Made to Order

MADE TO ORDER
*Warning: Contains rough sex, crude language, and alternate sexuality.*

Everyone is busy; the air is filled with the chatter of words and a sense of excitement. Though ostensibly seated at computer terminals to work, the real purpose of the animation becomes clear when the boss, with some nervous flushing and a very pronounced shine to his face, announces:

“Ladies, it’s time. Enjoy your hour. Thank you.”

He then disappears rapidly within his office. His door closes with an audible click, thus encasing him in a sound-proof cocoon. There is a tense silence in the office; a bell rings. It is the signal to begin. Hundreds of fingers fly over the computer keys creating a symphony of cybertronic clicking.

She logs on to www.loverinabox.co.uk and waits for the site to load. Tapping her fingers nervously, she smooths out the scrap of paper. It’s her wishlist; with nervous anticipation she checks to ensure that everything is on it. She frowns at the list and adds two items. The site has loaded; she begins filling out the form. With a satisfied nod of her head she enters her credit information and hits “Enter”. She receives a visual confirmation and goes to wait in line to pick up the paper version. She carefully reads over the instructions, memorizing them. Then the bell rings and it’s back to regular time again.

On the way home, she stops by the shops to pick up a few things. Her mobile rings; it’s a text message confirming that her order is ready and delivered. Her heart races; so soon? She hardly has time to think as she hurries to the line and exits the store quickly. She digs into the pocket of her Burberry to retrieve her keys as she heads down Hollen Street to her flat at The Hat Factory. She feels the surge of her womanly powers; she can hardly walk straight and she flushes with excitement. Not another dull night of tea and telly, then. There is a scent of hedonism in the air…

Opening the door to her flat with the key, the perfume of roses floats out towards her. She smiles with approval; they got it right, down to the very last details. The muted light of hundreds of candles greets her; Barry White’s voice, low and sexy growls from the stereo system. The aroma of well-cooked food makes her stomach growl but food is the last thing on her mind when she sees the vision of loveliness coming out of the kitchen, dressed in a French maid outfit, long, ginger curls held back by the cap. Green eyes, accentuated by silver eyeshadow; long lashes accentuated by mascara. Thick, juicy lips, pouty and painted a matte brick red. Legs for days, and a tight, firm derriere peeking out from beneath the scalloped edges of the short, short skirt.

She slams the flat door, closes and locks it, drops the bags to the floor unheeded and then turns to face the ginger apparition with a slow, wicked grin on her face. First she unbuttons her Burberry and lets it drop to the floor. Her skirt follows suit, along with both jumper and blouse. Advancing on the waiting figure she licks her lips and pulls the camisole over her head and then whips it off to the side without a glance. It falls gracefully behind the sofa while she, feline and lithe, dressed in electric blue bra and panties with shiny knee-length boots advances upon the amazing redhead.

Reaching out, she grasps the ginger to pull the full red lips towards her, hungry for the touch of her kiss. The kiss is amazing, tongues and lip gloss and smooth teeth clicking together. She buries her hands in the deep ginger ocean of hair and finds the tiny button, pushing it three times as indicated on the instructions manual she committed to heart earlier at the office.

The ginger doll, animated but silent, now comes to life. “Welcome home, lover. It’s been such a long time waiting for you.” The words are whispers, cut off by further kissing. Fingers rip open the French maid’s blouse, the plump breasts hiding beneath are brought forth, admired, nuzzled and squeezed. The luscious nipples, deeply brown and erect, are pinched and sucked eagerly, first one then the other in turn. She lays the doll upon the floor; it responds with soft cooing and obligingly slides off the red lace pearl thong it was wearing.

Going into the dining room, she grabs a chair. Bringing it back into the hallway in front of the doll, she turns it around and sits upon it with her own thighs open. Fixing her gaze upon the figure lying on the floor, she says “Get up and crawl over here, now.”

On hands and knees, the doll crawls over, head down, dark mahogany red curls swaying back and forth. She stops before the chair.

The seated figure stands and unties the electric blue lace bikini knickers she has been wearing. Totally naked from the waist down, she resumes her seat, boots up on the rungs of the chair.

“Take off all your clothes.”

The automaton rises to its knees and with quick fingers removes the rest of its clothing. It waits quietly on its knees, naked, the breasts with their dark nipples rising and falling in the respiratory simulation pattern.

“Turn around and let me finger that ass” the seated figure commands.

The doll obliges, on hands and knees now, with the well-formed buttocks presented towards the chair.

Taking her index and forefinger, the seated figure puts them into her mouth, sucking lustily on them while slowly stroking her pussy. Then, she leans forward and with one hand, separates the buttocks of the doll. Inserting the forefinger, she wonders at the encompassing tightness, the receptivity of the skin as her fingers sink deeply into the flesh. Moaning, the doll begins to slowly rock back and forth in time with the probing digit, rotating its hips so the digit is immersed even deeper.

Suddenly, the seated figure withdraws the digit. Putting it to her nose and inhaling the essence deeply she smiles. “Stand up now, and turn around. I am ready for you” she says to the kneeling figure more gently.

Arising from the floor, the figure turns around. It presents an attractive figure, fully erect and muscular, naked skin the colour of a freshly-brewed chai. It comes towards her with sure strides, catching her around her waist and nuzzling her neck.

“Take me, now, please, right here.” Her voice, though soft, was rich with power and passion. Confidence and lust race through her body and the electric thrill of being with the absolutely best in creation takes her to dizzying heights. She is laid on the floor with gentleness while the doll retrieves a tube of lubricant from the French maid’s pocket.

“Lay down. I want to ride you,” she says to the automaton, who smiles and rubs the lubricant liberally onto the shaft of its rigid cock. She accepts the offer of lube and trembles as the well-manicured hands anoint her already slick vagina. The doll lies on its back, perfect breasts globular in the way only saline can be, erect cock throbbing with life-like realism, pubic hair darkly ginger, wet with lubricant, legs bent at the knees to facilitate her slide downward, onto the hardness that filled her inner matrix and expanded her internally. She groans as the nerve endings of her vagina tingle and sing, the friction of flesh upon flesh exciting them. Her own breasts bob and gyrate wildly writhing within the brassiere, nipples poking through the fabric as she raises and lowers herself upon the slick penis.

The doll, with well-timed and executed manoevres adjusts to meet her so that the two of them connect and separate, connect and separate in an endless pleasurable rhythm.

“Switch, now doggy-style” she pants and before she can think the doll expertly and adroitly manages to tilt both of them into the perfect position. “Harder and faster, please” and that’s all she can say because incredibly the orgasms are rolling, gathering strength like thunderclouds on the near horizon. She squeezes her eyes shut and contracts her vaginal muscles as the first wave sends shudders through her body. She cries out; instantly a hand is over her mouth, stifling her cries while the voice hisses in her ear “Love you but don’t want the neighbours hearing you getting fucked do you, precious?”

All she can do is nod and scream, scream into the hand restraining her, while the doll twists and turns its hips, wringing every last drop of ecstasy from her body. When she at last collapses onto the bed, exhausted, happy and spent, the hand is removed and a gentle massage begins.

Later, when she awakens, she feels the arms about her, strong and reassuring.

From the dark, the voice speaks, hesitant, unsure.

“Are you pleased with me, my lady?”

She thinks over the experience, considering. There are a few new tricks she’d like to try; but there are thousands of apps that come with this model. In fact, she is going to upload the Kama Sutra at the very first opportunity. She turns around to kiss those delectable lips.

“Very pleased with you, my darling. In fact, my love, you are practically perfect in every way.”

Mistress Raeven

Mistress Raeven , London's Dark Secret, is a professional dominatrix, sex educator, writer of erotica and fashion stylist/designer. Her versatile,eclectic outlook encompasses the worlds of Vampyre, Goth, Fetish as well as more “mainstream” sectors. Embracing the chaos and change of both her natal Death card as well as the powers of the Dragon/Serpent, this London mistress opens up lively dialogue in order to promote sex-positivity across various media. “Sex is on my mind quite often, so why not share?” is the basis of her philosophy. The Black Rose of England regularly offers sessions, classes, workshops, events and appearances.

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1 Response

  1. slaveboots says:

    Another brilliant piece of imaganitive and erotic writing from Mistress Raeven. Its (presumably) the latest in a long line of excellence that cerrtainly gives me a “joie de vivre” thank You for Your time and sharing.