Page 50 of Off the Rails

I could hear her smirk behind the mask as she set a timer on the table. “Just a few minutes, Sweet Lamb. Then you’ll be mine forever.”

I should have been disgusted, but the shock overrode all other emotions. “That’s so⁠—”

“Sick? Twisted?” she laughed, her grip tightening on my shoulders.

“Perverse,” I breathed, struggling to adjust to the cool sensation against my hot cunt. “What are you even going to do with that?”

It wasn’t like she had the hardware needed to penetrate it. Was this thing even going to be penetrable?

“So many questions,” she cooed, lifting one of her hands to caress my face, letting her thumb tug at my bottom lip. “I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want with it. Just like I’m going to do with you. And you don’t need to worry your pretty little brain about how. Now why don’t we make good use of that mouth since you’re already on your knees?”

The next thing I knew, her belt buckle was clinking open, a pack and play dildo springing forth from her baggy black cargo pants. Brushing the hair from my face, Nash nestled her fingers in a loose grip at the base of my neck, tilting my head up to meet her.

My eyes jumped between the eager cock and Nash’s face, the way she bit her lip. There was a question in her eyes — is this what you want, Sweet Lamb?

I could pretend that it wasn’t. One moment of hesitation, and I was certain she would back off. But the truth was that I had been dying to see her cock — thinking about it ever since I’d first seen her in the kitchen.

And now that it was right in front of me, I was dying for a taste.

Leaning back into her caress, I let Nash tilt my head back, opening my throat and lips for her to use.

The rumble that spilled from her lips dripped of hunger. “Very good girl.”

And though Nash’s words were gentle, her movements were anything but. Tightening her hand in my hair, she pulled me forward, slipping her strap past my lips and straight into the back of my throat.

The fullness in my throat was sudden and unexpected — still sensitive from the teacup fiasco, I felt my gag reflex kicking into gear. But she held me tight in place, forcing my throat to accommodate her girth as she thrust back and forth over my tongue. “That’s it, baby. Sing for me.”

A cacophony of involuntary spluttering rose from my throat. My hands shot forward, nails digging into the thick canvas of her pants uselessly as the base of her strap pressed to my lips. My pulse thundered as I struggled to breathe, every sensation heightened by the lack of air.

And just when I started to worry that I might truly choke, the timer screamed out from the tabletop. With a growl, Nash pulled her length from my mouth, spilling a mess of drool down my chin.

“Fuck, Tess. You take it so well…”

I raised my hand to wipe the spit from my chin, but she grabbed my wrist, tilting my chin up to face her again. “You look so fucking pretty.”

Suddenly, her lips were pressing down against mine, stealing the air from my lungs. The kiss was slick and sloppy, the spit on my lips mixing with hers as her tongue stroked greedily into my mouth. I couldn’t stop imagining how her mouth would feel on my needy cunt.

She might have eaten my very soul like that. And I was so lost in the ecstasy that I’d probably let her.

But with each passing second, the sun rose higher, painting the room in burning gold.

“Fuck,” Nash growled, kissing my lips once more and then my forehead before pulling away. “Fucking Christ. I’ve gotta stop. We need to get you cleaned up.”

Next thing I knew, her hands were sliding down my triceps, bracing my elbows. As she started guiding me to my feet, I glanced down between my legs. “Don’t we need to⁠—”

But the cast released easily, held down by its own weight. My lips slid free easily, helped along by the excitement Nash had produced so easily.

As I stood, the cool air of the studio tickled my sensitive nerves. A shiver ran up my spine as I leaned into Nash’s grip. Looking down, I was met with a reminder of Nash’s sick and twisted plans: an inverse impression of my most sensitive bits, captured perfectly in silicone.

Before I could ask if she was proud, Nash had slipped her hands beneath my thighs, lifting me up onto the work table. “Still think my art’s derivative?”

“More like deranged,” I muttered, leaning back on my elbows. I could barely hold myself up, the exhaustion of the teacups and the throat fucking finally wearing on me. But she pulsed energy like a lightning rod freshly struck.

Scooping the cast from the floor, she set it on the table beside me. Grabbing some sort of powder from a nearby shelf, she measured it carefully into a bucket. Then she mixed it with water before pouring it into the silicone.

I wanted to know what her plan was, but I was too exhausted to ask. Instead, I watched her work fervently. She moved like a mad scientist. And I wasn’t sure whether to feel honored or terrified to be her muse.

A part of me was nervous that she had more planned — who knew what she could do with all the paint and plaster on those shelves? — but thankfully, the early morning sun was cut through by a flash of green.