Afternoon Tea

This story is marked NSFW for BDSM, pet play, master-servant dynamics, and explicit sex featuring a big scary monster man and a small cute monster girl.


Penelope took slow and careful steps with the tea tray, wary of her ability to maintain balance with tall heels locked to her ankles. Thigh-high white socks kept the leather from chafing her skin, otherwise spoiled with silk petticoats and ribbons to keep her wrapped in softness. Even the collar locked around her neck was silk-lined.

The fluffy ears pressed against her hair betrayed her anxiety.

She made it through the library without incident, her insides tying into knots the closer she came to the master of the house. He smelled like cinnamon smoke, all dressed in velvet and gold. His scales were an opalescent purple, smaller and finer nearer to the angular features of his face, straight black horns threatening the upholstery. His tail was draped over the armrest, decorated with thick bracelets.

Standing, he was nearly twice her height. Sitting was not much better.

She set the tray on the table beside him before moving to retreat. Without looking up from his book, he reached out to grab one of her pigtails to pull her closer. She stifled a sound, nearly tipping over. He pushed silently downward on her head, still reading, and so she knelt obediently at his feet.

Penelope waited there as he sipped at his tea, not acknowledging her again.

Eventually, he picked up a small cookie from the tray; slowly, he extended his arm and dropped it. Without thinking, she caught it with both hands.

When she looked up, he was watching her intently. His eyes were solid black, betraying nothing.

"I’m sorry," she said, shrinking closer to the floor, ears pressed flat again.

"Up," he said, his voice volcanic. She scrambled upright as best she could, and held out the cookie. He took it back, twirled his fingers in the air, and she turned around. She clasped her hands behind her back, and he began unlacing the ribbons on her sleeves to tie her arms together instead. Ribbons criss-crossed all up her forearms to bind them behind her, until he nudged her shoulder to turn her back around.

He tossed the cookie, and this time she caught it with her teeth. It was light and airy enough that she could practically swallow it whole.

He set his book aside, a fact that made her nervous. Picking up another cookie, he held it out instead of tossing it. Tentatively, she stepped forward and tried to take it. He lifted it to just above her head before she could, just out of reach. She tried to balance on her toes, but it wasn’t enough. She whined.

"You can do it," he coaxed, and her face felt hot, well aware that he was teasing her. She tried, as weakly as she could, to jump off the ground enough to reach it with her teeth. Sharp canines snapped fruitlessly in the air, still not enough to reach. Her breasts bounced, the effect exacerbated by having her arms bound behind her. "You can do better than that," he chided, and she huffed, face scrunching in irritation. He just grinned, deadly white teeth a pointed reminder. She tried to jump again, and again, and each time he pulled it just out of reach so that he could continue to enjoy watching her. Layers of white petticoats flounced beneath knee-length black skirts, flashing the bare skin of her thighs.

Eventually she landed with a heel at the wrong angle, lost her balance and collapsed to her knees. She curled her knees beneath herself, pouting instead of getting back up.

"Aww," he said, "tired of playing?" Penelope huffed again as he prodded her with the toe of his boot. He hooked his claws into the ribbons that wrapped around her arms, using them to hoist her up off the floor. She squeaked in alarm, feeling no safer when he’d set her down in his lap. Warm and hard, and she flinched when he stroked her cheek with scaled knuckles. Heavy rings decorated each of his fingers. She crossed her ankles anxiously between his knees, the locks there clattering together.

"Who’s a good girl?" he asked, hot breath and the threat of teeth against the back of her neck. He rubbed at her ears to make her squirm, her arms trapped against his stomach. Then he adjusted her dress, pulling at the skirts and petticoats until there was nothing between them but lace panties and his own trousers. She could feel the press of his cock against them. He scritched at her scalp and massaged her ears again, until she pressed her knees together with a whimper. His cock twitched in response.

"Tongue," he said, and immediately she stuck out her tongue. He set the cookie on it, stroking her hair until she’d swallowed it. Then he dipped a finger into the honey beside his tea, offering it to her. She licked at it until he pushed it into her mouth, scales against her lips and a talon on her tongue. Her clit throbbed with enough force that she felt it in her thighs.

"Who’s a good girl?" he asked again, not rhetorical this time.

"I am," she said, or tried to say, with the digit still filling her mouth. He forced a second finger between her lips, splayed them out enough that she had to open her mouth wide. Then he removed them, wrapping his hands around her waist instead. He pushed her down against his still-trapped erection, sliding her along the length of it, using her to stroke himself; she groaned, trying to tilt her hips into the friction.

One hand let her go just long enough to unlace the front of her dress. He tugged it downward to pull it free of her breasts. They felt heavy without the support of her clothes, a pull at her skin as it tightened around her nipples. Then he held her waist again, curled his palms around round hips to grind her downward. Her breasts swayed as she moved.

He altered his hold on her to reach beneath her dress, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her thighs as he pulled them apart. Between them, and underneath her, he unlaced his trousers. Then he adjusted her weight until his cock sprang free, jutting out between her thighs. Stiff and unyielding, scaled as the rest of him, her slick panties pressed against the base of it. He fondled her breasts as she closed her legs again, a tent in her skirt where he was longer than she was round. He pulled at her nipples, and she rocked her hips, her thighs sliding along his length as she moved. Claws pressed dangerously against her skin as he squeezed, lightly scratched circles until she whined.

When the skin of her breasts was hot and sore, he hooked his hands beneath her knees, protected by the knit of her socks. He lifted her legs up and apart, leaving her bent in two and exposed as the head of his cock pressed against delicate lace. It rubbed her clit, nearly pushed the fabric inside of her. Finally the persistent friction of rough scales made it tear, flimsy as it was, and the head of his cock was forced into her. She cried out, tightening around it though he held her open.

Gravity did most of the work in impaling her, filling and stretching her with agonizing slowness. The hands that held her made her bounce only a little, just enough to coax her down faster. Penelope whimpered and groaned and gasped for air with each hard ridge of it, until the whole of his cock was sheathed inside her. He let her legs go so that they could fall limp, her dress draped over his lap again. He rubbed at her ears. "Good girl." Though her hands were still bound, she used them to grip at his belt, desperate to feel more secure.

He pinched one of her still-aching nipples to make her tighten around him again, pulling a little so she’d squirm. Her cries were muffled when he forced two fingers into her mouth again, then louder when they forced her jaw to open wide. He didn’t thrust, or move her at all; just toyed with her breasts so that she’d writhe as best she could with his cock still inside her, noises incoherent and undignified with her mouth held open.

When he grew bored of that game he let her go, and she panted, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t have long to recover as he put his hands on her waist again, and she squeaked as he lifted her almost completely off of him. She felt hollowed out and empty, her thighs soaked and limbs weak. Then he pushed her back down, sliding his cock all the way in all at once and making her squeal. The way her petticoats fluttered when he pushed her onto him made him chuckle. He did it again, this time admiring the way her legs curled as he pulled her off of him, straightened when he pushed her back down, went limp when he held her there.

He liked her legs. He liked how thick she was, soft all over. Soft lips and dainty little fingers, the click of her heels and her tiny black fingernails, needle-sharp teeth and that little patch of black skin at the tip of her nose. Her thick eyelashes, and thick eyebrows, and her blue left eye. He liked how soft her hair was when he played with it, the fur on her ears, the downy fluff that surrounded the heat of her cunt and how it felt against his scales. He liked that she smelled like bergamot oil, but he liked it better when he made her smell like sweat and salt and sex.

He pulled at the neckline of her dress so that he could press his teeth into her bare shoulder, because she was soft and delicate and the color of caramel and he liked the way his teeth looked as bruises she could wear and the helpless sounds she made when he was hurting her.

"You a good girl?" he asked before running his tongue over the indentations in her skin.

"Yes, Sir," she said, her voice shaky and breathless.

"You sure?" he asked, cupping her jaw and stroking her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

"Yes, Sir."

Moving his hands to her waist, he once again pulled her off of him, ramming her back down so her body would bounce and she’d let out a high-pitched squeal. "You a good girl?" he asked again.

"Yes, Sir," she choked out, her voice thick. Again he lifted her to force her back down, and this time it was automatic that she said Yes, Sir. He kept going, fast and hard, using her to pump his cock as carelessly as his own hand while she repeated her affirmation like a chant. Her breath caught, her words trailing off into an oh, oh, oh as she started to tighten and spasm around him.

The way she cried out when she came wasn’t quite a howl, but it was sort of a howl.

When she was sensible again, he was still bouncing her in his lap, fast and deep and urgent. Then he buried himself in her fully and held her still, cock twitching as it filled her with heat. Her thighs were too slick with her own arousal to feel it, but experience told her that his lengthy climax would be too much for her, filling her up and spilling out onto her skin and staining her petticoats.

She pressed her thighs together as he pulled out of her, trying despite futility to minimize the mess he’d made of her. More futile yet when he used her skirt to wipe his cock clean, then tucked it beneath her as a barrier to his own clothing.

His willingness to leave her covered in filth did not extend to risking his own wardrobe.

He freed her arms, but gave her a warning tap on the nose when she tried to cover her breasts. She curled up sideways in his lap, and he stroked her ears as he picked his book back up. She yawned, leaning against his chest. He tugged the ribbons out of her hair so that he could rake his claws through it. "Pretty Penny," he cooed, sing-song, nuzzling at her ears. "Good little Ellie, Penny-Ellie-Ope."

As lullabies went, it was not the best.

"Sleepy girl?" he asked, and she nodded. "Comfy?" She nodded again. "Good."

He kissed the top of her head, and went back to reading his book.