I’m keeping to my promise diva!!
puppy play with driver BUT he’s the puppy and he’s like, aggressive like I’m talkin a muzzle and he just can’t help himself like, feral yknow?
HALLO! I have written a leather face muzzle before BUT i wanna...i wanna talk about a metal cage muzzle meant for dogs for this...
Driver sat on the edge of the bed, his jacket still on, his hands resting on his thighs. He was watching you with those pale blue eyes—the same look he gave when you asked him to do anything for you, like a devoted animal: a flicker of hesitation, then a quiet, resigned nod.
You held up the muzzle. It was black leather with a steel cage front, hinged at the back, with a lock strap dangling from the chin strap. Designed for a dog, but you’d bought it online, sized up. The metal bars formed a grid of small rectangular holes, each just wide enough to slip a fingertip through. The whole thing was cold, heavy, and absurd.
“Come on,” you said, your voice light but firm. “Just for a few minutes. For fun.”
Driver looked at the muzzle, then at you. His jaw tightened. “That’s… for an animal.”
“Well...you’re my animal, no?” you replied, and you saw the tiniest shift in his expression—annoyance, maybe, but underneath it that thin thread of fascination he couldn’t hide. He’d let you tie him to a headboard once, let you blindfold him with a silk scarf, let you use a riding crop on his thighs until he gasped. He always said it was stupid, but his cock always got hard anyway.
He let out a breath through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh. “Fine.”
You stepped closer, and he didn’t move. You unclipped the buckle, opened the muzzle, and held it up to his face. He looked at you with a mix of doubt and something softer—trust, maybe, or just pure, stupid infatuation. You pressed the cold steel against his cheeks, the leather strap wrapping around the back of his head. The cage settled over his mouth and nose, a snug fit. His lips were behind the bars, the metal touching the tip of his nose. You buckled it tight, then clicked the clasp shut.
He blinked. The whole contraption made his face look longer, more angular. The silver cage gleamed under the rooms warm yellow lamp. He tried to say something, but it came out meek—“Ridiculous”—and the sound was dulled and unenthusiastic.
“Ridiculous,” you agreed, smiling. “But you look good.”
He made a face behind the cage, his eyes rolling. But he didn’t reach up to remove it. He just sat there, hands still on his thighs, breathing in short, measured puffs through the metal grid.
You circled him slowly, your fingers trailing along his shoulder, down his arm. He tensed but didn’t flinch. When you stood close, you leaned down, your mouth close to the side of his neck. He smelled like leather and sweat, faint with something masculinely metallic.
“You know what I like about this?” you whispered. “I can do whatever I want to you, and you can’t bite me.”
He made a low sound in his throat—not quite a growl, not quite a whimper.
You stepped back to fully face him, then knelt in front of him, bringing your eyes level with the cage. His blue eyes tracked you, wary and bright. You lifted your hand and, very slowly, slipped your index finger through one of the rectangular holes in the cage. The metal brushed against his cheek. The tip of your finger touched his lips—soft, slightly parted.
He held still, watching you.
You pushed your finger deeper until it rested against his tongue, warm and wet. The cage allowed him some room to open his mouth—not wide, but enough that you could feel the sharp edge of his canine teeth through the gaps, the slight pressure of his jaw. He didn’t bite down. He just let you touch him, his breath hitching when your fingertip pressed his tongue flat.
You slipped your finger from his mouth, then you curled your finger slightly, hooking it on the inside of the cage, and pulled.
His head rocked forward. The chain on the back of the muzzle clinked. He made a specific noise—surprise, perhaps discomfort—and his hands lifted halfway, as if to push you away, but they stopped short. He let you tug him, his neck straining just a little at the force, the metal bars digging into his cheek as you pulled his face toward your own.
“Ohh..how nice is that?” you murmured, and you added a second finger, sliding it into the next hole, both fingers now inside the cage, hooked behind the bars. You tugged again, harder, and he came forward off the bed, his knees hitting the thin carpet, his hands bracing on the floor. Now he was on all fours, his face inches from yours, the muzzle touching your chin.
He was breathing fast, his nostrils flaring. Behind the cage, his lips were parted, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your fingers from your prior prodding. His eyes were wide, the blue gone dark, the pupils dilating.
“You could stop this anytime,” you said quietly. “You could tell me it's enough, or just pull my hand away. You’re strong enough.”
He said nothing. He didn’t move to stop you.
You twisted your fingers inside the cage, scraping the metal against his cheeks. He let out a sharp, masochistic groan, his eyes fluttering shut. His hips shifted—you could see the outline of his erection straining against his jeans, tight against his thigh.
“You like this.” you said, not a question.
He looked at you, and there was something raw in his gaze—humiliation, need, and that same infatuation that made him do anything you asked. He nodded, just once, the motion clumsy with the muzzle.
You used both hands now. You held the cage like a handle, your fingers gripping through the holes, and you pulled him forward until his chest hit the floor. You then used some ungodly strength, perhaps from the thrill of it—to shove him onto his back.
He was on his back now—you'd pushed him down after the first few tugs, the muzzle making a quiet clinking against his face as his head rested fo the floor. The cage glistened with spit, the straps dark against his cheeks. He looked up at you, blue eyes glassy, hot breathe causing slight condensation on the inner bars.
You straddled his chest first, your weight pressing him flat. His hands came up to grip your thighs, but you slapped them away. “No. You don't touch. Mutt stays still.”
He dropped his hands. His chest rose and fell faster under you.
You slid back, grinding your cunt against his stomach through your jeans. He made a muffled sound, his hips trying to buck, but you held him down with your weight. You tsk at the needy creature below you, reaching down to unbuckle your own pants. You stripped them off, then your underwear, leaving yourself bare above him.
You shifted forward, positioning yourself over his cock. He was still hard from earlier, the shaft straining against his open fly. You didn't bother undressing him completely—just freed his cock and lowered yourself onto it, slow, letting the head push past your folds.
He groaned, high and desperate, the sound vibrating through the muzzle. His hands clutched at the floor, knuckles white.
You took him all the way, sinking down until he was buried deep inside you. Then you paused, letting him feel the heat, the tightness. He bucked up, trying to fuck into you, but you held still, clenching around him.
“No,” you said, your voice low. “Good dogs take what's given.”
He whimpered. Actually whimpered.
You began to ride him—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Each time you rose, you let him almost slip out, then dropped back down, hard. He gasped through the cage, his eyes fluttering shut. You leaned forward, your hands finding the muzzle, fingers hooking into the metal grid. You pulled his head up off the floor, yanking it close to your face as you rode him.
“You like being my mutt?”you hissed. “Like having your mouth locked up while I fuck you?”
He nodded frantically, the motion clumsy as you held him. His jaw slacked and his eyebrows deeply furrowed.
You pulled harder on the muzzle, arching his neck back. His throat worked, a choked sound escaping. You quickened your pace, bouncing on his cock, using him like a toy. His hips jerked up to meet you, but you controlled the rhythm—fast, then slow, then fast again, leaving him gasping.
He was sweating now, his face flushed, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He was close—you could feel it in the way his cock throbbed, the way his whole body tensed.
You released the muzzle and sat up straight, riding him hard and deep. He came with a strangled cry, his hips bucking wildly, his release is frantic inside you. You kept moving, milking him, until he collapsed back, trembling, his breath ragged against the metal.
You stayed on top of him, your thighs slick, your hand reaching down to stroke the side of the muzzle where his cheek was. He turned his face into your touch, nuzzling the cage against your palm.
“Good boy,” you said softly. Then you leaned down and licked the metal grid where his lips were, tasting your own salt and his desperation.
He made a small, broken sound—not a word, just a noise of pure surrender.
