Sally and club black black stalion

While as usual I'm on all fours scrubbing the floors and cleaning up the house and a pigsty after last night's dinner. Jamal and his friend Kendrick are in the kitchen talking... "I have a date this morning," Jamal said finally. "With Marcos." The name made me stiffen. I knew him. He was also at the dinner. But the way he said it—slowly, thoughtfully—made me understand it was important. Kendrick, curious, asks Jamal. "The Marcos from the Black Stallion?" "That one." Jamal was talking about me like a car to sell. I bit my lip and tried not to move, because when I moved the plug slipped and made me clench my teeth. "Get up," Jamal said. I stood up. My legs were shaking—not from fatigue, actually. The pink latex had stuck to me with sweat, and the fishnet stockings were marking my thighs. The cage weighed between my legs like a metal shame. Jamal approached. He didn't touch me. He circled me slowly, and I could feel his eyes on my back, on the tattoo that covered my entire ass—the black cock, the word Love above my butt cheeks. He stopped behind me. "Marcos has a place," he said. "The Black Stallion. A place for little whores like you. Sissy, black cocks, masters who pay to watch. And he disappears." His voice was low, almost affectionate. "He saw you last night. At the dinner. You liked it. He asked if you were for sale." My heart pounded. "Me... Master?" "You're not for sale," Jamal said. "You're mine. But I can rent you." Kendrick made a sound, something between respect and envy. "How much does Marcos pay?" "It's not about the money." Jamal put a hand on the back of my neck—warm, wide, his grip reminding me of who I was. "It's because he wants to try it first. Marcos doesn't put anyone behind the bar withck, enameled, cold against mck to me, and I pulled up my stockings with shaking hands, and the ace-shaped pendants were hanging off my back.Jamal said. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, Master Marcos.” “What if I told you you have your first shift tomorrow?” I looked at Jamal. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held my chain—a little shorter, a little tighter—was already an answer. Marcos noticed and laughed, and let me go, and went back to the table to get his glass. “Tomorrow night, then,” he said. “Bring her at nine. And bring her dressed properly. I want the customers to see her come in and already know what they came to buy.” “At nine,” Jamal said. He tugged on the leash. I stood up, my knees aching, the plug shifting, and picked up the dress from the floor while Marcos watched me slowly get dressed. The latex stuck to me, and I pulled up my stockings with shaking hands, and the ace-shaped pendants were hanging off my back.

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