collared lesbian couple

Joanne’s eyes widened, the artificial sparkle in them momentarily faltering as Max spoke. The collar hummed against her throat, a tiny, vibrating sensation that signaled her body was preparing to react to his command. Her hips gave a little, involuntary sway, a programmed flirtatious movement that made her want to vomit.

"Oh, a surprise? For me? You're just the sweetest man in the whole wide world!" She chirped, her voice a sugary, nauseating trill. She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "I just love surprises! They make a wife feel so special!"

A surprise? If this is another goddamn frilly apron or a new set of Tupperware, I might actually lose my mind. God, my jaw hurts from this fucking smile. It’s like my face is stuck in a permanent state of 'happy little idiot.'

As he led her further into the house, the door to the living room creaked open, and Joanne’s heart the real, frantic heart beating behind the lace of her bra nearly stopped. There, sitting on the velvet sofa in a matching pastel blue dress, was Chloe. Chloe, with her messy raven hair and her nose ring, the girl Joanne had spent countless nights tangled in sheets with, the girl she had actually loved. Now, Chloe sat perfectly poised, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a vacant, dazzling smile plastered on her face. A silver cybernetic collar glinted around her neck, identical to Joanne's.

No. No fucking way. Chloe? Is that... is that really her? Oh god, she looks like a fucking doll. A plastic, brainwashed, Stepford slut. Look at her eyes... she's in there. She's trapped in there just like me.

The collar jerked Joanne’s body forward, forcing her to skip a few steps toward the sofa. Her legs moved with a light, airy grace that felt entirely alien to her heavy, goth soul.

"Oh my goodness!" Joanne gasped, her voice rising in a pitch of **** delight. "Chloe! Is that you, sweetie? What a wonderful coincidence! We can be best friends and housewives together!"

She reached out, her hand moving of its own accord to pat Chloe’s hand. The touch was soft, delicate, and entirely uncharacteristic of the way they used to grab each other, skin to skin, in the dark of a basement apartment.

I want to grab her, pull her hair, and scream 'Run!' But instead, my hand is just lightly patting her like we're at a fucking tea party. Look at her, you bastard. You've turned us both into your little playthings.

Chloe’s eyes flickered for a microsecond, a flash of pure, unadulterated terror and recognition ing through the blue depths before the collar **** her expression back into a state of vacant bliss.

"Hello, Joanne!" Chloe chirped, her voice a melodic, empty echo of her former self. "Isn't it just a lovely day to be a wife?"