When Elise Met Greyhound

I laid eyes on Greyhound and knew right then she meant every word of that 24/7 slave vow. Never met anyone so hungry to be property. We don’t share that hunger, but the urge to lock skin and steel together? That matched. Mark from Serious Bondage had driven me out with a car full of toys, so I put them straight to use. I tugged a wicked-tight rubber hood down over her head—two thin nose holes, nothing else—and shoved her hands into matching mitts. Then I pinched each fat nipple between thumb and forefinger and walked her, tits first, to the platform. That long, carved body looked made to be shown off. I snapped a rigid metal fiddle around her wrists and throat, chained the whole rig overhead, watched her settle into it. Still not enough. Two padlocks dropped her into a low squat, thighs burning, knees spread. With her stuck like that I went to work: flogger kissing across her pussy, fingers sliding between slick lips, teasing the tight ring of her ass. Every strike made her shake; every touch made her drip. I left her there, panting inside black rubber, and already counting the days until the next drive.