Sunburned and Marked

The sun has climbed high enough that every inch of exposed skin feels like it’s being slowly branded. Sweat beads along your spine, runs in thin rivulets down your sides, and mixes with the drying piss on your chest and thighs. The pink leather collar—thick, glossy, studded with those tiny silver paw prints—has warmed to match your body temperature; the leash dangles from the D-ring, still wrapped twice around Dorothy’s left hand even though she’s reclining fully now, eyes half-lidded behind dark sunglasses, looking every bit the satisfied owner enjoying her property.

Your knees have gone numb against the hot stone. Your back is arched exactly as she ordered—ass presented, red handprints still vivid beneath the creeping sunburn. The tiny pink cage throbs in time with your heartbeat, the plastic tube slick with constant pre-cum that drips in slow, pathetic strings to the pool deck. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve leaked without permission today.

Dorothy’s cock rests heavy on your tongue—half-hard again, warm and salty, the head nestled just past your lips. You’re not allowed to suck, only to hold, to keep her cradled in wet heat while she dozes lightly. Every few minutes she gives the leash a lazy tug—nothing forceful, just a gentle reminder that pulls your head forward another fraction of an inch, forcing you to take a little more of her without ever being told to move.

Your jaw aches. Your throat is raw. Drool has long since overflowed, running down your chin in shiny trails, dripping onto the stone between your spread knees. The taste of her fills your mouth completely—musk, faint chlorine, the lingering bitterness of morning piss.

She stirs.

A low, sleepy hum vibrates down her shaft.

“Still holding Mommy so nicely,” she murmurs, voice thick with contentment. She reaches down with her free hand and strokes your hair—slow, possessive passes from forehead to nape. Her fingers brush the double layer of collars: the delicate silver one beneath, the thick pink leather on top.

“Such a good puppy. Burning in the sun for me. Leaking like a broken faucet. Mouth full of cock like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

She tugs the leash again—sharper this time—making you take her deeper until the head nudges the back of your throat and your eyes water instantly.

“Breathe through your nose,” she coaches softly. “Mommy wants you to stay right there. No gagging. No pulling away. Just feel how thick I am compared to that useless little thing locked between your legs.”

You **** slow, shallow breaths. Your nose brushes the smooth skin above her base. Tears spill down your cheeks, mixing with drool and sweat.

She keeps you impaled like that for another long minute—then finally lets the leash slacken just enough for you to ease back to the head.

“Good girl,” she praises, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. “Now look at me.”

You lift your eyes. Her sunglasses are pushed up into her champagne-blonde waves. The hazel is molten in the bright light—amber flecks glowing like embers.

“Tell Mommy how it feels,” she says quietly. “To be leashed outside, naked, collared twice, mouth stuffed, skin burning, while everyone else is having a normal day.”

The words come out muffled, wet, vibrating around her cock.

“It feelsh… shmall… ushelessh… owned… Mommy’sh… puppy… shun burnsh… cage hurtsh… I desherve it… thank you… for the leashe… for marking me…”

She smiles—slow, victorious.

“That’s my princess.”

She finally slides free of your mouth with a wet pop. Thick strands of spit and pre-cum stretch between your swollen lips and her glistening tip before snapping.

She stands.

The leash stays in her hand.

She gives it a firm, steady pull—upward this time—guiding you to your feet. Your legs shake; you nearly stumble. She steadies you with one hand on your hip, the other keeping the leash taut.

“Walk,” she orders. “Heel. Like a proper pet.”

You shuffle beside her—leash forcing your head to stay slightly bowed, steps small and careful. She leads you along the edge of the pool, then around to the shallow end where the water laps gently against mosaic tiles.

She stops at the very edge.

“Sit.”

You drop to your knees again—right at the lip of the pool, toes dangling over into the water, ass resting on your heels. The movement makes the cage bounce painfully against your thighs.

Dorothy crouches beside you, leash still wrapped around her palm.

She dips her free hand into the cool water, then brings it to your face—cupping your cheek, letting the droplets run down your neck, over the collars, across your chest.

“You’re burning,” she observes, almost tenderly. “Red everywhere. Mommy should have put sunscreen on her toy.”

She stands again.

Walks to a nearby table, retrieves a bottle of high-end sunscreen—pearlized, faintly scented with gardenia.

Returns.

Squirts a generous amount into her palm.

Then she begins to rub it into your skin—slow, deliberate circles. Shoulders first. Then chest, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble. Down your stomach. Around your hips.

When she reaches the cage she doesn’t avoid it.

She coats the pink plastic generously, making it gleam wetly in the sun. Her fingers slip beneath, rubbing the cream into your balls, the base of your trapped shaft—teasing, clinical, never enough to give relief.

“Even your useless little clitty gets protected,” she murmurs. “Mommy takes care of her property.”

She moves behind you.

Hands on your shoulders—pushing you forward until you’re on all fours again, ass high, face inches from the water.

She pours more sunscreen directly onto your back, then works it in—palms sliding over every red mark, every bruise, every handprint. When she reaches your ass she spreads you open with both hands, rubs cream into the tender rim still puffy from last night.

You whimper.

She chuckles.

“Sensitive,” she notes. “Good. Means you’ll remember who owns this hole.”

She finishes with your thighs, your calves—then tugs the leash once more, pulling you upright again.

“Stand.”

You rise on trembling legs.

She wraps the leash twice more around her fist—shortening it until there’s barely a foot of slack.

“Come.”

She leads you back to the lounger—slowly, deliberately—making you walk beside her like a show dog. When she reaches the padded surface she sits, legs spread wide, and gives the leash a sharp downward tug.

You drop to your knees between her thighs again—face level with her cock.

She leans back, one arm behind her head, the other holding your leash taut.

“Open,” she says simply.

You do.

She guides herself back into your mouth—deeper this time—until your nose presses against her skin.

“Stay,” she orders. “All afternoon. Leashed. Stuffed. Sunburned. Leaking. While Mommy tans.”

She settles fully, sunglasses back in place, hand resting lightly on the leash handle.

The sun keeps burning.

The water keeps lapping.

The leash stays tight.

And you remain exactly where she put you—mouth full, body marked, soul collared—while the day drags on in slow, humiliating perfection.

She speaks again, voice lazy and content:

“Tonight, puppy… Mommy’s going to fuck you right here by the pool. Under the stars. Leash tied to the lounger leg. Ass up. Face down. So the whole backyard hears what a needy little bitch you are when you come untouched again.”

Her cock twitches on your tongue.

You whimper around it.

She smiles.

“Good girl.”

The afternoon is long.

And every gentle tug of the pink leash reminds you:

You’re hers.

Completely.

Forever