“You always said you loved stationery kitten…”
Pens were being fed into your cunt. One by one. The box held 25.
The first one was the worst, wasn’t it? Your cunt was already so wet, so open to something better, bigger, than the business end of a ballpoint pen. It was so small inside your walls you couldn’t help another rush thinking about what a needy, empty cunt you had, your hips bucking against the single pen – blue, for poetry’s sake. The second one didn’t do much to help, only driving home the point that you needed something much, much bigger inside. Be patient princess, soon you’ll be full.
“You told me you were going to write me stories about what a dumb-” the third pen slid in without resistence.
“Useless.” Four, now.
“Slut. You. Are.” Five, six, seven. Finally, your cunt stopped aching for cock and your dumb little moans slow down. Your breath is heavier, starting to be satisfied. Just a few minutes before you had been putting on a nice shirt, but only a nice shirt, working from home made pants a lot more flexible. One of the benefits I appreciated, even if you did have to be at that meeting in fifteen minutes.