It was her idea. She knew and trusted everyone at the party. She had teased herself mercilessly the
It was her idea. She knew and trusted everyone at the party. She had teased herself mercilessly the night before. She had written “will suck cock for breast torment” on her own stomach with her own sharpie. She had made sure two of her dominant friends would work together to ensure she was watched and safe all times. She had put the chastity belt and hood on herself before asking someone to lock the cuffs she had brought. Clearly she had thought this through. What she hadn’t thought of, though, were the moments where she wasn’t being used… when she desperately needed a cock ramming her mouth, fingers twisting her nipples, a riding crop on her tits, anything to take her mind of her swollen pussy that was so sensitive that she could feel how wet she was, and that she wouldn’t be able to touch it even if her hands were free. It was as if her wetness had bridged the millimeters between her sex and its prison, teasing her so lightly with every movement that she wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined. When her hood was gripped and the thrusting forceful, in that moment she was in wild abandon, fully focused on her task, being used, and she found herself silently begging the cock in her throat “Please don’t cum yet! Please don’t cum yet!” because she knew what came next: seconds, or even minutes, before someone else decided to use her, where there would be no escape or distraction from her own needs and aches that grew more and more insistent as the night went on. -- source link
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