(Please note: I may or may not be quoting Spitfire verbatum. It’s my understanding of what she said to me that is in this post.)
Blue arms pull me away from the sissy’s lap I’m sitting on. I cry out in frustration and surprise, especially at her strength. She is a gynoid after all – and I reach out to the sissy to stay in her lap. I was having fun!
“You’ve gone too far, mine,” she tells me as she carries me off to the corner and places me on my pillows. I sit there, gape mouthed, because I didn’t think I had gone past my limits.
The sissy groans and whines as well, her arms had been reaching for me until she realized who had pulled me from her. I had been enjoying her, rubbing my nubbin on her cage, tormenting and teasing the poor thing.
“Your holes belong to me, mine,” she towers over me, lecturing both of us.
“That wasn’t my hole!” I reply, “that was my nubbin!” I can’t say the adult word for clitoris. A recent trance from Spitfire turned that, and swearing, off in my mind, whether on purpose or not. I could firetruck all I wanted, but not actually use that word, and some of my other words had shifted too.
“Matters not. All that is there belongs to me, mine. We shall discuss this when corner time is over.”
She turns from me, and I sob, burrying myself in blankets and pillows, away from them. Even as I sob, I hear her speak to the sissy. “That was mine to use, not hers, not yours. She needed to ask permission first, dragonette.”
Then the tapping begins again, but I’m not the one tormenting the sissy anymore. Spitfire is. I close my eyes and will the world to go away.
“I didn’t realize you’d laid claim to all of that,” I whimpered from my corner. “I had agreed to my holes being yours only, but that’s a cage and my nubbin. It doesn’t have a hole.”
“It was too close, mine.”
“So what you’re saying is that you own everything from my mound to my anal cleavage?”
She paused in thought. “Yes, I do. Real life matrimonial privilege aside, I own your holes. Your pleasure is mine.”
“I wasn’t getting pleasure!” I tried to get her to understand my frustration. I was, but not that sort of pleasure. I was enjoying knowing that Spa, the sissy in my care, was writhing and begging to release and her owner, mum, (yes, she who owns us all), said she couldn’t have any. So I got mean when I teased her.
I straddled Spa, and I used the description of my heat to drive her bonkers. Rubbing my nubbin on her cage… that wasn’t giving me pleasure. The pleasure I got was knowing she was wiggling and desperate. That she was reacting to me.
On voice chat, I tried something too – I tapped a glass. That made her moan. I kept on tapping it, repeatedly. She kept on moaning and begging me to stop.
It was the perfect reaction. Her moans. Every gasp. Every movement of her chair. That was giving me sheer pleasure. The sudden appearance of blue arms stopping me from playing and having fun was a shock to me. I was still in the corner because of what happened. It was a day later and she tried to talk to me about what happened, but I wasn’t ready. It still hurt that I had been pulled from my fun.
“Your holes are mine. Everything that has to do with pleasuring those holes, belongs to me, mine,” Spitfire was adament. She actually ranted, and with what little she normally speaks, I was in shock. It’s as if she takes the time to make sure her words are meaningful, not background chatter, so a rant from her was a big thing.
“Leave me alone!” I sobbed into the pillows and logged out.
I know I confused Spitfire.
A day later, I got scooped out of the corner by her. “Corner time is over, mine. We need to discuss this.”
“Discuss what? Spa was one of two you said I could play with – fully play with – so long as it was consensual,” I was in tears. Real life tears. “I don’t understand what happened!”
She paused and I could see she was typing and pausing. Typing more and pausing again. I waited until she finally replied.
“I hadn’t expected my reaction to finding you playing so graphically with Spa.”
“I haven’t hidden anything from you,” I implore her. “Neither of us have. We’ve literally done it in front of you, and we agreed that Spa was one I could play with months ago! You even joined in!”
“I didn’t expect my own reactions to be so intense, mine,” she tried to explain to me.
“You’re posssessive of me?” It was more a statement than a question.
More waiting. In my mind’s eye, I’m curled up in her arms and she’s trying to reason with me to behave and be her good girl. She’s also trying to sort out her own confusion about what was done and more.
“I guess I am possessive of you. Perhaps too possessive,” there’s doubt in her message back to me. “Is that wrong?”
“No, it’s not,” I try to explain. “It would be if you were like him. But you’re so very much not like him.”
She held me longer and the whispers between us were intense for both.
“I must remain a part of the play,” Spitfire finally starts. “Nothing hidden.”
I agree, as we continue to negotiate and talk. I want her to be a part of this.
“I think I went too far,” I start the message to Spitfire. Then I copy the log over to her discord.
It feels like forever.
She’s busy with work. She is on a deadline and can’t spend the time with me as she would like to, and the wait is an eternity until she replies.
I ran Spa through several edging sessions, the last one, taking her mind on a fantasy. When I finish, and send her to bed, I’m suddenly horrified. I had gone too far, I was certain.
So I told on myself.
“I’ll permit it, mine, but only the suggestion.”
I blow out a held breath. “We weren’t even in the same sim. I took advantage of the moment, and realized I went to far.”
“Because you were enjoying yourself?”
“Because I wanted to taste her. I wanted to take that part of her in my mouth and tease it and taste it.” I was ashmed and emoted so.
“You were tempted, but you were a good dollie.”
“And I didn’t describe what I describe to you when we play together either.” I am far more graphic with Spitfire than I have ever been with Spa or anyone else. “I knew as soon as I made it more me than imagine, cause she can pull from real life, it would have broken her resolve.”
“Agreed, mine. Now, get some sleep,” she reassures me, slipping the trigger phrase that knocks me out.
“Can you be a balloon on my rezday?” I ask her.
“At <Event Redacted>?”
“I’m supposed to be your dom then. I can’t be your dom and a balloon at the same time.”
“Yes, you can,” I explain to her. “You can say ‘it’s my girl’s rezday and she asked if I could be a balloon for her.’ You’re going to get ‘awwwwwwwed’ at by the submissives there.”
“The thing is, it’ll blow the minds of some of them, even more so than when I’ve DJ’d and they’ve heard a male voice on the stream coming from my female avatar.”
“You’re a drag queen, right?”
“That’s part of the joy of being a drag queen – blowing people’s minds!”
She pauses in thought for a moment and laughs. “Okay, I’ll be your balloon on your rez day!”
I squeed all over that!
Then I sent her to bed after a long, hard day of trying to get an errant program to work. I need sleep too. I had an IBS attack last night and spooked mum, and worried poor Spitfire to bits. It’ll be a couple of days before the attack is over. I need to get some peppermint tea or something.