Objects don't speak

Today, I have a request. I love requests.

I don't know how to explain my process. Someone asked, and I didn't have an answer. All I could tell them was that I just let the idea simmer for a bit, then the story jumps into my head with a basic structure, and grows once I start typing. I don't know how else to explain it. I have no other words.

And the best way I can tell if I did a good job is by figuring out whether or not a story turns ME on. And this one... does.

Objects don't speak

            They say most communication is non-verbal. I can attest to that. Verbal communication is when you talk to someone, and talking always takes place between people. That’s why she won’t talk to me.

  

           I don’t count.

           She still makes her will clear. She’ll tap me on the head when she wants me to open my mouth. She’ll pull on my leash when she wants me to move. A foot under my chin means to lift my head. Steady tugging on the leash means to keep going. And a slap across the cheek means to stop.

            She didn’t need to explain those things to me. Didn’t need to use words, not even small ones, to explain this to me. I learned through trial and error. Which was all I deserved, really. She made it very clear that only people deserve words.

            So when she said “Get on your knees slave,” I knew she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to him. I was already on my knees. I have been for so long I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t.

            And when he said “Yes Goddess,” I got a little jealous, but I also knew what it meant. It meant that he was more than me. That he was higher up than me, that I was meant to serve him same as her. If he was able to speak, if he was given permission to speak, that meant he was better than me. Objects don’t speak. Slaves speak. Slaves are more important than objects.

            I still have to listen, of course. I can’t see anything, which is a small comfort. I don’t have to look at him, don’t have to see him there. I don’t have to watch him fuck the most important woman in my life. I don’t have to watch her smile as he serves her. I don’t have to see the sparkle in his eyes when she says “Now lick my boots, bitch.”

            I don’t have to watch him crawl towards her. I don’t have to watch him cradle her ankle in his hands. I don’t have to watch his tongue trace over the leather.

            But it’s a small comfort. Because while I don’t have to see it, I do have to hear it. I have to listen to them fuck. I have to hear the sounds of pleasure she makes as he satisfies her. And I have to live with the knowledge that while he can satisfy her, it’s something that I will never do.

            I don’t have to watch him lick her boots. But when she puts her feet up on my back and tells him “Now suck the heels like they’re a cock,” I have to hear it. I have to feel him lift the weight from my back, have to feel him moving up and down the heel of her boots.

            She encourages him. “That’s a good little bitch,” she says, and I know she’s not talking to me. “Deep throat them you cock hungry bitch. God, you’re such a whore. Doesn’t it embarrass you?” She laughs, but not at me.

            She settles herself onto my back, and I can feel the bare legs of my Goddess. I can feel her flesh on mine, and the pressure of her weight is nothing. I am touching her, and that’s all that matters. Her legs spread, her boots pressing against my arm and my leg. Her hands touch me on the back. It’s heaven being so close to her, being touched by her. I am her couch, and it is wonderful.

            But then she snaps her fingers. “Come on,” she says. “Get down here and lick my cunt you pussy licking piece of shit.”

            And she’s not talking to me. I have to stay still, her seat as she wriggles from the pleasure being given to her by another man. I have to feel the stubble on his chin when it rubs against my ribs as he licks her. I have to feel his hands when he uses me for balance.

            I don’t have to see it, but I can feel him worshiping her with his tongue, doing all the things that I long to do, the things I would do anything for a chance at. I get to hear her sounds of pleasure, and I know how good of a job he’s doing. I know that I can do better. But I can’t say anything.

            I’m not to be spoken to, which means I’m definitely not allowed to speak.

            I have to listen to him flail around, I have to feel his cheek against my side as he tries to find that special place that will push her over the edge. I have to feel it all. And the best I can do is pretend that some of her laughter, maybe just a tiny bit, is directed at me. That on some level, she’s laughing at my willingness to be where I am rather than just as his ineptitude.

            When she finally makes him stop, when her form peels away from mine, I’m left feeling like I’ve lost everything. Her touch was so important, once it disappeared I could feel the outline of her flesh on mine. All I had left was the smell of her sweat in my nose and the dripping liquid on my side. Some of it was her. Some of it was just his spittle. I felt it drip down my skin, pooling underneath me until it finally started dripping into a puddle beneath me. I couldn’t wipe it off. I couldn’t move.

            Objects don’t move. Objects don’t wipe themselves off.

            Objects just stay where they are. They remain still even as they hear her getting fucked up against a wall. They remain still as she screams her pleasure. They remain still as he grunts like an animal.

            I know better than to move. I’m just glad I don’t have to see it. I’m glad I don’t have to watch her legs wrap around his waist, her ankles crossing. I can hear the bend of the leather in her boots, but I don’t have to see it.

            I can smell their sex, can smell his musk and her pleasure. I can hear it. But I don’t have to see it. I don’t have to watch it.

            I just stay still, suffering in silence, until they finally stop. Until she groans long and loud. Until I hear him say “May I please cum Goddess?” and I hear her reply.

            “No.”

            “Please?”

            I hear her laugh at him, at the desperation in his voice.

            “Please Goddess!” he begs. “I don’t know if I can stop.”

            “Not yet,” she says.

            I hear them continue, hear her groan again. I don’t have to watch her eyes roll back, don’t have to watch her bite her lip.

            “Now?”

            “Yes,” she says, panting the word out. “Cum for me bitch. Right now.”

            And I have to hear him scream in pleasure and release. I have to hear it, but I can’t move.

            I have to ignore the drip between my legs. I have to ignore the pressure, the animal desire to get involved. I’m not involved. I’m just here.

            Her boot slides under my chin. It’s still wet from when he licked it, and I can feel the slime of his spit against my flesh. She lifts my head up, then taps me on the top of the head.

            I open my mouth, obedient object that I am.

            “Come here, bitch. Put your cock in here.”

            “In his mouth, Goddess?”

            I hear a slap, but I feel nothing.

            “Not him, bitch. It. It is just an object. It’s here to get you clean. Can’t have you going back to work with your cock all covered in my juices, can I?”

            “Can I take off the condom, Goddess?”

            “Yes. But when you’re good and clean, make sure to put it in the hole so that the object can slurp it clean.”

            I don’t close my mouth. I want to. I want to close my mouth, I want to shake my head. I want to make it all stop. And I know that I can. I can prevent any of it from happening. All it would take is a word. One word, and everything would stop. I could be a person again.

            I could say it. But I don’t. I can’t bring myself to say it.

            When he puts his hand on my head, I don’t say it. When he slides his cock into my mouth and tells me “slurp it clean,” I don’t say it. When he pushes it deeper and deeper, so deep that I wonder if his cock will ever end, I still don’t say it.

            I could have said it when he finally pulls his cock out of my throat. I could have said it when he had me lick her juices from his balls. I could have said it when he laughed at me and called me pathetic.

            I could have said my word, but I didn’t. He called me pathetic, and all I could think was that he had actually spoken to me. He had given me a word, even if it was only one.

            I heard her hit him. I don’t know where, but I heard his pain. “Don’t speak to the furniture,” she said. Then she tapped my head again.

            My mouth popped open, and she put something inside. Something made of latex. Then she closes my mouth, and I can taste the cum on the inside of the condom.

            “Next time you disobey me,” she says, “I’m going to make you suffer a lot more than a little kick. Now get up, get dressed, and get out.”

            She settles back down on my back, dripping on my side again, forming a whole new stream across my stomach.

            “Yes Goddess,” I hear him say.

            She ignores him. No more words for him.

            And none for me.