“Up,” Sandy mounting with comforting obeisance.
“Lie on your back,” the sighs of delight apparent as her stuffed quim senses the tremors of the weighty inserted ball.
Well, I need to work a bit. But I cannot have Sandy sense any degree of freedom. That would not do. So my leash hand draws the length of leather down to the cunny ring, loops it through, tightens then knots.
Two extremely sensitive areas, nose and p***y, stressing one another. That should keep her psyche in a place of subordination.
From my pocket I retrieve the fruit of the milling machine, this evening’s output. Black wrought iron, a strip of metal has been shaped, bent numerous times, crumpled, to appear like a miniature stairway. In the steps are five holes of different sizes. When I move to the lower end of the slab
