Previously: Part 1, Part 2,

Next: Part 4

It was always very nice to see his lover prepare breakfast for him.

It certainly helped that she was, as always, essentially nude. For everyday wear, she was permitted nothing more than silk stockings and, on colder days, matching gloves – as much to absorb the endless flow of arousal and keep the floors clean as for the admittedly sexy image of a girl dressed only in clothes that covered nothing important. Over that, for cooking alone, she showed off a classic naked-apron – again, as much for actual protection from the oil occasionally popping off the hot stove as for titillation.

And that was all. (Technically, she also wore her collar, and her piercings. But those were all more-than-locked – designed from the beginning not to open once closed, marking her as permanently his, and therefore a part of her. They weren’t things she wore any more than her arms were.)

But she was sexy as hell for reasons that went beyond mere exposure.  In a hundred little ways she showed both her overwhelming arousal and her loyal submission, her love for him. There was the way she seemed always aware of where he was, even with her back turned, doing her best to give him a good view of her shivering rear, her body now blushing down past her breasts; the way she the way her desperate need continued to stream down her legs, her doing nothing at all to slow or dry it as it came to rest in her stockings; the way she had to pause, every few minutes, to do nothing but breathe heavily through her nose, her own arousal strong in the air; the way her thighs would suddenly snap together in response to some particularly perverted thought or teasing brush to her skin, and the way she always made sure to turn sideways when she did, arching her back and show her curves in profile. 

And, of course, the way she occasionally looked at him, her expression quite appropriately the wide-eyed mournful look of a begging dog. – She wasn’t going to get permission, she knew she wasn’t going to get permission, he knew she knew she wasn’t going to get permission. She aimed that pathetic, pouting look at him purely for his amusement. As, they both thought, was right and proper.

– But for all that, breakfast was just the opener. The real show didn’t begin until all her direct service was done, and he could settle in to eat and watch.

-------------------

She put away her cookware – and with it, the apron she no longer had permission to wear – and, once more essentially naked, stepped in front of the mirror they kept across from the Master seat at the dining table, positioned so that with the image in the mirror she could expose herself to him front and back at once.

It was always a moment of not a little dread, for her; even by their admittedly distorted standards, this last step was particularly cruel, particularly perverse, as she picked up one of three tubes of lipstick off a shelf by the mirror, carefully labeled and kept separate. Not much to look at, even as she opened it – perhaps a bit gaudy, a bright shade of pink; not much to look at, even if you knew the trick. At the end of the day, they were just normal sticks of lipstick.

There was, after all, no such thing as a true contact aphrodisiac. Certainly not of the strength they’d looked for. And perhaps that was for the best, for the world as a whole.

But with the control he had earned over her mind, it really didn’t matter; as far as she was concerned, contact aphrodisiac was precisely what they were.

So when she twisted the stick around her exposed, rigid left nipple with a smooth, practiced motion, flipping her embedded ring up and then down to keep out of the way, she couldn’t help but release a sudden moan, the sound dying off into a needy whine as her already aching tits started to burn with the intense need to be touched. Instantly she bent over, pressing her breasts toward the mirror and into her grip as her other hand shot instinctively up to her breast –

... But no further; her hand cupped its weight, her fingers twitching up in a U to frame her painted nipple, but that was all. Obediently, in defiance of the pounding need hammering between her breast and her dripping, weakly twitching sex, her hand refused to close, loyally refused to play with her owner’s toys. Instead, her other hand, though it itself trembled and twitched, moved rigidly to her other breast, somehow managing to roll just as smoothly across to her other nipple.

Now that same hand snapped under her breast, the lipstick held between her fingers away from her skin (she’d learned that lesson the hard way) as her both her nipples burned for her attention, her ever-present lust for once diverted up from her empty pussy to sink deep into the flesh of her chest. Her fingers twitched against her will, struggling against the need to touch and pinch and twist – but still, somehow, she kept them aside, away, loyally abiding his iron law, refusing to play with what was not hers for all that she was the one made to feel their need.

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze in the mirror, her pleading eyes adorably wide, her expression hanging loose with lust. If she was seeking reassurance, he rather doubted she was going to get it; he met her gaze without remorse, curious to see if today would be the day her instincts won out over her loyalty, sadistically amused to watch her inflame and deny her already simmering, burning body at his whim.

– But then again, that was just another way of saying that she was suffering for his amusement in the first place, so perhaps that was reassurance after all. Certainly she seemed to think so; her purpose reaffirmed by her owner’s attention, she closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself, slowly straightening out of her bent posture.

… It took a few tries, it seemed, before she managed to make her hands move away from her needy breasts, and almost immediately her hands and elbows simply found their way together behind her back instead, her body thrusting her chest out on instinct in the hopes that someone would play with them. She writhed cutely like that for a moment, twisting and panting and whimpering, but recovered before he could call her out of it (which, of course, she would’ve had to pay for later), forcing her hands out to her sides and then raising her hand one more time.

As much as she was struggling now, her nipples were easily the kindest of her daily ‘lipstick treatments’, and so he forgave her a moment’s hesitation, her breasts heaving with the force of her needy panting. But it was only a moment, before she brought up her first tube one last time, and finally applied it where it normally belonged.

The effect this time was far more dramatic. Before her mouth hung open absently, a side effect of her pet-like panting; now she seemed like she was having trouble shutting it, her throat moving as she swallowed again and again. – The “aphrodisiac” on her lips, painted around her mouth, didn’t just trigger her lips to be more sensitive; her subconscious happily completed the connection, already entirely willing to think of her mouth as just a hole she served with, and declared that her entire throat was affected. Now it burned to be used – used not as intended but as a fuckhole, used by a cock, used to swallow and serve, thirsty in the most humiliating way. Between her legs, the steady drooling of her cunt surged noticeably in volume, and she shivered visibly with repressed arousal.

But it was only going to get worse from here. In fact, it was going to get so much worse so quickly that she really didn’t have time to hesitate and react to each individual dose; so, capping and replacing the first tube, she picked up the second and third at once between her fingers, uncapping them and putting the marked caps back down, before reaching between her legs with both at once.

She paused a moment, pulling down a towel to attempt to dry her sopping sex at least a little, before taking one last steadying breath – for all the good it did her, as the motion teased her burning throat and set her breasts to heaving – and then she committed. One swift motion, practically stabbing herself in the ass with one stick before rimming herself in bright pink, and then another with the other, neatly applying the final coating on a pair of ‘lips’ for which they were absolutely not intended. Before the impact could hit her, she shifted the last stick a half-centimeter up, and then – her clit kept always engorged and vulnerable by the ring piercing that gripped it tight around her base – completed her task with a relatively gentle rolling loop.

There was a pregnant pause, and then she collapsed to the ground with a soul-tearing, aching moan of sexual agony.

Somehow, she had the presence of mind to drop the lipstick tubes separately on the towel she’d used to dry herself with, but that was the last of it – the last of her conscious discipline, the limit of her endurance. Tears came to her eyes as she whined and moaned again, her hands scrabbling at her thighs and ass, long hours of conditioning keeping her fingers that last inch away from anything truly important even as they wandered helplessly through the air, instincts old as time warring with relatively new ones only a mere few years engraved. Desperate, empty, drooling from both ends at once, her body pounding with a dull pain as it complained of its long-denied lust and desires; she couldn’t help but gaze tearfully back at him, her eyes watery and wide. She didn’t beg aloud, of course – begging was something she did to entertain him, at a time of his choosing, not something to bother him with in vain hope of satisfying her needs – but her motions, her wide-eyed gaze in the mirror, were far eloquent enough.

But so was his returning smirk.