Heart Like a Lion

Her vision was dim and otherworldly as she looked up through her tears and saw him standing over her, that pitiless gaze deepening her dread as she struggled desperately to make her arms and legs move, to get to her feet. And then for just a split-second, she caught sight of someone over his shoulder: a man standing on the second floor above them, looking down at them over the railing, his face a dead ringer for her assailant but his hair long and piled above his head, and his bespectacled eyes full of emotions that brought the words pity and regret flashing across her mind.

The brief vision swam in and out of focus and was gone, and all that was left was the big black bruiser standing over her, methodically pulling his taser out of his belt. Looking up at him, a last flare of defiance sparking within her, she managed to choke out the words: "Fuck you... fuckin'... fucker..." at him, trying to invest them with as much venom as she could manage as she dared him to do his worst.

But he just snorted dismissively, and said something very curious. "Stern discipline awaits those who leave the path." His voice was a deep basso rumble. He added: "You may not understand it now, but this is for your own good."

And he pointed the taser at her.

No-no-no-nononoNONO! Cami's mind screamed as she cringed away from the infernal machine, but there was no stopping it. She felt the prickle of needles in her forearm, and the world was bathed in whiteness and pain, and everything went spiralling down, down, down into the black.

The day had been a roller-coaster.

He had felt soiled at having to see and interact with his lowlife flesh-monger of a younger brother; plunged into the slough of despond at being told his beloved Mother had concerns about his "state of mind;" immolated in rage when Sonny of all people had had the nerve to bring up that... situation from earlier this year. Confused. Lost. Transported back to being a teenager again, wondering how to put things right and the same time certain he would come up with the wrong answer, that he would screw everything up over and over again. And this time without Father around to put everything right for him.

But then the call had come and the alchemy of action had transmuted Marcus into his most golden self, his blood pumping pure, clean justice again. As he watched the skingirl at his feet -- her hate-distorted little face now smoothed into the recumbent beauty of unconsciousness, her naked body a shapely wet-dream sculpture of taut, creamy young flesh decorated here and there with colourful tattoos -- he had the sudden feeling that everything was going to be alright, after all. He was going to reinforce the proper order of things as he always did, was going to put the shameful feelings inside him at the service of the Lord and make of them a burnt offering. He was ready to walk through the valley of the shadow of darkness and come out the other side pure and clean and in a world full of possibility.

Everything else... well, everything else would sort itself out. He had Maxine to help with that, now. The piece that had been missing from his life for so long. Ever since she'd arrived in the unit two years ago, Maxine had been showing him the way to liberation. His inner being radiated in gratitude to her for giving him all that she had, for bringing him as close as he'd ever been to happiness, to reconciling his inner conflict... and above all, his cock was iron-hard and throbbing as he thought about dragging these naked young lovelies back to her for their punishment.

First things first, though. He was the commander of a unit that had taken casualties in action. He tore himself away from contemplating the unconscious blonde, went over to help Kyson limp to his feet. The young stalwart gave an "I'm okay" nod and thumbs-up, but was still clearly in pain after taking a BMX bike frame full in the ribs; and as both of them looked with concern over to where Teyson was still writhing on the ground in agony after his family jewels' unfortunate encounter with a steel-toed boot, Marcus realized that some drastic measures might be needed.

Grabbing the radio transmitter at his shoulder, he signaled Administration. "This is R.A.M.S. double-oh-one to Central, come on back."

"It's Willy here," came a weary voice in response. "I've told you before you don't need to use numerical codes on the air, Marcus, just identify yourself by name, okay?" He said it with the air of a man who had said this same thing before too many times to count.

Marcus snorted. Willy had been here as long as he had, and had never taken the job seriously. "Central, we've apprehended the streaking suspects. They resisted detention, I have two squad-mates in need of medevac. R.A.M.S. double-oh-three looks like he might have serious testicular injury, over."

"Right, I'll notify the paramedics," said Willy. "You need a hand from the Security regulars?"

"Thank you, Central." Marcus was careful to keep his voice clean of any note of contempt, no matter how tempting, at the mention of the 'regulars.' He was a professional, and he also couldn't in fact clean up this whole mess on his lonesome. "I'll bring the suspects in myself, but in fact we could use a couple of regulars down here to collect these bikes and place them in impound until we can verify ownership. I'll wager almost any money that they're stolen. Oh, and," contemplating the pool of urine that the busty brunette suspect had bestowed on the concourse floor: "We'll need janitorial down here as well, in front of Banyan Tree Bath Products. Over."

"Nice." Willy's voice carried a note of profound distaste that Marcus elected to ignore. "Anything else, Marcus? You want me to notify BPD?"

"Negative, Central," said Marcus. "I'll contact the police myself. R.A.M.S. double-oh-one out."

As he cut the radio, Kyson said: "Boss, I can still... I'm still on for this, if..."

Marcus shook his head. "You stay with Teyson, it looks like he could use the company. Max and I can handle these little hooligans."

The Mormon kid gave him an unreadable look, but nodded obediently and went to kneel by his brother and wait for the paramedics. Marcus, meanwhile, turned his attention back to his lovely captives -- suspects, he corrected himself, suspects -- prodding the blonde onto her stomach and admiring the pale curvature of her naked ass as he cuffed her hands behind her back, then moved to see about her confederate.

The brunette was conscious and struggling feebly as he went over to her, took her by an arm and dragged her over beside her fetching partner in crime. Her eyes caught him frankly admiring the heft of her beautiful tits with their big, puffy nipples, her sexy belly with its slight hint of feminine roundness, the bush of dark her just above her tight young slit. Her breathing quickened with fear as she must have seen the unclean lust shining in his gaze, and he felt a flutter of shame taint his mood -- but as she started to mumble and try to protest, he said: "Don't worry. It's not how you think. It's going to be alright." The words plainly didn't convince her in the slightest, of course, but they banished the shame and left him free to appreciate the view as her forced her over on her belly, admiring the curve of her back and the sexy swell of her rump and the rearward peep of her pussy as he cuffed her.

The other one was stirring too, now. She gave a murmured "what the fuck" as he unlaced and pulled off her steel-toed boots and tossed them -- no way was he risking exposing the softer parts of his anatomy to those -- then stripped off and tossed her friend's trainers for the sake of parity, leaving the gorgeous teens clad only in their knee-high and athletic socks respectively. He took a moment more to admire their long, firm legs and the view between them, but then, conscious of the eyes of the public, and of the curious look Kyson was giving him, he shook off the reverie.

"Kyson, if you wouldn't mind collecting those," he signalled his underling, pointing at the discarded shoes. "Hang on to them and hand them over to the regulars when they arrive. We can return them to the suspects once they've provided receipts verifying legal ownership. As for you two," he said to his captives (suspects): "As a duly designated security professional employed by the All-American Mall Corporation, Ltd., I'm placing you both under citizen's arrest for Trespassing, Assault by Trespass, Violation of Dress Code and Lewd Conduct. I'm taking you to a holding room to await transfer of custody to the Blossomville Police Department. You have the right to contact a legal advisor if you choose. Do you understand?"

"Fuck you," said the blonde, her voice weak but clear. That actually made Marcus smile -- a rare, predatory grin that most of the world never saw -- as her little flash of defiance sent a warm feeling of anticipation through him and stiffened his cock even more. Looking back over her shoulder, Blondie caught that vulpine expression and then looked very quickly away without saying anything more.

"Alright girls, it's time to go," he said. "Can you stand? If not, I'd be happy to carry you."

He let himself fantasize for a split-second about hoisting a naked lovely over each shoulder, letting his hands wander and sample the charms of those supple asses and tight young slits as he took them to face their destiny. But something of that lust must have shown through in his voice, because both girls heard those last words and wasted no time struggling to their feet with awkward alacrity, a task made all the more difficult by their bound hands. They both managed it, though they looked profoundly unsteady as befit people who'd just had fifty thousand volts run through them.

"Good," Marcus nodded, taking his taser back out and holding it casually as he said: "Straight on ahead. Oh, and... I don't suppose I have to remind either of you not to try anything funny, right?"

The two beauties looked back at him, any remaining defiance bleeding out of them as the sight of that stun gun made them go pale. They both nodded, and as they walked meekly ahead of him -- with tears staining their faces now as the surrounding crowds gawped at their nude flesh, it seemed the thrill had suddenly gone out of being publicly exposed -- Marcus felt the anticipation pulsating in his prick as he followed.

Switching frequencies and activating his radio again, he said: "R.A.M.S. double-oh-one to R.A.M.S. double-oh-four, come on back."

"Double-oh-four here." Max's voice someone managed to sound sultry even crackling over a radio connection.

"Am inbound with suspects. Is Reception prepared?"

"Roger that, double-oh-one, we are prepared to entertain."

"See you in a moment, then." Marcus grinned. "Double-oh-one over and out." With all in readiness back at the ranch, with the adrenaline rush of the catch still high in his blood, his prick at full mast and his captives (suspects!) parading before him, all was right with the world. The disappointments and frustrations of his life faded away, sloughing off of him like so much dirty water. It suddenly seemed absurd that the hypocritical judgements of his little brother -- whose tiny mind couldn't possibly begin to grasp the Truth in all its fullness -- had mattered to him at all.

I will make of my flesh and theirs a burnt offering, he told himself. And through the fires of holy exhaustion we will be cleansed before the Lord. Stern discipline awaits those who leave the path; just see, Lord, if either of these lambs ever strays again after we're done with them. Just You wait and see. He repeated the words in his mind, again and again.

It was easy to master the conflicts within oneself, he reflected. Once you knew the way.

Before Max had arrived, the R.A.M.S. offices had been equipped with nothing but a plain-jane holding cell; an oversized blank white space thirty feet on a side which had originally been retail storage. Looking around her now, she was proud of the fact that she'd changed all that.

Each addition had, of course, had to come through a spasm of guilt from the Boss. But as time had gone by, the objections and hesitations had gotten easier and easier to overcome -- especially once she'd figured out that Marcus has never really read about Rasputin and gone whole hog with his "orgy as the path to holy exhaustion" schtick. From that point on it had merely been about making sure the additions all had plausible explanations.

The sound-absorbant padding on the walls fore and aft, for example? A sanity-saving measure for the staff in the event of deliberately loud and disruptive delinquents. The hooks and pulleys in the ceilings? Options for hanging additional plants or lighting as an atmospheric measure if they were to get the needed clearance from Administration. (Never mind that they were never going to ask for any such clearance.) The short, padded benches here and there provided "varied seating options.". And of course the lengthy cupboards along the room's north and south walls were there for convenient storage of personal effects.

Those cupboards had been the biggest hurdle; Marcus had professed to having sleepless nights, wondering when someone from Administration was going to compare dimensions on the blueprints and realize that the shallow "cupboards" -- no more than a foot and half deep themselves -- were effectively cutting the room's dimensions down to the thirty feet by twenty one. Someone had to eventually ask what was in the extra space that they'd walled away, didn't they?

Well, no they didn't. Mall Administration simply didn't care. Understanding that nobody else here took the work as seriously as he did was something alien to Marcus, an anxiety that never quite left him... but he'd eventually calmed down enough to let her move in the extra equipment. Now the cupboards were open, their false back walls retracted to reveal padded compartments with all the necessary implements of a solid sex dungeon: the racks of whips and crops and sex toys; the wooden stocks and the pair of x-frames; the coils of ropes, the chains and shackles.

Max looked around at the private playground she'd created, right in the heart of the All-American Mall. Anticipation made her even more gorgeous; her alabaster skin flushed, her eyes shining, her hair pulled out of its restrictive law enforcement bun and tied back in a loose pony-tail instead. She'd unbuttoned her tight uniform shirt and tied it between her F-cup breasts like a schoolgirl's top, leaving her sexy midriff bare. She'd switched out those boring, strait-laced trousers for the tight pair of black hotpants she kept in her desk drawer. And she'd taken the normal tools of the security trade out of the utility belt around her waist.

She was walking around her racks of implements, selecting items to tuck into her belt. A riding crop, a flogger. A pair of egg vibrators, another pair of shiny chrome "personal massager" dildoes. A jar of Response Cream arousal ointment. A butt-plug and a string of anal beads. Alligator clamps on silver chains. The slender wand of the electric shock toy that replaced her taser, and the giant-sized magic wand vibrator to take the place of her baton.

Finally, reverentially, she picked up the piece-de-resistance, hanging on its own; a big black rubber strap-on that she set down on one of the benches, its sculpted, veiny "cock" rearing up at the sky.

That strap-on came with memories. It had been the first sex toy she ever bought; back in her own high-school years a decade ago, when she'd been ostracized by a clique of bullying "mean girls" envious of her curves, her breasts, the attention the boys paid to her. One day one of the girls, their blonde cheerleader Alpha female, had jumped her and tied her up in the boys' locker room during a football game as a prank. After the football team's return, Max had come out of that locker room traumatized and limping, her face and tits streaming with spunk and her life irrevocably changed; and she'd gone out in search of something she could use to take her power back. When she'd first laid eyes on that strap-on it had felt like destiny.

It had felt like something very different to the prankster, of course. Max remembered cornering her in a stall in the girls' bathroom and using it to fuck her every hole, dishing out a pounding even more merciless than those jocks had given her. That bitch had mewled and whimpered and begged as she came all over the plastic cock, over and over and over again, and had spent the rest of senior year and the whole of that summer as a willing sex slave; Max had even had the pleasure of pimping her out to the same football team she had used in her prank. The girl's squeals as Max had held her on a leash -- taking cock after cock and sobbing in delicious despair as the laughing jocks threw money at her and her precious reputation went down in flames -- had been exquisite.

She'd been hooked after that. The world of vanilla sex had been left far behind. Max had put herself through college as a dominatrix, researched criminology as she'd nursed fantasies of becoming a cop -- and putting handcuffs and batons to much rarer and sexier uses than they usually got. Her father, a detective in the BPD (and innocent of the darker desires driving her quest) had even tried to pull strings for her. But ultimately her big, beautiful breasts had proved too awkward a hindrance in the physical trials; and when one of the Academy instructors suggested she explore breast reduction, she'd laughed in his face. That would be a cold day in Hell.

And so she'd come here... and had found Marcus and the R.A.M.S. unit, and the means of living out her fantasies. In the past year the two of them had taken a bitch every month; shoplifters, vandals, runaways, loiterers, graffiti artists. They had put each one of them through their paces in this room, had developed a routine that worked smoothly; they even had the added security of Max's old man in the Department, whose belief in his daughter was absolute and who'd called in favours to quash the only legal complaint to come out of their activities without thinking twice.

It's only going to get better, thought Max as she stroked the strap-on with lascivious fondness. Two bitches at a time... I can't wait. Max could feel her pussy moistening just thinking of the possibilities. She closed her eyes and visualized the naked little bitches she'd glimpsed on the video feeds, stroked her snatch through her booty shorts as she imagined them writhing under the whip, the paddle, the ministrations of a vibrator.

The radio at her shoulder crackled to life, Marcus' deep, rich voice sounding tinny and robotic as it always did on the air. "R.A.M.S. double-oh-one to R.A.M.S. double-oh-four, come on back."

"Double-oh-four here." Max sent back. She didn't stop stroking her pussy. Instead she crawled onto one of the benches, biting her lip as she borrowed her hand inside her shorts and slipped two fingers up inside her hot cunt, feeling a sweet wave of pleasure wash through her.

"Am inbound with suspects. Is Reception prepared?"

She let out a little gasp of delight, her fingers wriggling and thrusting as she fought to keep her voice steady: "Roger that, double-oh-one, we are prepared to entertain." She grinned, hearing the randy edge in Marcus' voice as he confirmed and signed off; and then she began rubbing her clit furiously as she thought: They're coming. They're going to be here soon. It's about to begin.

That last thought never failed to bring her off, and it was mere seconds before Max's juices were flooding around her fingers, her body tensing and her breasts heaving as she stifled her little cries of passion and coated her hand in sweet nectar. As the shuddering waves of pleasure subsided, she pulled her hand free and lapped up the bright juices with her tongue, swallowing them luxuriantly as she faintly heard the front doors of the office open and close, Marcus' gruff voice telling someone to "sit over there and pay attention."