Sorry. Meant to have Playthings II up and posted by now.
But summer is a busy time for procurers and privateers alike, and when Tyler calls, you don’t say “give me a sec to finish this book…!’
Expect Playthings II by August (or another of these mea culpas).
But the least I can do is give you a preview to whet your … appetite?
Candice Loring’s alarm clock was, as usual, a hard-on surging into her.
In the past days (weeks, months, even years?), that was her only way to distinguish time. If there were no cocks in her mouth, tits, ass, cunt, hair, or hands, it was sleep-time. If there were, it was wakey-wakey, rapey-rapey.
She could feel the erection sliding into her, back and forth, back and forth. She could feel the warm wetness of her own vagina, inspired by the medications they had dripping into her arm, mouth, and loins every day. She could feel the squirts of lube pumped into her every now and then, either from bottles or fingers.
She wanted to just stretch or groan, but then she felt the rest of it as well: the steel bands tight around her wrists, ankles, upper arms, waist, throat, and even the base of her voluminous tits. She felt the steel straps making a tight “X” across her nipples, her amazing mammaries bulging out in between.
She felt her bent legs tingling, the bands at her wrists attached to the bands at her ankles. She felt the cruel high heels pumps pointing her feet and toes. She felt the vinyl thigh highs and opera gloves squeezing her limb flesh. She felt the step-stool she was bent back upon, her head lolling over one side, her sex exposed on the other.
But she could see none of it. The mouth-wrenching sieve gag and blindfold combination adhered to her face and golden tresses like glue. What cries they didn’t submerge, the just-tight-enough steel choker collar did.
She tried to moan and claw the air as a second cock slid into her wrenched-open mouth, but the previously implanted penis and latex mittens would not allow. She did not know who was duo-banging her. It could be her abductor, the Money Man, or it could be her laughingly-termed “care” takers, Mr. Black and Mr. Brown. It hardly mattered anymore. Not after all that had happened since she was kidnapped from her home town country road, seemingly eons ago.
As she was choked and impaled, she had a vision of herself just before her abduction: young, sweet, blonde, blue-eyed, tall, extraordinarily shapely – a girl everyone but her called the most beautiful in town, school, whatever. But no one called her stuck up. Why else would she turn down the Money Man’s increasingly lucrative offers to appear in his publications and even move into his California manor? She wasn’t after money or fame. She had just wanted a good, happy, life.
That was over, since, apparently, the aging Money Man could no longer take “no” for an answer.
“Deny me, huh?” he had cackled into her gagged face when the siblings he had hired to snatch her forced her into his dungeon. “You were my perfect girl, the girl of my dreams. You were the one I had waited for all my life. Don’t you know how many cunts I fucked? Countless. But you’re the only one I wanted, the only one I needed. Say no to me, huh? Well, you’ll never say no to me, or anyone, again!”
She couldn’t say anything since. When she wasn’t gagged or choked or mouth-fucked, she was being force-fed sustenance, sedatives, or medications. She couldn’t fight. When she wasn’t being screwed, she was being redressed, re-strapped, re-cuffed, re-taped, re-roped, or re-shackled.
When semen suddenly spurted down her gullet and up her cunt, Candice was snapped back to the hideous present. Before she could splutter or cough, she felt a plug being corked into the sieve gag’s opening, and then, to her wriggling dismay, being inflated to fill her oral cavity – effectively squishing the cum into her cheeks and throat.
At the same time she felt her wrists being unclipped from her ankles, but then immediately re-clipped to rings on her belt, leaving her mittened paws on either side of her navel. Although her legs were all but dead to her, hands wrenched her to her feet, and while one rapist held her up by her arms, the other attached a wickedly tight, high, crotch-strap, complete with what she had come to know as the “cummer” – a tiny, spiked, rectangular device that wedged high up her crack and cunningly saw to both her clit and g-spot with an insistent, continual, vibrating hum.
“Breakfast time,” she heard Mr. Brown mutter as he took her other arm. Then her fucking guards started to shepherd the blinded, muted, shackled, stimulated beauty through the dungeon tunnels. She could smell the chlorinated water of what she had heard called the “cock and cunt cavern,” and then the warm aromas of the kitchen.
When the blindfold was thrown off she could see that they were in a large pantry, standing in front of a tiny, wheeled, cart – the kind legless beggars used in old movies.
“Kneel,” said Mr. Black.
TO BE COMPLETED IN PLAYTHINGS II, COMING SOON(ISH)