Peared Pus
Shackled to a metal bed, her thick steel collar digs into her perfect chin. Her pretty pastel panties, scalloped at the edge, are glimpsed in the shadows between her thighs. And as he tickles and canes her, two torments simultaneously, it's clear. The primacy of Her in his mind. A fucking machine is raised into position. Embedded in metal and machine, she comes. Is it his lust that drives him to such extreme means? Unbridled want? Desperation? Or does he so fear this animal, that he keeps her clasped in metal that cannot want, cannot feel, cannot love, cannot lose? She's locked in the fiddle that's chained to a metal ankle spreader. Metal gag against her soft lips. She is dismayed by metal, but still, she's powerful, don't you think? Because she's lovely. You can't stop thinking about her skin, her breasts, her ass, her smell. Even from where you sit viewing her on your screen, you smell her, don't you? He flogs her. He controls everything. He controls nothing. The Pear slips inside her. He turns the key to lock it in place. It's a work of art, the Pear. A complex mechanism. Like her. Maybe that's what he thinks. That it's as simple as a twist of the key, loosening her power over him. So he practices the erotic art of self-deception. The Pear goes in, filling her cunt that empty space, that vacuum, that everything and nothing place where even the gods stumble. The handle of the Pear is turned. Whose hand turns the key? Whose desire? Whose despair? The Pear is sucked inward. Clamps bite into her nipples. And her body spasms in pleasure. She comes. Her fingers bend, as if beckoning. The Animal rises.