Sex slave: Greta

Poor Greta stands in frilly pink. The nanny's uniform turns every line of her into something owned—crisp whites, puffed sleeves, a pastel bow that bites against her throat. The mistress has decided today the baby eats. The spoon rises, a hot, viscous scoop pressed flat across Greta's parted lips. She jerks her head, a reflex she can never quite swallow, and the food streaks across her cheek, gums up in her lashes, ropes slowly down her chin. Her eyes burn. Then the crying starts—small, punched-out sobs. Nanny shows no mercy and no hurry. From the same canvas bag that holds the spoon she draws a plastic doll: blunt head, smooth torso, molded stubs for arms and legs. The lacquered plastic thuds when it taps Greta's thigh, clicks when it brushes lower. Two sharp clicks of lube and the doll's head disappears between plump lips, no slicking flourish, just blunt force. Greta gasps, a raw sound half cry and half choke, as that rigid little body pushes into her cunt. Dry skin drags, stretches, fights. She feels every molded detail: button nose, tiny painted smile, the shoulder joint already pressing her entrance wider. Nanny plants one gloved palm at the small of Greta's back to hold her still, and with short, steady nudges seats the doll to its waist. Greta is shaking; ribbons and curls trembling against her tear-striped cheeks. The plastic gleams where it meets her, shiny now with forced slick and clinging strands of uneaten food. Each new sob tightens around the doll, sends a faint, slick noise up into the warm kitchen light.