J is for Jackpot

 The next round is for Nick to choose an implement, and he picks a riding crop, no surprise there, and a small butt plug. He instructs Mistress Kat to lube and insert the plug first; his calm and assertive voice transports me onto a different plane, though not spoken to me. Or is it the plug to blame? For Nick, pain is only a prelude to pleasure; a necessary, in my case, evil to unlock the jackpot. A riding crop and a butt plug seem to be the right tools of the trade on that glittery trail to chase the fairies and the unicorns.

Nick orders to free up my wrists, but the ankles stay locked in restraints. More to that, a spreader bar equipped with extra-wide cuffs forces my knees apart, and she pulls my butt forward, up in the air. Mistress Kat taps my kitty once, like she’s checking if she has easy access. And just from one light tap, I squirm and clench my butt around the plug.

An enthusiastic wolf whistle from Aldous confirms that not only my red-striped ass is on display, but the whole inner workings. A click of a light switch, and I feel a fresh wave of heat from the spotlight directed at my behind. It’s so hot, from the spotlight, from the new level of exposure I never experienced before. Even though my hands are not tied anymore, I do not dare to reach back and cover myself. It’s a lesson in humiliation and discipline.

“You will work her inner thighs first,” I hear Nick’s low voice. “Then alternate between her mound and the lips. Switch when she’s properly wet.”

Hearing him speak of me, like an unanimated object, or a frog dissected and spread open for a scientific experiment, or a marionette, set into motion by invisible strings, lights my core on fire. I make a futile attempt to close my knees, held by the spreader bar. But Mistress Kat already starts her resolute task. There’s no space for her to swing and reach my inner thighs. The tip of the riding crop can only move in between my open thighs, but even then, she makes every inch count. The exact movement and the precision are what the riding crops are famous for. It bites into my tender, rarely roughed up skin, but I welcome the sting of the crop and don’t notice how I stick my ass out further and further.

“Sir, do you want me to check her wetness?” Mistress Kat asks Nick.

“No need, you will see.” I hear him smirk. “But switch to a bigger plug,” Nick orders Mistress Kat.

She pulls out the one in place with a plop, accompanied by a joyful cheer from Aldous at the view of my already gaping butthole. She lubes the new one and points the cold metal at the entrance. I can pretend all I want, but my treacherous body, aching to fill the void, swallows it whole.

And the riding crop is back to its brief journey in between my thighs, like a clapper of a bell, going back and forth, back and forth. Till the sound of the slap changes, hitting a wet patch of skin, and she stops, awaiting the next order.

I get it; Nick wants me to come under the slaps of the riding crop. I crave to hear Nick’s voice, anything for his voice to guide me through. If I cannot feel his touch, I want his voice.

“Jackpot!” exclaims Nick, though we’re nowhere near the end.