666 13th Avenue

“You don’t have to sell your soul,” The Devil told me, “In a matter like this, you could merely lease it to me.”

He was a handsome devil, and he wore a very expensive looking charcoal-grey suit. You could almost have mistaken him for a human, if you overlooked his metallic blue-black skin, the color of hardened steel.  And the sharp, curved horns that projected from his forehead.  And the long, hairy, obscene-looking tail that spilled discretely out of one pant leg.

One more semester and I’d have my goddamn MFA.  My grant money had dried up, and I had already maxed out my student loans.  I was desperate.  Desperate enough to go to Lucifer.  It was either him or the credit card companies.

“In cases like yours, I usually ask for a year of servitude.” He wore beautiful, extremely expensive-looking black leather loafers.  I wondered if he had cloven hooves hidden inside those shoes.  “Would you like to take a tour of the facility with me?”

It was one of those generic, anonymous glass and steel skyscrapers that so litter midtown.  I had probably walked right past the place a hundred times and never looked twice at it.  It took up an entire city block; most of the ground floor was occupied with retail shops.  There was a Starbucks on the corner.  The Devil led me to a discrete, unmarked door which swung silently open after he entered a code into a PIN pad.  His fingernails were the sharp, predatory claws of a wild beast.

We entered a large, dark room filled with small tables.  Canned jazz played softly through the sound system.  There was a bar at either end of the room.  A couple dozen more-or-less pretty girl with bare chests, most of them bustier than me, wandered in between the tables carrying drink trays; a couple more topless chicks were stationed behind each bar.  The customers were almost all men, generally quite well dressed. An enormous, scarlet-skinned demon bearing a spiked maul loitered near the door.  The bouncer, I surmised.  It was a titty bar.

The girls all wore pretty much exactly the same uniform:  a black or red g-string, and a pair of impractical-looking high heels.  That was it; a few girls wore fishnets or a leather choker around their necks, but most did not.  Some of the nipples were pierced, and there was a pretty large selection of navel rings and tattoos.  I liked looking at all the mostly-naked girlies.  All the boobies looked really nice.  They all seemed natural for one thing, and there was a wide variety of shapes and sizes.  I wondered how my own rack would measure up alongside them all.

“This is just the ground floor,” The Prince of Darkness told me, “Some girls spend their entire servitude working here.  It’s pretty easy stuff, all you have to do is serve drinks and smile a lot.  Our customers generally tip very well.

From time to time,” he went on, “A customer will select a girl.  He pays extra, and gets to take the girl upstairs.  You understand,” he grinned wickedly, exposing four rows of very sharp small teeth, “that this is a very expensive club, and it costs a lot of money to take a girl upstairs.  Shall we?”

Together, we walked up a grand curved staircase to the second floor.  Halfway up, The Devil turned to me.  “The important thing for you to remember about this establishment is that once a girl is promoted upstairs, she can never go back down again.”

The second floor was very much like the first, with the addition of a small stage, lit up by a row of spotlights with colored gels.  Two nude girls danced around a couple of poles.  They didn’t look like strippers; maybe burlesque performers.  They were both pretty cute, but not in a stripper sort of way.  One had a shaved pussy with prominent labia that peeked out and curled over.  The other one was shortish and kind of chunky, and had a neatly trimmed bush.  They both looked like they were enjoying themselves.

Again, a dozen or so girls were waiting tables.  They were all nude, except for the high heels.  I liked seeing all the jiggling and wiggling ass cheeks, of various shapes and sizes.  I saw a lot of shaved pussies, but there was also a fair amount of pubic hair, ranging from full bushes to landing strips.  The girls were mostly quite attractive — there was a redhead with a giant squid tattooed across her back that I got an insta-crush on — but not really in the stripper aesthetic. They looked more like, well, my friends and the girls I hung out with.  And also, in contrast to other strip clubs I’d been in, everybody here — patrons and workers alike — looked happy.

The customers were mostly, but again not exclusively, men.  Actually, there seemed to be more female patrons up here than on the first floor.  There was one table with three or four women dressed in business attire (and a naked brunette gyrating on one of their laps), a table with a lesbian couple, and more than a few wives and girlfriends scattered around the other tables.  Quite a few naked girls were sitting on customers laps.  At one table, quite close by where we stood, I could see that the girl had her customer’s pants undone, his erect penis out, and her hand was rhythmically pumping up and down.

“One again,” Beelzebub told me, “many girls never even graduate from the second floor.  The work is quite easy: lap dances and hand jobs, and the customers are very well behaved.  If they are not,” he flashed another disturbingly toothy grin, “they are quickly asked to leave.

“Sometimes the customer will want a little extra.   In that case, he –or she– can pay a little extra and take the girl of his choice up to the third floor.  Follow me.”

We ascended a wrought iron spiral staircase.  “There are no private booths or rooms in my club,” The Devil told me, “Anything that goes on here happens out in the open.  And remember, you can always go up, but you may never go down.”

The third floor was much more Spartan than the first two levels.  There was a small bar at one end of the room where a tall buxom amazon served drinks.  In the center of the room was a raised platform lit up by spotlights.  There was a large, very ornate Victorian bed atop the platform.  On top of the bed, three girls were interlocked in a complicated daisy chain.  The three of them were all licking, sucking, and fingering each other enthusiastically, and they all seemed to me to be genuinely enjoying themselves.  I caught a very nice look at one girl’s spread-open pussy, her co-worker’s index finger buried up to the knuckle in it.  She was very wet and her lips pouted open, and her clit was shiny red and erect.

There were futons in different configurations throughout the room.  Some were empty, but most held a couple –or a triad– cavorting on the clean white sheets.

On one futon, a tall forty-ish woman with salt-and-pepper hair and stretch marks on her belly was having her pussy vigorously licked by a very young-looking girl with a buzz cut.  I could actually hear the juicy smacks and slurps as the girl licked away.  The tall woman’s eyes were half-closed, her head thrown back in pleasure, her large dark nipples sticking straight up.

On another couch, a fat gentleman was entertaining two pretty dark-haired girls.  He was lying on his back while one of the girls bounced up and down on his slick hard cock.  The other girl was squatting astride his face, dragging her neatly trimmed pussy back and forth along his extended tongue.  I idly wondered how often the girls switched position.

On yet another futon, a quite good-looking man was fucking a rather chubby girl with gorgeous long brown curly hair from behind, while his (wife?  girlfriend?) filmed the scene with a hand-held camcorder.

Everywhere I looked, there were people having sex.  Maybe it was because I hadn’t had an orgasm in a few days (a combination of money stress and not having a boyfriend had put a damper on my sex life lately), but seeing this room made me incredibly horny.  All around me was the sound, smell, and sight of people fucking.  I’d never actually seen actual people having actual sex in person before, up-close and personal.  This was way better than any porno.  Inside my panties, my clit twitched obnoxiously.

“And then of course,” The Devil said, “There is the fourth floor.”

We took another spiral staircase up to the next floor, which was another big room almost identical to the level below it.

On a brightly-lit raised platform at center, a winsome girl with large breasts and curly black hair stood.  Here hands were tied at the wrists and were held over her head by a cord that ran up to a pulley in the ceiling.  A big fat vibrator was crammed up her ass; another was buried in her pussy.  I could hear the toys buzzing from where I stood.  Her face was a mask of intense concentration.

Clipped to the base of each vibrator were three steel balls, each one about the size of a ping pong ball.  Each ball had a snap on one end and a hook at the other.  As I watched, a winged imp with stubby little horns and a disturbingly long flaccid penis skittered out and clipped another ball onto each vibrator.  The girl on the platform winced, and I saw her muscles tense, and a low moan escaped her lips.

“Every fifteen minutes or so, we add another pair of weights.”  The Devil told me, “As soon as she drops one of the toys, her time is up and another girl takes her place.  Each ball weighs half a pound.  The record is five balls on each toy.  Think you can beat that?”  The Devil grinned his shark’s grin at me, “It’s excellent exercise and good fun too.”

There were only a few customers on the futons in this room.  I quickly saw what the theme was up here, and my clit twitched and throbbed in response.

On one futon, an attractive black guy in his early twenties was fucking a very pale blonde girl up the ass.  He was approaching climax as I watched; from the sounds she was making, the blonde was in very much the same boat.  All of a sudden, the black dude howled out loud, arched his back, and grasping her hips so hard his fingers left pink marks on her flesh, he buried himself inside her ass.  I actually saw his balls twitch as he came.  A few seconds later, his already wilting wet penis popped out of her winking asshole, followed by a veritable gush of semen.  The girl stayed on her knees, head down, masturbating furiously.

“Don’t worry,” The Devil told me, “All our clients are very carefully screened.”

On another futon, a woman I recognized from television (was she a politician?  Yes, that was it, she was a U.S. senator!) was butt fucking a mousey looking chick with a wide ass who’s glasses were all akimbo on her head.  The senator-lady was still wearing a half-buttoned white blouse and a lacy bra; she wielded a formidable-looking purple strap-on mounted on a black leather harness.  There were raised red handprints on the mousey girl’s pale ass cheeks.  I couldn’t tell whether the girl’s screams were motivated by pleasure or pain.  A little of both, I suspected.

On another futon, two hairy middle-aged men were screwing a skinny girl; one was fucking her pussy, the other was pounding her ass.  On a fourth futon, a fat woman with enormous breasts lounged.  Three girls were eating her out: two were taking turns licking her pussy and clit while the third had her face stuck between the woman’s ass cheeks and was slurping busily away.

“The upper floors,” Mammon told me, “Are more rarified and correspondingly more expensive.  They are only accessible this way.”  He led me to a bank of sleek, silent elevators.  Inside the car was an array of buttons, L for lobby, and 5-99.  The buttons were all black, except for the one that read 99.  That one was red, and keyed off.

The Devil pushed the button marked 5, and the elevator slid smoothly up.  “What you have to understand before you agree to anything,” he said to me in a serious tone, “is that while we don’t allow our clients to do any permanent harm to our staff, that leaves a LOT of room for pain and suffering.  Once a girl has been promoted a floor, she can never go back down, and for the length of her servitude she has absolutely no say in what is done to her or by whom.

The elevator doors slid open on the 5th floor.  On the (faux?) stone wall opposite us, a naked girl with an iron collar around her neck was chained spread-eagled.  Her head was shaved bare, and her back, butt, and thighs were an angry roadmap of painful-looking welts.  A big muscular guy with a crew cut, naked from the waist up, was standing behind her, holding a long, cruel whip.  He had a wicked farmer’s tan, and the back of his neck was sunburned.  There were messy looking, smudged blue tattoos up and down his sinewy, muscular arms.

As The Devil and I watched, the man raised his whip and, muscles flexing and bulging, brought it down across the poor girl’s back with a hiss and a crack.  She screamed thinly and struggled against her bonds.

There was a line of men –and one mean-looking woman– waiting their turn with various whips, switches, canes, and floggers in hand.  In the middle of the room, a dozen or so miserable girls in iron collars padlocked to rings in the floor watched the proceedings silently, patiently awaiting their turn at the whipping wall.

We took the elevator up to the 6th floor.  The walls of this room were painted institutional blue, and the floor was white tile.  On a stainless steel table at the center of the room, two blonde girls who looked so similar they could almost have been sisters were locked in a 69.  Literally locked; they were chained and padlocked so that they couldn’t move out of that position.  A demon was feeding the girl on the bottom potato chips out of a crinkly bag; another demon was pouring water from a large plastic jug into the mouth of the girl on top, who lapped the water up thirstily.

“Oops!  Look out– here she goes again!” one of the demons chortled.  The blonde girl on top moaned and quivered, finally letting go with a long, clear, seemingly endless stream of piss, which caught the girl on the bottom half of the 69 full in the face.  The blonde on the bottom sputtered and choked, struggling against her chains.

“Don’t worry,” the jovial demon said, “Here, have a drink of water!”  The girl’s face and her long blonde hair were soaked in pee.  The demon held the water jug to her lips.  She gave him a hateful glare, but gulped the water up eagerly.

Meanwhile, a group of men were urinating into a long porcelain trough.  The drain at one end of the trough was connected to a hose, the end of which was plugged into the asshole of a girl who knelt face-down on the tile floor.  She was receiving an enormous piss enema.

Next to her, a petite girl with a pixie-ish face and a pageboy haircut and a visibly bloated belly was giving a fat older guy a blowjob.  Lying on her back, between the pixie-girl’s knees, another girl was licking her pussy.  “Oh Rebecca, please don’t!” she whispered between licks, “Hold it in a little longer… Oh Becky, please don’t, no…!”  The fat man snickered and grabbed pixie-girl’s hair, forcing her head down on his cock until her face was buried in his graying pubes.

“Personally I don’t get it, but a surprising number of people really get off on this stuff.  Come on, I’ll show you something a little more intense.”

On the 23rd floor, the only light came from a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.  A pale girl with big brown eyes and a long neck and very long dark hair was tied nude to a steel chair.  Alligator clips with colored leads attached to them were clamped onto her large brown nipples, her labia, and her clit.  The leads all ran to a black box on a small wooden table.

Two men in grey uniforms with black armbands and what looked like tasers on their belts were standing over her.  “I’ll ask you one more time,” one of the men snarled threateningly, “what is 2261 divided by 17?!”

“I don’t know!” the girl sobbed, “I told you, I’m no good at math!”

“Very well,” the other man said softly, “you leave us no choice.”   He pushed a button on the black box, holding it down for a long count of three.  The girl thrashed in her chair and screamed voicelessly, her eyes bulging out of her face and every tendon in her body straining.  I smelled smoke.

“Alright, shall we start over then?” the first man said when the girl had stopped twitching.  I could see that she was now sitting in a pool of her own urine.  “Let’s start with something more basic.  1024 minus 178?”  She whimpered fearfully as he unclipped the taser on his belt.  “Well…?”

“The interrogation continues until she answers a math problem correctly,” The Devil told me helpfully.  “Then she sucks them both off and the next girl is brought in.  Don’t bother boning up on your math by the way, the questioners may pick any subject they choose.”

On the 50th floor, a group of men in business suits were sitting around drinking beer and watching sports bloopers on a big-screen tv, and generally ignoring the emaciated girl who was suspended face-down from the ceiling by a couple dozen fishhooks stuck through the skin of her back, her shoulders, and the backs of her legs.  There was a ball gag in her mouth, and her ribs protruded like 2x4s underneath rice paper.  Big, heavy industrial-looking vise grips dangled down, clamped to her lower lip, her labia, and her grotesquely-stretched nipples.  A big, ominous-looking fire hose was coiled up on the floor.

Up on the 82nd floor, a long narrow steel box sat atop a beat-up looking oak table.  The box was about 18” square and maybe 5’ long, and was welded shut.  There was a small, circular hole in the side at one end of the box.  A naked man with a huge beer gut and pendulous balls had his cock jammed into the hole, and appeared to be blissfully fucking away.  At the other end of the box, two petite bare feet protruded from another pair of small round holes.  The feet were girl’s feet, swollen and bloody; the ankles were bruised and chaffed from rubbing against the rough-cut steel.

A severe-looking middle-aged lady in a grand black dress was busy inserting needles into those bare feet.  She had a whole pincushion full of them, plus various pliers, scalpels, and a soldering iron.  With an intent look on her face, she selected one extremely long and thick large needle from the pincushion and drove it very deliberately deep into the ball of one foot.  I heard a muffled, gagging scream from inside the box.

“Oh my God Dolores!” the man groaned, humping into the hole until his pubes were mashed against the steel wall of the box, “Every time you do that, she does the most amazing things to my cock!  Give me some more!”

“Nothing,” the lady said with a tight little smile on her face as she picked up the soldering iron, “Would give me more pleasure!”

“Well,” The Devil said as we got back into the elevator and headed down toward the lobby, “I think you’ve seen enough to make an informed decision.  The other floors are pretty much the same idea– use your imagination.”

“And what’s on the 99th floor?” I asked.

The Devil made a face.  “Oh you don’t even want to know.”

“So,” The Devil asked as we walked out into the bright Manhattan sunlight.  The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians.  “What do you think?  Do we have a deal?”

I realized that my panties were absolutely sodden.  They’d have to come off, and soon!  “Where do I sign up?”


(Once again, inspired by/ripped off from Holly)


  1. ElsieFanny said

    I like this quite a bit, except when the elevator get too high up. (I am not not a big fan of needles and fishhooks in flesh.) Of course, that is an easier view to take as a male in this case where the masochists/victims are all female. Thanks Elsie.

    • elsiewrites said

      You know, I didn’t think this one would be quite your cup of tea. It’s a funny thing: some people get ooked out by the idea of sisters boinking their brothers; other people get creeped out by the idea of women dangling from fishhooks and being prodded with red-hot soldering irons. I certainly have my own set of ooks, which I’ll keep to myself for now; but I’ll write about just about anything, as long as it’s consensual.

  2. smutkitten said

    Oooh, lots of interesting ideas for me to carry on in my daydreams! I think I’ll probably stick to the lower floors too, but I love the fact that there’s so many ideas in this story for me to pick and choose the ones I like 😀

  3. ElsieFanny said

    “Ook” is an interesting term that will stick with me for a good long while. I am interested in finding out more about your “ooks,” but I will wait for you to reveal them when you feel that the time is ripe.

    I hadn’t thought so much about your the consensual aspect of your stories. However, thinking about them now, I see that even the most sadistic of your stories always seem to involve a sub going along willingly, however painful or even fatal the results might be. Even so, I still prefer consensual brother/sister stuff to something that would be harder to explain to a war crimes tribunal.

    Your devoted fan

  4. John Cowan said

    I think it would have been better if the stairs and elevator went down rather than up.

    And I know your names aren’t supposed to mean anything, but naming the woman with the needles “Dolores” (“Sorrows”) was just too much for my critical faculties, and I chortled!

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