In Bondage, With Butt Plug

Just a reluctant bound girl with a buttplug up her ass:

Ma Billings had done the awful thing to her with typical goodwill. There had been no warning. The command to “Bend over, honey,” had been her first inkling of something untoward. The careful and skilful insertion of the plug in her rectum had been so outrageous, yet so clinical; she had failed to protest until after the bizarre impalement had become a fait accompli. Even then she cherished the illusion of some medically normal reason for what had been done to her. That the woman who had done it failed to respond to question or complaint was no more than normal for the Bar-B. There had even been the possibility of vulgar humour. But all hopes of rationality had died when Ma Billings produced the harness.

The whipping had been too recent, her wounds from it still too sore, for Gail to have the courage to resist. She accepted Ma’s cheerful, “Don’t worry none, honey, you’ll live,” and stood passive while the straps were buckled about her loins. One ’round her waist, another from back to front between her legs. The latter, passing through a slot in the base of the thing within her, held the plug inexorably pressed home, divided her sex and made walking painful. Ma tightened buckles thoughtfully until Gail flinched within the cutting embrace of the leather bands. The thing was neat and cruel.

“But why . . .?” Gail was genuinely puzzled.

“Well, this ain’t supposed to be no summer vacation,” Ma reminded.

“But, is it a punishment? Or have I got something wrong . . .?”

Ma Billings guffawed. “I ain’t never seen a gal’ got less wrong than you, honey. Let’s say I don’t want you to feel lonely. With little Peter up your ass you’ll always have a friend.”

“There’s nothing little about what I’m feeling.”

“Come night you won’t know he’s in there, kid.” Ma found amusement in referring to the intrusion as a personality.

“It all hurts. Is it supposed to?”

“Sure is, honey. Now we take a little walk. A get acquainted stroll you might say.” Ma Billings chortled happily.

The little stroll had ended at the usual tree and with the familiar handcuffs. Now Gail stood, hurting, shamed and apprehensive. Now she would wait.

From Strange Captivity by F.E. Campbell.

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