Morning Devotion

Sunlight filters through the gauzy cream curtains in soft, golden stripes across the bed. You wake slowly—body heavy, mind still fogged with the haze of yesterday.

The first thing you register is heat. Dorothy’s voluptuous frame is curled around you from behind, one thick thigh draped possessively over both of yours, her heavy breasts pressed to your back, nipples stiff against your skin. Her arm is banded across your waist, palm flat over the pink chastity cage like she’s claiming it even in sleep. The little silver key dangles from the chain around her neck, cool against your shoulder blade.

You shift—just a tiny movement—and immediately regret it.

Your ass is still tender, the deep ache inside you a dull, constant reminder of how thoroughly she stretched and filled you last night. The collar hasn’t moved; its heart-shaped lock rests snug against your throat. And between your legs, the micro cage feels tighter than ever. You’re painfully hard inside it—morning wood trapped in unforgiving pink plastic, the head of your tiny clitty pressing desperately against the end of the tube, leaking steadily. Every throb sends a fresh bead of pre-cum dribbling out, soaking the front of the lace panties she tugged back into place before you fell asleep.

You try to stay still.

You fail.

A soft, sleepy hum vibrates against your neck.

“Already leaking for Mommy?” Her voice is low, rough with sleep, rich as velvet dragged over gravel. She doesn’t open her eyes yet—just tightens her arm, pulling you flush against her so the thick, half-hard length of her cock nestles hot and heavy in the cleft of your ass.

You whimper—quiet, involuntary.

She chuckles, the sound rolling through her chest into yours.

“Greedy little thing.” Her hand drifts lower, cupping the cage entirely. She gives it one lazy squeeze. “Look how **** this sad little clitty is. Already trying to get hard even after Mommy ruined you last night.”

Her thumb brushes the underside of the plastic tube—slow, teasing circles that make your hips jerk forward into empty air.

“Did you dream about it?” she murmurs against your ear. “About being bent over again? About Mommy’s cock splitting you open while you cried how useless you are?”

You nod—small, ashamed.

Her lips curve against your neck.

“Good girl.”

She rolls you onto your back in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath her. The silk sheets slide cool against your overheated skin. She straddles your hips—knees bracketing your waist, her full breasts hanging heavy above your face, pearls swaying gently between them. Her cock rests thick and warm against your stomach, already hardening again, the head leaking a slow, glistening trail across your skin.

“Look at me,” she orders softly.

You obey.

Her hazel eyes are molten in the morning light—amber flecks catching like fire. She studies your face: swollen lips, tear tracks that dried hours ago, the silver collar gleaming at your throat.

“Tell Mommy what you are.”

The words come easier now—humiliation already sinking roots.

“I’m… your locked little girl. With a small, useless cock that can never satisfy anyone.”

She smiles—slow, pleased, predatory.

“That’s right.”

She shifts higher, sliding up your body until her knees settle on either side of your head. Her cock hovers just above your lips—thick, veined, morning-heavy, the slit already weeping.

“Open.”

You do.

She doesn’t thrust this time.

She simply lowers herself—slow, deliberate—feeding the head past your lips, then another inch, then another, until your jaw aches and your throat flutters around her.

“Breathe through your nose,” she coaches gently. “Mommy wants you to take morning devotion like a proper toy.”

You try. It’s hard—her girth stretches your mouth wide, the musky taste of sleep and dried cum and her natural scent flooding your senses. She doesn’t move yet—just rests there, letting you adjust, letting you feel every pulse, every bead of pre-cum that drips onto your tongue.

Her hands brace on the headboard.

Then she begins—slow, shallow rocks at first. Not fucking your throat, not yet. Just using your mouth like warm, wet relief. Each glide drags her shaft along your tongue, coats your lips, makes soft, wet sounds fill the quiet room.

“Look at the mirror,” she whispers.

You turn your head just enough.

The reflection is devastating in daylight: you flat on your back, collared, caged, panties soaked, tiny pink prison leaking onto your stomach. Dorothy above you—curves glowing in the sun, pearls swaying with every roll of her hips, thick cock disappearing rhythmically between your stretched lips. Your own face is flushed, eyes watering again, cheeks hollowed as you suck.

She watches you watch.

“See how pretty you look?” she murmurs. “See how much better this is than pretending to be anything else?”

You make a small, muffled sound around her.

She groans—low, pleased.

“That’s it. Worship Mommy’s cock the way a useless little clitty boy should.”

She picks up the pace—just enough to make your throat flutter, to make drool spill from the corners of your mouth and run down your chin.

“Hands behind your back,” she orders.

You obey instantly—arms sliding beneath you, wrists crossed at the small of your back. The position arches your chest, makes the cage jut upward helplessly.

She reaches back, fingers brushing the slick plastic.

“No touching,” she reminds you. “No humping. Just leak for Mommy while she uses your throat.”

You whimper again—vibrations humming around her shaft.

Her hips stutter once.

She pulls out—slow, glistening strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to her tip.

“Beg for your breakfast,” she says quietly.

Your voice is wrecked, barely above a whisper.

“Please, Mommy… please let me drink your cum. I—I need it. My little clitty can’t make anything worth having. Please feed me.”

She smiles—wide, victorious.

“Good girl.”

She slides back in—deeper this time—until your nose presses against her pubic bone and your throat convulses around her.

She holds there.

You feel the first hot spurt hit the back of your throat—thick, heavy, endless. She groans low in her chest, hips grinding in tiny circles as she empties herself, pulse after pulse, forcing you to swallow or ****.

You swallow.

Every drop.

When she finally pulls out, you’re gasping, chin dripping, eyes streaming.

She cups your face between both hands—thumbs wiping tears.

“Perfect,” she breathes. “Such a perfect little cocksleeve.”

She leans down, kisses your forehead—soft, possessive.

“Now stay right there. Legs spread. Mommy’s going to take a few pictures of her pretty, freshly used toy before breakfast.”

She reaches for her phone on the nightstand.

The camera flash is bright in the morning light.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the ache in your throat and the helpless throb of your caged clitty, you already know:

This is only the beginning of the day.

The summer is long.

And every morning from now on will start exactly like this.

She sets the phone down.

Crawls back over you.

And whispers against your ear:

“Time to get you cleaned up, princess. Mommy’s going to wash her little girl… and then we’re going to spend the day by the pool.”

Her smile is all teeth and promise.

“Wearing nothing but the collar and cage, of course.”

Your locked clitty gives a useless, trapped twitch.

The day has only just begun.