Total Ownership
Ownership wasn't a word anymore. It was my skin. My breath. The constant hum in my veins from the pipe that Daddy kept loaded 24/7. I didn't leave his apartment now—why would I? The world outside was gray and empty. Here, in this haze of smoke and sweat, I was alive. Owned. A sissy meth puppet with strings tied to every throbbing BBC that walked through the door.
That night, the ritual started earlier. Daddy had me prepped by sunset: fresh shave, skin oiled and glistening, latex catsuit zipped tight but the back flap open like an invitation. My cage was off for once—Daddy said good girls earn freedom sometimes—but a thick pink collar locked around my neck, "Meth Slut" etched in rhinestones. Makeup heavier than ever: crimson lips swollen from constant use, eyes shadowed black like bruises.
He sat me on the couch, pipe in hand. "Big night, princess. You're getting marked. Owned for real."
I whimpered, already twitching. He lit the bowl, held it to my lips. "Deep hit. Hold till you see stars."
I inhaled like a vacuum—sweet burn filling me, chest tight, head exploding into fireworks. The rush hit so hard my uncaged clitty jumped straight up, leaking instantly. Colors pulsed. My hole ached empty, begging.
The door opened. Not three men this time. Five. All towering, ripped, dark-skinned gods with cocks that made my mouth water on sight. They filed in, eyes on me like prey. Daddy passed the pipe around first—hits for everyone, clouds filling the room until the air tasted like crystal.
No words. Just action.
They surrounded me. Hands everywhere—rough, demanding. One yanked my head back by the collar, forcing the pipe between my lips again. "Smoke up, bitch. We want you flying."
I hit it hard, exhaling into another's mouth as he kissed me brutal, tongue deep. The high doubled, tripled. My body melted into sensation: latex sticking to sweat-slick skin, nipples pinched raw through the shiny black, clitty throbbing untouched.
They stripped what little I had on. Latex peeled off in sticky pulls, leaving me naked except the collar and heels. Bent me over the arm of the couch, ass high. The first one didn't tease—slammed in balls-deep, his girth splitting me with a burn that the meth turned into liquid ecstasy. I screamed, but it came out a moan, pushing back for more.
Another stepped in front, cock slapping my face. "Open wide, sissy."
I did. Throat fucked immediately—deep, relentless, gagging me until spit poured down my chin. The pipe came back mid-thrust: someone holding it while I choked on dick, forcing smoke down my lungs. I coughed around him, but didn't stop sucking. Couldn't. The high made every violation feel like heaven.
They tag-teamed me without mercy. One in my ass, pounding so hard my teeth rattled. One in my mouth, using my throat like a fleshlight. The others stroking themselves, slapping my tits, my clitty, leaving red welts that burned deliciously. I came dry first—body seizing, hole clenching around the cock inside me like a vice. They laughed, called me a quick-trigger whore.
"Reload her," Daddy ordered.
Pipe again. Bigger hit. I inhaled until my vision tunneled, the room spinning. They flipped me onto my back on the coffee table, legs pulled wide. Two at once now—one in my ass, stretching me impossibly, the other forcing his way in beside him. Double penetration. The pain was nuclear, but the meth rewired it—pure, shattering bliss. I howled, clitty spurting weak cum across my stomach without a touch.
"Look at her leak," one growled. "Meth's got her pussy on fire."
They fucked me like that for what felt like hours—rotating cocks, keeping both holes stuffed. My throat raw from sucking, face painted in precum and spit. Pipe hits every few minutes, keeping the peak endless. I blacked out once from the intensity, came to with a fresh load flooding my guts, another shooting down my throat.
Then the marking.
Daddy pulled me up, knees shaking, body a trembling wreck. "On all fours, princess. Time to sign your ownership."
They circled me, cocks in hand. One by one, they jerked off onto my skin—hot ropes across my back, ass, tits, face. But it wasn't just cum. Daddy had a sharpie ready. As each one finished, he wrote on me: "BBC Property" on my ass cheeks. "Meth Whore" across my chest. Their initials branded on my thighs, permanent ink sinking in like tattoos.
I moaned through it all, high as fuck, clitty dripping. Owned. Marked. Theirs.
When they were done, Daddy knelt in front of me, pipe glowing. "Last hit, baby. Seal the deal."
I sucked it down, exhaling as he slid his cock into my cum-slick hole one last time. He fucked me slow now—possessive, deep—while the others watched, stroking themselves back to hardness.
"You're mine forever," he whispered. "This body. This mind. Addicted. Owned."
I came one final time—shattering, sobbing—as he bred me deep, the room fading into smoke and bliss.
When morning came, I didn't move. Just lay there, marked and leaking, pipe within reach.
Waiting for the next hit.
The next cock.
Owned.
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