Joy is a slave. She loves it, and has found something she's very good at.
Joy stroked her collarbone and her thigh, subtly brushing her nude vulva in the process. Her breaths were heavy, unlike the kisses of the girl she'd been given for the night.
The little waif of a thing was a slave, just like Joy, brand new to their owner's ever-growing inventory, and she was so, so sweet. Her lips skipped up and down Joy’s leg like a pebble across a pond, with only Joy's catching gasps as the ripples that even implied they touched. But as gravity inevitably pulls pebbles below the water, so would Joy pull this girl into the depths of utter depravity.
It was Joy’s calling. Her owner would buy a new slave, pass them to Joy, and Joy molded them into something deliciously wicked.
The process couldn't be rushed, nor would Joy ever wish it were quicker. The chemical breakdown of innocence let off a scent sweeter than the finest vanilla or the freshest wild honeysuckle. And each new girl in the harem was unique. Joy couldn't imagine simply pinning them to a bed and fucking them flat until they learned mere passivity was all that was expected from them, no. They were quality, nurtured flora, and Joy the gardener would allow no such conformity and rigidity in her botanical masterpiece.
This girl would never know how she arrived at the end point of her journey, whether it ended with her own fist inside her sopping core, rubbing her slick body over their owner's back in the oil massage parlor, or whipping another slave to orgasm, but she would know where that journey began: here, beneath Joy’s legs, desperately trying not to let on how much she would love to try sucking on Joy’s toe.
It was the embarrassment that Joy would prune away first. All former expectation of modesty was a constraint of society and miserable upbringing. But Joy could sense those so-called taboo desires, those hungers, those cravings. Soon this girl, now thin as a pole, weak, quivering with both fear and want, would become something unbound.
To that end, Joy shifted ever so slightly as the girl timidly approached her ankle. Just a little, seemingly shy adjustment, as if Joy were unsure—a hilariously preposterous concept, Joy being “unsure” was—if she would be accepted. The tiniest reminder of what was below that ankle which this girl so craved.
The girl took the bait. Her next kiss was on Joy's heel. Her hopeful eyes wandered up Joy’s body, looking for the reaction.
Joy gasped a little louder, but bit her lip. She directed a gaze, full of all the longing and lust of a young woman in the midst of discovery, directly into the girl's eyes.
The girl timidly brushed her lips from Joy’s heel to her toes. Her heart beat so powerfully that Joy could practically hear it, that it had to hurt. That yearning for just a little acceptance was palpable.
Joy breathed heavier and barely spread her toes, touching the girl's lip with the ever so slight proactivity of one who wanted more but was too afraid to say it. She swallowed loudly, as if she was fighting not to drool her desire into the open air.
The girl bloomed. She captured Joy's big toe between her lips and sucked. Her tongue slid around the digit like candy, and she almost squeaked out a moan. Her hands, once only just supporting the weight of Joy's leg, latched on to Joy's foot, cradling it and feeling it like a new, precious object of worship.
As soon as the girl's eyes shut, letting ecstacy wash over her, Joy smiled. She almost chuckled, but held back in favor of her own lustful moan to encourage this girl to let out her voice.
Such a simple challenge. The girl whimpered aloud as she moved down to the next toe, sucking like she was possessed. And perhaps by technical definition she was possessed by Joy.
That gentle, floral scent of eroding innocence wafted Joy's way, and she reveled in it. She allowed herself to simply enjoy it, leaning back and rolling her hips. This was what she needed to cum. The girl would believe it was her fetishistic ministrations—Joy would guarantee she believed it—but it was far, far more potent than that.
Joy breathed out one word, loaded with layers of disguised purpose, designed to make anyone soak themselves with passion.
“Yes…”
If the girl's pleasured shiver was any indication, and it was, Joy succeeded. She always did.