Utter Emasculation

Your thighs tremble, slick, cunt still contacting weakly around the softening thickness of your former friends cock still lodged inside. Every tiny shuddering aftershock makes your over-sensitive pussy walls tingle euphorically, and Mark gives a lazy, appreciative thrust of his hips, to remind you he’s still male, still filling you, claiming Kate and now you.

You can’t quite catch your breath. The leather collar feels tight and heavy, warmed against your skin, the leather slightly sticking where sweat has gathered beneath it. The leash dangles in a loose, dangerous loop from Kate’s fist; she hasn’t unwound it from her hand. She enjoying the view this much, her former male lover now reduced to a tiny, needy little Asian lass.

“Look at the state of you. Utterly humbled and emasculated,” she says, almost conversationally, as though she’s commenting on the weather. Her free hand drifts down, fingertips skimming over the swollen, glistening mess where you and Mark are still joined, toying with the tiny nub of your sensitive clit to emphasise he point about emasculation. She gathers some of the combined slick on two fingers, then lifts them to your lips without asking. “Open up little one.”

Your mouth falls open on instinct and she none too gently pushes her fingers inside, letting you taste salt, the ropy strands of protein, the stringent sourness of your sex and his masculine musk and the sharp edge of your own humiliation. You suck automatically, tongue curling, eyes half-lidded and glassy. Kate watches the motion like she’s cataloguing it for later use.

“Jo always liked to eat me out and swallow Mark’s cum… Good girl,” she purrs. “Clean up your mess.”

Mark chuckles beneath you. He hasn’t pulled out. His hands have migrated to your breasts now, taking big, heavy handfuls that he kneads slowly, thumbs flicking over nipples so tender they sting with every pass. Breasts are strange and very responsive things you decide. You like them. Their weight andthe way they sway and jiggle in counterpoint to your movements. Who doesn’t like a nice and generous rack?

Mark pats your belly. “Imagine if Jo wasn’t on the pill. You’d swell up nice and granite after all this,” he mutters against the shell of your ear.

Kate’s eyes flash at that. She likes the idea. You can tell by the way her grip tightens fractionally on the leash.

She withdraws her fingers with a soft, wet pop, wipes them carelessly across your cheek, then leans down until her mouth is level with yours again.

“Tell me what you are,” she says. Not a question. A demand.

Your voice is wrecked, small. “I’m… your slut. Your pet. Your little bitch.”

“And.” She prompts.

“I’m yours to collar. To leash. To fuck. To fill.” The words come easier now, like they’ve been waiting to be voiced all along. “I’m better like this. I’m… right like this.”

Kate smiles, slow and predatory as she eases the leash just enough to let your head tip forward. The relief is momentary. She immediately wraps the leather twice more around her knuckles, shortening it again until your neck is once more **** into that perfect, **** arch.

“Mark,” she says without looking away from your face, “pull out. Slowly. I want to see it.”

The drag is exquisite. His Long, thick inches slide free inch by torturous inch until the head pops out with a sensation that makes your whole body clench on nothing. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, hips twitching uselessly.

Kate studies you for a long moment, remembering this conquest of you as her leashed toy, flushed, trembling, collared, mouth full of juices.