Reverence

She looks like Anya. Not exactly... no one could.

She's short but lean, eyes a little too widely spaced. Long blonde hair. No tits. Tiny ass. Fit. Glasses just a bit big for her face.

The harness around her waist says it all. eight inches of tan latex, shiny in the motel light. The head a bright pink. I look between my legs, knees by my ears. I see the dildo, but I also see my own cock, small and untouched in a steel cage.

Locked.

I look into her eyes. She wants this.

Maybe more than I do.

She leans over me like it's nothing. Like she's done this a hundred times. Her long blonde hair falls forward, a silk curtain that brushes my face as she shifts, lining up. I can smell her--clean, expensive, just a hint of shampoo and something deeper, like resolve. That harness creaks softly, leather pulling tight across her hips. The dildo hangs there, heavy, ready. Impossibly bright pink at the tip, like it knows what it's about to do.

Her hands are firm on my thighs. She adjusts me without a word, as if I'm just another girl she's about to ruin. My knees go back further, my own cage catching the light--cold, stainless, obscene in contrast to how warm I feel. My cock doesn't even twitch. It can't. That's the point.

She looks down at me, and there's a glint in her eye--half pity, half hunger. That wide-set stare, otherworldly, like she's seeing past me. Into me. Past the whimpering little thing I pretend not to be.

"You ready?" she murmurs, like she already knows the answer.

Am I? I honestly don't know. But I nod, desperate and terrified and aching in ways my own body can't even resolve.

Her smile is slow. Predatory.

"Good girl."

She doesn't ease in. She presses.

One long, relentless stroke, and I feel it--burning, blooming, splitting me wide around her synthetic cock, that hot-pink head a violent promise. My back arches, involuntarily. My breath breaks against my teeth. It's too much, too fast, too perfect.

"Oh--fuck--" I gasp, but she just hushes me with a tilt of her head, lips parted in a soft, cruel smile.

"You'll take it," she says, almost gently. Like she's offering me a gift, not stretching me to my goddamn limit.

She moves slow, but decisive, hips grinding as she bottoms out. The harness presses to me, soft skin behind it, hard muscle in motion. Her blonde hair is falling around her shoulders, catching the light in wild strands as she starts to move--smooth, hypnotic, practiced. She fucks like she means it. Like every thrust is a correction.

I whimper--actually whimper--because I can feel the cage against my belly, cold and unyielding while the rest of me melts under her. I'm swollen in there, leaking in helpless pulses, the metal unforgiving, unrelenting. I'll never get hard for her, and she loves that.

Her hand finds my throat. Not tight. Just there. A presence. A promise.

"Look at me," she says, and I do.

I have to.

And in that moment--pinned, opened, fucked--I belong to her.

Not metaphorically. Not romantically. Mechanically. Viscerally. I'm her project, her plaything, her wet little doll, wrapped around eight inches of her will.

She fucks me deeper.

And I think--I might never want this to end.

Her hips are faster now. Rolling like fuckin' thunder.

I whisper her name like a sin, my confession, and the prayer for forgiveness all at once.

"Anna... Please..."

She grins.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Predator.

"Please what?" she says, like she didn't hear me moan her name like it was carved on the altar of my surrender. Her hips are crashing into me now, brutal and fluid, like a storm front just rolled through my body and made a home. The latex cock drills into me, no mercy, no let-up. That bright pink head finds something inside me that lights me up like holy fire. My legs shake. My chest rises like I might cry.

"Please what, baby?" she asks again, taunting, voice low and cruel and fucking divine.

"Please don't stop," I manage, barely audible over the sound of my own slick, wrecked body being used. "Please don't--don't stop, Anna--fuck--please--"

She laughs, this breathy, delighted sound, and slams in even harder, tilting her hips at the end of each thrust so I see stars. Actual stars. Like I'm ascending. Like I left the bed already and she's just fucking the ghost of who I used to be.

There's a drop of sweat. Just one. I watch as it drips from her jaw and travels from her collarbone down over her tiny right breast, down her abdomen, down to shadow and need. I ache. It has touched more of her than I have. More than I ever will.

Her hand slides from my throat to my chest, palm flat, holding me down like gravity. Like she owns gravity.

"That's what I thought," she purrs. "My good little hole. All caged up and desperate, begging for my cock."

I whimper--a high, keening noise, humiliating in its rawness--but she drinks it in like wine.

She's fucking me like she's writing scripture. Like I'm the page, and her hips are the pen, and the Word is submission.

And I don't know how much longer I can hold on.

She sees it.

She feels it--my body locking up beneath her, the flutter in my belly, the helpless spasms in the cage as I leak for her, humiliated and gasping. She knows she did it. That I came without touching my cock. That I came because she willed it. Because her strap-on split me open and claimed something that used to be mine.

Her hips slow, just a little. A few last rolling thrusts to push me through it, to make sure I feel every shudder, every pulse in the metal that holds me hostage. My cum spills out in quiet, shameful rivulets beneath us--unseen, irrelevant. Owned.

And Anna--god, Anna--looks down at me like a warrior freshly returned from the gates of heaven.

Not flushed. Not panting. Serene. Victorious.

Her blonde hair clings to her jaw, damp with sweat and divine fury. Her lips are parted in something like awe. Her wide-set eyes flash with something ancient--something hungry.

She leans in again, and the harness squeaks between us. Her cock still buried deep. My body still trembling.

"I felt that," she whispers, forehead resting against mine. Her voice is like cool water poured over fire. "You came for me, didn't you?"

I nod.

I can't speak. My mouth won't work. All I can do is nod.

Her lips graze mine. Not a kiss--something worse. Something gentler.

"You're mine now," she murmurs.

And I nod again.

Because I was. I am.

And I always fucking will be.