I Order One Drink, Then I Drink the Flood

Sometimes I write fictional smut. 

The red bottom heels are so very high, 4 inches. She’s clearly teetering on them, held up mostly by the fact that she’s leaning on the load bearing post between the kitchen and the living room. The shoes are the only thing she’s wearing, depending on whether or not you count a ball gag as an article of clothing. Twenty minutes ago, she was standing up straight, hair neatly in place, chest rising and falling with the deep breaths she was trying to take through her nose.

Now she’s a fucking mess. Hair a fluffy cloud around her face, trying desperately to pant with her mouth blocked, mascara streaked down her cheeks. I know she buys shitty mascara just for this purpose, to play up the image of ruined plaything. I like it. I don’t start taking pictures until that point, save the one I took at the beginning. It shows that I started with a prim little doll and fucked her up.

When I started, after locking her wrist cuffs together behind her around the post, I told her she was so very pretty. So doll-like. Such nice shoes.

“You’d almost think you were the real article, instead of a cheap knock-off.” I laughed. “But I know you can’t afford real Louboutins. Did you order them from overseas? Hoping they’d be good enough to fool anyone who didn’t look closely?”

She gasped a little then, letting me know I’d scored. I’d played with her a little, teasing her cunt as well as pinching and slapping her breasts, before proclaiming myself bored, and walking over to the couch to flop down on it.

“You look so uncomfortable. I guess you have to work really hard just to prove you’re a cute little doll.” I commented while rubbing a hand over my cozy flannel pajama pants. “I don’t think it’s enough though. I’m going to need more than that.”

I beckoned to my sweetheart, who has been sitting in an armchair, quietly watching. He rose and walked over to me, to take the Hitachi I had in my hands by the time he crossed the floor. It’s not exactly a great mystery of the ages what I meant for him to do after I gestured towards her.

God, I love the way he kicks her feet to indicate she should spread them, not bothering to speak to her. He places one hand on her neck, pressing her back against the post as he clicks on the Hitachi and presses it to her cunt. Watching him move her around as if she were only an unwieldy object, hearing her moan and try not to lose her balance as the vibrations rumble through her, I had difficulty keeping my hands out of my pants. The moment was so overwhelmingly erotic that I didn’t think I could keep from coming for very long, and I wanted to hang on to the lightheaded fever pitch for as long as I could, to savor it like a rich cigar.

One, two, three… I eventually lose count of her orgasms as I rocked against the couch, clenching my cunt and enjoying the heightened awareness of the muscles and my throbbing clit.

Eventually, I called out for him to stop. He clicks off the Hitachi and looks over at me with a smirk.

And here we are, with a toy that hasn’t been played with nicely. She looks so relieved. I suspect she’s thinking that maybe I’ll let her off her feet now.

“Do you think you’ve had enough, dolly?” She catches herself before nodding, the motion started just enough for me to see it. Can she still feel the memory of the welts I left on her ass the last time she told me she’d had enough when I asked? I respect a safeword, but when we’re not at that point, I decide if my toys are done being played with. “No answer? Well, I’ll be kind. Just one more.”

There’s something intimate about the way my sweetheart presses his body against hers when she sags, holding her up as he tears one more machine-assisted orgasm out of her. She’s choking on sobs now, as her endorphin depleted body processes it as pain, as it has been for the last few.

“Bring her.” I say to him, and he unbuckles her hands, walks her to me, and dumps her somewhat unceremoniously into my lap. I stroke her hair, brushing it out of her face, and gently kiss her forehead. As I unbuckle the ballgag, I say “Look at you, pretty dolly. You haven’t even mussed up your lipstick in all that fuss. Well, we’ll have to fix that. Don’t you think you should thank my boy for helping you get off?”

Sniffling, she nods. Smiling, I turn to him where he is still standing next to me awaiting my whim. He takes off his boxers after I give the waistband a quick tug. “Why don’t you work on making that lipstick match?”

The sight of my toys interlocked, his hands in her hair, her using her hands and tongue to do the best job possible, is too much for me. I slide my hand down to my clit and rock forward to press against my fingers. I’m matching his rhythm briefly, and then going faster. The sounds the two of them are making as I pull her body close to me are pushing me closer and closer as much as the feel of my own touch. I see the tale-tell signs of my darling trying not to orgasm without my permission and I look up into his eyes. “Go ahead and come.”

I come before he does, feeling my head full of electric pops and snaps as my body floods with warmth. I hear him moan, and slowly open my eyes to see her cleaning him up with her tongue, careful to be sure I won’t find her thank you wanting.

Looking at them, I know I’m going to be playing variations on this little game for a long while.

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