Barbara Palvin blinked in confused irritation as her phone buzzed unexpectedly. Owner? Who the heck was Own…
You are a fucktoy and your hair is your handles.
Owner. Her Owner, Barbara remembered as her large blue eyes glazed over. An empty fucktoy like her couldn’t belong to herself, after all.
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
Her hands seemingly moved with a life of their own. An expensive designer dress fell carelessly to the floor, followed by a pink bra and a swiftly dampening pair of matching panties. Fucktoys didn’t wear clothing.
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
Barbara stared into space as her hands wove her hair into pigtails. It was messy, but that didn’t matter. They were merely there to provide a grip.
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
Through the glassy clarity of her trance, Barbara knew what would soon happen. Her door would open, and someone would stroll in to use her. It was usually her Owner, but not always. He had friends he lent her to. The Englishman Paul, or the woman in the pearl necklace again? Barbara was a toy, after all – she was meant to be used.
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
They would grab her handles and pull her to her knees. They would guide their cock into her unresisting throat, or her warm tongue into their cunt. Perhaps then they would tug her onto her back, or on all fours, or over the nearest piece of furniture.
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
Whatever they wanted, Barbara would comply. Fucktoys were supposed to comply, and Barbara was nearly perfect as a fucktoy. Except…
I am a fucktoy and my hair is my handles.
Except that toys weren’t supposed to enjoy being played with. Toys weren’t supposed to feel anything, but her Owner was kind. Barbara always felt such excitement and bliss at being used. More than anything she’d ever felt.
I am a fucktoy. And I love it.
The shout-outs are to @deeperinmypower and @pearlqueensposts, if you were wondering.