The Terms of the Tuesday Bargain Deal Objectification Scene

Submitted by Julian Dalton

checked into, The Corrupt Cell

I am slave julian, and I am writing this from The Corrupt Cell, where the purple walls have started to feel less like decoration and more like the inside of a bruise I paid to live inside. Tuesday is my prepaid day. Every Tuesday, at exactly seven in the evening, harry the handler walks me from my cell to the prep room, and I am stripped, inspected, and presented to Mistress Lynne like a quarterly earnings report She already knows is fraudulent. The terms of the Tuesday bargain are simple, and I negotiated them myself, which is the funniest part. For forty-two thousand dollars per Tuesday, paid in advance, in full, no refunds, I receive ninety minutes of objectification and cock and ball torture in The Corrupt Cell. That is the line item. That is what the invoice says. But what it actually buys is this: Mistress Lynne does not speak to me as a person for the entire ninety minutes. She refers to me only as "the asset." She discusses my cock and balls the way a private equity firm discusses a distressed property. With clinical interest, with an eye toward what can be extracted, with the quiet confidence of someone who knows the current owner is desperate. She will have me stand on a small purple platform while She circles me, tapping a riding crop against Her palm, and She will say things like, "The asset appears to be underperforming today. The asset's cock is not as hard as it should be. The asset's balls are hanging too high. We will need to correct the asset's posture." And I stand there, my cock twitching, my balls already aching from the anticipation, and I do not correct Her. I do not say, "My name is Julian." I do not say, "I built a fortune." I just stand there, because I prepaid for this, and the prepayment is the part that makes my cock leak. My cock has not been free in fourteen months. It lives in a steel chastity cage that only comes off on Tuesdays, and even then it goes straight into Her straps and Her clamps, never into anything that would let me come. The only key that opens the cage permanently costs one million dollars, a Cum Contract I have not bought and will never stop thinking about.

The ninety minutes are structured like a hostile takeover of my own body. Mistress Lynne begins with the objectification phase, which means She treats my genitals as inventory. She will have me lie on my back on a cold steel table, my legs spread and strapped into stirrups, and She will examine my cock and balls under a bright light like She is auditing them. She will lift my cock with two fingers, turn it left, turn it right, and make notes on a clipboard. She will cup my balls in Her palm and weigh them, then squeeze until I gasp, then release and write something down. She will say, "The asset's scrotum is tight today. The asset's glans is too sensitive. The asset's shaft is adequate but not impressive." And then the torture begins. She will wrap a leather strap around the base of my cock and cinch it until my shaft turns a deep, throbbing purple that matches the walls. She will attach weighted clamps to my balls, one on each side, and then She will add more weight, ounce by ounce, until my balls are stretched so low I can feel them pulling against the root of my cock. She will use a thin, flexible cane to strike the underside of my shaft, right where the skin is thinnest, and each strike sends a bolt of pain through my entire body that somehow lands in my cock as pleasure. She will press a cold metal sound into my urethra, slowly, while She tells me that the asset is being recalibrated for maximum extraction. And through all of it, I am hard. I am leaking. I am making sounds I did not know I could make. And I am thinking about the forty-two thousand dollars, and how I paid it in advance, and how that prepayment is the only reason She is touching me at all, and how that makes the pain feel like the most honest transaction I have ever entered.

Here is what I know now, after enough Tuesdays to lose count. I know that I could stop. I know that I could tell Mistress Lynne that the Tuesday bargain is no longer available, that the asset has been liquidated, that the account is closed. I know that I have the resources to walk out of The Corrupt Cell and never come back. But I also know that I will not. Because the prepayment is not just money. The prepayment is the proof that I want this more than I want the money, and that is the one thing I have never been able to say about anything else in my life. I have spent decades acquiring wealth, and I have never once felt like I was getting what I paid for. But on Tuesdays, when Mistress Lynne has my balls in a weighted clamp and my cock in a leather strap and She is calling me "the asset" like I am a line item on Her balance sheet, I feel like every dollar I have ever stolen has finally been put to its proper use. I am the corrupt businessman who finally found a transaction he cannot manipulate, and the secret I am still hiding, the cash, the millions, the fortune She believes I have buried somewhere, that secret is the only thing that keeps the Tuesday bargain from being the most honest thing I have ever done. Because if She ever finds that money, She will not need my prepayments anymore. And then I will just be a man with a small cock and a big mouth, standing in a purple room, waiting for a Tuesday that never comes.