Two nights later I run into you coming out of your office and decide I need to take control of things. I come over and take your hand. You begin to resist, but are torn between the pleasure and interactions we've had and the fact that you don't really know me. I drive you back to my apartment and bring you into my basement. I can feel your excitement and fear. I put you on my massage table, and fasten your arms and legs to the table. I pull out a scissors and cut the rest of your clothes off. My fingers caress your skin, your ass lifting in the air. I pull our a massage oil and squeeze some over your bound body, drizzling some between your ass cheeks, both threatening and promising things to come.
"What are you doing to me?"
"Whatever I want." I stand in front of you. The table has been preset to a certain height: the perfect height for me to fuck your mouth. My fingers caress your head and play with your hair as I slip my dick between your lips. "Be a good girl and suck. You know you want it. I might even let you go. Or maybe I'll keep you as my sex slave." You moan and begin slurping. My fingers play with your hair, keeping it off your face. A finger traces your cheek. I'm so horny and your talents are immense. Despite your inability to move, the slight rocking of my hips combined with your swirling tongue on my cock and I quickly explode, my salty seed filling your mouth. "You better swallow, bitch. You don't know when I will feed you again." I hear your mouth move, your body adjust and I look to see that your lips have not lost a single drop.
"Good girl." Reaching for a ball gag, I put it on your mouth guaranteeing that you won't talk, but leaving it loose enough that your moans will be audible.
I sit, naked on my wheeled stool and slide back around to the bottom of my captured wench. I see your toes, the red paint glistening under the light. I lift a foot and slide my tongue between your toes, biting gently on the rough skin. MY hands caress your feet and my mouth worships your toes. Soft moans escape your bound mouth. Many minutes later, my hands have been over every inch of your back skin: legs, ass, back, shoulders. But I've left your ass alone. I pull out a small toy, three inches long, with a wire running from it to another device. I spread your ass and slide my tongue across the tight, dark pink skin that is your little hole. I tongue it briefly, then wiggle the toy into your ass. I see the clench, the tightness, the resistance. I give your ass cheek a strong, swift slap. "Submit, Emily." You relax, but I feel you struggling against your bonds. The toy fills your butt and I slap your other cheek. My hand leaves a pink print, where the blood has rushed to the skin.
I walk over to my bar and pull out a bottle of port. I put on a robe and open the tawny, pouring some into a glass for myself. Then I pour some in a McDonalds cup, put the straw in and place it under you on a small table. I unfasten the ball gag and tell you to sip. You hesitatingly sip the wine. A soft voice, "Who are you?"
