Meat Hooks & Butcher's Twine

I was getting restless. We had been there, in the small, humid back room where M spends his work days, for well over an hour. I had watched as M, clad in a white shop coat and a long, slick rubber apron, pulled rack after rack of turkey breasts from tall, cavernous smokers, then stacked them with gloved hands, one by one, before dragging the whole lot in to the freezer. I had managed to distract him from this task momentarily. My jeans had been yanked down and my legs roughly parted so that he could plunge himself in to me once, twice, three times, and then I was dismissed, told to let him do his work, promised that he would finish with me later. I had wandered through the labyrinth of interconnected rooms; here was where M's work wives made him sandwiches and prepared various deli salads and such for sale, here was the break room, where an insert from the newspaper lay upon the table, its headline promising to help in finding the holiday spirit while on the job, and here was one of the refrigerated rooms, the one in which M had jokingly promised to string me up with a meat hook and butcher's twine. I meandered back the way that I had come, past the shelves full of dry goods, rows of spices and herbs, piles of packaged pasta, columns of cans filled with beans and olives, past the cold rooms where sausages and hams hung from the ceiling, and in to the sweltering cave of concrete and rusted metal where M was still working. He was refilling the racks now, pulling turkeys and hams from great vats of brine and lining them up inside the smokers.

"I'm just about done, babe," he informed me, glancing up as I entered. "You ready to get out of here?"

I watched as M checked the settings, ensuring that the carefully placed meats would be smoked correctly over night, that they would be ready to be unloaded first thing the following Monday morning, less than twelve hours from now, given how early he had been going in as of late. I watched as he grabbed a pair of scissors and a large, conical skein of twine. I saw him gesture at me to follow him, saw his lips mouthing words that I could not hear over the din of the roaring smokers as he turned towards that refrigerated room.

Twine was hastily wrapped around my wrists, binding them together carelessly, the thread cutting sharply in to the skin. My hands were jerked upwards, hoisted over my head by the biting twine as it was looped and knotted around the metal hooks affixed to the ceiling. Rough hands moved over my body, squeezing and caressing possessively. Again, the tight denim that I wore was pulled to my knees. My shirt was pushed up, out of the way, and fingers tugged at my hardened nipples. A wave of goosebumps rippled across my exposed flesh. Hot whispers in my ear assured me that I wanted it, that a slut like me always wants it. I shivered. The fingers moved to my cunt, prodding between the slick folds, callouses scraping over my throbbing clit. My elbows and wrists nagged at me for release, to be lowered. The fingers pressed further in to the heat of my pussy, causing me to cry out, distracting me from the pain and the cold. His body pressed closer to me from behind and I felt the smooth hardness of a cock against my ass. It slid easily between my inner thighs, the damp of my cunt aiding its passage. I heard moaning, panting, and with a start I realized it was me. Now the cock was thrust upwards, jutting viciously inside of me while the fingers continued pinching and rubbing my clit vigorously. My pussy stretched, but the cock entered me too quickly, too forcefully. I could feel the minuscule tears as they occurred, but I no longer felt pain. Then, suddenly, I was empty. The head of the cock was dragged across my cunt. It poked between the cleft of my ass, seeking the tight hole there, lining up with it, preparing to push its way in. I was squealing now, as the tip of the cock was thrust through the unyielding entrance. It withdrew. I could feel him jerking himself, his hand essentially a fist that slammed against my pussy with every rapid stroke, the head of his cock still probing for my holes. I felt him shudder behind me, pulling me close with one arm, leaning on me for support as he emptied his cum on my ass, my cunt, my thighs. It ran down my legs, cooling quickly as it puddled in the jeans around my ankles. The aching of my arms, of my sex, came swimming back. I watched as he sauntered through the door in front me, smirking, leaving me strung up, covered in his jizz, my pants still around my ankles.

"Go get yourself cleaned up," he said, pulling in to the driveway.

I nodded, climbing out of the car, my cum-soaked jeans cold against my legs and ass, more cum dripping from my pussy as I stood. Even in the dim light the red welts around my wrists were clearly visible.

"I'll be back soon," he promised. "Go get cleaned up for me."

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