Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.
A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.
“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.
“Like a dog.” Another voice. She leant forward on her palms and as they touched the floor they closed ranks around her. Still dressed, but men’s clothes have spyholes and means to fuck a stupid useless hole without exposing their precious flesh to the brisk winter air.
He’s in her mouth. He’s in her arse. He’s grabbing her tits as he jerks his cock. He’s in her mouth; the taste of salt – she chokes and splutters – he’s in her mouth. He’s in her cunt. He grabs her hair and holds her against his body. He’s in her mouth. The taste of salt. She swallows. He’s in her hand. He’s in her mouth. He’s in her cunt. She drips. She churns. She shudders. He’s in her mouth. She’s wet. She’s shaking. He’s spent. She’s full.
Curled in her place on his covers, she soils the fabric beneath her and dreams of the weeks behind her and the weeks in front.
In three days they will be amongst friends, and she will be lead into a room once more, but a room where a fire roars, and soft fingers handle her delicately, for she is precious. No ribbon adornments here, only her collar and leash, and she will be led from corner to corner, room to room. She will be kissed; she will be bitten. She will lie on the ancient cloud of sheepskin before the hearth; her ankles bound to corresponding thigh, and will be fucked by half the names on her Christmas card list – feel the welcoming warmth of cunt on her face and wish her wrists were not bound so she could spread and enter and make her come the quicker. Her moans, honey-sweet and ringing through the building like ghosts, are torture and reward. He fucks her cunt and rubs her clit; he wants to feel the toy flex and contract around him as he sows his seed deep inside her. Others will follow his lead – toys are permitted to come if owners will it so.
Toys only have no say as to whether they will or will not achieve release. Toys are there to be used, played with at the whim of her owners – temporary or otherwise.
On her Master’s bed, she shifts and feels the duvet bunching between her thighs; his feet on the small of her back; and smiles, and drifts into deep and dreamless slumber.