Your Own Personal Doll

Light floods in as the cardboard flaps fold back. You blink against the brightness, foam padding peeling away from your skin as fingers curl around your arm and pull you upright. She’s already staring at you — blue eyes wide, lips parted, a slow smile spreading across her face. Blonde hair falls over one tattooed shoulder. Her tits strain against a thin white crop top, nipples already hard beneath the fabric. She’s wearing nothing else except a pair of clear platform heels that add four inches to her height, and when she turns to toss the box aside you get your first look at that ass — full and round and barely contained, a detailed floral tattoo climbing up from her lower back and curling around her hip.

She sets you back against the headboard of a bed that smells like her perfume. Pink sheets. Fairy lights strung along the wall. A vanity mirror ringed with bulbs reflecting the two of you back at each other.

She climbs onto the bed on her knees and leans in close. Her breath is warm. She tilts her head and presses her mouth against yours — soft at first, lips brushing, then her hand comes up to grip your jaw and she kisses you harder, tongue sliding between your lips, a small moan vibrating in her throat. She pulls back just enough to bite your lower lip, tugging it gently before releasing it with a wet sound.

Her hand trails down your chest, your stomach, and wraps around your cock. She strokes slowly, watching your face, thumb rolling over the head on each upstroke. She spits into her palm without breaking eye contact and wraps her hand back around you, the slick warmth of it drawing a full-body tension through you.

Then she lowers her head.

She starts with her tongue — long, flat strokes from base to tip, then swirling around the head, lips closing over just the crown and sucking softly. She takes you deeper, inch by inch, one hand braced on your thigh, the other working the base of your shaft in slow twists. When the head of your cock hits the back of her throat she holds it there for a beat, then pulls off with a gasp and a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to your tip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and grins.

She goes back down. This time she doesn’t stop. Her nose presses into the trimmed hair at your base, her throat working around you, eyes watering and locked on yours. A thick, gagging sound rises from her and her whole body shudders, but she stays down, swallowing around you before finally pulling back, coughing once, saliva running down her chin onto her chest.

“Good,” she breathes, and turns around.

She plants her palms on the mattress and arches her back, dropping her chest low and lifting that ass high. The tattoo on her lower back stretches as she spreads her knees wider. You move behind her, grip both cheeks and spread them — the skin warm, giving, the piercing at the top of her cleft glinting in the fairy lights — and push inside her in one slow stroke.

She exhales sharply, dropping her head between her shoulders. You pull back and thrust forward harder and she makes a short, clipped sound. You find a rhythm — hands gripping the meat of her hips, pulling her back onto you with each forward drive, the slap of skin filling the room. When you bring your palm down across her left cheek she jolts forward and moans into the mattress, then pushes back harder, demanding more. You give it to her — open-palmed, the sound sharp, the flesh reddening under your hand. She reaches back and grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to feel it.

You flip her onto her back. She wraps her legs around your waist immediately, heels pressing into the small of your back, urging you forward. You pin her wrists above her head and drive into her — slow, deep strokes that make her mouth fall open, then faster until she’s gasping in short bursts, head pressed back into the pillow, tits bouncing with each thrust. She turns her head to the side and bites down on her own upper arm.

She pushes you off and straddles you — rolls her hips forward once to feel the angle, adjusts, then starts to ride. Her hands brace on your chest. Her ass rises and falls in a rolling grind, taking you to the hilt on each drop, the headboard tapping the wall behind you. You reach up and grab her tits, thumbs brushing over her pierced nipples, and she arches into your hands and rides faster, her own rhythm building until she’s slamming down onto you, thighs flexing, breath ragged.

She slows. Leans forward. Reaches back and wraps her hand around the base of you, pulling you free with a slick sound.

She lines you up with her ass.

She sinks down slowly — jaw tight, a long exhale through her nose — until you’re buried to the hilt. She stays still for a moment, adjusting, then begins to move. Shallow at first, then longer strokes as she loosens around you, her spine curling as she leans back and braces her hands on your thighs. Her head drops back between her shoulders. Her ass swallows you completely on every downstroke, the stretch visible, obscene.

She flips around without pulling you out — a slow, careful rotation until she’s facing away, back arched, palms planted on your shins. Reverse. She rolls her hips and grinds back into you, pace building, the tattoo across her lower back flexing with every movement. You grip her hips and thrust up to meet her and she cries out — a real sound, not performed — and keeps going.

You pull her back hard against you and finish deep inside her, the release long and pulsing, and she holds herself perfectly still, feeling every throb of it.

When she lifts off you there’s a visible gape — stretched, slick, your load beginning to push out of her. She squats over your chest, reaches back with two fingers and presses just below the rim, and the creampie runs out of her in a thick, slow stream across your sternum. She watches it happen with her lower lip caught between her teeth.

She scoops it up with two fingers. Holds them up, turning her hand, watching the viscous threads stretch between her digits. She smears some across her lips like gloss, licks one finger clean, then leans down and laps the rest directly from your chest — slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue, eyes up and watching yours the entire time.

She sits back on her heels and smiles. Swallows.