Kinky Dept

Creator of Bondage Comics

Bound and pierced Slave girl in Ballerina Costume, fetish drawing, hentai, hot corset, wasp waist, bodymod, woman with no arms, amputee, arm prosthesis, fake arms, chained girl, harem, bondage princess
Slave Nina: Fetish Ballerina by KinkDept (2019)
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Welcome to Planet XX

I saw white bandages just below my elbows, as my eyes began to tear from the bright sunlight. It looked like a hospital room. Did I have surgery? I must have. Blood rushed back into my brain. I finally must have had the courage to take the next step in my slave career— "Awake yet?" a dark-haired woman asked. "I didn't want to miss it when you wake up." I hadn't noticed Mistress, sitting beside me, nor her personal slave kneeling at her feet. Her deep-blue eyes penetrated me; she always had an aura of dominance around here. Intimidated, I quickly lowered my eyes. "Let me remove your bandages," she said. "You've slept for two days, so the nanites should have finished your healing process. Let's get you accustomed to your new situation." Once she had removed them from my arms, I still felt hazy. Perplexed, I tried to touch my arms, but there was no sensation, only a round end below my elbows. "How does it feel without arms?" she asked, when she touched them. I thought I just moved my fingers but I couldn't see them anymore. It was weird. A moan of surprise escaped me, or at least I thought it did, but no sound came over my lips. Instinctively I reached to my face, but when my stumps touched the rigid metal on my face it felt surreal. My useless arms gave me only a dull impression of the steel contraption locked around my head. "The 'skull-harness' fits you very nicely," she said. "Ah yes, at first it's can be a bit uncomfortable around the mouth."
(Image placeholder—skull-harness up-close—available in PDF version)
So that was attached as well, I thought. My arms fumbled awkwardly around my face, trying to give me an accurate sense of my new circumstance. I knew my amputated helplessness was only for the duration of my slave contract, but the comprehension settling in just became a little too real for me. I began to further explore my grotesque predicament. With the dull end of my arms I tried to touch my mouth. It was rigidly spread wide open, and resisted all of my attempts at closing it again. Yet, nothing was inside it. Nothing that should prevent my overstretched jaw from closing again; still somehow, my skull-harness held my chin firmly in place and my mouth remained wide open. I tasted the emptiness of air on my tongue, as my reflex to moisten it was hindered. It felt completely immobilized and somehow fastened to my chin. My clumsy arms found no way of freeing it from its stretched misery. I only found more piercings penetrating my disabled tongue. It felt so useless now. Mistress's interest in my helpless state was evident, like a cat who had found a new toy, she stood over me. "I'll keep the key to your tongue close," she said, while touching her necklace, and I saw my golden key shimmering around her neck. My tongue couldn't explore the inside of my mouth anymore. I inadvertently sucked on the blunt ends of my arm, as I felt an emptiness, a void, and I realized my teeth were gone—as I had suspected. Only the soft wet sensation of my gums remained, reduced to a wet hole for Mistress's pleasure. "Since I can't have you drool all over the place, I have ordered an additional small procedure: they reduced your saliva secretion and transplanted a few glands from your vaginal wall into your soft mouth. From now on, whenever you get horny down there, you mouth will moisten too." It did sound reasonable—I hated drool on my chest. I didn't mind the small modifi— "Ah yes...there, can you taste it?" Mistress said with a jovial tone. Surprisingly, I had to admit—I did. But tasting my own horniness just made me hornier! The skull-harness reduced me to a silent pleasure hole. Hopefully I could show Mistress my gratitude soon. The steel harness on my head grabbed my whole skull like it was molded to it. No movement was possible between metal and skin. Even weirder was the sensation of my naked scalp. I was bald—my blond hair was gone. I must look awful! The nakedness created an even deeper sensation of my slave position. My whole body appeared perfectly smooth and hairless, even the blonde fuzz over my tummy and arms was gone. I knew I had to endure my embarrassing smoothness for a long time. My dehumanized body wasn't mine to rule anymore; it was now under Mistress's command. I tried to tell Mistress of my new-and-amazing sensations, but I couldn't manage to get a single sound out of my lips. "The injection in your vocal chords," Mistress said, as she saw my struggles, "will heighten your sense of helplessness and your complete devotion to me." It worked beyond my imagination, nor could I complain. My open mouth remained silent. An exhilarating helplessness washed over me, followed by a hopeless desperation creeping up in my belly. I didn't know what to think of it just yet. Yes, I craved complete ownership of my whole being, and I agreed voluntarily to my enslavement, but now that I'm actually stuck in this situation—I'm not a 100%-so-sure anymore. It will be an enduring trial for my submissive soul, serving Her in this helpless form for the next two years. I guess I just stared absent-mindedly in the air, when Mistress removed my hospital blanket, revealing the rest of my altered body. Our eyes met, and her glaring blue eyes stared into my submissive soul. "Doesn't it look exhilarating?" she said. I marveled at my surgically reduced waist; its girth felt alarmingly delicate, as my useless arms tried to encompass my tiny waist. My groin was as bald as the rest; my outer lips pressed together like a little clam, when I noticed I couldn't quite reach it anymore. No more fingering, I thought to myself. But the soft touch of Mistress's hand made me aware of multiple shiny rings perforating my outer lips. When I shifted my legs in surprise, I noticed the weight of the golden piercings. Mistress held a hand mirror between my legs, when I spotted my new clit piercing. Gold, with a shiny red gem, it was absolutely beautiful. I tried to thank her with a faint smile, but even that, my skull-harness would not allow. Resigned, I tried to make due with a watery sparkle of affection in my eyes. Through blurry eyes, I stared at my well-toned legs, shiny and smooth, same as the rest of me. But I noticed I couldn't wiggle my toes anymore. They were gone—removed. From the middle of my foot downward, there was only an empty tingle. My foot's remaining shape was tapered down, forming a soft tip. I brushed my foot over the other, trying to get a sense of my new predicament—it felt utterly alien when the tip touched my leg. Before I agreed to the surgery, I was really worried about having to relearn all of my motions, my sense of balance, my graceful flow. Instantly I wanted to spin through the room again like a ballerina on a summer breeze. A few days ago, when I pressed my thumb on the scanner—sealing my slave contract—I was certain I'd evolve my dance career to the next level. But looking at the state of my feet now, I knew, I had a long, long road ahead of myself. Quickly, I banished my thoughts back to where they came from. No risk, no reward; no pain, no gain; whatever you like to call it, you've to take a risk, because nothing worthwhile ever comes easy. On the plus side, no more nail problems from my pointe workouts, I smirked at myself, as I found my old spirit and determination again. When I tried to touch one foot to the other it only granted me a reduced sensation, like wearing stiff boots. I guess that's how it always felt, it's just that the absence of my toes made me suddenly much more aware of the sensitive they once had. It would be really challenging to walk from now on. The thought sent a shiver down my naked body. More awkwardly, when I tried to flex my feet, they felt stiff, like stilts, completely overstretched and held down in a pointe position. I could barely bend them anymore. Even my ankles had a reduced range of motion. Hopefully they won't restrict my dancing. The tip of my foot was reinforced; that's where I was supposed to tip-toe around from now on. The smaller bones of my foot felt stiff, like anchored together, forming a pointe shoe in itself. I began to remember more details about it. I was expected to only walk en pointe from now on. Not really a choice anymore, was it? To learn the art of ultra ballet, only the heel and the midfoot is required. An exotic dance form that entertains on its elongated tips, demanding enormous training and a heightened sense of balance from its danseuses (ballet dancer). A position, in my Mistress's household, I was very enthusiastic to occupy, experienced as I already was as a seasoned ballerina. "Very good!" Mistress said, when she examined my reduced feet. "Your scars look healthy. Today you still have to use the wheelchair, but tomorrow we can start with the first steps of your radically new training." I bowed in obedient silence, eyes at her feet. "You will gradually receive your new improvements, so you can slowly adapt to your new circumstances, my pretty doll." I knew I would soon be faced with the rest of my dance gear. That part was inevitable. With the sophisticated slave collar around my neck I was helpless to get away from it now. "The orthopedic specialist should be here soon," Mistress said. "She'll cast molds of your limbs and you'll be able to wear your new prosthesis and boots in no time. "It shouldn't take more than an hour. I've sent for your servant girl and she'll bring you home afterwards. She's an experienced assistant and will take good care of you. I'll see you back at the mansion, my pretty slave." In my new helpless form, all I could do was keep my head bowed respectfully. The silence, imposed upon me, made it hard to show my well-bred devotion to my honored Mistress, as she strolled out of the room, closely pursued by her personal servant. Obedience, something that is dictated by law in the Empire. While I waited impatiently for the nurse, I continued to explore the harsh changes, while my mind began to wander, like a wooden ballerina, who's music box had been opened.

Born into captivity, I had the luxury of growing up with a kind mistress, and a good slave education. Which is rare in the Empire. Important things like the duties of a house servant, manners, posture, and proper behavior. Formalities like etiquette and decorum, and many more maid duties followed. Mistress, in her wise foresight, was adamant in supporting my love for the arts, and that's what gave me todays graceful and slender shape. She treated me more like her daughter, so I was fortunate enough to receive professional instructions in dance discipline, style, foundation, and rhythm. From the exotic arts—to seduce and arouse—to professional ballet. My pointe work became excellent. When I grew into a woman, she set me free; and I learned and yearned. As a free woman I found out that jobs were not made for my kind. I desired servitude and submission, a clear purpose in this world, the absence of choices; I wanted to be owned again and cared for. I didn't understand the other slave girls; what's not to like in this position? As a freedwoman I quickly sent myself back into servitude. Here on the planet you can offer yourself up as a contract slave: a voluntary slave who can set up her own limitations—and is well paid for it. But for years, I did not find satisfaction in any of my slave positions. Until one of these days, you know, you wake up in the morning and you suddenly have this unexpected clarity. You know what you have to do next, to fulfill your innermost desires. I always was a bit shy—and too cautious, and my doubts kept me a slave to my own fears. I had to swim towards deeper water.

Once again, I offered myself up for sale. But this time I was ready to get serious. This time I'd offer much more of myself; I craved total ownership. I went back into one of the major city hubs. Rich, clean, but stuffy, its white cityscape dazzled, and its tall towers dominated the common people below. Always pulsating with autonomous traffic, busy servants bustling past you, and birds chirping at the many green parks and plazas. My destination was the Department of Slavery, right next to the herculean Slave market: a prominent landmark, visible from all over the gleaming city. At that point in time, you better have your affairs in order, before you proceed. The hazy waiting room inside the Contract Department was busy with plenty of willing girls—slave meat, waiting to be called up, until they're fitted with their chains, eager to serve. I could smell the euphoria and anxiety in the room, as I sat down. The temptation of a quick buck and the hope of rising through the ranks of society was just too irresistible for some freedwomen. Attainable, yes, but only with the right character and wits about you. Some girls might indeed make it to a wealthy Mistress, with her own servant girls bustling at her heels. The next counter called me to the reinforced glass window. "Name and ID please," the clerk asked politely. "Slave Nina," I answered politely back, "of House Velia, ID SLAVE-00B221965104." She kindly helped me update all of my details, preferences, limits, and the prefered duration of my next slave contract. They're all very nice here in the Contract Department; they only have to work with volunteer slaves. She offered me a few promising and tempting employments, but one in particular stood out from the rest, a unique offer. Once I saw it, I knew. Maybe twice a year something like that would come up. The Honorable Mistress Octavia was searching for an experienced dancer. Minimum qualifications: at least 5 years in classical ballet, exceptional balance, graceful and slender figure, a devoted and unquestionable obedience, and at least 4 years of previous ownership in servitude. No field slaves!
notice: ***mandatory body modifications***
That's it, my qualifications met! She wanted to evolve her dancers, and train and mold them to the next level and into a radically new ultra ballerina. I always marveled at them; they were on a completely different skill level! I would have never dreamed that my qualifications would be sufficient to step on this exotic path—and it was prestigious as well! Surgery is not a big deal anymore here on the planet. Scar tissue can be grown rapidly with the help of nanites, and lost limbs can be cloned and reattached. The only catch: it's expensive, too expensive for slaves to afford it by themselves—once they were free. Mistresses usually offer to pay the reconstructive surgery once the contract has been completed. I marveled at the details of this Goddess, her huge estate, her slaves, and her unique offer. Still, leaving the reattachment of my hands or feet as collateral—the thought of being so utterly helpless and at the mercy of my captor—but try to tell that to my moistening slave pussy.
She was a ballet mistress and a collector of talent. Let's see what she's asking: o Agreement to limb removal, all regrowable... That was a tough nut, but I knew those ultra ballerinas had reduced feet under their shoes. o Removal of all body hair, including the scalp... I never was a bald slave—I love my blonde hair—and the thought was conflicting. o Waist-reduction and training... Already done that, and I'm super slim, so it should be bearable... o Numerous piercings on face, tongue, and labia... That's endurable. o Nipple stretching... Uggh, not cool! My large nips are too sensitive, was not a hard limit. What kind of slave would I be, if I scared so easily? o A surgically installed head-harness... To be honest, that sounded hot! I had to admit, I always loved the feeling of hard steel on my skin.
Well, the temporary surgery would be the most severe experience to date, and it would require some serious acclimation on my behalf. I'd have to endure my helpless ordeal for the whole two years of my enslavement. Becoming an Ultra Ballerina...the thought was more than exhilarating! I actually had the qualifications by now. They're revered by Mistresses and slaves alike—but I was always a bit shy about myself. One-year contracts are the legal minimum in the Empire. But any Mistress, looking through your history of ownership, will expect to find at least 2-year and longer contracts. Anything lower and they'll straight up doubt your submissive convictions. Having a good performance review from your previous Mistress is also mandatory for us contract slaves. I had my doubts, and yet my desires and hopes were simmering inside my poor slave soul for quite a while now. Mistress Octavia offered a slave-rank two grades above my last employment, and I'd receive a personal slave to take care of me 24/7, and I'd be employed as a full-time ballerina and would be exempt of any common slave work! Damn, her offer is really tempting. I always wanted my own little plaything to order around, and so I made up my mind and jumped into the deep water: "All right, sold!" I said to the clerk, and with the press of a thumb, my enslavement was sealed.

And things became serious—but I already knew that. When the gynoid guard came over I already knew the protocol—half human, half robot—their minds were supposedly controlled by an actual machine. They're here to keep the order in the Empire—and it helps if you're gifted with superhuman speed and strength. I don't ever want to mess with them. I had witnessed what they can do to a slave. "Slave, follow me," the synthetic voice said with an emotionless expression. Without a slave collar around my neck, the whole government machinery was leaning on the side of caution. That's why every new girl was accompanied by a watchful gynoid. In the next processing room I was ordered to strip naked; a command I followed without hesitation. I knew it would be a long time until I could enjoy normal clothing again. And down the rabbit hole we went, as the gynoid ordered me along. Guiding my naked body further down into the bowels of this vast government machinery; there was nothing easier for my slave mind than to follow. As we moved deeper into the system, we eventually queued up behind a long line of naked girls soon to be processed. Each standing in line with a guardian beside her. The line crept along in total silence. No last-minute 'change-of-hearts', from any volunteer—this time; I was a little disappointed. Some do it for the money, others out of masochism. You can tell, while I glanced at a pretty girl in front of me. If you sneak a look at her inner thigh you'll see; mine is telling as well. The line crept further along, until my guard pushed me towards a large machine, built into the wall, and my body was held in place. My neck felt the scraping sound of metal, some warmth, a mild electric shock, and it all was over. I heard the validating beep coming from my collar. I was now officially a slave. It appeared like nothing significant had happened at first glance, but only to an outsider or a novice slave. The steel posture collar, welded around my neck, has changed everything for me in society. Every Mistress and guard in the Empire will treat me from now on very differently. The slave police has free reign over me, and if I should ever be found walking in public without a permit, it won't end well for me. Fancy shops and restaurants will not allow me inside unaccompanied. To look at a Mistress in public is forbidden; my eyes have to be ever-gazing at her feet. It's strictly forbidden to use normal restrooms, only the filthy slave toilets are permitted for defecation. A signed permission is required, to wear shoes in public. Slave law needs to be known by heart and memory, and any police patrol can search and question me without cause. The slave police are a sub-branch of the gynoid caste, with specialized characteristics and enhancements. Any breach of slave law, violation of government rules or royal decrees—in public—and these cold-hearted brutes can severely punish me. In their inhuman eyes I'm only another piece of meat, someone's property, with very little rights remaining. I had to stop thinking about them; they had done some cruel things to my friends in the past. My journey had started, I couldn't stop it anymore. The ball had started rolling, and even if I wanted to, I couldn't make it stop. Everything was outside of 'my' control now. The slave police threw me in uncomfortable chains, and then into the prison van; together with the rest of the miserable bunch. My next destination was a private clinic at the outskirts of the city, when— —the nurse in my sunny hospital room dragged me out of my thoughts, and back into the present...

Finally, I thought to myself, my molds are about to be taken. When are hospitals—ever—not letting you wait? Soon after, my personal slave arrived, with an empty wheelchair in front of her. She was naked—and pretty. She had shimmering brunette hair, a petite body, and her kittens (boobs) were far bigger than mine; and well proportionate. Her face looked smooth and young. She was surely a few years younger than me. Then I noticed her piercings. A nose ring; two pretty, but thick nipple rings; a glimmer between her legs; steel cuffs around her limbs, and a standard posture collar. "Hello, I'm Slave Julie, nice to meet you! I'm your new personal slave, as Mistress commanded," and she bowed her pretty head, as was expected of her lower rank. "Let me help you on your wheels," she chatted. I still needed to get used to my inability to talk, as I couldn't give her any directions or orders, in my current state. "Ohh, you've a pretty body," she said, while helping me into the padded wheelchair, and I felt her warm breath on my neck. Soon I was strapped tightly in place, with restraints running all over my slender shape. 'Was that really necessary?' I wanted to ask. She seemed to very much like being in control—not at all how I'd imagined my situation a few days ago to be honest, but at the moment, I wasn't really in a position to complain successfully. She rushed me down the corridor as if we were late. I tried to gesture her to slow down—order her to stop—but the chair held my limbs efficiently in place, and my spread-open mouth remained silent. An autonomous car picked us up, with just the right wheelchair-slot at its back, and it chauffeured us to our new home, out into the countryside. Whilst we drove through the city, I couldn't get my new servant girl to shut up; she really had a lot to say. She looked very fond of me, as her eyes sparkled when she talked about my future training. An hour or so later, we had arrived, and I was gently unloaded. Elaborate golden doors opened and a maid greeted us. "Welcome to Mistress Octavia's residence!" while curtsying—and holding the hem of her skirt up, like a good maid. Promptly Julie, my slave, rolled me inside. It was a magnificent grand foyer, at least three stories high, with an arched glass ceiling, and some marvelous artwork hanging around. I gazed at her exotic slave collection. Hanging on various chains, were girls in bizarre, humiliating and scary outfits. Some even had worse done to their bodies. While rolling along, I'd imagine myself hanging there silently in the entrance hall, welcoming new visitors in a splendid display of prosperity. I wanted to serve my Mistress, become her instrument, and display her awe-inspiring collection of wealth and power. But don't ask me about the fine line between decadence, prestige, and pomp. My slave mind has difficulty understanding the immensely complex social intricacies of the mistress caste. I'm merely here to serve my remarkably new owner for the next two years—with body and soul! The welcoming house maid, wearing a costly ornate black-and-white maid uniform, was hobbling along, guiding us to our final destination with the tinkling of her cute bells; something between her legs was clearly distressing her. The sun was painting the hallways in a gentle orange and I realized I had completely lost track of time: it was evening already! On our way through the dizzying grandeur of endless floors and corridors, I spotted at least three gynoid guards. Standing silently like harmless statues, their alcoves looked integrated into the estate's walls. When I heard a disquieting sound from my collar. It was a clear warning bleep. "Looks like our slave collars," Julie said, "are now locked to the grounds of the estate again. Any attempt at leaving or doing house errands requires explicit permission from Mistress Octavia." So my slim collar was indeed fully functional and leashed into the estate's AI-System. I guess it was required by law, or the hospital wouldn't have had permission to remove my official posture collar and replace it with the skull-harness. I just felt like this place had just fastened another chain tightly around my neck. A slave-collar cannot kill, but it can discharge enough searing-hot pain, to hurl me into unconsciousness.

After our procession crept excruciatingly slow along the corridors—and I blame the maid for that—we arrived at a small room, with my name plate already affixed to the door:

'Slave Nina, Ultra Ballerina in Training'
A basic night slave quarter really, with dark polished wooden interior—well, not that much interior: a painted portrait of my mistress, a big wall closet as large as the room, and a slim bed placed in the middle—if you can call it a 'bed'. Again I tried to point out the growing discomfort in my bladder. If she wouldn't get it soon, I'd pee myself, right here, right now! "What are you trying to tell me, Nina?" Julie asked. "Do you have to pee? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" she asked naively. Finally, her dummy brain had received the message! I tried to signal my discomfort with a serious stare, since my head, firmly pressed against the chair's headrest, was unable to even nod. Due to my professional dance career, I was used to more discipline and professionalism around me; she had to learn fast! "You're not supposed to put any weight on your feet yet, Nina," Julie said, and began to place thick but comfortable cuffs, just above my elbows, fastened them, and only then released me from the chair's iron grip. A ceiling hoist raised me gently and effortlessly into the air, while my bare feet dangled below me. With the push of a button Julie conjured a toilet seat from within the wall. Once I had relieved myself, I had to wait for Julie to come back and wipe my damp pussy dry. When her naked skin touched mine, and her torso pressed against me, I couldn't hide my flushed face; more out of shame over my helpless situation really—really! I never felt so vulnerable and enslaved as of today. The realization gave me an exhilarating moment, my chest felt like exploding, and my heart raced. It touched all my submissive buttons at once! But shortly after, a small doubt crept into my mind, giving me a noticeable knot in my stomach. "Let's put you in your night gown, shall we?" Julie said, "I've got other things to do." I'm the only 'thing' you're supposed to be occupied with, you useless little wench, I thought as my blood pressure was rising again. From the large wall cabinet, she retrieved a milky-white cotton corset, stiffly boned and decorated with straps and rings, as she began to fasten me into it. I suspected as much. My waist training was already starting; with my hourglass shape, I'm sure I'll have no problems wearing it. But Julie kept on fastening, pulling and tightening, until I felt like I was imploding, gasping for air. I wanted to curse at her eagerness—and to vent my discomfort—but I was kept silent. My face was unable to complain to her, while tiny gasps of air tried to escaped my crushed lungs. She used a measuring tape a few more times around my waist, then lacing it even tighter, until she looked satisfied with my silent gasps. "Sorry," she said, "but I really had to get you down to Mistress's specified measurements. How does it feel?" 'Very uncomfortable,' I tried to say with my eyes, but I guess she just looked for signs of improper alignment around my hip bones and ribs. She lowered me on my slave bed, which was a sort of raspberry red. It was more of a wide cushioned bench really, with the shape of a full-sized human body indented into the padded material. Once I lay comfortably, padded shapes—or pillars—extended out of the soft material. They surrounded my limbs at all the right places, to hinder any movement, as she began to fasten me into my bed with wide straps all over my body. I felt like a cyborg being placed into its customized sleeping compartment. Soon, I'd fear, she would produce some tubes or something. But she only fastened more thick straps through my corset's rings. It forced me even deeper into the beds shape until I felt my body was being held in its final tight embrace for the night. My head couldn't look left or right anymore and the stumpy ends of my arms were placed inside padded cylinders, keeping me from flexing my remaining arms at the elbow. Again, she came back from the closet and began lacing my feet into something. 'Bed shoes?' I wanted to ask, but once my feet were inside it, it felt more like a brace. Unsurprisingly, she fastened them to the bed as well, and began to turn an adjusting screw. My feet slowly began to overextend until I felt a slight ache—not too uncomfortable—but I couldn't move or even wiggle it in the slightest. They were efficiently immobilized, like in a cast, and I was surprised by its sophistication. Once Julie looked satisfied, she wrote down a number again. "Are you hungry yet?" Julie asked. "Since you can't really feed yourself any longer. . . or chew", and she revealed a big bottle filled with an unknown liquid. A long tube protruded from its end. "Open wide," she said, imitating my expression with an "Ahhhhh..." I couldn't stop her. At first, I tried to swallow with my spread-open mouth, but without the help of my tongue it was really challenging. Until Julie pushed the tube down my throat and I gagged—now I knew why she settled me in first. Unable to complain, my forced silence created the impression of agreeing to the whole retching ordeal. Julie had a lovely look on her face when she fed me. She sat just beside me on the bed, force-feeding me a slurry, and clearly enjoying the whole ordeal. Until now, I hadn't really thought about how I was supposed to eat during my whole enslavement. 'Would that be it?' I wondered. Once she'd emptied the bottle into me, she pressed a button at the side of the bed, and right between my thighs, a round ball started to emerge, with the flat side facing my keen orifices. "This will be your nightly alcove. I heard its very pleasant after a hard day's work," and I felt Julie's fingers attach chains to my pussy piercings, and pulling them taut. It created a...

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