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The little minx looked irresistible tonight. As usual, she was dressed from head to toe in black. A sheer black long-sleeve covered her dainty black bralette. A too-short leather miniskirt barely covered her ass, and gauzy polka-dot tights clung tight to her thin legs.
And,as usual, she was wearing her coveted Doc Martens.
Sure, they looked cool, but they were a real bitch for her to put on and take off…
“Madam.” Spencer stood in front of me and tugged at the hem of her skirt.
“Spencer. Are you ready to play now?” I asked, formally initiating the scene.
She nodded—knowing full well I needed verbal confirmation—and I rolled my eyes with a sigh.
“Words, little moth,” Burke said. I could see he was eager, his cock already bulging inside of his slit.
Spencer looked down and bashfully twirled the toe of her boot against the floor. “Yes, Madam.”
“And what is your safe word?” I asked.
Her safety and her comfort came before anything else.
She glanced up at me, fluttering her lashes. “Vanilla.”
“Good girl. Now, undress for us.” I leaned back on the couch, beckoning Burke closer as Spencer strut into the middle of the room.
She bent over to start with her boots—
“Wait,” Burke said. “Leave them on.”
I glared at him, reminding him who was in charge here.
“Sorry, Madam,” he whispered, and trailed one of his furry feet over my leg.
“Continue, Spencer.”
She slowly undid the buttons of her shirt, dropping it to the floor before moving to her skirt. Wiggling her hips, she worked it down over her thighs, then kicked it at Burke. She stood there in her bralette, her tights, and a pair of lace, high-waisted underwear, waiting for her next command.
“Pet,” I purred and ran my hand along Burke’s jaw. “Tie her up for me, would you?”
It was time to have a little fun.
Spencer
Tie her up for me.
Those five little words held so much weight, so much promise.
It was why someone like Brian would never be enough for me.
Three months ago, I’d stumbled upon Madam and Burke playing in the woods. I’d watched from the shadows as the giant spider monster struggled against the web, his arms and legs bound to the fibers with rope. A fluffy taupe-colored moth stood on the forest floor just below him, her gossamer wings pressed tight to her sides while she used the soft length of her proboscis to work his cock from where it emerged from his slit.
She teased him, demeaned him, wringing every ounce of pleasure she could from his body until he was a panting, euphoric mess.
And when she was finished, she’d marched right over to where I was hiding and asked me if I’d enjoyed the show.
I grew up hearing the rumors of Briar Glenn’s Moth Madam. I should have been afraid of her, and Burke too, for that matter.
But I wasn’t. At least, not in the traditional sense.
They were monsters through and through. These morally gray, flawed beings that existed on the fringe of society. Their lives were a far cry from what I experienced in my own picture-perfect life, growing up in a picture-perfect town.
