My breath strains: body tied, gagged and splayed. Condensed milk drips down my hair and over my ruined stockings while spittle rattles out the air holes of my oblong gag. The foldable chair squeaks as I struggle against the twine binding my wrists tight behind my back. In front of me, my Miss towers over my helpless body, steel-toed combat boots clacking over the hardwood floor. All the while, my cellphone buzzes loudly a few feet away on the kitchen counter.
My eyes plead for it to stop. By this point, the difference between the buzzing of my phone and the buzzing of the hot pink vibe taped to the inside of my thigh muddies in a fog of frustration.
I only need to tap out to stop the torture, just a flick of my fingers to say no, but my Miss knows I won't. I'm in too deep.
Her lips curl, two red wine cushions of perfection, "You're so fucked, cuntmeat."
And she's right; I am fucked. Absolutely. Utterly. Fucked.
A wicked grin teases behind piercing eyes, beautiful cinnamon-brown eyes that trapped me in their aromatic snare as soon as my toe slid into the pool that is curiosity and sunk me with the force that is addiction. I fight my bonds. My Miss answers the phone. My phone. Her demeanor spells sweet victory while I submit to bitter fate-- resigned, vulnerable and a complete mess. God, I'm such a filthy, disgusting mess.
It's glorious, and I hate it.
In other words, this isn't how I expected my Monday to go.
~
6:00 P.M. An hour before the madness.
Rough black nylon. Smooth wood floors. I paced. Impatient. Thigh-high stockings brushed back and forth over the sparse one-room flat, work clothes folded neatly in the corner. How I got away with it, I'll never know.
I had gone to work as I always do, wearing my navy blazer and pencil skirt like I always do. Underneath, though, that's where my secret stayed nestled, screwed deep inside my tight asshole. I always thought the fuzzy black tail plug added an extra layer of perverted class. Steel, heavy, a constant reminder. No one had noticed the strange bump or just didn't say.
When I clocked out and descended to the parking garage, I couldn't help but unbutton my white dress shirt and fondle my breasts under the micro bikini, its skimpy black straps crisscrossing my body, hiding nothing, accentuating everything.
'Greedy cunt-licker...'
'Fuck-kitten...'
'Piece of meat...'
The barrage of messages drove me insane.
Would my co-workers fire me if they discovered what a raging cumwhore I was? At least that's what I emblazoned proudly in red over my tits and midriff: NEEDY CUMWHORE. My fingers lovingly traced the self-inflicted lipstick trails. Knowing it's been carved into my skin all day made me want to trace more than red-blocked lipstick stains.
Covert bathroom breaks and stolen moments-- edging at work. I'd been hyperaware of my clit and throbbing cunt all day, not to mention the heart-racing anticipation of meeting one Dulce Hernandez, also known as my Miss, or more accurately, my kryptonite.
As soon as I locked the car door, I adorned my kitty ears and collar. All black save the jingly steel bell which rung out as I stepped on the gas and booked it down the highway with my shirt askew, windows down, hoping other drivers would catch a glimpse of those flimsy straps looped over my small tits.
Good thing swimsuits were made to get wet.
~
And as I waited patiently in the flat like a good little whore, my phone buzzed. Nervously, I twirled my pigtails between thumb and forefinger, fantasizing how she would use them like reins later. Dulce had arrived and despite the sweetness of her name, it was her cruelty I was after. Dried cum already stained the nonexistent crotch of my bikini with musk at the thought. I reeked of pussy.
Time stood still, the steel bell of my collar and tail plug resting heavy as I kneeled in wait, breath held until the latch clicked. My heart quickened like metal on anvil. Anyone outside in the adjoining hallway could have seen me there in my skimpy outfit and kitty ears, but none of that mattered in the face of my Miss.
"I missed you, fuck-kitten."
Her voice purred, sending goosebumps down my spine. How long had it been since we last played? A week? Two?
Brown eyes appraised me, raking over my body with her powerful gaze. Like a pedigree dog groomed for her pleasure, she stroked two fingers under my chin and evaluated me, her touch warm and gentle.
"Mine," she whispered.
So lost was I in her stare, hypnotized, I could barely breathe. All I could do was nod, wondering what games she had planned for her oversexed, over-wet fucktoy.
Her presence stoked the embers of unrelenting lust that had been building all day. I could only imagine how soaked she was under her flared leather dress and fishnets from the camwhore pics I'd sent while playing with myself at work, orgasm-deprived cunt stench smeared over my lips like lip gloss. By this point, the internal bonfire raged for release, and I became putty in her hands.
It didn't take long to find myself with my ass up, face pressed into a metal dog bowl on the floor with my Miss's boot.
"Are you going to be a good kitty for me?" Her voice flowed like molten honey. How could I say no? From the corner of my eye, I spotted her securing her glossy black curls out of the way with a red bandana. That was never a good sign.
"As long as you let me cum, Miss."
"Needy cumwhores need to prove they deserve it. No guarantees."
As if to further her point, her rubber sole dug further into my cheek, rubbing my face back and forth like a mop. I groaned, feeling my hardening nipples burst from the black micro-straps as they grazed roughly over the floor.
With my vision obscured, I could only hear the clanging of contents within her purse, then a metallic crack as a lid was peeled open. I smelled it first. Vile was the nice way to put it.
"I thought since you're my fuck-pet, you might as well eat like one," she chuckled.
I retched. Fishy mystery meat screamed out at me as the contents of the can plopped into the dog bowl, some splattering over my pigtails.
"Friskies special formula wet food..." my Miss started reading the label, "Chopped liver and mackerel your furry friend can't resist."
False advertising and lies.
"Expiration date..." Her voice trailed off as she searched the can for the fine print, "late last year, but I'm sure it's still very yummy. I expect my furry pet to enjoy every last bite." She smirked, "Bon appetit, bitch."
