Ruth and the Toppy Bottom

Ruth and the Toppy Bottom

Ruth is cleaning her sky-blue strap-on when the man in the footie pajamas eases through her door. He looks up at the bell attached to the doorjamb, waits for it to stop tinkling, then he pulls the door shut slowly, tries to close the latch without setting the bell to jingling again. It makes noise anyway, and he winces.

“Sorry, Mistress,” he says once the bell is quiet again. Ruth puts the strap-on aside and looks him over from behind the reception desk. The newcomer would be about six-four if someone beat some posture into him, with a gut obviously more fast food than spirits. The aforementioned footie pajamas are lime green and covered in fuzz—someone needs to learn how to use dryer sheets. There’s matching Wile E. Coyote slippers on his feet and a headband with googly eyes on springs poking out among turfs of wild orange hair that curls around and into his oversized ears. He’s wearing a hot pink backpack, to which he has stapled an autographed photo of Amy Jo Johnson.

“What are you apologizing for?”

“Making noise, Mistress. The bell?”

“It’s supposed to make noise. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Jesus fucking Christ, she thinks, one of them.

“Have I ever beaten you before?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Then I’m not your Mistress.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

Ruth sighs. “What can I do for you?”

“What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She hands him a menu from the desk. “Did you want to negotiate a scene?”

The man takes the menu. It looks like he’s colored his nails with Crayola markers. There’s a pale bare strip of skin on his left ring finger. She wonders if the missus at home knows that he’s here.

“Ma’am?” he says after a long minute of looking at the menu. She just stares until he licks his lips and continues. “What’s CBT?”

“Cock and ball torture.”

“Oh. Is that where you do bad things to my wiener?”

Ruth has a sudden craving for a cigarette. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” He looks back to the menu, runs his fat finger down the columns. His lips move as he reads each option silently. “Okay. Guess I’ll have to bring my wallet next time,” he says. He hands the menu back and lets himself out the door. She hears him whisper “Sorry” when the bell rings again, and he closes the door so softly it fails to latch. It’s days like this that make Ruth wish she’d taken her mother’s advice and become an anesthesiologist instead of a pro-domme.

He comes back two days later dressed just the same except for the paint tattoo of Tweety Bird with his legs amputated that someone who was obviously drunk and possibly a paraplegic has drawn on the man’s left cheek.

“I’m back, ma’am,” he says and plops his wallet on the reception desk.

“Good for you,” Ruth says and hands him a menu. “What do you want?”

“I want some CBT,” he says without looking at the menu, “and some…” He looks at a print-out in his hands. It looks to be part of a Wikipedia article. “Some shibari. That’s Japanese for ropes. If that’s okay, ma’am?”

She tells him it is and takes him back to the dungeon space. His name is Ashley. He fills out the consent forms without a peep and nods his way through her explanations of what flies and what doesn’t. He waits until she’s finished before handing over his backpack. “I brought my favorite toys,” he says and giggles like a girl half his height.

Ruth goes to work on him with a flogger for a while. He’s liberal with Thank You, Mistresses but at least he’s not apologizing for everything today. After twenty minutes or so he makes his first request.

“Mistress, can you get the orange from my pack?”

Now there’s two ways she sees this going—three if he wants to pay extra for the food fetish. Chances are that orange is going in a sock so she can beat him with it or he wants it up his ass (men always seem to want something up their asses in her profession). So he surprises her when be begs her to slice the orange in half instead.

“Okay, what did you want the orange for, bitch?”

“Oo, Mistress, please squeeze the juices onto my eyeballs!”

“What the fuck? Really?”

“Oh please, Mistress, please drip the acid secretions of your citric cunt in my eye pussies!”

Huh. Why does this shit always happen on her days here? Emily—sorry, “Dominia”—gets all the cute boys and girls who just want a hair-pulling-assfucking. “That’s be $150 extra.”

“Anything! Please?”

Ruth shrugs and squeezes the orange halves into each of Ashley’s eyes. Ashley jerks and howls, eyes squeezed shut against most of the downpour. “Oh yeah! Fuck you, Florida, fuck you!”

He’s going to need a minute so Ruth takes a seat in the nearby bondage swing. There’s drool running down Ashley’s chin and one of his googly eyes is caught behind his left ear. She wonders if any call centers in the area have openings.

“Thank you, Mistress. I’m sorry I closed my eyes.”

“That’s okay.” She doesn’t want to ask, but curiosity and this month’s cable bill get the better of her. “Any other request?”

“The CDs. They’re in the side zipper.”

She digs through the pink backpack and takes the discs out. There’s Don Knotts Sings the Christmas Hits and The Fountainhead as read by Leonard Nimoy. “The duct tape too,” the man says. “Now pull my nipples through the holes in the CDs and use the duct tape to keep them there.”

“Um,” says Ruth, “that’ll be $90.”

“Please, Mistress, anything!”

It takes a little work getting to his nipples because the zipper on his footie pajamas runs down his back. “Now draw a star on both CDs with the glue stick and then splash some glitter on there.”

She has a feeling he’s fucking with her at this point but he’s paying in cash.

“Praise God, yes! The Head and Shoulders, hurry!”

Ruth pulls the dandruff shampoo out of the pack. It looks like his scalp could use some Head and Shoulders, but she doubts that’s what he has in mind. Shaving? She winces when he begs her to drizzle the shampoo on his “teensy and weensies,” his phrase, sure as fuck not hers.

Her second oldest brother tried this once in the shower, which was a particularly bad idea from the outset because the suggestion came from Donnie, her mother’s MWFSa live-in sub. It was also Donnie who got her youngest older brother to douche himself with a half bottle of Old Spice cologne. Ruth’s mother, MzTemptress29, got her jollies on having reasons to punish her subs and the disruption of her household and children were common themes.

Ashley’s dick is bright pink now. She knows it’s just a matter of time before his foreskin begins to chafe and peel in tiny white strips like skin off a sunburn. No extra charge for this one.

“Now spank me!” The man’s voice is hoarse as an obsessive-compulsive, drunken white supremacist yelling at BET on his bigscreen. “Spank me and tell me I’m a ba-aa-ad yak!”

Ruth smacks his right butt cheek. “You’re a bad yak!”

“No, Mistress, I’m a ba-aa-ad yak!”

“Bitch, you’re a ba-aa-ad yak!”

“Oh I’m sorry, Mistress, I’m sorry for being a ba-aa-ad yak!”

This fucker had better tip.

“Now, in my pack,” Ashley says. His pimpled ass is hot pink. The footie pajamas are down around his ankles and his hands are still bound to his thighs. Ruth looks to the clock and sees they’ve been at it a little over an hour. “There’s some LEGOs in there.”

Ruth digs around and finds a Ziploc baggie full of off-brand building blocks. Most of the pieces are either hot pink or chocolate brown. She really doesn’t want to hazard a guess at this point. “And why should I let you have these, bitch?”

“My hands, Mistress? Please free my hands.”

She does, and Ashley opens the bag of blocks. He pours them on the dungeon floor and sifts through the mess, places similar blocks in different piles, then goes to work. Whatever he’s using them for it’s sure as hell not an official design. He takes his dehydrated, flaking penis and constructs a series of square boxes around it, then takes a few longer pieces to bridge the gaps between. In a few minutes he’s completed his own homemade gates of hell made entirely out of imitation dollar store LEGOs and he looks to Ruth for her approval.

“Do you think I want to look at that pathetic thing?”

Ruth isn’t so much role-playing as being honest but it must be what he wants to hear because he squeals and bends over, ass in the air. She leaves him be for a bit and saunters to her toy bin. The sky blue strap-on is on top of the pile and she has a feeling he’ll be asking for it soon enough. Ruth steps into the adjustable straps and pulls a condom over the plastic dick. Ashley is on his belly when she turns back around. He seems to have taken to humping the groove in the dungeon floor that leads water to the drain. His LEGO gates of hell remains intact, but The Fountainhead looks to have slipped off his nipple. She’s not going to bring it up unless he does first.

“Oo,” Ashley says when he sees the strap-on, “that’s what my wiener looks like when I wrap rubber bands around it and slam it in the dishwasher door!”

“Well there’s no dishwasher here so we’ll have to improvise.”

“Thank you, Mistress!”

“Get on your knees.” She waits for him to clamber back off the ground and listens to the breath rattle in his lungs. Pine green snot drips from Ashley’s nose and she can hear the congestion in his sinuses every time he inhales. Ruth has seven different kinds of shampoo and four different kinds of bodywash at home and will be using all of them tonight. “Now, what—”

She hears the bell from the other room and looks to the clock. There’s still another 45 minutes before Emily comes in for the evening shift. “Stay here,” Ruth says. “Don’t touch anything except yourself.”

“With pleasure, Mistress!” Ashley says and twists the LEGOs around his dick. He sucks in a wet breath, falls over on his side, gets up and does it again. Ruth shakes her head and goes to the reception desk.

There’s a cute boy in his mid-twenties standing at the desk. He’s dressed in a Little Caesar’s uniform and has a pizza under one arm. This fantasy again? Some men watch too much porn. Can’t they think up something more creative than the delivery boy? Then she notices the steam rising from the pizza box and her stomach churns.

“Uh,” the delivery boy says when he’s done staring at the black latex outfit and strap-on she’s wearing, “is there an Ash Long here?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Ruth pokes her head back into the dungeon and yells. “Hey, bitch! Get out here!” Ashley grins and starts to crawl on hands and knees across the dungeon. “Get up, goddammit. Hurry.” He gets to his feet and sidles the rest of the way. Even with most of the shibari ties undone the footie pajamas around his ankles make him take tiny, careful steps.

“Yes, Mistress?”

“Did you order a fucking pizza to my dungeon?”

He beams, and the force of his smile causes a snot bubble to inflate and then pop at the end of his left nostril. “Yes, Mistress.”


“Little boys that play hard have big appetites,” Ashley says, “and I wanted to give you a slice as tribute, Mistress.”

“Uh,” says the delivery boy.

Ashley hands the delivery boy a twenty and waits patiently until he has his change. The delivery boy sets the pizza on the reception desk and pauses, stares at Ashley like he might grow an extra nipple on his chin in the next few seconds. Ashley grabs the pizza and hobbles back into the dungeon, bare red ass cleavage jiggling with every hop.

“You’re cute,” Ruth says to the delivery boy. “Come back Friday at 1:30 and I’ll give you a tip to make the trip worth your while.”

“Uh, I’m working then.”

“Then bring me a garlic chicken when you come.”

“Uh,” the delivery boy says and lets himself out the door. The bell’s still swinging when Ruth gets back to the dungeon. Ashley is attacking his third slice of meatlovers with extra cheese. Sauce from the first two slices dribbles down both his chins like a half-assed water feature in a meth-addicted gardener’s yard.

“Pizza, Mistress?”

“Fuck no. And you’ve had enough.”

“Alright.” He shoves the grease-stained pizza box aside. “Can you get the DVD out of my pack, Mistress?”

“There’s no TV in my dungeon.”

“We don’t have to watch it. I just need to see the case.”

Ruth gives the clock another look. Half an hour till her shift is up. There sure as hell won’t be any overtime on this one. She finds the DVD case at the bottom of the pack; it’s Bob Vila’s Top 10 Do It Yourself Projects. The last two discs wound up on his nipples. Where’s this one going?

“Okay,” Ashley says, “now tell me I’m a bad boy for watching cartoons. I should watch Bob Vila like an adult. Please, Mistress?”

“Cartoons?” Ruth smacks his ass with the case. “What kind of fucking manchild are you?”

“Oo, more!”

“You’ll watch Bob Vila and like it!”

“Thank you, Mistress!”

“We’re going to learn how to build an oak cabinet and then I’m going to slam your bitch dick in the drawer until it’s flat.”

Ashley squeals when the case hits his ass again.

Ruth wonders how he got so fucked up. If she had to guess she’d say an authority figure in Ashley’s childhood probably abused him for acting like a kid on a regular basis. Funny how a fucked up childhood can determine crazy and specific sexual cravings as an adult.

She remembers when the kink came into her life. Granted she was aware of kink from childhood; her mother did no more to hide her predilections from her children than she did the rest of the community. Ruth couldn’t bring herself to hate her mother despite all the shit she put the family through so Ruth transferred that hatred to the male side of the species. She was 14 when she started telling anyone who would listen that she was a lesbian.

“Oh,” her mother said when Ruth came out, “didn’t you like the toy I got you last year?”

She referred to the dildo she bought her daughter on her thirteenth birthday. Ruth served a week in detention for telling her friends at school what she’d gotten for presents that year and didn’t want to reopen the subject. “I just hate men.”

“Honey!” Her mom laughed. “That just makes you a woman.”

“Whatever. I don’t want anything to do with dick.”

“That’s okay, Ruthie. I’ll get you a double-header so you and your girlfriends can have a little variety. What’s your favorite color?”

That was how sex talks always went with mom. Ruth understood that her mother’s sexual activities fell clearly in the realm of fetish from an early age, but it wasn’t until high school she realized what a big part exhibitionism played in her mother’s life. But that’s an entirely different story.

Ruth might have remained strictly vagitarian and fairly vanilla for the rest of her life if she hadn’t met Gene in junior year. His hobbies included reading Dragonlance novels, watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and lighting anthills on fire. Sometimes, when he talked about music or he bitched about how stupid everyone but the two of them was, he reminded Ruth a lot of her oldest brother. Other times he made Ruth feel like her mother. Gene was a virgin and a 17 year old boy, and he hung on every (usually true) word when Ruth told stories about her lust-life. There was a strange sense of perverted comfort in the sensations of familiarity Gene brought out in her.

The problem was Gene’s sense of humor. Looking back, Ruth is fairly certain Gene was a sociopath. He loved to play practical jokes on people and animals, though he broke things and started fires if he thought anyone was having fun at his expense. Those were the times Gene reminded Ruth of her mom’s old sub Donnie, who went to prison for identity theft when she was 15. Ruth wanted that association to piss her off, but mostly it just made her thighs warm instead.

“Mistress!” Ashley says back in the present day. “I promise I’ll stop watching Bucky O’Hare after school!”

It all came to a head with Gene three days before the end of junior year. They were sitting in Gene’s 1984 Chevy Camaro listening to AM radio because the FM only got the country and Jesus stations. Gene was bitching about his math teacher’s fascist grading policies and Ruth was sucking down poison from another Parli, pretty normal Thursday. Then Gene set her pants leg on fire.

“What the hell?” Ruth slapped at the flames on her jeans without much effect. Gene pocketed his lighter and leaned back in his bucket seat, pock-marked face split by his awful horse-laugh. She used her jacket to smother the flames but her jeans were already ruined and the heat in her lap wasn’t fading.

“You fucking asshole!”

Ruth punched him in the chin. Gene’s head snapped back and hit the headrest, but he kept laughing. She hit him again, in the leg and arm, and he didn’t do a thing to stop her. She wasn’t pissed, she was… Was she horny? Goddammit. The next punch landed on Gene’s cheek. “Cut it out, ya fuckin’ dyke!” She hopped over the middle console and socked him in the mouth to shut him up, then her hands were in his lap and she was working on their zippers. Gene stopped his blabbering until he felt her mount up. “I thought—”

“Shut the fuck up, Gene.”

She worked her way up and down, tried to take it slower than she would with her girlfriends because it was never a problem when any of them came. She wasn’t sure she even wanted Gene to orgasm. Ruth’s fingers worked under Gene’s shirt and pinched his nipples. “Ow,” he said, and she tweaked harder. “Ow, Ruth!”

“I told you to shut up.” Amazingly, he did, at least until he started to spasm. She dismounted before he could start to spurt and slapped him across the face. “Fucking loser.” She wasn’t mad at him anymore, though. She felt—well, not better, but not worse either. Maybe more honest with herself, not that she’d felt she was lying to herself before. Her sudden lack of aversion to cock barely registered, though if My Space had existed in the day she would have gone home and changed her status online to “bisexual.”

No, it was the violence that did it, the power play. Those three minutes of sex with Gene (recently a virgin) made Ruth understand her mother in a way she never had before, and she felt like throwing up. She walked home, locked herself in her room and douched like she’d never douched before. Ruth bought her first flogger at the local Castle a weekend after losing her heterovirginity.

She saw Gene a few more times over summer break but never bothered visiting him after he got sent to county for burning down his foster-parents’ garage. Her mom asked about him once halfway through senior year; Ruth asked about Donnie in response and the subject was dropped forever. At that point MzTemptress29 was concentrating on teaching her daughter about riding crops and SSC and digging for dirt wasn’t worth blowing the recent mother-daughter bonding over talk of bondage.

“Ow.” Ashley snorts another wet snot bubble. “Mistress, my bottom hurts.”

Ruth shakes herself out of the nostalgia and lets the Bob Vila DVD drop. There are welts rising from the craggy flesh of Ashley’s derriere. How long was she spanking him with the DVD case? The clock says a good eight minutes. She knows he never said the safeword, but he strikes her as the type who wouldn’t red out if she pulled his spinal cord out his asshole.

“I’m tired of looking at your ass,” Ruth says. “I think it’s time we plugged it.”

“Oh yea!” Ashley claps his hands. “I love this part, Mistress!”

“All my pets do. The boys as much as the girls.”

What?” Ashley spins around to face her, still on his knees. “Excuse me?”

“The ass-fucking. It’s a favorite across the gender lines.”

Ashley’s face twists, and he rubs at his nose and eyes like they have pepper in them as he stands. “You mean to tell me you have sexual contact with other women?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Whore of Babylon!” Ashley’s fists are clenched at his sides, and when he shouts he turns his mouth to the ceiling so he can maximize the airflow through his throat. “Jezebel! You lay with another woman in the way god has made you to lay with a man. You are an abomination before heaven!”

“This isn’t really a fantasy I do,” Ruth says, but he’s not stopping to listen. Ashley pulls the duct tape off his chest and squeaks when oily black hairs come with it. The faux-LEGO gates of hell comes off in a few quick snaps. Ashley zips his footie pajamas back up and storms out of the dungeon once everything he brought to the dungeon is back in his pink pack. Ruth follows.

“I have half a mind to call my lawyer,” Ashley says as he steps to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go get tested for the AIDS. Bitch.” Then he’s gone. Ruth waits until the bell is silent before she lights up a cigarette. Emily should be coming through the door any minute now.

The door opens and sets the bell to jingling again. Ruth looks up to tell Emily about the day she’s had but it’s the pizza delivery boy from earlier who’s stepping into the reception room. “Hey,” he says, a blush creeping across his cheeks, “turns out I’m done for the night. Did you have any openings today?”

Ruth smiles. Maybe she’ll put in some overtime today after all.

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