The text comes just after breakfast, sharp and clear on my screen.
Drink four liters of water today. By two p.m. No excuses, sweetie. This is for your punishment.
A shiver, warm and liquid, runs straight down my spine to settle between my legs. I blush, alone in my kitchen. He remembers. He's punishing me for Leonard. And the fucked-up part? I like it. I like this possessive side. Yes, he's older, his hair thinning, his hands rough. But my stomach flutters with butterflies for him. For his commands. For his touch. For this.
So I obey. I fill a big glass bottle and start sipping. Through the morning, I drink. My belly grows heavy, sloshing softly with each move. By one-thirty, I've finished the last of the four liters. I'm full, my bladder a tight, pressing weight low in my stomach.
Another text.
Now, sweetie. The black lace bra and panties. The thigh-high stockings. Nothing else. And wait for me.
I'm blushing as I go to my room. My fingers tremble pulling the sheer black stockings up my thick thighs, the lace top straining to contain the heavy swell of my tits. The bra cups dig into the soft flesh under my arms. The matching thong is a mere string between my cheeks. I stand in the middle of the living room, waiting, my full bladder a constant, needy ache.
The knock is firm. "Mia."
I open the door. Mr. Callahan stands there, a plain cardboard box in his hands. He steps in, kicks the door shut with his heel, and sets the box on the coffee table without looking at it. His eyes are on me, dark and hot. He doesn't say hello. He just grabs my face and kisses me, hard and deep, his tongue claiming my mouth. His other hand slides down my back, over the curve of my ass, squeezing roughly through the stockings. I melt into him, a soft moan vibrating into his mouth.
He pulls back, his thumb rubbing my wet lower lip. "Did you drink the water, sweetie?"
"Yes," I breathe, my voice shaky.
"Good," he purrs, and kisses me again, softer this time, sucking on my tongue. His hand finds its way under the lace of my bra, his rough palm scraping over my tight nipple. "So good for me."
I blush harder, feeling the familiar, soaking wetness start in my cunt. He breaks the kiss and picks up my half-empty water bottle from the table. He walks to the couch and sits, spreading his legs. He pats his thigh. "Come here. Sit on my lap. Facing me."
I climb onto him, straddling his legs, my stockings sliding against the rough fabric of his trousers. My heavy tits are right in his face. He holds up the bottle. "Drink the rest. Right now. In front of me."
"But… I'm already so full," I whisper, the pressure inside me making me squirm on his lap.
He leans close, his lips brushing my ear. "You'll be drained in no time, sweetie. I promise." As he says it, his hand slips between our bodies, his fingers finding the damp spot on my thong and rubbing my clit in slow, firm circles.
I gasp, my hips jerking. Fuck. I take the bottle, tilt my head back, and start to drink. The cool water fills my mouth, my throat working as I swallow. He watches, his eyes locked on mine, his fingers still working me through the lace. Then he lowers his head and takes my lace-covered nipple into his mouth. He sucks hard, the wet fabric and his hot mouth creating a delicious, rough friction. I moan around the bottle, my back arching, pushing my tit deeper into his mouth.
I finish the water, the empty bottle dropping from my fingers. I'm bursting. He unclasps my bra from behind, pulls it off, and tosses it aside. My tits spill free, heavy and swaying. He groans, taking one into his mouth properly now, his tongue lashing the stiff peak, his teeth grazing gently. He squeezes the other, his hand kneading the soft, full flesh. The dual sensation, the desperate need to pee, and the relentless rubbing on my clit through the soaked thong is overwhelming.
"Off the couch, sweetie. On your back," he commands, his voice thick.
I slide off his lap and lie back on the cushions. He stands, quickly shedding his shirt, his trousers, until he's just in his grey cotton underwear. His cock is a thick bulge against the fabric. He kneels between my spread legs, kissing my stomach, his tongue circling my belly button. He hooks his fingers into the sides of my thong and pulls it down my hips, over the stockings. Cool air hits my exposed, swollen pussy.
He doesn't hesitate. He lowers his face and french kisses my cunt, his tongue plunging deep, fucking into my hole, then licking broad, wet stripes up to my throbbing clit. The shock of it, the sheer nasty intimacy, makes my orgasm detonate instantly. My back bows off the couch, a broken cry ripping from my throat as I gush around his tongue.
He lifts his head, his chin glistening. "Fuck, sweetie. You came already? Just from my tongue in your dirty little hole? You really are a punished slut today."
I can only pant, blushing furiously. He reaches for the box, opens it. Inside are vibrators of all sizes, rolls of tape, cuffs, tubes, a small suction device. My eyes go wide. He pulls out a pair of leather cuffs. "Hands behind your back."
I obey, shivering as he buckles the cuffs around my wrists, securing them together. He kisses my mouth, deep and dirty. "This cunt needs to learn its lesson," he growls. "It needs to remember who it belongs to when it gets greedy." He takes two soft ties and secures my ankles to the legs of the heavy coffee table, spreading me wide open, leaving my pussy completely exposed to his view.
He smacks my pussy with his open palm. A sharp, stinging slap that makes my outer lips jiggle and a fresh trickle of juice—and something else—leak out. He laughs, a dark, hungry sound. "Look at that. It's leaking already." Then he buries his face between my legs again, eating me with aggressive, passionate sucks and licks, his nose mashing into my clit. "You have to know who the owner is, sweetie," he mumbles against my soaked flesh. "Say it."
"You," I sob, as another orgasm tears through me. "You, Mr. Callahan."
"Good girl."
He sits up, picks up two small, coin-sized vibrators and a roll of surgical tape. He peels the backing off one, and carefully tapes the buzzing disc right over my tight, peaked nipple. The vibration is immediate, a sharp buzz that makes my whole tit tremble. He does the same to the other nipple. My tits bounce with the constant, insistent hum.
He kisses each trembling mound, then moves back down. From the box, he takes a thin, flexible silicone tube and a small bottle of clear lube. He slicks his fingers, then spreads my puffy outer lips wide. My inner lips, long and dark and glistening, hang swollen between his thumbs. He finds my clit, swollen and protruding, and gives it a long, slow lick. Then his fingers slide lower, through the slick mess, searching. He rubs a spot just below my entrance. "Here we are," he whispers. He lubes the tip of the tube and, with terrifying gentleness, begins to press it against that small, hidden opening.
My eyes fly open. "Wha—?"
"Shhh, sweetie. Just a little tube. For your punishment." He pushes, and there's a strange, full pressure as the thin silicone slides into my pee hole. I cry out, a mix of shock and intense, bizarre pleasure. He inserts it maybe an inch, then connects the other end to a small, handheld suction device. He positions the cup of the suction over my clit and outer lips, the tube protruding from the center, passing the device to a wine bottle. He turns it on.
A gentle, pulling suction surrounds my entire clit and puffy lips. The tube inside me feels… full. Strange. He turns on the vibrators on my nipples. Then he picks up a third, larger vibrator and turns it to a high buzz, holding it directly against my swollen, suction-held clit.
Sensation explodes. The vibrations on my nipples, the suction on my cunt, the tube inside me, the direct buzz on my clit—it's too much. My body seizes, my hips straining against the ties. A ragged scream is torn from my throat as I cum, a gush of hot fluid rushing out of me, around the tube, into the suction cup. He watches, a nasty grin on his face.
"That's it, sweetie. Let it go. Drain for me." He gets up, goes to my kitchen. I hear the fridge open, the clink of glass. He comes back with a wine glass full of orange juice and an empty wine bottle. He sits on the edge of the couch, sips his juice, and watches me writhe.
He turns the clit vibrator higher. The orgasms become relentless, one crashing into the next. I'm sobbing, my body convulsing. Each climax forces another hot rush of fluid out through the tube. He's connected the tube to the empty wine bottle. I watch, through blurred vision, as a stream of clear liquid flows down the tube and begins to fill the bottle. My god. He's making me pee into a bottle while I cum from vibrators.
He leans over, pours a little of my orange juice into the wine glass with his, swirls it, and takes a sip. "Mmm. Tastes even better now, sweetie. A little bit of you in everything."
"Please," I beg, but I don't know what I'm begging for.
He picks up a sleek silicone plug and, while the suction and vibrations work me, he pushes it slowly into my sopping pussy hole. The stretch is exquisite, my inner lips clinging to the intruder as it disappears inside me. The fullness makes the sensations from the tube and suction even more intense. I cum again, a hard, pulsing rush that sends more fluid gushing down the tube. The bottle is a quarter full.
"Whose cunt is this?" he asks, his voice calm amidst my chaos.
"Yours!" I cry.
"Again. Louder."
"It's Mr. Callahan's cunt!" I scream, as another orgasm hits.
He increases the vibrator speed. My vision spots. The bottle fills to the halfway point with my clear, shameful juice. After what feels like an eternity of endless, shaking climaxes, he turns everything off. He gently removes the suction cup, the tube from my body, the plug from my cunt. My clit is a swollen, throbbing bean, hypersensitive and puffy. My pussy lips feel huge and tender. He leans down and slowly, so slowly, sucks my clit into his mouth, nursing it gently, his tongue fluttering.
I whimper, oversensitive, but another tiny orgasm shivers through me. I'm drained. A mess of sweat and juices and tears.
He releases my ankles and wrists, the leather falling away. He stands, pulls down his underwear. His cock springs out, thick and impressively hard for a man his age. I blush just looking at it.
"Kiss it," he says.
I lean forward, my body aching, and press my lips to the hot, velvety head. I french kiss the tip, swirling my tongue around the slit. He groans, his hand tangling in my hair.
"Good girl. Now suck it. Deep."
I open my mouth, taking him in. He's big, stretching my jaws. I bob my head, my tongue working the underside. He fucks my face with slow, deep thrusts, his grip tight in my hair. "You make me so fucking hard, you punished little slut," he grunts. The nasty words, the possession in them, make my exhausted cunt pulse weakly.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Gonna cum, sweetie. Take it."
He erupts in my mouth, hot and salty. I swallow, but some spills out, dripping onto my chin and onto my heaving tits. He pulls out, painting the last few stripes across my cheeks and chest with his thick, white come.
"Lick it clean," he orders, slapping his softening cock against my cheek.
I lean forward, my tongue lapping up the mess from my skin, from his shaft, cleaning him with slow, worshiping licks until he's spotless.
He pulls me into his lap, kissing me passionately, his tongue sharing the taste of him and me. His fingers slide into my slick, used hole, fingering me slowly. "I wanna marry you so bad, my sweetie," he breathes against my lips, his voice low and smutty. "I'll marry you. I'll find a way." He kisses me again, deep and claiming, his thumb rubbing my swollen clit. "I'll claim this cunt for myself, legally. Just you wait." He grins, that dark, possessive grin.
I blush, hugging him tightly, my face buried in his neck.
He asks, "Who's your love?"
"It's Mr. Callahan," I whisper.
He gives my clit a gentle, approving smack. "Good girl." He dresses, then pulls me up. He kisses me softly, like a husband leaving for work. "I'll plan a date for us, sweetie. Until then…" He taps my tender clit. "Use that suction on this every day. I like it puffy and sticking out. It reminds me of what's mine." One last, deep kiss, and he picks up the wine bottle, now half-full of my golden punishment. "My souvenir."
He leaves.
I stand in the middle of my living room, covered in drying come, my body humming and sore, the taste of him in my mouth.
Marriage? The thought spins, bright and terrifying, in my blissfully fucked-out mind.