First Stretch

The red light on the camera blinks steadily, unblinking, capturing every tremor in your body.

You’re still down on your forearms, cheek pressed to the plush rug, ass presented high like an offering. The silver collar feels heavier now that it’s locked—cool metal warmed by your skin, the little heart-shaped padlock resting right at the hollow of your throat. Every swallow makes it shift, a quiet reminder that even breathing belongs to her now.

Dorothy’s hand stays firm on your hip, thumb stroking once along the bruised edge of a handprint—almost soothing, if not for the thick, blunt head of her cock still kissing your entrance. She hasn’t pushed in yet. She’s letting you feel the promise of it: hot, slick, impossibly wide compared to the tiny pink prison dangling uselessly between your legs.

“Beg properly,” she repeats, voice soft but edged with steel. “I want the camera to hear every word. I want you to hear it later, when you’re alone and aching and trying to remember why you don’t get to touch yourself anymore.”

You swallow again. The collar clinks.

Your voice comes out hoarse, wrecked from the throat-fucking earlier.

“Please, Mommy…” The words tremble. “Please… take me. Stretch me open. I—I need to feel what a real cock is like. My little clitty can’t… it can’t ever do anything like you can. Please use me. Please make me yours.”

She exhales a low, pleased sound.

“That’s my good girl.”

She doesn’t rush.

The first press is slow—agonizingly slow.

Just the head at first, breaching you with steady, unrelenting pressure. Your body fights instinctively; you clench, gasp, fingers scrabbling at the rug. She doesn’t stop. She simply waits, one hand sliding up your spine to press between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned and arched while the other grips your hip like a vice.

“Breathe,” she murmurs. “Let Mommy in. You were made for this.”

Another inch.

The stretch burns—bright, deep, overwhelming. You whimper, high and broken. Tears prick your eyes again, spilling sideways onto the carpet. Your locked clitty jerks uselessly in its cage, leaking a thin, steady stream that drips down the inside of your thigh and pools beneath you.

She pauses when half her length is inside—thick enough that you already feel impossibly full, split open in a way that makes your mind blank out for long seconds.

“Look at the mirror,” she orders quietly.

You lift your head just enough.

The reflection is obscene.

Your face is flushed crimson, mouth open in a silent cry, tears streaking your cheeks. The baby-doll top has ridden up completely, exposing your trembling back and the deep red handprints on your ass. Your hole is stretched tight around her girth—pink rim clinging to her shaft, glistening with lube and the first hints of her pre-cum. Below, the tiny pink cage swings with every tiny tremor of your body, a sad, dripping contrast to the thick column disappearing inside you.

Dorothy’s free hand reaches around and cups the cage entirely—your whole pathetic package vanishing into her palm again.

“Feel that?” she whispers, squeezing just enough to make the plastic bite. “That’s what useless looks like. Locked. Leaking. Forgotten.”

She rocks forward another inch.

You cry out—sharp, helpless.

She holds there, letting you adjust, letting you feel every throbbing vein, every pulse of her heartbeat inside you.

“You’re taking Mommy so well,” she praises, voice rich and warm even as she splits you open. “Such a greedy little hole. It knows what it needs, doesn’t it?”

Another slow thrust—deeper now.

Your arms give out completely. You collapse forward onto your chest, ass still high, face pressed sideways into the rug. The new angle lets her sink even further. You feel the blunt head nudge something inside you that makes your vision white out for a second; a broken moan tears from your throat.

“There,” she breathes. “That’s it. That’s the spot Mommy’s going to ruin you on all summer.”

She begins to move in earnest—long, deliberate strokes that pull almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. Each thrust makes the little heart-lock on your collar clink against the rug. Each withdrawal drags a wet, obscene sound from your body. Each re-entry punches a choked whimper out of you.

The camera catches everything: the way your back arches involuntarily, the way your caged clitty bounces and leaks with every impact, the way your hole clings desperately to her shaft like it never wants to let go.

She leans over you, breasts pressing into your back, pearls cool against your overheated skin.

“Tell the camera again,” she murmurs against your ear, hips never stopping their slow, punishing rhythm. “Tell it why you’re getting fucked like this. Why you’re crying on Mommy’s cock instead of pretending to be a man.”

You can barely form words—every thrust scatters your thoughts—but you try.

“Because… my cock is small… useless… can’t satisfy anyone… Mommy’s cock is… is so much better… please… please don’t stop…”

She laughs—low, delighted, triumphant.

“That’s right, baby.”

She speeds up—just a fraction—enough to make the slap of skin on skin echo in the room, enough to make your locked clitty throb painfully against its prison.

“You’re going to come like this,” she whispers. “Not from your tiny clitty being touched. Not from stroking. Just from Mommy filling you up. From knowing exactly what you are.”

Her hand slides under you, fingers brushing the cage—not stroking, just resting there, letting you feel how full and heavy and empty you are at the same time.

“Come for me, puppy. Show the camera how a useless little thing comes when a real cock is inside it.”

She angles her hips—dragging hard against that spot inside you with every thrust.

Your body locks up.

A high, shattered sound rips out of you.

You come—hard, helplessly, ruined—without a single touch to your caged clitty.

Weak spurts dribble out of the pink prison, soaking her palm, dripping onto the rug beneath you. Your hole clenches rhythmically around her shaft, milking her, begging without words.

Dorothy groans—low and primal.

“Good girl,” she breathes. “Such a good girl.”

She doesn’t stop thrusting.

Not even close.

She fucks you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor, every pathetic twitch of your locked nub.

Only when you’re limp and shaking does she slow—burying herself to the hilt and holding there, letting you feel her throb deep inside.

She leans down, lips brushing the back of your neck just above the collar.

“That was just the warm-up, baby.”

Her voice is velvet again—dangerous, promising.

“We’ve got the whole summer. And Mommy’s only getting started.”

She stays inside you—still hard, still leaking—while her fingers trace lazy circles over the cage.

The red light keeps blinking.

The mirrors keep watching.

And somewhere, deep inside, you already know:

You’re never getting out of this collar.

Not this summer.

Not ever.

She finally eases out—slow, deliberate—leaving you gaping, empty, dripping.

You collapse fully onto the rug, panting, wrecked.

Dorothy stands above you, cock still glistening with lube and your own slick.

She reaches for the camera.

Clicks it off.

Then she crouches beside you, cups your tear-streaked face, and kisses your forehead—soft, possessive, almost sweet.

“Welcome to your new life, princess.”

She helps you up on trembling legs.

Leads you toward the bed.

The summer has barely begun.

What happens next?

Do you beg to be cleaned up?

Or do you crawl onto the sheets and present yourself again?