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We arrange a time and place to meet, a place you know. I arrive on time and sit, waiting patiently, for you to appear. My first drink is soon gone, and you still have not arrived. 15 minutes later, I’m starting to get annoyed. More minutes pass, and my annoyance turns to anger. Where the fuck are you?!

Finally, when eventually you do arrive, there is no hello, no apology, no begging for forgiveness – just loud complaints about “the parking around here”, and rude demands for a waiter – you order yourself a drink and flounce into your chair, ignoring my (again) empty glass. I continue to seethe, which you just ignore. This is the first time we’ve met.

Once you’ve finished mouthing off about the lack of parking, you finally look over at me – “Anyway” you start “I’m JJ. How do you like me so far?” And you laugh heartily at your own joke. I don’t.

“I’ve been waiting here for over half an hour” I say, leaning in. “That would be pretty rude even if you were a close friend. From someone I’ve never met, well its not a great first impression is it. Anyway, I will be happy to accept your apology when you eventually get around to it.” You lean forward to meet me in the centre of the table: “Apologize!? What the fuck for? I’m not late, that’s for sure you must have been early. If you think I’m going to apologize to you because you’re too stupid to understand a simple meeting time, you’re sadly mistaken. Fuck. I’m surprised you came to the right bar if I’d known you were that thick, I’d have sent a map.”

Slightly stunned at the offensive arrogance of this outburst, I am still for a moment, before rocking back in my chair. “We agreed to meet at 7.30pm. I was here at 7.25pm. You were here after 8pm. How exactly do you figure that you’re on time?”

“We so did not say 7.30 my message said “meet you at 8 at ————“. I think I even said “looking forward to seeing you’ which, as it turns out, was optimistic, wasn’t it.” Another good laugh at your own wit there. “As I recall you replied “great, see you there’. Yeah, I can really see how we agreed to meet at 7.30 sorry I’m late!” you continue, sarcasm dripping from your every pore.

“You think that we arranged to meet at 8?” I say, in surprise. I pause:

“Want to bet?”.

You laugh loudly “You are soooo on. $50 says that you’re as wrong as you are stupid.”

I say: “$50? Lets make it more interesting, shall we?. Lets find a computer, and check alt.com to see what time we agreed on. If our messages show that we agreed to meet at 8, I’ll give you $500.”

“$500? You’re crazy, but who am I to stop you giving me money? Fine with me I can always use the extra”, you say.

“If the site shows we agreed to meet at 7.30, however”, I continue, leaning in to you again, my voice lowered, “you will have to be my slave. If you lose, JJ, you must hand over to me control of your body and mind for the entire rest of the week.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, it doesn’t matter, I know I’m right,” you say, failing to notice the cool menace in my voice, “When do you want to get the money I want to see it before we check the website. I’m not going to all that trouble if you haven’t got the cash to pay up.”

“That makes sense” I say, allowing myself a small smile “But I’m not showing you a cent until we have agree to the terms of the bet properly. Let’s write it down, and we’ll both sign it – that way it will be binding.”

“Good idea then I’ve got proof of what you owe me” you say. “Exactly” I say, and reach for a pen in my jacket. After a minute, I hand you a piece of paper which says:

“The bet is: what time did Jujou and Fred agree to meet? The correct time will be the time agreed in the messages between the parties on Alt.com. If the agreed time was 8.00pm, I, Fred, will pay JJ the amount of $500. Signed: Fred. If the agreed time was 7.30pm, I, JJ, agree to be Fred’s slave for the rest of the week, and must do and endure anything and everything that he says or does to me. Signed: ….”

“Now you sign” I say. You hesitate briefly, then sign your name with a flourish.

“Now then” I say, feeling considerably better “this is your town where can we find a computer then?”

Unsurprisingly helpful, with half the money already spent in your mind, you say, “My guess would be the tattoo parlour up the road they’ve got a web site, so I guess they’ll have internet access”. “Makes sense.” I reply. “Shall we go then?” “Yes via the bank” says you. “Of course” I say, standing with a smile. “via the bank. Oh, and I’ve just remembered – is there a drug-store nearby? I have a couple of things to pick up before we finish this”.

“We arrive at the tattoo parlour, me loaded with cash and a mysteriously heavy bag, you annoyingly listing the things you will be spending your money on: “maybe an iPod, though I’ll see how much I’ve got left by then, definitely some underwear skimpy stuff too, really hot, bet you’d like to see that on, wouldn’t you? hahaha”

We explain the situation to the parlour manager a fairly rough looking guy of about 40, quite tall and lanky, big hands. He’s interested to see the outcome here, and hangs around after he’s shown us to the computer. “Lets settle this” I say, guiding you into the chair in front of the screen “Off you go”.

You log in to your alt.com account, but pause ever so slightly before you click the link that will open the final message. You click – and there on the screen appear the words that seal your fate: “See you at 7.30 at —— – looking forward to seeing you”.

“Oh fuck!!” you start, as the meaning of the words you are reading begin to sink in. “Oh, fucking fucking fuck!”

“Well, you almost got it right” I offer generously. You just stare at the screen in horror.

“So” piped up the parlour guy, who was grinning at us from his position in the doorway behind us “What are you going to do with her first?”

“An excellent question” I say, smiling at him. “Though I think the question would be better put as “
what are we going to do with her! I feeling in a particularly sharing mood right now”

“What?!” you cry “The bet never mentioned sharing me around?!” “It says here quite plainly, I can do anything I want with you” I say, brandishing the paper in your face. “If I want to share you, that’s my business”. Your eyes begin to well with tears, as the potential consequences of your bratty behaviour start to form in your imagination “oh Christ” you whisper “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so late, and I think you’re a really nice guy, I didn’t mean to be such a bitch.” “Its all a bit late for that now” I say, cutting you off mid-beg “If you’d been at all pleasant this evening, the extent of your slave duties might have been no more than making me dinner.

Now however, I think you’re going to have to be taught a lesson. Are you doing anything tonight?” This last question is addressed to our friend the parlour-man, who was quietly enjoying the show. “Not any more” he said, grinning “What did you have in mind?” “Oh, a few things” I say “And of course, further suggestions are always welcome. Have you got a room we can use for a while?” “Yep, out the back where I do the inking” “Perfect” I say. “Come on Jujou” I say (you are looking shocked, your expression of dismay deepening at the way this discussion is progressing). “Lets go have some fun!” With that, I grab a handful of hair at the nape of your neck, and haul you off the chair onto the floor, “Lead the way” I indicate to Parlour-man. He turns, and I follow him to his tattoo room, dragging you noisily behind me.

“And what do you want me to do with these now?” I hear the Parlour-man’s voice above me and, looking up from my work between your spread thighs, I see him standing behind you, his hands pushing your now-reddened breasts together, presenting them for discussion. I ponder briefly: “Nipple stretching was next I think the string is over there” I say.

You are quieter now the realisation that your protests, though loud, were having no effect has
given way to some degree of acceptance, and your eyes have become slightly glazed, no doubt from the gentle stimulation caused by the warm water and foam being swept aside by the razor I am guiding studiously across your labia.

Before, when we first entered this room, you appeared determined to play along, hoping that we would might chicken out of this craziness if you called our bluff. When ordered to strip, you did so almost defiantly, handing your small bundle of clothes to me with your head held high. Inevitably, this plan has not worked because, of course, there is no bluff to call. This is real. Now, you cannot believe the casual ease with which you accepted this simple, stupid bet, effectively gifting your self to someone you have never met with barely a thought for the consequences. What were you thinking? And now and now well, you’re imagination is working hard at presenting you with the possible outcomes all of them painful and humiliating.

You were then sat down in the tattoo chair (a long, reclined affair, looking like it might have been used by a dentist in a previous life) and arranged in an appropriate manner, enabling us to view and consider the fate of your various attributes. “There’s too much hair on her for a start” I say. Parlour-man takes up this theme with enthusiasm. “Definitely particularly here” he says, grabbing at a tuft of your pubic hair. You push his hand away “stop it” you cry – and are rewarded with a hard slap and a warning in your ear: “This is your bed, girl lie in it quietly, and you’ll be rewarded. If you fight this, we can make things very, very unpleasant. Do you understand? “Yes”, you murmur, your voice gently quavering . “That’s Yes Sir to you” I say, and wait. “Yes Sir” you eventually repeat. A pause. All 3 of us have noticed the subtle change in your voice, the slightly breathy, husky characters which give away that the extent to which this treatment is arousing you. “Oh, you filthy slut” I lean down and whisper in your ear “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?! Well, lets see what else you might enjoy ”

And so we considered your naked form, and discussed what treatments might work best to cure you of your bratty insolence. “Hair first, as you say” says the Parlour-man. “Yes” I agree “but not just pubic I mean ALL her hair. I want her totally bald underarms, legs, cunt, head, eyebrows, arse everything. A writhing, hairless, oily eel of a girl that’s what I want to start with. That should get her thinking a bit. Have you got any shears? I ask. “Sure do” “Great” I turn to the Parlour-man “Is there anything you would like to suggest?” I ask. “Well” he ponders “Lets start from this end and work our way down shall we? Head shaved, as we’ve said, shaved and oiled. Tits? hmmm, so much to do here. I think clothespins for sure, lots and lots of clothespins. Then a thorough mauling, and some nipple stretching would be fun except I don’t have any string here.” “Funny you should mention that” I say, holding up a new packet from my the bag of my new purchases. “Excellent!” he said, and returned his attention to your prone and naked form “What’s next then”.

Our hands attend the topics of our conversation, gliding over your body, pushing, prodding and pinching you depending on the discussion in hand. The rough attention you are receiving is causing your nipples to stand obviously erect, and we can hear your breath begin to deepen through the tears that once again begin to form in your eyes at the prospect of the torturous lessons being proposed.

“Ah now, once again we reach the pussy” says the Parlour-man, again grabbing your pubic hair in his fingertips. You stare back, eyes wide in anticipation of the horrors that might be in store for this precious part. “Bald first, obviously then a spanking” “Yep, a spanking’s a good idea” I agree, and push your parted knees towards your chest as an aid to this discussion (“hold them there” I order and though you open your mouth to protest, you obey) “We can probably use some of the clothespins here as well. And do you have any candles? I think we should try and make a wax mould of her cunt it probably wont work but it will certainly be fun trying!. We can stick the candles in her arse when we’re not using them. That should help loosen it up for some later work, when we turn her over.” “Oh, we’re going to fuck you every which way, girl” says the Parlour-man, swinging his face close to yours. You just peer miserably at us from between your own knees, your trembling wet lips parted in an expression of purest desire and horror.

And so here we are – an hour or so gone by since we first arrived, and there’s still so long to go. “String it is” says the Parlour-man, and unwraps the newly purchased ball. He tightly binds each nipple, provoking what is by now a familiar whimper from you, which he ignores. “I’ll just get the spare stand in we can stretch them up to that. Back in a sec” and he leaves the room, leaving us briefly alone. I stop to take a break and consider your progress thus far. Your thighs are spread wide to your sides, and your cunt smiles broadly back at me from beneath the shaving foam. Your long and curly locks now decorate the floor, and your head is shorn to stubble, awaiting the final attentions of my razor. Your poor mistreated breasts, so easily accessible during your hair cut, have been kneaded, pulled and pinched until they are both red and throbbing. You look how you are broken, humiliated and totally beaten. There is no trace of your previous arrogance.

“Ah, lovely” I sigh to myself. Then, almost as an afterthought, I say “Oh, Jujou.” You look up “Yes Sir” you say, a small flicker of hope in your eyes. “We never did have that drink, did we. I think we should go back to that bar – in a few hours, once you’ve recovered sufficiently to walk that is – and have that drink we were supposed to have. I know you don’t have any money but, in the circumstances, I will be happy to treat you – I know you will have earned it.”

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