4 * 6 * 7 * 8 * M * DD * CS * H9 * SG * CD * 13S * JD
"Wow," Julie said, looking down at the bed. Her eyes had widened and her right eyebrow had arched upward in a slightly disbelieving look. "So this is what you do with your royalty money."
I rolled my eyes. "Hardly," I protested sarcastically. "Some of those were gifts," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "As you should damn well know, since you gave me four of them."
Julie looked up at me, her mouth curling up into a grin. "Touche, girl. I get it. But really, you might want to scale back at this point."
I glanced down at the assembled assortment and I couldn't help feeling that she wasn't far off the mark. There was certainly a bell curve in style, width, and length, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.
Julie pursed her lips, considering things. "Well," she said, tapping the smallest, which was only four inches. I'd placed down at the far left end. "Under the circumstances, this one has to go." She picked it up and set it aside. "And obviously this six inch one next." It too was pulled from the lineup. Her finger hovered over the next three samples. "Hmmm. These are all in the seven inch range, right?"
I nodded. "Yep. With realistic 'flesh' tone and suction cup base," I added in a sort of car salesman type voice.
Julie shrugged. "Whatever. They're like your Husky, just shorter." She grabbed the top one and set it with the smallest and the six incher.
"And we'll just add one of these eight inchers too," she said smugly, picking from one of four options. I sighed and watched as she set the top one with the others.
"Might as well do the metal one as well," I muttered. "It's different enough."
Julie snorted. "Don't leave it in the car. It will be too hot," she warned. I rolled my eyes. Like I would do something that stupid.
"Now, you only have one double," she said with a smirk. "So that has to go for sure."
My eyes widened. "Hey. That wasn't part of the assignment!" I protested. It didn’t matter.
Julie grinned. "That's not my problem. It fits the parameters, so you get to deal with it."
I frowned and crossed my arms across my breasts. The thought of what she was insisting I do both frustrating and a turn on. She picked up the double and set it with the "assortment of samples."
"Now this crystal stick," she said, running a finger over the ridged and bumpy acrylic rod. That's different enough to make for an interesting experience." She put it with the others. The little heart on the end was cute and it looked slightly out of place next to the rest. Then she tapped my Husky. "This one too. It's a classic," she assured me. I grunted. I'd expected that one to go. How would this entire thing be complete without my Husky?
“What the hell is this?” She asked, holding up the ten inch long Sha Gua stick.
I shrugged. "Gift from Georgia. Rose quartz," I replied. "It’s supposed to be for acupressure, but someone got ambitious. Probably. It comes from China."
She gave me an appraising look. “I need to find out where she gets her acupressure massage done because it looks like fun.” She set it with the others. Then she touched the Core Driller. It looked like a black rocket ship. "Why didn't you get the bigger one?" She asked with a grin. "This one is only twelve inches."
I took a deep breath. "Because that was what was available at the time," I replied tartly. She moved on to the next.
"I haven't seen this one before. You should have brought it to me. Guess you like a good screwing. What is this?" She asked me, picking up the second to last. "Thirteen inches?"
I nodded, eyeing the monstrosity she held in her hands. "One of my online masters gifted it to me," I explained. “About a month ago.” Julie put it down. She glanced at the last selection, a purple, double ended one that I called the "jelly dong" with a wry grin. She knew where that one came from. I sighed. "Yeah. Master Fred got me that one."
Julie put both the screw and the jelly dong with the top pile. "Well, that's quite a selection," she admitted. We looked at the row of toys.
"Christ," I muttered. "That's a dozen!"
Julie chuckled. "Wow. You're lucky!" She picked up the canvas bag and started shoving my dozen into it. I watched, my stomach squirming, the sides of the satchel distending. Then Julie tossed in two small bottles. "There," she said. She glanced over at me and grinned. "You're ready," she declared. She handed me the bag and I took it, shocked at the weight.
"Not quite," I said, somewhat despondent.
Julie laughed, looking at my gym shorts and tee shirt. "Yeah. Right. Not quite."
I took a deep breath and wondered if I could get away with sprinting. The parking lot was bright with sunlight and there were more cars in the lot than I had expected for a Saturday morning. The thought of running from my car to the entrance was appealing, but a number of factors that made it impractical occurred to me before I took the first step. First off - I was wearing flip flops, a sort of foam-soled shoe that did little more than keep sharp stones and pieces of glass from cutting up the bottoms of my feet. They weren't made for running, that's for sure. The next problem to hauling ass across the parking lot was the skirt I was wearing. It was a loose, blue denim number, pleated in appealing folds, and short enough that every running leap would provide intriguing glimpses of my panties.
If I'd been wearing any that is.
Then there was the peasant blouse, a monstrosity of attire that I've hated from day one. The offspring of a sex demon and a curtain valance, a single strand of skimpy elastic kept an almost transparent skein of eight inch long material positioned, more or less, over my bosom. If I were standing straight, on a breezeless day, my breasts remained covered. Running? Not a snowball's chance in Texas. My boobs would bounce around like a pair of water balloons tied to a stick and the shirt would follow, leaving my bosom exposed and as uncovered as if I were in a windstorm.
And lastly, jogging across the lot was out, because… well… I was carrying a canvas bag full of dildos.
This last item wasn't as much of a concern, but it would have hampered any attempt at running, so I figured I'd include it, just to show that I was thinking ahead. I slipped the bag over my shoulder and climbed out of my jeep. The concrete lot was big enough to hold three or four dozen cars, but only five, including mine, were present. My Jeep Wrangler looked slightly out of place next to the BMWs and Lincolns, but I didn't mind it. The Jeep was me.
It had been an unusual ride that morning. First of all, I'd been allowed to eschew the usual vibrator torment that came with driving my jeep around, and I'd even been allowed to wear clothes, which was just bizarre. Part of me grumbled about the fact that my peasant blouse could hardly be considered "clothes," but complaining about it didn't seem right, especially since the peasant blouse was better at keeping my bare breasts from distracting other drivers, which was the usual way I had to drive.
The building I'd selected was a five story structure where Kari and I had recently done some design work. I was familiar with the layout, knew that the weekends were slow, with few people wandering about, and it didn't even have a security officer on site to keep out the riffraff. During one of our first tours, I'd spotted a sweet little niche at the end of one hall, overlooking an amazing garden and pond. There was a wooden bench there, ostensibly set so one could look down and watch the ducks.
I pushed open the door, one arm wrapped across my bosom to keep the peasant blouse from doing anything crazy, like flashing my breasts, and was relieved to find the lobby empty. With a hurrying pace, I went to the emergency stairs and pushed open the door. With steady steps, I began climbing. I didn't have to go very far. Just to the third floor. Could I have used the elevators? Oh yeah. They worked. But you can get cornered in an elevator. Very few people used the stairs. And right now, the last thing I needed was temptation.
The climb to the third floor went quickly enough, but I have to admit that it felt strange to be walking around with my pussy empty. Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule #1 states quite clearly that girls like me need to have cock in them at all times, and failing that, should keep a sex toy or other phallic like object stuffed in their cunts. The idea, ostensibly, is to keep us wet and ready for use at anytime. But in reality I suspected that it was more of a kind of physical and psychological torment. Being constantly aroused, even at a low level, was a reminder that my purpose in life was basically to serve as a receptacle, a sex object, meant to satisfy the desires of others.
Besides, I was already wet. It came naturally.
As I remembered, the end of the hall had a beautiful window overlooking the nearby grounds. All was lush and green, with a concrete path encircling the duck pond. Little copses of flora had been bunched together to make private areas and I was high enough up that even had the lawn below been packed with people, the likelihood of being seen was slim. I checked the hallway behind me. Yep. Empty. So I sat down on the wooden bench, surrounded by flowers and bromeliads, leaned back against the wall, and lifted one foot up onto the bench. My red painted toenails looked pretty.
The short denim skirt wasn't able to handle the new position and the hem lifted, exposing the soft, pink gash between my legs. I have a very average pussy when it comes to appearance. My pubes aren't puffy, which means that my folds are visible, but not to the point where there is anything else. My clit is large enough to find, tease, and abuse, but not sticking out like a girl penis or anything. I resisted the urge to put my hand down there, to check my wetness, and instead rifled through my bag. I found the smallest of them, a stunted little thing that had been given to me as a gag gift by one of the other mistresses in the Society of the Golden Rose. I held it up. Flesh toned and molded into a shape that resembled a very tiny, disappointing cock, the four-inch-long rubber phallus was hard as a rock. It was by no means a favorite, but I'd held onto it in sort of a sick fascination, laughing as I routinely pushed it aside for something both longer and more supple. Still, it held the honor of being the shortest of the collection. I'd never had trouble with it, other than lack of depth and a certain over-firmness, but today there was an additional variable that concerned me.
Over the years I've commented that my default state is "horny" and that I really don't need NHPS Rule #1 to keep me wet and ready. I've even boasted that I come naturally this way. It makes for a clever statement as my readers imagine a constantly moist, wet, and ready slit, perfect for receiving wanton cock or any random phallic item. But in reality, I think the statement says more about my general mindset. I really do constantly think about sex. I want it, practically all the time. I crave orgasm like some people do sweets and soda pop. It's not just a clever saying on a tee shirt; given a choice, I WOULD rather be fucking. Or more accurately, getting fucked.
That said, I recognize that the reality of my condition might truly be different than my blithe comments. After all, how the hell would I know? I've literally been stuffed with a variety of sex toys, practically every day for the last nine years. Do you have any idea what that's like? Most of the time the things I stick inside me aren't even static. They roll. They twist. They shake. They corkscrew. I'm a living, breathing fuck doll running on batteries. Forget the Energizer Bunny. Breanne's toys just keep going and going and...
But one of my online doms, Master Brandon, questioned all this. Was I really wet? All the time? He wanted to know if "wet and ready" was my natural state, without NHPS Rule #1 in effect. And this was the test. I knew it. So at Julie and Kari's command, I'd been empty for almost a full twelve hours prior to the assignment. No sex. No masturbation. No orgasm. No toys. Just plain old Bre. And was I wet?
I looked down at my sex. I didn't actually see any moisture on my labia, not that this meant anything. People put a lot of emphasis on humidity levels when it comes to fuckable pussy. But I disagree. Mindset is paramount. And frankly, denying me sex, or even sexual stimulation, which I was very used to, for half a day, only created the sort of mental construct I needed for arousal. Honestly? I wanted to cum, that's for certain. And the fact that I'd been dressed in the peasant blouse, breasts flashing practically at each step, while wearing a short skirt, sans panties, just made for a more intense scenario. So ... I just had to stuff a totally dry, unlubricated, four-inch, hard rubber shaft into my pussy, with one, solid thrust. I positioned the dildo at my sex, pointed inward and upward.
My instincts warned me against it. I wanted to lick a finger and rub it against my clit. I wanted to slide my nail through my folds, wetting my labia. I wanted to work myself into a froth before taking this smallest, and narrowest of dildos. I wanted to wait until someone was walking down the hall toward me, curious as to what I was doing with my leg up, flashing my slit.
Would it go in easily? Would I be, as I'd boasted, wet? Would it hurt?
I took a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering wave, closed my eyes, and then jammed the dildo in.
It could have gone easier. My petals spread as the rounded tip of the dildo pushed inward and my hips rotated upward as the curved tip of the phallus entered. I'd given it the same amount of force that I'd have expected from a nice, long vibrator, slick with oil. After getting through the edge of my opening, I found that there was enough natural lubrication to keep the dildo from snagging, or from tearing at my insides. But there was a twinge of discomfort too. The forced entry banged against my muscles, unready for the intrusion. It was an ache, a bruising one, and felt very real to me. I pushed the dildo in as deep as I could and still keep hold of the base, only to feel my pussy start fluttering, convulsing at the sudden ingress of solid rubber. I held it in, not pumping or pressing, just keeping it in place and I felt my juices suddenly gush, lubricating the short dildo completely. I groaned, the urge to masturbate, to edge, to do ANYTHING but hold it still so overwhelming that I almost gave in. But that would have ruined the assignment.
I counted to thirty, leg up, sitting at the window with my stuffed sex in full view to anyone looking up or coming down the empty hall. When I reached the magic number, I tugged the four-inch-long dildo out and licked it, tasting my flavor, my need. I stuck it completely in my mouth, cleaning it of my girl goo. Down lower, my pussy clenched and tightened, angered that it had been awoken rudely, pummeled hard with a single blow, and then denied the sacrifice.
I tucked the dildo away, back in the bag and stood up. Wanton didn't even BEGIN to describe my current state of mind, much less explain my dripping pussy. It grasped at nothing, furious with me for denying it the pleasure and fullness it desired. I ignored it though. I checked the time, then smoothed down my skirt. A tug along my bodice made sure the stupid peasant blouse was covering up my tits, and I left the way I came in.
I could have gone back to my Jeep, which was sitting in the nearby parking lot, but I had other plans. Office parks have long been considered places of "advanced design" and since I happen to work for an interior designer, I know about some of the psychological reasons behind the ergonomics of space. The lush lawn that I had seen from the third story window I'd just recently looked through, was speared by an aggregate concrete path. It lead down to a duck pond complete with water lily and actual ducks. Nadia, oleander, and mountain laurel, planted in lush pockets around the perimeter created a natural beauty that gave the nearby lawyers and business folks a respite from industrialized paperwork. I'd noticed this little gem from previous trips to the building for Kari's work. I figured this would be a nice place to handle the next dildo.
My only problem was that it wasn't thirty minutes away.
The duck pond wasn't even the size of a football field, but I set out along the stone walkway, flip flops slapping against the bottoms of my feet. Master Brandon's specifications for the assignment made it clear that a certain amount of time needed to pass between tests of pussy moisture levels. Thirty minutes of no sexual activity were mandatory before I could select the next largest dildo and repeat the process. No ben wa balls rolling inside me with every step, no vibroballs purring deep within my loins. No vibrator pendant clamped to my clit, buzzing away like mad. Hell, there wasn't even something in my ass.
Thank God for small blessings.
Still, there was a sexual component to my walk. The peasant blouse ruffled in the warm, morning breeze, necessitating a restraining arm to be pressed against my chest. My skirt danced around my buttocks, concealing the curve of my derriere, but only barely. My bare midriff was sleek and taut, with only a slight rise as befitting my age. I looked good. Strike that. I looked delicious. I oozed sexy. And sometimes sexy is way better than pretty.
A jogger running by me almost fell into the pond, he was staring at me so intently. I gave him a winsome smile as he went past me and I could practically feel him turn and jog backward, just to get a look at my ass. I was tempted to flip the skirt up a bit at that point. Yet, I knew better. The whole idea of the thirty minute window was to give my pussy time to calm down, to reset, and after wandering three times around the pond, passing the same jogger over and over, I made my way casually to a dense little copse, sporting a stone ledge that would make a perfect bench for what needed to come next.
Hidden from view on three sides, the only major problem was that anyone walking by (or running for that matter,) would get a momentary glimpse into the shady space. I knew that my time frame was limited, especially with my athletic stalker out there. Would he wonder where I'd gone? Would he seek me out? I felt my pussy tighten at the thought, but I knew I couldn't let that affect me. Master Brandon had been very clear; every penetration had to be done in a public venue. I didn't necessarily need an audience, but the risk of being discovered, of being observed, of being interupted, was to be present. I liked that idea. It was a turn on. And being turned on meant natural lubrication.
I sat down, the pleated folds of my skirt doing absolutely nothing to cover my butt. I felt the rough stone slate, cool to the touch and just a bit sandy. I ignored it and opened my bag. It took a bit of work, but eventually I pulled out another flesh colored dildo, formed to resemble a man's penis. It was a meager six and something inches in length, no doubt molded on some European man's model, where dicks evidently come in centimeters instead of inches. Like the smaller dildo I'd first jammed into my twat (get it? Trying a little British humour here!) it was dry as a bone. I wondered if my pussy, with thirty minutes of no stimulation, could handle the penetration.
I spread my legs wide, trying to ignore the fact that the stone walkway was just fifteen feet away and that I was in full view. I reached down with both hands and pointed the tapered end of the dildo at my pussy, and with deliberate intent, forced it in deep.
The sensation was not what I expected. Like before, my sex wasn't quite prepared for the brutal act of impalement. My pussy, still damp from the last act, not to mention my circumstances, allowed the dildo to get deep inside me with nothing more than a blunt ache. I groaned and closed my legs around the dildo, one hand jammed between my thighs, struggling with a variety of urges; from opening back up and pumping rapidly, to wanting to just keep the dildo right where it was, letting my poor, abused cunt flutter around it in desperate throes of want.
But that was against the rules. Thirty seconds. That's all. That's as long as I was allowed to keep the dildo in. I started counting, resisting the urge to masturbate, and was just passing the twenty-two mark, when I heard the gentle, rhythmic thud of the jogger's shoes.
My timing sucks.
I hit thirty and still hadn't seen him pass, but there was nothing for it. I wasn't allowed to keep the dildo in me. That might change the variables. I spread my legs, pulled the dildo out of now sopping wet cunt, and closed up just as he came into view. His head swiveled in to glance at me, the sweet little, barely dressed, redhead girl, sitting there on the stone...
...holding a wet six inch dildo. Then he was out of my view.
I let out the breath I was holding. I started to bring the dildo up to my mouth, but then I heard the steps falter and stop.
Oh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I glanced around frantically, and brought the goo covered phallus down behind my right leg as I twisted in the same direction. I just managed to get it pressed against my thigh, hidden from view when the jogger reappeared.
"Hi," he said with a grin. He looked slightly embarrassed, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was okay to interrupt me.
I smiled woodenly, my heart thumping. And my pussy was pounding too. It was demanding another fucking. It wanted the dildo. Or better yet, the jogger. I felt myself clench around absolutely nothing.
"Hello," I replied, just a little tense.
He stepped into the little copse and looked at me intently, but then he blushed a little and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I thought... I saw..." he waved his hand and rolled his eyes. "Seeing things I guess!"
I didn't press. I just clutched the sodden dildo down by my right leg and prayed he didn't come in any further. For a moment we stared at each other. Then he broke the silence again.
"Sorry. Guess I should introduce myself. I'm Blake. I work near here." He held out his right hand.
Suddenly, all my worst fears materialized. I had a dildo in my right hand. It was wet. My fingers were wet. Did I put it down? What about the requirement to suck it clean? And he had introduced himself! There was protocol for this. Brandon's assignment was important, but there were rules for being... well... me. What did I do?
I let go of the dildo and it settled on the ledge, against my thigh. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I held out my hand, fully aware that when he shook it, I'd transfer an unusually large amount of rather personal bodily fluids to his palm. He took it, either not noticing or not caring. He came a step closer, standing above me.
"I'm..." I swallowed hard. My heart thumped in my chest with the same sort of pulsing that came from between my legs. My God, I wanted him to fuck me. "I'm Breanne. I'm a nympho humiliation pain slut."
Dear Lord. It would have just been easier to pull up my shirt, flip up the skirt, and show him the goods.
For a second he just stared at me in disbelief. Then he shifted and his look changed. It was no longer amused attraction. It was hunger. He wanted me. He wanted to pull off my top, expose my breasts, pinch my nipples and knead my bosom. He wanted to pull me to my feet, bend me over that stone ledge, and jam himself right where I wanted him.
It’s nice to meet people with the same goals I have.
You may be wondering why I was so blunt. How could such a statement be attractive? Hello. I’m Breanne and I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut! But please understand, introducing myself this way was a requirement. As a girl who's primary purpose in life is to serve as a sexual plaything for others, I've been told that I have a duty to advertise, to announce, to clarify that function. I'm a sex object. I like it to hurt a little bit. I like to be embarrassed. I'm willing to do it with practically anyone. And it will only cost you a little time and effort.
He held my hand, far longer than necessary, and then some. He looked down at me with a smile. "I like that," he said completely. He took another step closer. Then he let out a little laugh. "I thought that's what I saw." He pointed down at my thigh. Or more accurately, what was lying next to it.
I pulled my hand from his and I covered the dildo with embarrassment. My face turned beet red and I looked up at him through my lashes. "It's for an assignment," I said quickly, as if that explained everything.
"An assignment?" He asked curiously. I nodded.
"Yes. I'm being tested. On wetness," I added.
"I see," he replied, but I could tell he didn't. "And are you wet?" The sexual overtone of his comment was obvious.
I nodded. "But not wet enough," I told him.
"You know, the real thing is better," he assured me.
"Yeah? Can I have just a taste?" I blurted out, my mouth moving before my brain even kicked into gear.
That surprised him. He glanced around, but I didn't hesitate. I reached up, grabbed the waistband of his jogging shorts, and pulled downward. His manhood practically fell out and I was immediately pleased. He smelled of clean sweat, healthy male, and need. I opened my mouth and before he could gasp in astonishment, I'd swallowed half his cock, bobbing my head with dedicated enthusiasm.
"Ohhhhh," he groaned, closing his eyes, letting me do my thing.
Every part of me except one wanted to stop, to tell him to take me somewhere private, to strip me naked, to taste me and touch me, to make me cum. Or failing that, to spank and pinch me, to fuck me in every hole, not for my pleasure or need, but for his. But I knew, deep down, that this was a distraction from my assignment, and that it couldn't help me get to the end.
I pushed my peasant blouse upward, exposing my pierced and padlocked breast, letting the warm, morning sunlight sparkle at the pierced tip. I spread my legs again, the skirt riding up, so that he could see the pink gash between my legs. And I bobbed my head, hands caressing his scrotum, the base of his cock, all while my tongue circled and danced around his tip. I took him deep and swallowed. I gently kissed his glans as my fingernails scratched lightly at his balls. I tightened in soft squeezes as I licked him. I tasted the pre-cum on his cock.
The quiet copse seemed perfect, distilled privacy, with only the towering buildings around us looking down. Could we be seen? Perhaps. Who knows? His breathing intensified and my hand dipped into the canvas bag, searching for one thing I'm never without. I found the small package, pulled it out, and tore it open. For one brief second I took my mouth off him, popped the condom between my lips, and then slowly, sensuously, applied it to his length with just my mouth.
It only took another few moments before he pulled me up, manhandling me forcibly, turning me around to bend over the stone bench. My breasts fell free of the peasant blouse, hanging like ripe fruit, and he grabbed hold my skirt, flipping it up to expose my bum. Then he guided his shaft into my pussy, so much better than either dildo, and my soaked sex quivered in delight as he began pumping. His hands gripped my hips and the slap of his skin against mine seemed to fill my ears the same way the throbbing of my pussy squeezed his shaft. I braced myself, looking out over the flowers to the waters of the pond, watching the ducks swimming by, who clearly did not care that some human girl was getting a good, hard fucking. My pussy quivered and I seemed to practically melt, wanting and needing. I reached up, twisting the padlock hanging from my right nipple, sending a new sensation through me, upping the ante, desperate to cum before him.
But I was too good. I could hear him gasping, the firmness of his cock solidifying inside me. I knew what I had to do, what would be good for me, but I couldn't do it. I wanted every little chance there was. If I was going to cum, it was now. Here. Like this.
I blinked. No. Like...
I shifted, forcing his cock out of me and I turned around, hopping back up onto the stone bench. I spread my legs, my knees coming up and spreading wide, offering my slit to him like a sacrifice. I motioned him forward, making it clear I wanted him in me again. Blake took the invitation, surging forward, stabbing me with his manhood, another one of the those deep, single thrusts. Except this time I was wet. Oh God was I wet. I was soaked. I was full. I was...
I grit my teeth. "Oh God!" I gasped. "I'm cumming!" The pounding of his body against mine shook my core and my breasts bounced with the force of it. Then I was overwhelmed, a surge of energy hitting me, splitting me, opening me up. I felt raw, exposed, torn. A blast of sweet bliss, like pure happiness swamped me, a drug like nothing else I've ever felt, and I swooned in ecstasy, grinning like an idiot. My eyes rolled up into the back of head as my vision swam. And through it all, bang, bang, bang, bang.
It took me almost thirty seconds to come back down to earth and when I floated down he was still doing me. Blake's face was red and he was so close. I pushed him out and away from me, a look of sudden worry in his eyes, but when I stripped the condom off him and took him in my mouth, his passion took him even further. I pleasured him perfectly and a moment later cream shot down my throat, salty and tangy and tasting of musk. Blake gasped and groaned, his cock pulsing in my mouth, hard and yet soft, all at the same time. I sucked him dry, getting each squirt with sensual eagerness, making it clear with my hands and my mouth that I wanted, no... needed, more from him. He sighed in satisfaction as I kept sucking, even as he softened. Too soon for me, he pulled his limp cock out of my mouth, cupping my cheek as I let out a satisfied breath.
"Incredible," he said softly. He brought his hand down, gently, caressing my breast, his thumb teasing the nipple, rotating it so that the tiny, charm-sized padlock jiggled.
"Thank you," I whispered, the longing need still burning in my blood.
He laughed. "No. Thank YOU," he said with a grin. He looked around as he pulled up his shorts. My own clothing was in disarray, but I did nothing to straighten it. He glanced down. On the flagstone, just a few inches away from my foot, lay my dildo. He picked it up.
"Guess I don't need this," I said with a wry grin as I took it back from him.
He shook his head. "So, do you work around here?" He asked me.
I shrugged. "Sort of. I'm an interior designer and was doing a project over there," I said, pointing to the building I'd just come from.
He looked at me and I could see suspicion on his face.
"Well, assistant designer," I admitted. I brushed the debris off the dildo and put the six inch rubber cock back into my bag. "It's complicated."
"Yeah. So... what now?" He asked. "I feel like I owe you a meal."
"After providing me a drink?" I quipped.
He chuckled. "I suppose."
I took a deep breath. Then I stood. The peasant blouse fell back down into place and I smoothed my skirt back over my ass. "I think I can spare an hour." I put my arm into his and together we left the copse.
Besides, I needed the time to calm down. There were more dildos waiting.
Too be continued...
Wild, witty, and totally sexy, Breanne Erickson is the author of “Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut,” series. Known as the “goddess of dark erotica”, her humorous outlook on life, her incredible urges, and sexual escapades are the stuff of legend. Each tale is like an entry into her personal diary - the long, thick, and hard “ins and outs” of a girl who can’t ever seem to get enough deviant sex. Check out her amazing work at Amazon.com.