want him to see." I looked up just enough. Jamal was standing beside us, the leash chain still in his hand, and he was looking at me with that expression that was neither pride nor pleasure—it was possession. He looked at me like you look at a bank that's doing well. "Good," he said softly. "Like this." Marcos pulled me up by my hair. "Now stop." I pulled away with a wet sound, his cock slipping out of my mouth, slick with saliva.and I remained on my knees, breathing, my chest rising and falling, the collar tightening with every breath. Marcos stood up and straightened himself, and approached Jamal, and the two of them spoke over my head as if I weren't there. "How much?" Marcos asked. "It's not a sale," Jamal said. "It's a rental. One night, two nights, as needed. Come home when you're done." "What if I don't want to give it back?" Jamal laughed. It wasn't an amused laugh—it was a laugh that closed a door. "It's not yours, Marcos. It's mine. And my things go home." Marcos nodded slowly, and for a moment his eyes returned to me, and I lowered my gaze because I had learned that looking in people's faces without permission was a paid thing. I felt his weight approaching. I felt his hand grip my collar and lift my chin, and then I heard his voice, lower, almost confidential. “Would you like to work for me, little one?” he asked. “Not like tonight. Like every night. A stage, lights, men paying to see you open that mouth with the writing inside it.” “Answer me,” Jamal said. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, Master Marcos.” “What if I told you you’re working first shift tomorrow?” I looked at Jamal. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held my chain—a little shorter, a little tighter—was already an answer. Marcos noticed and laughed, let me go, and went back to the table to get his drink. “Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “Bring her at nine. And bring her dressed properly. I want the customers to see her come in and already know what they came to buy.” “At nine,” Jamal said. He tugged on the leash. I stood up, my knees hurting, the plug shifting, and picked up my dress from the floor as Marcos watched me slowly get dressed. The latex clung to me, and I pulled up my stockings with shaking hands, and the ace-shaped pendants hJamal said. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, Master Marcos.” “What if I told you you have your first shift tomorrow?” I looked at Jamal. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held my chain—a little shorter, a little tighter—was already an answer. Marcos noticed and laughed, and let me go, and went back to the table to get his glass. “Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “Bring her at nine. And bring her dressed properly. I want the customers to see her come in and already know what they came to buy.” “At nine,” Jamal said. He tugged on the leash. I stood up, my knees aching, the plug shifting, and picked up the dress from the floor while Marcos watched me slowly get dressed. The latex stuck to me, and I pulled up my stockings with shaking hands, and the ace-shaped pendants were hanging off my back.Jamal said. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, Master Marcos.” “What if I told you you have your first shift tomorrow?” I looked at Jamal. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held my chain—a little shorter, a little tighter—was already an answer. Marcos noticed and laughed, and let me go, and went back to the table to get his glass. “Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “Bring her at nine. And bring her dressed properly. I want the customers to see her come in and already know what they came to buy.” “At nine,” Jamal said. He tugged on the leash. I stood up, my knees aching, the plug shifting, and picked up the dress from the floor while Marcos watched me slowly get dressed. The latex stuck to me, and I pulled up my stockings with shaking hands, and the ace-shaped pendants were hanging off my back.