Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Fiction... A Thanksgiving Fantasy

“I bought you a present, Pretty Girl.” His voice was warm, calm, even happy. It was a Christmas morning kind of voice.

It penetrated her sense of mounting anxiety. Her voice was tense and squeaked a little, “Present?”

Her eyes widened as he held up a new thing, a black and strappy thing. It took a minute for her eyes to sort out the shape of it, to assign meaning to the tangle. It was a gag, a penis gag like she had pointed out to him so long ago on the kinky toy website.

He nodded as he saw the recognition and understanding grow in her eyes. “Open up, Pretty Girl.”

She nervously licked her lips and hesitantly spread her lips. The plastic cock filled her mouth, not too long but wide, it forced her jaws wider as he pushed it in and buckled the straps around her head. She blinked and moved her tongue around it. The plastic flavor was unpleasant and the scent of it and the new leather straps filled her nostrils. It did not penetrate too deep, she did not feel sickened or like she would choke, but it filled her mouth and the leather it was attached to covered her lips snugly. She bit down experimentally. It was just barely resilient.

His voice dropped to a demanding growl, “Scream for me.”

She flinched and surged against the ropes binding her as the pain lanced through her. She let out a muffled scream.

“Yes, good, exactly what we needed.”

She nodded her understanding. It was Wednesday, the night before Thanksgiving. The house already smelled of sage and cinnamon. Tomorrow the house would be full of the sounds and movement of loved ones. Some had already arrived and were hopefully sound asleep in the upstairs guest room. The gag meant he had every intent of hurting her but did not want to disturb the guests.

“Stay there, Pretty Girl, I will be right back. There are just a few more things I need to get before I can get cooking.”

She could not laugh at this joke, but she raised her eyebrows at him. She was already trussed up like a turkey. Those were his exact words; “trussed like a turkey”. Her arms were pinned behind her back exactly like she would soon twist the Thanksgiving turkey’s wings in the morning, bound behind her back and as she lay on them they forced her back to arch and lift up her full breasts to his sadistic whim. Her legs were sharply bent at the knee and bound up to her chest, spread wide. The arch in her back prevented her from lifting her head too high, but she knew that between those spread knees lay her empty holes. She lay there, thinking of what might come next, thinking about her holes, wet and hungry gaping holes, raw and meaty holes, waiting holes, holes waiting to be stuffed. The image of her hands filled with bread and onion stuffing, moving into the gaping hole of the turkey, pushing the sage scented filling into that dark opening until it was filled. These images mixed with her own predicament, her holes and his hands, the scent of lust confused with the scent of roasting meat. Her mouth flooded with saliva and as she swallowed convulsively she felt a matching trickle of moisture spill out between her legs and run down the curve of her ass.

His hands were full as he came back into the room, full of things from her kitchen, turkey basters, onions, spatulas, cucumbers, barding needles and cotton twine. He paused and let her stare at his hands, a slow sadistic smile slowly spreading across his face. His voice was softly taunting, “I was inspired by all your meal preparations today.”

He casually dropped the items on the bed and reached for the blindfold. “Time to get cooking, Pretty Girl.”

The next morning as she moved about the kitchen, as she met and wrapped her arms around all the people of her life, her smile was soft, her eyes thoughtful, soft little giggles seemed to rise up from nowhere as she prepared the bird for their meal.


  1. Holiday meal preparation has forever changed in my world. On the morning of Nov. 26th, 2043, I'll be thinking of you and your Master, xantu, again...with my own soft smile.

  2. It's fiction, pure fiction I say.