My oldest friend in the scene, Maîtresse Zoe, arrives precisely at dusk: violet suede coat, boots buffed to piano-black. She carries her own harness rolled like a banner of intent and a sealed tube of medical-grade silicone lube. We exchange a cheek-kiss that crackles with static—two storms about to converge over one trembling shore.
Eva kneels between us, leather collar already fastened; hook-kissed muscles still tender, pupils flaring at the scent of two Dommes in one room. I outline the rules:
One voice command at a time—no cross-talk to confuse her.
Oral safeword remains “red,” spoken or tapped twice on a thigh.
No vaginal or anal penetration until her mouth has worshipped both harnesses.
She nods, shiver running the leash like a pulse.
We outfit ourselves in tandem. My harness: matte obsidian leather, a slender curve of midnight. Zoe chooses wine-red patent, base broad, shaft fluted—baroque and unapologetic. Both toys click into O-rings, gleaming under amber LEDs like polished onyx and garnet.
Eva’s gaze follows every buckle. Shame blooms; need answers—slickness beads inner thighs, scent of jasmine-salt thick in the still air.
“Tongue out,” I command first. She obeys, lips parted, breathing through nose. I guide my strap-on to her mouth; the tip meets tongue-tip—silicone to wet heat. She moans around it, cheeks hollowing.
Zoe steps behind, hand fisting brunette braid, stilling Eva’s head so she can lap and swirl—polishing black silicone with devotion until it shines like obsidian under tidewater.
“Now hers,” I tell her, withdrawing. Zoe swings to the front; Eva’s blush deepens crimson. Garnet shaft presses against her lips; she licks from base to head—slow, hesitant at first, then greedy, saliva glazing patent sheen.
My boot toe nudges thighs wider, sole scraping sensitive folds. Every lap drags her clit against cool leather; shame melts into molten pulse.
“She learned to whore herself for silicone faster than any toy I’ve owned,” I remark to Zoe, voice velvet-cruel. “Look how she drools for it.”
Eva’s whimper vibrates against red shaft; Zoe chuckles, thumb caressing tear-damp cheek. “Barely a week and already a leash-broken slut—so anxious her pussy leaks before a cock even enters.”
The words brand her; heat floods chest to sternum, fresh wetness spilling. She shudders, mouth still working, need sharpening to a fine scream trapped behind eyes.
I reach down, drag two fingers through her slick, hold them to her nose. “Smell that shame—sweet as fermented honey.”
She moans, muscles clenching.
We take her to the padded Ottoman in the center. I clip the leash to a floor ring, forcing her shoulders forward but hips high—perfect hinge: mouth angled upward, rear parted for whichever of us strikes first. Wrists are cuffed behind back, ankles spread by a short bar that leaves knees bent, soles planted for stability.
Mirror on the wall captures the tableau: two Dommes in twin harnesses framing one kneeling blossom whose every tremor paints desire on glass.
“Colour?” Zoe asks.
“Green,” Eva gasps—voice cracked silk but sure.
I take position in front; Zoe kneels behind. Black silicone head parts Eva’s lips again, sliding to soft palate. At the same moment, Zoe’s gloved fingers oil Eva’s entrance—hook-stretched yesterday, now welcoming—before the red shaft presses inward, one slow inch at a time.
Eva arches, a conduit of sensation—mouth stuffed, cunt filled, mind shattering. Sound becomes a gurgled groan; I feel vibration echo through my harness.
We set a rhythm: Zoe thrusts forward, I withdraw; I thrust, she retreats—see-saw pleasure driving breathless moans through stuffed throat. Harness buckles creak; LEDs flicker on sweat haze.
Each plunge pushes blush deeper; shame transforms—first sting, then warmth, now incandescent craving. Saliva rivers down chin; lube and slick coat red shaft; my cock shines with spit.
“Such a perfect hole,” I tease, fingers brushing tear-wet cheek. “We’ll break you open until you thank us for ruining you.”
Her entire body contracts, orgasm threatening. Zoe pinches hips, controlling pace.
Zoe quickens—shallow, rapid thrusts grinding swollen clit against harness base. I mirror, seating black silicon to hilt, tip kissing back of throat; Eva gags lightly—muscles spasming around both intrusions. She moans a plea lost in fullness.
I pull out momentarily, letting her gulp air. “Ask.”
“Please… let me come… stuffed like your slut… ”
“Beg better,” Zoe growls, thrusting twice more; wet sounds echo like applause off cinderblock.
“Please, mistresses—use your slut—fill every hole—let me drip for you.”
Permission rises in our shared glance. I nod; Zoe holds Eva’s hips, pummels deeper. I slide home, rhythm syncing heartbeats.
“Come for us—now.”
She detonates—body arched, throat vibrating around my cock, cunt clenching crimson shaft in pulsing waves. Cry strangled, eyes rolling, leash jerking taut. Wet eruption slicks Zoe’s thighs; a nectar splash dots mirror.
We ride her quake, milking aftershocks until she slumps, muscles jelly.
We ease out; red and black tips glisten with mixed saliva and arousal. I press mine to her lips again—“Clean.” She suckles weakly, tasting herself and silicone. Zoe offers hers; Eva licks, eyes shining reverent tears.
Mirror shows masterpiece: mascara streaks, bite-bruised hips, collar shining, inner thighs lacquered. Shame now carved into devotion.
The basement smells of cedar oil and freshly wiped leather when Eva kneels between the vertical stocks.
Polished birch halves close round her wrists and neck with a muffled thunk-clamp-click; a second yoke captures bare ankles, forcing knees wide and ass high. She cannot shift more than a hand-span. Head fixed, she watches the mat in front—an impromptu stage, flood-lit by twin amber LEDs.
“Colour?” I ask.
“Green,” she whispers—already trembling.
Zoe appears in wine-red silk chemise, hair unbound. I meet her half-way between LED pools; between us hums a promise meant to slice the air Eva breathes.
We start slowly—hands roving over silk and skin with theatrical patience. Zoe’s mouth finds mine, plush and hot; my fingers slip beneath her chemise to cup firm curves. Our hips sway, satin whispering like secrets too soft for stone walls.
Behind us Eva exhales a ragged “oh.” Metal stocks creak as she tests the curve of her prison. I do not turn. The denial is deliberate, wounding.
Zoe’s thigh slots between mine; her silk-damp mound presses the inseam of my leather shorts. A shiver climbs my spine, blooming electric where our nipples brush through fabric.
From the stockade: another hitch of breath, louder. Then the smell—Eva’s arousal—iron-salt rising to join cedar and leather. Delicious proof of her starvation.
We lower to the mat, side-lit by amber beams so every drop of sweat flashes molten. Chemise slithers up Zoe’s waist; I peel leather from my hips. We fit together in the oldest geometry: thigh to slick core, core to slick thigh. Flesh meets flesh with a wet, obscene hush.
Rhythm builds: slow grind, pelvis rolling, clits kissing in slippery circles. Zoe’s nails score my shoulder blades; I catch her lip in my teeth till she moans my name. Heat roars up my belly—waves lapping, retreating, building again.
Behind us, the stockade rattles. Eva’s breathing is a thunder tremolo—she cannot look away. Droplets fall from her sex to the mat between parted knees, each splat a punctuation of misery.
I seize Zoe’s hair, arch her throat; she laughs, bucking harder. Our slick gush coats inner thighs; each impact echoes off concrete in wet applause.
Eva sobs once—high, desperate. We ignore it.
We quicken: grind-grind-grind, breath synched, clits swollen, friction a velvet flame. I feel Zoe tremble on the lip of climax; my own pulse drums between slick folds.
“Come with me,” I hiss.
She bites my shoulder, hips stutter—orgasm rips through us like silk tearing. I choke a cry into her neck; she gasps a mantra in French. Fluid splashes, thighs quake, aftershocks flutter.
Silence returns but for Eva’s frantic panting. The smell of her need is thick as incense.
Only now do we turn. The sight arrests my pulse: cheeks tear-streaked, eyes glassy, chin slick with drool. Every tremor of her trapped body rings the cuffs.
“Colour?” Zoe asks.
“Green,” Eva croaks, though it sounds like a plea for air.
We rise, don boots—mine high gloss, hers red patent to match the harness from last scene. Without a word, I unbar the neck stock and ankle board, but leave wrists imprisoned. Eva collapses forward, body buzzing between freedom and restraint.
“Crawl,” I command. “Earn contact.”
She drags wrists and wood, inching like a shackled supplicant across the mat. Every shuffle smears new wetness on rubber. Shame is a furnace; lust its blinding flame.
She reaches us, head bowed between boots. The scent of leather and sex coils round her head like incense smoke.
I set sole beneath her mouth. “Prove what a needy bitch you are.”
Tongue meets boot-tip—eager, trembling. She licks polish and our mingled wet from glossy leather. Zoe presents her patent toe; Eva kisses, breath fogging scarlet sheen.
“Filthy,” Zoe murmurs. “Tell us why you deserve nothing but boots.”
“Because I’m… your hungry slut… I watch and drip… I’m nothing without your permission.” Each phrase quivers, half sob, half prayer.
Her thighs rub unconsciously; clit begs contact that stocks won’t allow. A single droplet lands on my boot, hissing where heat meets cool surface. Perfect.
I unshackle her wrists. “Hands behind your back,” I order. She obeys; Zoe knots a silk ribbon round her forearms—pretty and useless.
I press my boot sole to her sex once—slick squelch. She cries out, hips lurching. Denial tonight has carved her into brittle glass; one touch could shatter her.
Zoe tilts her chin. “Ask properly.”
“Please, Mistress… please let me come—my cunt is on fire—need your boots—need anything.”
“Not boots,” I decide. I squat, thumb circling her clit while Zoe slips two fingers inside. Eva’s head snaps back, whimper a wordless hymn. We operate in tandem: thumb swirl, finger thrust, heel grinding her perineum.
“Count to five,” I whisper. “Come on ‘five’ or lose your chance.”
“One—” breath stutters.
“Two—” muscles seize.
“Three—” tears spill.
“Four—” soundless scream.
“Five.”
Release detonates. She convulses, slick gushing over my boot, soaking laces, splattering mat. Voice shreds into grateful sobs; legs threaten collapse but we hold her, easing through tremors.
We sit, cradle her between us, strip boots again—no more symbols, just skin. Cool cloth wipes her cheeks; warm bottle offers electrolytes. She drinks, salt tears mixing with citrus on her lips.
“Colour?”
“Spring green,” she whispers, glowing wreckage.
We spell it out once more, standing over Eva as she kneels cuffed, wrists locked palm-to-palm behind her back:
“Spit, slaps, name-calling—requested, not surprise.”
“Yellow and we ease. Red and we un-cuff, no questions.”
“No choking tonight, only face-play.”
Eva nods, eyes already shining with nerves and delight.
“Colour?” I ask.
“Green—slimy, filthy green,” she pants. Perfect.
Zoe steps in first, tilting Eva’s chin. A soft cla-p! lands—fingers across one cheek, enough sting to bloom. Eva gasps, knees wobbling. I follow with the matching slap on the other side. Her head whips, hair flying, tears stinging instantly.
“Say what you are,” Zoe purrs.
“I’m your worthless toy,” Eva breathes.
“Louder, pig.”
“I’m your worthless pig!”
I allow myself a tight smile and spit—slow string that lands across her tongue. She moans, rocking forward to swallow greedily. Saliva shines on her lips; she thrusts her face up for more.
Zoe lands a wetter glob that drips from nose to collar. The sight tightens my chest with wicked heat.
We shift to a low padded bench; Eva crawls, wrists still trussed, cheeks burning scarlet. Zoe perches on the edge, spreading knees. I guide Eva between them, hand coiled in hair.
“Open that filthy mouth and prove what little holes are for.”
Zoe parts her cheeks, exposing dusky rose. Eva’s tongue flutters—hesitant only a breath—then presses flat, licking from rim to entrance. Zoe sighs, muscles flexing.
I slap Eva’s face lightly each time she slows—slap-kiss, slap-kiss—while spitting small wet insults that drip on her scalp.
“You clean asshole like a good kennel bitch,” I taunt.
She whimpers, licking harder, nose buried, breath coming in greedy snorts. The musk of sex and spit perfumes the concrete hush.
When Zoe shivers on the verge of climax, she grabs my wrist: “Stop.” Consent, control— we hold the line. Eva freezes, lips poised, desperate.
Now it’s my turn. I straddle the bench so Eva’s tongue laps my cleft. Zoe stands behind, spitting over my shoulder; saliva trails down my spine to Eva’s cheeks.
“Little pig’s supper,” Zoe laughs, giving Eva three crisp slaps. She squeals—literal, high-pitched—and the sound arrows straight to my core. I grind teasingly; every squeal vibrates on my flesh.
But still we deny her. Each time her hips grind air, Zoe taps her clit with riding-crop tip—just a sting, no reward.
We roll her to her back, bend bound arms underneath so wrists press tailbone. Ankles spread wide, a short bar locking calves apart. Clit swollen, cunt dripping glistening threads. Yet she hasn’t been touched properly all night.
Zoe kneels between her legs and begins the lightest fingertip flutters over hood—more torment than caress. I slap cheeks again, spit across nipple, pinch.
“Beg,” I growl.
“Tear me open, let me come—please please—need to explode—I’m your dirty pig—use me!”
Zoe replaces fingers with the blunt heel of her hand, grinding firm and fast. Release gathers in her abdomen—hips buck, breath shatters.
Just as climax surges, I snap a command: “Stop.”
Palm freezes. Eva’s orgasm rips anyway, half-formed—muscles seize then dissolve, gush spurts but pleasure cuts mid-swell. She screams—mix of bliss and devastation—ruined, denied.
Shivers rack her frame; every nerve screams unfinished.
We don’t leave her to the edge of pain; we tiptoe just inside: gentle strokes along inner thigh, feather brushes on abused cheeks, tiny kisses where slaps bloom pink. Each soft contact twists denied nerve endings, teasing echoes of release that never crest.
Her body shakes, tears spill, but the safeword never comes. She’s drowning sweetly in velvet dirt.
“Colour?” Zoe whispers in her ear.
“G-g-green… starving green,” she sobs.
I unbar her ankles but keep wrists bound. “Crawl.” She drags wrecked legs to our feet, lips messy with spit and slick. Boots gleam.
“Clean everything,” I say. She licks leather lovingly, pausing only to pant gratitude. Each stroke paints sole with tears-and-saliva polish.
Zoe spits one last blessing onto tongue; Eva swallows, eyes half-closed, shame alchemised into gold lust.
Stocks open. Silk blanket wraps ruined body. Zoe holds electrolyte straw to her lips; I rub arnica salve into flaming cheeks.
“I never felt so low… or so high,” she murmurs, voice torn to threads.
“That’s the edge,” I answer, stroking damp hair. “We take you there, then carry you home.”
Colour check.
“Green,” she smiles—spent, glowing.
Three heartbeats slow in tandem—Domme, Domme, toy—until the basement hush cradles us all, spit drying into silent jewels across leather and skin.
