Category: Humor & Satire Stories

The Banker Cull

by ElaineCarbonek©

Those in the know attributed to original idea to an undisclosed European source. To the wider public, though, this acclaimed initiative had come straight from Number 10, and seldom had a government project been greeted with such widespread support.

The idea itself was a miracle of ingenuity. The public couldn't stand bankers, and the armed forces could only prevent public lynchings for so long. Bankers, on the other hand, refused to amend their wicked ways and rumours of bonus-fuelled orgies of sexual depravity and indecent manipulations of statistics ran like wildfire. In other words, a civil war between the City and the rest of the country looked inevitable, and there was little a cash-strapped government could do to avert it.

This is why, Cameron announced in the speech that he would later credit with his overwhelming victory in the following general election, a compromise would have to be reached. There would now be a bi-weekly free for all on bankers - provided there was no actual manslaughter. This is what family values are all about, he insisted: if people can have their wicked way with the evil bankers, but under tightly health-and-safety overseen regulations that still allow said bankers to keep their bonuses and their dangly parts more or less intact, civil society's cohesion will be preserved.

A side benefit was, of course, to allow the bloodthirstier members of the community to unleash the violent passions on those who justly deserved it, thus leaving foxes, badgers and East European human-trafficked streetwalkers alone. The vegetarian lobby's newfound support for the Tories after the new policy was introduced counted for a good 10 percentage points.

Instructions on how to proceed on Banker Cull days were duly issued by the various local authorities (with versions in French, Bengali, Sanskrit, audio and large print available upon request). Members of the public would have to form an orderly queue outside of the City's tube stations. Once issued with the government-standard leather leash and wide collar, they would have to patiently wait until 4 pm, when the first bankers complete their working day, and use it as a lasso to catch a specimen of high finance evil.

Now this may sound a bit too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel when all they have to defend themselves is a little briefcase filled with hedge-fund performance graphs and carefully clipped out extracts from the Sun's page 3. Many a seasoned buffalo hunter would however disagree and explain that wild animals, when smelling danger, have a tendency to herd together in a forward stampede, oyster card on the ready, thus enabling most of them to get through the turnstiles unharmed. It is a fine combination of luck, innate skill and months of assiduous practice that allows one to sling the leather leash just so, feel it fall at just the right angle and, most importantly, pull it back with a banker's neck secured inside.

History doesn't say whether Parsifal the banker considered himself more pisces or bovine, or indeed what emotions the feel of leather tightening around his neck aroused into him one sunny Thursday in July. It can only be surmised that a fleeting regret for having agreed to keep his bonus on those terms may briefly have been evoked, followed by the uncertain pondering on what the next few hours held in store for him.

Most people would agree that bankers were best used either for hen do entertainment or as recipients for mindless violence. As he meekly followed the pull of his leash that brought him to his new owner in front of a jeering crowd, Parsifal probably hoped for the former. Hen parties usually involved large amounts of alcohol, and, not unlike the universal pull of gravity, some unwritten law of nature translated into its inevitable finding its way to the nearest banker's lips.

From then onwards, things proceeded very much like a standard night out in the land of Nelson and Cromwell. Clothes would be shed, nipples would be twisted, more vodka would be ordered, and a somewhat dishevelled but still good-humoured banker would find his way back to his office in the early hours of the morning, mindless of the lipstick smears on his underwear and tie, just on time to quickly run a cocktail umbrella through his hair before the start the daily nap more commonly known as the morning team meeting. Nothing, in a word, to distinguish that night from any other in said banker's private career. He might even keep the leash as a trophy, a keepsake for his well-spent youth – a memento to pass on to the younger generations along with wise advice on how to pass a drunken hiccup as sound pension-fund advice.

Parsifal's heart fell when he caught a first glimpse of his owner for the evening. No pink tutu, no tiara, and no half-dozen inebriated ladies in tow - he was looking at mindless violence.

"Jackpot," the woman said. "We've got a pretty one this time."

He tried to assess the situation. Jones from the retail banking department had been caught by a bunch of Trotskyites a few months back and hadn't been able to sit straight since then. This lot didn't look particularly left-wing, though. Conservative attire. Maybe they were a secret banker protection squad, come to whisk him away to safety, maybe with a blow-job or three for his trouble.

He brought his hand to his collar - rather uncomfortable, these things, when someone kept tugging at them so - and hung on to that thought for dear life as he followed his new owner meekly.

All residual optimism however disappeared when he saw the spanking stocks.

He had watched their erection, with, he was ashamed to admit, one of his own. They had been built to maximise banker exposure and to minimise banker chances of escape. The wood was thick, the openings of neck and wrists were small, and the locks very secure indeed. What's more, a well-placed stool propped one's bottom up, giving a jeering crowd full view of one's exposed private in the all too likely event of one's owner divesting one of one's trousers.

Parsifal had often wondered how it would feel to be trapped that way, head and hands secured in the heavy wooden board, his hindquarters left rather vulnerable to anything the tormentors had in mind. The general rule was, he realised with a touch of panic, that everything was fair game as long as no banker actually died. That left a lot of possible playing around - possibly a lot more than his buttocks had previously experienced or indeed wished for.

"Come on, up you go," his handler said, pushing him up the to slightly elevated platform, cutting his musings short.

He hadn't really noticed it before, but the stocks themselves were on a wooden construction, not unlike the edifices the French had erected to support their guillotines. This, he came to understand as he walked up, had the unfortunate consequence of rendering the victim very visible to any onlooker. This wasn't too bad as long as he wore his clothes-

"Come on," his owner prompted. "Don't keep us waiting, take your clothes off!"

"Couldn't you, er, spank me with my trousers on?" he queried.

She smiled.

"Who told you I would stop with the spanking?"

He blushed and tried to keep his composure.

"He's not obeying!" an unhelpful voice shouted from the crowd.

His handler stepped on the platform too. She was now holding his leash in her left hand, and her right one, he realised, held a crop, the tip of which she placed right under his chin, forcing his head upwards.

"You heard the reminder, and yet you're still not obeying..."

"I..."

"Shut up. I won't be amused if I have to repeat the order."

His hands shook slightly. There was being comfortable with your own body, and there was disrobing in front of a mob of horny and possibly sadistic women. The two shouldn't be mistaken for one another!

The crop disappear from under his chin and violently smacked him on the cheek.

"One..."

He brought his hand to his cheek, staring at her in disbelief. What on earth-

The second smack came on the other cheek, harder.

"Two!"

"I'll do it! I'm doing it!"

He swallowed hard, breaths quick and shallow, trembling hands fumbling with his belt and fly. His trousers fell on his ankles.

The crowd cheered.

It would be hard to envision a more humiliating position, he mused until he was interrupted once more with violence. His tormentor had grasped both sides of his shirt, pulling hard until it tore in the middle.

"You're not a quick one, are you? Also didn't see that banking crash coming, I bet, hmm?"

She pulled the shirt away and twisted his right nipple with what could only be described as a savage grin.

"Too bad it's time to pay for this now, hmm?"

Although never usually one to lack a witty repartee, he was at loss for words. There was something about standing there in your underwear in the middle of a hostile crowd, nipple on fire, waiting for one's punitive spanking to commence, that hindered polite conversation somewhat. He placed his hands in front of his stubborn erection, hoping to conceal it from view.

"Now now now. Let's not be shy..."

He could swear the witch had the hint of a French accent. If a millenium of ritual humiliation in various battlefields by the hereditary enemy was to be believed, this did not bode well for him.

"Hands off now, let me see what we have here."

She took hold of his other nipple and pressed gently. He felt himself harden even more.

"You do realise that you're not in your bank any more, do you? Lack of co-operation now will only make me angrier when we come down to business... hands behind your back, now, if you don't want me to call a few members of the public to hold you down."

He swallowed, hard, and slowly moved his hands away from his crotch. It was a better bet to let everyone watch than to let everyone touch, surely? Had to be...

Her hand slid down his stomach to his side in a sensual caress.

Their eyes locked.

Please don't let her touch me there, he thought. It could all too easily lead to an accident, and something told him that, humiliating though his arousal was, it would be easier to bear through the evening still horny than after an orgasm.

Her hand curved around his balls and he could see the hint of a smile on her face.

"My, my, my... what do we have here..."

She squeezed his cock through his underwear and then pulled them down, leaving him completely exposed.

"Are we having fun? Ladies, this banker here is finding the situation very interesting!"

She walked around him and held his arms firmly behind his back, exposing him, and his erection, to the crowd.

His cheeks were on fire, and the early cropping was only partly to blame. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. This wasn't like the time he got caught red-handed fiddling with the short-term interest rates: no amount of quick thinking could get him out of that one.

"You know what I think? You should bend over now so I can secure you in the stocks..."

He shuddered. This was the point of no return. If he didn't escape now, he certainly wouldn't be able to later in the evening.

As if reading his thoughts, she twisted his right arm behind his back, forcing him to bend forward, chest touching the thick wooden stool. She maneuvered his neck on the stock and single-handedly clicked it shut. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing against the thick padding of the restraint. It had been precisely tailored to be just on the verge of discomfort, he noticed – not tight enough to strangle, yet snug enough to be felt. There must have been countless panic attacks caused by the feeling of near oppression it caused.

"Hands, now, you naughty boy, or do you need another taste of the crop?"

He very slowly, very reluctantly brought his left wrist into the thick padded cuff.

She let go of his right arm.

He paused for a bit, trying to relax his shoulder muscle as much as possible. Something told him that, once secured up, there would be no untying until the wee hours of the morning.

She was waiting for him to place his right hand in the other cuff, he realised. There was a certain something in having to place himself in a position of increased vulnerability that was far worse, and far more humiliating, than having her manhandle him into the stocks herself.

She caressed his naked back, hand lingering on his buttocks. He shuddered – not at the discomfort, but at the implied intimacy of her touch. He was itching to turn around and touch her in return. To grab her bottom and squeeze a bit...

He must have twitched. She chuckled and unhurriedly bend forward, her breast touching his back. She leisurely secured his hands – those padded cuffs were just as secure as they looked – and kissed him on the cheek.

"Eager to start, are we?" she pointed at his cock, still visible as it dangled between his legs, and more than a few laughs came from the crowd.

Damn. He was as hard as ever.

She went back to touching his arse, massaging each cheek. This didn't help. It must have something to do with increase in blood flow to his nether regions, he thought... and then she started to caress his balls and he stopped thinking altogether.

Her touch was light. He found himself closing his eyes, partly to block out the spectacle of a few hundred demented females staring at his nakedness with far too much interest, partly to focus on what she was doing to him.

Two fingers inched forward, caressing the length of his erect cock and then travelled back across the glans, circling the coronal ridge just too lightly at first, firming up with every stroke.

He found himself thrusting forward to get more contact on his cock. Forget the stay aroused to make the beating easier to take – he wanted her to touch him more and he wanted to cum. Hard. Whether being naked and humiliated in public played a role in that was something he was not prepared to examine at the moment.

"Right," she said, removing her fingers. "I think we're all ready."

What?

"Ah..." he uttered, almost prepared to beg.

"It's a good thing I always wear a scarf," she went on. "Never out of blindfolds that way!"

Without further ado, he felt the cloth being tightened around his head, and all went dark.

"Now, ladies, I'm going to take some advice from the public. Who votes for a sound caning?"

Scary sounds of assent rose from the assembly.

"and who votes on a sound paddling?"

The cheers were indiscernible from the previous ones, but she seemed to be of a compromising disposition.

"Fine, we'll have both! Now, I would need a volunteer..."

Before he knew what was happening, he heard the sound of high heels walking on the raising platform, sensed something brushing his stomach, and felt a warm mouth close on the tip of his cock.

He instinctively thrust forward and the mouth withdrew.

"Rookie mistake, darling. You're not allowed to do that. Whenever you move, you'll get this..."

He heard the swoosh of a cane, heard the impact of wood on flesh, and a split second later, felt the pain of the impact hit him.

He was still crying out when the wet, soft mouth engulfed him once more.

"Now, now, now. Crying like a little girl already? You should get punished for that..."

There was no whooshing this time, just a dull thud, and then pain.

He yelped and tried to focus on the mouth on his cock. She was settling on a rhythm, he realised – in, out, in out, and then tongue circled around the tip of his cock. His handler started rubbing his bottom and he let himself give in to the sensation. He wasn't very far from orgasm.

She started spanking him lightly, her bare hand hitting his bottom methodically. As if on cue, her acolyte quickened her in, out, in, out, tongue around-

He could cum from this, he realised. He tried to focus.

And she started to hit him harder.

It was difficult to tell at first – she continued to strike him with her bare hands, but it felt more painful every time. She was hitting harder, he realised, and focussing on those area that already hurt him most.

Ouch.

He thrust as discreetly as he could into the other lady's mouth. He was so damn close, all he needed was a bit of additional stimulation-

He heard the whoosh and the crack before the soaring pain settled in.

"What did I tell you about moving?"

The crowd started booing.

"Now be still if you don't want the worst paddling of your life, you little slut," she whispered into his ear.

She started massaging his bum once more and God forbid, the cool hand on his tormented flesh felt good. He let out a sigh and once more focussed on the ongoing blowjob. A hot, moist mouth around him had never felt so good as it did now. Oh, to be untied and to be able to thread his fingers through her hair, to watch her sucking him, to let himself cum...

And once more, she started hitting him, slowly at first, then harder and harder. It was more noticeable this time – his abused flesh was more sensitive to the ongoing abuse. And yet... and yet... he had never felt so hard in his life...

"I think he's ready, dear..."

He didn't as much hear the order as feel the cold evening air on his now bare cock as she withdrew her mouth.

He groaned and it must have been loud enough to be heard as more than a few chuckles erupted in the background. His cock pulsated into the void at the sharp reminder of his audience.

Cool fingers teased the top of his crack and slowly went down towards his bumhole.

God.

No.

Not that.

He shivered as she reached her goal.

"Do we like that?"

"Let's see if he likes his nipples touched..." the other female voice echoed.

He swallowed hard. He didn't know how, or when, but they had done their research right. Those were precisely the two things he had been fantasising on for so long.

Emphasis on fantasising. Actual enacting... now that was something different entirely.

The fingers were swirling around his tight arsehole, half-massaging, half-teasing.

Other fingers circled around his nipples. This time it didn't hurt.

His erection was almost painful.

He couldn't focus any more. All his erogenous zones were stimulated; his bottom burned; he wanted to come; he was painfully, acutely, humiliatingly aware of his audience.

Before he could sum up his thoughts, the very tip of a well-lubricated finger slipped inside him.

This time his groan sounded loud even to his own ears.

The finger slipped out, then in again.

He was beyond reasoning. He pushed back against her. Participating in his own debasement didn't really matter any more. He wanted her to take him, there and then, in front of all these witness. He wanted to feel something hard inside him. He wanted to cum and to cum now.

"Eager, are we?" she chuckled.

Her sidekick redoubled her efforts on his nipples. They were hard little nubs of sensation now and were it not for the action down south, there would be nothing in the entire universe capable of diverting his thoughts from it.

She withdrew her finger as quickly as she had pushed it in and grabbed his hips, her right hand still slick with lubricant.

"Let's see who's fucking the banking code of ethics, now, shall we? Or should we stick to fucking the banker?"

He felt the tip of something cold against it.

Shit.

A strap-on dildo.

Those may or may not be on his all time favourite fantasy wishlist and he had already prepared a long explanation on the topic of how so many videos featuring them had magically slipped into his "private bookmarks" tab. To have it done this publicly, though... by a stranger he couldn't even see...

The dildo pushed inside him, further... and further... and even further than a finger ever could go... and touched his prostate at long last.

Category: Humor & Satire Stories