Because Kitten was a very good girl, she knew to check her phone regularly through the day for messages from her Mister. He often had tasks for her. Some chores were mundane, like what to make for dinner. Some more sexy and complicated, like what to wear or not wear, or just how he wanted her to be ready for him when he walked in the door.
There was no message at noon, and none at one, but at two, she saw his name.
“Take the cucumber from the refrigerator
and play with it before I arrive.
Use it in all your holes, your gob,
your coochie coo, your little puckered flower.
Drench it in your spit,
lube only if needed,
have it seated deep,
and be ready, on your back,
legs wide, I want to see you first thing
when I walk in through that door.”
Ever obedient and sweet, Kitten did as she was told. She went to the fridge. Wearing a frown of concern, she saw no cucumbers only a jar of giant pickles. Was that what Sir meant? Would that work? Wouldn’t it be squished and squeezed to nothing? She wondered if just one would do, or if a task like this would take more than two.
She didn’t see, in its clean clear case, the special glass cucumber dildo chilling on the shelf. A gift bought just for her. Kitten was new at this playful game, her Mister Master was the pro. She took him at his every word, asking few questions-delighting in his manly control.
She grabbed two towels, then paused in thought and grabbed three. Spreading them on the floor near the front door, she arranged a makeshift pad all as best as she could think. Added a pillow to the pile as a cushion for her head.
The idea of performing for her lover filled her with joy and pleasure. De-robing from her clothing, she could feel a buzz of anticipation building. Nipples tightening like long eraser pencil ends, puckering-up in hope of finger pulling. Her own creamy luscious, full breasts swelling in anticipation of agony, of being on display. Her belly taunt and trembling, her nerve endings began a low song in hopeful melody. It would be hours before her Master was home, hours of her swelling, gleaming, ripening.
She lay down on the floor setting jar and lube to the side. Her over-eager Kitten fingers danced over the velvet of her naked skin and she giggled, soaking in the idea of this forbidden food sin. The pickle she plucked from the glass mouth felt fat in her hand-nubby, cock shaped, dripping vinegar and fine-chopped garlic. It was so, so cold -made her shiver. She hummed as the pickle juice drippings slipped bright greenish gold over her pale naked skin. Teasing her nipple tips to diamond hardness, basking in the thick green glory pole, her thighs started to quake in expectation.
All her holes, her Sir said, so her mouth would be the first. This giant soured cucumber was thicker but shorter than her Master Sir. She moaned in reverent musing as she rubbed the broad end over her cheeks and lips and teased the top with tongue. Kitten lay back, relaxed, and sucked the delicious, perfect pickle just the way she would suck her Mister Master beefy man stick. Her mouth a ring, her tongue dancing, she let the club sized chub slide to the back of her throat, sucking the imitation love muscle as her favourite kind treat. One hand held the pickle, while her other hand stray to her own dampening feminine landing flaps.
She lost herself in memories, in taste, in smells, trusting the floppy, sloppy vegetable back and forth in her mouth while edging her squish mitten with gentle pressured fingertips. Kitten found herself quickly at the precipice of the ultimate stimulant, where she was forbidden to trespass without Master’s permission. She pulled her hand away, arching, plush butt-cheeks clenching, accidentally biting down hard on the pickled truncheon lodged firmly in her kisser.
Eyes wide, Kitten realized, she’d bitten through the imaginary may-pole of her Mister.
As she continued to chew, she blanched white inside to know, that this would be found disobedient. Teeth on Master’s pecker was an unsanctioned crime of punishable passion. Kitten masticated the evidence as quickly as she could manage. What if he had thought to count each pickle in the jar? What if he knew exactly how many this task would take?
Why a pickle, soft but firm, to shove into every hole? Did he really think a single preserved vinegar cucumber would last the test she’d been set? Why not that nice, cute glass knobby thing, they’d looked at last week in the online store? But it was not Kitten’s job to question and whinging was never permitted. She was to execute the test as best she could and be ready-spread legged and eager-for when Sir set the key to his front door.
Every hole meant choosing a new pickled poker for the task. She still had her pussy and her ass, but doubted even more now, just how far one jarred green torpedo could last. Her Sir often praised the tightness of her cock sleeve, the sweetness of her back door greetings, and his delight at her deep inner squeezing. Carefully she chose size, shape, and durability, looking for a surrogate rutter that would survive being shoved past her precious rosy pucker.
In preparation she did choose lube, hoping that was smarter. Up on all fours, back-end pointed at the door just in case Sir arrived home early, she gooed her fingers in shiny faux cum. Kitten shoved her own two digits inside as far as she could, past in her ruched and pleated rectum entrance. Again and again until well coated, until personal lubricant oozed and the entrance to her bunghole felt well-stretched, ready for pickled penetration.
Returning to her back, head resting on her pillow, Kitten used the garden schlong for self service at her feminine entrance. She quivered at the cold, but her hot, steamy body quickly warmed it. Gently she rubbed the wet, chilly masculine shaped protuberance against all the seams of her needy lady beaver. Despite the unfortunate incident with her teeth, her nethers were sensitized and leaky, aching for more pressure and deeper penetration. One hand held the pickle, one hand found her breast, as she did as she was told, teasing herself again in the direction of that most prohibited peak.
Kitten circled her hill of Eden, manipulated the nerve bundle centre with the purchased vegetable in her right hand, while her left pulled and tugged the rounded pink cherry of her tit. Desire bubbled and built until she was just to the perilous point of plunging over into gasping glory before lowering the pretend tallywacker to the gaping, begging, beginning of her snatch. The tool was wet, but she was wetter, always ready to cum for Master. Moaning and groaning, plucking nipple and thrusting pickle, she tormented her crying cooter. Before deciding she felt ready to breach the deeper pink of her arse hole and discover if the chosen pickle could penetrate her log-pinching peach.
Her need had grown so greedy, Kitten wanted something firm and hard and certain. She wanted push-deep, a little pain to make her whimper, while her attentive fingers would keep her circling the highest summit of that almost-not-quite-erotic spike. Riming the ruffled ridges of her darkest, dirtiest, secret place, she forced herself to pant, relax, and just push back as she pushed the precocious pickle in.
It took great effort not to strangle the Mister Masters greeny monster, effort that slicked Kitten’s body from head to toe and wrecked her make-up with feminine sweat. Tears came to her eyes, as vinegar, garlic, and dill, mixed with the organic slip and slide, until at last the wide round end of the preserved gord sank into her pre-moistened dark back-passage portal.
“Oh, don’t clench,” she warned herself, her body wanting to do just that. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, for she was sure if she did, she’d squish that giant pickle from firm and fine right down to smish-smashed splooge, and have it oozing from her ass like too much condiment from a bun.
Just then the door unlatched, pushed in with her work-suited Sir standing in its frame. His smile of greeting faded quickly to baffled, as he smelled woman, dill and distinct vinegar in the air.
“Kitten.” He said.
And that was all it took. Her body, caught on that never ending verge of pleasing him. His name for her completely did her in. With a gasp and a shudder and helpless surrender, her muscles seized, her back end squeezed, and she came hard, jerking all over like a landed fish, with a side of relish but without the dish.