She stands, silent and proud. Chained to a pole, protected by a transparent barrier, displayed, open, naked and spread.
Men and women pass her by, some shocked, some jaded, but they all look at her. Some have lust naked in their eyes, some appraise her, some pretend not to see the wetness of her mound trickling down her thighs, others boldly looking into her sex. A few attempt to breach the glass that separates them, lust and desire overtaking logic. A few others daringly taking their swollen shafts and spray their release over the cage that holds her, as if to mark her as theirs.
They cannot touch her.
Their pathetic attempts to have her, their desire for her, makes her stand proud in her bonds. She is a fantasy, a desire; she is the fevered craving of every man and many of the women. Proudly on display, her Master’s own, she stands with her breasts rising in defiance, her spread legs and pouting sex glistening with her own juices.
Covered as much by her master’s love as any physical barrier, she is his gift to the world, a single point of beauty and sex and fantasy quietly on display for those who understand what it means to be completely owned, and for those who never will.
She knows she is worthy of his service, the adulation of the passing crowd merely confirms it. Her pride comes from his: his desire to display her, his knowledge that she is worthy of his pride, his name, his collar.
So she stands, bound, naked, glistening, proud. She is a testament to her master, and nothing could please her more.

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