Time to get dressed

You let her work the head for another minute, her tongue lapping at the slit with that practiced, teasing rhythm. Her eyes flutter up to meet yours—big, blue, utterly devoted—and you feel the familiar tightening in your balls. Time to finish.

Your hand tightens in her damp hair, guiding her deeper. She takes it without resistance, her throat relaxing to accept your full length, and you hold her there for three heartbeats before you let go. The first pulse of cum hits the back of her throat; she gags slightly but doesn't pull away. The second, third, fourth—you spill yourself into her mouth, thick and hot, and she swallows around your cock like she's been trained to do.

When you're empty, you pull out slowly. She keeps her mouth open, tongue extended, a glossy pool of white resting on the pink surface. She holds it there, eyes still locked on yours, waiting.

"Good girl," you say, your voice still rough. "Now show me."

She tilts her head back, opens her mouth wider, and lets you see every drop before she closes her lips and swallows with an audible gulp. Then she licks her lips clean, never breaking eye contact.

You reach down and stroke her cheek. "Perfect. Now get up on the bed. I want to watch you play with yourself."

She rises gracefully, naked except for the small steel plug nestled between her cheeks, and crawls onto the center of your bed. You shift to lie back against the headboard, propping pillows behind you, and gesture for her to begin.

Lily positions herself on her knees, facing you, and slowly lowers one hand between her thighs. Her fingers find her clit immediately—she's already slick from the morning's arousal—and she begins to circle it with the lightest touch. But her face remains still, her breathing controlled. She knows the rules: no sound, no expression, no movement except the deliberate motion of her fingers. She is a doll for your entertainment, a living ornament of discipline.

Her other hand rests on her thigh, fingers splayed. Her eyes are fixed on the wall just past your shoulder, unfocused, obedient. The only sound in the room is the wet, soft squelch of her fingers working her pussy, faster now, then slower, exactly as you've taught her—varying pace to keep you engaged.

You watch her for long minutes, your cock already beginning to stir again at the sight of her—small, blonde, perfect, reduced to a silent masturbating toy for your pleasure. The plug shifts slightly as her hips twitch, and you make a mental note to use that later.

Finally, you sit up. "Enough. We have things to do today. Get my clothes from the wardrobe, then we'll pick your outfit."

She stops instantly, her hand dropping to her side, and she slides off the bed without a word. You watch her walk to the large oak wardrobe, the plug glinting between her cheeks, her ass swaying with each step.

An hour later, the floor of your private quarters is littered with rejected uniforms. Lily has stood in front of you, posed, turned, bent over, and knelt in at least fifteen different combinations—pleated skirts, pencil skirts, sheer blouses, tight sweaters, knee socks, thigh-highs, garter belts, no panties, thongs, anal plugs of various sizes. Each time you've groped her tits, pinched her nipples, slid your fingers into her wet cunt or pressed against her plugged ass, before shaking your head and sending her back to the closet.

"Slower this time. I want to see the fabric stretch across your hips."

She pulls on the shiny aqua mini skirt—it's barely more than a strip of fabric, riding high on her thighs, the hem grazing the top of her ass cheeks. The garter belt clips to sheer black tights that run up her long legs, the tops of the stockings hidden under the skirt. She tugs the tight white crop top over her head, and her small breasts press against the fabric, her nipples hard and visible through the thin material. No bra, as ordered.

She turns to face you, hands at her sides, waiting.

You circle her slowly, letting your fingers trace the curve of her ass through the skirt, then slip between her thighs to feel the damp heat through the tights. She shivers but doesn't move.

"The hair. High ponytail. The one that swings when you walk."

She gathers her blonde hair, pulls it tight at the crown of her head, and secures it with a band. The ponytail falls halfway down her back, bobbing as she turns her head to check her reflection.

You take her by the wrist and lead her to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. She stands before it, and you stand behind her, your hands resting on her hips, your chest against her back. You meet her eyes in the glass.

"Look at yourself. Look at what you are."

She does. Her reflection stares back—a tiny thing, all legs and tits and eager obedience, dressed like a whore from a wet dream. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted, her nipples peaked.

You slide one hand up from her hip to cup her breast, squeezing gently, rolling the nipple between your thumb and forefinger. She lets out a soft, involuntary gasp—the first sound she's made since the blowjob—and you squeeze harder in punishment. She bites her lip, eyes watering.

"That's better," you murmur, your other hand sliding down her belly, under the waistband of the skirt, past the garter strap, until your fingers find her cunt through the damp tights. She's soaking. You press two fingers against her clit through the fabric, rubbing slow circles, watching her face in the mirror.

Her eyes flutter. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. She's fighting every instinct to moan, to grind against your hand, to beg. That discipline is what makes her valuable.

You slide your hand up, bring your wet fingers to her lips, and let her taste herself. She licks them clean without being told.

"Good. Now we're going to visit Mr. Harrison's quarters. I believe he has a new pet he's been training—a little brunette named Chloe. I think you two should get to know each other."