Added: Jeena Roane - Date: 10.10.2021 03:24 - Views: 21667 - Clicks: 6724
Am I the richest woman in the city? Yes, I think that I am. I have one of those humdrum cocktail parties with a gang of nouveau riche tonight. I fix my hair into a dark pile of curls, spray it with something expensive, and then step back to assess. Perfection is a pile of dark hair and a crisp swish of red lipstick. My boudoir is dim and warm, perfect for the furniture. Rhett and Mike never complain about the temperature, of course. They are there to please me. Their backs forniphilia definition straight and strong, their flesh is hot to the touch just the way that I like it.
Ankles are tied to ankles, wrists to wrists. Rhett is my chair, and Mike is my table. I pour myself a crystal goblet of champagne, full to the brim with pink bubbly stuff. Not a single drop of the pink liquid is spilled. This is the only thing he is good at. He is a waste of muscle and flesh otherwise. He should be grateful that I discovered his purpose, his only skill.
Calms the mind and prevents a temper. I give Rhett, my chair, a hard kick in the stomach. Rhett is blindfolded, and moves carefully into the trained position so as not to disturb anything expensive. He lays straight down on forniphilia definition thick white carpet, his legs and arms bound and flattened.
With his nose pointed up towards the chandelier, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. A lovely, if low, chair. My black lace lingerie is deed with a hole for my cunt, so that I am both dressed and undressed at the same time.
Just like any other piece of well-made hardware, it does not move. It is up to me to move across his tongue and please myself on his face. I sit down hard enough for it to hurt, but not to break anything. The tongue is warm and feels good against my pussy. I prefer to do this sort of thing myself. Cream covers his cheeks and shellacs the dark hair of his beard. I make sure nothing on his face is untouched, rubbing him all over until I feel vibrations of pleasure move through my cunt.
I love to see a man as an object, love to see them tied and incapable. When I leave my apartment, men will tell me about their passion for long distance running, the stock market, and leather shoes.
They will ask how much money I have in the bank and what kind of sal I like to eat, then try to touch me with their sweaty hands. But here, men do nothing. Men are nothing except good places to sit.
My orgasm is powerful and brutal. I rise off his face and he closes his mouth, but remains still. I need a seat.
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