Cockateel

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Chained to a post, she squirms around, attempting in vain to adjust herself in her awkward crouching position. She enjoys to have joy to the camera, exaggerating her movements. When I call her on it, she admits as much. She says fighting is fun. I listen to her converse about herself, distracted; my mind is on what I can do to make this firmer for her. I want to make her fight for real. I tell her to take off her high-heeled slippers so she has to crouch on the sack of her feet. Now she’s suffering. She promptly demands the vibrator. I can tell she’s used to being in manage of her scenes. She won’t be in manage today. I tell her the massager will wait. She can come if she works for it. The dissatisfaction of Darling’s initial stance is nothing compared to what is coming to her. I have joy with her flesh, lightly blushing and welting its pallor. Ultimately she’s been thru enough to earn an orgasm. She’ll have to plead for it and describe it before I let her have it though. Before she has a opportunity to recover, I rope her into a stool I built. It’s designed to keep her thighs stretched as far apart as humanly possible. She looks lovely in the gas mask I put on her face, and I love hearing her fight for each labored breath. I place the fucking machine between her legs and listen to her silenced cries. I make her cry and I make her sing. I make her uncomfortable, mark her body, and make her dance for me. She does everything I tell her to. She is subjugated because she is sore to come again now….her entire assets pleads for it.