*Did I make you happy?*
She always asked this question servicing her master.
There was nothing she craved more then pleasing the man who owned her.
She was his doll. His plaything. His living, breathing piece of meat to use as he saw fit.
So regardless of if when he returned home, he’d gently caress her face, stroking his warm, loving hands over her soft, porcelain skin before sensually exploring every pore and crevice of her aching body with his hot, wet tongue . . .
. . .or if he would slap her in the face before tearing the clothes away from her milky flesh and violently abuse her holes until she was leaking his baby milk from every opening he had torn through . . .
. . . she would accept her masters desires relentlessly.
For the pain mattered not. The pleasure was merely a luxury. The true reward was hearing that word, being told, ‘Yes’.
‘Yes, you made me happy.’
‘You did such a good job.’
‘You’re such a good girl.’
These words were the keys to make her quiver.