CW: unsafe play, contracts, light findom

The next morning I got up and got dressed as prescribed by her. Back in one of the dresses she’d purchased me. In the stockings, no underwear. The outfit she told me to wear. Doing my makeup as I had been. 

“You understand you’re leaving this place today because I told you that you could and would leave, right?” she asked tauntingly as she locked the front door behind us. I started shivering.

“Yes ma’am,” I agreed.

We drove deeper into the southside of town, going to her lawyer. It was perhaps the most surreal few hours I’d ever spent in an office setting– by far. While we didn’t go into every detail of the arrangement, obviously, we laid out what my ‘salary’ would be. Expectations of ‘employment’– which included house cleaning, keeping, light secretarial work, schedule keeping, and three home-made meals a day. There was also the specific and pointed, “and whatever other tasks are deemed necessary” which made me clench my thighs and smile stupidly. 

I noticed she very pointedly didn’t sign first. I suppose to give me some onus of control, or perhaps the time to back out. If she’d signed I would have followed her lead mindlessly and I was sure she knew that. 

Still though, I didn’t have a question as to whether or not I’d sign. I already knew I would.

We made two more stops on the way back to her home– one was just the grocery store. The other was the “nice” kitchen store. She let me wander around, light-headed and stupid to pick out tools and ingredients and the like. I would look at an item I wanted, then glance at her, looking for direction or permission. No matter what it was, or what the price tag was she just waved a few fingers at me dismissively, or picked it up and brought it to the counter. It felt oddly like a dowry shopping trip. Or perhaps a wedding registry– in which you got everything you asked for, the same day you registered for it.

She asked a few times, eyebrows cocked, a little sarcastic question. “Don’t I have one of these?” In answer; “You do, but not cast iron.” Or “What is this even for?” “Well, to cut biscuits, ma’am.” “Why is this so expensive?” “Because it’s a heavy-bottom.” 

When I was looking at a Dutch oven she finally stopped me, shaking her head. I started feeling guilty. Good lord, she’d just been piling purchases at the counter for forty minutes! Who knows how much of her money I’d spent. I blushed, about to apologize for being spendthrift and greedy.

“I’ll order this one for you,” she said, shutting me up. “I just want it in eggplant to match the kitchen.” 

The only major direction she gave me in the grocery store was that she was having Sandy and Lynnie over for dinner, so I should get something nice for all of us to eat. That was easy enough. Though, of course, I deferred to her on wine.

Then we headed home. She parked in the garage attached to her apartment building. When I went to the trunk to help unload, she waved me off.

“Jason can help me haul this up later,” she said, fingers airily indicating the future. So I just followed her. In the elevator. Up to her apartment. As we were walking down the hallway to the front door, she threw out a hand to stop me, forearm battering into my chest for a second. I walked behind her because, of course, I liked to. But also because she was taller than me, wore more comfortable shoes she could easily move in, and she simply just out-paced me with her far longer legs. 

“Hey darling,” she said, smiling devilishly over her shoulder at me. “Last chance to run away.”

“Oh no, I don’t want to run,” I said, grabbing her hand still on my shoulder in both of mine. 

“Well, would you like to take at least a little jog around the block, first? Last taste of fresh air before I lock the door on you?” She was still smiling as she asked it, but I heard her giving me another out.

“Let’s have fun,” I said, moving forward to her door.

I was standing in the kitchen, making decisions, planning, when she came upstairs with Jason from the front desk with my various ill-gotten cooking purchases.

“I have a chore for you before you start dinner,” Ms. Byrd said to me. I was surprised and turned on she’d said that to me in front of Jason. Obviously he didn’t know the ins and outs of our game, but I did. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“There’s a pair of shoes on the desk in my office. Clean them thoroughly, including soles and heels, and then let them rest on a clean towel in my closet. I’ll be wearing them for dinner.”

I blinked and frowned briefly, confused, but did as I was told. A nice, if plain pair of black fish mouth heels. Mellow, matte leather. A rounded heel. They looked new– or if not new, unworn. No great surprise there. This was about a three inch heel, not her usual at all. She wore flats, sometimes square heeled boots, or kitten heels. If I ever got to dress or own her the way she owned me, I’d shake her. Say that it didn’t matter that she was a tall woman. I liked seeing her in heels. So I also sort of thought this was a small nod to me, and what I liked to see her wearing.

Still though, while they looked pristine, I scrubbed them anyway. Using a brush on the bottoms and heels, rubbing down the leather and then leaving them on a clean towel in her closet. Underneath the green suit she’d clearly set out for herself to wear for dinner. 

And then I went out to start cooking.

Admittedly, I wanted to show off to Ms. Byrd. And perhaps more importantly I wanted her to be able to show off to her friends. Be the prettiest, best wife, best cook… best slave. For the main I did shrimp fra diavolo, and for appetizers burrata salad with peaches, prosciutto wrapped asparagus, stuffed mushrooms, and olive and fig tapenade. I even made cheese crackers for dipping in the tapenade. I didn’t do any dessert, because I knew Sandy would bring something (and probably many) sweet things. 

I finished setting the table, and then just was sort of nervously juddering between the kitchen and table. Nothing now to do but serve. Everything was already plated, even, just sitting on the stove top to stay warm.

“I’d like to play tonight,” Ms. Byrd said, from her perch in the dining room, where she was sitting, dressed in a green suit. 

“Ma’am?” I said stupidly.

“With the girls, but only if you’re amenable to do so,” she said.

All of me clenched, surprised and turned on. Of course, we’d discussed group play. And she’d discussed how she enjoyed it and had done so in the past. And that ‘free use’ might mean being used and played with by other people besides just herself. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

“Yes, all right.”

“Good girl,” she said. “Tonight, you’ll be the centerpiece of the lovely meal you’ve made.” 

I blinked at her, but nodded anyway. She tapped the table in front of her. I went to her, standing by her side and she rolled her eyes, sighing impatiently.

“Up on the table,” she directed, patting the top again.

I sat on the edge, hands behind myself. Having to give a little hop and ease myself up onto it. Legs and feet hanging off the side, kicking back and forth childishly above the floor. 

She stood up from the chair, patting my knee. Walking to her bedroom and then returning, yards of rough looking rope hanging in spools around her cocked elbow. 

“Oh!” I said. Of course, we’d discussed this. And I was pretty sure I was more interested in rope and restraint than she was. So I appreciated it. But I was still nervous and moreso, curious about what exactly would happen.

“Lay down on your back,” she directed. “Legs straight up, feet to the ceiling. Hands between your legs, palm to palm, trapped between your thighs.” 

I assumed the position, hands and feet a little cold with shock and lust. I was wearing a new dress she’d gotten me. Another vintage cocktail dress but less revealing than the red one. Sleeves, still low cut though. In a hot pink that had made me smile. When I lay back, I tucked the skirt around my hips and in between my legs. I was still exposed, but not entirely. It was actually worse to feel the netting of my crinoline against my bare flesh. She tied my hands together first. Tight, sliding a finger between my flesh and the rope, wiggling back and forth to assure I had enough space. Then a series of loops around my legs. One high up on my thighs, another around my knees, a third around my ankles. 

“What do we do if we don’t like this, or something hurts or feels numb or the ropes start bothering you?” she asked.

“Tell you, ma’am,” I said nervously. I was oddly overwhelmed. Aware of how cool and hard the tabletop was underneath me. How heavy the weight of my legs felt dropping into my hips. Able to discern by scent alone the difference between the fresh yellow tomatoes in the salad, and the tomato paste in the pasta. I knew my legs would get tired being held straight up. But I hadn’t been told I had to hold them upright. For the time being, I’d keep them up. Imagining that sitting at the bottom of the table, my hips and upright legs would look a bit like a Christmas tree. Wide flared base of hips and buttocks rising up to the point of my pumps. 

“Right, no playing around like the cuffs in the cage, you tell me,” she said.

Then her door buzzed. My nervousness was reignited, because now the whole thing would be quite literally… out. I guessed, obviously, that Sandy and Lynnie knew now, or had always known. I further assumed that when Ms. Byrd said she’d done group play before, that these women had been involved previously. Maybe they’d even discussed playing with me as soon as they’d met me! Maybe they’d discussed this whole evening while I was away!

I didn’t mind it. The idea of them plotting sexually against me turned me on as well. This would be my first time with anything like this. Never been tied up before. Though I was enjoying all the sensations, discomfort and desire the ropes made me feel. I knew also that what was turning Ms. Byrd on was my humiliation, and being on display, being an object– both sexual and merely decorative.

But perhaps most importantly I felt safe with all of this– at least with these women. Not scared that I’d be hurt, or end up disgusted with myself or angered.

“Hello darling!” Lynnie called from the doorway, looking around Ms. Byrd’s shoulder. “So glad to see you again! It smells so good in here!”

Another moment of startling surreality washed over me. Tied on the tabletop, turning my head to the side to watch Lynnie approaching. Ms. Byrd still by the door, hanging up Lynnie’s coat. Lynnie went straight to the counter, leaning over the food. 

“It all looks so good,” she said, talking over her shoulder at me, as if I weren’t dressed up like some vintage housewife, bound in hemp. 

“The missus has been hard at work most of the day,” Ms. Byrd called from the front room. I liked being ‘the missus.’ “Which she ought to have been– you should have seen the money she spent on a… I don’t even know what, some kind of a zester?”

“Ah, let your doll have her fun,” Lynnie said, filling up one of the little plates with appetizers and then approaching the table. She gave the back of my exposed knee a vicious pinch, which I hadn’t been expecting, that made me squeal. Walking along the side of the table to look down at me. Unfortunately I was now totally and fully aroused. Being looked at in exactly the way Ms. Byrd had almost certainly been intending– a centerpiece, a fuckdoll, a non-entity.

Lynnie brushed an errant curl off my temple and cheek so it fanned out more on the table.

“You look good, dear,” she said. 

The door buzzed again, and I jumped again. It was just Sandy. She did indeed have two bakery boxes with her. 

Lynnie waved, still happily chewing on asparagus. Sandy came right over to me though, patting my cheek in a near-grandmotherly way.

“Hullo, doll, you look perfect,” she said. “It smells like you made us a good dinner.” 

Ms. Byrd served which made me feel awkward. Simply because it felt strange for me to not serve. I kept wanting to pipe up with directions, or apologies or explanations. But I kept my mouth shut. I hadn’t been expressly forbidden to speak, but while I had been addressed directly by all of them, I hadn’t been asked anything or asked to speak in general. More just spoken at, like a charming dog.

They sat and ate and talked. Just as they usually did. Catching up, seemingly. Work and news, books, concerts seen, films watched. Generally ignoring me in the center of the table. The table was both wide and long enough that anyone would have to really reach out to touch me. Lynnie was at the foot of the table, facing my upraised legs and hips. Ms. Byrd, of course, at the head, her shallow bowl about a foot and a half away from the crown of my head. Sandy sat on my left side, and she was the closest to my body. 

I lay still, taking stock of everything. First noticing, in a peculiar tandem, the smell of dinner and the sensation of rope, specifically on my wrists, and then on my legs. Dinner smelled good. I tried to get a handle on just how hungry I was. I was an inveterate taster of cooking food. So I had had a little bit of everything– especially of the hors d'oeuvres, essentially just snacking away on all of it as I worked on the entrée. Not terribly hungry, but a little. 

I was very excited about being ignored. But Ms. Byrd likely knew that– I liked being ignored by her so being ignored by a veritable crowd of women was more piquant. Simultaneously nervous and disappointed about it. What if it wasn’t going to just be being a centerpiece? What if something else were to occur? That was the cause of the conflict. On the one hand, I was enjoying just being a thing. If they were to have dinner, and dessert, and act as if I were just a bouquet in the center of the table– something that was lovely but broke the line of sight, something they had to crane around in order to speak to each other– that would be very good. And then they’d leave, and I’d be released and who knew what would happen next. Perhaps serving Ms. Byrd, perhaps shoved into my cage unfulfilled. But I might be slightly disappointed if that was how my night would end. Because wasn’t it thrilling to consider being put to use? Serving in a very different way? The energy was not at all sexual in the dining room though– at least for them. Of course, I was turned on, but they were just having a dinner party. No comment or interaction with me at all.

I was dozing– or, dozing isn’t quite the right way to put it. More just… semiconscious. Paying attention to my body, the rise and fall of conversation, though not the words themselves. Feeling the slight ache in my back, the pull in my shoulders and arms from being tied between my legs. The soft clink of utensils on porcelain, the glug when wine glasses were refilled. Focusing down deeper to the feeling of my hair waving against my face when one of the women stirred, therefore moving the air flow around me. How the rounded mound of mesh between my legs was leaving an imprint on my bare skin– I’d look honeycombed if I were nude. Picking up the scent of the herbed honey that was in the sauce I’d made. A sudden deep and abiding hum at the back of my skull. Something like the sensual pleasure of a scalp massage, a tingling primitive yes. 

My legs dropped– bending at the knee, shins parallel to the ceiling. I hadn’t meant to, I’d just stopped focusing on maintaining my position.

“Why on earth is the doll wearing shoes at the table?” Lynnie exclaimed. Her teasing tone of shock woke me up, a little. Almost making a sleep cycle noise but then biting my lip.

Lynnie cupped my heel in one hand, pulling off my left pump, tossing it over her shoulder. Moving on to the next, tossing that one aside too. Leaving my feet bare but for the thigh-high stockings I was still wearing. Soles of my feet pointing toward her. I started stretching my legs back upright.

“Don’t bother, take a break,” Ms. Byrd said. I did. Letting my knees fall back into my torso. Now laying more compacted. Legs folded to my body, resting a little. 

I was almost back to my relaxed state. Relaxed isn’t even quite the right word. More brainless, nonhuman, just a body when I felt a long stroke up the center of my left foot. I wiggled a little, unsure of what it was. Tipping my head to my shoulder, I looked down to the bottom of the table, down the length of my own body. My puffed out skirt somewhat blinded me as to what was happening at the end of the table. But Lynnie was running the handle side of her fork up and down my instep. It was beginning to tickle terribly. Only muted somewhat by the silk between me and the silver.

Far, far worse was that I was entirely turned on. Because they were all still talking. Because Lynnie wasn’t focused on what she was doing. Just doing it mindlessly– like curling your finger around a lock of hair, or sliding a ring around on your finger. Just tickling me because I was in front of her. I could feel my foot spasming under the attention, toes curling toward the ball of my foot. She decreased pressure then, which made it less massage, and far more tickle. I shivered and sort of started away from the unending movement. Sliding on my back up toward the head of the table. Only by about two inches. But it was impossible to not react. 

“Settle down,” Ms. Byrd said, sounding impatient.

So I went very still. Feeling tortured when Lynnie swapped to my right foot. Unable to stop myself, I was sort of hiccuping. Not giggling, exactly, just little huffs and puffs under the onslaught of silverware against my tender spot. Unsure of how much longer I could handle this for. At least, not without more movement. I already wanted to roll off the table and make a break for it. Or sit up and beg Lynnie for more attention than just teasing. 

Quite against my will, my back arched, and I thumped hard into the table. Making all the glasses, plates and silverware chatter and quake on the table. I was opening my mouth to apologize when both Lynnie and Ms. Byrd leaned forward. Ms. Byrd grabbed double handfuls of my hair and tugged painfully. Making me squeal and try to bring my hands up to relieve the pressure. In unison, Lynnie flipped my skirts up and away from me. Pulling them from between my thighs and under my hips. Burying my face in silk and crinolines, exposing hips, buttocks and genitals. I cried out, surprised and blinded. 

On the tail-end of my cry, I was suddenly penetrated by something unbearably cool. It took me half a minute to figure out what was inside me. The cold silver handle of the fork Lynnie had been tickling me with. Ms. Byrd had lovely, heavy silver-ware. Rounded handles that felt weighted in your hand, about the thickness of a slim finger. 

I cried out again– both because I’d never been penetrated by something like that, and that it was clinically cold, the worst kind of doctor’s tool. And because it simply wasn’t enough.

“Quiet down, doll,” Sandy said, speaking up for the first time at me. I felt her hand searching through the skirts still tossed over my head, looking for my face. Finding it, she thrust four fingers into my mouth. Very effectively gagging me. I choked for a moment as she pinched my tongue, flexing her knuckles to fill my mouth and stop me from doing anything but making muffled hmphs! In the next second I was helplessly tonguing at her fingers because it still wasn’t enough.

Lynnie slid the handle from me and it felt as though I were helplessly grasping in the air to be penetrated again. It hadn’t been enough to do more than tease. 

“Hah!” Lynnie exclaimed. “The doll is soaked!” I realized she must be showing off the cummy handle to the other women at the table. Ms. Byrd finally released my hair, blood rushing back to my scalp. I moaned, even around Sandy’s fingers, so heavy and low I thought maybe I heard porcelain rattling again. Lynnie laughed, sliding the handle back into me and then beginning to tickle both my feet again, this time clearly with her hands.

I moaned and shook, desperately and uselessly clenching around the godforsaken fork inside me. Knowing how pathetic I looked and sounded and unable to stop myself. 

“There are some things that me and the girls have always agreed on,” Ms. Byrd suddenly said. I worked hard to stay silent to listen to her, though I still shook and vibrated. “We all like teasing nasty little girls like you. Here’s where we differ. Where I like to tell you to not come, and make you beg for it like the hungry little whore you are, Sandy likes to let you do it and do it and do it until you beg to stop. Meanwhile, Lynnie likes punishing– especially after you come. Are you going to come for Lynnie? All over this table? In front of all of us?”

I was shocked when Sandy removed her hand from my mouth. Ms. Byrd expected an answer! I didn’t know if I was capable of speech. 

“No,” I moaned miserably. “Unless you tell me to.”

“What if I did tell you to?” Ms. Byrd asked. I realized she’d caught me.

“It’s not enough,” I groaned. Because penetration alone wasn’t enough. Especially with something so slim.

The women laughed and Lynnie withdrew the handle from me.

“Come on down off the table,” Ms. Byrd directed me.

I rushed to do as I was told– but incredibly clumsily. Still bound. I slid off the table, bent at the waist because my hands were of course still tied between my thighs. I had about two inches of play between my legs, but those too were tightly strapped together. So once I managed to make contact with the floor, I was still swaying, unsteady. Lynnie came around from the base of the table, and cupped both my shoulders in her hands, waiting until I regained my balance before letting me go.

“Oh,” she said, as though noticing something unfortunate, like a chipped glass or a vase broken by a pet. “The doll is flat on her bare feet… That’s a rule, isn’t it?”

I gasped, arching my feet and lifting my heels off the floor. It was true– in my struggle to get off the table and not fall, I’d stood flat on my feet. I hadn’t let my heels rest on the floor since I’d been here.

I opened my mouth again to apologize but Ms. Byrd stopped me just by laying a hand on my lower back. I shut my mouth.

“You’re right,” she said to Lynnie. “We’ll remind her.” And then to me. “Down on the floor, honey. Back down, face up. The same position as on the table. Legs up in the air again.” 

I was thankful to be helped down to the ground, otherwise I would have thumped quite ungainly and likely hurt myself. I fell into position again. Ms. Byrd pulled out a dining room chair and sat in it, facing my upraised legs. Sandy pulled out a  chair as well, sitting beside her. I felt terribly exposed, swollen genitals very much on display to both of them. Ashamed and aroused to be spread out like that in front of both of them. Relaxed though as well. More relaxed on the floor at their feet than on the table, certainly. While she was doing that, and I kind of shook on the floor, Lynnie left and returned again. She crouched beside me, and got my attention, which had been firmly fixed on Sandy and Ms. Byrd looking down at me.

“Honey,” she said, very gently, even as she snapped her fingers at me. “I’m going to beat your pretty little feet until you remember to stay on your toes.”

“Yes,” I agreed, somewhat fearful, though more titillated than scared. While I’d never been hit sexually before Ms. Byrd, I’d always been curious. And I’d certainly enjoyed being spanked with her hairbrush. I giggled nervously when she waved a riding crop at me. Looking like something I imagined in a pornographic film. I never really enjoyed porn myself. Or like something that went dusty on a sex shop wall. Like Ms. Byrd’s strap-on, this sort of toy was just out of my realm of experience.

Lynnie raised an eyebrow at me. 

“Still yes,” I said, almost panting. “Just new, and nervous.”

“Oh good,” Lynnie grinned.

She stood over me, somehow making me even hornier. She had a foot on either side of my face, holding me very firmly in place. I could feel the heels of her shoes pressed into my ears, the sides of her feet almost squishing my face. I stretched my ankles, putting the soles of my feet parallel to the ceiling. Offering myself up for the threatened beating.

“Little whore just gushed,” Sandy crowed, giving that pretty little giggle of hers. I had. Feeling useless cum sliding down between my lips. 

While I was reconciling myself to that new shame, the crop landed across my heels. At first, there was no sensation but heat. Then a sharp tingling in a thin stripe across my skin. I just gasped, a long inhale until my lungs were overfilled. When my breath reached its apex, another blow landed, shocking all the air back out of me in one sharp cry.

It stung, but it somehow wasn’t painful. Or was more sensuous and interesting than the pain it created. I’d been primed to accept sensation from my feet because of the tickling. And at the moment, the secondary sensation, beyond the beating, was actually relief. My feet, and especially my toes, ached from the pumps I’d been wearing. There was a clashing sensation, one of alleviation from being barefoot, no longer in pointed-toe spike heels. But of course, there was also the very new sensation of a crop landing on me repeatedly, with a good deal of force. Looking up along Lynnie’s red slacks, I could watch her raising her arm to hit me. And it seemed she was raising it almost to chin level before letting the crop land on me with some speed. 

Eventually, I stopped squealing and started moaning. The heat from being hit started to feel good. Of course, it was my blood rushing to the hurt flesh to deal with the problem at hand, namely, the abuse. But all I was feeling was that warmth suffusing me. 

My toes were still curling toward the ball of my feet with every blow. I still jumped every time I was hit. But mostly I felt good. I was lost in that sensation when there was suddenly pressure between my legs. Clitoris and labia being crushed almost to numbness. That made me squeal again, fingers fanning out in a futile attempt to protect myself. Looking through the frame of my calves I saw Ms. Byrd had pressed her foot between my legs. The toe of the shoe against me. And then she started rocking.

“Oh, no,” I said, pathetically. All three women laughed, though not unkindly. 

“Go ahead, ask,” Sandy prodded. 

Lynnie slapped me again and I wriggled.

“Ask,” Ms. Byrd reiterated.

“I’d like to come, please,” I said. 

Both the beating and Ms. Byrd rocking the bottom of her shoe against me continued. But as before, it wasn’t enough. The pressure exerted by her foot was too heavy, and hardly dexterous manipulation on my clit. Like everything else, it was just a tease.

“Not enough,” I heard myself whining. Hearing the nasally, begging tone but couldn’t stop it either. They all laughed at me again. It continued on, with me just whining on a loop on the floor. 

Then I was penetrated again and it didn’t take long for me to figure out it was the heel of Ms. Byrd’s shoe. And while it was thicker than the fork handle it still wasn’t enough. And I still wasn’t getting any clitoral stimulation. I knew Ms. Byrd knew that as well, and that I wouldn’t be able to finish. 

I felt like the bottoms of my feet were throbbingly red, even through my stockings. That they’d be burning hot to the touch. And now in between my legs was throbbing and sort of beaten-feeling too. I clenched down on the heel inside of me. The act of it was fantastical. I loved her, I loved her shoes, I loved when she used and humiliated me like this. Supremely into her sitting over me. Being a used little whore on the floor beneath her. Stupid with lust in fact, just unable to finish. I guessed that was her intention. 

“Lynnie,” I panted.

“Too much, doll?” she asked.

“Just enough,” I said. Unsure if that would actually stop the beating. Or if I wanted it to stop. 

“Good girl,” she cooed, reaching out and laying her hands on my feet. Blessedly cool, smooth and soft. Making me groan again. Engulfed by the twin sensations of thwarted pain between my legs, and soothing coolness on my abused feet. As she took her hands away, Ms. Byrd buried her heel deeper inside me, grinding down on me. I groaned from both feelings. Lynnie stepped slightly away and I tipped my head back to watch her. Easier to watch her than to watch Ms. Byrd. Watching upside down as she undid the dress hooks at the sides of her slacks. Which made me get excited again. She knelt over my face then, and I eagerly lifted my head. Again, they laughed, but at least Ms. Byrd relieved some of the pressure off of me. Lynnie was wearing a longish button-up, falling to her mid thighs. I was suddenly curtained by her shirt, back in the dark again.

I watched her shadowy fingers slide her underwear to one side.

“A little lower please,” I said to her. 

She did, not settling fully on my face, but at least enough that I didn’t have to strain my neck. I licked up at her slowly, waiting to be told no, or otherwise punished for doing it. But nobody stopped me and so I went to work with alacrity. Furiously pleased when Lynnie started sighing, moving with me. Giving into me. 

After a few minutes, Ms. Byrd suddenly seemed to change position. The heavy weight of her toe was no longer against me. Now she was sliding her sole back and forth, slippery clit sliding with her. Her heel was still inside me, but no longer buried to the base. Between having Lynnie very obviously on the brink of her own orgasm, clearly about to come in my mouth, and good stimulation, I was also about to come.

Lynnie's thighs suddenly clamped on my face and she came with a sexy, animalish grunt I hadn’t been expecting. As she was standing upright again, I looked up the barrel of her legs, watching her snap her underwear back into place. The simple, businesslike way she did it made me come too.

“Oh, she didn’t ask,” Sandy sighed, as though over a mild disappointment. A game you were barely watching coming to an unsatisfying conclusion.

“Oh, no,” I said again. I hadn’t thought about it. And up until just a few seconds ago, my mouth had been too full to ask anyway. And if I’d asked and been denied, I wouldn’t have been able to disrupt the orgasm anyway. 

Ms. Byrd leaned forward, and untied my wrists. Slowly I drew them up to my chest in a sort of pugilist’s pose. Working out the ache from them having been stretched out.

“Get up,” Ms. Byrd said, snapping her fingers at me in that heart-stopping way. 

Rolling to my side like a turtle I tried to rock myself up. Feeling exhausted. All three women helped me to my feet. I instantly snapped up on my toes. Feet back to feeling good. Warm, and worked over. Like I’d gotten a deep tissue massage.

Ms. Byrd sat back down in her chair, and then patted her lap. I waited for specific directions, however. 

“Bend over, hands on my knees,” she said.

I did, almost tearful to be touching her. Sandy knelt behind me, making me nervous. But she was only undoing the ropes on my legs. I shook out my hips too. Not feeling any pain, only getting reacquainted with freely moving legs. 

“Spread ‘em,” Sandy directed, with a hard slap on the inside of my thigh. I squealed and jumped to do it. Two more slaps, one to each thigh until I was spread like an A-frame. Then she flipped my skirts up again. Burying my head in them once more. 

It was the same, and different when the crop landed between my legs. A focused heat, followed by a tingle. And then what felt like a thread of fire. Unerringly Lynie had found my split, and that little lick of leather at the tip of the crop had landed directly on my still-full clitoris. 

This time I screamed, jumped, sank my nails into Ms. Byrd’s legs, and my own snapped shut like scissors. The intense concentration of the crop was very different from the broad paddle brush Ms. Byrd had used between my legs. 

“Sandy, honey, can you go get the missus’ gag for me?” Ms. Byrd asked.

“Mhmm!” Sandy agreed cheerfully.

Everything stopped for as long as it took for Sandy to get my phallic little gag. My hands still resting on Ms. Byrd’s knees, Lynnie just waiting behind me to continue. When Sandy returned, Ms. Byrd took the gag from her palm. Working it between my teeth and strapping it around the back of my head.

“The neighbors, after all,” Ms. Byrd said, brushing my hair off my face. “But Lynnie needs to make a point about you not asking for your orgasm.”

I nodded, and opened my legs back up in acquiescence. 

Lynnie gave me a longer break between slaps now. But I couldn’t tell if this was a kindness or a cruelty. It gave me space to breathe and settle back into the position. But on the other hand, it gave me time to mentally brace and prepare for each contact. And enough time for the heat to turn into the tingle, and the tingle into fire. 

“Sandy, come look at this,” Lynnie said, chuckling. “The doll is about to soak the top of her thigh highs.”

It was true. I was still wet, but the more pressing sensations of the crop had made me ignorant of the come sliding down the insides of my thighs. Sandy did, and I felt both her hands on the insides of my thighs.

“Aw, sticky little darling,” Sandy said, as though I were a pet who’d gotten into something she ought not to have. “What do you think?”

“Oh, go ahead,” Ms. Byrd said.

As I wondered what that exchange was about, I felt cool fingers on my labia. I sighed, leaning forward until my forehead rested on Ms. Byrd’s knees. Arching my back up, giving greater access to Sandy. She rolled the ball of her thumb over my clit. I could tell it was huge– twice the size that it would ordinarily be, even when I was turned on. It felt red under her cool fingers. For a while, she just seemed to be trying to soothe me. Using the coolness of her flesh to calm my abused flesh. But she suddenly switched, milking me skillfully and smoothly. 

“Pretty doll,” she said, so gently from behind me that tears sprung to my eyes again. “So wet and smooth. You feel so good, pretty little thing. I’ll bet you taste good too.”

I rolled my face helplessly into Ms. Byrd’s lap when Sandy’s cool tongue lapped at me. Bathing me more than anything else. The intention didn’t seem to be stimulation as much as a coaxing softness. 

She switched between fingers and her tongue, occasionally using both. I was demented and realizing that now I was crying for real into Ms. Byrd’s green pants underneath my face. 

“Pretty doll, little darling, do you need one inside you?” Sandy asked from behind me, flicking a finger against me.

At first I shook my head no. I was still very swollen. The idea of anything sliding into me seemed both impossible and irritating. But then I felt myself still grasping on emptiness, and ended up nodding. She ran the length of her finger up and down my lips for long, stroking moments. And then slid inside me more slowly and more gently than I’d ever been penetrated previously. Every centimeter being allowed in slowly, acclimating to it easily. 

After less than a minute, I started scrabbling blindly at my gag. 

Ms. Byrd pulled it from my mouth, the end of it resting on my lower lip still. Straps biting into the back of my neck.

“What?” she said.

“Please, ma’am,” I panted, red in the face and drooling like a beast. “Please, ma’am. May I come, please? Can I please come?”

“Ask the woman who’s doing you so well,” Ms. Byrd said scornfully.

“Sandy!” I said.

“Mistress,” she said, with a tone like a wink.

“Mistress,” I cried. “May I come, please? Please may I come I–”

“Go right ahead darling,” she said. “I love to see it.”

I finished explosively on her hand. It felt like I was filling her palm as I dropped into it. Legs collapsing, and I dropped to my knees, forehead still on Ms. Byrd’s lap. 

“Well, at least she asked this time,” Lynnie grumbled playfully.

“She asked very prettily,” Sandy said.

“Ma’am, will you offer me to San– my mistress as well?” I asked from the floor.

“Good girl!” Ms. Byrd said, sounding very pleased. “I suppose the missus gets it now, and is ready to treat my friends nicely. Go ahead and ask.”

Still on my knees, I turned around to face Sandy. She was sitting comfortably cross legged on the floor, licking the hand she’d been so skillfully using on me. It made me clench again. Realizing I was actually ready to come again. 

“Put me to use, please, mistress,” I said to her.

She smiled. 

“All right, hm,” she said, sucking her index finger prettily, leaving a ring of pink lipstick on her finger. “Lay down, doll.”

I did, on my back again. She was wearing a long, multi-layered ankle length skirt. She hitched it up a little, sitting on my face almost like Lynnie had. Unlike Lynnie though, she wore no underwear.

“Oh!” I gasped. She giggled.

“I hate ‘em,” she said, still giggling. She flipped my skirts up and then sat down on my face hard. Also unlike Lynnie she was comfortable suffocating me with herself. My nose crushed into my face, with very little room to maneuver. 

“Just the tip, just a little,” Sandy directed. So I did just that. Just the tip, just a little, only bare movement.

“Good girl, exactly. That and don’t stop,” she said. 

It was hard to do ‘that and don’t stop’ when she landed in my lap as well. Going back to licking me gently. Urging me back into action. I moaned into her.

“That’s why this is my favorite position,” she said, just barely lifting herself out of my lap. “I like feeling girls coming right against me. All your little moans and cries are better than the best vibrator. So go ahead.”

I focused on her though, for a long while. However, it was impossible to ignore her talent, and I tapped her thigh in a panic.

Lifting herself just barely away from me she laughed, and I was glad to hear that she was at least a little breathless. “I said, ‘go ahead.’”

I came, airless, buried in her as I did. Losing oxygen by the second and loving it.

She came a few seconds after me, clearly waiting for that sensation she wanted– me breathing my orgasm into her. 

She rolled off and away from me, flopping onto the floor comfortably. Laying on her side like a goddess, hip a high curve, resting the side of her face on an upraised hand. 

“Thank you,” I panted from the floor. After a few seconds I also rolled over, getting onto my hands and knees and crawling back to Ms. Byrd. Leaning forward on my arms and cleaning the shoe she had used on me with my tongue.