Needs oil, he thought. Ceiling fan'll burn itself up without oil. Heating and cooling was his business, and right now he was sweating under the collar and there were wet rings beneath his arms. I've come over seven hundred miles to a grocery store with a creaking fan, he thought. God Almighty, what a fool I am! "Help ya?" There was a young black man behind the counter. He wore dark glasses with white music notes on the frames, and his hair was cropped short and dyed with blue lightning bolts. He had a razor blade hanging from his left earlobe. "No. Just looking," Dave Neilson said, in his flat Oklahoman accent. The dude behind the counter went back to reading his copy of Interview magazine. Dave wandered among the shelves, his heart pounding. He had never in his life felt so far from home. He picked up a bottle full of red, oily liquid: King John's blood, the label said. Near it were bags full of white dirt that bore the labels Aunt Esther's Graveyard Dirt This Is The Real Stuff.. With a smile he brushes your hair out of your face, kissing your neck and ear, while whispering to you, "dumplings" you have no idea what this is and pay no attention. Then he walks away and reaches up, pulling a rope, your arms and legs are pulled out, spread eagle while standing. This gentleman has become something more, a monster, no, a hero, no. What he has become is your master, you are his, until he see's fit to set you free. He walks towards you, in one hand are nipple clamps, 10 of them, in the other are weights. He leans in to kiss you, on your neck, then top of your breast then your nipples. He places a clamp on each nipple, while hanging a weight on them, which causes you to let out a whimper. He strokes your face, telling you that your training has only just begun. He then slides his hand down to your soaking wet cunt, he looks down, smiling and looks back at your eyes. Knowing that you arent scared anymore, he places a clamp on each of your labia, then hangs a.
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