Chapter 2: Butter and Obedience
The bell above the door jingled, a bright, obscenely cheerful sound. Every step Eliza took was a study in forced normalcy. The plug shifted, a deep, intimate reminder with each movement. The silk lining of Morgan’s blazer whispered against her nipples, a tormenting caress. She was hyper-aware of the air moving between her bare legs, of the soft, vulnerable parts of her left completely exposed and untouched by anything but the jacket’s hem.
Morgan led them to a booth at the back, its red vinyl gleaming under the warm glow of a pendant lamp. It was semi-private, shielded by a high partition, but the murmur of other conversations—a family debating syrup choices, a couple on a late date—drifted over, anchoring them firmly in public view.
Eliza slid in, the vinyl cool against the backs of her thighs. Sitting down changed everything. The plug pressed up, a firm, claiming presence. The egg felt suddenly more conspicuous, a foreign weight low in her belly. She arranged the jacket over her lap as best she could, crossing her ankles tightly. Her hands, now free but marked with angry red lines, trembled slightly as she picked up the laminated menu, seeing nothing.
Morgan sat opposite, her calm a fortress. She didn’t look at the menu. She watched Eliza. “The usual?” she asked, her voice neutral, pleasant.
Eliza nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat.
A waitress with a tired smile and a pencil tucked behind her ear appeared. “What can I get you ladies?”
“Two stacks of buttermilk pancakes, extra butter, bacon crisp. Two black coffees,” Morgan said, her tone easy. She didn’t glance at Eliza.
When the waitress left, the fragile normalcy shattered. Morgan’s hand slipped into her pocket. She placed the small black remote on the table between the sugar dispenser and the salt shaker. It was an innocent object to anyone else. To Eliza, it was a detonator.
“Hands on the table, baby,” Morgan murmured, leaning forward on her elbows. “Palms down.”
Eliza obeyed, placing her stinging, marked wrists on the cool Formica. It felt like an offering, a surrender.
Morgan’s finger hovered over the remote. “Color?”
The code was simple, established in safer moments. Green for good, yellow for pause, red for stop. Eliza’s mind raced. She was terrified, humiliated, so fucking turned on she felt dizzy. The fullness inside her was a relentless, throbbing demand. She wanted to crawl across the table. She wanted to run.
“Green,” she whispered, the word scraping out.
Morgan’s smile was slow. She tapped the button.
The egg inside Eliza woke with a vicious, sudden buzz. It wasn’t the teasing pattern from the car. This was a constant, medium-grade vibration, a deep, insistent thrum that made her clench instantly. Her thighs squeezed together under the table, a pathetic attempt to muffle the sensation. A soft gasp escaped her.
“Easy,” Morgan said, her voice low. She reached out and casually adjusted the napkin dispaker, her movements loose and natural. Her foot, under the table, found Eliza’s bare ankle and pressed, a grounding point of contact amidst the internal storm.
The waitress returned with their coffees. Eliza jerked her hands into her lap, folding them tightly. She kept her eyes on the thick white mug, watching the dark liquid swirl. Her entire lower body was alive, buzzing, wet. She could feel her own slickness beginning to coat her inner thighs. The waitress said something about the food being up soon. Eliza nodded, hoping her smile didn’t look like a grimace.
When they were alone again, Morgan’s foot retreated. Her hand returned to the table, fingers drumming lightly next to the remote. “Hands back.”
Eliza put her trembling palms back on the table. The vibration continued, unrelenting. It was settling into a maddening rhythm that seemed to sync with her heartbeat.
The food arrived. The plate was enormous, a tower of golden pancakes, a pat of butter melting into a glorious, shining pool on top. The smell of grease and sugar and maple syrup filled the space. Normally, it would be comforting. Now, it felt cloying, overwhelming.
Morgan picked up the small metal pitcher of warmed syrup. Slowly, deliberately, she poured a perfect spiral over her own stack. Then she lifted the pat of butter from Eliza’s plate with her own knife. She held it over the steaming pancakes, letting it drip.
“Look at that,” Morgan mused, her voice a private murmur. “All that rich, melting heat.”
With her other hand, she tapped the remote. The vibration jumped in intensity. Eliza’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. She bit her lip hard, tasting copper.
Morgan set the knife down. She dipped the index finger of her right hand directly into the pool of melted butter on Eliza’s plate. It gleamed on her skin. Under the guise of reaching for the napkin to wipe it, she let her hand drift below the level of the table.
Eliza froze.
The butter-slicked finger traced a slow, torturous path up her inner thigh. The touch was hot, obscenely smooth. It moved through her folds, which were already soaked, gathering her own wetness, mixing with the butter. The finger circled her clit once, a slippery, electrifying pass that made Eliza’s vision blur. A choked sound, half-sob, half-moan, caught in her chest.
“Eat,” Morgan commanded softly, her eyes locked on Eliza’s. She nodded toward the plate.
Tears welled in Eliza’s eyes from the effort. She picked up her fork with a shaky hand. She cut a piece of pancake, dragged it through syrup and butter, and lifted it to her mouth. As the sweet, warm bite landed on her tongue, Morgan’s buttered finger pressed against her entrance.
And pushed inside.
It was a smooth, deep invasion. One knuckle, then two, then her whole finger, buried to the hilt in Eliza’s cunt, alongside the relentless buzz of the egg. The stretch was exquisite. Eliza’s jaw went slack. She barely remembered to chew.
“Good girl,” Morgan whispered. Her finger began to move, a slow, fucking motion in and out. Her thumb found Eliza’s clit, applying a steady, circling pressure.
Eliza forced herself to take another bite. And another. Each swallow coincided with a thrust of Morgan’s finger. The sounds were too loud—the slick, wet sounds of Morgan’s hand working her, the low buzz that she was sure the entire diner could hear. She imagined the family at the next booth turning, pointing. She saw the waitress’s tired eyes widening in disgust.
But no one looked. The world continued. Forks scraped plates. Someone laughed.
Morgan’s finger curled, pressing up against a spot that made stars explode behind Eliza’s eyelids. The vibration intensified again—Morgan must have palmed the remote. The double stimulation was too much. It was building, a furious, coiling tension in her core. She was going to come. Right here, in a public diner, with pancakes in her mouth and her partner’s finger deep in her cunt.
Her breathing became ragged, shallow pants. She dropped her fork. It clattered on the plate. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
“Please,” she begged, a broken whisper. “I’m gonna… Morgan, I can’t…”
“You can,” Morgan said, her voice taut with her own arousal. She was watching Eliza’s face, drinking in every shattered expression. Her finger pumped faster, her thumb a relentless circle. “You’re going to. Come on. Do it. Come all over my hand right here.”
The climax tore through her with violent, silent force. Her body locked, back arching off the vinyl booth. A wave of pure, blinding pleasure radiated out from her core, drowning the diner sounds, the smells, everything but the feeling of Morgan’s hand owning her, milking the pulsations from her. Her cunt clamped down hard on the invading finger and the buzzing egg, waves of contraction rolling through her. She pressed her face against the cool table to muffle the raw, gasping cries she couldn’t hold back.
Just as the last tremor subsided, Morgan pulled her hand away.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. Eliza slumped, trembling, spent. She felt the cold air on her wet, exposed flesh. She heard the soft, wet sound as Morgan brought her glistening fingers to her own mouth and sucked them clean, her eyes never leaving Eliza’s.
“Delicious,” Morgan said, the word dark with meaning. She picked up a clean napkin and wiped her hand calmly. She then picked up Eliza’s fork, cut a perfect bite of pancake, and held it out. “Finish your breakfast.”
Eliza, boneless and wrecked, obeyed. She ate the bite Morgan offered. She ate another, and another, mechanically, until the plate was clear. The vibrations had stopped. The egg was just a silent lump inside her again. The plug was a heavy, familiar anchor.
The plug was a heavy, familiar anchor. Morgan paid the bill with crisp cash, leaving a generous tip that felt like a lie. She helped Eliza stand, her grip firm on Eliza’s elbow, guiding her shaky legs through the maze of tables and out into the stark, screaming sunlight of the parking lot.
The short walk to the car was an eternity. Every step jostled the plug, a blunt reminder. The breeze caught the hem of the blazer, fluttering it against her thighs. She felt horribly visible, a secret carved into her skin for anyone to read.
“In,” Morgan said, opening the passenger door. The black leather seat was hot from the sun. It stung the backs of her bare thighs as she sat. Morgan leaned in, buckling her seatbelt with a clinical click. Her scent, lavender and clean sweat, filled the space. “Comfortable?”
Eliza nodded, unable to form words. Her cunt was a throbbing, well-used ache. The egg was silent, but its presence was a ghost of the vibration.
Morgan drove. The radio was off. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the soft, wet shift inside Eliza when they turned a corner. After several blocks, Morgan’s hand left the gear shift and settled high on Eliza’s thigh. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the sensitive skin.
“You came so hard,” Morgan said, conversational. “I felt you clenching around my finger. So greedy for it.”
Eliza whimpered, staring straight ahead at the road.
“You dripped all over the diner bench. My hand was soaked.” Morgan’s thumb pressed inward, finding the soaked junction of her thighs, feeling the heat through the silk. “You’re still dripping now. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Eliza whispered.
“Good.”
They drove in silence for another ten minutes, Morgan’s thumb making slow, maddening circles. Then Morgan signaled and turned into the vast, sprawling parking lot of the Westgate Mall.
“Let’s get you some clothes,” Morgan said, her tone pragmatic, as if discussing groceries. She found a spot near a bustling main entrance. Families with strollers and teenagers in packs streamed toward the sliding glass doors.
Eliza’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Morgan… I can’t go in there like this.”
“You can,” Morgan said, killing the engine. She turned to face her. “You will. The jacket covers the important bits. Just walk close to me.” She leaned over, her lips brushing Eliza’s ear. “And if you behave, maybe I’ll let you come again before we leave.”
The promise was a threat. It sent a fresh lick of heat straight to Eliza’s already ruined core. She was disgusted with herself for how wet that made her.
They walked. The cool, conditioned air of the mall hit her bare legs like a shock. The blazer felt absurdly thin, a flimsy barrier. She kept her eyes down, focusing on the polished tiles, walking so close to Morgan their shoulders touched. Every person was a potential witness. She imagined them seeing the tremble in her hands, the flush on her neck, the secret weight in her ass.
Morgan didn’t head for the clothing stores. She walked with purpose, past storefronts blaring music, past the smell of pretzels and perfume, toward the neon sign for restrooms near a quiet corridor. She pushed the door open.
The bathroom was empty, echoing with the sound of a faulty drip from a far sink. It smelled sharply of citrus cleaner. Morgan checked under the three stalls. All empty.
“In here,” she said, nudging open the largest accessible stall. She locked the bolt behind them.
The space was close, sterile. Eliza leaned against the cold metal partition, her breath coming quick.
“Give me the jacket,” Morgan said.
Eliza’s fingers fumbled with the single button. She shrugged the soft silk from her shoulders. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her naked skin. She stood there, completely exposed in the public stall, her body marked from their morning, her nipples hard, her cunt glistening.
Morgan folded the jacket neatly, placing it on the closed toilet lid. She then took her own belt, a thick strap of smooth, supple leather. She doubled it in her hands.
“Turn around. Hands behind your back.”
Eliza obeyed, pressing her forehead against the cool metal of the stall. The position arched her back, pushing her ass out. The plug shifted, a deeply intimate pressure. She felt utterly vulnerable, presented.
Morgan took her wrists. She didn’t tie them loosely. She wrapped the leather belt tightly, cinching it with a firm, practiced pull until Eliza’s wrists were bound firmly together, the buckle digging in just enough to remind. The restraint was immediate and total. Her shoulders pulled back, her breasts thrust forward.
Morgan’s hands, cool and sure, gripped Eliza’s hips from behind. “Sit,” she commanded, guiding her backwards until the cold, unforgiving curve of the toilet seat met the backs of her thighs. Eliza sank down, the porcelain a shocking contrast to her heated skin, the plug inside her adjusting to the new angle with a deep, internal pressure that made her gasp.
“Let’s see you,” Morgan murmured, kneeling now on the sterile tile floor between Eliza’s spread legs. Her bound hands trapped behind her, Eliza could only watch as Morgan’s gaze traveled over her nakedness. Morgan’s palms came up to cradle Eliza’s breasts, weighing them, her thumbs already sweeping roughly over the hardened, coral peaks of her nipples.
She pinched one nipple, rolling it tightly between her finger and thumb. Eliza hissed, arching into the pain that bloomed into a sharp, bright heat. “So responsive,” Morgan said, her voice low and admiring. She leaned forward and took the other nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, her teeth grazing the sensitive bud before she bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough to make Eliza cry out, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls.
Morgan switched her attention, her mouth and hands working in tandem, sucking, biting, and pinching until Eliza’s breasts felt swollen and oversensitive, each touch sparking directly to her clit and the silent egg nestled inside her. “Please,” Eliza breathed, unsure what she was begging for.
“Patience,” Morgan chided, pulling back. She retrieved the remote from her pocket. Her eyes held Eliza’s as her thumb moved over the controls. A soft beep confirmed the new setting. “Ten minutes. Orgasm mode. It’ll build slowly, then it won’t stop until you come. You don’t get to choose when.”
A deep, pulsing vibration suddenly ignited within Eliza’s cunt, starting as a low hum but with a relentless, climbing rhythm. It was different from the diner—this was a programmed ascent, a mechanical promise she couldn’t escape.
Morgan stood, watching Eliza’s face contort for a moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own cotton panties. She slid them down her legs, the simple black fabric damp from her own arousal. She held them up, a dark flag in the fluorescent light.
“Open,” she said.
Eliza obeyed, parting her lips. Morgan balled the fabric and pushed it into her mouth, stuffing it firmly until Eliza’s cheeks bulged. The taste was musky, salty, intimately Morgan. It muted her whimpers to faint, nasal sounds.
From her bag, Morgan produced a small, sleek digital camera. She powered it on, the red recording light blinking to life like a malevolent eye. She positioned it carefully on the closed lid of the toilet tank, angling it perfectly to capture Eliza’s bound form, her glistening cunt, her stuffed mouth, and the frantic rise and fall of her tortured chest.
“I’m going to buy you a birthday dress,” Morgan said, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. She zipped her bag, slung it over her shoulder. She looked at the camera, then at Eliza. “You enjoy yourself here.”
The stall door unlocked. Morgan stepped out. Eliza heard her footsteps recede across the tile, the main bathroom door swinging shut with a definitive thud.
Silence, except for the drip of the tap and the low, insistent buzz inside her, which was already deepening, quickening. The vibration climbed a notch, a wave of sensation that made her hips jerk against the cold seat. She was alone, bound, gagged with her lover’s panties, on display for a recording she wouldn’t control. The orgasm began its inevitable build, a tightening coil in her belly, and she could do nothing but ride it, helpless, toward whatever rupture awaited.
The buzzing became a roar. It was a mechanical scream inside her, a pulse that owned her synapses. Her body betrayed her, hips grinding against nothing, against the cold porcelain, seeking friction that wasn’t there. The first orgasm ripped through her with a force that blurred the grout lines on the walls, a silent, gagged shriek tearing into the cotton in her mouth. Her cunt spasmed around the empty, vibrating intrusion, a searing wave of release that left her shuddering and weak.
But the device didn’t stop. It paused for three seconds, a cruel mockery of relief, then resumed its climb. The programming was merciless. Her sensitivity was agony, a raw, overstimulated nerve. Tears cut clean tracks through the faint blush on her cheeks. She pulled against the belt, the leather biting into her wrists, a sharp counterpoint to the deep, rhythmic thrumming that started its assault anew. The coil tightened again, faster this time, fed by her exhaustion and her shame.
She came a second time with a broken, guttural sound muffled by the fabric. This climax was different—darker, less pleasure than a brutal electrical discharge forced from her twitching muscles. Her vision swam with gray spots. Spit soaked the gag. She went limp, held up only by the stall wall and the toilet, a hollowed-out vessel.
The vibrations settled into a relentless, medium-grade purr. A taunt. It kept her on a shuddering plateau, her swollen clit jumping with each pulse, her insides fluttering with spent, aching echoes. The red light of the camera stared, unblinking. Time dissolved into the drip of the tap and the hum in her cunt.
The bathroom door swung open with a soft creak.
Heels clicked on tile, measured and familiar. They stopped outside the stall. Eliza’s breath hitched, a new kind of tension seizing her bruised insides. The bolt slid back.
Morgan stood there, a shopping bag dangling from one hand. She looked calm, collected, her green eyes taking in the scene: the bound wrists, the glistening thighs, the utterly ruined expression, the camera’s steady light. She smiled, a small, private thing.
“Sounds like you’ve been busy,” she said, her voice cutting through the humid, sex-thick air. She reached out and gently removed the soaked panties from Eliza’s mouth.
Eliza dragged in a ragged, wet breath. “It… it didn’t stop. It made me…”
“I know what it did.” Morgan set the bag down. She first retrieved the camera, stopping the recording with a soft click. She didn’t play it back. She simply placed it in her purse, a possession of a possession. Then her hands went to the belt at Eliza’s wrists. The leather loosened, blood rushing back into her fingers with a sting that made Eliza whimper.
Morgan’s touch shifted to practical, kneading the feeling back into Eliza’s forearms. “Stand up. Let’s see you.”
Eliza’s legs were jelly. She stumbled, and Morgan caught her, holding her upright against the cold metal. Morgan’s gaze was a physical inventory. She trailed a finger through the mess on Eliza’s inner thighs, then brought it to her own lips. “Two,” she stated. “Good. I could hear you from the corridor. A little muffled, but the rhythm was unmistakable.”
The humiliation was fire in Eliza’s veins. She looked away.
“Look at me.” Morgan’s fingers caught her chin, firm. “You are breathtaking like this. Completely shattered. And I get to put you back together.” She bent, retrieving the shopping bag. “I found your birthday present.”
From the bag, she drew out a slash of neon fabric. It was a dress, if it could be called that. The material was a synthetic, electric lime green, so bright it seemed to vibrate under the fluorescent lights. The top was a band of tight, elasticated fabric meant to bind across the ribs, with two precise cut-outs that would leave the lower halves of her breasts and her nipples fully, blatantly exposed. The skirt was a mere fringe, a shockingly short ruffled hem that would, at best, graze the tops of her thighs.
“It’s your color,” Morgan said, holding it up. “Turn around.”
Eliza turned, facing the toilet. Morgan’s hands were brisk. She removed the plug with a slow, careful pull that made Eliza gasp at the sudden, empty ache. Then she deactivated and removed the egg, dropping both into a zip-lock bag from her purse. The cold air hitting her freshly emptied cunt was a violation all its own.
Then Morgan guided the dress over her head. It shimmied down her body, tight as a second skin. The fabric crushed her breasts, pushing them up so the exposed, sore flesh beneath her nipples swelled against the open air. The skirt barely covered her ass; the cool air touched skin that had just been pressed against the toilet seat. She felt the hem ride up with every slight movement.
Morgan turned her back around. Her eyes darkened with raw approval. “Fuck,” she breathed, the word hot and low. Her hands slid over the cheap, slick fabric, groping the curve of Eliza’s ass, her fingers slipping easily beneath the microscopic skirt to claim the wet, swollen flesh beneath. “Perfect. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you now, can’t you? On these.” She thumbed the exposed, lower curve of a breast. “On this.” Her hand cupped Eliza’s ass cheek, half of it bare and visible below the ruffle.
Eliza nodded, a tremor starting deep within her again. The overstimulated nerves were awakening, a third, treacherous build beginning despite the emptiness, fed by the shame of the dress and the possession in Morgan’s touch.
Morgan leaned in, her mouth at Eliza’s ear. “No underwear. No toys inside. Just you, in this dress, and whatever I decide to do to you.” Her hand slid around to Eliza’s front, fingers plunging through the soaked folds with no barrier at all. “You’re already dripping again. You’re fucking insatiable.”
Her fingers worked quickly, brutally, knowing exactly where she was tender. The third climb was steep and desperate, coiling in her belly, a crescendo built on exhaustion and public humiliation. Eliza’s head fell back against the stall, a moan building in her throat.
Morgan pulled her fingers out just as Eliza’s hips began to stutter. She sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact. “Not yet. We’re going to walk through the mall now. You’re going to walk beside me, in this dress, with my come on your breath and your cunt aching to finish. And you’ll smile. And if you do it perfectly, I’ll let you come in the car.”
She took Eliza’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was iron. “Let’s go.”