She looks like Anya. Not exactly... no one could.
She's short but lean, eyes a little too widely spaced. Long blonde hair. No tits. Tiny ass. Fit. Glasses just a bit big for her face.
The harness around her waist says it all. eight inches of tan latex, shiny in the motel light. The head a bright pink. I look between my legs, knees by my ears. I see the dildo, but I also see my own cock, small and untouched in a steel cage.
Locked.
I look into her eyes. She wants this.
Maybe more than I do.
She leans over me like it's nothing. Like she's done this a hundred times. Her long blonde hair falls forward, a silk curtain that brushes my face as she shifts, lining up. I can smell her--clean, expensive, just a hint of shampoo and something deeper, like resolve. That harness creaks softly, leather pulling tight across her hips. The dildo hangs there, heavy, ready. Impossibly bright pink at the tip, like it knows what it's about to do.
Her hands are firm on my thighs. She adjusts me without a word, as if I'm just another girl she's about to ruin. My knees go back further, my own cage catching the light--cold, stainless, obscene in contrast to how warm I feel. My cock doesn't even twitch. It can't. That's the point.
She looks down at me, and there's a glint in her eye--half pity, half hunger. That wide-set stare, otherworldly, like she's seeing past me. Into me. Past the whimpering little thing I pretend not to be.
"You ready?" she murmurs, like she already knows the answer.
Am I? I honestly don't know. But I nod, desperate and terrified and aching in ways my own body can't even resolve.
Her smile is slow. Predatory.
"Good girl."
She doesn't ease in. She presses.
One long, relentless stroke, and I feel it--burning, blooming, splitting me wide around her synthetic cock, that hot-pink head a violent promise. My back arches, involuntarily. My breath breaks against my teeth. It's too much, too fast, too perfect.
"Oh--fuck--" I gasp, but she just hushes me with a tilt of her head, lips parted in a soft, cruel smile.
"You'll take it," she says, almost gently. Like she's offering me a gift, not stretching me to my goddamn limit.
She moves slow, but decisive, hips grinding as she bottoms out. The harness presses to me, soft skin behind it, hard muscle in motion. Her blonde hair is falling around her shoulders, catching the light in wild strands as she starts to move--smooth, hypnotic, practiced. She fucks like she means it. Like every thrust is a correction.
I whimper--actually whimper--because I can feel the cage against my belly, cold and unyielding while the rest of me melts under her. I'm swollen in there, leaking in helpless pulses, the metal unforgiving, unrelenting. I'll never get hard for her, and she loves that.
