I awake to the sound of your labor, as I do most mornings. You're working your tongue across my shaft, then gagging on me in that way I've trained you to do—all throat and slobber. You wouldn't dare let me feel any teeth.
"Morning Master," you whisper, bobbing your head up for air. Your eyeliner is dark and blotchy on your face. I like you that way, made up before I wake, dressed in a small thong that shows the bruises you treasure as trophies. Today's flavor is red lingerie, and you've pulled the sides up, so that the cloth rides up against your worthless cunt. It drips even now, as you move your mouth down in loving worship.
“Cunt.” I acknowledge, and wipe some of the mess off my cock, then slap my dick across your face. You should know better by now than to leave your slobber all over me. A good pig cleans up as she goes, after all.
“Mouth.” I say casually, and sit up. On cue, your head is off my cock. You stick your tongue out, and I know you melt as I grab your throat.
Desperation fills your eyes when I spit in your mouth. You’d told me on our first date how you craved to be dominated. How you’d spent years watching porn of women worship men, but were always too afraid to turn fantasy into reality.
“Heed, cunt.” I warn. I know how lost in your pleasure you get. “Ass,” I demand, and push your head down.
On that same date, you’d told me that you lived to eat ass. I hadn’t cared much what you liked. Still don’t.
I do, however, love the feeling of power I get when you press your lips and nose against my ass—“Making out,” we call it, in front of our friends. If only they knew what it meant. I’m certain I’ll tell them one day.
"Easy cunt," I warn. "Don't lose yourself." But of course you do, feeding like a pig to the trough. You lick, and moan, and I see your back start to arch. I know you are a puddle at this point, and can’t help but sigh. You're not disobedient by nature, just desperate. Still a cunt must learn better.
Pulling myself away, I grab you by the hair. You whimper in frustration at loosing your meal, then in pain as I drag you close and slap your face. Once, then twice more. Hard. "Pig, you will do what you are told." I scold. "Good girl's don't cum. They certainty don't get lost in their pleasure. Now, come here cunt."
You oblige, whispering "yes master."
"That's a good cunt," I coo as you crawl over to me. I take you by your collar and pull you over my lap, pushing two of my fingers into your mouth. You suck them gently, pacified as I pull your thong aside and reveal your morning plug. The rules of our dynamic are simple.
You are plugged when not at work, and often when at it too. It vibrates at 5:00 am sharp to get you out of bed, and again at 10:00 pm to warn you that it's time to rest.
Cunt’s don’t cum. We take this seriously, and you bare two small tatted lines on your thigh. One for each month of abstinence so far. You’ve told me how much you crave hitting the one year mark.
You always swallow. Doesn't matter where I cum, which hole or who’s, you lick up every drop. Break this rule and we are through—no exceptions. Some girls are born to work, others to be home makers, or leaders. You were born to vacuum up my sperm. Plain and simple.
"Open." I order, and you oblige, your mouth widening to accept your plug. Some drool escapes your mouth and I wipe it onto your face. I could use a ball gag, but this works just as well and is cheaper too.
"Fifteen counts." I warn, grabbing my crop from the bedtime table. You better lean into each one, or we will start again.
"One."
"Two"
You squirm, but do what you are told, pushing into my hand to receive the hit. Your nipples are stone hard from the pain, and your cunt is dripping. I touch it with my left hand briefly, running fingers over your swollen clit and admiring the three little rings on your labia; one for each year you have served.
I reach "fifteen," soon enough, and put my hand out to retrieve the plug. You are shuttering, but manage a thank you master.
"Finish, cunt." I command, and you are ravenous to prove your worth, taking me all the way down your throat as you try to make up for past mistakes.
"Play," I say, and you comply, rubbing yourself as you work to earn my load. Soon, you are close, the dumb cumslut that you are.
"Master please," you beg between strokes. "can I cum master?"
"Absolutely not." I smile, petting your head. We both know that’s exactly what you needed to hear. "But you may feed." I finally lose myself to your mouth.
If this sounds like the lifestyle you want, shoot me a message. Looking for something irl and long term