‘Is she ready?’

‘She was ready before she knew this was happening,’ you tell me, smirking.

‘Undoubtedly. But is she prepped?’

‘Fully,’ you assure. In black-leather bustier, high-heels and panties to match, you’re fabulously prepped too, for your agreed role. Flaming hair loosed and lustrous. Rocking the ‘goddess’. Birthday-girl is bottoming this trio.

‘How, precisely?’ I inquire.

‘Stripped, shaved, washed, perfumed. As specified. Teased beyond endurance with her favourite toy.’

‘To orgasm?’

‘No, poor thing.’

‘Excellent. Bring her out.’

You retreat to the hallway, returning with Sylva–collared and leashed, and crawling like a good doggie. As specified. She’s naked…ish. Black-leather straps network her body–criss-crossing her chest to separate and accentuate her thrusting tits, buckled tight around her waist, stretched till they creak against her ass’s firm orbs. All accessories–wristlet, hairband, heels–are pink to match her glistening, swollen labia. The ball-gag around which she salivates is also pink, likewise the bulb that stretches out her butthole.

‘Nice.’

She gazes at us, plaintively. We share a smile, as you loosen the gag and draw it free. Relish drips from her hungry mouth.

‘Here, slut,’ I say, seizing her ponytailed hair and pressing her face to my pants-crotch. She nuzzles, trailing her pink, wet tongue around the zipper, saturating the fabric with her spit, pressing her sopping mouth against my bulge. Granite-hard, I unzip and release, feeding my length into that pink-lipped O and stretching her fuck-doll wide. ‘Do the honours,’ I tell you.

‘Gladly.’

You seize her head two-handed and push her onto my thickness with lip-biting enjoyment. Her staring eyes widen as she’s stuffed, more so when you pump her on me. The motion works up a lather of thick spit; both her lips and my cock are dripping thickly before you pull her free. I reinsert, and, claiming ponytail and throat, ram her down until she damn well gurgles.

‘Fuck…’ I groan, ‘that’s good.’

‘She agrees.’ You grin, wickedly.

‘Yup.’ If not, Jeepers is her chosen word. Or tap her foot three times, if vocally stifled. No such move detectable, I stretch to fondle her tight-strapped cheeks while she’s impaled, her nose crushed to my stomach. I smack each taut pillow, cock-shaft pressuring her hard-contracting throat as my palm cracks. My fingers check her cunt while down there… It’s sopping. I pull back and out, glutinous mess spilling from her mouth.

You scoop it up and smear it about her panting face, while I slap her with my goo-glazed cock. Then I plunge back in and throat-fuck her like I’ll soon be ploughing another hole. ‘Smack that ass,’ I tell you, and you whack the slut with fervour as she throat-slimes my shaft. You tongue her asshole for good measure. Go you!

‘Think my cock’s tasty?’ I ask Sylva, extracting myself.

‘Uh-huh.’ Gluey stalactites dangle from her chin.

‘Let me improve the flavour.’ I grab the leash at the collar and drag her scrambling to the bed, where you’re already seated, panties off, spreading high and wide, flashing the red bush that adorns your visibly drooling pussy. I pull her close–make her watch, tongue extended, as I bend you double on your back and torpedo your greedy hole, pumping like fury. You cry out and laugh in satisfaction–that you’re getting fucked, while this needy bitch must pant and wait her turn.

I pull out and feed my cock right down her throat, letting her taste you, making her cunt crave its filling. ‘Suck it, slut,’ I hiss, making sure she gobbles properly, before I plumb your depths once more, coating myself from tip to balls to treat her with another flavoured face-fuck. By the time I’m done reaming her mouth, she’s a mascara-smeared (albeit pretty) mess.

‘Time for her party?’ I inquire, gripping her tresses.

‘Yes,’ you gleefully affirm.

‘Then get the cake.’

‘I’m on it.’

You speed to the kitchen while I strip naked, groping Sylva’s rack and sucking her nipples hard, frig-fucking her juicy twat until she sobs. You return with the cake–a substantial layer affair, thick with pink frosting, setting it onto the bedsheet I laid earlier on the carpet. Dead centre, one fat red candle burns.

‘Make a wish,’ I tell the birthday girl, ‘and blow it out.’

Her well-stretched lips pout to snuff it. I raise the smoking candle. You yank her back. I tip pooled wax over her helplessly proffered breasts, so that it splatters and sizzles on her rigid nipples. Her joyful squeals make you finger-fuck yourself.

I scoop frosting from the cake and smear it on my glans. ‘Want some?’ Sylva nods and opens wide, but it’s you who laps the buttercream, while she languishes, mouth agape.

‘Feeling neglected?’ I ask. Her face is sorrowful as she nods. ‘Let’s fix that.’

I put her on hands and knees, face hovering above her cake. Then I penetrate her from behind, her cunt beyond slippery. She cries out with relief to be gripped tight, cock surging to her core. Those cries are interrupted when I seize her hair and plant her face in the pink confection, squishing it there emphatically as I keep on fucking.

‘Enjoy your cake,’ I growl. When I pull her up, you’re ready with your phone, capturing her thickly frosted features and her wax-encrusted tits. She blinks through fondant-sticky lashes to stare at the picture you’ve taken. Beautiful.

I pound away. You make her lick frosting from your garnished nipples, working her clit and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ while you frig.

‘Happy Birthday, dear Fuckslut,’ I concur, shafting her full and reddening her ass with celebratory slaps. ‘Happy Birthday to you!’

‘Happiest–birthday–ever,’ the used girl moans, right before she squirts all over you, whereupon I gift her with my scalding load. You lick her face and auto-fuck yourself until you merge into the orgasm-fest.

There’ll be many happy returns, for the three of us–as you and I let Sylva know her place.

As our birthday bitch’s wishes all come true.